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.)
The Vortex’s warbling quiets as I pull up to the scattering of Hell-bikes. Moonshadow blade in hand, I leap from the Vortex. “Good riddance! Nasty thing!” I shout as I kick it over, slashing its worb in half. Two handfuls of wisps flow out in a viscous gush of fossil fuel crap. The wisps lift. Finally liberated from the worb. It lays broken on the ground. A dark sphere whose insides remind me of razors, geodes and reaction chambers. The wisps rise up. Sluggish. Beleaguered. Relieved. I run to another Vortex, cut its wisps free, then pivot to smash a devil’s worb, move on to the next. In a half minute of flurried activity, all twenty-odd worbs are broken. About a hundred wisps drift around me. I’m swimming in a soup of souls.
Plumacats pause in their devouring rampage. Their raptor gaze tracks me. I’m doing my best to ignore their feast. It sickens. A fierce justice. What did Grimjaw say? Something about preying on predators. I turn to Zaya, she’s right behind me, a hopeful expression overlays the desperation on her face. Her eyes reflect fire blazing from the meteor-like orbs rising from the distant scorpions, arcing toward my poor Urdrakes. They’re running flat out again. I can hear Zorfang’s raspy breathing through omnis scientia. All as out on the Wisp Fields, the distant Vortex-wail from the main group of devils grows louder. Though it’s still faint, I figure they’ll be on top of us in less than ten minutes.
I reach my hand out to Zaya. “Are you ready?”
Zaya takes a breath, sings a brief note to draw the collection of wisps in closer. “Yes.” The word is soft. Like telling a secret. She grabs my hand. Hers is so tiny. Fragile as a flower. I fold it into mine, focus on my energetic vessel. It’s nearly doubled in size since I last focused my mage sight upon it. Despite my excessive use of magic, it’s still three quarters full. More energy than I know what to do with. Except for this — liberating souls from goddamn devils. Gifting them with a second life and the ability to fight back. I feel the spark run between myself and Zaya as our energies merge. Mottle quivers on my back. He senses the energy too.
“Ready. Let’s make it right.”
Zaya smiles, sings words like the wind, the rain. Words I cannot understand, but in my mind I see them as the vital songs of glaciers. Of deep fjords. Of cold, teeming oceans. Zaya’s is the song of a living world. Not this tortured place — choking on its own poisoned spew and vomit. The sparks between us lift. My energetic vessel forms a wave of magical force. It explodes outward in streaks of lightning rising into the green Hell sky. Painting the pre-dawn night in an instant of white. Wisps around us are taken in by the flashes. They elongate, forming translucent glowing sacks that bulge into flesh. Feathers sprout. Horns and shells elongate or harden. Bat-like tapestries spread. The light fades. I’m momentarily blind. When my eyes adjust, ten new Urdrake, fifteen Mottles and eighteen Plumacats stand, flop, or crouch before me. Our force of thirty-seven has now grown to eighty. I shift my magical sight back to my energetic vessel. It’s still about a quarter full.
Zaya’s song continues. She took more than last time. I now have far more to give. She’s not using any of her own reserves. She’s alert, her bright eyes lighting up with the sparks of our magical embrace. Her song shifts, swirling in the dark wisps passed over by her music. They bleed into my shadow in a flood. It bulges, spouts tendrils, forms wicked shapes that would make for great Halloween costume fodder back home. Here in Hell, it’s more than a little freaky. Like my shadow’s about to eat me up. Maybe it wants to. One hundred and forty eight dark wisps now lurk behind me. Seventeen bright wisps dance in my name curse. My energetic vessel, now nearly empty after Zaya’s final use of my magic, begins to rapidly fill. I sway in the heat. Magic’s outrush has left me light-headed. The in-rush — buzzing.
I scan the gradual land depression where we stand. We’re somewhat hidden. Though I don’t think the oncoming devils got a direct view of what Zaya and I just did, they sure as Hell saw that light show. Shit’s going to be coming at us fast and hard now. I look at the new-formed as they stare back at Zaya and me with eyes filled with love and wonder. We don’t have time to talk it all out with them. I’ve got maybe a minute before I need to get everyone moving again. Suddenly, the scorpions light up, flinging four more Hell balls. These rise along a new path. I don’t have to glance for more than a moment to see they’re heading directly toward us. Yeah. They saw our magical lights all right. I’d hoped Zorfang would get into position in time to start attacking the scorpions by now. But he’s still running flat out from under the second volley of Hell balls.
I touch Mottle as I lurch back from my magical embrace with Zaya. I need you to get the other Mottles. Tell them to fly over to the new-formed. Give them as much of what we know as they can in about a minute. Do it on the run!
Mottle hesitates. You are weak, he thinks in his matter-of-fact way.
