Great Souls flinched as he erased the chalk mark with the ball of his foot and drew back as he passed, while a few others threw questions his way.
Scorio ignored them all. He reentered the large chamber and crossed directly to the four alcoves that led out to the balcony. Arid wind blew sulfurous stench, stirring his hair and robes. Scorio moved to the balcony’s edge and gazed out over the lava lake, then the fortress’s flank.
In the distance he could espy the esplanade, one level down and currently devoid of whale ships but a tiny one. Scorio clenched his jaw at the sight of The Sloop. But here, the uppermost floor, the obsidian walls were smooth and brutal, perforated by deep windows or lined with other balconies.
Scorio hopped up onto the railing and willed his wings to spread. The extended to their full length, six yards a side, and he leaped forward into a shallow glide.
The heat rising from the lava far below gave him lift, and he cruised alongside the exterior of the fortress, peering in through windows as he went. Activity outside was minimal. The esplanade was deserted but for the House Hydra guards. Potted Lava Trees with their fragile pink blossoms were set on different balconies, but for the most part everything was minimalist and stark.
The alarm had been raised. Scorio saw people rushing back and forth within the hallways. Nobody glanced outside. He swept on, not needing to beat his wings, and saw up ahead a promontory of clean lines that terminated in a deep balcony. It had the air of importance, extending as it did like an accusatory finger into the void, and Scorio arced out toward it.
The promontory housed a suite; large bays revealed heavy furniture, roseate light streaming down from a ceiling window, warriors and guards gathering in the hall outside and facing toward the rest of the fort.
Scorio banked and swept out over the lava lake, a great curve that he tightened so that he flew directly toward the courtyard. He angled his wings intuitively so that he rose and cleared the railing, then dropped to the flagstones as his wings sank back into his body.
Black columns supported a portico in whose shadow heavy bronze doors stood open, revealing the interior of the suite.
Davelos stood within, a naked blade in hand, facing the heavy doors outside of which he’d placed his guards.
Scorio smirked.
For all his Gold-enhanced intellect he’d not guessed Scorio’s Flame Vault power.
His Heart was nearly filled with Iron and Copper now; most of the Gold was expended, though his huge Heart had managed to burn it at a remarkably refined rate.
Time for the final burst.
Scorio ran on the balls of his feet under the portico, through the open doors, and got as far as leaping a low table before Davelos swung around.
SILENCE.
Scorio followed his command with a tackle, but Davelos shifted to mist and he plunged through the man’s form. He caught his balance, twisted back, and took a blade straight to the heart. Davelos had plunged it down in his golden form, two-fisted, but the angle was off; the tip skittered off Scorio’s scales and caught over his right breast, plunging into the massive muscle and wedging into the shoulder joint.
The pain was exquisite but Scorio swept his talons across Davelos’s face. The man misted, reappeared to hammer a punch into the side of the blade, causing the sword’s tip to grind against bone.
Again Scorio slashed with his left arm, again Davelos misted.
Scorio drew the blade free. It was a beautiful weapon, an antique, basket-hilted and with ornate patterns writhing up its blade. Supernaturally sharp, too, for having cut through his scales.
Scorio tracked Davelos as he moved toward the double doors in mist form.
The smart play would be to exit and let Scorio fight another host of Great Hearts.
“Coward,” Scorio snarled. “Always knew you were the weakest of the five. Coal-brained idiot. A useful idiot, though. Everyone else is out there making the most of their time while you’re left here to shuffle papers.”
The misted form hesitated.
“Why?” Scorio grinned. “Because that’s all you’re good for. Coward. Your power is made for running. Weakest link. Pathetic. Running from a Tomb Spark.”
He had to be holding his breath this whole time.
“Go on,” laughed Scorio. “Go tell the world you fled someone half your rank. See how your reputation soars in the Silver Fathom. See how the Blood Barons and Charnel Duchesses welcome your sorry ass with open arms.”
But Davelos wasn’t falling for it. He turned back to the doors.
“You know how I survived?” Scorio tried one last ploy. “The secret of the Crucible?”
If pride wouldn’t hook the man, maybe greed would.
“The font is still down there.” Scorio began walking toward the Dread Blaze. “The original castle’s font. The mechanism. It can be controlled. It can grant eternal life.”
Davelos’s outline stared at him. Perhaps it was Moira’s influence that made him credulous, or slow-witted, or indecisive, but he hesitated.
“You know who released me?” Scorio spread his scaled arm, the other hanging loose by his side. “Ydrielle. You didn’t think she really threw me down there, did you?”
Again Davelos hesitated, then, suddenly panicked, he whipped around to flee through the doors.
Burning the last of his Gold mana, Scorio thundered at him, STOP!
Davelos staggered, stopped, then appeared and inhaled a desperate gasp.
Scorio was on him. He rode the gold man to the ground and set to tearing at his head, blow after blow. Davelos misted, went to climb up, appeared again, unable to get a lungful of air. Scorio tore his leg out at the knee, hooked his talons in the man’s chest and flung him away from the door.
Davelos flew, misted through a chair, appeared again. His golden body was already healing the deep wounds.
Scorio tackled him around the waist and lifted him up. Powered across the room as the man drove his elbow down again and again with terrible force into Scorio’s shoulder and neck. Each blow crunched against his scales, against his dense musculature.
Again Davelos misted, but Scorio simply chased the man as he sprinted back to the door and when he appeared again a second later, he sank his talons into the back of his head and jerked him back.
Davelos’s feet went out from under him as he crashed onto his ass. Scorio raced back to the double bronze doors. The man didn’t immediately mist; he reached up to clasp at Scorio’s wrist, panting, trying to get in a deep breath, to cry out.
Scorio powered through the furniture. People were hammering on the closed doors and a moment later a panel shattered as someone crashed it in.
Davelos misted but it only lasted a second; he barely had time to rise to his feet before he was there again, gasping in pain, flickering in and out of existence, his whole body shaking.
“Wait,” the man cried out, voice resonant but trembling as he phased in and out of existence. “I can explain.”
“Sure you can,” growled Scorio and barreled him out the doors onto the balcony.
“I know where your friends are,” shouted Davelos, voice raw with panic.
Scorio almost hesitated.
But no. That was the exact right thing to say to get him to slow down, to stop.
Scorio tore his talons through the golden man’s throat the next time he appeared. Davelos wheezed and ceased breathing, clutched at his neck and misted.
The door behind him caved in. Great Souls spilled into the room.
Davelos reappeared. Scorio leaped up as his wings emerged, his three-toed feet sinking their talons into Davelos’s golden shoulders. Three powerful beats of his wings allowed him to clear the railing.
“Wait!” Davelos clutched at his legs. How had his throat healed so quickly? “Wait, I can tell you—”
Scorio propelled himself forward, flying out over the lava lake, and then released.
For a second Davelos held on, his grip crushing, but then Scorio reached down and raked his talons through the man’s fingers, severing a number of them, and the Dread Blaze fell.