“Get him, Frolch,” said one of the other guards. “Right between the eyes.”
The captain smacked his truncheon a few more times into his palm, then skipped forward and swung with a cry, tension or fear or panic making his blow wild. The truncheon came arcing around and cracked against the side of Scorio’s head.
“In the ear?” Scorio grimaced. “You hit me in the ear?”
Frolch froze. “I—wait, what?”
Scorio rubbed the side of his head. The blow had stung, but that was it. Gold-tempered meant he could take a blow from a club to the head from a man like Frolch.
With a hiss Scorio darted forward and headbutted Frolch. The man’s head snapped back, he staggered, then crashed down onto his arse.
The other five guards gaped then shouted as one and came at him.
Scorio tried not to take too much pleasure in taking them down. For a moment they were all around him, shouting encouragement to each other and smashing their truncheons upon his head, shoulders, ribs.
But the blows felt distant, like faint echoes of the real thing.
Scorio got to work.
It was over before he even got warmed up. A blow each and they fell. The last man turned to run, pushing his way through the crowd. Scorio frowned, took up a truncheon, hefted it.
The crowd subtly blocked his passage, people refusing to step aside, stubborn as cattle in his path.
Scorio gauged the distance and then hurled the club. It spun through the air and flew straight as an arrow to crack into the back of the man’s head, spilling him face down onto the cobblestones.
Scorio straightened, looked at the guards around him. A few groaned. The rest were out cold.
The crowd didn’t cheer. They studied him instead, eyes hard, fully aware of what this meant for them. And then it hit Scorio, too: more guards would come. They’d rough people up, looking for witnesses. Swing their clubs at those who’d really feel it.
But the woman was there, her son by her side. He met her sober gaze.
“Thank you,” she said, voice quiet. Then, “Who are you?”
“Just a stranger.” He turned to go, raising his hood.
“Wait,” said an older man, stepping out of the crowd. “I recognize you. You’re Scorio. I was there when you convinced Dola to trust you. You’re Scorio the Scourer.”
The crowd shifted and murmured, flickers of uncertainty and fear running against a rising anger.
Scorio paused. Considered. Then looked back. “I am. House Hydra framed me for what happened. I don’t care if you believe me or not. But Praximar’s hated me since I was reborn. They thought they killed me, that I’d not come back to tell the truth. But here I am. And I’m going to tear House Hydra apart.”
People drew back, confused, uncertain. The old man had been about to yell something, but the ferocity in Scorio’s words stilled his tongue.
Scorio pitched his voice to carry. “What happened here two years ago was a crime. It wasn’t my doing. My mistake was trusting the Autocrators. Well, that trust is gone. When the guards come, tell them what I said. It doesn’t matter. This time when I change Bastion, it won’t be peacefully. This time I’m going to make them pay.”
And then he did pull the hood over his head, and stalked out of the square, trailed by murmurs and buzzing conversation.
Scorio plunged back into the depths of Ward 4. Left behind the square quickly, and lost himself amongst strangers. The atmosphere was tense. People hurried about their business. There were enough patrols that nobody lingered on street corners or outside taverns. Posters had been plastered over the walls. Scorio read their slogans with growing ire:
Defiance Feeds the Pit
Order Brings Safety
Informants Move to Better Wards
Each gruel and water fountain plaza had its own ring of iron spikes. A few boasted fresh corpses. Everywhere Scorio looked he saw greater poverty and misery. Hollow-cheeked children, slumped shoulders, faces devoid of emotion. No music played from distant windows, but rather the cries of the hungry.
Scorio’s feet took him into the Narrows. Several buildings had been demolished, the rubble left to lie across the alleyways. Windows were closed, and the presence of Patrols were even more frequent. Shadows lay thick as always even during First Bronze, but the place had the air of a graveyard instead of a den of iniquity.
His own presence was marked; more than one patrol eyed him speculatively as he hurried along. If they accosted him, Scorio knew, his control would slip.
He finally reached the little square where he’d last met Nissa. The old fountain had been demolished and in its place rose a basalt plinth. A bronze plaque was affixed to its base:
May this memorial serve as a warning
To selfish souls who place
Their comfort over the war against the Pit
Scorio stared at the engraved words balefully, his pulse pounding in his temple. A few people stood around the square, whispering to each other, and others watched from some overhead windows.
There was no point in going to the Double. Dola was dead and her establishment no doubt torn down. If anything it was probably being watched.
There was nothing for him here. Nothing but defeated and brutalized people under the watchful eye of the guards.
Scorio pulled his cloak about himself and retreated into an alley. Where to? He’d agreed to meet with Naomi at the edge of the ruins at Second Bronze, but there wasn’t much left to see. Whatever embers of rebellion might have yet smoldered after the rebellion was crushed had clearly been stamped out.
Scorio ground the base of his palm into his eye, grimacing, then turned to leave. Enough. He’d seen all he needed.
He made his way down a few alleyways, roughly picking his course by the sight of landmarks far overhead, when he realized he was being followed.
Not by guards; this wasn’t the tromp of boots or the sound of many people rushing after him.
Instead it was a subtle sound, or even more of a prickling sense; nothing overt, nothing he could even pinpoint, but the awareness that the Narrows around him had come alive with a pursuing intelligence.
Scorio maintained the same pace but when he turned a corner he Ignited his Heart and leaped straight up, wings bursting forth so that with three quick beats he rose into a sheltered balcony, where he dropped into a crouch behind a large clay pot whose bush had died years before.
Releasing his scaled form he watched, barely breathing. Nothing happened, but then—there. A woman flitted from shadow to shadow, peering ahead, her brassy hair hanging lank about her bony shoulders, robes poor and unremarkable.
Nissa.
Scorio didn’t hesitate. He rose smoothly and vaulted over the railing to fall upon her, Heart Igniting as he grew instantly into his scaled form.
She sensed him coming and threw herself into a dive, but he reached out and snagged her ankle. Hauled her back to him, flipping her over, and lunged down to encircle her throat with his taloned hands.
“Shh,” he whispered. Her expression was wild, but she stilled as he tightened his grip about her neck. “Hello, Nissa.”
“Scorio.” Her smile was strained. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Scorio studied her. “You were watching for me. At the fountain.”
“Word’s spread of your arrival. That you’d flown into the ruins. Nice wings, by the way. You’re a Flame Vault now?”
Rage flushed through Scorio like acid surging through rotted pipes. “You knew what was going to happen.” He squeezed and leaned in. “You knew what Manticore planned. You knew.”
Nissa choked, face growing dark, her hands hovering around his wrist but not touching him. “Yes.”
Scorio tore his hand back as if he’d touched flame. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”