My eyes lock on the flailing red serpent in Rarhquick’s mouth as he approaches. My Vortex, taken from a defeated horde of devils, vibrates underneath me as I angle it toward the big Plumacat. The weird unicycle sprouting a half-dozen pipes roars like the loudest Harley I’ve ever encountered. This engine noise combines with a pained, banshee-wail of a damnable worb at its angry heart. Its exhaust is a constant coal roll. The worb — being one of those nasty soul-torture devices that devils use to power both their machines and their magic.
The red serpent, the Uktena, is lashing about trying to bite Rarhquick. Fangs extend, drip some kind of venom. To no avail. The big Plumacat has him by a horn. So the devil snake can’t turn his head enough to deliver a bite. I look down at Zaya. She’s standing on my lap, staring. Rage lights in her eyes. She’s got her mouth clamped, keeping back angry words. Yeah. I understand why she’s pissed. That horned flying snake devil is one of many who’ve hunted her kind to near extinction. An Uktena scout for the army of devils who’re still trying to kill or enslave us all. I don’t like the little genocidal jerk either. I drive up to the devil-snake.
“What’s your name, Mr jackass Devil Snake?” I ask him, not even trying to keep the anger and sarcasm out of my voice. I’m using omnis scientia and interpretor to translate into Minosian. I can talk devil. But I don’t want to right now. I’ve got about a thousand things on my mind. Besides, it’d feel like a defilement to my mouth and the last time I had an opportunity to brush teeth was nearly two days ago. My magic horologium watch says it’s 7:01 AM Hell time. So my two day anniversary in this hot, stinking, out to kill me and take my soul joint’s about eight hours from now. Joyous cause for celebration — not! “Got anything to say before I have Rarhquick put you in the sack?” I extend one of the bags I looted off the devils in Poacher’s Cave. It’s this weird sack made out of some kind of skin from some poor creature. Typical devil regalia. Barf!
The Uktena bobs toward me. I can tell it’s having trouble seeing. Welts and burns cover its body. Yeah, my Urdrake buddies blasted the shit out of it. Good fucking job! It hisses as it recognizes me. “The mage!” it exclaims. “You will be a slave! You know you cannot escape Regina! Surrender to me now and…”
“Got it!” I interrupt. “Completely understood! Your name’s Hassle! Good to know!” and with that I shoot my arm out toward Rarhquick, plop the bag over the Uktena’s head as the big cat releases, then close it over his writhing body. I hear it shout in protest as I tighten the bag down. “Now I’ll check back with you after I’m done destroying more of this Regina’s army. Thanks for the name! I’ll expect you to give me a full report on her when I do!” I thump the bag for emphasis. After a few more muffled shouts and hisses, the bag grows quiet. I can practically feel the sullen seeping up through it. Serves the little fucker right.
Rarhquick and I rejoin the Vortexes as we race toward the ailing scorpions. A small group of devils on Vortexes runs away from us, kicking up rooster tails of dirt and crud. About ten in all. They’re halfway to the jagged bridge crossing Sunken Crag’s black and swarming pit. In the distance, a larger group of devils spills over that bridge. A hundred-or-so riding more of these damn Vortex Hell cycles. They’re running ahead of a huge main group coming from Overseer that’s about three times as big. I can’t see much of Regina’s main army. Dust and haze covers most of it. But I guess that main force hosts about three hundred fracking devils and will reach Sunken Crag in a little less than ten minutes. By then, that lead group of a hundred devils will be closing in. Off to my left, Zorfang and his Urdrake are moving steadily northward near the hills. Grimjaw’s scouts are running up behind me. A glance back tells me they’ll link up with me in about five minutes.
Regina. So she’s the chief asshole in these parts. It’s an oddly normal name. Hell’s history has been tangled with Earth’s for ages and ages now. So I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s just weird. Like I have an evil aunt named Regina hurling armies of devils at me from a tower built on the backs of thousands of enslaved souls. Yeah. Totally fracking normal.