“Yes,” I reply out loud. “No help for it. Now go so you can get back to me fast.”
Mottle flits off. His leaving sets me reeling. I didn’t realize how much he was supporting me physically. Now I feel like I weigh about a thousand pounds. I can barely stand without him. Mottle lands on Zephyr. They both vibrate, calling in the other Mottles. All from our thirty seven fly over. The new-formed Mottles hesitate a moment and then respond to the vibration. Soon there’s a huge pile of Mottles all sharing their thought-touch. I turn to the non-Mottles.
“We gotta run.” I point to the sky at the meteors gradually rising. “That is our destruction. Featherstar! You gather the new-formed Plumacats, run to the end of that gully.” I point to the crevice from which our ambushing scouts emerged. “Wait for the rest of us to catch up. It’ll provide enough cover.” I hope it’ll provide enough damn cover. The crevice’s deeper portion is about a quarter mile away. Featherstar doesn’t hesitate, she nods acknowledgement, meow-talks a few commands to her group, then pairs up to guide the newformed and wounded as they run off together. The new-formed lope out on shaky legs, slowing them down. The two wounded Plumacats, now off their bikes, limp but manage to keep pace as healthy cats help them along. Their movement is still faster than I could run flat out. They’re Plumacats after all.
I shoo Theri and Zel along after them. They don’t have their nasty Vortex bikes anymore. So they’re going to have to haul ass to keep up with the Plumacats. They seem to realize this. After a quick glance between them, they’re off — trailing behind the sleek, quick predators. Zaya hovers near me. She’s blinking in confusion. I can tell she’s afraid but wants to hang back with me.
“What are you looking at?” I ask her. “Why aren’t you gone yet?”
Zaya approaches, touches my head. “But…” she trails off. She can see I’m swaying on my feet. She’s clearly worried about me and is terrified at the same time as the giant Hell balls gradually close in.
I grab her hand, touched by her concern despite myself. “I’ll be OK, Zaya. I’m a tough girl. Now go on. I want you with those Plumacats!” I motion to the swiftly receding black-feathered forms of the velociraptor-tigers. Zaya at last relents. With a sigh, she flies off, her iridescent wings forming a rainbow blur around her in the growing orange glow.
“You’d better be there!” she shouts over her shoulder as she flies off.
I blow out a sigh. What’s it about Zaya that makes me feel so… here? She’s got this unique ability to connect. To show care and concern. I shake my head, forcing my thoughts back to the present emergency. The Mottles have all finished their thought-transfer thing. As one, they flap off like a swarm of bats from their roost at eventide. Mottle returns to me. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Yeah. Hell is too goddamn hot without Mottle to keep me cool. I don’t even think I can breathe this foul air without him. I’ll need to work up some kind of magic to keep me standing at some point. I’m no friggin’ expert on healing magic like auntie Sadie, though. So I’ll be blundering around in the magical darkness. First things first. Don’t get burned up by the devils’ weaponized versions of soul meteors.
The Mottles are chasing around some fearful Urdrakes. I lift my hand. “It’s OK,” I shout to the Urdrakes. “They won’t hurt you!” The ten Urdrakes stop to blink at me. I’m not sure they’re cluing in on what I’m saying. But they slow down enough for the Mottles to land. The words cost me. My head swims again. I bend at the waist, grab my knees. My heart’s racing. I feel like I’m having some kind of heat-induced asthma attack. Goddamn, I’m so fucking lagging right now.
“Ouch! Wow! That feels so much better!” Mottle just landed on my back and bit-fed the effing daylights out of me. Headrush! Whew! Do I feel stronger! Mottle is like a goddamn flying medic and food source combined. His bite IV injections nourish, rejuvenate, stimulate. “Thanks,” I say to him. He says you’re welcome by quivering. In the time it’s taken me to absorb the nutrition and energy Mottle’s injecting into me, the other Mottles have filled the Urdrakes in enough on present events to have scared the living daylights out of them.
Three point toward the sky. One haroooms out the word “Death!”
“Yes! Good! We’re going to run like all get-out! Follow me!” I shout, then hop-glide about a hundred feet down into the gully. Its rough terrain blurs by below me. I land on a boulder. My breath’s still rasping, my heart’s still hammering. But Mottle’s taken the edge off. The other Mottles flap in beside me. They start to land. “Go! Go!” I shout to them, motioning to the Plumacats running away up ahead. The Mottles land, give me a vibrational quiver conveying reassurance and acknowledgement, then flap off fast toward the Plumacats. It takes about ten seconds for the Urdrake to catch up. When they do, I flap off about another hundred feet as Mottle turns me into the Myra version of a flying squirrel.
