Hell’s sun rises as I do the Mottle walk-glide thing up and down a desert expanse of dunes.

It’s arduous and thrilling in one go. First, we slog up the side of a dune, clambering to its top. Climbing over sand isn’t easy anywhere. But this is Hell. So of course it’s much worse. I feel the sweltering ground through my boots. Scorching sand finds its way into cracks. The sulfur stink is never-ending. Mottle’s heat-bleeding form and strong musculature is a literal life-saver. He cuts my effort in half. The air swelters and I’m sweaty as all hell. But Mottle somehow cools my skin surface like a refreshing breeze. This keeps me from overheating. I’m still drinking craploads of Perrier. Without the Mottle living suit assist, I’m sure I’d be dead, dead, dead in maybe an hour tops from combined heat and exertion. Pretty sure even those slick Fremen desert survival suits from Frank Herbert’s Dune wouldn’t handle this environment. Yep. I’m a sci-fi geek. You should know this by now.

When we get to the dune-tops we pause. Mottle flaps his carpet body wide to catch the hot wind – tail trailing behind to balance. This arrangement requires me to support his full bulk as I run. But I don’t need to go far before the weight comes off. Mottle’s body attached to my back becomes a freaking powered hang glider. He flaps, cups the air. For maybe a minute, I’m air-born – skimming between ten and fifty feet over hot, sulfurous ground. We fly down the slope and then on for another couple hundred yards. I whoop in thrill despite myself — basking in nostalgic memory of hang gliding off Jockey’s Ridge in Kill Devil Hills. A place named after rum supposedly strong enough to kill the devil. I could sure use some of that now! Those glider tours were a blast for me as a kid. Hell, the whole of the Outer Banks was – what with the surfing and camping and crazy-good pizza. Damn, I could really go for some of that Nino’s pizza about now. Mom and Dad would tell stupid stories of how one of their first camping dates got rained on and they ended up in the Sea Oatel. Get it? Sea Oatel? Funny haha. That was before the rising Atlantic spit out a barrage of seriously beefy hurricanes — slicing the Outer Banks to ribbons. One of the first and smaller ones, took out the Sea Oatel. Godzilla-type hurricanes followed. They must have rebuilt the damn causeway three times before giving up. Now OBX is a string of shrinking islands. If you want to get there these days, you take a ferry. Another one of my kid happy places ate up by those Blood of Earth fuels the likes of Furze Bank keeps shoving down people’s throats back home.

Feet touch down. My landing is cushioned by Mottle’s ample musculature. I tuck the precious, ever-refilling Perrier bottle under arm like a football to protect it. Jogging slows to a walk and we begin the next climb. The sunrise is a purple-blue bruise of a thing. Another reminder, as if I need more, I’m not on an admittedly ailing Earth but in a worst place gone well off the rails long, long ago. Those sunrise colors quickly shift, turning green as the white sun-orb advances through cloudless firmament. There’s a weird web of black crud — not clouds, the crud is too high up — spreading over large sections. The not-cloud-black-crud offers some shade, but little true protection. If I weren’t covered by Mottle, I’m certain the burn would be both fierce and nearly instant. My various bits are already red and itchy after yesterday’s brief exposure. Mottle’s full body covering and fuzzy head as hat provides lots of natural sun block. That low-hanging orb is not yet at full furious burn. Still, I’m getting hot and doing my best to avoid it. Looking up at the black crud webbing in the sky, I wonder if Hell has much of an ozone layer. Probably not given all the sulfur stuff blowing up into its atmosphere from the death-soup ocean.

We continue our walk and glide journey through these dune-lands. Dead things lay in various stricken poses along eroding cliff faces or near stinking water holes. Razor plants of the kind Mottle devoured and other more dangerous-looking varieties cluster around these putrescent sources. We avoid them. Mirror-me said they’re poisonous. Mottle agrees. Even his resilient metabolism doesn’t manage the toxic gas coming off them in sulfurous wafts. Mottle and I stick to the high ground well away from these pockets of poison air.