Shapes of Vortex-mounted devils emerging from the bridge over Sunken Crag and hurtling toward us are starting to resolve in the early daylight. I can just make out little glints of light reflecting off the metal bikes in this most recent swarm. I glance at our thirty three bikes. Sure, many of us doubled up. But even Regina’s forerunner force has us outnumbered. And a total of more than four hundred fucking devils are bearing down. So fucking outnumbered. Always outnumbered. That damn Hell sun is rising. Hurling its heat as it lifts. Sweltering night becomes boiling day. The air itself feels like a second sun as it seems to capture and redouble the Hell sun’s rays. Sweat dribbles down my neck. Mottle shudders on my back as he works to cool me. His concern seeps through his touch. He’s worried about me. Always. The Plumacat spit compress over the hole in my torso itches. I’m tired. So goddamn tired after the never-ending fighting, the constant live-wire of magic burning through me, my wound, and Hell’s fucking goddamn hot and stink always, always beating me down.
We shoot over a rise, run through a low spot, rise again and then we are there — in amongst the scorpions. Close up, I can see little streamers of smoke rising off the three that are still functional. A fourth is collapsed and burning. I’m pretty sure it crashed after Zorfang blinded its crew. Its tail ruptured and sparks from its vats are igniting more flames. “That one!” I shout to Featherstar. “Get those big vats away from the flames! They’ve got wisps in there!”
A group of Plumacats and Urdrake approach. The ‘cats hang back as the Urdrake lumber in. Their tough bodies seem resilient to the fires. Hell, they look like walking tanks… turtles… Godzilla things. Their big claws do swift work. With a shriek, the first vat is ripped free. Then another. Soon all six are piled up. I’m watching this from a hill as I’m considering the other three scorpions. Featherstar returns. I point to them. “I don’t have time for captives. So get the devils that are still alive, tie them up with whatever cord or rope you can find and leave them on that hill.” I point to the small rise behind me. I’ll worry about them if we effing live. “Then I want you to stop those scorps from moving. I’m going to want all the vats.”
With a growl of affirmation, Featherstar bounds off. I look down at Zaya. “How are ya feeling?” I ask.
“How’re aya feelin’?” She replies, doing her best to mimic me. Man, my girl has some spunk.
“Like I’ve been chewed up by a T-Rex, gone through the bowels, then shat out the other end.” It’s the goddamn truth.
Zaya’s looking at me like I’m crazy.
“You know what a shark is but you don’t know a T-Rex?”
Zaya’s look doesn’t change. She still think’s I’m full of crazy. I guess they have sharks in Hell but never knew a T-Rex. That settles it. Sharks are fucking everywhere.
“Right, you probably don’t know about a T-Rex. So what I meant to ask is — are you good to do another big wisp transformation so soon?”
Zaya cracks a grin. “Sure. I did it all with your magic the last time.” Her expression grows serious. “You’re brimming with it now. I could probably shape a Bowflit or four along with many others.” She pauses again, strokes my chin, looks down at my wound. “You’re the worry. Can you handle another shaping?”
Yeah. I’m pretty fucked up. But I gotta do this. Otherwise, we’re all goners. I shove aside her worry. “A Bowflit? You spoke of them before. What the Hell are they?”
“Enormous flying beauties. Special horns from their heads. Their tails make rainbow spines twice as long as you — which they fling.” She spreads her arms wide like wings. “Bowflits!” she shouts. As if a gesture were an explanation. She’s getting really excited about it. I gotta admit I’m intrigue by the notion of ‘giant flying beauties.’
I gun the Vortex over to the pile of scorpion vats, summon my moonshadow blade. Magic courses through me. My energetic vessel — again more than half full and rising fast. Fat sparks fall in a stream from my name curse. I’m a goddamn giant walking sparkler. It feels like my flesh is just a tattered vessel for my magic now. Like my body’s fraying and the energy of me, of all the souls I keep safe, is my real being. Not my failing, wheezing, bleeding, Hell-battered flesh. I jump off, kick the nasty, wailing, stinking Hell-bike aside and stand over the vat. “Sounds fucking glorious! Let’s form up some Bowflits!”
Zaya flies over to me as I slice the vats. That nasty liquid devils use to stun souls gushes out. Belabored wisps spill to the ground. I turn to my Vortex, carve its awful worb to bits. Souls emerge from the terrible, toothy thing. The light around me grows. Grimjaw flies up onto a rise. He blinks down at me. His Mottle flares behind him as his companion scouts fly up. Wisp light reflects in their proud eyes.
“Now, everyone! Abandon the Hell-bikes! We use them no more! Strike the worbs! Liberate the souls! Free the captives!”
