Beatrice pivots on the balls of her feet. Sun Shepherd swings beneath her. She adjusts her center of gravity against the violent motion. The Nightmare plows toward them. Its mechanical squid-form dwarfing swells as it leaps over churning, hill-sized waves. Each impact of its enormous body on the storm-swept water sending out a blast like thunder. Black, metallic skin roars with flames, tentacles flail the swells. It oozes oil, burns with fire, spills towers of smoke skyward. The sea around it — a burning, black and roiling froth.
Disaster. Heading straight for them. Finn grips the helm. His knuckles showing white. Sun Shepherd slams through another twenty foot wave, crashes down into the trough in a curtain of spray. Finn wrestles the helm, Beatrice pivots to keep balance. With remarkable agility for something so large, the vessel turns. Spray flies in a fan out from its direction of spin. The next wave rises up as Shepherd turns broadside to it, then races down the trough as Finn guns the electric engine. Rooster tails of spray shoot behind them. Sun Shepherd accelerates. The trough between waves is smoother. They race forward. Unobstructed by the towering wall of water that steadily rises to Sun Shepherd’s port side.
“Do it now Sadie!” Beatrice shouts.
Sadie slams a hand down onto the deck. “Praesidia!“ she incants, drawing deep from her stored curse energy. Light ripples out through the deck, takes in the ship. A hazy nimbus grows to envelop Sun Shepherd. It covers her from bow to stern. From the top of her bridge to her keel. A shield of magical force projecting about five feet out from Sun Shepherd and covering her completely. The shield dampens the force of any waves coming through it. Water within the shield grows placid. Sun Shepherd‘s hull plows through a narrow lens of water smooth as glass. All around, the angry sea churns.
The next wave approaches. Sun Shepherd tilts. The wall of water steepens. Praesidia can’t flatten the larger waves. But its becalmed area near Shepherd helps to keep her from rolling. The twenty foot wave tips them up. Finn angles the bow into the wave, cutting diagonally along its face. They pass the wave top. Shepherd corkscrews, flies off the wave top, lands with a smoosh! then takes a gut-wrenching sideways slide down the wave’s back. Shepherd skips. Spray flies high. The vessel reels back and forth even as Praesdia dampens the storm’s violence. Finn keeps the throttle wide open. At last, they are again shooting down a magically smoothed trough. Their respite only lasts a few seconds before the next wave starts to tip them sideways again.
“Whew!” Mori cheers, then glances back and left toward the pursuing Nightmare.
Beatrice gives him a tense grin. Sun Shepherd is crazy-quick and Finn’s got her gunned nearly to full throttle. Running between the swells and toward the lee of Wind Sun Isle, they’ve turned at a right angle away from the Nightmare. Like the waves, the monster’s rushing toward them broadside. It leaps through the air. Splashes down in an explosion of water, black oil, smoke and fire. Boom! Goes the sound of its great body slamming down. The Nightmare lets out a window-rattling shriek that drowns out the roaring ocean. Everyone except Beatrice, Finn, and Mori cover their ears against the shrill cry. The monster leaps again, rises tens of feet above the waves. Slams down. Boom! SSSHHHRRREEEE!!!
Its motion reminds Beatrice of a killer whale. The creature, however, is no whale. But an orca in the true sense. “Belonging to Orcus. Belonging to the Kingdom of the Dead.” A demon mash-up of giant squid and warped oil platform machinery. A Cthulhu-esque horror — belching smoke, oil, fire. As they race between the waves, it turns to pursue. Despite their speed, the demon gains. It grows in size. Soon, Beatrice can make out smaller shapes clinging to the creature. Too far away to see clearly. But Beatrice’s magically sensitive eyes instantly detect separate tell-tales of a Curse Rider and of Pride Eaters clinging to the Nightmare.
The storm seems to pause. The rain slackens, draws back like a curtain. Steadily, Beatrice can see further. The ragged waves grow more jagged without the rain. Their roiling white tops — like glacial mountain tips beneath the glooming sky. Out ahead, a shadow clustered in flickering lights begins to take shape. Wind Sun Isle. Rock breakwaters. Tall and majestic white towers with wind turbine blades locked against the storm wind’s force. Row after row of solar panels — their reflective surfaces dark now beneath cloud and deepening dusk. Spray flies from the breakwater to their front where Beatrice can see an opening. A channel cutting into the man-made isle forming a sheltering bay. Within that channel is another glistening, solar-panel covered shape. It looks just like Sun Shepherd. Beatrice points.
“There! What’s that?”
Finn squints through the storm. “Bright Spark or Ray Wind! One of Sun Shepherd’s sister ships! Impossible to tell which at this distance! They’re coming out to help us. Crazy bastards!”
Beatrice closes her eyes, shifts her sight through omnis scientia. The magical sensor projects her vision across the waves. The letters Bright Spark stand out on the approaching vessel’s bow as it pierces a roller, then runs out into the angry North Sea.
“Bright Spark!” Beatrice replies. “About five miles away!” Spinning the sensor, her enhanced sight returns to the Nightmare just in time to see it breach, fly through the air, then plunge beneath the ocean surface. Waters light up with a red glow as it passes below the waves. Running straight toward them, tentacles tucking together, a form the size of an undersea sky scraper and moving at terrifying velocity. The waves to either side of it hollow out like a canyon as it displaces an extraordinary volume of water. In front, a fifty foot high bow wave builds. Trailing behind — a mile long and hundred foot wide path of smoke and fire. “The Nightmare! It’s two miles off and coming in quick!”
Finn responds by giving Sun Shepherd full power. They speed up, running away from the Nightmare. Toward Bright Spark. Toward Wind-Sun Isle. The sickening cork-screw motion of the vessel only broken by brief periods of going airborne over the wave tops followed by pounding slams. After about a minute and a half of this frantic flight, even nimble Beatrice’s feet feel bruised from the constant pounding. Her legs and knees aching from the strain.
From The Destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum. John Martin. Commons.
The Nightmare grows in size. Its fires spread wide behind, casting flickering light and shadows across Sun Shepherd, tainting the waves red. Waves begin to look like mountains of blood. Bright Spark is coursing through a V of spray just two miles ahead.
“What are they thinking? How could they possibly help us?” Beatrice whispers as she watches Spark’s valiant progress.
Sadie seems to hear. Her only response — a half smile and a knowing nod.
Another surprise Sadie’s set up? How could she know? How could she plan for this?
Less than a mile away, the Nightmare breaches. Its massive form rises into the air. Its tentacles spread wide. For a moment, it hangs in the air. Tentacles point. Flames across it flicker out as they are sucked inside. The dark, metallic body pulses red. One-by-one, fires light up on tentacle tips. From these fires, ten beams shoot out — two for the longer arms, eight for the tentacles. They angle in toward a space in front of the Nightmare’s wedge-shaped head, fuse together. A ball of intense red light grows in front of the Nightmare. It expands. Then pulses. A single, lava-like beam bursts forth. WWWOOOOMMM!!! The beam blasts out, ten feet wide, toward Sun Shepherd. The entire storm afire in its Hellish glow.
“Clypeus!” Beatrice shouts, throwing up a shield in front of Sun Shepherd.
“Clypeus!” Mori incants as he adds his own protective energy.
The shields form overlapping white caps across Sadie’s hazy Praesidiabarrier on Sun Shepherd’s port side.
Glenda and Sadie brace. Franz tucks into a protective ball. Ivan, seeming entranced, lifts a hand toward the black and red light. “Sssshhhiiiitttt!” Karl cries out as the molten flood of Nightmare energy opens like an evil sun on their left. It vaporizes a hundred feet of wave-section rising toward them, carving a deep furrow through the waters as it envelopes Sun Shepherd. The extreme burst of energy melts through Mori’s shield in an instant. Beatrice’s barrier sheds some of the beam’s force before weakening. Red holes open through its white substance — consuming it in moments. Sadie’s Praesidia takes the remainder, breaking the larger beam into a ten smaller ones. Shards of red light cleave in all directions. Some fragments of the blast shoot through. One, deflected aft, rips a long seam in Sun Shepherd’s port side along the waterline and near the engines. The vessel groans and leans far to the right, then slams down into the hole made by the blast. Walls of sea close around them as Shepherd is covered. Again, Beatrice sees blue water through the bridge windows. Completely submerged. With a loud roar, water begins to pour into Shepherd’s lower decks through the blast hole.
After releasing its great blast, the Nightmare slams back down onto the sea surface with an immense BBBOOOOMMMM!!! that vibrates Sun Shepherd from bow to stern. Its red light spills through the water as it resumes its predatory plunge.
Glenda opens her eyes. “We’re sinking!” She shouts.
“Not yet!” Finn replies as he flicks a series of switches on the helm console.
Beatrice shoots him a questioning glance.
“Electronic hatches! I just shut all the doors on the starboard side!” The vessel groans, comes to rights. Then, ponderously like a weighted cork, pushes up to the surface. Water runs away from the bridge windows, sheds from its beleaguered deck. “Franz! Karl! Down below! I want you to check on flooding and ensure the seals are holding!”
Franz and Karl unstrap, run to a hatch, then scramble down into the lower decks. Sun Shepherd sways, sitting low in the water, and yet makes headway against the raging seas. One electric drive still dutifully pushing the vessel onward. The other drive is silent — knocked out by the Nightmare’s devastating strike. To their left, the monster looms. Its massive, burning nose plowing through a wave four sets back. Its great tentacles, each nearly as wide as Sun Shepherd, flail like a swarm of burning tornadoes. Fires rage across it, in the water around it — casting flickering shadows throughout the bridge.
“Fuck!” Mori exclaims.
“It’s coming. Make ready.” Beatrice says. Her voice sounds far calmer than she feels. The vessel, moving slower now, sitting lower in the water, seems oddly quiet. With one smooth motion, she draws her rapier. The marks containing stored curses running down its blade flash in the growing red light. One is dim. Three remain. The vessel, now struggling in the water after the hit, wallows as a wave crashes over its deck. Less than a mile off, Bright Spark leaps over a wave top, slams down into a trough. Beatrice feels a ridiculous urge to laugh at its confident advance toward them. Compared to the Nightmare, it is puny. Toy-like. I hope they’ve got some kind of surprise ready. I’m about out.
Beatrice turns toward the Nightmare. From its skin, five forms leap into the air. They arise in flame. Spread clawed hands wide. Each hand — the shape of a spider. Storm winds and smoke swirl around them, bear them aloft. Their hollow gaze casts down upon Sun Shepherd as their lanky forms descend. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! They slam in staccato bursts onto the deck. Metal buckles, solar panels shatter from the impact. They rise up. Fire and black smoke licks from their bodies. They open their hands, each finger tipped in a two foot long claw like a knife. Five pairs of hollow eyes gaze upon the bridge. All stare straight at Ivan.
Ivan is standing. His harness unbuckled. His own beady eyes meet with their hollow ones. Beatrice can see the flare of diabolical magic burning beneath his clothes. His wound — the one the Pride Eater gave him at Furze Bank — is lighting up in the demons’ presence. His spirit, already selfish, cynical, corrupt gives little resistance. Beatrice watches the dark magic spring out of the wound to grasp him like a claw.
“Mori!” Beatrice shouts. He’s already in motion. He stands, presses the red button on his case. His magical firearm unfolds, seeming to leap into his hands.
Glenda reaches a hand out to her father. She sees the Pride Eaters. Everyone sees them. All but Franz and Karl who’re still below. Tears run down Glenda’s face. “Father! No. Don’t. You’re not for them. You’re a person. You should be!”
Ivan shrinks in a shudder of pain. But he does not turn. He does not acknowledge his daughter. He does not see her. He is a man wholly possessed by the Pride Eaters. He takes another step toward the monsters.
“Hells to the no!” Mori shouts. With one quick motion he chambers a Macto round, then leaps to stand between Ivan and the Pride Eaters.
Beatrice crouches, ready to spring.
********
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
Sun Shepherd plows through another towering wave as the storm howls its fury over them like some enormous beast. Dark clouds above fill with spider-webs of lightning. Water and spray, ripped into jagged fingers by the vessel’s powerful forward speed, lash out at them — pounding the bridge windows. The sturdy ship shrugs off the assault, cleaving implacably through the angry waters, the clean hum of its electric drives — a constant counter to the roaring wind and waves. Mori’s got his grip glued to his “oh shit!” handle. Without it, he’d be careening around the bridge compartment of the swaying vessel like a pin ball in one of those retro arcade games. The metal brief case containing his magical rifle — held firm against his chest. His stomach does a rollercoaster-style tumble as Sun Shepherd drops into another trough. Damn fortunate whoever designed this vessel didn’t cut any corners. He’d have ripped the fucking handle off by now.
Mori glances up toward Beatrice standing beside Finn at the helm. She’s perfectly balanced without holding onto anything. The swaying and jolts do nothing to throw her. A graceful surfer riding through this crazy climate-change-enhanced storm. Her sleek, angelic form seeming to know where the ship will move ahead of time. Mori grins, imagining his wife as some female version of the Silver Surfer. Yeah, his girl’s just about that badass. She’s even got her eyes closed — shifting her gaze out through omnis scientia — ready to warn Finn of the next big wave. The sensor’s a few hundred feet ahead. Mori’s magic-sensitive eyes pick it up as a floating ball of light amidst the spray, the waves, the rain.
Karl and Franz are both buckled in. Earlier, they’d distributed fancy life-vests from beneath the seats. Now everyone’s wearing one of the puffy orange things over their clothes — complete with whistle, strobe, and geo-locator. Mori doesn’t want to think about using the damn things. Being ejected into that sea state would be, well, Hellish. His gaze flickers over Karl and Franz. Though they’re ship’s hands and have probably made this passage scores of times, they’re holding on about as tight as Mori. Franz has his eyes glued to the bow. Karl’s staring at the bridge ceiling, refusing to look at the waves, as his jaw works — chewing on some gum he plopped into his mouth a few minutes before. The sight of the two, obviously suffering the same anxiety as the rest of them, isn’t reassuring.
Beside him, Ivan and Glenda are also strapped in tight, holding on against the storm’s assault. Glenda’s alert, her eyes bouncing between Beatrice, Sadie, and Ivan. Her mouth — a concerned frown. Her face displaying hurt, anger, outrage. Yet fearless. Mori finds himself comforted by her courage. That girl’s something else.Putting everything on the line to save her asshole father.I feel for her. But I’ve really got doubts. Mori grits his teeth as his gaze locks on Ivan. The Russian oligarch’s face is a slack glower. That same emotionless mask Mori’d grown to hate. Bastard’s at last in control of his sea-sickness. That or he’s puked himself out. The boat throws Mori’s stomach through a loop as it slams into another twenty-foot wave face. Maybe he’ll be next to lose his lunch.
Mori’s not sure how Glenda’s earlier outburst is affecting ol’ Ivan. But he’s pretty certain the jackass is going to do them a bad turn. Confronting him with both good-will and reason produces nada. Sadie’d only managed to rope him in on their wild expedition to Heaven by making him feel special. Like this trip to Heaven is some kind of goddamn birthday present. Sure, she’s using him to distract Asmodeus as Myra runs roughshod into Hell. But Sadie, like Glenda, genuinely wants to help the bastard. She’s right. His transformation atop Furze Bank, his wounding by Pride Eaters’ claws should’ve been a wake-up call. Ivan, at times, shows fear. Regret. But these moments of potential awakening inevitably fail. Ivan’s just too corrupt, too cynical to take a good turn. Mori gets the feeling the Russian’s circling back to his usual power-games. Shapechanger — Glenda’d called him.
That rat-bastard’s a ticking bomb.Glenda’s right. This is his intervention. But Ivan’s gotta want it to work and he’s addicted to something worse than any drug.Power.
Mori can sense that power-lust wafting off Ivan. Like the smell of alcohol off a drunk. Ivan’s expression gives Mori’s stomach a worse jolt than even the massive North Sea waves threatening to devour Sun Shepherd. His cop instincts — going off like gang-busters. The way he treats his own daughter… Like she’s supposed to grow up into corruption and become like him. It’s just sick. That shred of love for Glenda Mori sensed in him earlier — now seems little more than a counterfeit.
Asmodeus chose this fucker for a reason.Sadie’s assurances or no, if Ivan does anything to hurt Glenda, if he shows any sign of turning again, I swear I’m gonna knock his ass out.
Mori’s eyes cut back toward Sadie. Her onyx skin glistens with an angelic sheen, seeming to glow in each lightning flash. Her face — somehow continuing to radiate calm goodwill as she braces through the storm. She reaches out a hand, grasps Glenda’s arm. Glenda’s face lifts, shedding some of its hurt and anger. Sadie’s the best. Always trying to do a good turn.
Beep! Beep! Beep! The alarm on Mori’s watch goes off. It’s 7:00 Berlin time. Shit! Mirror Specter’s on its way! Mori glances about the cabin. Beatrice spins on him, her eyes wide. Well, I guess everyone’s gonna see it.
“No help for it now!” Mori growls to Beatrice, then thrusts himself upright. He turns to everyone. They’re all looking at him, temporarily distracted by his sudden agitation. “You’re all about to see something strange! A kind of magical ghost! We’re going to talk with it for about a minute! Pay us no mind!”
Glenda frowns speculatively, like she’s working out a puzzle. Franz’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Ivan’s head tilts forward. A small grin appears on his face. That’s a problem.
“You just said you’re going to talk to a ghost and to pay you no mind?! The one doesn’t go with the other!” Karl shouts.
Beatrice ignores him, turns to Finn. “You’re on your own for a few minutes!” She shouts against the roaring wind and waves.
“I really need you!”
“I know! No helping it!” She waves a hand over her form in explanation. Finn looks at her sidelong, doesn’t get it. Then, the magic of Mirror Specter begins to grow up from her. The sliver tattoos traced on Beatrice’s skin gleam with moon glow. Her hair swirls — lifted by magical force. Light fills the cabin. Everyone but Sadie stares at Beatrice in shock as sparks begin to spill out of her name curse. They hit the deck, smoke for a moment, and then from the smoke rises the ghostly form of his daughter — Myra Helkey. She’s wearing a D20 shirt, has a clean look like someone who just had a shower — shiny. Her name curse is also sparking. Sending out streamers to connect with Beatrice. Her hair, pulled back in a pony tail, seems to drift about weightlessly, as if she’s floating in water. It’s the only visible hint about where this Mirror Specter is coming from. Good.
“Hey Mom, Dad! Other people!” Myra as Mirror Specter says, glancing about the cabin. “I’m about to go…”
Beatrice lifts a hand. “We have an audience!”
Myra’s Mirror pauses, “Yep! Noticed!” She scans the group, takes in the raging storm outside for the first time. The Mirror Specter floats above the deck — untouched by the swaying Sea Shepherd. “Oh… That’s a really bad storm!” A strand of her hair drifts lazily in front of her face. Ivan’s beady eyes glint as he stares. Mori can practically see the clockwork turning over in his skull. Tic, ticking through details.
“Yeah, better make it quick for now!” He says. No use in keeping his voice down. It’s like they’re on stage.
Myra’s Mirror snaps back into action. “Right! Then I’ll just tell you the basics! My better half made it past the beach! She’s now with a group of… kindred spirits! Two blues! A Vila! She just defeated some Poachers!”
“Excellent!” Beatrice says. She’s lifting a hand out, stroking the light form of Mirror Specter. The gesture is heart-rending. Mori knows how much Beatrice misses Myra. How concerned she feels for her as she faces down Hell pretty much all alone. “A Vila! That’s a perfect complement!” Beatrice turns to Mori nods.