Overhead, the orange light of the Hell balls grows brighter. I look up and no longer see burnt up marshmallows. I’m now reminded of effing planet-bombs from that old anime Dad loves to watch — Starblazers. Yeah. The frigging devil “Gamilons” are raining down fucking planet bombs on my head. I shout at the Urdrake to move faster. They are running as flat-out as their stubby turtle legs will carry them. I’ve made about six of my flying squirrel jumps. We’re still about halfway from the gully’s end. I can feel the heat from the falling Hell balls on the back of my neck. I can feel it on Mottle too. He’s kind enough to share his heat feeling. I’m grateful-not-grateful. We’re not going to make it.
“Find cover!” I shout as the Urdrake rush up. The giant orange balls fall toward the broken wreckage of devil bodies and Vortexes some seven hundred feet away. I motion for them to jump behind rocks. They get it — flopping down behind boulders and into low spots. Doing the turtle thing, they draw their heads and legs into their shells. Cool. Wish I could do that. I jump down behind a rock. Mottle flops over me like a big, fleshy blanket. It makes me feel safe for a second. I push my senses out through omnis scientia. Hell if I’m gonna die, I might as well enjoy the show, right?
Four gigantic fireballs explode in the air about fifty feet above the wreckage from our last battle. A blast wave as a visible fucking wall of air and debris rips the place apart — flinging earth, bodies, the broken bikes in every frigging direction. A rapidly expanding ball of fire follows. I literally see rocks the size of cars disintegrate into bits as that fireball rips through them. With a roar that causes me to yell and grab my ears, the shockwave and fireball rushes toward us. It destroys every fracking thing in about the radius of a city block. Beyond that, it hurls a rain of debris. By the time the shockwave hits us, it’s slowed down to like category four hurricane force. Rocks the size and shape of knives fly over us. Sand and dirt blast around us. Mottle quivers from the force. It lasts a moment that seems like forever. Then a second blast wave hits us — sucking back toward the center of the goddamn explosion. Jesus fucking Christ! These things are goddamn nuclear! Once the second blast wave is gone, with my ears ringing in the tinnitus aftermath, I gather myself. I stand up. My limbs are all there. Mottle’s got some bad scratches. But he’s good too. We chose our boulder well. Its front face has literal shards of frigging red-hot rock embedded into it.
Positions of Myra’s Rebels and Devils of Overseer Tower during the Battle of Sunken Crag, Thunderbolts Rise
Now I know why Zorfang was so frigging distressed.
I motion to the Urdrake. “Better move!” I shout. My voice sounds quiet to me. Lucky if I didn’t get my eardrums blown clean out. Nine Urdrake stand, sprouting legs, arms, tails, head from out of shells. One doesn’t get up. Still laying face down on the ground. Too far out in the open, it got shredded by three large bits of shrapnel. Busted right through his shell and now he’s bleeding out. Oh fuck! I hop-glide over to the place where the turtle-monster lays. Arrive in time to hear his death rattle. My magical sight pierces his dying flesh, sees the wisp fading beneath. With a quick motion, I draw my moonshadow blade from the air. I’d never halted the magic feeding it. It leaps into my hand. I lay it flatwise across the Urdrake, extending its light and shadow to his wisp.
“Come on. Take it. There’s shelter here.” I lift my name-curse over him. It’s constantly shedding sparks now. Can’t be helped. Too much magical energy’s flowing through me to not be bleeding off major excess. Ignarus is mostly an after-thought. So pretty much everyone sees me for what I am. A mage blazing with magical energy.
The Urdrake’s wisp flickers, almost goes out, then lifts. Drawn by the moonshadow blade’s pull, it rides up the magic-formed sword and passes into my name curse. A bright wisp, if somewhat small and shrunken. The other bright wisps within my name curse cluster around it protectively, granting some of their energy to support it. I breathe out a sign. “I almost lost ya there. That’s good. Now take a rest. You’ve earned it.”
The other Urdrake are staring at me. Their mood is one of combined wonder and relief. I stand, dust some of the crud off. “Alright! We’re all safe or accounted for! Let’s move!” The Urdrake haroom acknowledgement. Then, together, we start running like Hell again. In about a minute, we’ve linked up with the Plumacats and Mottles. Our group of seventy-nine devil slayers is again mostly unscathed after the ambush and incoming fire. One loss — a new Urdrake, not five minutes alive, whose wisp I managed to make safe. It’s a loss I’m feeling pretty hard. And there are bound to be more. I blow out frustration. Despite my jangled feelings, I’m still having another “I’m alive!” wave of euphoria. It’s about the third tonight. No time for it. I’ve got to use this force before we’re all blown off the face of ever-hating-Minos. Hell. Minos is Hell. Yeah. That’s what devils call it. I’m a bit rattled and my emotions are all over the fracking place. That’s OK, it’s understandable. I got planet bombed and we just had our first death.
