Scorio could only stare, wide-eyed. What the hell?
Gwyneth stood at the base of the steps, her hand extended. She’d tossed Bronwen with her telekinesis.
The Nightmare Lady had Aisha down, who had a chain wrapped around Nezzar, and the second was grasped by Lianshi in her glimmering invincible form. Naomi’s bladed tail was at the other Great Soul’s neck. Jova stood beside Gwyneth, her features badly bruised and battered, making no move to attack.
“You better run.” Gwyneth’s eyes were wide with fear. “I haven’t seen her lose control like that in ages. I’ll hold Bronwen back as long as I can.”
Scorio coughed blood and rose shakily to his feet. His head rung, his body ached, and he felt as if he’d been beaten like an old carpet for a week. “Thanks.”
The Nightmare Lady released Aisha and stepped back.
“Good luck,” said Jova.
“Don’t get me wrong, I want that spot,” said Gwyneth, “but Praximar said we have to bring you back alive.”
A scream of curdled rage sounded from the far side of the shops.
Leonis pounded down the steps and ducked under Scorio’s arm. “You going to die on us?”
“Not today,” rasped Scorio, then pretended to consider. “I don’t think.”
“This way,” called the Nightmare Lady, waving at them to climb to the top of the steps. Aisha glowered and reluctantly moved aside.
Jova touched Gwyneth’s arm. “Thanks.” Then she ran to help Juniper stand as well.
Everybody limped up the stairs and hurried along the street that curved up smoothly before them, rising with Bastion’s curvature to Ward 11.
“What the hell?” coughed Scorio. “I thought you guys said Bronwen didn’t do full crazy.”
“She doesn’t.” Jova looked back at him, her expression guilty. “That was my fault.”
Scorio tried to ignore the pain. It reminded him of the many times he’d awoken from the Old Gauntlet, body racked by the injuries that had killed him. Except this time it wasn’t getting better.
“What did you do?” asked Leonis.
“I panicked and hit her with my fear aura. She reacted by ramping up her power.” Jova looked ahead, shoulders hunched. “I think it was a reflexive reaction on her part, and she quickly lost control.”
“Terrifying,” said Scorio, then spat blood. “She hit harder than Kuragin. How come she’s in the bottom half of the class?”
“The more powerful she allows herself to become, the more she just wants to kill people.” Lianshi was completely unharmed and looked vaguely guilty about it. “She was originally in our sparring group, before you joined. Feng had to stop her. It was terrifying. She becomes immune to mind effects and becomes nearly impossible to hurt.”
“I originally thought she’d win the whole Gauntlet,” said Leonis. “But she forgets everything when she goes full crazy.”
“Nobody wanted to join her team,” said Jova. “Powerful as she is, everyone figured she’d either turn on them or forget the whole purpose of the test. It’s why she washed out. She refused to tap her power more than just a little.”
“She’s really nice,” said Zala from up ahead. “Very reserved. I feel bad for her. I tried to become her friend but it didn’t work out.”
The pain and exhaustion were overwhelming. Scorio hung his head.
Naomi dropped back to his side. “Saturate your Heart. You need to Ignite so your healing powers kick in.”
He knew better than to complain. He ceased paying attention to where they went, and instead focused on the Coal mana that filled the air. Never had he felt so grateful for all the months of running and pulling on mana while ostracized in the ruins.
Slowly, painfully, he drew Coal into his Heart, and then, with supreme effort, Ignited.
The relief was immediate. Pain receded, his breath deepened, and he felt himself straighten.
“Look up there,” called Zala, slowing to a stop and pointing to Bastion’s far side.
“That Ward 4?” asked Lianshi, but nobody answered.
Scorio peered at the distant streets far overhead. Everything was in miniature, almost too small to make out, but he thought he could see a large crowd carrying hundreds of bright pinpricks—torches—marching down one of the main avenues. Smoke wreathed the buildings behind them, and a few flying Great Souls hovered in the air above.
“That doesn’t look good,” said Leonis.
Lianshi curled a lock of black hair behind one ear. “Praximar said how stirred up the city was, remember? Maybe it’s worse than he knew.”
“It’s been building for some time,” said Naomi tensely, still looking up. “Though it’s utter madness. What can they hope to achieve?”
“There are historical precedents,” said Lianshi. “Remember the Garannil uprising?”
“Yes,” said Naomi sourly. “And I also recall how that ended. With hundreds killed, thousands arrested, and several years of martial law.”
“Perhaps there’s room for real negotiation this time.” Lianshi sounded skeptical. “With the failure of the Empyreal Prophecy—”
Naomi just snorted and shook her head.
Jova had pulled ahead. “More walking, less talking.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Leonis with mock seriousness, and set to hauling Scorio down the street. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah. Some.” He disengaged from Leonis’s arm and tried for a few steps. “Getting better by the moment.”
And it was true. He’d not recovered nearly this fast from bang-ups as an Emberling. Perhaps it was his Tomb Spark nature? He tried to conserve his mana, to burn the Coal as slowly as possible, and felt his Ignited strength shoring up his weakness.
Even as Scorio picked up speed, the pain fading away, he began to sense the atmosphere in the streets changing around them. Gone was the restrained tension from around the Academy proper; now the energy felt raw and panicked. Pedestrians cast frantic glances at them as they rushed by. Here and there they saw signs of chaos: an overturned cart with spilled vegetables, a knot of elderly people shouting at each other on a corner, shutters slamming closed. The air smelt of smoke.
Hoarse shouting came from down the next intersection and Scorio and his friends staggered to a stop as they rounded it.
A large crowd of men in rough clothing filled the street; at a glance, they seemed to be tradesmen, their features coarsened by a life of hard work, their robes reinforced and utilitarian. They held improvised weapons ranging from clubs to hammers to even a few spears.
The whole mass of them, perhaps fifty strong, faced a Great Soul who floated in the air with his back to Scorio and his friends. This man had luxuriously long black hair, was well built, and clad in clean House Hydra robes with a sash that trailed in the air behind him.
“This is your last warning,” said the Great Soul, his tone somewhere between irate and bored. “Disperse now or suffer the consequences.”
“We should leave,” whispered Zala.
The leader of the crowd stepped forward. Square jawed, hair gray, he had the build of a smith and propped a large hammer over one shoulder. “Out of our way! We’ve a right to speak to the Autocrators! This has gone far enough—we’ll be heard, one way or the other!”
“You have no such right,” said the Great Soul, tone growing hard. “All your kind have are obligations. You live to serve, and if you don’t serve, then you lose the right to live. I’m getting tired of this temper tantrum. Disperse now and return to your homes.”
Someone clutched Scorio’s elbow and tried to draw him away, but Scorio resisted. In this Great Soul’s arrogant voice, he heard echoes of Praximar sentencing him to death beyond the Final Door. That same lazy, utter confidence that brooked no denial.
“We ain’t gonna disperse! You lot failed at your own prophecy, then you failed to protect us from that crazed Imperator, and now the Ruins are eating our homes and what are you doing about it? Nothing!”
The crowd behind the smith cried out their agreement, though their fear was obvious.