“Fanfriggingtastic!” Mori replies. “She’s near the Wisp Fields?!”
“Just at the southeast end. About fifteen miles from Overseer.”
“Fuckin-A!” Mori whoops. “Yeah! Tell her to start her rebellion against those slavers!”
“You think she’s ready?!” Beatrice casts her concern back toward him.
“Babe, you know each day brings new risks! Sooner is better! Plus, a Vila!”
Beatrice nods, glances back at their dumbfounded onlookers. Mori’s pretty sure they’re not cluing in at all. All except Sadie who’s watching on with a bemused expression. Excellent! “Then urge her to push on! I hope she remembers enough… of what we discussed before!”
Mirror-Myra lifts a hand, gives a mock-salute. “Got it! I’m off to H…” She glances again at her audience. “Then I’m off! See you tomorrow at the same time! Love you both!!”
Beatrice’s glow flickers, then goes out. Mirror-Myra disappears — swirling off down her connection with their daughter. Down, down into Hell where Myra’s probably reacting to her own magical set of alarm bells. Beatrice shares a final glance with Mori, lets out a long breath, brushes off a tear. With a stiff nod, she turns back and closes her eyes. All-in-all it went pretty darn well. Except that last bit at the end where Myra’s Mirror almost said “Hell.” He’s pretty sure no-one picked up on it. Based on Ivan’s puzzled expression, Finn’s curious side-long glances, and the befuddled expressions on the faces of Glenda, Karl and Franz, they pulled this little Mirror Specter briefing off with flying colors and no-one’s the wiser.
“I’m watching again!” Beatrice shouts to Finn.
He grunts acknowledgement, then glances at Beatrice. “I’m not going at ask!” He shouts against the storm.
Beatrice laughs. “Better not!”
“Oh what the ever-living-Hell was that??!” Franz shouts.
“You heard her! No questions!” Finn replies. “Now let’s get through this beast!”
Glenda clamps her mouth down on a question she was about to ask, looks enquiringly to Sadie, but doesn’t say anything. Karl keeps chomping on his gum, shrugs. Ivan raises his free hand to his chin and scans the cabin with his reptilian gaze.
Sun Shepherd clambers up another monstrous wave. It feels like climbing a rocky, moving hill. Outside, the sky darkens, the pace of lightning flashes intensifies. Mori shifts his sight to omnis scientia. Through it, Sun Shepherd looks small and vulnerable amidst the churning waves. The fast resupply vessel for Wind-Sun Isle straining at its design limits in the brutal storm. Overhead, a ghostly light appears. The storm hollows out ahead of it, forming a circular corridor through the clouds. A black shape like a dragon with a Nightmare-as-helicopter for its head flies through the tunnel above them. As it approaches, the wind briefly slackens, pulled into its great, demon-formed wings. The roar above them grows, the darkness outside deepens as the Nightmare casts its shadow.
“What the ever-loving-fuck!!?” Karl shouts as he sees it.
“That’s the Curse Rider!” Beatrice cries out. “His Nightmare uses the storm!”
“Fuck! I’m watching it now. What if it sees us?!” Mori instinctively clenches, anticipating the storm-enhanced-Nightmare’s descent. Body and wings of storm spread above them. He feels like a mouse tossed about on a bit of driftwood beneath a raptor. The shadow begins to pass. Mori feels a moment of sweet relief. It missed us! The wind picks up. The Nightmare’s lashing tail, a frigging waterspout, sweeps by about two hundred meters starboard. Winds, flung back out of the Nightmare roar across the waves. Seas build behind the Nightmare as waves stack together into a massive swell.
“Finn! It’s coming!” Beatrice shouts, then points.
Finn, who’d stared wide-eyed as the Nightmare passed overhead, snaps out of his fear-daze and tilts Sun Shepherd’s nose in the direction of Beatrice’s outstretched hand. Toward the enormous wave he can’t yet see. Through omnis scientia, Mori watches the wave build to forty, fifty, sixty feet. The collision alert goes off, sending its klaxon blare through the bridge. A roiling wall of white and blue engulfs the magical sensor running ahead of Sun Shepherd. Mori snaps his eyes open in time to see its daunting form emerge off the ship’s bow. It looms like a cliff, its face is shadowed, hollow.
“Brace! Brace! Brace!” Finn shouts. Everyone clenches tighter to their hand-holds. They’re all already strapped in. Except Beatrice. She reaches a hand out, grabs a handle on the console. The bow pitches down into the trough. Above them, the wave begins to break as its top explodes into a mass of foam. Shepherd’s bow lifts, rises to thirty, forty, fifty degrees. Mori’s pressed back into his seat. Finn looks like an astronaut strapped into his captain’s chair. Beatrice dangles by one hand from her handhold which is now above her head. All across the console, read warning lights are blinking. Powerful engines roar shooting twin rooster tails behind. Its hull groans. The bow pierces the breaking wave and again they are submerged. The churning motion of the wave causes Sun Shepherd to pitch. “Grrrrrrrhhhhh!!” Finn growls as he wrestles with the helm to turn Shepherd upright. Blue water is visible through both front and rear windows. Little rivulets leak down the rear doors leading to the well. Shepherd groans from the pressure, steadily tilts back toward vertical, then explodes through the giant wave’s back. Shepherd’s bow slamming onto the storm-tossed sea surface.
Everyone lets out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding.
“Fuck! Fuck! We’re fucked!!” Glenda curses as she breathes out, then opens her clenched eyes. Ivan, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to get sick again. Even Sadie’s tensed up.
“She’s a strong ship!” Finn shouts from his captain’s chair. Sweat beading on his brow betrays his intense focus. “Made to weather the North Sea and make the fast cargo or personnel runs to and from Wind-Sun! Never you worry! She’ll hold together!” His voice is cracking a bit from the strain. Mori’s not sure if it’s reassuring. He can tell Finn’s just about as scared shitless as Glenda. Whether from the storm, from the supernatural shit he just witnessed, or both, Mori can’t tell.
Beatrice drops back onto her feet as the ship settles. Out of everyone, she seems the most steady. She turns to Mori, lifts her free hand, then points toward the Nightmare boring on through the raging storm. “Where’s it going?!” She shouts to Mori above the waves and engine noise.
“I don’t know, babe! We’re following it!” Mori replies, then turns to Finn. “What’s out that way?!”
“Trekke Pa, Wind-Sun! That’s about it!”
“Trekke Pa?!” Sadie asks. Mori’s gut does another roller-coaster dip — and not from the pitching deck.
“It’s a huge oil platform!” Finn shouts.
“How far off?!” Mori asks. “Can we avoid it?!”
“We won’t crash into it! If that’s what you mean!”
“No! Can we go around!? Stay out of it’s way!?” Mori can feel the fear starting to rise again.
“Not by too much! Not in this mess! We’re already pretty close! Don’t want to get thrown off course!”
Mori’s eyes lock with Beatrice’s. “I think Glenda’s right!” Beatrice says, her face falling as she watches the Nightmare’s waterspout tail whipping back and forth like some oceanic version of the twister from The Wizard of Oz in front of them.
“What?!” Finn asks.
“Yeah,” Mori replies. “That Nightmare’s heading straight for the oil platform! We are fucked!”
“It’s an ambush!” Beatrice shouts back. “Get ready!”
********
Gibbons Crane whoops and laughs maniacally as his Nightmare leaps from the helicopter and into the oil platform. He cracks his electric whip. His worb grinds down on the captured wisps, feeding the demon still more energy. The demon flickers with dark lightning as it courses through the metal struts. Its energy whirls out and down. The oil platform crew looks on in horror. Floats, masses of machinery atop the platform, tentacle-like lines running down to the ocean floor — slurping up Hellish fuels from a wound driven into the sea bed, all shudder and begin to transform. The Nightmare drinks deep of crude and gas. It cries in triumph as it taps great tanks of the corruption juice stored in Trekke Pa’s structure. It yammers with glee as it slurps down the polluting substances travelling up through lines reaching the sea bottom.
The structure groans. Oil leeches out of joints and seams to cover its body. Turning from light-bedecked and red-painted steel to black. Hellish flesh bulges throughout. Terrified crew are engulfed, swallowed up, crushed into its new form in sprays of blood and entrails. Gibbons feasts upon it all. “Yes!!” He shouts in ecstasy, then kicks the helicopter off the fleshy deck and into the storm-riled North Sea. Sinking down beneath the waves. Forgotten. The platform grows scales. Spines rise out. Floats merge into a monstrous squid-like head. Lines rip from the sea floor bottom to become tentacles. A great, bulbus eye sprouts, casts out a baleful gaze. Metal and machinery form mad and mottled patterns along its two-hundred-foot long body. Lights shatter. Oil spills through its skin, belches from its mouth. The Nightmare, the ocean, everything is soon covered by the viscous fossil fuels.
Sparks fly from shattered lamps, fire takes hold, blazes across the oil. A great raging inferno leaps over it and onto the water. Gibbons stands astride the enormous monster, gripping a spine with one hand, lashing his electric whip into the air with the other. Oil platform no more. Now Hell’s Platform. A Nightmare fully transformed into a horror straight from the inner-most-bowels of a ruined world. The oil spewing from the creature, fountaining up through the waves out of ruptured fuel lines, spreads darkness and fire across the ocean surface. The disaster. The storm. The Nightmare monster. The environmental ruin. All combine to draw the eyes of demons. Five Pride Eaters lift their hands. Tear at the space between Hell and Earth with their enormous claws. Their spirits come to float alongside Gibbons and his Nightmare. The pollution and fires lick their forms into being. They latch on to the great Nightmare body, becoming riders of an Eldritch Horror.
Gibbons points out over the raging sea. He knows the location of his prey. He can sense them just miles off through the raging storm. “There!” He shouts to the beast. “There is our quarry! Go now! We will take them!” The Nightmare tips forward, plunges through water and fire. tentacles ripple behind. Gibbons, the demons, the Nightmare tear through the storm. A form of fire, gushing oil, writhing tentacles like towers. Behind them — a black and burning wake.
********
Maxwell Plann, famous climate scientist by day, moonlighting mage by night, and friend to Sadie and Glenda, stands in the Bill McKibben control room overlooking a churning North Sea. A stocky, unassuming figure, Maxwell lifts a hand to adjust his polarized aviator glasses against another bright flash of lightning as rain batters the window in front of him.
The control room, named after a prominent climate activist who envisioned a full transition to clean energy decades before it became a popular rallying cry of environmentalists, is part of a larger structure jutting out from a man-made island. The island — Wind-Sun Isle — is a platform for twenty massive wind turbines. It forms a hub in a constellation of a thousand more across the North Sea. Every inch of the one square mile island’s surface is covered with solar panels. Running through the island are tunnels filled with water turbines that tap the North Sea’s waves and currents. Together these turbines and panels collect enough electricity to power half of Germany each day. Pushing it out as clean current to mainland Europe. Transforming it into renewable hydrogen in the various electrolysis plants dotting the Island. Considered an impossibility just a decade ago, Wind-Sun Isle is an amazing feat of engineering science and act of faith combined. It represents the answer to a Hellish climate in the form of energy from Heaven. A place that will fall to the waves as glaciers continue to melt — unless the world answered in kind with enough energy from Heaven to replace the nightmarish fuels from Hell.
Hope facing off against tragedy.
Maxwell marvels at the place. Revels in its triumph of science and engineering combined. He’d seen pictures of Wind-Sun Isle on the web many times. His presence here came at the request of his associate Sadie. He’d arrived just one day ago. Now he worries about his friends — Sadie and Glenda. The storm has transformed the North Sea into a horror of gigantic waves, falling bolts of lighting, and torrential rain. He’s pushed his magical senses out along the path of Sun Shepherd to finally find it wallowing in the raging seas. Its progress — hampered by the constant pounding. Though just five miles off Wind-Sun, and nearing Trekke Pa, the waves and terrible current are holding them at bay.
“They’re running late,” he says, turning toward his companion — Freja Pedersen.
“Expected, they’ll be lucky to make it here by full dark through this mess.” Freja replies. She towers over the stocky Maxwell. Her long, blonde locks pulled back into a braid. Freja’s an administrator and chief engineer for Wind-Sun. She’s also one of Maxwell’s network of global contacts.
“Maybe it’s time to send out an escort?” Maxwell motions to his left. Outside is a bay housing two solar-electric ships. Bright Spark and Ray Wind. Sisters to Sun-Shepherd. They bob in the wind, waves, and rain even in the enclosure. Freja has them charged up and ready in the event that they’re needed to aid Sun Shepherd.
“Maybe…” Freja says, considering.
Then, out over Trekke Pa, the sky turns bright red. Lit up by a terrible explosion. The flames briefly silhouette a towering form in the darkness. Black as pitch. Flaming. Spewing smoke and shadow. Black tentacles leap up from the fire surrounding it. Then, the great monster, no longer just an oil platform, tips sideways into the North Sea. Burly waves splash and roil around it. Tentacles and burning expulsions of oil swarm behind. That monstrous flaming form — knifing directly toward Sun Sherpherd.
Maxwell doesn’t hesitate. He knows a Nightmare when he sees one. Knew Sadie, Mori, and Beatrice had probably attracted just such a terror. “I’m heading to Bright Spark! Tell Jans I’ll be aboard in less than five!”
********
Mori feels like he’s going to barf.
Sun Shepherd slams over another huge wave. Spray and rain fly. Out ahead, in the darkness, a red light gleams like a demon’s eye. Underbellies of cloud flicker with intermittent firelight. The flickering grows brighter, larger. Oily smoke rises up into the sky ahead. Darkness deepens as smoke joins cloud and gathering dusk. Something massive. A shadow in the belly of flame and smoke begins to take shape ahead. A shape like a knife of fire and darkness — pointing directly toward Sun Shepherd — emerges.
“What is that!?” Karl shouts, his eyes wide with naked fear.
“The Nightmare. Death… pouncing,” Beatrice replies. Mori can see her eyes shifting to a more determined cast. He knows she’s checking her energetic vessel. They’ve had hours to refresh since the train. I’m back to about a third full. She’s probably about the same. Sadie might have half. Not enough. No-where near enough.
“Nightmare?!! Death!? Pouncing!!??” Karl shouts again. Hysterical. He’s got his eyes glued to the rapidly growing form. Its firelight flickers across his face. His own face — a rictus of fear — appears demonic in the hellish glow. “We’re dead, dead… DEAD!!!“
“Everyone! Steady!” Finn shouts. “Someone give me an option!”
“Can you turn the vessel away from it?! Speed up?! Try to outrun it?!” Mori shouts.
“If I turn sidewise to a twenty foot plus swell, we’ll start rolling! I don’t know how many rolls she can take!”
Mori spins toward Sadie. “Can you protect Sun Shepherd from the waves, make it stronger against rolls?”
Sadie’s eyes glisten. She nods. “It’s a solar vessel. My magic will work more strongly with it. I can try.”
“Good!” Beatrice shouts as she plants her feet, then lowers a hand to grab the console. “Best do it now! We’ve got to find a way out of this Ambush! And that Nightmare — it’s coming fast!!”
Out ahead, the Nightmare leaps over a wave as it rushes toward them. Its two hundred foot long, squid-like body covered with metal protrusions, leaking flaming oils, becoming fully visible for the first time. Behind it, a mass of tentacles whip out, flinging smoke, fire, shadow. The shape rises about fifty feet into the air, seems to hang on the wind for a moment, then slams down. Spray, fire, oil splash out from it in a multi-colored explosion.
Karl sees it. Bends over. Covers his eyes. “Dead… dead… dead…,” he whimpers.
In the rising firelight, Ivan’s beady eyes flicker. Mori gets the impression of a predator, at bay for now, just waiting for the right time to pounce.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
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.
Position of Rebel and Devil Forces During Battle of Sunken Crag, Darkest Pit, Brightest Light
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!”
Myra Strikes the Bridge at Sunken Crag
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.)
My moment of blackout flickers away. Urgency fills my body like a thunderbolt. “Gotta move!” I groan, thinking of Overseer and the killer devils still left to fight. My eyes open, breaking through a cake of crud, sand, dried tears. Overhead, the Hell-sky is turning from green-black to puke-green. Weird crap the devils hurled up there forms its thin, black net above the sky of this baking hole of a world festering in its own stink and ruin. To my right, the horizon is a bruise over a red-eye sunrise. Featherstar’s tongue rasps over my belly. Each lick draws away some pain. Layers of healing spittle ooze into my wound. A mesh forms — knitting flesh, stopping the outward flow of blood. Mottle quivers as I fight back to consciousness. His fangs are in my neck — injecting restoring fluid through my veins. Another Mottle, Zephyr, drapes over my right arm. He’s also injecting his fluids — this time into my wrist. Zaya’s crouched beside me. She’s got her hand on my name curse. Her touch is warm, soft, electric. She must’ve flown back to me when she saw my fight with the devil leader. Keeps putting herself at too much risk. Like I’m one to effing talk.
I lever myself up. Glance around. Dead devils are strewn across the gully’s edge. Plumacats prowl among the bodies, devouring their chosen prey. Vortexes, their pained soul-warbles silent, lay derelict. Overhead, light streaks. Urdrake, still on the gully’s other side, fire their beams toward a handful of fleeing devils. Running away from them and toward me are Zel and Theri. Theri’s waving her arms. Zel’s shouting some words of concern. They’re both obviously freaked out by me laying on the ground. “I’m OK!” I try to shout toward them. My hoarse voice comes out like the croak of some giant effing frog. I’m pretty sure they can’t hear me. I turn my head, tracing the streaks of light emitting from the Urdrake’s fucking heads. Lumionous lances follow the running devils. An explosion blooms as a Vortex ruptures, hurling its devil rider about eighty feet as it careers across the Wisp Fields. I lever myself up to a sitting position. I look down, see a stain of black upon the ground beneath me. I’m sitting in a pool of my own fucking blood. “How long was I out?” I croak again.
Grimjaw, squatting on his haunches beside me, eyes scanning the destruction surrounding us, lets out a rumbling purr of assurance. “Only moments, father,” he says. “You took down the devil streak’s leader. But his treacherous spine nicked you.” He blinks his large eyes. It’s effing weird being reassured by the big predator. His tiger-like jaws drip with gore. His last devil kill. Maybe some of his last meal.
I shove myself off the ground. Zephyr releases, then flaps off to his Plumacat. The vibration he sends behind him — an exultation at my rising to my feet. I waver, grab for Perry-Fucin-A, take an orange-flavored chug of the fizzy water that keeps replenishing in my Jesus-curse bottle. I’m crazy-thirsty. The hot water isn’t as refreshing as it could be. But this is Hell. I’ll take what I can get. A moment before the flask empties, I pull it away from my lips, letting the fizzy water refill. My waist tinges with pain. I look down. My white fiery phoenix T-shirt is now covered in multi-colored crud — yellow sulfur crap, brown and purple dirt, black and red blood, the off-white mesh of Plumacat spittle. I guess I could’ve picked a color other than white for Hell. But what this fuck, this isn’t a fashion show. My wound is clearly visible through a hole in my shirt. The stuff Featherstar spat-licked over it covers and fills the broken skin and what must be a deep gash. I poke it. It’s rough on the outside, squishy and wet on the inside. It throbs with my heartbeat. As I look, I can kinda see it drawing my flesh together.