**********
Ranthvar drives in front of his Lance as it roars alongside four scorpions. Just minutes ago, the monstrous wisp harvesters had unleashed a barrage of devastation orbs. They were targeting Urdrakes along a ridge-line in the Razor Hills who’d given their position away by lighting up the sky. Ranthvar still doesn’t know what they were shooting at. Nor does he care. They’d been foolish enough to give themselves away. Now it’s their turn to feel the sting. The devastation orbs fall to impact. A series of explosions, impossibly bright and large even at this distance, blossoms over the ridge-line.
“If the Urdrakes are still on that ridge, they’re dead,” His second, Svelthre, speculates.
Ranthvar grunts affirmation, then shouts up to the scorpion crews. “Eyes front! Keep a watch for any of those tell-tale white lights. Ready another barrage!” The crews spring into action, pulling levers, they activate the wisp vats to harvest raw energy. Though not traditional worbs, the vats contain a fluid that sucks energy from the wisps. Hellish machinery attached to the vats transfers this power into a chamber in the massive scorpions’ tales. The orange globes of devastation orbs begin to form at the scorpion tail-tips. Growing as they fill with destructive force. Even from high up on the scorpion tails, Ranthvar can feel the orbs’ heat, hear the hum of their rising power.
They continue their steady advance. The distance between the scorpions and the ridge-line shrinks to seven miles. Lavross, is two miles ahead and moving swiftly now. Talith is already running up some of the smaller hills about six miles away. Ranthvar sees no sign of Amagash. No word’s come back from his Lance. He scratches his left horn-tip, wondering if the hot-head got himself into trouble. Won’t be the first time. The Urdrake on that ridge may number ten or more. If he engaged such a powerful group by himself, he might’ve suffered defeat. The longer contact with Amagash is broken, the more likely things went bad for him.
“Ol’ Amagash might be in trouble.” Ranthvar chuckles. The notion of Amagash defeated and sent limping back, humbled, triggers a warm glow of self-satisfaction in Ranthvar’s chest. Often, other devils thought of him as slow and plodding. He liked to think things through before acting. If others mis-interpreted his calculations for stupidity, so be it. Amagash had been one of those most ready to label Ranthvar ‘slow.’ Now who’s out there in the wind? Now who’s lost contact with the main Century as an unexpected large number of hostiles run rampant in the field. “Stupid hot-head,” Ranthvar mutters to himself in satisfaction. “Now maybe the glory will fall to Talith.”
Svelthre remains silent.
Then, up ahead, fire erupts. Talith has passed into a depression out of Ranthvar’s sight. Rifle reports loudly echo. Sparks rise, blossom into flares as bright as small suns, then fall down. Ranthvar’s breath catches. Even he, not yet an Overseer, can sense this magecraft. His nostrils flare as its saltpeter scent wafts out toward him. Strong. Very strong. Its presence calls to him. His inborn lust for power ignites. The wisp that produced such force is mighty, indeed. “Regina stands to gain much once she possess it,” Ranthvar mutters to himself. He can’t help but feel jealousy. “Such a soul…”
Then, from the hills and along a closer ridge, more white lights erupt. Urdrake are shooting their beams down on Talith! They’d moved, quick for Urdrake, to a new rise and are now firing their bright beams at Talith’s Lance. Ranthvar counts the lights before they fade. Thirteen! “Asmodeus’s Might!” Ranthvar curses despite himself. He points to the Urdrake’s new position. “See those lights!?” He shouts up to the scorpion commander.
The commander acknowledges with a thumbs up.
“Target and launch!”
In about ten heartbeats, the scorpion tails swing back, then lift in graceful arcs. Wom! Wom! Wom! Wom! The devastation orbs launch — growing in size even as they fly toward their targets. Closer now. The Urdrake will have less time to react. Ranthvar grins, reveling in the four blasts of outbound death and torment. This was battle. Not just some invigorating mage hunt. But a glorious fight against Asmodeus’s most ancient and hated foes. Ranthvar’s momentary elation is equal parts greed for the inevitable profit and glory of taking a mage wisp and religious zeal for the invincible might of Asmodeus.
“Ready!” He shouts up to the scorpion crew leader. The scorpions once more begin to hum as wisp vats churn out the energy needed to form devastation orbs. Ranthvar shifts his gaze back toward Talith. A second set of bright sparks shoots out, falls down. More rifle reports. Beneath that sound, Ranthvar guesses he hears a chorus of yowls — faint at this extreme distance. The Urdrake’s white lights blast through it all. His mind slowly churns through the incoming details. Thirteen Urdrake on the ridge. A mage and some other things fighting Talith in the depression. “How many of those bastards are out there?” He mutters to Svelthre.
“Enemies?” Svelthre asks with a sidelong glance to Ranthvar. “I’d guess at least twenty. Plus the mage.”
