Coughing, hand on his stomach, he saw Jova rise up from the depths, standing atop her slab, face a mask of fury. She pointed her hand and two more boulders flew at him.
Scorio’s own anger arose. He summoned his Shroud and dove toward her.
Wind blasted at him, rain blinded him. The howl of the storm rose in pitch. Jova flung both rocks. Scorio tracked them, no longer relying on his Shroud to do the work, and at the last moment tumbled about, bringing its curved surface slashing around to block one.
But the second cracked into his side. His scales bent beneath the impact and Scorio felt bones break.
The rocks flew away; they were like fists under Jova’s control. Coughing up more blood, Scorio angled toward her even as she retreated, her body buffeted and knocked about, the slab having to arc from side to side to help her keep her balance.
Her expression was one of keen desperation. Her eyes were large, her mouth a thin line.
Scorio beat his wings with frantic strength, jagging from side to side, jerked about by the winds. A rock flew past him, missing as he dropped, and he blocked the second with his Shroud, causing it to shatter.
Just as he got close enough to use his aura her face went blank. The slab of stone fell away as her Heart died and she fell.
Scorio dove down and clasped her wrist. Heaving mightily, wings straining at the air, he arrested their fall.
Jova stared up at him, expression glassy with shock. “What are you doing?!”
She’d fall, be broken, only to heal. Such was her gift.
For a long, aching moment he stared down at her, rain running over his features, his body straining, in terrible pain. “Why? Why’d you betray us?.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her make-up had run in ragged streaks down her cheeks, past her temples. “Dameon promised answers!” Her cry was almost lost in the scream of the storm. “Decisive action! You were a disappointment!”
Scorio heaved, tried to fight for altitude, but they were dropping. A wicked gust sent them spinning around, and Jova’s wet wrist almost slipped from his fingers.
Scorio held on with all his strength. “Has he delivered?”
Jova’s eyes widened in anger, bitterness, and in her glare he saw his answer. But then she yanked her arm free and was gone, swallowed up by the storm.
Scorio heaved himself aloft, fighting for every yard, and eventually reached The Sloop. The Nightmare Lady stood with her talons about the wheel, her tail having lashed deep cuts into the stern railing. She gladly relinquished her post and sank back into her human form.
“Jova?”
“Spread out across the rocks below.”
“You’re hurt!”
He had to pitch his voice over the roar. “Nothing I can’t heal!” He strained at the wheel, fought to bring The Sloop around. “Let’s get out of here!”
It took them an eternity, but they finally slid free of the Rain Wall and into the blessed stillness of night. Scorio’s ears rang, his head swam, and though his reservoir was filled with Copper and Iron he relinquished Ignition to simply let his body rest. He’d healed up, his Gold-tempered body quickly recovering, but even now as they sailed forth into the interweaving curtains of mist that preceded the Wall by several hundred yards he could see Jova’s glare, her indomitable expression, her scathing resentment.
Did she hate him for falling for Dameon’s ploy? Had his weakness been permission for her betrayal?
The Sloop was at once badly damaged but still operational; the hull was a mess of shattered planks and gaping holes, but enough of the internal structure remained to hold the aerite bones in place, and that was all that mattered. It was growing darker by the moment, so Scorio fought to mend the tattered sails only to finally give it up as no good.
“We didn’t have time to reef them or square away,” he said at last, sitting beside Naomi. They drifted on a tranquil breeze, buoyed by Copper. “Between Jova and the storm, The Sloop’s about done.”
“It got us within striking distance of Bastion,” she said.
“Strange to think that its centuries-long flight is coming to an end here.” Scorio reached out and touched the deck. “If it doesn’t float back into the storm wall it might last awhile yet.”
“Someone will recover it.” Naomi stood, stretched. “It’s too precious to ignore. Someone with the time and willingness to fix it back up.”
“Yeah.” Scorio rose as well. “I’m feeling worn out, but I’ll see how far I can get us.”
“You’re going to fly?”
“We can’t risk running into Jova on the ground.”
“Why not? There are no rocks in the Ash Belt. Just crystalized mana.”
“The thought of her somehow being able to wield that and form a living storm is just too much. We’ll fly. Best if we’re far from The Sloop when the sun rises, regardless.”
“It’s your back,” she said.
Scorio inhaled deeply. His massive Heart lit up with gray flames again; it still felt weird to be able to do so on command, to never run out of mana, to feel endlessly capable.
Scorio rose to his full height as his horns burst forth, his body grew enshrouded in its black scales, his shoulders broadened even as his waist narrowed. Heavy strength suffused him, a sense of great and ponderous power that he knew could be goaded into the swiftest of action. He pushed forth his wings to their greatest span, six yards aside, flexed them, then placed a clawed foot on the railing. “Mount up.”
Naomi did so silently. She looped her arms around his neck, knees about his side, and whispered quietly into his ear, “Ready.”
With a final deep breath Scorio launched himself from The Sloop’s side, abandoning it for good, and flew forth into the night air, wings stretched out wide. With great, slow beats he began to make his way toward Hell’s summit, to Praximar’s seat of power, to Bastion.
Chapter 58
With a wingspan of twelve yards Scorio found himself able to glide for long stretches above the Ash Belt. Naomi’s frame was light enough to not impede him much, and so he fell into a meditative state, sipping on a constant stream of mana so that his reservoir never fell below half empty, accepting Copper which was prevalent out here in the wastes.
The Belt was eerily beautiful from above; the variegated patterns of inert mana spread out before him over the endless dunes that extended toward the horizon, the troughs of Coal, lightening up through thin bands of copper, iron, and even to bronze and emerald. A thin, dry wind blew constantly, shifting the motes below, but high above where they flew it was arid and clear.
Entrancing.
Naomi was a quiet passenger; she shifted her weight occasionally upon his scaled back, and a few times relaxed into sleep, her limbs hanging loose about his torso, cheek between his shoulder blades. He drew a deep comfort from her presence, from her utter trust in his keeping her safe. She was a warm, real presence, and every time his thoughts strayed to Leonis or Lianshi they’d recoil to her weight and solidity in his life.
The massive whale ship was a distant presence on the eastern horizon. Scorio cut obliquely away from it, however, and gradually receded into a speck and then was gone.
On and on they flew, not as quickly as The Sloop but far faster than their first walk out of the city. Eventually the walls that surrounded Bastion appeared on the northern horizon; for a long while Scorio thought his eyes were deceived, but then the pencil-thin line resolved itself into a smudge, and then gradually the monumental walls themselves.
“Naomi. We’re almost there.”