“Fucking gross! Cool!” I exclaim. I can’t help myself. Body stuff is always weird. But spit that can heal you is also pretty goddamn cool. I take a breath, drag a somewhat clean patch of my shirt across my eyes to clear them of crud, then look out across the battlefield. Five feet away from me is the devil leader’s dead body. His nasty axe is embedded in the ground ten feet away. His Vortex careened past us and now rests at the gully’s bottom. I draw my moonshadow blade from the air. It never went away. Even after I lost consciousness. My energetic vessel, continuously filling with a deluge of wisp energy, keeps it powered up. Slicing down, I rupture the devil leader’s worb. Wisps flood up the blade in a bright wash of light then shift into my name curse or shadow. A fucking hundred and forty four all come from this one devil’s worb. Sixty three bright wisps, eighty one dark. My shadow swarms. My name curse spits out a second roman candle. Three hundred and fucking nine wisps and I’m responsible for every frigging one. Eighty bright wisps, two hundred and twenty nine dark. I feel like I’m standing on a volcano of magical potential. My energetic vessel surges. I’m gonna need fucking all of it.
I turn. Dead devils are all around. This devil leader’s force of about fifty — destroyed. Its scattered remnants are falling to a nearby barrage of Urdrake light flashes. Further off, I can see more lights lancing through the dawn. Zorfang’s force is still raining his laser-like volleys on the scorpions. One is derelict, burning. The others are wandering, hurling their massive Hell balls in random directions. The small force of about ten Vortexes that surrounded these scorpions are further off, fleeing back toward Overseer Tower. I pump my fist in the air. “Fuckin A! Zorfang did it!”
My eyes follow the retreating Vortexes. In the new light of Hell’s dawn, I can see them making toward a bridge overwatched by wicked towers. The bridge crosses a wide and gaping chasm. Its dark inside — full of creeping shadows. Sunken Crag is what Theri and Zel called it. Looks crazy-nasty. On the bridge’s far side, the faint outlines of more lumbering scorpions waver through a pollution haze of Vortex exhaust. The rest of Overseer’s might on its way to crush us. Dropping my eyes, I shift focus back to my immediate surroundings. A few prone bodies of Plumacats and Mottles are scattered among the dead clusters of devils. My heart makes this jarring lurch as I absorb the losses. They call me father. I feel like a father. In a way I am. My magic and Zaya’s gave them this desperate new life.
I turn to Featherstar, lay a hand on her heavily-muscled shoulder. Her feathers rustle beneath my touch. They’re both tough and soft. A mix of down and armor. “Featherstar,” My voice chokes despite my efforts to keep it clear. “Gather the wounded and dead. Tell the wounded to shelter in this gully.” I point down and behind me. “Leave two Plumacats and a Mottle to help them. Have these three also set aside our dead. Separate from the devils. I also want them to collect the devils’ worbs. We’ll free those wisps and honor our lost when we win this.” I’m trying to convey confidence. I’m pretty fucking certain we’re unlikely to win. But there’s no way we’ll win if we don’t believe. Zephyr lands on Featherstar, they leap-fly off, gather with a cluster of joined Mottles and Plumacats, then disperse to get it done.
Positions of Resister and Devil forces during the Battle of Sunken Crag, Dark Web Revelations
By the time Featherstar’s returned, I’ve made a rough assessment of our present state. Looks like we have seven dead and six wounded. Minus the three I’m leaving to take care of our casualties, that leaves us with sixty three Mottles, Plumacats, and Urdrakes, including me, Zaya, Theri and Zel. Zorfang’s thirteen still seem to be going strong. So our total effective force is seventy six. Peering out beyond Sunken Crag, the movement I’m glimpsing hints as hundreds.
Zel and Theri clamber up the gully to me. “You all right?” Zel asks. “We saw you go down. Looked pretty bad.”
“I’ll live,” I reply with a half-smile. “For now.”
“That’s a relief,” Theri says, then reaches a hand out to pat my shoulder. She seems to be assuring herself I’m still live and in the flesh.
“Thanks for the worry.” I say, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. I motion to the apparent horde of devils in the distance. “When we decided to start a rebellion against Overseer, I didn’t realize we’d be taking it all on in just one day.”
Zel laughs nervously and scratches a horn. Theri simply shrugs. “They’re pretty militarized. Plus they probably sensed your magic. That got them really riled. Then, well, we did this.” She motions around her at the carnage. “You linked up with a Vila and raised an army of forbidden forms. Not only is that incredible. It’s something that’s not happened in Minos for hundreds of years. Yeah. They’re riled.”
“Indeed they are,” I say.
“You got a plan?” Zel asks. “You gotta have a plan.”
“I’m pretty sure you asked me this before.”
“That was like minutes ago. Things change quick.”
This makes me laugh. “I always have a plan,” I say as I continue to scan the devil force. It’s mostly true. Mostly. What’s more true is I’m always coming up with hair brained ideas. But I gotta project confidence. I look down at the fucking Vortexes. I’m concocting another right about now. Yeah. We’re probably gonna need those awful things again. At least for a hot minute. “Speaking of… Do you know how many devils that fucking tower can throw at us?”
Theri turns back toward Overseer. “Maybe five hundred or so. Though I bet they’ll keep back a tower guard of about a hundred.”
“So you’re saying we’ve got like three hundred of those fuckers coming at us now? Complete with more scorpions and Vortex riders?”
Theri shrugs. “Probably. That’s the more or less of it.”
Holy Jesus fuck! I grit my teeth, biting back my curse. “Right. Well that makes my decision easy then. Featherstar!” I shout hoarsely to my Plumacat leader. She pads over. The other Plumacats have finished their victory feasting. The Mottles on their backs are quiet. My team of nine Urdrake scrabble up from the gully. “Good, I see I’ve got everyone’s attention.” I motion to the derelict Vortexes. “It looks like we’ve managed to capture about thirty five of these working nasties. I want everyone to grab one. Pair off. Mottle — I want you to share my learning about Vortex riding with the other Mottles. Then have them share that thinkum with everyone. Do it all in five minutes!” The Plumacats and Urdrake pad off to collect the bikes. I’m concerned about the Urdrake’s hulking forms, ungainly hands, and stubby legs. But with the Mottles helping, maybe my Urdrake can ride.
It takes them about three minutes to gather the thirty three working bikes. If we all pair off with a Mottle, that still leaves four behind. I turn to Grimjaw. “We don’t have quite enough. That’s OK. Your scouts are quick when teamed with Mottles. I want your six to follow us. But be fast!” I glance over to the scouts. They’d been fortunate and not suffered any losses.
“Yes father!” Grimjaw growls, then turns to his group of hunters. They line up. Ready. His response is pretty enthusiastic. Where he seemed to look down on me about an hour before, he now appears to have cemented his trust in my leadership. I’m guessing him watching me kill that devil leader in single combat might’ve clenched it.
I walk up to my chosen Vortex. It’s got devil’s blood splattered all over. My headache starts up again the moment I hear those poor souls wailing in the foul machine’s worb combustion chamber. I’m not happy about the damned stinking thing. But we need to move fast and this is all I can come up with. We’ll have to learn to do something else in future. I hate these machines fucking fierce. I jump on, turn to my company. “Mount up! We ride to those scorpions!” I shout, pointing to the machines careening back and forth about four miles away.
My company clambers onto the Vortexes. They’re awkward at first. The Urdrakes stumble. A few topple off, remount. Their Mottles stretch bodies wide to help them balance. If things weren’t so urgent, it’d be comical. Kinda like a bunch of mini Godzillas trying to ride a kid’s bike. At last, after about a minute of scuffling around, we’re off. The worb’s howls rip at my ears. I grit my teeth. We’re maybe six, seven minutes away at this pace. As I ride, I drag my hand through omnis scientia. Zorfang’s no longer huffing. He’s stationary just north of the Razor Hills and about five miles south of those scorps in the Wisp Fields. I guess he needed to take a breather. “Zorfang!” I shout through the sensor.
“Yes father!” He harooms.
“Stop shooting at those scorpions! Looks like you got ’em! More nasties are coming at us from Overseer! I want you to move northwest! Get back into some hills and keep an eye on the bridge crossing Sunken Crag! It’s that big bridge to the north crossing that massive canyon! I might send someone to help you in a bit! Now get going!”
“We move!” Zorfang shouts.
Four victories against the devils so far. But the big fight’s still ahead. I focus on keeping my motley crew together as we angle in toward the scorpions. Glancing over at the horde of devils boiling out of Overseer in the hot Hell dawn, I crack a half-grin. The bastards must be really freaking out about now. Let them.
********
New day falls hot on an Overseer Tower trembling with the force of Regina Rouge’s rage. The two Dark Psychics, one balled on the floor, flayed and burned by the lash of her scourge, the other quivering in fear, are useless. Too blinded by religious zeal to give her an accurate report on this impossible mage. The pair of doltish guards at the door, casting their emotionless stares out and past her, only annoy her further. A simpering Uktena — Trandix — whirls its red serpent body through the air about twenty feet off, too cowardly to face her. She wheels on Reiza, the second Dark Psychic. Her Holocaust Scourge roars with heat, withers the air, her worb crackles as it grinds down scores of souls to power it. She drinks in the wisps’ pain, revels in Reiza’s terror. Paltry balm.
“Now, Reiza…” she says as she caresses the Dark Psychic’s long, thin horn. It is delicate. Like an antenna. So easy to break. And yet sensitive, capable of channeling wisp energy, of projecting senses far, of seeing through the eyes of other Dark Psychics. “… Show me how this mage defeated my Lavross. Your vision will not flinch. You will supply better answers. Or…” she looks down at Orloxx.
On the ground, in a pool of his own blood, Orloxx whimpers. His pained convulsions cause scorched skin to crackle. The sweet smell of his half-cooked flesh rises to Reiza’s nostrils. He doesn’t dare look down at Orloxx. There’s no help for him. Whether Reiza shares his fate hangs on the whims of the enraged Regina. Reiza takes a breath, extends a hand to Regina. “As my Lady directs. Take my hand and embrace the Web’s darkness. Travel to see what Asmodeus’s threads have witnessed,” the ancient ritual provides comfort. Its words, spoken countless times throughout his order, provide a brief illusion of normal. His horns buzz as his worb grinds out the soul energy needed to power his diabolical magic.
Regina flicks her scourge at him. Flames tease over his skin. His worb’s innate defenses bend back. He lets out a whimper as pain shoots through him. He knows there’s nothing he can do to prevent Regina from lashing him down into a smoldering lump. His order will petition Asmodeus to punish her for mistreating Orloxx. But it will do him no good if she also turns her scourge on him. So he ignores the pain, then grinds down his captured wisps again. In their outcry, he begins to conjure the Asmodeus-blessed vision of the Web.
Regina, at last satisfied Reiza will try to act as commanded, accepts the vision. But instead of taking his hand, she tightens her grip around his frail horn. Reiza gasps at this personal violation, glances down at Orloxx, says nothing. “Now show me!” Regina commands.
The Dark Psychic’s worb wails. Cries of captive souls and a flood of devil-magic washes over them, casting their senses into the great Minosian Web. A filigree of connections spreading between thousands of Dark Psychics scattered over Minos, this Web carries the sight of Asmodeus and his Hell Lords out across Hell’s lands, over waters, through its skies, even crossing time. The strands of energy running between each Psychic drink up surrounding events like a world-spanning eye. The Web is also the heart of the Dark Psychics’ faith. In which their made-Web and its informant-devout grants Asmodeus god-like omniscience — placing them both as his priests and as arbiters of reality on Minos.
Regina, guided by such a Dark Psychic, allows her senses to be pulled back in time along the Web. Lets this fanatical devotee of Asmodeus bring her sight to the pre-dawn Wisp Fields. They stare down on a gully. Watch the flashes of magical sparks shooting out from the mage, glowing brightly, blinding Talith’s Lance.
“Closer,” Regina commands. “I want to see that mage up close and personal. I want to breathe his breath. Smell his air. See his magic flow! Now do it!” Orloxx had brought her back to this point. Then, for some reason, the fanatic turned into a blithering fool. Refusing her commands, he backed out. The punishment she gave for defying her orders was the least that he deserved. He’d cost her precious time as moments bled by. She turns her furious spectral gaze, cast out through the Web’s structure, onto Reiza.
The Dark Psychic feels the heavy force of her anger through the Web. He rushes to obey. Reiza begins to focus the Web to bring their view closer. Flinches as he sees the mage, then freezes. “It is not possible! This is Blasphemy!” He cries.
Regina tightens down on the Dark Psychic’s horn. “Stop your limp-brained bleating. Now, show me what Orloxx would not. Show me what he was too weak and fanatical to reveal, or so help me I will burn you to a cinder,” Regina commands.
The pain in Reiza’s horn as Regina grips and twists jars his connection with the Great Web. The spirit of Asmodeus flowing through its strands around him flickers. In front of him, the impossible stares him directly in the face. It spits at him — defiling everything he thinks he knows. Yet unlike Orloxx, Reiza isn’t willing to die for his dogma. He grits his teeth, lifts his hand, then allows the Web to carry Regina’s sight closer.
Regina gasps as she sees the little mage. A girl! Her mage energy not even yet fully formed. Sparks fly from a sigil on her arm. An impossibly large wave of magic bursts out. It washes through the Web. Leaving her stunned for a moment. Again, Regina cannot understand how the mage is displaying so much power. Again, she feels a great, gnawing hunger to possess this grand wisp. She focuses her sight on that wisp and… RECOILS. The girl’s wisp is certainly large and powerful. But it does not account for all the magical energy she’s emitting. Not even a fraction. As Regina pushes forward, she can see that wisp interlaced with a great internal structure running out from an illegible sigil in her arm. It creates, inside her, something like a full-body worb. But this worb is just a vessel. It contains none of the grinding structures devils use to milk wisp energy. Within this worb are numerous wisps. They are prey spirits from Earth. Regina’s eyes shift and she sees the girl’s shadow. Inside are various prey wisps and then she sees them — devils’ wisps! The girl has captured both prey wisps and devils’ wisps together. Their energy is feeding a massive vessel of energy shaped like a great chalice beneath the girl’s own larger wisp. From this, she flings the powerful explosions of magic Regina is now watching.
Regina doesn’t know how to process what she’s seeing. “That girl is a devil and a mage? She uses something like a worb?” She asks Reiza. “Is this what Orloxx couldn’t show me?”
Reiza foams at the mouth. His spectral body along the Web twitches. “It is not POSSIBLE,” Reiza proclaims, his eyes rolling in madness. “This sight is a blasphemy!”
Regina’s gut churns. She feels an unexpected tinge of sympathy for the Dark Psychic. All in Hell were devoted to Asmodeus, fanatical in the belief that devil-kind are exceptional due to their worbs. That worbs grant them the special privilege of preying on and profiting from the souls of lesser beings. Yet this mage — supposed to be the most desirable of devils’ prey — used something like a worb not for predation but for protection.
“Show me more!” Regina commands. The sight is gut-churning. Sets off a cascade of fear that runs through her in a novel jolt.
“You do not want to see. The wrongness!” Reiza is arching back, rebelling against what he senses further down the Web. Regina’s flick of her Holocaust Scourge in response is almost half-hearted. Reiza, propelled by another wave of pain, at last relents and pushes their Web-meshed senses forward in time. Regina watches the mad play of the girl’s wisp magic combine with the assault of forbidden forms — Plumacats, Mottles — and a pair of Blue Devils to slay Talith’s Lance. The display is brutal, stunning. Plumacats devouring dead devils on the lands they rule, the mage defiling worbs with her obscenly powered sword of light and shadow. An excess of wisps flooding back out, free. Then, Regina flinches as a Vila flies up to the mage, touches her hand in what looks like a lover’s caress, then draws deep from the mage’s housed wisp energy.
“That Vila is using wisps!!” Reiza rants as the sending from the Web freezes yet again.
“I can see that you moron! Now shut your mewling mouth and show me the rest!” Regina doesn’t have to flick her scourge again. Reiza’s flesh is already raw and pained from the first gentle lash. She can smell the fear rising off him. For once, she praises Asmodeus for the cowardice of her subject. With hands balled and eyes closed, Reiza pushes the vision forward. The Vila drinks deep from the mage’s magic. Thunderbolts rise around them as the Vila shapes more than forty forbidden forms from the wisps ripped out of the devils’ and Vortexes’ worbs. All in an instant! Some wisps still remain. Ten of these are from the dead devils themselves. With a shout and another flash of lightning, the Vila transfers these wisps into the worb-like structures within the mage’s shadow.
The vision continues, as devastation orbs from Regina’s scorpions begin to rain down and the mage gathers her force to flee.
“Enough!” Regina says. “I have seen enough!”
Reiza whimpers in relief as he backs them out from the Great Web. She lets go of him. He crumbles to the floor, simpering. “Thank you Lady. You are merciful.” He doesn’t sound at all sincere. Regina doesn’t care. Her thoughts are whirling.
“That mage. So young. Not even ripe for the plucking. Her wisp, still not full-grown. And yet she possesses a thing like a worb that lets her take wisps,” Regina whispers.
“Blasphemy! Great Asmodeus, it is Blasphemy!” Reiza shouts as his body lurches back and forth on the balcony floor. The guards’ gaze, which was set far off, now falls directly on Regina. Their faces display naked horror at her words.
Regina ignores them. To keep control of the situation, she must know the actual facts. Succumbing to the comforts of belief right now could be lethal. Letting her subjects steep in their shock and denial, she paces back toward the balcony as she speaks. “Some of these wisps are devils. So she even captures us.” The words sound so odd, so foreign, spilling from her mouth. But she can’t stop herself from talking. This discovery compels her with its awfulness to continue. “The mage holds wisps without hurting them. The wisps give energy freely to help her. A Vila uses the mage’s wisp energy to make forbidden forms — en masse.”
Those on the balcony with her are stunned into silence.
Regina looks out over the Wisp Fields. Beneath her, Dressler’s three Centuries have formed and are moving out toward Sunken Crag. Beyond, Lavross’s force lays ruined and defeated. A Lance of Vortexes fleeing back toward Dressler and four defunct scorpions — all that remains. “Now I know how she beat them.”
Trandix flies down to her cautiously. “My lady, if I may suggest, perhaps we should send word to Lanthver?”
Regina whirls on Trandix. “Why would we ask for aid from our chief rival? He’ll only exploit our weakness.”
“He is closest. The most likely to reach us should we…” The Uktena trails off. Surprisingly, his hint at a possible defeat doesn’t anger her. Regina considers.
“Ready my carriage,” she says at last. “If Dressler fails, we shall not throw ourselves on the mercy of Lanthver. We will instead retire to our estates in Mechanum where we will petition Asmodeus himself. This mage is…” She chooses her words carefully. “She represents a threat to all devil-kind. Hell’s High Lord must know of this. In the meantime, we shall ensure that we do not need to withdraw. That we…” she pauses again. “That we capture her and take her to Asmodeus ourselves for a gift. A prize.”
Those on the balcony continue to stare at her silence. The relinquishing of a mage wisp to another, even to Asmodeus, is a rare event. Yet Regina knew what they yet did not. This mage is too young to be taken. An unformed wisp like hers would not yield the same power in a worb. And the power she commanded was mostly not her own. The mage had stolen it from its rightful overseers — the devils.
“No. We shall cow this interloper. She shall bring her to heel. We shall present her to Asmodeus as our gift. When we do, we shall be celebrated as heroes across Minos!”
“It shall be so, great Lady,” Trandix hisses.
“Then go. Prepare my carriage.” Regina turns to Reiza. He’s finally standing again. Only lightly burned, he seems to have gathered himself well enough. “And you — send to Dressler. Tell him that our mage is a girl whose wisp is only aged seventeen years. Still unripe by its scent. Tell him to slay all her companions, then to bring her to me in chains. Tell him also that she has a Vila and the ability to rapidly increase her numbers. That she will assault him with a large group of forbidden forms. About eighty now. Possibly double that if she uses the wisps she finds.”