“I wonder if Amagash’s even still out there,” Ranthvar is careful to keep the relish out of his voice. But an unfamiliar feeling, a quiver of fearful uncertainty causes his horn tips to tingle. “I suppose there could be more.”
“No good information’s coming back,” Svelthre replies. “Regina’s freaking out. Sending in Dressler. Lavross is charging off to beat down a still unknown enemy.” Svelthre pauses. Tests her words. “This could be… challenging.”
Ranthvar grunts. In the back of his mind, a dark shadow begins to unfold. He imagines those hills swarming with Urdrake and other forbidden forms. Just waiting to pounce. He shakes his head. “You watch. Talith has them.” His assertion, though, belies his uncertainty.
In the depression, all is now quiet. He can’t see what’s happening over the land rise. It’s infuriating. Then, Asmodeus-be-damned white lightning shoots up into the sky. For an instant, all of the Wisp Fields are illuminated. Then, a second smaller flash silhouettes the depression’s rim.
“The fuck!?” Svelthre exclaims.
Ranthvar feels the same way. “That’s form maker-lightning.”
“We don’t have form makers,” Svelthre says.
“No way that mage has form makers. Unless…” Ranthvar’s slow-moving yet meticulous mind runs through the possibilities. Urdrakes on the ridge in large numbers. A mage. Form maker lightning. Forbidden forms come from… “It’s got to be a Vila. Asmodeus-damned Vila! And a mage! Fuck!”
Svelthre looks at him, aghast. Ranthvar is not known to descend into cursing or to fall prey to wild speculation. “A Vila? Isn’t that unlikely? Aren’t they all dead? Extinct?”
“Not all. Every now and then a Poacher finds one. There were rumors that a group of Poachers discovered a Vila out closer to the shore. They’d sent word to Regina, asking for quite the bounty. Regina demanded proof. They said they’d bring it along with other prizes. They were supposed to arrive at Overseer in a day or two.”
“Sounds dubious.”
“Listen. Look. Urdrake on the ridge. Talith now offers no resistance after getting hit by Urdrake, Plumacats and a mage. Then there is form-maker lightning. Forbidden forms!” Ranthvar tilts his head back to the scorpion crews. “All fire on Talith’s position in that depression!” Ranthvar points as he shouts.
The scorpion crew commander looks over his beast and down at Ranthvar. “Sir? Did I hear that right?”
“Do it!” Ranthvar shouts. “Don’t make me say it again!”
“But Talith!” Svelthre objects.
“Talith is dead!” Ranthvar exclaims, his words punctuated by the Wom! Wom! Wom! Wom! of scorpions releasing their devastation orbs.
**********
Lavross seethes with rage.
The firefight over Talith’s Lance was a fucking disaster. The mage conjured so much magic that it set half his force of Vortex riders to slavering at its delicious stench. Then, the mage hurled some kind of long-range accurate missile and blinding flare combined. The Urdrake blazed away at Talith’s Lance from the Razor Hills. The yowls of at least ten fucking Plumacats sounded through the cacophony. It was about that time when Lavross realized both Amagash’s and Talith’s Lances were both total losses. Then the fucking thunderbolts of form-making shot up into the sky amidst another wave of deliciously powerful magic. Lavross knew that probably meant only one thing. A Vila had linked up with the mage. They were turning wisps into fucking forbidden forms!
Lavross did not at all blame Ranthvar for hurling devastation orbs down on his prize. The mage thus-far had proven more wily and resourceful than anyone expected. The orbs would force the mage to scramble, would degrade his force of rebels. And this new form-making presented a serious threat. Mages could help Vila craft forbidden forms. Forms like Urdrake and Plumacats are deadly predators to devils if left to gather and hunt. But the process of making them is draining. By themselves, Vila could only shape one or two at a time. With a powerful mage to assist, they might shape ten, fifteen… Lavross considers the prodigious magical force he just witnessed… maybe twenty per day. Between the Urdrake and the Plumacats, Lavross is pretty certain they’re dealing with twenty-to-thirty. Plus whatever the mage just conjured up. So thirty-to-fifty.
“That’s a lot of fucking forbidden forms,” Lavross growls to himself, his toothy maw chomping out each word in vicious bites.
Lavross glances side-long at his five Lances. He has fifty Drivers on Vortexes here along with the support of Ranthvar and the scorpion crews. Against even fifty forbidden forms that still gives him the advantage of numbers and firepower. The Asmodeus-damned mage is the wild card. He must be running out of magic after such prodigious expenditures. What a prize! Lavross hasn’t heard of such a strong mage in Hell in centuries. Perhaps ever. He wonders if Asmodeus will step in to claim the wisp for himself. And the glory of this mage’s capture is his to take. Lavross is heady with all the possibilities. Yet, if this night had revealed one thing — it was that capturing this mage was a deadly gambit. Amagash, Talith and both their Lances — likely gone. This was war. Lavross needed to treat it as such.