In a chorus of growls, the Plumacats, Urdrake, and Mottles dismount. They turn their fangs, bodies, and claws on the devil bikes. They rip through stinking engine compartments. Hell’s fuels spill to the ground in black gushes. The burrowing claws reach the worbs binding souls to terrible engines. Torture devices made to squeeze more power out of those black drops of devils’ juice. They rip, gnash, tear. Around us all, souls spill out. Their light grows. The swarm around me composes scores. But I am not done. “Featherstar! The vats! Slash them open!”
Featherstar’s group flocks atop the captured scorpions. The Hell machines are now idle, scattered across an area roughly the size of two football fields. Devil captives trail away, led by Urdrake and Plumacats toward a hill. Featherstar hears my command. She lets out a loud yowl in reply. Urdrake and Pumacats atop the scorpions bite and claw the vats open. Loud shrieks fill Hell’s morning air. The light of souls grows yet again. Hundreds swirl about me like a field full of giant fireflies — each light the size of a basketball.
“Zaya! Call them!”
She rises up on gossamer wings. Her voice rings out through the scorched air. She sings! The souls rise. Sluggish, they respond to her. The pull of her voice is like a tide, drawing them closer, closer. Zaya’s song fills my ears. The wisp energy within me responds, spills out. Sparks shoot from my name curse to streak through the wisps. “Fuck! It’s gorgeous!” I croak hoarsely.
Zaya floats back to me. Offers her hand. “Our glory.”
I push my hand toward her. Our palms spark as they touch. “Hell yes! We make glory here!” I shout as my magic rises, as my energetic vessel tips once more to spill its vast flow through my bond with Zaya. The flood is now frigging enormous — fueled by the bright wisps sheltering in my name curse, by the dark wisps lurking in my shadow. Hundreds now. Each pumping its own flow of magic. Zaya pulls deep from my vessel. I have so much to give her. Light rises in my flesh, it shoots through our bond. It fills her. The energy lifts us. No curse magic. We’re held up by pure magical force. Sparks fly from me. I am a goddamn Fourth of July all by myself. Zaya bursts in her own light show. The sparks around me streak through her, then leap back out. Vila’s lightning roars up from her. Each bolt, swelling wide as a river. The bolts bend up and outward, then rebound into her. They form a shape like a lotus — with Zaya and me for its center. Its lightning arcs rise hundreds of feet above and around. They enclose all the gathered wisps. We flicker together in a strobe. Then, from this lightning-flower’s center, a tower of bolts shoot up. White running up through Hell’s nasty, puke-green sky. The bolts leap thousands upon thousands of feet, blast through strands of shadowy webbing beyond the puke, then spread wide in a roof of light.
******
Devils for hundreds of miles around, dwellers of Eastern Infernia, see it. They stare in shock. Oblivious. The light travels as far as Fortress Invicti atop its smoking pits filled with lava and burning coal, retching in its oily gasses. There the white light briefly brightens the dark pollution. For a moment, the attention of its lord, Asmodeus, is pulled from his Curse Rider’s hunt. For just an instant, the dark lord ponders this odd little light. Then the light fades and his gaze returns to the Hunt for Beatrice, for Mori. To the awakening of his prophet Ivan.
******
Lightning fills the wisps. Through my bond with Zaya, I sense them all. I know their number. Each one touched by my magic, each wisp sheltering within me. Their count flares in front of my eyes in ghostly letters, formed by a pattern set into my name curse. Counting souls. Another thing I knew I could do before the memory draught blotted it from my brain. A thing I’ve been doing all along ever since I defeated Bob the Stelo Mal. I just didn’t realize it. Now, the force of my magic makes the wisp count so brilliant it is impossible for me to miss. Within the lightning Zaya made from my magic are seven hundred and seventy seven. Four hundred and two dark wisps cast their shades, three hundred and seventy five light wisps burn bright. Zaya flings the four hundred and two into my shadow. She hurls a hundred and fifty three light wisps toward the dome of my name curse. My shadow bulges to three times its normal size. Sparks burst out from my name curse, rise to my brow, then shoot off in all directions as the bright wisps arrive. I am a home, a safe haven, now to eight hundred and sixty four souls. Two hundred and thirty three bright wisps, Six hundred and thirty one dark. Their numbers dance above my brow. A sigil of safety.