Reiza grits his teeth and closes his eyes against these uttered blasphemies. “And shall I tell him how the mage does this?”
“No. No need to disturb Dressler in his work. If he asks, just say that she uses a novel form of curse magic.”
“Thank you, Lady,” Reiza says in relief.
“Very well. Then do it.”
Reiza begins to close his eyes to access Asmodeus’s great web. It seems somehow defiled to him now after the horror it just bore witness to.
“Oh, and Reiza. Tell Dressler not to fail me.” She motions to the prone form of Orloxx, now still in death. “I will not take failure of any kind against this mage lightly.”
********
Dressler rides his gilded Vortex amidst the great gathering of Overseers forces. Its twin worbs wail with an excess of gathered power. His own worb swells with inky tendrils of dark power. In his hand, a spear of Hell glass. An obsidian colored metal mined directly from the heart of Infernian volcanoes.
Around him mass three Centuries. Each devil under his command torn from their frantic wisp harvesting efforts and shifted suddenly to an equally frantic response to a mage’s attack. The notion of a mage attacking a stronghold like Overseer Tower rankles. Mages are hunted. They are prey. Certainly strong prey capable of resisting. Yet they were unable to stand against the might of Hell. Made to flee when faced with the overwhelming force of Asmodeus’s power — his Curse Riders, his mighty millions upon millions of devils — each commanding the diabolical magic of multiple enslaved souls housed and bound within their worbs.
Not this mage. This mage. This girl, if the servile Dark Psychic, Slevelth, riding beside him were to be believed. Somehow, she’d gathered together a large force of forbidden forms. Somehow, she’d managed to use them in a coordinated series of attacks and ambushes to annihilate Lavross’s Century in a rampage through the Wisp Fields. Dressler knew well the dangers presented by forbidden forms. He was old enough to remember their attacks and the rebellions that spanned Minos for hundreds of years following Asmodeus’s first rise to Hell’s throne nearly three thousand years ago. Their attacks were brutal. Dressler blinks as he remembers the devils slain by the thousands. Consumed as Plumacats, Urdrake, Mottles, Vila, Bowflits and other, rarer forms lashed out against Asmodeus’s new dominion. Back then, there were no mages. Now, a mage had somehow taken command of these ancient enemies.
“Regina and Reiza touched the great Web,” Slevelth drawls. “They say the mage commands around eighty forbidden forms. They say she has a Vila and that somehow she can make more of them. Regina says to expect up to a hundred and sixty or more by the time we engage.”
Dressler scoffs. Slevelth has been blithering on like this for about five minutes. Half of what he says sounds like raving. “She says there is only one Vila?” He asks the cleric evenly.
Slevelth blinks his toad-like eyes, smacks his fat lips, seems incredulous. “Indeed. That’s what I’ve been telling you. It defies everything we know to be true.”
Dressler nods. “Perhaps our dear lady has taken some leave of her senses in the face of this unprecedented catastrophe.”
Slevelth extends a hoary finger covered in golden rings to his mouth as he considers. “Reiza wouldn’t intentionally misrepresent…”
“Yes. But this is battle. First reports are often confused.” Dressler snaps. He runs a hand through his blonde crop of hair sprouting up from glossy red-black skin, then tips his horns toward Slevelth indicating a deference to this cleric’s station that is lacking in any sincerity. “Your great Web may be perfectly accurate. But what others see through it is still subject to interpretation.” Dressler had been on the wrong end of the moronic clerics’ ‘interpretations’ numerous times in the past. He often found what the Dark Psychics saw and shared simply reflected their own biases.
“True,” Slevelth answers, scoops a bit of meat from between his teeth, considers it, then flicks it away. “Though I do not understand what would make Regina or Reiza give such reports. If inaccurate, they are vile blasphemies.”
Dressler pauses. “Yes. But fear of death in battle is often fodder for insane utterances. We shall work with what we know. If a scout can confirm these reports of sudden mass generation of forbidden forms, then we will act accordingly. Until then, let us not be paralyzed by fear of a phantom force that does not exist.”
Slevelth licks his lips, smacks them, draws a living squibble from the vat sloshing about on a chain hanging from his bulbous waist, shoves it into his mouth, bites down on the delicacy. “You are the battle commander…” CRUNCH, “…for a reason. I defer to your…” CRUNCH, “…illustrious experience.” Slevelth has made speaking with his mouth full a kind of grotesque performance art. Dressler had long-since grown used to averting his gaze from the spectacle of masticated bits of various creatures swirling around Slevelth’s words.
Dressler gives a stiff nod. “We shall take the Wisp Fields,” he says to Slevelth. “Send Gormak’s Century out ahead toward the rebels’ main group to the south. Only Vortexes. Keep his scorpions with the command base here. Tell Gormak to fix those rebels in place. Ready all our scorpions to destroy Lavross’s derelict scorpions once we get in range. Then have them hurl a suppression spread against the Urdrake near the Razor Hills. I want a flight of Uktena to ride ahead with Gormak. When he closes, I want them to jump in and use their poison bites to incapacitate the mage and her Vila. Then do the same with any others in the rebel command. Keep them alive for questioning. Kill the rest. Forward!” He says the last with a salute.
Slevelth rolls his bulbous eyes back into his toad head as he dutifully relays Dressler’s orders. Gormak’s Century roars off toward the bridge crossing at Sunken Crag. Dressler keeps his command center in the cluster of twelve scorpions. Around him swirl two Vortex Centuries held in reserve. Once they cross Sunken Crag, he’ll deploy these on the mage’s flanks. Dressler grudgingly admits this girl mage had surprised them so far. But now that her hand is revealed, her forces visible and counted, there is no escape for her. No way out.
“And Slevelth…”
“Yes, Overseer Dressler,” Slevelth hisses around the slobber in his mouth.
“If you will consult your Web to confirm the mage’s numbers. To make sure she doesn’t have any more hidden surprises, that would be most helpful.” Dressler doubted there was much truth to Regina and Reiza’s fearful ravings. But the mage had somehow concealed a sizeable force in the Wisp Fields and Razor Hills. Perhaps Slevelth could provide him with more reliable information instead of these rumors and ravings coming from Overseer. Not that he blamed Regina. Forbidden forms were well outside the context of such a young Hell Lord. Even the older devils, like him, retained only faded memories of those earlier, troubled years of Asmodeus’s first reign.
“Indeed, consider it done. All for the glory of Asmodeus.”
“For the glory of Asmodeus,” Dressler says evenly.
********
Corviss crawls, mostly blind, through the hot sands. Minutes before, he heard the loud Vortexes rush by. Saw Lavross out of the corner of one eye. Tried to jump. Landed in a nearby mound of scree. Now, with Lavross nowhere his Urdrake-ruptured senses can detect, he curses as he scrabbles toward the scorpions.
“Lavross!” He hisses despondently. At least the great machines are still lumbering toward him. He pops up onto a rise, spins his head to bring the great machines into his peripheral vision, then quivers in fear. No longer moving toward him, they lurch under a barrage of flashes coming from the Urdrake. The beasts must be closer now to effectively bring their heating and blinding rays down on the machines and their devil operators. Corviss can barely make out a smaller group of Vortexes beneath the scorpions. He’s gathering himself to scrabble toward them when they turn tail and flee.
“No!” Corviss hisses in despair. Then, in the distance, he hears the sound of approaching Vortexes. Glancing again at the scorpions, Corviss sees that Urdrake barrage has stopped. Did Lavross defeat the mage? Corviss spins toward the approaching Vortexes. They are loud. Numerous. It must be Lavross. Who else could it be?
********
I drive my stinking, wailing Vortex at the head of my motley formation. We shoot away from the gully and its carnage. The Wisp Fields surround us. Zaya, sitting in my lap, is drawing in what wisps we come across. They trail behind in a swarm of lights. About thirteen. But more join with each passing minute. My energetic vessel’s again past half full. I’ve got a big jolt coming in from all the extra wisps now huddled in the protective magic provided by my name curse from my battles along the gully. The three hundred and nine blaze like a liquid sun within me. There’s gonna be literal fucking Hell to pay for those devils at Overseer once I figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do with all this extra magic.
Our company of awful, wailing, headache producing, lung wrecking Vortexes steadily closes in on the scorpions. They stumble about like confused monsters who’ve suddenly lost whatever terrible will impelled them. One lays smoldering on the ground. I can see their crews now. They scramble back and forth, doing this weird, blind man’s bluff, series of movements as they fumble at controls or turn in disoriented circles. Some lay still, shot down by the Urdrake lights even at extreme range.
We’re running in toward the scorpions from about two miles off when I hear a yowl from a Plumacat as it angles off from our company.
“What the fuck?” I say to myself, then shouting louder after the Plumacat, I yell — “Stick together!”
The Plumacat ignores me. I recognize it as the ornery Rarhquick. Go figure. It’s a fucking cat… velociraptor… bird… thing… You get the picture. Shooting out to the left about three hundred yards, the errant Plumacat stops, leans down, then picks up something that looks like a flailing red ribbon. I don’t know what I’m looking at for a second and then I realize it’s the fucking flying red snake I had the Urdrakes shoot at earlier. It must be. It’s covered all over in scorch marks. With a giant, fang-filled, grin and what I imagine must be a gigantic purr, the Plumacat mounts back onto its Vortex, then races toward me with his prize held high.
“What’s going on?” Zaya says to me from where she’s crouched between my arms as she peers out to look at the Plumacat.
“Goddamn,” I reply. “I think we just captured our first effing prisoner.”
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
Elation pumps through my body. Heartbeat pounds in my ears. All nerves jolt in celebration. I’m still alive! Our rag-tag force lets out another cheer. I take a breath. No time to celebrate, not now. Maybe not ever. This is Hell after all. I let my moonshadow blade flicker out. The sight of all the dead devils, their gore strewn across the canyon floor, makes me reel. The smell of death — extraordinary. It’s the coolest part of the day. Heat pounds down on me like a hammer. I lean to one side. Catch myself on a boulder, pop out Perry fuckin A, take a long drink.
Mottle must sense that I’m swooning from heat and exertion. He shakes himself, flicks off bits of crushed devil, then returns to cover me. The cool is welcome. The blood coating the inside of him sticks to me. I stumble again, look up. Urdrake and Plumacats are casting about. One walks around with long ropes of drool dripping from its jowls. Are they fucking hungry? Do they want to eat the devils? What do Plumacats and Urdrake eat anyway? I stare at them, taking in the Plumacats’ fangs and claws, the Urdrake’s serrated beaks. A Plumacat licks its jowls, glances at me, then actually frigging meows like it wants to eat the devil carcass and is asking me for permission.
This is too much for me to process. I suddenly feel really damn sick. Then I’m barfing the empty contents of my stomach all over the ground. Mostly just bile and water now. Last real food I had was at Starbucks in Berlin. A whole fucking world ago. A yesterday and a half ago. Frail fucking human who’s now surviving on Mottle injections. I wipe my mouth, make myself stand. I can’t afford a moment of weakness. Not now when everyone is fucking counting on me. Not when Zaya’s conjured up a pack of uber-predators for our allies that I now have to somehow appear strong enough to lead. Mom. Dad. All the souls here — in my name curse, in my shadow, I’m guessing maybe a whole Hell of a lot more than just that — they’re counting on me to get this right.
I glance at my horologium watch. It’s 3:47 Hell time. Goddamn dawn’s gonna break in a few hours. That won’t be pretty. I’ve got a full-on fucking war on my hands. I’m gonna be fighting it in the fucking heat pretty damn soon. I’m already fighting in the heat. It’s like a hundred and five out here. Day’s gonna kick that up to like one-thirty plus. I take another breath, let it out. Everyone’s quiet now. The victory elation has settled down. Some are picking through the devils’ equipment, poking at those weird unicycles, or nosing the corpses. Most are staring at me again. Waiting. Some watched on as I barfed. Great!
I wipe my mouth off, pull myself together, then jump up on top of the boulder I’m standing next to. Hell, if Plumacats can do it, why not me? “We just scored another major success. Here, in this canyon, we plant our second victory flag!” I scan them as I talk loudly. I’m basically imitating my Dad’s impression of a drill sergeant from basic fucking training. I never went to basic — I’m just a frigging seventeen-year-old. But I think I got most of it through osmosis from early childhood. My manner seems to be working. I’ve got their attention at least. “So patting ourselves on the back is in order! But we can’t rest for too long! We just made a shit-ton of light and noise! Plus those were likely just a group of scouts! For now, we need to take stock. If there are wounded, I want to know. If any of you know how to help wounded, I want to know.” I point at Featherstar. “You’re in charge of setting up a detail to manage those who’ve been hurt! If there are casualties, I need to know about it fast!” If there are dead, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Featherstar gives me a speculative look, then bounds off.
I turn to Zorfang. He’s one of the Urdrake who shot beams of light out of their fucking heads. “I didn’t know you could…” I think of the right words for a moment. Oh Hell, it doesn’t matter. “…shoot beams of lethal light out of your heads! That’s crazy useful. Will have to keep that in mind for future. For now, I want you to get a group of Urdrakes to collect all the useful gear here. A lot’s broke. Some’s not. Find out what’s not. Collect it and distribute it. Also — put the weird bikes that still work to one side.”
Forces and Major Events in the Wisp Fields and Razor Hills
Zorfang growl-hums his agreement. I nod. He rumbles off, thick tail swishing back and forth. I lift my voice again. “You both have ten minutes! When you’re done report back!” I’m not sure if they know what minutes is. Doesn’t matter. They can tell from my tone that I want them to effing hurry.
“OK Mottle,” I whisper over my shoulder. “While they’re doing that, can you have the team of six Mottles and Plumacats head up to the canyon wall and fan out? I don’t hear any more of those weird devil bikes nearby. But if they’re coming I want to know.” Omnis scientia’s still floating high above the canyon. I can use that too. But more eyes are always better. I take a breath. This next part is a big risk. But it’s gotta be done. “Also, if any devils got away from our engagement, I want our scouts to hunt them down and take them out. Go for stragglers and small follow-on forces. Take down anyone who can run back and rat us out. Tell them to make a circuit of the ridge-line facing the Wisp Fields, get some eyes on both the fields and the scorpion we destroyed, then report back.”
Yes, Mottle thinks back to me simply, then flies off. He goes to the small group of scouts we organized back in the cave, touches a Mottle named Shade. There’s a brief pause as the two share thoughts. Shade’s Plumacat partner — Grimjaw — growls a couple commands. Then our scout squad bounds off. Our company watches them go. A few Plumacats give yowls of encouragement. Everyone seems to know they’re taking a huge risk for us.
With Mottle off my back, the heat hits me again like a hammer. I’m never going to get used to it. It’s way beyond human physiology to deal with this crazy inferno, the stifling sulfur air. My folks said a good chunk of devil magic’s set up just to keep them going through Hell’s nasty environment. Sure, they’re better adapted to it than humans. But adaptation can only do so much. Worbs and the magic they produce became a kind of Faustian bargain for most devils — enslave souls to survive in Hell. It all happened in the deep long ago when Hell’s environment took a nose-dive for the worst. There’s a reason most creatures left alive in Hell are devils. Many blue devils don’t have worbs. They tend not to live long. Maybe to age 35. When you’re dying off that quick, it’s hard to raise children to keep a species going.
Zaya flies up to me, tipping me out of my momentary reverie. Maybe I’m finally starting to get tired after two fights and hours of slogging through Hell’s crazy environment. “You wouldn’t let me fight,” she says with a cross look on her face.
“Yeah. Not this time. But don’t be too upset. There’s a lot of fighting left. So you’d best get ready for some more action.”
Zaya gives me one last frown. “What’s next, then?”
“Next we get ready to take the fight to them. But smart-like.”
“You have a plan?”
“I always have a plan.” I didn’t have shit. Well, not yet at least. I look at my watch. It’s 3:59 Hell time. I spring up, clap my hands together. I’m still standing on my boulder so I can see everyone. “OK! Time’s up! Zorfang! Featherstar! Mottle! Come back here and report!”
My newfangled commanders shuffle back. Theri and Zel return beside them together with a Plumacat and two Urdrakes. They’re carrying armfuls of weapons which they lay down in front of me. I told them to distribute these weapons. Guess I’ll have to tell them who gets what. Another five Urdrakes wheel the giant spikey unicycles toward us. Wow. Looks like five of their nasties still work.
I wait another minute for them to gather, then speak up, again adopting Dad’s drill sergeant tone. I admit, this part of my new ‘job’ would be kinda fun if the subject of it all weren’t so goddamn grim. “OK! First tell me about casualties.”
Featherstar leaps forward with a proud yowl. “Only three wounded. We lick their wounds now.” I think this is just a figure of speech. But when I follow Featherstar’s lashing tail, I see two prone Plumacats and an Urdrake being minstered to by a third Plumacat who’s actually licking them. I’m too much at a loss to say anything. Which is good. Because I stare on for another moment which is enough for me to notice some kind of white film spreading out with each lick of the Plumacat’s tongue. The film covers wounds, creating a natural binding.
Zaya’s still hovering nearby. I turn to her. “Care to explain that?” I point to the film. I’ve got a lot more questions for Zaya about the Urdrakes and Plumacats. But I’ve got like no frigging time — so I stick to essentials.
“Oh. It’s a kind of natural healing salve they produce through glands in their mouth. It stops bleeding, aids the healing process, can even be used to re-attach limbs.”
Re-attach limbs? That’s pretty potent healing. I file this information for later and carry on. “Fanfriggintastic!” The next question is one I dread to ask. “Any dead?”
Featherstar gives a proud if dismissive flick of her tail. “No dead,” she says simply. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. There are probably going to be dead by the end of today. Still not something I want on my conscience. When a creature dies in Hell, its wisp might reform after a time, if it is strong. Otherwise, second death in Hell means annihilation.
“Good! Excellent!” I say to Featherstar, trying to keep some kind of command presence. I’ve gotta project confidence to keep ’em all together and believing they’re going to live and such. Turning to Zorfang, I ask my next question. “So what’ve we got for spoils?”
“Five of these,” he points to the weird unicycles. His words, though still sonorous, are now much more articulate. “Six of those,” he points to a pile of rifles. “Seven of those,” he points to a cluster of handguns. “Eleven close-fighting weapons. Plus this –” he points to the bag of ammo hanging from Zel’s shoulder. I think for a moment. None of them but Zel, Theri and me know a damn thing about firearms. They’re going to need to learn quick. “Zel — you and Theri pick some Plumacats that you think might train up quick with the pistols and rifles.” Looking at the Urdrakes, I’m not sure if their hands will fit the firearms’ grips. I look at the pile of serrated swords and axes. “Distribute the heavier melee weapons to the Urdrakes. Give the lighter ones to the Plumacats.” There’s nothing here for the Mottles. From what I’d seen, the Mottles are badass enough. Hell, they’re all badass enough.
Theri and Zel start moving to distribute the weapons. They each pick a Plumacat, then immediately start giving it a basic instruction on firearms use. I give them a couple minutes to talk. The Plumacats aren’t going to be very effective with those weapons anytime soon. But it’s a start.
