Word had to have spread, for several Great Souls rose into the air behind them, only to be left behind as Scorio rotated around the sun-wire. One left a trail of white fire behind them as they flew, another was stood along the burning blade of a sword four yards in length, while a third seemed to fling herself into the air, begin to fall, catch herself again and hurl herself on a new trajectory once more.
The poorer wards rolled into sight below; streets grew narrow, buildings more ragged and tumbled atop each other, squares cramped, the sky hazy with smoke. Scorio waited till the flyers were mostly hidden above him by the sun-wire and dove down, a quick plummet that brought him below the height of the rooftops. He glided over crowds that yelled and spun around to watch him go, past endless building fronts and gaping strangers on balconies.
Naomi was perched on his back, watching the sky, but since she remained silent Scorio shortened his wings further and beat them furiously, his whole body aching, his shoulders in agony from the protracted flight. Coal mana filled the air everywhere, clotted and heavy, and Scorio siphoned it into his Heart, its heavy sensation familiar and strange after years spent burning Gold.
Shouts, cries of alarm, and then they burst out into the ruins, the avenues cracked and burned, buildings windowless and tottering, everything decayed and uniform in color. No life, no movement, nothing but cloying Coal, though Scorio knew this to be a lie, knew that from the shadows countless small fiends watched them pass.
He banked around the corner of an old tenement building and landed onto the loose rocks and detritus, running forth a few steps as he slowed his momentum and shrank his wings.
“Come on,” he said as Naomi leaped down. “Inside!”
“Not that building, it’s free standing. This one, we can move deeper from within!” Naomi darted across the street and dove into a dark doorway. She led him through gloomy rooms, their boots crunching on curled husks of stone that had peeled off the walls and ceiling, the desiccated remains of furniture, a long-abandoned fire pit.
They reached a back wall but Naomi shifted into the Nightmare Lady and slammed her shoulder into its warped surface, breaking through into a room beyond, blocks of stone rolling free as the ceiling groaned.
They ran, light of foot and unafraid of the dark. Made their way down the length of the block, paused at a window to study the skies, then darted to the next building over to again plunge into gloom.
Eventually they found an opening to an extensive basement, and from there a chasm that led deep into the city’s bowels, fiery tints revealing the murderous heat of the magma pools below. Coal flowed like treacle into this broad crack, whose walls were lined with barnacles as large as dinner plates, their bony mouths open to extrude feathery feelers that drank of the rich mana.
The Nightmare Lady went to climb down but Scorio laughed, grew his wings, and leaped so as to close his clawed feet over each of her shoulders. She let out an uncharacteristic yelp of surprise as he glided down into the depths, past ledges on which spiky, heavily shelled fiends watched them with burning eyes on extended eyestalks, past glowing shelfs of luminous purple fungus, down into the tunnels and caverns of Bastion’s undercity.
Scorio turned into an open cavern a good eighty yards below the surface of the city and released the Nightmare Lady, who landed neatly as he dropped to the cavern floor beside her.
They both turned back to the chasm and listened intently.
Silence.
“Guess we gave them the slip,” said Scorio. “They must be flying in circles above the ruins.”
The Nightmare Lady stalked around the cavern, tail lashing as she inspected its walls and the narrow tunnel at its end. “Doesn’t mean we’re safe. Fiends infest these lower levels.”
“Really?” Scorio relinquished Ignition and sank into his human form at long last. A deep fatigue washed over him, the consequence of days’ worth of continuous burning that mana-infused energy couldn’t prevent. “Tell me more.” He cracked a huge yawn. “Maybe start with the—the Final Door, then tell me about… the labyrinth that leads… you know.”
The Nightmare Lady turned back to glare at him through slitted green-burning eyes. “You’ve made your point.”
“Oh, good.” It felt like a dozen hands had grasped him by the shoulder and were hauling him under the waves of a black sea. He sat and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head nodding. “You’re on watch. I need to sleep. Just give me, I don’t know, thirty or forty cycles.”
“We’re in Bastion,” he heard her say acidly. “Each cycle down here is a full day.”
“I know. Just thirty or… forty… should do.”
And then, more comfortable than he’d ever been in his life, he sank into an oblivion of pure exhaustion, and slept.
Interlude - Dameon
The glass exploded against the study wall, shards of crystal flying in every direction. Dameon strode right up into the messenger’s face and loomed over the youth, wanting to strike him, wanting to tear some measure of satisfaction from the man’s bovine expression.
“What do you mean they just flew into the city? Are you even listening to the words coming out of your head?”
The man flinched and stared fixedly through Dameon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t there to see it myself. I received word that—”
“Enough.” Dameon forced himself to take a step back. “Was there anybody competent on watch? Anyone whatsoever? Where did they go? Or are you telling me they just disappeared into thin air?”
“Sir, they flew down the length of the sun-wire and hid in the ruins. There are search parties being organized right now and Flame Vault Actus is leading an aerial search—”
“Bah!” Dameon flung out his hand, dismissing the messenger as he turned back to where Praximar sat.
“Thank you, Wevam.” Praximar’s voice was mild in comparison. “Let us know if something of note is discovered.”
Wevam bowed and hurriedly retreated, closing the door behind him.
“I’ve not seen you like this before, Dameon.” Praximar leaned back in his chair, glass in hand.
Dameon wanted room to pace, but instead forced himself to stand behind his chair and breathe deeply. “I am indeed irate. Why now? Just as everything lay within reach? The… the temerity of his timing. And Davelos? How could he have defeated Davelos? The man had Gold mana at his disposal, he should have been untouchable.”
“The element of surprise,” said Praximar dryly. “Believe you me, Scorio has shocked me in my time. If there’s anything that Red Lister is good at it’s refusing to die. He’s like a fiendish cockroach.” The chancellor tapped his glass. “But he’s here now, in my center of power. He can no longer surprise us. Ambushes are out of the question. You have the full might of House Hydra behind you, Dameon. Fear not.”
Dameon nodded and closed his eyes. As he’d done a dozen times since arriving he reached out to his Dread Blaze talent. Just as he could summon his Heart in his mind’s eye, so could he summon what he’d come to think of as the paths of the future. They all sought to reach his stipulated goaclass="underline" Manticore in the depths of Hell, resplendent, wealthy, and all glory heaped upon him, their leader. But the paths had warped violently over the past few days, with roads that had been broad and golden for years suddenly growing crooked and the angry vermillion of danger and peril.
Dameon scowled as he traced their outlines. They didn’t assist in daily decisions, but were invaluable when it came to broad-stroke decisions. Whom to ally with, where to go, and when. To his amazement and fury, the only golden paths were as slender as threads and far-flung; he drew them closer, and felt he understood their message: his best chance of survival lay in quitting Bastion immediately and setting forth on foot alone toward the Iron Weald. He ran his finger along the length and realized to his horror and amazement that his talent was urging him to avoid the Fiery Shoals. There was no sign of Simeon or Ydrielle, of The Celestial Coffer. Tracing its length to the end, he gave a bark of laughter when he saw no sign of the Fury Spires either.