“Vorthis!” Lavross shouts to the Lance leader on his immediate left.
“Overseer!” The clever devil says as he snaps a casual salute.
“I want to you take your Lance around to the left of that gully! Attack any hostiles you see there! Expect heavy resistance! Go now!” The ten Drivers break off, their Vortexes spewing dirt, rocks and pollution.
“Exantha!” Lavross pivots to the Lance leader on his right.
“Ready Overseer!” Exantha, a newly minted Lance leader, exclaims with her own stiff salute.
“Good! Now you run down and take the right flank! Heavy attack! Numerous hostiles in that gully!” Lavross points at the land-fall that’s now just four miles away and is closing fast. Exantha’s Lance roars off, taking an arching sweep toward the gully.
“Everyone spread out!” He shouts to his remaining three Lances. “Skirmish formation! Encirclement! Expect incoming fire! Urdrakes! Plumacats! A powerful mage! We shall take them! For the glory of Asmodeus!” His Lances let out a loud cheer. They brandish weapons — rifles, swords, axes — as they increase the spacing between each Vortex to about a hundred feet. They form an inverted bow a half mile across. The open end faces the gully. Exantha and Vorthis keep their own Lances in tight wedges. These shoot like spears toward the mage and his group of rebels. Lavross’s hand itches to lift his rifle, to swing his Night Axe. He taps his worb, froms his signature black shell of deadly spirit energy around his Vortex. This action of diabolical magic draws another cheer. Lavross lifts his fist — pumping the air in expectation of violence.
“Tonight! We conquer!” His shout echoes through the night.
**********
My force is huddled at low spot in a gully snaking out into the Wisp Fields. There are seventy-nine of us. We’re mostly Plumacats and Mottles. But now I’ve got this badass force of nine laser artillery Urdrakes. That means I can seriously reach out and touch someone. We’re just going to have to shoot and run like Hell. But first, I’ve got to make sure Zorfang’s ready. I drag my hand through omnis scientia. Tapping my link with Zorfang, I sense his position about three-quarters of a mile to my west.
“Zorfang! You still there!?” I shout through the sensor.
“Yes father!” He sounds even more out of breath than before. He’s had to out run two of those Hell ball volleys. Having just escaped one by the skin of my effing teeth, I don’t envy him.
“Are you ready?”
He harooms loudly. Omnis scientia jumps from his loud exclamation. Almost jolts my hand out. Yeah. I’d say he’s ready.
“Fucking great! Now I want you to light up those scorpions. The bastards have been hurling Hell balls down on us for long enough. Now it’s their turn to taste some pain!”
“They shall no longer see!” Zorfang shouts. “I swear it!”
“Fanfriggingtastic! Do it!” I pull my hand out of the link. Everyone’s staring at me again. They’re all huffing from exertion. But they’re ready.
“OK, everyone listen up! I’m going to make some changes so I need you to execute quick!” I turn to Featherstar, the scouts, and the veteran Mottles. “You old Mottles! I’m going to need nine of you to switch out with the new Mottles. Five for Grimjaw’s scouts. Grimjaw, you keep Shade.” Grimjaw and Shade made one Hell of a lethal team. I’d be a moron to break that up. “Four from your Plumacats, Featherstar. Do it now!”
There’s a rustling as the Mottles fly off. Featherstar starts to protest, but sees the Mottles already in motion. My Mottle’s got the rest of the Mottles pretty much toeing my line. Which is damn good. I don’t have fucking time to explain everything right now. These veteran Mottles gather to do their wall hanging thing beside me along the gully’s slope. “OK. I want you Mottles to team up with these Urdrake. I know you won’t be able to glide-fly with them. This is more for sharing knowledge. Ride with them and show them what the other Urdrake do. Because I’m going to need their beam crystals in about sixty seconds. Go! Do it now!”
The Mottles fly over to the Urdrake. Mottles have more trouble attaching to the Urdrake than a squishy hooman like me or the sleek Plumacats. But they manage. They look kinda comical — like rumpled bags hanging over the spikey and squat Urdrake.
“Now! You new Mottles — link up with the veteran Plumacats. I want you to share what you’ve learned so far with these Mottles. I expect you guys to be up to speed quick. Then pair up in buddy teams with the new Plumacats. So a vet Plumacat plus a new Mottle each to a new Plumacat. If there’s a odd cat out, send them to me. They’ll come with us.” I point to Zaya, Zel, Theri, Mottle, myself and the nine Urdrakes. The Mottles and Plumacats team up.