“OK. I hate to say it,” I say, raising my voice to address everyone, “but we’re going to need to get a move-on fast. So gather ’round!” I glance at horologium as the Plumacats, Urdrake, and Mottles cluster in the canyon’s center around me. “It’s already 4:06 AM Hell time. About twenty minutes ago we ambushed a squad of scouts.” I don’t know if this is the right technical term. But the devils on the Vortexes were about the size of a squad. “These scouts are almost certainly part of a larger force that’s coming out of Overseer Tower. We don’t know how big it is. But I’m guessing it’s not too large given the fact that we weren’t a fucking army when we hit the scorpion. So as I said before, we’re going to start moving toward Overseer. That’s our ultimate objective. We’ll stick to this canyon for now. But I want another group of six Mottles and Plumacats to form a …” What did Dad call it?? Oh yeah. “To form some pickets. We don’t want anyone surprising us as we move. So fan out about two hundred yards from us and report back if you see or contact any enemy. Got it?” Everyone is silent. “Good! Now let’s be ready to move in ten minutes.”
I plop down from my rock, gather Theri and Zel, then angle over to the wounded. The Plumacat and the Urdrake both have bullet wounds that the ‘medic’ Plumacat, Velestra, has bound up with her magical spit. The bullets were somehow neatly plucked out and are on the ground in a bloody pile. Both are conscious. They crane their heads to look at me as I approach. The other wounded Plumacat is unconscious with a large gash on his forehead. This gash is also bound up by the magical healing spit. I kneel by the two conscious wounded. “Can you move?” I ask them.
“They can. But no hard work.” Velestra speaks for them before they can answer.
I look at Zel and Theri, then point to the weird unicycles. “I know those are devil machines. I can see their worbs, sense the wisps within their jagged traps. But we’re going to need them now. We’ll free those wisps once we win this battle. If we win. Now I want you to figure out how to use them. I want you each to drive one and then to teach these two here how to drive them.” I motion down to the wounded Plumacats.
“What about the last one?” Zaya asks from her hovering position over my shoulder. She looks at the Vortex, various shades of disgust playing on her green face.
“I’m driving that one. I’ll be carrying the unconsious…” I turn to Velestra, “…what is his name?”
“Rookfang,” Velestra replies.
“I’ll be carrying Rookfang. Now let’s get to Hell’s version of driver’s ed. We only have five minutes.”
It takes more like ten minutes to get everyone moving. Jobs are assigned. Scout groups arranged and deployed. Looted weapons distributed. Rudimentary instruction on firearms use given. Everyone looks confused. ‘Clear as mud,’ is what Dad would say. Sounds about right. The bikes are thankfully simple to use — throttle, breaks, and turning all managed with the handlebars. The fat tires are surprisingly easy to balance on. The seats that rest atop them, if not comfortable, are functional. The machines, Theri and Zel call them Vortexes, are large, powerful, and covered in lethal spines. So using them takes caution. Like everything else in Hell, they burn some kind of nasty fossil fuel spiked with worb energy. All worbs are terrible — grinding down and torturing wisps to access their energy. But the Vortexes have a second setting that activates the worb to get more from the wisps. I tell everyone not to use that button unless they absolutely have to.
We finally start rolling out at 4:23 AM Hell time. More than three quarters of an hour after our fight with the scouts. I’m getting real damn anxious about follow-on forces that haven’t arrived. I’m conjuring up things to be paranoid about. I loft omnis scientia, sending it out toward Sunken Crag even as we move north among the hills. The Mottle-Plumacat teams of scouts fan out to our right and in front of us — venturing as close to the Wisp Fields as they dare while still keeping cover. The Vortex roars and spews stinking clouds of pollution beneath me as our main force continues down the canyon. The wisps within it moan in pain. The noise makes me cringe. It reminds me of a banshee wail. I’ve never heard a banshee wail. But this is what I imagine it would sound like. I take a breath. Ignore the horrible stink and sound. I’ve gotta think about next moves. But I really need to figure out where the bads are before I commit.
**********
Corviss plunges toward the ground, barely rights himself, then skips and skids to a stop. His last minute teleport saved his life. Above and to the left, a fireball blooms in the air five hundred feet away. It consumes the space where he flew just moments before. Hissing in terrified frustration, he threads his way back up into the air. Careful to stay low, he flees as fast as he can fly back down toward the wisp fields.
“Amagash you fool!” Corviss spits. But he can’t entirely blame Lavross’s lieutenant. No one expected the mage to have an army backing him. Her! He reminds himself. “Her,” he hisses out loud. He can still see her clearly — dripping an extraordinary excess of magic, sparks flying about her like the fireworks of some victory celebration held by Asmodeus on the battlefield of Avernum, a blade made of pure curse magic held in one hand, a shield like a spectral rosette blooming in front of her. He’d only ever seen two mages. Three now. This one was by far the most potent. The most brazen in her use of magic. He was certain Regina, high in Overseer, would’ve tasted the flood of power, seen the lights and explosions blooming over the Razor Hills. Lavross would’ve noticed as well. But both could only guess what they meant.
“I’m the last survivor. I must let them know.” Corviss didn’t see all his companions die. But he might as well have. The ambush was as sudden as it was fierce. No-one could survive that. The Mottles, Urdrakes, and Plumacats numbered three or four score at least. Other rebels — two blue devils stood with the mage. This was worse than any mere machination of Regina’s regional rival — Lanvfer. This was a rebellion of the old sort. Of the kind that hadn’t happened for hundreds of years. Corviss spits in disgust. There were still only seventy, eighty perhaps. “But how did so many hunted gather together? How did they organize?”
Corvis realizes he’s talking to himself as he flies, swift as his battered body will carry him toward Lavross. He can just make out the large scorpions lumbering across the Wisp Fields. Too slow for his liking. “All is well. I know her whereabouts. Once I report, Lavross will know what to do.”
**********
Out across the Wisp Fields, riding his Vortex, Lavross scratches his chin and frowns at the explosions flowering above the Razor Hills. The fireball rounds are familiar. Those lines of light are energy beams from at least ten Urdrake or he is a fool. It seems he was wise to send Amagash out ahead rather than lead the scout force himself. Looks like Amagash is getting more than he bargained for. This thought draws a chuckle from Lavross as he signals to Talith, his third in command and the remaining Overseer in his Century.
“Take another Lance and head into those hills. If Amagash needs help, back him up. And, get me a fucking report on the enemy’s number and location!”
Talith gives a smart salute, then drives off with her Lance. That’s two Lances deployed, violent contact made, and he still didn’t know squat. He sends out a command, adjusting the movement of his dwindling Century toward the explosions, and glances angrily at the scorpions. If he needs to pour on the speed, he’ll have to leave the beastly machines behind. He had the sinking feeling this night was about to turn into a shit-fest real quick.
***********
Qlul and Landrax are startled from their investigation of the scorpion’s wreckage by a loud series of explosions above the Razor Hills. Qlul’s just picked up a bit of glossy green membrane before he’s distracted by the loud rumble. About four miles off, the thunder of fireball rounds tear through the air. Sharp rifle reports crack. Then lines of light shoot up into the sky. “What the fuck?” Qlul exclaims as another explosion roars out of the hills. “It sounds like Amagash is getting his ass kicked over there,” he says to Landrax.
Landrax isn’t looking at the explosions. Instead he’s staring at the bit of insect-like membrane Qlul is holding in his hand. “Oh fuck,” Landrax says as he stares at the wing.
“What?” Qlul says.
“Well, you know I used to be a Poacher right?”
“Yeah, get to the fucking point.”
“That’s a Vila wing shedding. They’re really damn rare. But I’d bet my horns on it.”
“Vila?” Qlul asks, stunned for a moment more. Then, he looks back to the rent wisp vats on the scorpion. “Fuck? You think?”
“Whoever hit this scorpion, opened up those wisp vats. Maybe they we’re just looting the wisps. Maybe they took them for another reason.”
Qlul’s mind is catching up quick. “If there’s a mage and a Vila they could…”
“… shape a lot of fucking wisps into forbidden forms. Those lights look a lot like something the Urdrake can do. They’re not so rare as Vila these days. Tough buggers. I captured one once. Near blasted my face off with lights like that.”
“Oh fuck! We have to report back to Lavross and quick!” Ignoring the plight of their companions in the Hills, Qlul and Landrax mount their Vortexes and rush swiftly back toward Lavross.
**********
High up in Overseer Tower, Regina Rouge continues to scan the Wisp Fields for her new prize. Unable to rest, she instead revels in the imagined hunt, anticipates the taking of a great mage wisp. Her body lights up with energy. Like some primordial leviathan swimming through ancient waters, she tastes the air for her prey. Every now and then, she detects a tantalizing hint. The air is full of rumor of him.
Then, after hours, her patience is rewarded. A flood of magic rushes up from the Razor Hills. She feels it before she sees it. The outrush heats her face like Hell’s sun. Her sensitive eyes detect the broad arc of powerful curse-magic shining up from the Hills in a rain of sparks. It is a stunning display. For a moment, she’s taken aback at how much power the mage expends in what must be merely one or two magical castings. Then the air above the Razor Hills lights up with explosions and white rays of energy.
“What?” Regina is seldom at a loss for words. But, for a moment, she’s mystified by what she’s watching. “Urdrake?” she says as understanding begins to dawn. “How?”
Regina will puzzle this mystery out in due course. What is clear now, though, is the mage isn’t some cat’s paw in one of Lanvfer’s games. What’s happening on her lands is something else entirely. If multiple Urdrake and a mage are hiding out in her Razor Hills… it means a rebellion of the old kind may be underway. And Asmodeus hates nothing more than vile organizations of old kind on Minos, much less reports of them striking at any of his resources. These are Wisp Fields. One of the most precious land commodities in all the Hells. Regina cracks her Holocaust Scourge at her attendant. “Get me Dressler and a Dark Psychic. We may need to deploy the other Centuries.” Startled by her sudden mood-shift, her attendant skitters away.
************
Grimjaw’s powerful form springs across a deadfall. Above and behind him, the Mottle — Shade — billows out, forming a wing. Together, they fly fifty feet then land on a precipice over-looking the Wisp fields. His streak lands beside him. Five companions for his hunt. Just hours before, he was a frail wisp captured in a scorpion’s vat. It felt like being in the stomach of a great monster as it prepared him for digestion. Its horrible Hell magics stunned him, then began to taint his very being. Terror didn’t even begin to describe what he’d felt. But now the meaother Zaya and the feaother Myra had gifted him with a vicious and powerful body. A Plumacat form possessed of raptor eyes, feather-like fur and armor combined, deadly fangs and claws, sacks of healing salve at the back of his mouth, and a muscular form as powerful as that of a moderate-sized tiger. They’d made him into a hunter of hunters, a predator who preys on the slaver race. They’d partnered him with this majestic Mottle that granted him flight, camouflage, and a vibrational sense of everything around him. He rejoices in his new form, at his helpful allies, at the opportunity to do vengeance on those who sought to enslave him in the worst way imaginable.
It’d taken perhaps two hundred hearbeats for the swift Plumacat and Mottle streak to free themselves of the canyon, to leap over the ridge line, and to peer from this high hilltop down onto the Wisp Fields below. Grimjaw scans the land about. His eyes, keen as any bird of prey, make out minute details. He immediately sees the larger force of devils out among the drifting wisps. They’re in the middle of the fields. Four scorpions, eighty riders. Another ten riders breaking off to head in his direction. Grimjaw shifts his gaze, carefully scanning for any other movement. Then he sees it. Below him and moving in the direction of the larger devil force is the red thread of a flying serpent. An Uktena — as meaother and feaother had called it. Grimjaw growls in frustration. The Uktena is too high up. Too distant to strike. But it is slow-moving and doesn’t seem to notice the smaller force of ten riders. It will take another hour or so to reach the large group of devils.
Map of Recent Events
Shade tenses. Something comes, the Mottle’s words form in Grimjaw’s head even as its senses merge with his. He can now feel a vibration off to his right. He turns his head in time to see two of the spiked, one wheel bikes roar out toward the Wisp Fields’ center. They’re heading out from the ring of debris marking the destroyed scorpion. In about a minute, they’ll pass a hundred yards in front of Grimjaw’s position. He growl-signals to his team. His Mottle touches the others. His intent for them to strike spreads through them as emotion and thought. Careful to use a ridge-line jutting out from the hills to mask their movement, Grimjaw leads his streak closer in. They fly-run-fly down to a low rise about twenty feet above where the Hellish unicycles will pass. Grimjaw tenses, his streak-mates smile in anticipation. The bikes arrive. Grimjaw pounces, Shade unfurls. The combined force of his jump and the Mottle’s flap propels him thirty feet up. At the top of his flight’s arc he extends his claws, locks his eyes on a prey. It is the front biker.
“Qlul!!!” the rear biker bleats in terror is at sees Grimjaw descend. Too late!
Claws catch in the devil’s flesh. The Plumacat’s jaws close over the devil’s head. There is a satisfying crunch. Wet blood floods his mouth. He turns, with flesh in his mouth, to his streak-mates. They have dispatched the other rider. No more screams of warning from that one.
Grimshaw swallows the delicious-tasting devils’ flesh. “Good! It is good!” he growls. For a minute, he and his streak are taken in by the devouring. Shade ultimately shakes him out of the frenzy. “Yes,” he snarls at last. Shaking his fur a second time he snaps at his streak to drag the carcasses and bikes into a depression. He does not have time to revel in his hunt’s success. He must return to Myra. Must report the prey’s position. Satisfied these prey won’t be telling their fellows another word, Grimjaw, Shade and his streak leap-fly back toward the canyon. Grimjaw licks his fangs. The hunting tonight has been excellent.
**********
The nasty Vortex is giving me a fracking headache already. The fucking thing stinks. The wailing worb is a thousand times worse than a crying baby. You know, the kind that sticks burs of pain through your ever-loving ears and all the way into your effing brain. Yeah. Imagine that but ten times worse. It’s not just the sound. It’s the fucking fact that I know I’m torturing those souls just by riding this fucking infernal machine. That’s what it’s like riding a fossil fueled, soul-sucking Vortex. And I’ve only been at it for like five minutes. Feels like a fucking million years. According to horologium, it’s 4:28, Hell time.
The canyon cuts deeper into the hills. The land grows more jagged and threatening. I check on Rookfang. The big guy’s sprawled across the Vortex behind me. Still unconscious. Lucky to be him. I turn to look back up at the green-black puke of the late-night, early-morning Hell sky, stars barely visible, the moon Charon squatting down on the horizon like a frog when I see the silhouette of a Mottle and Plumacat fly overhead. They land with barely a sound beside me. Then five more pairs ghost down. It’s creepy and slick at the same time. Makes me jump just a little. They’re all covered tail-to-nose in blood. For a second I freak out. Then I realize the blood’s not theirs. I throttle down the Vortex and enjoy the blessed ever-loving silence of my ringing ears. Damn things should carry like five hundred warning labels.
Jumping off the Vortex, Mottle and I land lightly beside the scout team. It’s clearly the scouts. I’d recognize Grimjaw’s elongated fangs from a hundred feet off. I look the scouts over for a moment. Yeah. They are covered in gore. It was real bad for whoever or whatever it was they took down. “OK. Tell me what just happened.”
Grimjaw pads forward, dark eyes taking me in. His black feathers remind me a bit of what I learned about velociraptors. Feathered dinosaurs. Although I’m pretty sure velociraptor feathers were colorful and this Plumacat looks like some crazy mash-up between a black tiger and an eagle of some sort. Like seventy percent black tiger thirty percent eagle, but who’s counting. He flops down comfortably next to me and begins washing the gore off with his tongue. Maybe that’s eighty percent tiger?
“We scouted as you requested.”
I ordered it. But who’s splitting hairs. “Report what you saw.”
“There is a large force of about eighty Drivers in the Wisp Fields. They’re about halfway down from Overseer Tower. The Uktena escaped and is flying toward them. It’ll take about an hour to reach the force. There’s a smaller group of scouts out ahead and heading toward us. Perhaps another ten. We also ran into a couple of stragglers from the last group. We pounced them. They were heading back from the scorpion’s wreckage. Seemed to be in a hurry.” He continues to lick himself.
I give him a pat. “Good work. Damn good work.”
The Plumacat gives a rumble that sounds like a purr. “It is a pleasure. I delight in turning predator into prey.” His dark eyes twinkle with relish and something else. Perhaps satisfaction.
Grimjaw’s information is key. His taking out the two scouts probably saved us some time. Maybe the element of surprise too. I’m worried about that Uktena. It saw us. Probably got a decent account of our numbers. I don’t know if it’s figured out how we gained those numbers. I look to Zaya. The Vila’s flying a little bit off to my left. She’s hung back ever since we started using the Vortexes. She’s frowning and has a disgusted look on her face. I totally feel the same way about these disgusting machines. But each of them houses like ten wisps. And that might prove to be crucial to our next effort. They’re too heavy to drag. So we’ve gotta ride them.
Everyone has stopped. They’re staring at me. Waiting for orders. I’m in a kinda crucial moment. It’s go big or go home time. Go home’s not an option. I step back from Grimjaw, turn to my company of the transformed. They cluster around, large, feeling eyes stare down. The Plumacats and Urdrakes are predators. They kinda terrify me. But I remind myself that they’re a part of Hell’s order. Maybe they’re even a last-ditch reaction by nature here to throw off the destructive, world-wasting devils. The Mottles are a comfort. Though they too possess the capacity for great violence. It’s how you survive in this broken world. The way of the sword, the tooth, the claw. And now is the time to walk that path or be destroyed.
“Grimjaw and his scouts just discovered the enemy’s position. There’s about ninety bads down there in the Wisp Fields. Ten more scouts are headed toward us. The larger group’s also out there. But they’re moving slower on account of the four scorpions they’re bringing with them. They only outnumber us slightly now. But they still have a major advantage in organization and hitting power.” I’m kinda impressed with myself. Dad really beat tactics into my head with all the war gaming as a kid. Plus, you know, D&D can actually teach you up on tactics pretty quick if you’ve got a good game master. Dad was the best — always throwing me into the shit. Since like age seven or so. “We can’t let them survive this night. Overseer has much greater numbers to command. If they find us here, they’ll use that force as a base, then send out more fast-moving reinforcements to hem us in, pin us down, and annihilate us. So now is the time for us to strike a blow and take down those devils!”
The Plumacats yowl in support of my suggestion. The Urdrakes, inspired, raise their voices in a growling song. Even the usually chill Mottles seem taken in by the predators’ bloodlust.
“So we are going over that rise. We are heading out into the Wisp Fields. And we are going to take down those devils. Are you ready!?”
Their uplifted roar of response is deafening.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
“The Nightmare’s in the frigging train!” Mori shouts.
Beatrice spins, facing front. There’s a lurch, a shriek of wheels. The train contorts, jumping on its tracks, throwing passengers back and forth. Ghostly light strobes along the walls. People crouch and cower near her. Terrified murmurs surround her. What do I do? My energetic vessel’s almost empty. The Curse Rider’s arrival in terrible glory has left her stunned. Breathless.Fear threads through her — trying to freeze her to the floor. She spins, leaps up beside Mori.
“What now?” He says, his jaw line clenching in tension.
“We figure out some way to fight him,” She replies. To her ears, she sounds far more confident than she feels. “To exorcise the Nightmare.”
Sadie stands up. Puts a hand on Beatrice’s arm. “Wait. We’ve chosen our ground well. Look carefully.”
Beatrice lifts her eyes to the wall, watches the Nightmare’s ghostly spirit rushing back and forth through the train. Metal shudders. Plastic smolders. Wheels squeal and grind. But the train’s form does not change. There is no diabolical transformation.