Zaya pulls more of my surging magic into her. Two hundred and twenty two light wisps bulge as they develop bodies. The wet, elongating forms are now familiar. Plumacats, Udrake, Mottles take shape in nearly equal numbers. Four separate to enlarge into something new. They grow and grow, becoming immense. They stretch — sprouting wings, tails. They grow blue, yellow, and green feathers. Each feather — as long as I am tall. Their heads arise, wedge-shaped. Mouths fill with rows of dagger teeth. Forward-facing horns like those of unicorns but about eight feet long sprout outward. From between plumes on their tails emerge hedge-rows of crystalline spines. They are Bowflits! They remind me of dragons, of unicorns, of big mama versions of the frigging amazing ikran from Avatar. Each is nearly a hundred feet long. Their wings span nearly two hundred feet, forming a sheltering tent from Hell’s hot sunrise. One stoops over a scorpion. Its crystalline talons rend the Minosian metal as easily as knives cleave butter. Another tilts its head down to me, blasts me with a spray of moist air from its nostrils, then rubs a feathered wingtip over me. I’m knocked on my ass.
Zaya’s drifted back down to the ground beside me. She’s hugging me. Tears are running down her face. Two hundred and eighty five pairs of eyes stare at us. The feeling I get from them is one of pure adoration. It’s effing weird standing in the middle of a battlefield in Hell watching them all moon over us like that. I get it. We saved them. Gave them a means to fight. For now. It is so much more than they had. Stuck in vats and worbs. Ground down to serve devils in the worst sort of slavery. I can’t even fucking begin to imagine what that must’ve been like.
“Mother!” Featherstar yowls. “Father!” Grimjaw growls. A loud cheer rises up from the new-formed and the rest. They are hours, minutes, seconds old in their new bodies. Who knows how old their wisps are.
In the distance, from just behind the black and gaping pit that is Sunken Crag, twelve of those goddamn Hell balls begin a ponderous rise toward us. Oh yeah. The devils definitely saw that lightning we just made. I’m pretty sure by now they’ve figured out that it means trouble. I’m also pretty sure they don’t know how fucking much trouble they’re in right about now. But Hassle is sure kicking up one Hell of a fuss in that bag I stuck him in.
“Mottle, Zephyr! You know the drill by now! Go tell the new Mottles what’s up! Then have them tell the rest! We’ve got like two minutes to start hauling ass!” I point up to the incoming Hell balls. Mottle flies off my back. I feel the heat again. Grit my teeth against the swoon. I’m ready for it this time. I still have to lean on the Bowflit’s giant wing to stay standing. I look up to the great beast. It dips its head toward me. I dig up a name from a fantasy series I read back in Middle School. Luthiel’s Song. Beatrice gave the books to me on my twelfth birthday along with a secret smile. Told me it was “a true fantasy straight from heaven.” She’s always like that. Saying cryptic stuff. The books were written by someone who apparently knew the real history of my mother’s people from thousands of years back. Us regular earthlings called them angels and made up our own myths about them. The name I recall from the tale comes to my lips with a smirk.
“Faehorn,” I say to the Bowflit.
It gives a questioning vibration in return. The low hum travels through its horn and toward me. What a cool thing.
“That’s your new name. Faehorn.” I stretch my hands up toward the wonderful creature. “Can you lift me?” I ask.
It drops a wing down, scoops me up with a set of giant feathers that enfold me like fingers, then deposits me upon its back. My view from up here is pretty amazing. I can see all of my company… three companies now… clearly. The small group of Vortexes fleeing us are now hauling ass. The group of one hundred-ish devils that just crossed the bridge is reeling back. I bet their commander is having a gigantic ‘what the fuck?’ kind of moment. The older Mottles have done their knowledge transfer thing with the newer Mottles. Now all the Mottles flit off to share their knowledge with the new-formed.
Zaya flies up to sit on Faehorn beside me. She lays a hand on mine. “You going to make it?” she asks.
“I’m about to pass out where I sit. But yeah. I think I’ll make it. Why’s it so goddamn hot? Oh yeah. I’m in fucking Hell.”
