Madness raged around them but she seemed immune to the chaos. “Hello, Scorio.”
“Crush.” For a moment Scorio quailed; a barrage of brutal memories assailed him, endless days of being humiliated and ground into the dirt, of being beaten remorselessly such that the woman before him had taken on an almost invulnerable aura.
But that had been before.
“Time to put you in your place.” She sneered and darted forward, as light and surefooted as ever, to punch him square in the sternum with all her vaunted Dread Blaze power.
Scorio considered dodging then leaned into the blow instead.
Her knuckles crunched into his scales. The blow was tremendous. Once it would have shattered every bone in his torso and jellied his innards.
Now it just forced him to take a step back.
“What the hell?” muttered Crush, staring at her ruined fist.
“Times change,” said Scorio, and hurled himself forward. She swayed back from his first blow, then raised both forearms to block his second.
Forearms that had turned an oily black and from which hundreds of gleaming crimson spikes emerged. Forearms grown as wide as Scorio’s thighs, her fists into bestial talons that near matched his own.
His blow shattered spikes and thundered into her defense, causing her to stagger back. She dropped her arms and he saw her full monstrous form. She’d quadrupled in mass and looked more like a bipedal spiked bull. Flickers of flame curled from her nostrils and a corona of spikes formed a crown about her hideous visage.
“Let’s see you take this,” she rasped and blew out a plume of sticky flame. Scorio raised his Shroud. The inferno blasted around it, but his Shroud’s sheer size completely protected him. The moment the flames died down he leaped forward, through the last of the sticky fire, and drove his fist into her stomach, shattering her defensive spikes and causing her to stagger.
“Damn,” she wheezed, confusion and concern crossing her monstrous features. “What did you—?”
But he didn’t want to hear it. Endless months of humiliation and rage came roaring to the fore and he threw himself at her again, tearing at her hide with his talons, head butting her in the face, tore apart her flimsy Shroud to shred her gut open, and then with a cry he took her by the throat, lifted her clear off the ground and drove her headfirst into the flagstones with every ounce of his strength.
Crush seemed more undone by her own shock than the pain itself; she raised herself up to one elbow, eyes wide, blood running from countless cuts, and then desperately tried to crawl away.
Scorio took hold of her spiny ankle with both hands. Grimaced, leaned back and hauled at her bulk. Turned, dragging her around, turned faster, and with all the might in his Gold-tempered body he lifted her right off the ground and hurled her spinning through the air right at the eidolon.
Who cut Crush in half with one arm without even turning away from its battle.
Scorio heaved for breath, and looked around. Praximar. Where was he?
Gone.
Dameon too.
Scorio went to vault over the head table only for a blast to catch him in the side. He didn’t even see who threw it or what it looked like, was simply thrown across the room like a rag doll to crater against the stone wall. He fell limply to the ground, dazed, but then shook his head and rose to his feet.
He loved having a Gold-tempered body.
A mirror-creature stalked toward him, its reflective surfaces elongating and becoming new limbs as old ones retracted, their faces alternating between showing the hall around them and flicker-flashes of the Great Soul hidden within.
Scorio hauled himself up. His reservoir was a third down. Copper flames wreathed his Heart, but already he saw some of the younger Great Souls staggering back, their Hearts no doubt guttering, their faces slack with shock and dismay.
“Scorio!” Jova’s cry came from behind. He turned, saw an outflung arm, reached, grasped, and was hauled up just as the mirror-creature flung itself at him in an explosion of shards.
They curved tightly up and around the back of the eidolon, Scorio trailing behind the block on which Jova stood.
“Zala!” yelled Jova. “The back door!”
They dove down toward a rear archway through which Praximar must have escaped. A Hydra Great Soul stood guard, his arm drawn back as he prepared to hurl something at them, but Jova hopped up so that her flagstone flew at the man with terrible speed, hitting him in the gut and folding him over as they landed neatly in the archway.
“Jova!” Zala came up behind them. Her black hair was shorn boyishly short, her robes declaring her Manticore affiliation. “What are you doing?”
Jova slowed, glancing back at her old roommate. “Juniper was right. I should have done this a long time ago. But we’ll figure it out later. We’re going after Praximar and Dameon. You coming?”
Zala glanced back fearfully at the melee then back. “He refused to tell you?”
“Ydrielle put me in a prism. We’re done with them. Let’s go!”
They ran down the hall, through several chambers, past alarmed servants, and then out into an enclosed courtyard of surpassing luxury. Water fountained crystalline from a marble fountain depicting a heroic warrior raising a horn to his lips. Greenery grew from planters, and several trees spread their delicate branches over the pale flagstones whose smooth faces were inlaid with whirling patterns of gold.
Five figures stood in the courtyard’s center. Praximar and Dameon were in a heated exchange with the beautiful, freckled woman who’d teleported Dameon before. Leonis and Lianshi stood to one side.
“Damn your eyes, Dameon.” Praximar glared at Scorio. “Get your Flame Vault under control!”
“No,” said the young woman, pulling at where Dameon gripped her wrist. “I won’t. I won’t do it.”
And tearing herself free, she flashed a defiant stare at Scorio before disappearing abruptly, leaving a startled Dameon to gape where she had stood.
“Looks like you finally have to stand and fight,” said Scorio, moving into the courtyard. “No more running.”
“You think you can defeat me?” Praximar drew himself up and smoothed down his robes. “Freeing Druanna was a neat trick, I’ll grant you that, but you, you’re just a Flame Vault.”
“Two Flame Vaults,” said Jova, moving up alongside Scorio.
“And a Tomb Spark,” added Zala nervously from behind.
“Dameon. Leonis. Lianshi. Take care of these criminals.”
Leonis rubbed angrily at his jaw and glanced at Lianshi, who was hugging herself, features pale.
Dameon stalked forward angrily. “Very well. Time to avenge Evelyn and Davelos.”
“And Ydrielle,” said Scorio. “Simeon too, for that matter.”
Dameon’s head rocked back. “You lie.”
“Didn’t you send them down to kill me? What, you think we missed each other in the stairwell?”
Dameon’s eyes widened. “You piece of insolent trash—”
“Leonis, Lianshi.” Scorio pitched his voice over Dameon’s snarl. “I won’t fight you two. Please. In memory of our friendship. Step aside.”
“Stand tall, students!” Praximar’s voice was stern. “Face down your dark past and earn the highest of rewards at House Hydra.”
“You coward.” Scorio began walking forward. “Using my affection for my best friends against me.”
Praximar stood behind Leonis and Lianshi so that neither saw him smile. “Rather I provide them with a chance to prove themselves deserving. As one now!”
Scorio met Lianshi’s bewildered gaze. The sight of her caused a sensation of deep warmth to rise within him, and he smiled. “I won’t fight you, Nun of the Red. If you can strike me down, do so. But our friendship was a good thing.”
“It was?” She sounded desperate, unsure.
“Would you have told me about Juniper if I hadn’t earned your trust?”
Her eyes widened.
“And Leonis!” Scorio smiled at the large man. “Would you have told me of your uncle down on the arena sands? We were closer than close, we three. I’ll not fight you.”