“You see now? We picked a solar train for good reason. They don’t call it fueled by Heaven for nothing.” Then, Sadie lifts her hand, touches the train’s wall and incants “Ligamen Malum!” Blue-white light pulses out. A series of white rings expands from her point of contact. The rings ripple through the train — creating an interlocking chain of binding circles. The Nightmare spirit shrieks, fades, then melts back in silence. Smooth forward motion resumes. Beatrice’s eyes swirl with magical detection. The Nightmare thrashes. But it cannot escape from Sadie’s binding. Stuck in a substance anathema to its nature. Bound by a chain of celestial magic drawing strength from the solar train’s innate benevolence. For now, the demon is locked down, unable to move.
“You trapped it!” Beatrice exclaims in surprise and relief. “You chose the train for this reason didn’t you? You knew.”
Sadie taps the train’s deck with her foot, a sheepish grin spreading over her face. “What does Myra call this sort of conveyance? I heard her say it once?”
“Mobile holy ground, Highlander!” Mori says. “Damn, what a move! I saw you touch the wall and concentrate earlier. Didn’t know it was to work a heavy-weight curse!”
Beatrice wipes away a tear that forms, unbidden, at mention of her daughter. “The idea to set this trap came from something Myra said?”
“That’s as crazy as it is cool,” Mori actually laughs.
“No time to celebrate,” Sadie says. “We’ve knocked out one of his main weapons. But we still have a Curse Rider to deal with.”
“What’s the plan?” Beatrice asks.
“I’m drawing a blank too,” Mori says. He shares a glance with Beatrice, worry plain in his expression. “We’re both about tapped out.”
Ivan groans, clutches his belly, then barfs on the floor. Sadie grabs his collar, hoists him up. “We know what the Curse Rider wants.” She motions to Ivan. “Don’t we? For certainty, he hunts you to take your wisps. But he’s also here for Ivan. And as complicated as our Russian friend here makes things for us, he’s also splitting the Curse Rider’s focus.” Sadie pats Ivan on the back, then starts guiding him to the rear of the car.
“It’s a delay tactic,” Mori says.
Beatrice nods. “We move the quarries. Keep him guessing.” Flicking her sense through omnis scientia, she can see the Curse Rider raging on the train’s roof. His Nightmare trapped, his once-cool demeanor is now melting into a rictus of ugly rage. His eyes follow the magical lines running from the sensor back to Beatrice and Mori. With great leaps that seem impossible for such a whip-thin body, he begins bounding toward them. Where his feet touch the sanctified train, angry sparks lash out at him, burning him. He pays no mind as boots and cloths are blasted away. As human flesh sears to black and red scales, his feet taking on the shape of talons. “He’s coming! Let’s move!”
As they stand, Officer Winkler finally recovers from her shock at the madness caused by what she thinks is a mass phone hacking. She’s close, overhearing their conversation. Though some of it’s not processing for her, the magical parts mostly, she grasps the gist of their plan. Then, her police radio blares with a confusing report of a helicopter landing on the roof and depositing a likely hijacker. She stands, pulls her firearm. “Good idea! Get to the train’s rear! We’ll do what we can to protect your dignitary!” Winkler rushes into the next car, joins two other officers, then uses the emergency access to get to the roof.
Beatrice lifts a hand, then incants praesidia! The blue light of her protection curse shoots toward the officers, enveloping them in a momentary flare. She ties off the energy, watching sparks trail them as they climb onto the roof. It’ll last about ten minutes. Hopefully enough. Probing her energetic vessel she finds she’s got maybe one strong curse left. She doesn’t regret it. Those officers are good people going into a situation they don’t understand. One where they’re completely outclassed.
The Curse Rider is ten cars back and coming on fast. They turn and rush headlong toward the train’s rear. Running itself isn’t a strategy. It buys them time. And not much. Cunning Sadie must have another trick card in her deck.
Sadie grabs her by the shirt. “I know you’re almost out! Save your last magic until I tell you to use it! Going to need your special talent!”
Beatrice nods back, mouth forming a grim line. “Aye, my captain!” she replies, then rushes onward, checking her speed to make sure her companions can keep up. Most mages have specializations. Sadie’s are healing, binding, protection and traps. Mori’s involve information gathering, detection, stealth, obfuscation, and weapon-enhanced ranged combat. She has a few areas of magical specialization, but she bets Sadie will draw something from her wide-ranging, mobility-enabling quiver.
They pass through one train car. Another. Passengers stare in obvious shock from the phone disturbance, the jolting train, the diabolical light show. Warnings about a possible unauthorized boarder blare through the speakers. Ivan stumbles. Mori hit him pretty hard. Can’t say I blame him. Asmodeus’s Prophet is also cradling a burned hand, suffers from many bruises. The wound in his back and wisp from the Pride-Eater’s talon clearly troubles him as he lurches back and forth in a daze of pain. Beatrice hooks a hand under his arm, helping Sadie propel him onward.
Through omnis scientia, Beatrice watches as the officers climb onto the train’s roof. They shout, pointing at the Curse Rider who’s now become a horrific mash of devil and cowboy — running on taloned feet as divine energy sparks angrily around him. White light flares, rising from Sadie’s chain of binding circles. A Macto effect Sadie layered into her spell’s structure. The sparks are ripping holes in his human flesh. A superficial garment, some of it sags off in tatters — revealing more of the mottled black and red scales. A baleful black eye with a white pin-prick for its pupil scans them as the devil cowboy rushes forward, holding its black hat to its head with one hand.
“Halt!” the officers shout, weapons drawn. The interpretation from German ringing in her ears through the shared sensor.
Quicker than a cobra-strike, the devil cowboy draws his firearm. A massive six-shooter leaps into his hand. He fires. A black round erupts. It seems to expand, devouring light as it races toward its targets. The officers, pistols already out, return fire. A few bullets strike the Curse Rider. May as well be stinging gnats for all the damage they inflict. The black round shoots between the officers, contracts with a ‘wump!’ then explodes in a dark shockwave. Darkness tinged with fire bursts out, engulfing the officers and tearing a hole in the train roof. Blue light ripples, protecting them from the impact. Still, the officers are flung off like toys in warped bubbles. Two tumble away to the left. One to the right. Beatrice sees Winkler fall into bushes along the train tracks, blue light still shielding her. Safe if shook-up. The other two officers hurtle out of sight. The Curse Rider takes one leap, jumps through the hole opened by his black bullet, lands in a flare of sparks among screaming passengers, then continues his onrush from within the train.
Beatrice looks over her shoulder. She can’t see him yet. But she does see passengers cowering, diving under seats, or pressing themselves against walls. In the distance, through a series of doors, she can see material swirling around like confetti. “He’s in the train!” she shouts.
Sadie looks back at her, catches her eye. “Good,” she says.
Beatrice turns, facing the train’s rear. They sprint — slamming through doors and jumping over passengers, Ivan in tow. From behind them, the sounds of screams and crashes grows louder. Beatrice feels panic rise into her throat. Pricks run up her spine. She feels she’ll be snatched away and rent to pieces at any instant. They’re moving too fast now to look back. But the noise behind grows louder and louder.
Finally, they come to the caboose car’s entrance. Sadie lifts a hand. Beatrice spins to a halt. Mori stops, takes a knee. Ivan collapses. Toward the engine, not three cars away, the Curse Rider strides through a shower of sparks carrying Macto curses that blast into him in gory staccato. Bits of his human shell fly off — spraying over cowering and screaming passengers. He ignores them. Clawed feet hammer as he rushes toward them. Legs pistoning with terrible force that evokes both the machine and the reptilian. Eyes — twin white lights in orbs of darkness — fix on them like gun sights. His flesh and clothes are now tatters. Most of what made him look human is ripped away. His diabolical features — mottled black and bood-red scales, twin horns sprouting from his skull, long claws replacing toes and finger nails — take on most of his form now. Beatrice draws breath, in awe of what Sadie’s done with her magic. She turned the train into a gauntlet of destruction for the Curse Rider. It’s still no-where near enough. The thing she sees stands strong, barely phased by the terrible punishment coming in from all sides. The devil cowboy — it still wears its ridiculous hat — explodes into a dividing doorway. The door is thrown off its hinges with a shriek of steel. The Curse Rider bursts through. Now just two cars away.
“I hope you know what you’re doing!” Mori shouts to Sadie.
“He sees us! Good!” She shouts. “Now run! To the end of the train!”
They rush headlong. It’s a real race now and they’re losing fast. Beatrice has no idea what Sadie has in mind. But it better be good. They’re at the train’s end. All that stands between them and rushing tracks — a door of steel and glass. About a hundred feet away and opposite the door, the Curse Rider hurtles toward them. They’re trapped. Out of options.
“Mori! Shoot out the door!” Sadie shouts.
Mori, who was busy sighting down the Curse Rider, swings his weapon around, ejects the Macto magazine into his hand, switches it swiftly with a black magazine from his pocket, then aims at the door. Beatrice’s eyes widen as she recognizes the ammo. These are tungsten anti-material rounds! Mori shoots four times in succession, blasting away the hinges. The door flies off into space behind the train — tumbling like a leaf.
Sadie waves to the few passengers clustering near the caboose’s rear. “Too dangerous here! Run to the front now!” The passengers stand, scamper toward the car’s front. “Now hide! Something bad’s coming!” Sadie’s voice is laden with suggero spurring them to move despite their terror.
Not missing a beat, Sadie turns to Beatrice. “We’re going up top. Draw your sword. Use your defenses. Get its attention. Then follow my lead.” Sadie grabs Mori and Ivan. “Salire!” she incants. Together, they leap up — propelled in a swooping arc by Sadie’s curse magic. Then they’re on the roof, scampering toward the car’s front. Beatrice is now alone. She draws her curse-patterned rapier. Sparks fall from its tip. The tattoos on her feet and hands flare with magic as she prepares what remains in her energetic vessel. With her thumb, she taps the blue-white gem in her rapier’s pommel. A patterned praesidia curse triggers — enveloping her blade in a bubble of protective light. She’s deliberately bleeding a heavy amount of patterned lux into her name curse. Showing off both her nature as an angel and as a mage. A combination any devil worth its worb would lust for. In front of her, the door rips off — pinning two passengers as the Curse Rider tears it like a sheet of paper from a notebook, then casually casts it aside. She crouches. The Curse Rider’s white laser eyes in swirling darkness fall on her. She aims her sword at them. The Curse Rider hesitates for a moment, seems surprised she’s alone, glances about for her companions. The pause is only momentary. Her angelic, magical form, its vital wisp-energy fluttering within, is too spectacular a pull for a devil to resist. It tips its hat in seeming salute, lowers a hand toward the pistol on its belt, then leaps toward her.
“Sadie!!!” Beatrice shouts.
“Una!” Sadie replies. “Una!” she hears Mori speak in turn as he bridges the link between Sadie, Beatrice, himself, and Ivan. Una forms a bridge that flows like a river of magic between them. It then extends in a blue-green arc over the train, connecting them to their magical sensor — omnis scientia — hundreds of feet ahead. Beatrice’s senses are transported along the bridge to the sensor’s far-off focus. Its view is just above the hole created by the Curse Rider’s first black bullet when it exploded among the police officers minutes before.
In her real sight, she can see the Curse Rider tearing through the train’s floor with its clawed feet. “When I cast my curse use lanuae on the sensor!” Sadie shouts. The Curse Rider’s six shooter whips up. Beatrice’s sense of time dilates. The barrel seems to slowly rise. “QAUE MALA!” Sadie incants, using the binding circle curse to seal the caboose with a ward against evil.
Beatrice spins her rapier. The gun’s barrel lines up. Sparks swirl in the air. She can see the barrel through her circle of sparks like a gaping maw. The five black bullets still housed in its cylinder — each a bulge of devil’s magic waiting for launch. She grabs one spark. The gun’s hammer falls. She hurls the spark. It disappears as it passes into the magical link made by una and flares swiftly through the blue-green bridge above the train. The black bullet hurtles toward her, shadow tendrils swarm out from it. Her rapier blazes. The light of a star briefly blossoms in the caboose as praesidia forms its bubble around her. Shadow tendrils coil and swell from the black bullet. Around Beatrice, seats are ripped off their mountings and thrown from the train, windows shatter, metal bulges and cracks.
Beatrice is ejected out behind the train in this clash of forces. Tendrils blooming around the swelling black bullet core through her protective light. If they touch her, they will tear her wisp away. The black bullet will then capture it for the Curse Rider to enslave. Hundreds of feet ahead, in the train that is now leaving her behind, her spark finally crosses una’s bridge and shoots out of the magical sensor. It lands in the train roof’s hole. The black bullet begins to engulf her. Tendrils just inches away as she dips toward impact on the tracks. Tucking into a ball, she shouts “LANUAE!” The explosive magic of teleportation enfolds her — lighting up three more times to engulf her companions on the train car roof ahead and above. The black bullet cores through the explosion where she hung in mid-air a moment before.
Beatrice emerges along with Sadie, Mori, and Ivan. Each leaping up out of their own explosive spark-shower. They fall about 8 feet, then land in a chorus of thumps in the ruined train car. A few hundred feet away, within the caboose, the Curse Rider howls in rage. Sadie’s magic has formed an iridescent field around the damaged car. Reinforced by the train’s holy ground, it contains the Curse Rider even as he vents his fury. Pounding and shooting the magical containment in furious effort to find release. The remaining passengers, not similarly bound by Sadie’s magic and gathered near the exit forward, flee to safety in the next train car. For the moment, the Curse Rider is too distracted by his capture to pay them mind. He aims his might at breaking the bottle, he deforms the magical containment — causing the caboose to jump. Its walls are quickly tattered with dents and cracks. But, for now, the mighty Curse Rider is held even as Macto curses continue to rain down on it.
Beatrice slumps to the floor, still shaking from the intensity of a few moments before. “Whew!” she says. “Well, Sadie, you did it. Trapped a Curse Rider. But I don’t know for how long. I’ll take my miracles.”
“It’s bought us time. Hopefully enough to get where we need to go,” Sadie replies.
“Tonder?” Mori asks.
“Brons,” Sadie replies. “I’ve arranged a boat. We jump train there. If all goes as planned. Glenda will be on board.”
Beatrice looks at them, puts her shaking hand on her head. “Are you both going to let me know what you’ve cooked up? Do I have to guess at your charades? I did just… What would Myra call it? I think the term is tank. Yes. I did just tank that Curse Rider for you guys. A little explanation as gratitude would be appreciated.”
“Sweetheart,” Mori replies, catching her up in a reassuring embrace. “You tanked beautifully! And yes, I suppose we both missed a lot of Sadie’s subtlety here. So to fill you in, we’re going to jump off the train at Brons, then take a boat down the Brons River and out to our Heaven’s gate in the North Sea. Providence willing, the cage Sadie made for our Curse Rider will hold until then and for some time after.”
“Glorious!” Beatrice says in an outburst, trying to blow her shakes off into the word. “How much longer ’til Brons?”
“About fifty minutes,” Mori says.
“Seems like a long time given present circumstances.”
“It seems like forever.”
Ivan whimpers.
Beatrice stands, assesses her blessings. She’s still breathing — thanks in no small part to Sadie. This whole affair is too desperate. But she didn’t know what else to do. With Myra in Hell, they’re committed to this crazy path. And that was that.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
Mori watches the train slowly board, glances at their police escort, then squeezes Beatrice’s arm. The contact — as much for his own comfort as hers. Finely muscled angelic flesh warms his hand. Sets it to tingling in ways a normal human touch might not. Or so he imagines. Maybe it’s just because he’s still batshit crazy in love with her. At this point, he’ll take even the imagined comfort, or the halo effect, or the real comfort caused by her angelic nature. Whatever the source, he sure as Hell needed it now.
Hunted.
The word buzzes in his mind like an alarm. His skin tingles with primordial fear response. Mori feels the impulse to kill, to run like Hell, or both. A Curse Rider? We knew it would probably come. But now… Gods, we are so fucked.
Mages as a subset of humankind had nearly gone extinct numerous times over the last millennia and a half. The cause — goddamn Curse Riders. Devils armed and trained by Asmodeus himself to slay mages and to take their powerful wisps. They were an innovation of the Dark Ages. A far more lethal scythe to shear through the ranks of his people than even the devils who came before. All devils lusted after mages’ souls. Much of Hell was dedicated to the entrapment of mage wisps by whatever means necessary. But before the Curse Riders, devils had to use the normal lures. Tempting or tricking the mage into Hell or by jumping any mage foolish enough to enter Hell willingly on their own. Curse Riders were a great advancement into wholesale carnage. Able to exploit Asmodeus’s in-roads to Earth to take form, they could now directly hunt and slay. Taking mage wisps by the devil-preferred method that is violence and slaughter. A feat which wasn’t possible before.
At first, the losses were mammoth. Only the most powerful mages — able to resist the overwhelming power of a Curse Rider long enough to flee — and the most cunning survived. New methods were devised to keep hidden. To keep safe. By modern times, mage numbers were again slowly rising. Though never so plentiful as before the Curse Riders.
I guess my fear’s kinda instinctive.Makes senseafter concocting such a bone-headed plan and following through with it. They’d sent their only daughter into Hell and to distract Asmodeus. They’d deliberately taken Ivan Volkov, the Arch Devil’s chosen prophet on Earth. I suppose I hoped we’d avoid a Curse Rider. But that was stupid. Like kicking a hornets’ nest and expecting the hornets not to swarming out and sting the fuck out of you.
Now we’re in a serious bind. A Curse Rider, and a very nasty one by the look of it, is breathing down our necks. He’s summoned up a posse of the worst devil sympathizers in Europe. It’s an honest to goddamn witch hunt.
The officer tabs her radio, speaks a few words in German. Interpretor gives him the words in English. Train’s almost finished boarding. They’re departing in four minutes. There’s a gathering of extremists just north of town near the tracks. But police units are already breaking them up. Mori’s too keyed up and knows way too much to feel relief. Instead, he moves on to the next worry.
Across the table, Sadie is on the phone with Glenda. “No, dear. It’s too dangerous to meet us at the train station. No, it’s also too dangerous to go to the restaurant. We’ll need you to go to the docks. Now. Yes. Yes. I’ll be calling ahead for the water transport. Of course I have a contingency.”
Ivan reaches out, tries to grab the phone. Sparks erupt from his hand. He shakes it in pain. “Tell her not come,” he growls.
Sadie doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course your father’s here, dear. I’m certain he’ll be glad to see you. Yes, yes. The trouble is… after him too. Stay safe dear. And remember. The docks! Take every precaution and have our friends help if need-be. Lots of love and see you soon. Bye now dear.”
Sadie puts down the phone, takes a deep breath, then lays a hand on the train car’s interior wall. She closers her eyes, whispering. Taking a moment to study herself. Mori can’t hear what she’s saying. He’d want to pray too, though. If he were the praying type. What Mori doesn’t notice is the flash of divine curse energy running through Sadie’s palm and into the train.
Mori’s nervously glancing at his watch — it’s 12:03. They should be leaving soon. He pulls out his phone, thumbing through his text messages. He had Stefan follow the train in his Tesla just in case. But he’s more than an hour behind them. By the time they reach Esbjerg, if they reach Esberg, that lag will stretch past two hours. A lot can happen in two hours. Stefan will almost certainly be too far away to help. He glances sidelong at Beatrice, notes she’s keeping track of Ivan and the officer all while monitoring their still-active omnis scientia. Good, she’s on top of her game. Did I ever doubt?
Mori drums on the table in front of him with his fingers, trying to bleed off the anxiety with pointless motion. Why aren’t they moving yet? He glances over his shoulder at the officer a couple rows away. She’s also on her phone. He leans across the table. “Sadie, tell me about your contacts in Esbjerg,” he asks in a low voice. “You have someone who can meet us a bit past midway? Possibly near Tonder?”