She squeezes my hand. I pull out some Perry-fuckin-A and take a long swig. When the fuck is Mottle coming back? I’m getting fucking hot. I look up. The Hell balls are just reaching their apogee. A constellation of destruction burning above us. We gotta get fucking moving. I pat the Bowflit’s neck. Faehorn. I’m calling him Faehorn. “Can you start picking up some of the Urdrake?” I say to him. I’m not certain the enormous, glorious Bowflit understands me. But his plate-sized eyes seem to hold a deep intelligence. He lets out a roar, then his horn hums again with resonance. He begins lifting Urdrake with those amazing feathers. His motions are somehow both powerful and gentle. Glancing behind me at his wide back, I figure he might be able to carry about ten Udrake. They’re going to have to hold on tight. But Bowflit carrying Urdrake makes the most sense. Those frigging Plumacats and Mottles are fast. The lumbering Urdrake won’t get out from under such a massive Hell ball barrage. And the notion of Urdrake shooting their laser-like beams from the backs of these giant Bowflit causes a grim grin to split my face. Soon, nine Urdrake are blinking their reptilian eyes at me from atop Faehorn. “Wow! That was fast! Can you tell your buddies to go get more Urdrake? Pick ’em all up if you can. Also get Theri and Zel. They can’t run with the Plumacats.” I motion down to the pair who’re staring around. They’re looking pretty awestruck about now.
Faehorn vibrates his namesake again. The other Bowflit vibrate their horns in response. Soon they’re all picking up Urdrake. Theri and Zel are lifted together. Zel gives me a giant shit-eating grin and tilts his horns at me. It’s some kind of devil gesture. I don’t have a clue what it means. But I guess he’s thanking me or somesuch. The number on Faehorn’s back swells to fourteen. He looks pretty loaded up. I hope he can still fly. He’s frigging huge. But those Urdrake are pretty beefy as well.
Mottle returns to my back. His touch sends an empathic reassurance. His body again radiates Hell’s horrible heat away from me. My energetic vessel’s filling up fast with all the magic from my new wisps. I’m about as ready to fight as I’ll ever be given all the punishment I’ve taken. The Bowflits are bursting with Urdrake. We’ve got them all loaded onto Bowflits. Barely. The Plumacats and Mottles are linked up. No more goddamn Vortexes. Thank ever-loving Christ!
“Let’s move!” I shout to them as the roaring Hell balls grow larger on descent toward us. Fucking planet bombs every one. The twelve of them fill the fucking sky with fire and blackness. I can feel their heat. They’ll cover a huge area. It’s going to be fucking close. The Bowflits beat their wings. The Plumacats and Mottles leap-fly away. Damn! They’re so quick. Good!
We lift off and fly. I direct everyone to the left. Toward the hills. The Hell balls are coming in a staggered line. Some of them will fall ahead of us. I’m not going to lead our force into one of those effing things. The Bowflits are damn fast. Their wingbeats whip up a hurricane which blasts them skyward, then wump! wump! they shoot over the land. We streak out from beneath the Hell balls and cover about two miles in a goddamn minute. I have all the majestic beasts land on a rise. We watch the Plumacats and Mottles race away from destruction. They make it a little more than halfway to us when the Hell Balls land in a cluster. The explosion is fucking nuclear! Each fireball eats up an area that would easily cover two city blocks. Blast waves shoot out for almost a half mile from each explosion. Huge fountains of dirt and rock are hurled up and outward by the blasts. The Mottles and Plumacats just made it. Debris rains on the other side of the rise they sheltered behind. But they appear safe.
From my perch, I can see the lead force of Vortex riders coming in behind the Hell balls’ explosions. The main group of devils is just now nearing the bridge at Sunken Crag. Ponderous scorpions are gathering their Hell balls once more to fling at us. I look at the Bowflits. Maybe we have an answer for them.
“Zaya, tell me what these Hell dragons of yours can do,” I say to the little green faerie who’s again sheltering between my arms.
Zaya points back toward the tails. “Those spines. They can fling them for miles. When they hit, they explode in big balls of lightning and crystal shards.” She shifts her pointing finger to Faehorn’s head. “That horn can emit a cone of sound. For a couple hundred feet, it destroys pretty much anything. Further out, it messes up devil machines pretty bad.”
I nod. I like what I’m hearing. I really like what I’m hearing.
********
Dressler watches in disgust as Slevelth squirms on the ground. His clawed finger points to the enormous flood of white lightning filling the sky. The first bolts had stunned the Dark Psychic. He’d careened off his Vortex and landed with a loud plop onto the ground. His squibble vat shattered — its contents writhing and ruined. Now Dressler tries to lift him back onto his Vortex.
“Get hold of yourself!” He snaps.
Slevelth points a finger toward the lighting. “Blaspheemer!!” He shouts as spittle flies from his mouth. Some of it impacts on Dressler. The overseer pulls his clawed hand back and delivers a firm smack to Slevelth’s plump face. The impact sets off a series of jiggles but mercifully pulls the Dark Pyschic’s eyes away from the debacle ahead. “It is … HORROR!!” The Psychic wheezes.