We crest a tall dune rising above the rest. In the morning light I get a good view of the lands spreading before me. Dunes ripple out like still waves for miles. Beyond them is the front edge of a long, purple lake. It fades into the distance. Above it looms a smoking tower. Blue flames and wicked lights spiral up its length. Must be at least 40 miles away. But it is large enough to dominate the surrounding lands. Looks to me like someone took the tower from The Dark Crystal and lit it on fire – turning it into a kind of macabre candelabra. On the south side of the lake, the lands spark with occasional ethereal glows. From this distance, they look like fireflies.

Knife Lake. Wisp fields. Mottle thinks to me in his terse, matter of fact, way.

“OK. Thanks for the info, Mr. Hell tour guide. So that’s where the spirits of the damned pop up. Why do they?”

Not just there. All over Infernia. From Mottle, I get the impression this part of Hell is called Infernia. Pretty geographically smart for a bat-thing. But he’s been here for a decent spell and he was once human. Still keeps his human-level intelligence and awareness. Most beasties here do. Come to think of it, Bob the lizard acted like a bully I once knew as a kid. The notion that many creatures in Hell were once human but are now forced to live in various monstrous forms makes the place somehow more horrific. For some reason this is even scarier than possessed dolls or evil clowns. And both of those are damn freaking scary.

“All of Infernia, hmm? I guess Infernia is a big place.”

Big. It’s Mottle’s one-word answer. For follow-on, I get an image from him of endless hot and storm-wracked lands. Of vales where wisps emerge. Of various devils hunting the wisps. To the north is a great smoking land of calderas, naked-to-air coal fields, and volcanos. The Burning Lands. Mottle assigns a name as he thinks this image to me. He didn’t go there. Another Mottle gave him the image. Handy trick — this thought-sharing among Mottles.

“What’s that?” I point to the burning tower.

Overseer is Mottle’s new one-word answer.

“Overseer what? Overseer Tower? Overseer HQ? What?”

Overseer. Stronghold for Drivers, Poachers, worse. Make worbs. Take wisps. Enslave. Wisp slave trade outpost. Mottle is notably terse with thought on the subject of Overseer. All I get from him is the sharp edge of fear. I look back over my shoulder at the near-ocean lands we just departed. Sand dunes filled with skeletons. Huge poisonous purple ocean prone to spitting up storms violent enough to flay flesh from bone in an instant. A deadly land far enough away from the wisp fields to offer some deterrent to the slave masters of Overseer Tower. Yeah. I’m taking a little name liberty here. So what? I’m kinda a Hell pioneer. Deal with it. I look back over the purple lake to that burning twisted metal finger. They’d be more occupied in the richer wisp fields near the lake. Clever Mottle.

“Outpost? It’s bigger than fucking Minas Ithil!”

Mottle draws a blank.

“What, you didn’t read Tolkien? For shame!” I chide. But I’m not too serious. True Tolkien geeks are hard to come by. “What I mean to say is that’s a pretty damn big tower. I’m surprised, seeing how we are in the fucking bad, bad lands.”

All Hell bad. Wisp trade Hell’s greatest industry, Mottle sends back.

“Well, that makes sense, I guess.” I know the devils cynically ruined Hell for viable living by other means a long time ago. Preying on wisps was their way of surviving and advancing – if you could call the ever-greater development of violent and dominating powers ‘advancing.’

Best go. Time.

Mottle’s right. Sun’s getting higher. I’m getting even hotter. I gulp my Perrier down to almost empty – careful not to drink it all lest I remove the reproducing agent. It’s hot as the sweltering air. No matter. I need fluid. “How much further?” I ask.

Halfway down. Old burrow. Should be unoccupied. Mottle guides my senses down to about twenty dunes away. So a few more miles. He spreads his wings. I give it a good run. He flaps with effort and we fly fast and far – shooting over the top of a smaller dune below, catching an updraft from the heating land, and making it almost halfway up the next rise. I’m thankful for it. If I took the Mottle head as hat off, I’m sure I’d see a column of heat rising off my head. The longer glide gives me about a minute to think. I don’t like the sound of ‘should be unoccupied.’ Too uncertain. Mottle responds to my worry with his own prickles of anxiety.