Sadie blinks at him, removing her hand from the train’s interior wall. “I heard your little plan from earlier. It’s probably a good one. But it’ll take some doing.” She picks up her phone and holds up a finger, indicating he wait. Good, she’s on it. Sadie’s about as resourceful as they come. If she’s already up on his jump-train plan, then she’s probably arranging a contact at a good jump point.
The train makes a whooshing sound as it departs. Frigging finally! Powerful electric motors humming, the one hundred percent clean energy, five thousand ton Sleipnir launches from the platform. A half-smile creeps onto his face. He’ll never get used to the delicious acceleration electrics could pump out. Hamburg’s urban region blurs by and they are, once again, rocketing through open country. Hot, dry farms and woodlands replace the gray and white city buildings of Hamburg. The train seems to be moving faster this time. Good. Mori glances at the officer, wondering if its speed has something to do with the recent attack by goddamn Berserkers. Probably. When they left the platform, their first train was crawling with law enforcement. Media’s gonna have a friggin heyday with this stuff, Furze Bank, and the plane crash.
They cross a road intersection. In the distance, Mori can see a police roadblock. Behind it is a cluster of motor cycles. Some of their riders lift one-finger salutes at the passing train. Beatrice’s eyes swirl with magical energy as she engages omnis scientia.
“More Berserkers,” she says, pointing the magical sensor at the bikers. He nods, not wanting to expend precious magical energy to see the spectacle more closely for himself. The train is already past the intersection. “There are about fourteen. Cops are having a tough time with them.”
Mori gives a wry smirk. “I bet.”
“Oh,” Beatrice gasps.
“What is it, babe?” He can still see her eyes swirling. She must’ve picked up something new out there.
“It’s… a helicopter. You’ve go to see this.” She grabs hold of his shoulder.
“OK,” he replies, blinking his eyes and tapping his energetic vessel to connect him with omnis scientia. He’s momentarily dizzy as his senses shift. He adjusts quickly. Scanning his new, much wider, field of vision, he notes the Berserkers and Police rapidly falling away behind them. Spinning the sensor north, he scans for Beatrice’s helicopter. No such luck, but the hot northwestern sky is littered with massive thunderheads. A titanic, if far-distant, white-gray line of overshooting tops. Its tell-tale, anvil-shaped white blur about two hundred and fifty miles off. Gonna get really stormy this afternoon. And they’re heading out into the North Sea. Great. Mori keeps spinning the sensor, turning it eastward. Then he sees it. A black and red MD 902 Explorer that could best be described as highly stylized spews black clouds of smoke behind and to the right.
The helicopter is clearly shadowing them. To his sensitive mage sight, its abnormalities are obvious. Diabolical magic drips away and behind it as worb energy flares in its engines. Even to a casual observer its bulging glass cockpit eyes, landing struts sporting downward turning talons, the bat-like shape of tail fins, and red flames shooting from exhaust ports would seem out of place except at a derby race made for monster helicopters.
“Yep. Definitely a Nightmare,” he announces, shifting his senses back to the train cabin. Beatrice shoots him a look that says ‘duh’ but in a more refined way he doesn’t articulate. “Keep eyes on it sweetheart. I’ll see if our new friends can do something to delay it.”
Mori stands, walks over to the police officer, then crouches down. “Uh, mam, I think you might want to take a look at this.” He glances at her name plate. It’s Officer Winkler.
“What is it?”
“Over here by the window.” Mori guides her to an open seat with a window space on the train’s right side. He lifts his finger, points at the helicopter. “See that? I’m betting it’s not authorized to fly so close to our train.” The helicopter’s about a thousand feet up. It’s slowly descending toward them.
“Schiesse!” Winkler exclaims. “That thing is ugly.”
“Yeah, looks like some magical monster out of a fantasy movie, right?”
“Ja!” She replies, then tabs her radio. After a flurried conversation, she looks at Mori with upraised eyebrows. “Good spot. It’s not showing up on radar.” Her own words seem to puzzle her. “What kind of helicopter looks like that but doesn’t show up on radar?”
The Nightmare kind, Mori thinks to himself but doesn’t reply. Instead he just shrugs his shoulders and turns up his hands in a ‘you got me, police lady’ gesture.
Winkler blows a raspberry, sharing in his befuddlement. “They’re sending a chopper to intercept. Closest one’s out of Kiel. Won’t be here for another 15-20 minutes. And that’s fast response.”
“Central’s gotta be freaked,” Mori falls into cop-speak easy, his normal person background kicking in. He scratches his head, thinking about a police helicopter and a Nightmare facing off among the clouds… “Hey, maybe it’s not such a good idea…” He trails off not knowing how exactly to explain how a supposed civilian helicopter is going to give a police ‘copter trouble. But that probably wasn’t going to happen. 15-20 minutes wasn’t going to be fast enough. Mori’s mind races, trying to come up with another plan.
“They’re all over the place with everything that’s happened,” Officer Winkler continues. “That keeps happening. And to top it all off, there’s a big gale front sweeping in from the North Sea. Thunderstorms, hurricane force winds, there’s even a tornado watch.”
“Don’t say?” Mori already saw the storm clouds. The forecast confirms it. As he talks, his tactical brain is kicking in. He’s wondering how to get a clear shot at the Nightmare ‘copter. He glances back to his rifle-briefcase. Yeah. Might need that soon. “Lately weather’s been wrecked as all Hell,” Mori continues. It was part of the whole problem, wasn’t it? Damn devils teaming up with corrupt and influential humans to do stuff like fuck up the weather for all the other humans. Today’s Hellified forecast included an actual devil invader flying in a goddamn helicopter made from an unholy mash-up of machine, demon, and diabolical magic.
“Ja, for the past decade at least. It’s the hot air running into ocean water chilled by Greenland melt.”
Now it’s Mori’s turn to blow a raspberry. “Tell me about it, right?” So officer Winkler was an amateur climate buff? Well, it was certainly something worth his respect. “Climate change’s playing havok with everything.”
She’s nodding and formulating a reply. Mori can tell they’d touched on a subject of passionate interest for Winkler — who seemed to be, all-in-all, a rather decent human being. Mori’s edging away to get back to his briefcase when, suddenly, all the freaking cell phones in their train car start ringing.
“Oh fucking shit!”
Winkler looks up at him in surprise. Her phone is ringing too.
“Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Don’t answer that call! Gotta go!” He’s running off, grabbing his phone. A glance is all he needs to see the red tendrils of diabolical influence heavy with suggestive magic oozing off it. He tabs the answer key, puts it on speaker, and holds it well away from his face as he jumps, then slides back to their seats. He’s got magical protections set up to deal with devils’ suggestive magic. But it never hurts to be careful.
“Lookin’ for Ivan,” a cigarette-smoke voice rasps on the other end. Mori can hear twenty other phones saying the same thing throughout the train car. “Not hard to miss,” the voice continues. “He’s a little squirt of a Russian. Kinda looks like Vladimir Putin. I’d be obliged if you could hand me off to him.”
About ten people stand up all at once — holding their phones out to Ivan. Mori shoves four of them away. Beatrice and Sadie are already on their feet. Sadie shouting confractus! multiple times. The diabolical magic in five nearby phones unravels.
“Please, no! This is all a misunderstanding!” Beatrice says, her voice laden with an-already applied suggero curse. Confused passengers sit back down as the devil continues to spout garbage into their ears. Even as some seem to hear Beatrice, succumb to her magic, and sit down, more passengers further back in the car are standing, moving toward them, holding phones with diabolical magic tendrils flailing.
“Aww, come-on Ivan. I know you’re there buddy, pick up,” the diabolical cowboy voice crackles through at least thirty phones, filling the train with its helter-skelter suggestive magic. One of the zombie-like crowd, a breathless teen with a confused look on his face, breaks through, then kneels to offer up his Cthulhu phone. Mori is struck by the absurdity of the gesture. But doesn’t have time to think about it. He’s too busy shoving off the mass of bedeviled humanity.
Ivan hears the voice. He stands slowly, as if drawn up on marionette strings. His hand lifts toward the teen’s phone. It begins to spark with Sadie’s telephone blocking curse. Ivan grasps the phone. It catches fire — burning Ivan. Mori can smell the sweet scent of frying skin. Ivan is unphased. The Pride Eater wound in his back is flaring with diabolical magic. Taking control. Mori focuses omnis scientia down and through the train. He can see the possession stabbing through the Russian like a thorn dug too deep to be removed. Ivan picks up the phone. Tendrils quest toward him from the receiver only to be burned off like mist in morning sunlight by Sadie’s curse. The phone sparks, catches flame, then melts in Ivan’s hand.
The voice on the other line is still audible as a tinny, warbling tone. “bAd conNeCtiOn,” the devil cowboy says before the audio cuts out.
At last Ivan seems to wake up. He screams, shakes the burning phone out of his hand, then kneels to cradle his wounded digits. His eyebrows are upturned. He looks both with terror and with longing as another of the devil-zombified, this one dressed as an office professional, offers up another unholy phone. The wound in Ivan’s back pulses again — shooting a signal laden both with power and command. In Ivan’s eyes, Mori can see the ecstasy of longing for power ignite into a red glow. Ivan’s mouth works, his jaws clamping and unclamping, slaver drools down from his mouth as he literally salivates for power. Ivan’s link to that power — a friggin cell phone held before his face by a duped thrall with a devil on the other end.
Ivan’s hand lifts, closes on the cell phone. Once more, Sadie’s protective curse activates. But this time, the damn Curse Rider somehow fights back. The tendrils multiply and, as one, shoot in a cloud — rocketing toward Ivan’s wound.
Mori’s hand closes on his briefcase. Pushes the red button. The rifle blurs into form. With automatic, precise movements, he removes a yellow confractus bullet. Aims for the phone. Shoots. The phone disintegrates in a flash. Tendrils immediately fade out. Ivan looks down at the phone in anguish, then back up at Mori in rage. The Russian hurls himself at Mori. Mori doesn’t have time to fuck around. He smashes the stock of his weapon into Ivan’s chest, slamming him back down into the seat. Ivan is momentarily stunned. This gives Mori the opportunity to spin and link a hand with Beatrice. They exchange a glance.
“Una!” he shouts, joining his magic with Beatrice’s. “Suggero!”
Beatrice smiles in grim approval. They speak together in concert. Their voices amplified by the shotgun effect of Una. “SIT! DOWN!” The magical force blasts through the train car in a shockwave. Though just suggestion, they’re both digging deep into their reserves. If Ivan is forcibly transformed here and now, then the whole mission to Denmark is almost certainly done for. No time to hold back. The raw outburst of curse magic carrying suggero knocks people off their feet, sends bags and snack containers flying, and cracks two windows. Everyone in the train except Beatrice, Sadie, and Mori sit down. Then, in the time it takes for Beatrice and Mori to draw breath again, they incant CONFRACTUS! Sending a second wave of curse energy to drive the devil’s magic out of the cell phones.
At last, the train car is silent. Free of the cajoling voice of the cowboy Curse Rider.
Up front, there’s a loud thump as something large lands on the train’s roof. The sound of helicopter blades, coming closer and closer throughout the struggle, is now directly overhead. It’s right atop the train’s electric engine. Beatrice and Mori exchange a horrified glance.
“Shit!” Mori exclaims as he transitions back to omnis scientia. Turning the sensor toward the train’s front, Mori sees it. The goddamn Nightmare helicopter has landed on the frigging roof. Beside it is the dark, whip-thin figure of the devil cowboy. A cigarette smolders in his mouth as he lays a hand upon the Nightmare machine, then whispers a few words as a rider might to a horse. The helicopter form melts, forms a red-black pool of something toxic, then sinks down into the body of the train. Mori’s stomach does a nose-dive. The Curse Rider turns, looks over his shoulder at the sensor, then the fucker actually waves.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
I’ve pushed too hard. An easy thing to do in Hell’s combined toxic air and crazy heat. I’m dizzy, seeing double, feeling sick in my stomach. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
Mottle is next to me. I feel a prick on my wrist as he does the weird IV bite. I cool off a little as nutrient and fluid from him flows into my veins. The stuff is cooler than my body temperature. My heartbeat slows down. My vision returns. I feel less queasy. Mottle withdraws. I lever myself up to standing position. Whew. Hell really sucks. Human beings can’t manage it for squat. I’m not even 24 hours in – I’ve got all the support of my magic, a nearly endless water bottle, Mottle is cooling blanket plus emergency food and fluid source – and I’m still falling apart.
Speaking of water bottle… I feel something wet on my side. I look down to find that Perrier is laced with web-like cracks. Shattered but not yet broken. That fireball bullet shot from the devil’s pistol must’ve cracked it. Thing’s leaking through my flannel shirt pocket and down my leg. Duplici exemplariis still refilling it. But it’s pretty fucked up. “Shit!” I exclaim.
I steady myself on the wall and look down at the Poachers. Both are red-skinned devils — decked out in what might be useful gear. I crouch down next to Norg. He’s got a knife, his fireball pistol, and various items hung from his belt. Fuck yeah! There are two metal flasks. I pick up one, open it. Smell of fermentation wafts out. I dump it. Might be fun or interesting to try back home. Out here experimenting with exotic Hell alcohol is a health hazard. I gently pull out the Perrier bottle and pour a bit of the sparkling water into the flask. It fizzes. I use this as rinse, swirling it around, then dumping it. I then upend all the fluid from the Perrier bottle into the metal container. Dupliciis acting on the water after all. So I should be good. I take a swig. Yep. Same Perrier. This time with a little hint of taste like liquorish. Must be a remnant of Norg’s booze. I’ll take it.
I remove the Perrier bottle and put it on the ground. The action is almost gentle. It’s a memento of my world – Earth. One that saved my ass. Sure, I’m feeling nostalgic about a friggin glass bottle. “Rest well, Perrier, your heroism will never be forgotten,” I say to the bottle as I give it a mock salute. Stooping, I gather the rest of the devils’ gear. The hell rifle goes over one shoulder, the equipment belts and bullet baldrics over the other. I’m careful to make sure knives and pistol are secure. Mori gave me firearms training in prep for my journey to Hell. Looks like it might come in handy. Though guns aren’t really my thing. I kinda have a fear relationship with them. Too easy to kill something by pulling a trigger. With curses, at least you have to go through the intentional and mentally strenuous exercise of casting a spell first.
I can hear Mori talking in my head now. “People on Earth have said that war is Hell. Well, Hell is war. You’re going into Hell Myra. Best be ready to fight.” Hey, something got past the Memory Draught! Cool deal. Yeah. I remember this cute little Mori aphorism along with his firearms instruction all-right. I lug the guns and gear up to Mottle who is doing his wall-hanging thing. “Where to now?”
As answer, Mottle flaps further into the cave, waiting for me to follow. The passage winds down some natural stairs, around through rock columns, finally coming to a larger chamber. It’s blessedly cooler down here. Water bubbles up from a nearby spring. Doesn’t smell too sulfurous. Might be an actual drinkable source. Will test it later. Right now, I’m looking at a horror of pelts, prepared bones, racks of various smoked flesh, and a table stacked with worbs. Beside this shit-show are cages made of bone. Inside are three devils with blue skin. I remember from my earlier training these blue devils are the devil slave class. Well, there are all kinds of slaves in Hell. But blue devils make up the more numerous subsets of actual devil society. They don’t have any rights and other devils can pretty much do with them as they please. The three blue devils hover about in their cage, looking at us with various curious and plaintiff expressions. Beside their cage is a bloody whipping post whose purpose requires no explanation.
Poacher’s Cave and surrounding environs
A separate cage contains a green-skinned humanoid creature with insect-like wings and yellow orb eyes. It’s about two and a half feet tall. Looks like a faerie of some sort. Mottle extends his tail. I accept the contact. Vila. Blue devils. His matter-of-fact thoughts identify the creatures. I’m drawing a blank on the Vila.
“What’s a Vila?” I ask.
Tree spirit. Almost extinct. Mottle replies. Rare. Exotic. Valuable to Poachers for trade or body parts. These thoughts make me sick. If I have any lingering doubts taking down the poachers was justified, they’re erased by the spectacle of exploitation before me.
The blue devils are chattering among themselves. They notice I’m carrying the Poacher’s gear. I hear the word “human” uttered a few times in hushed tones. One of them steps forward, extends a hand toward me. “Therivelle,” she says as she pats her chest. She moves with a limp. I can see her back is mostly flayed raw from whipping. “We will serve. Help in exchange for food.” She makes slow hand motions as she talks. I’m pretty sure she thinks I can’t understand what she’s saying.
The whole scene makes me furious. Throwing away caution, I step forward. Opening my left hand, I draw my still active moon-shadow blade from the air. The devils let out cries of anguish. I bring the sword down on the chain holding the bone door to the cage shut. Sparks fly as the chain parts. I kick the door open. “You’re free. Get out.” I say to them in Hell’s tongue – Minosian. In two more steps, I’m beside the Vila’s cage. It has no obvious door. In two slashes, I destroy a wall of the bone cage. “You’re free too Vila.” I say this in Minosian and then in English. Not sure if the Vila can understand either. Mottle hangs back through the whole exchange. He’s not doing anything to stop me. I suppose I’m being careless. I don’t give a shit. This stuff is all just wrong.
The blue devils rush out. One runs past us, pauses for a moment near a rock column, then sprints on toward the entrance. Mottle touches my cheek. Might go warn devils. High reward for human mage. Even for blue devil. Right now, I don’t care. I know it’s stupid-reckless. Sure, the twisted little devil living in Hell since forever is probably going to do me a bad turn. I just can’t bring myself to harm the poor wretch over a mere almost-certitude. The other two devils watch their companion run. Instead of following, they walk over to the drying flesh stretched out on racks and begin devouring chunks of it. I don’t typically eat meat. I have no idea what poor creature the poachers killed for it. My empty stomach grumbles nonetheless. Pretty sure I’m going to end up lowering my standards to survive here. I look at Mottle. Maybe. I hold off for now.
The Vila is hovering in a high corner near the cavern’s rear after a short flight to put space between her and the rest of us. Can’t say I blame her. She doesn’t know me for squat and, if Mottle’s right, her precious parts are a valuable commodity to the devils I just freed. She’s looking down on us – eyes flitting from me to the devils gulping down mouthfuls. I feel a pang of sympathy at their hunger even as I worry over what threats they might pose. No take-backs now. I let them out all-right. Probably going to regret that. Keeping my eyes on them, I move over to the table and start slicing up the worbs. Sparks and wisps fly. Another seventeen — five light, twelve dark — are sheltered behind my protective spiritual enclosures. Forty five souls now. Sixteen light wisps, twenty-nine dark. The energy they’re giving me back is quickly refilling my name curse. I’m up to a third already after being next to empty fifteen minutes ago.
Blue devils pause from their food devouring to watch. Their pink eyes widen in surprise. The boy spouts an infernal curse. Theri — I mentally drop the velle part — drifts forward and looks at my arm dripping sparks. “You keep wisps?” She asks.
“It’s part of my magic. Makes them safe. They help me in turn.” I can tell she’s scared of me. Feeling is fucking mutual. The look she’s giving me is one of open disbelief.
“You don’t enslave them for power? Don’t devour them?” The way she says it sounds like an accusation. Like she’s saying I’m lying with a question.