“Yes. A catastrophe. It appears Regina was right after all,” Dressler says, the frog-like eyes of Slevelth with his to prevent him from looking away. Out of the corner of his eye, Dressler can already see the great tower of lightning beginning to flicker out. Vila’s lightning. A thrill of ancient terror crawls up his spine. He, who’d faced the forbidden forms so long ago, knew more than most devils what it meant. But he’d never seen a single source of Vila lightning grow to such immense size. And erupting from near the derelict scorpions and their hundreds of wisps! Could this Vila and mage have already doubled their force? Could they have done more?”
“No time!” He shouts to Slevelth as the Dark Psychic begins to descend into blithering once more. He bodily hauls the great, toadish bloat of a body back onto the Vortex, sets the Psychic’s feet in the stirrups, rights the machine. “I need you to drive! I need you to send to the scorpions to fire on that lightning! I need you to send to Regina! Tell her to make arrangements to flee if she hasn’t already!”
“Blaspheme… It is… It is gone…” The Dark Psychic is choking on his words. At least his pace of breathing is slowing down.
Dressler looks back over his shoulder and sees the lightning’s flickered out. “By Asmodeus, Slevelth! Send to the scorpions! Fire all devastation orbs!” It’s useless. Slevelth is still useless. Dressler leaps up onto his Vortex. He lifts his hand to the nearest scorpion crew. “Devastation orbs on that lightning! Now! Converging spread! All scorpions FIRE!!” His shout reaches the scorpion crew. A crew member loads a red flare into his gun and fires to signal the other crews. Then, in quick succession, each massive machine bends back its tail and hurls its enormous devastation orb into the sky.
Dressler doesn’t pause to watch. He spins back to Slevelth. The Dark Psychic, at last, is settled. Dressler grasps his arm, then turns to his Century. “To the bridge!” He shouts. His Century, along with the two flanking Centuries, resume their advance toward Sunken Crag. They’d halted in shock at the calamity in the sky. Now springing back into motion. Vortexes rev and fling bits of blasted ground as they advance at a scorpion’s pace.
“We… must… kill… her…,” Sleveth says in even tones. His fat lips form a snarl. His eyes glint with rage.
“You forget yourself, Slevelth,” Dressler replies. “The mage is Asmodeus’s prize now.” At least Slevelth is saying something half-sensible. Dressler was beginning to wonder if the Dark Psychic would ever recover from his shock.
“If we don’t kill her, we’re all dead,” Slevelth says.
“You always struck me as… more practical than your fellows,” Dressler says as their forward ranks roll toward the bridge. They run down the land-fall toward Sunken Crag. It gapes wide beneath them. Scrabber webs glitter in the morning light. Plumes of sulfur fume rise up from those dark recesses. Insectoid and reptilian eyes seem to stare up at them from the shadows. Probably an imagining. The Vila’s lightning had set him more on edge than he was willing to admit. “It is one reason I chose you for my Dark Psychic.” Dressler pauses, considering his next question. “Did you see something that led you to this conclusion?”
Slevelth’s eyes roll about as his head bobs back and forth. For a moment, Dressler thinks he’ll have to catch the Dark Psychic again. Then Slevelth rights himself. “I will send to Regina as you asked.” The toadish Psychic mutters.
“Excellent,” Dressler replies, biting back a retort. He is used to having his commands obeyed and his questions answered. But Slevelth is clearly struggling with his recent experience. Dressler, flicks his spear in frustration, looks up toward the devastation orbs. They’re beginning to fall toward their target. So many over such a wide spread! Slevelth may get his wish. Then, in the distance he sees large forms lift off the ground and fly toward the hills. Other smaller forms race away beneath. To his trained eyes, the flying forms are unmistakable.
“Bowflit!” The word expels from his mouth like a curse.
“Overseer Dressler,” Slevelth belches the word. He’s almost back to his usual disgusting self. “Regina has already prepared to flee and advises that we do the same.”
Regina. Fleeing. Advising him to flee. Dressler feels a sick shift in the pit of his stomach. “No. Regia does not flee. She merely withdraws. We do not flee. We conquer.” The words feel hollow in his mouth.
“Overseer. This is a catastrophe! It is… unlike anything a local Hell Lord has dealt with in hundreds of years! It requires the response of a regional council, perhaps of Asmodeus himself.” Slevelth drools.