As they do this, I move to my next concern. “Wounded Plumacats! You’re with me as well. Slow for you is fast for us and the Urdrake. So hurt Plumas are with us.” In total, I end up with four Plumacats. One of the new Plumacats who didn’t have a buddy and three wounded. I somehow missed wounded number three. But this battle’s been fucking crazy. So it’s understandable I’d miss something. Battles usually are, I imagine. Like I’ve ever been in a fucking war like this before! Jesus H!
I look over my force. They’re as reorganized as they’re gonna get. It’s taken me about two minutes to do this. I loft omnis scientiato get a better view of what the fuck is going on. Up close and personal, about fifty devils on Vortexes are breathing down my neck from like two miles out. Four more Hell balls are flying toward Zorfang. But two of these are off-kilter — hurtling into frigging nowhere. I can tell why when I see the scorpions, now about six miles distant, lit up in white as the Urdrakes lay those awesome laser beams down. Looks like some of the devils operating those damned things are dazzled or otherwise fucked up. Fuckin A! That said, two Hell balls are heading straight toward Zorfang. He and the Urdrake are running over the Wisp Fields fast as their stubby legs can carry them even as they bombard the scorpions with white flashes. A plume of smoke begins to trail from one of the scorpions. I let out a cheer. Everyone on my side pauses to stare at me, puzzled over what I’m suddenly so happy about.
It’s all good. Time to get their attention anyway. “Now we’re going to do a little bait and switch! We’ve got fifty devils on Vortexes heading our way. What they don’t know is that we outnumber them. So we,” I point to my force of Urdrakes and crew, “are going to be the bait. And you,” I point to the rest of the Mottles and Plumacats, “are going to be the switch.”
“My bait group is going to run up out of the other side of this gully here. We’re going to shoot at those Vortexes with our Urdrake as we run like there’s no tomorrow. At this range, we should be able to get a decent number of them. The devils are already after us. So they’ll try to chase us down.
“That’s where the switch group comes in. I want you to spread out in a line along this gully. When those Vortexes chase us, when they get close enough, then you pounce!”
The Plumacats have really gotten into my description of them pouncing. This elicits a chorus of excited yowls.
“Just make sure you keep eyes on the devils so you can position yourself to attack them. They’ll have to come at us or get picked off by the Urdrake. So your positioning’s gonna be key.”
Grimjaw and Featherstar exchange a look. “We shall hunt them,” Featherstar says as she licks her jowls hungrily. The casual predatory gesture kinda freaks me out. But I don’t have time to pause.
“OK! We are off!” I gather my bait group and lead them to the other side of the gully. Featherstar and Grimjaw are already having their switch group spread out along the low ground. I pop up, springing into the air as Mottle does his flap, then glide thing. I allow myself to trail sparks, fly about fifty feet, then land on a boulder. I’m deliberately creating a spectacle. As I land, I see the Vortexes are less than a mile off and closing fast. We’re still of their weapons range.
The new-formed Urdrake are rushing up to me. “Mottle, I want you to transfer my orders to the Urdrake through the other Mottles.”
Mottle quivers his affirmative response.
As the Urdrakes cross my position, I shout “Turn! Target the Vortexes! Fire!”
Nine Urdrake ponderously spin their turtle bodies around. Nine Mottles balloon up like parachutes to reveal rows of crystals ridging along jagged shells beneath. Nine beams of white light streak out. In that flash, four Vortexes blow up. They spin and cartwheel — throwing riders through the air. Debris rains down. In response, the Vortexes increase speed. They’ve hit their damned red and golden buttons. I can hear the high-pitched wail of tortured wisps ground down in terrible worbs. Pollution and trails of dirt rain in nasty rooster tails behind.
“We run!” I shout, then do two fly-hops. Covering another hundred feet, I find a mound to stand on as I wait for the Urdrake to catch up. Those powerful flashes of light take about ten seconds to recharge. I’m guessing we’ve got two more shots before those devils get into rifle and fireball range. Then shit’s gonna get hot. I check my energetic vessel. It’s already about a quarter full again. I’m not sure I know how to burn it off fast enough to go negative. Good thing. I’m probably going to need it all.
The Urdrake arrive at my mound. “Fire!” I shout again. They spin, shoot. This time, three bikes are destroyed. The devils are weaving from side to side. Makes it tougher for the Urdrakes to zero in even though the range is shorter. Still, we’ve already more than decimated them. That’s gotta hurt! I jump down. I’m fracking so damn exhausted. But I run with them anyway. I slap hard shells. I slap fleshy Mottle bats. I shout words of encouragement. I’m fucking hoarse. I don’t even know if they really understand me. That’s OK. My tone of encouragement seems to be helping them along.