In answer, I lift my arm, then turn my body so she can see my shadow. “Revelare,” I incant. My name curse and shadow briefly remove their protective shroud — showing the light and dark wisps within. They swarm in my shadow, flicker and dance with the sparks in my name curse. More vital and alive since their removal from Hell’s spiritually caustic environment. For a normal human, this might look like a parlor trick. But devil eyes are specially adapted to see wisps. The entire race has preyed upon and hunted them for thousands of years. Before that… Why can’t I remember what they did before? Oh yeah, damn Memory Draught took it out. But I assume they did something less obnoxious with wisps before Asmodeus took over all those thousands of years ago.
Theri hisses in surprise and disbelief. The other blue devil steps forward, clutching at Theri’s arm. “She’s not lying,” he says to her softly.
She puts her hand over his. “Zel, how can it be real?”
“It’s what you always said, Theri. Try to find another way. Maybe it found us?”
I close my hand, allowing Ignarus’ protective shroud to fall again. My wisps are growing agitated even at the brief Hell contact. The soft, dare I say compassionate, exchange between Zel and Theri gives me a glimmer of hope. I’m conflicted. You’re not supposed to feel hope in Hell. But if not, then why am I here? Seeing how I still don’t know shit about my mission, I decide to improvise. Worked with Mottle after all.
“Look. I can’t even begin to imagine your life here. What you’ve been through. And, yeah, I’m a human mage. So you’re probably looking at me like I’m some combo between fish out of water and big sack of gold. Maybe if you hand me over, you can win what passes for devil freedom here. I’ve an alternate proposition. Join up with me and I’ll show you what real freedom looks like.” I’m totally playing this by ear. Some of what I’m saying I’m sure is pretty much pure bullshit. But if I pull the thread of everything that’s happened, of Mottle and my name curse, I must not be too far off. If I can chip souls out of the typical hell cycle of exploitation. If I can get Mottle out of that harmful loop, then why not the dregs of devil society who’ve been shit on for millennia? Maybe I could help them out? Gods I must be frigging nuts.
Theri and Zel are staring at me. Zel gives a toothy grin as smile. “Well, I didn’t expect to live for more than a few days anyway. Here’s to giving the big stiff middle finger to the man,” Zel replies. I’m translating a bit liberally here. What he really said was more like “give the man the big pointy horn.” But you get the picture. Anyway, it seems my little speech and show of protection for wisps has won them over. At least for now.
There’s a flutter of wings as the Vila flits down closer. Her green face is covered in tears. She touches her chest. “Zaya,” she says. “I’m Zaya. You’ve taken my tree’s wisp. Given it real light and good earth.” She points to my name curse. A green-tinted wisp rises to just below the curse’s whorls as Zaya flutters closer, lifting a hand to touch me. I let her. The hand is tiny, smaller than a child’s but perfectly formed like an adult’s. She’s a frigging faerie. In Hell. “You… I feel… alive again. Can I come? Will you take my wisp if I die? I promise to help you.”
My name curse sparks at her pledge. It seems her good intention and sincere ask for aid has forged a bond with it. “There’s your answer,” I reply softly.
Zaya exhales in relief. She keeps her hand on my name curse. It seems to comfort, so I let her.
The devils’ soul-sensitive eyes see the bond form. Mystified, they watch the sparks fall. Zel tentatively extends a hand.
“It’s OK. Go ahead,” I say.
Zel puts his much larger hand on top of Zaya’s. Theri looks at him. He nods. She places her hand on top of Zel’s.
“Give my wisp your protection and I will help you.” Theri says.
“Me too,” Zel says. His skin becomes kind of purple. It’s a blue devil blush. “I trust you with my spirit.”
Sparks spill out of my name curse beneath their touch. A fountain of lights casting shadows throughout the cave. I feel like a roman candle without the burn. Three lights separate from the rest. Lifting up, they hover before each of my new companions in turn, then slowly descend to alight upon their chests. The sparks melt into them. Zaya giggles. Zel gasps. Theri smiles and says “It’s warm and it tickles.” I’m just as surprised. It’s the most unlikely of scenes I’d ever have imagined taking place in Hell. But here I am in a Poacher’s larder, forming a holy bond of friendship with liberated blue devils and what is probably one of the last remaining Vila in all of this blasted and burned world.
Mottle puts his tail on my shoulder. A spark floats off for him as well. My, my, aren’t we the odd quintet?
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.
Tip of Knife Lake and Surrounding Lands
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
As safe as I imagine a body can be in freaking Hell, I rest beneath Mottle’s protective form — sleeping for gods-damn real this time.
When dreams do come, they are of floating in ocean depths. Over my face – a protective bubble of air allows easy breathing. That death beach I just escaped from must have shaken out some of my more pleasant impressions of Earth’s ocean. This water is cool and, though dark, it’s clear. No pollution. No goop. Lots of actual life. I’m reminded of a time at the beach one day surfing. Of wiping out on a giant wave and getting held under in the dark, swirling waters until my lungs screamed for release. This is like that. But peaceful and with more air.
Soft, silver light envelops me. Flickering. Far away a green blinker slowly moves in and out of the darkness. Could it be the lure of an angler fish? A great tubular body drifts nearby, mostly stationary. Some giant sperm whale. Its black eye watches but does not threaten. A school of krill rises up like bubbles all around. My name-curse sparks softly, adding to the various gentle glows in the dark deep.
I try to move, but a kind of seaweed is wrapped around my body. Great, so I’m stuck in fracking seaweed at the bottom of the ocean. If I kick lazily, I can move about a little, even if the seaweed holds me mostly in place. The whale’s black eye watches, offering little encouragement. Thanks for nothing, big guy. On the floor nearby is a round stone shape. Looks a bit like an altar. Lettering surrounds its top edge. The surface is flat, like a table top. Upon it rests a long, black box. For some reason, I’m thinking of Atlantis. Yeah, right. This is Atlantis.
I trace my hand along the box. It’s smooth with barely perceptible seams. Like a frigging puzzle box. Curious about this sea-floor artifact I’ve discovered, I start to look more closely. Electricity arcs out from the box — jabbing into my name curse. Fuck! I pull my hand back. Through the water, there is a chiming of bells. 10 Bells. Funny haha. It must be ten o’clock Berlin time. Mottle rustles, the ocean scene fades, and I wake up to a growling stomach.
Mottle folds back as I sit up, tail still lightly touching my right hand. He sends a query about the dream through our physical and mental link. A kind of – what the? I mentally shrug back at him. Just a crazy dream, I guess?
I look around. The still night of Hell filters through various cracks in the ceiling of Mottle’s little grotto. Water level in the cave has dropped. Distant flickers of lightning illuminate the cracks but the storm is long past. Must be about five o’clock A.M. Hell time. I feel around in my pockets, pulling out my phone. It’s busted and waterlogged. Now nothing more than an expensive paper weight. I think about chucking it, but pocket the thing instead. Resources here are damn sparse. Who knows when something in it might prove useful?
Thinking of resources reminds me of the water bottle. I crack open Perry-Fuckin-A and take a long series of swigs. Mottle somehow kept me cooler. But I’ve still sweat out a lot water. The guy probably saved me from fracking heat-stroke, though. Air here is just stifling. My phone’s bulk is an idle chunk in my pocket. Damn. I need a freaking clock. Meaning — time for more magic. Glancing at my name curse, I notice from the amount of silvery luminescence that my energetic vessel is already more than three-quarters full. It’s kinda like my battery for curse energy storage. It holds the stuff I naturally draw in from the multiversal spirit. Pretty cool, right? Most mages can easily get the gist of how much energy they have. It’s similar to the physical feeling of hungry or full. I get the hunger pangs and fullness part too. My name curse just gives me a more exact indicator. Almost as good as a freaking fuel gage. Well not quite. But you get the picture. This time, I have more than I should and I’m getting it faster than I typically would. A quicker recharge thanks to the five Mottle wisps peacefully humming away in the whirls and swoops of my curse. Oh, and Bob, don’t forget about frigging Bob, lurking in my shadow, who almost ate me back there at the cave entrance. Well, since I’m working with more magical energy coming in than usual, I can spare just a little for a minor permanent curse.
Map of Myra’s journey from Hell’s Beach, through Mottle’s Grotto and toward Knife Lake
“Horologium!” I chant, and a semi-transparent chronometer face appears on my left wrist just below the name curse. Its characters blink in the darkness. Reminds me of those old digital watches from the 70s and 80s with the back-light you activate with a button. “Nice!” I’m probably more excited than I should be. But this is Hell, after all. Any comforts of home are damn mighty precious. “Now set,” I command my new time piece. “Time is 5 o’clock A.M.”
The magical watch flickers. An indicator flashes. “Time zone?” is the query.
“Well fuck, Hell’s Beach, I guess.” The chronometer dutifully records Hell’s Beach as time zone.
Mottle has folded himself up into a tee-pee pose beside me. His big, black eyes are watching me fiddle with Horologium. He lifts his tail and gently touches the back of my hand. Should get moving. Not safe. An image of Bob’s chameleon feet appears in my mind’s eye. Damn, Mottle, this is gonna take some getting used to. I see Bob’s feet leaving a residue as he walks. Another lizard-devil like Bob sniffs the film of goop with its flicking tongue and follows. Then another follows that one. There are many more in a burrow under the sand a mile or two off. Stelo-mal is the word that forms in my head. Bad frigging lizard.
I groan loudly. “Ugghh! They are like giant devil ants! So, Bob led the rest of them to us?”
Mottle sends an affirmative pulse up my arm. Now. Later too hot. I get an image of me passing out in the heat, laying on the sand ‘til I die, then becoming hell-vulture food. Talk about some big freaking vultures! OK, point taken.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Frail hooman girl can’t handle Hell-hot. I get it.” I use the Bob word for human. I don’t know why, but it strikes me as funny. Bob, back there in my shadow, is silent. “Well, best get moving while mornin’s burnin.” I stand up and look around the chamber. A few crevices further up are about big enough for me to pass through. The lower water reveals more of the crack I squeezed through earlier. Not gonna risk that way again unless I must. Drinking one more swig of the Perrier, I slide it into my flannel pocket and motion for Mottle to lead the way.
Mottle unfolds his bat-carpet form, then flaps off toward one of the larger crevices. He lands beside it and waves me forward with his tail. I shrug, then clamber over boulders, find a narrow ledge, and wedge up into the hole. Mottle flaps ahead again – flying down a tunnel for about fifteen feet. With his claws, he latches himself onto the right side of an opening. Spread out like that, he looks like a hanging wall-rug. This is also funny. Oh jeez, I must be getting light-headed from lack of food.
I clamber up beside Mottle, already hot and super-sweaty from climbing in the crazy Hell-heat. I try to remind myself that the cave was cooler. My body’s not taking in the message my brain is sending it. The sulfur stink is also not helping with breathing. Chest is tight. I cough. Mottle gives me a concerned look. “Shut up,” I say to him. Not sure he understands. Maybe he does. That’s a smart bat… thing.
I look out onto a beach blasted flat by storm. All the dunes within at least a half mile of the freaking ocean are leveled. And this is on the steep rise to rocky area I sheltered in. Further down the beach to my right is a lower area that’s still flooded with stinking and goop-laden ocean water. Mottle flies ahead, lands on the ground, then waves at me with his tail. I clamber down, get my feet on the sand, and slog up to where he’s landed. Man am I seriously jealous about his ability to fly. He looks back at me with what I think is sympathy before launching off again. I let out an exasperated breath and trot after him. At least the sand is pounded firm by wind and water.
His glide down the slope is a long one. He lands about a quarter mile away, then gets busy digging at the sand. I don’t want to be alone in this place. It’s freaking surprising how I’ve already glommed onto Mottle as a kind of safety-net. But after meeting Bob, I’m more than a little paranoid about all the various monstrosities lurking about.
I’m really starting to feel seriously homesick. So I conjure up a familiar memory of paddling out into Earth’s much kinder ocean to surf alone — wondering if some predatory shark is swimming below me. Just a memory of me by my lonesome in the big-ass ocean. Easy access to any predator who may find me even a tiny bit interesting. The feeling here in Hell is similar. But a crap-ton more intense. Part of it has to do with stuff I know. Various bits that slipped by the Memory Draught are the opposite of freaking comforting. Unlike Earth’s ocean where a human interloper is oft-ignored, a human in Hell is the most sought-after prey of all. And as you’re probably catching on, fact is we’re sitting ducks in Hell’s crippling environment. So, Mottle leaving me a few hundred yards behind makes me freak out just a little.
Despite feeling weak with hunger, I put on the jets and sprint up to where Mottle is expertly ripping through sand. As I approach, I see what he’s after. It’s one of those mean-ass plants with the razor leaves, buried in the storm. Now he’s uncovered it. Careful to avoid the sharp protrusions, Mottle uses rear legs and tail to dig around and below. He shuffles deeper into the sand. Letting out a satisfied grunt, he stops for a moment. Then, he begins to thrash about. There is a ripping sound. He scrabbles forward, pulling and straining against the sand with his claws. I grab hold of him, helping him move whatever it is that he’s got hold of with his tail. There is one last rip. I fall as Mottle lunges up.
I stand, brush the sand off, turn around. Mottle has pulled a gigantic bulb out of the ground. It’s about two and a half feet across. The size of a large-ass pumpkin and covered in green and yellow splotches. Mottle starts tearing into it. I inch up to see about sharing in the feast. Doesn’t look appetizing at all. But I am really damn hungry and I’m gonna need some kind of sustenance. Especially here. I burned a lot of fuel yesterday in just a handful of hours. Mottle is gorging. Goop and pulpy stuff flies everywhere. It smells pretty foul. I reach out to grab some of the pulp. Mottle’s tail lashes out, pushing my hand away.
No. Poisonous to human. Let Mottle handle.
I flop back on my butt with a sigh of frustration. Figures it would be poisonous. “Of course, it is.” I rub at a bit of sand with the palm of my hand. To Hell’s east, the horizon is lighting up with pink and purple. The sun is coming. Though it’s at least 100 with like 70 percent humidity now, it’s about to start getting a whole lot hotter. I dig out the Perrier and take another set of gulping drinks. Gonna need it all.
Mottle has finally stopped gobbling up the plant’s bulb. Only a few stringy pieces are left. I wonder where he put it all. That thing was huge. He ripples over toward me. His blanket body coming into contact with my skin. Trust Mottle? The query flooding through me is tinged with urgency and fear. I’m not sure what to make of it. Weird.
“Yeah, I guess,” I reply. What do I really know about Mottle anyway? He helped me survive the night. He didn’t do anything to hurt me when he could have. He gave me some thoughts I assume are his memories. It could all be a ruse. But if he wanted to eat me or otherwise take me out he could’ve done it when I was sleeping. And clearly, he also just ate a crapload of food. Sure, I’m almost 100 percent certain I pretty much trust him.
Mottle pauses for a moment, then lunges forward and latches himself onto my neck. He’s lightning-quick. Catches me completely off-guard. I’m halfway through summoning my moon-shadow blade, when more thoughts flood into me. No hurt. Help. The sensation I feel from him is motherly. Like a parent to precious offspring. This is not threatening… but why?? Before I can think any more, Mottle freaking bites me. More precisely, two teeth-like things extend from his mouth area and enter my neck.
“The fuck!?” I shout as these teeth pierce me – thrusting into arteries beneath my jaw. God, I am so fucking dead! I can’t even freaking move!
How we feed young, Mottle thinks. Cool euphoria spreads out from my neck and over my body. Energy slowly fills me. There is a gland behind each tooth. It is pumping some sort of liquid food – directly into my veins. Mottle’s body made and processed it. Apparently, my body accepts it. After a few minutes, Mottle’s teeth withdraw. He flaps away. I can move again. I touch my neck. The holes ooze a tiny amount of blood. But they’ve mostly sealed. There’s a substance on them that must be coagulant.
I kick myself away from him. “Gods that was fucking weird!” He bends his head in a gesture that says he’s sorry. I feel so much better. I am not at all hungry even though my stomach is still completely empty. It oddly feels full. “No way! No fuckin’ way!” I shout this to him. Mottle offers his tail. I don’t want to take it. I can’t help myself because I’m too damn curious. When my hand touches him, his thoughts again flow into me. Myra hunger. Getting weak. No food. Mottle could give. Explain would just make scared.
“Make scared. Yeah. Did that.”
Myra feel better? Not hunger?
I have to admit, I do feel pretty frackin good. “Yeah,” I say grudgingly.
Good. Now Mottle keep Myra cool. And with that Mottle is again on my freaking back. His blanket-like body somehow sluffing the heat away. Gods, he’s quick. If he actually did want to kill me, it probably wouldn’t be hard at all in my present state. I remind myself he’s trying his best to help. And yeah, I don’t know squat about getting food here. That weird IV tooth injection thing really did the trick.
I stand up. He helps me with his tail and two hind-claws even as his foreclaws grasp my shoulders like football protective padding. His midsection spine runs down my vertebrae, lending even more support. His freaking head is on top of my own head like a helmet. Two bone teeth loop coolly over my scalp without stabbing. With the mental coordination we share, it’s like having three more legs, a rubbery protection all over me reinforced with bone, and a big furry helmet with two extra eyes looking out sideways. There’s weight to him, but his squarish, mostly wing body is all muscle. For a moment, it’s awkward. I take a step. His body springs and contracts lending force to my steps while somehow also cushioning. I take another step. Better. I take a third step and pow! we are bounding across the sand like a badass super-soldier and running-back hybrid.
This is just nuts. Like Mottle is somehow adapted to a weird human-Mottle symbiosis. I check my memory for anything about this kind of creature. Draw a blank. Huh — not like memory’s been worth a damn lately. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. Well, anyway, he’s clearly not a full-blown devil of the soul-sucking variety. Just some creature living in Hell who refuses to devour wisps and can somehow create this kind of natural bond with a human(oid). Also not far from the Hell-Gate. Coinkydink? I think not. This stuff has Beatrice and Mori planning written all over it. I suppose I could just be crazy-lucky. But in my experience, there’s no such thing as luck.
I notice my curse energy is a tad bit lower. “You took some of my magic, didn’t you?”
Mottle helps Myra; Myra helps Mottle.
“Hmph. Yeah. I figured.” So Mottle isn’t entirely wisp independent. But he can somehow siphon wisp energy without killing. Again, not typical devil stuff. My own wisp energy for magic comes from the multiverse at large and now also from the wisps I keep safe from Hell. Looks like Mottle has stumbled on a pretty good deal here. But I can’t complain. He is literally saving my fracking ass. “So where do you think we should go now?” I’m honestly curious. Maybe Mottle has some kind of plan for what to do with me. Until 7 o’clock Berlin time, which is probably about eight and half hours off, I don’t have a freaking clue.
Mottle doesn’t hesitate. Head toward wisp fields. Maybe walk-fly. I get a vision of walking up and gliding down hills with Mottle attached and using wings like a mix between hang glider and flying squirrel. Finish before sun’s high. Then find shade. Rest ‘til night. Journey longer in cooler dark. Then find wisps to help. Deal with Drivers, Form Makers. Mottle is a font of information. I see red devils with scaly skin, yellow eyes, and long front-sprouting horns when Mottle thinks of Drivers. I get the impression that these mean customers run around capturing wisps. For Form Makers, Mottle sends a picture of a kind of black un-wisp that shoots abyssal flux as black lightning bolts at the wisps to give them hellish forms. A lot of information and it’s all about as clear as mud. I look at my name-curse and see the wisps floating contentedly inside, safe from Hell, shining with their self-rejuvenating glow.
“Sure, Mottle. Why not. Let’s go save a few more wisps. You seem to have a stake in that. And somehow, it seems, so do I.”
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