Dressler’s shock turns to anger. No matter how many made forms that be-taken-by-Asmodeus mage has, it still can’t be enough to match the full might of his combined army. He had repelled Lanthver’s incursions for decades, had fought on the great battlefield of Avernum on countless occasions, had fought in the ancient struggles of Asmodeus’s ascent to Fortress Invicti. “No. We do not flee. Our Lady is merely concerned for… our well being. Tell her we shall capture this mage. At all costs.”
Dressler shudders. In the distance, the devastation orbs explode into blinding balls of fire then fling a great cloud of dirt, rock and smoke into the sky where minutes ago, white lightning defiled it. Though the explosion is large, Dressler doubts it has caught much of the mage’s force, if any. She’d survived barrages of devastation orbs before. She knew how to move fast when she needed to. Now, with the Bowflits, she had even more mobility.
His Vortex winds down the familiar path to Sunken Crag. Dressler turns to Slevelth. “We shall capture her,” he repeats the words like an incantation. “She shall be a prize for Asmodeus. Regina will not know disgrace. Now, send to my Centuries! Tell them we are to cross that bridge with haste! Once we enter the Wisp Fields, tell them to spread out!” Dressler points to the massive stone span sprouting fortifications and towers running five hundred feet across that great and gaping crag. He will not have his force mass only to be picked off by Bowflits.
********
I shout to Faehorn, point toward the huddled Plumacats just beyond the Hell balls’ explosive blast. My ears pop in acceleration. I grip tight to Faehorn’s feathers through the explosive burst of speed. In four great sweeps of his wings, we are above Featherstar. The other Bowflits whirl through the air to follow. Spirals of feather, crystal talons, great whirling horns. They are tornados of color and motion. Each wing flap — a goddamn sonic boom. They vibrate their horns in response to Faehorn as their leader. They respond quick. But for what I’m going to do next, I’ll need almost instant communication with them and with the Urdrake they carry.
“Mottle, touch Faehorn. Call three of your friends up from Featherstar.” Mottle quivers in response. He drops his tail onto the amazing flying behemoth beneath me. My bond with Mottle now extends to the Bowflit. Mottle vibrates, shouting out to his fellows. Three rise to the circling Bowflits. They attach, clinging to the broad backs with their hook-like claws. My thoughts whirl as my senses extend to them through my connection with Mottle. I signal to the other Bowflits through Mottle. Mottle transfers my thoughts to them. They’re close enough together for this near-telepathy to work out. We fly a racetrack circle around Featherstar. Massive wings kick up a roaring wind over everyone. Out on the Wisp Fields, the large group of Vortexes has merged with the fleeing group. They’re racing toward Featherstar. Though still two miles out, they’ll catch up to my Mottles and Plumacats in minutes. I drag my hand through omnis scientia.
“Zorfang! That lead group of Vortexes is closing in! Light em up!”
“Yes father!” Zorfang harooms. His response — oddly cheerful considering we’re still fighting for our lives. I suppose he has a lot to be happy about. He just survived an almost continuous barrage of those damn Hell balls.
“Mottle! Send to Zephyr. Have him tell Featherstar to run out and attack the Vortexes below. If they get close, the devils won’t be able to rain Hell balls without hitting their own!”
Mottle vibrates again, letting out a trill of what I guess is ultrasound Mottle talk. Featherstar and Grimjaw leap forward with a yowl. They eagerly fly down the rise and toward the hundred-odd devils racing in. Near the hills, Zorfang and his Urkdrake rain their white laser-lights down on the devils. Vortexes smoke and careen off from the main group as the first barrage lands — blinding devils, ruining Hell cycles.
“Last message for Zephyr!” I shout as we take a final turn. “Tell Featherstar we are going ahead to meet the enemy!”
Mottle vibrates as we swoop low. Zephyr transfer’s Mottle’s call directly to Featherstar.
“Now Faehorn, Bowflits!” I shout as I point forward. “To the bridge!”
Mottle vibrates to transfer my command again. As one, the four Bowflits turn. Together their wings BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! in the Hell-sky. We are a hurricane on wings. In moments we are racing above devils in the Wisp Fields.