Knife Lake grows in size along with my discomfort. Its purple waters pointing at me in a very rude manner. First rule of knife and gun etiquette – don’t point it at someone unless you intend to use it against them. Well, maybe Knife Lake had just such an intent. It sure did look mean in a violent kind of way. We pass one last land rise and begin a long descent toward the lake’s lowlands. Air around me is literally starting to sizzle — rippling with heat mirages. Little putrid pools turn into stinking patches from super-fast evaporation. Gotta be about 120 degrees outside and still fracking morning. It’s tough to conceptualize, but being near the ocean was actually cooler. I’m gonna need to come up with like a hundred new words for ‘hot’ if I’m gonna be here for an entire fucking year.

One last rise and Mottle begins a slow glide down the backside of a rocky dune. Sand is steadily giving way to scree and hard-packed clay. Up ahead, is a crevice. Mottle dives in. In an instant we are out of the sun’s scorching rays. Cooler air blows up from below. Cooler is like 95 degrees. I’ll take it. Mottle drifts down for a while, then aims for a ledge. I brace my legs for impact. Mottle helps with his own legs and tail, hooking the crevice wall at the last instant with a couple of the gripping claws on my left shoulder. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the shadowy crevice. About a hundred feet ahead is a cave mouth. Beside it is a spikey metal contraption. It looks like a metal hedgehog extending a single arm studded with glass bulbs. At the end of the arm is a blue light. It takes me a moment to realize this is a worb.

“What the hell is that?” I whisper. Seems like the right thing to do. That spikey oddity looks dangerous.

Scorpion. Poacher gear.

Well, it doesn’t look like a scorpion insect thing. But who am I to judge? Mottle sends on an image of the scorpion hurling its spines at anything that gets too close. Great. “What do you mean, Poacher? There’s a devil in there?”

Two. Hunt in pairs. Took cave for hunt base.

“OK. Makes sense. Poachers hunt. What do they poach?”

Wisps. Rarer is better. Mage wisp is best. Hunt creatures too. Sell for slaves, food, skins. Or just kill and take wisps.

“Fuck. Sound like some seriously nasty customers.”

As I say this the hedgehog scorpion thing gives a little ‘bleep-bleep!’ then shoots what looks like a green hornet made of metal into the air. The hornet begins to do a clover-leaf type flight pattern. Two of the glass bulbs on it have lit up with a red light which flashes over our location. The green metal hornet gives an angry buzz and shoots toward us with frightening velocity. The hedgehog makes a chunk-chunk sound and two of the spines fly toward us. They fall short, impacting into the crevice wall about ten feet below us. The hedgehog whirs as it adjusts its aim.

Sees us. That needs no explanation. Looks like it’s time for me to do something. I glance at my name curse. Nearly full now. Good. I extend my arm, level my hand in a knife-like gesture, pointing all my fingers in the direction of both scorpion and green hornet — shouting “Vexare! Verberare!” Five white-glowing missiles streak out. Two explode upon the hornet, knocking it to the ground. The other three riddle the hedgehog. One shatters its little glass eyes. Two pierce its spikey body, then explode. The combined force causes it to launch all missiles wildly. They riddle the crevice. But none hit.

The hornet is down but not out. It lurches as it rises, long stinger dripping some kind of yellow fluid. Movements are slow — still recovering from the shock of my explosive bolts. “Lunen Svert Umbra!” I summon my moon-shadow blade into hand and, without a moment’s hesitation, leap down. Mottle launches me with his strong tail and feet. We descent upon the slowing-rising hornet. It tries to bob to one side. I slice it neatly in two. It gushes yellow fluid. I dodge the expulsion and land beside its oozing fragments, damn glad both mom and dad made for excellent mage-type sparring partners. The whole encounter is over in about twelve violent seconds. My heart is pounding in my chest with combined fear and elation.

The trouble isn’t over. I hear talking emerge from the cave. It’s in devil-speak. I know it. My parents started drilling the infernal tongue into my head at age 7.

“Stupid scorpion goin’ off again. You set it too sensitive, Croak.”

“Didna. Scorp saved our hide o’re hundred times, Norg.”

“Done kilt our sleep jus as much.”

We rush up to a large bolder for cover as Norg blows a raspberry. I look out, point my moon-shadow blade at the cave opening, and ready another Vexare Verberare barrage.  

