The fifth duplicate. The one that had flown away.
Flown where?
“Jova! We need to catch the escaped Praximar!”
“Understood!” She leaped up onto a passing flagstone and rose into the air.
“I don’t think so,” sneered Praximar, and hurled twin bolts of golden light at her.
Only for Lianshi to leap up and interpose herself just before they hit, her entire form turning glassy as she assumed her invulnerable form.
Scorio beat his wings and fought for height, pushing up through the canopy. He glanced back. Praximar flew after them, only for Nox to hit his ankle with his tongue and draw him back.
He flew out above the palace. All of Bastion lay around and above him. Where would the Pyre Lord have gone? To safety. To ground. Normally that would have meant the Hydra palace, but with Druanna within and the rest of them chasing him—
“There!” shouted Jova, pointing. A distant figure flew toward the Academy. “After him!”
Scorio strained for speed. His Heart was only half full now. His wings beat powerfully, causing pain to flare in his chest each time.
“He grows more powerful the more of his images are destroyed,” Jova called, leaning forward as her flagstone bore her on. “His power returns to its original concentration!”
Scorio grimaced and made no response. Over the rooftops and squares they flew, the rare tree or fountain, over avenues and alleyways. The Academy loomed ever larger, and Scorio watched as the distant Praximar flew into a window high up along one wing.
His office, no doubt.
Why fly there? Reinforcements? Did that place make him feel safe?
The Academy grew ever closer, and then almost suddenly they were upon it, the huge and ancient dome of the basilica rising to one side, its sandstone walls stretching up like those of a fortress, a small city unto itself of wings, galleries, balconies, and endless rows of windows.
Scorio panted as he followed Jova toward their target window. Instinct bade him slow down, draw back, but Jova crouched down low upon her flagstone and knifed her way into Praximar’s study.
Scorio furled his wings around himself and dove after.
The hateful room was carved into Scorio’s memory. Massive, stark in its lack of decor and furniture, and dominated by Praximar’s desk.
By which stood their prey, an empty vial in hand, the scent of Emerald mana hanging thickly in the air.
Scorio retracted his wings as he landed on the thick carpet, his heart sinking.
Damn it.
Emerald mana.
Praximar’s Heart lit up like a bonfire in the darkest night, and power suffused the man.
Jova hopped off her flagstone so that it could speed on without her at their target. The great block of stone smashed itself into shards against Praximar’s Shroud.
The air was rich with Iron. Scorio reengaged his Delightful Secret Marinating Technique and set to refilling his Heart even as Praximar smiled.
“Children. I applaud you destroying my images, but those were but decoys. Weak and meant to distract. They worked. Now here we are, in my sanctum. Your friends are battling my remaining image as we speak and now? It is gone.”
Praximar’s smile deepened.
“And all my power is returned to me.”
Jova licked her lips and moved out wide. The floor cracked and shattered as she tore large chunks free and then her image seemed to writhe as if seen through heat shimmers.
Her hideous Tomb Spark power. She was mercifully directing it at Praximar, but even so, Scorio’s memory supplied plentiful images.
Praximar pursed his lips in distaste. “That’s really nauseating, but you’re too weak to affect me, my dear. What a pity. I never thought I’d have to put you down, Jova Spike. But so it is.”
Praximar raised his palm and a bolt of golden light flew at her.
Scorio shouted and dove to help, to get his own newly reformed Shroud back up, but it was too late—the bolt pierced her Shroud and slammed into her chest, knocking her clear off her feet and against the back wall.
She fell alongside her rocks, all of which clattered back down to the ground and lay still.
“And Scorio.” Praximar smiled at him. “Here we are. Just you and me at last. Fitting, is it not?”
“You’re done for,” said Scorio quietly. “Even if you beat us, your reputation is ruined. Druanna will come for you. I’d like to see you handle her this easily.”
Praximar waved his hand. “Druanna is but a nuisance. And yes, I’ll admit, you have proven an endless source of aggravation by freeing her, but it will be all taken care of. House Kraken is yet bound by its Heart Oaths. Druanna cannot fly, and she is weak here in Bastion, where she can only dine on Coal and Copper. Whereas I, I’ve been stockpiling quality mana for years.”
Scorio licked his lower lip. The man would gloat and take his time tormenting him. What advantage could he work? His friends were all far away at the palace. Jova might be dead as far as he knew.
Advantages? There were none.
Praximar frowned, narrowed his eyes, and then Scorio sensed a huge wave of power wash out of him as he executed a mana-expensive technique. “There. The beacon is lit, and from an impressive distance, may I add. The Iron Tyrant won’t appreciate being summoned, but he does appreciate my willingness to fill his coffers with Gold mana. He’ll arrive shortly and help me restore order.”
“And when he learns that you’ve held Druanna all this time?”
“My dear boy, you think he didn’t know?” Praximar cocked an eyebrow. “What the Tyrant cares for is his ability to wage war, which I enable better than anyone else. Better even than the White Queen, for I’ve made the Tyrant the distributor of Gold mana whereas before he was but a recipient in Hell. No. He and I see eye to eye, and while he’ll censure me in public, and I’ll be appropriately remorseful, we’ll reach a new understanding that roughly maintains the status quo. A pity, really, that you won’t be alive to see it.”
Scorio nodded with bleak humor. “It’s all lip service, isn’t it? Everything you say and claim to stand for. You just want power.”
“You know nothing about my true desires!” Praximar’s voice was a whipcrack that was augmented by his brightly burning Emerald. “I am the light against the dark! Only I truly understand the value of preparing each class for the war that is at hand, only I know how best to propitiate the Archspire so as to increase the odds of a hero returning from the past. You think any of those fools in Deep Hell can win with matters as they are? No! Only I accept my role as a minor player in these events, but oh, what a part I play: I shall ensure that when a hero is reborn, he shall have every advantage necessary to excel and grow in record time. Without me? The Academy would have been abandoned years ago, its riches plundered to fuel the war effort.”
“And yet somehow you got me instead,” said Scorio, and clapped ironically. “Your plan is really working out.”
“Yes.” Praximar’s tone grew cold. “There have been disappointments. But we have eight years yet. And in the manner of the truest tales, I’m sure a hero will appear at our very last hour. We’re not quite there yet. In the meantime, I shall take an inordinate amount of pleasure in destroying you.”
“You keep trying.” Scorio winced as he worked his arm back and forth. “Yet here I am.”
Praximar snorted. “Here we are indeed. Now.” He took a deep breath. “Time to cut you down to size.”
And he raised his palm and loosed a bolt of Gold flame.
Chapter 67
The bolt tore through Scorio’s Shroud and impacted his knee, ruining the joint. Scorio cried out and collapsed to the carpet. For a moment he lost his grip on the Marinating Technique, and the Iron ceased to flow into his Heart, but reflex more than anything caused him to resume it. Half the room’s mana was already gone, sucked into his capacious Heart.
“What’s the matter?” asked Praximar, sitting on the corner of his desk. “No more quips?”