“Mottle! The Urdrake! Have them fire as we pass!” Mottle vibrates, then slaps his tail on a nearby Urdrake. On each Bowflit, other Mottles do the same. They send my command to the Urdrake. These then haroom back to their companions. Shells pivot. Crystal-tipped heads point. More than fifty nine blasts of white light rain down on the Vortexes below. Zel and Theri add to the assault. Each launch a fireball round down onto the devils from their rifles. At least twenty Vortexes explode from the sudden barrage. Errant fireball rounds and bullets whiz past or bloom around us. Some shots land on the Bowflits. Those great feathers covering the beasts shed bullets as if they are no more than raindrops. The fireballs fall short. Too ponderous to reach the Bowflits in their raging flight. “Fucking A!” I shout in celebration. They’ve been seriously softened up for Featherstar now. Between her Mottles and Plumacats, she’s got those devils outnumbered by two to one. Zorfang is also beating the Hell out of them even as Featherstar rushes in.
I turn toward Sunken Crag. Our furious flight has brought us within five miles. The bridge is swarming with devils. About half the main devil force is on it now. The remainder gather behind the bridge or spill out onto the Wisp Fields. Twelve scorpions fling their Hell balls toward us. They fill huge sections of sky. But the ponderous things almost make me laugh. They are no match for the Bowflits’ insane speed. Their sinuous, feathered bodies flow through the air with surprising nimbleness. Like the very whirling winds their wings whip up. I’ve increased our elevation beyond the reach of the devils’ guns or fireball rounds. Upon the back of Faehorn, I stoop in the sky.
A point of red light blossoms up from the Bridge over Sunken Crag. It shoots directly at me. Devil magic! “Clypeus!” I shout. My energetic vessel explodes. Sparks fan into a shield large enough to cover Faehorn’s front. The red beam hits my shield, then splinters in all directions. I point down at the bridge, at the place where the red beam rose. Through omnis scientia, I see a tall, thin devil riding a frigging gilded Vortex. I’m reminded of Ivan’s stupid golden toilet. “There! I want all tail spines aimed at that point!”
Mottle vibrates, Faehorn thrums. As one, the Bowflits lift into the sky. Their tails swing behind. From each sprouts a sheaf of four crystalline spines. They gleam like rainbows as they extend. The Bowflits fill with light. It starts at the tip of their horns and flows down into their heads. From the heads it runs through their spines. I can feel the force of it passing beneath me. By the time it reaches their tails, the light is intense, white. Brighter than that ugly Hell sun squatting behind us. Bolts of electricity leap from spine to spine as they ready. Then, the tails shoot forward and beneath the Bowflits’ bodies. The spines launch. Light spills from them as they separate. Bolts jump from one spine to the next as they fly. I’m reminded of a Tesla coil’s lightning watching the energy run from one spine to the next as all sixteen fall down in fury on that bridge above the black chasm. Upon that one devil lifting his glowing spear while riding his stupid golden Vortex.
The explosion covers the devil. It flings bodies and Vortexes high. It forms a wave of stone that ripples out from impact and across the bridge. Shattered stone flies in all directions. A tower near the explosion leans, groans, and then in a sound of ripping stone and rent metal falls into Sunken Crag. As the dust clears, I see a great crack opening in the bridge center. As it grows it devours devils by the score. More cracks radiate out. The bridge sways. It buckles. One side rises up, the other side lowers. This corkscrew is too much. A new series of cracks emerge. Rent into three pieces — the bridge falls. At least a hundred and fifty devils go with it. Falling down, down into that black pit. Some are caught in the webs beneath. Others simply fall and fall. Suddenly the pit swarms. Giant spider crab things the size of cars leap out to seize the falling devils. Great devil lizards, Stelo Mal like Bob from Mottle’s Grotto, lunge to return with more devils in their mouths. The monsters of the crag, awakened and finding their hunger, surge up from the pit. They take wounded and ready devil alike. The enmity between Stelo Mal and Scrabber — forgotten as they swarm together in a ravenous tide. They overwhelm the devils near Sunken Crag. The remaining devils flee — some back toward Overseer Tower, some out into the Wisp Fields where Featherstar is just now starting to pounce.
Elation swells within me. I hug Zaya. I raise my arm into the air. “Victory!!” I shout. “Victory!!” The Urdrake haroom. The Bowflits vibrate their horns. Our cries echo out over the battlefield. Then the Bowflits drop down upon the fleeing devils and join in the feasting on our foes among the Wisp Fields.
I can’t fucking believe it! We just kicked the shit out of Overseer Tower’s army!!
(New to the Helkey multiverse? 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.)
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