A devil’s head emerges. Red-skin, pointy ears, yellow eyes. Its body clothed in some kind of black scale leather. Tall boots of the same. Big brass belt buckle. A pair of short horns rise out of stringy black hair. Bulging worb on his left shoulder. In one hand is a long-barreled, magazine-fed hunting rifle. It’s a wicked, angular thing. Stock etched with the pentagonal upside-down A standing for Asmodeus. On Earth, it might be over-looked as an exotic piece of military hardware. His devil’s eyes bulge with surprise as he notices the destroyed scorpion.

“Shit!” He shouts as he starts to lunge back into the cave, fumbling with his weapon.

I curse and point at him. “Fuck,” I say as the devil scrambles back. He hasn’t seen me yet, thank the freaking gods. I wanted to catch both of the evil bastards further out from the opening. I take the shot anyway. “Vexare Verberare!” Five more missiles form from sparks in my name curse, grow into white bulges of energy, and shoot down the length of my light and shadow blade toward the devil. He scrambles around the corner. The missiles make the turn after him as he dives. Two explode upon his worb. The first cracks it, the second scatters the pieces. The rest leave scorch marks across his torso.

“Croak! Croak!” Norg is shouting from inside the cave mouth. I am pretty sure Croak has croaked.

Mottle vibrates, emitting an ultra-sound pulse. It pings down into the cave, then bounces back. Only two. One is dead. Many captives. More victims.  He thinks to me, letting me know there aren’t any more of the damn Poachers. I file the other info for later. There’s still a fuckin devil down there. I scramble away from the boulder, checking my name curse. Not enough energy for another Vexare barrage. The stuff is taxing but crazy lethal. So I’m down below half right now.

The cave opening flashes with light. Wisps whirl and rise out from it — caught in the tide of my name curse. They rush toward me in ethereal flows. Mottle lifts away from my back. My foot-falls scramble over loose scree. His cloak-like body flies above me. He flits into the cave entrance, edge-on, and quickly blends with shadow. I can see Norg now. He is shouting as he lifts a revolver. He presses some kind of button on the weapon’s side. I can see a bullet head start to glow red down the frigging barrel. It is pointed right at me. I jump and doge. The hammer falls. A mini-fireball streaks toward me. The fireball hits the ground beside me and explodes.

“Clypeus!” I shout as I jump. My name curse sparks. A brief field of force envelops me, redirecting most of the explosion. It still lifts me off my feet, hurling me to one side. I land and roll. Scuffing my elbows, but not much worse for wear. Damn, that was fucking close!

Mottle is on him, wrapping him up with his muscular body. I roll to my feet. The poacher is drawing a knife. My wisp energy is low now. I have maybe a curse or two left. I scramble to my feet. “Salire!” I shout. The jumping curse propels me through the air in a long leap. Beatrice can do this without even thinking. But I am no damn angel. Well, maybe half angel. She is my mom after all. Point is, I can’t leap 20 feet like her without a bit of magical assistance. I bound through the air, shoot into the entrance, do an unintentional flip as the force of my magic carries me in. I land, bringing my shadow blade down on the Poacher’s neck. It slices clean through. The knife he drew falls with a clatter. Mottle is safe.

Mottle unfurls from him, flapping onto the cave wall. Wisps are rising up from sundered worb and devil bodies. The dark of my shadow grows as seven more slither in to join Bob. Four lighter wisps spark and crackle as they enter my name curse. Croak’s worb is empty. All are now within the strange haven my curse makes for them. Nine light wisps, eight dark ones. For a moment, I wonder how Asmodeus became so good at ensnaring the non-malign in a Hell that originally only drew in darker souls. I file this thought for later.

Lowering my moon-shadow blade, I slice through the worb on Norg’s shoulder. Eleven more wisps streak out. Nine of these are dark. My shadow again grows. My name curse again sparks. Twenty-eight wisps in total. Eleven light wisps, seventeen dark. I’m a walking community of the damned. Friggin great.

I turn to Mottle. He lifts his tail, touching my hand. “What now?” I ask.

Now free captives. Then rest.

“Rest, good idea.” I mean to pat the tail with my other hand in a kind of chummy survival celebration. Instead, I hear a noise like waves in my ears. I grow dizzy, then collapse from a standing position down onto my ass. I’m guessing that rest is not optional.

(Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)

(Looking for another chapter? Find it in the Helkey Table of Contents.)