After another hundred feet, I call a stop. “Fire!” I shout again. Beams streak out toward bikes that are about half a mile off. Damn! They’re moving crazy-fast! I focus on the left group and unleash my own magical blasts. “Vexare Verberare!Una! Lux!” Five intensely glowing missiles streak out, causing this group to slow down as they’re suddenly flash-blind. My volley rips through a front rider who takes two shots through the torso. My other three missiles fly off. The Urdrake down three more. Then the devils’ rifles are up. It’s long range. But I hear bullets start to snap through the air near my fucking head. The mass volume of fire making up for loss of accuracy.
“Get down!” I shout, slamming into ground. Rolling. Taking cover behind a rock. Well shit! I’d hoped to get another volley off. Then I see a mass of fireball rounds shoot out from the devils. Holy Hell! The whole of the Wisp Fields to my north flower in blossoms of fire like a Hell version of the Fourth of Frigging July. Again long range. But some of those balls will reach us. “Up again! Run!” We make it about fifty feet before the flames are on top of us. I spin, draw in about a third of my present magic, do a Mottle-jump into the air above my scrambling buddies. Confractus! I incant as I hurl an arc of incandescent blue magic into the onrushing inferno. Five fireball rounds made it to our position. Confractus unravels four. The last, though weakened, explodes around us. Praesidia!Clypeus! Protective magic envelops me, then forms a dome above my allies. I draw hard from my energetic vessel, desperate to save my friends.
The gouts of flame push clypeus into my chest, blast holes through praesidia. I breathe in sulfur stench and extreme heat. But the bubble holds. I fall back, landing in my blue protective bubble with a loud ‘thunk!’ When the flames clear, I see the smoldering forms of my company rise. Praesdia absorbed the brunt of the explosion. Most of us are still standing. Though my gut drops as an Urdrake and a Plumacat lay still. Spinning, I see the first devils are almost to the gully. Ten of them led by this nasty big guy riding his Vortex in a jagged field of darkness. He’s brandishing a wicked axe that slings spines from his dark aura as he swings it about.
“Shoot what you can from here!” I shout. “I’m going back in!” Time to pivot. I lift my hand. “Vexare! Verbarare!” The missiles of magical force streak toward the big guy with the axe. He’s clearly the leader. With my other hand, I draw my moonshadow blade from the air. My exhaustion forgotten, battle elation threading fire through my veins, I charge.
As I fly forward, as my missiles converge on the hulking devil surrounded by his field of darkness, Featherstar, Grimjaw and the Plumacats pounce. The ones paired with Mottles leap into the air. They take a single enormous flying bound. In a moment, twelve Plumacats and twelve Mottles are ripping through this leading force. My missiles impact on the big devil’s black aura. Four are snuffed out in darkness. One streaks through, blasting his shoulder in a spray of blood. Though his arm falls limp. He seems unrelenting. He lifts his dark axe and cleaves clean through a Mottle-Plumacat pair. They fall to the ground. Instantly dead.
“No!” I shout as I see two of my companions — two creatures I had a part in making — instantly reduced to dead material by the devil’s vicious strike. I land on the gully’s lip opposite the fight. I’m still about a hundred and fifty feet off. My eyes are only on this devil now. Mottle and I glide-fly over the gully. From behind me, the lights of Urdrake flash. Up ahead, there are explosions as Vortex are shorn by the laser-like blasts. More devils are converging. Some shoot up as I descend toward the fray. My shout of clypeus! to deflect their rounds is an afterthought. Though wounded, the lead devil fights like a titan. He makes a gesture with his axe, three spikes of darkness shoot out from his aura. One of the spikes fells another Plumacat.
At last, I land beside this terror. My shell of clypeus sparks as it contacts his own dark field. “Finished!” I shout as I hurl my moonshadow blade. It slams through the black shell, but is deflected. Its trailing edge catches the Vortex wheel — sheering a chunk of it off. The devil is hurled toward me. He tumbles through the air, axe spinning.
“I see you mage!” The devil howls in Minosian. “A mere girl! Surrender to Asmodeus!”
I snap my fingers, conjuring my moonshadow blade back. The dark axe falls. Spikes of darkness claw at my protective bubble of clypeus. Parrying with my blade of light and shadow, I spin beneath the axe, tumble past a spine of darkness that pierces my shield. Pushing beneath his arm I thrust the moonshadow blade upward. It buries deep in devil’s flesh.
The devil howls in pain, opens his maw — filled with teeth the size of my thumb — then lunges down to bite me. “Amplio! Macto!” I shout, channeling my massive flood of magical energy into my sword in the form of a devil-smiting curse. White-blue energy blasts through the devil, shoots out the other side. His form splits in half. Topples. Mouth still agape.
I feel wet on my belly. Look down. There’s a deep cut where one of the dark shards from his weird devil magic shell got me. I put my hand over it to stop the bleeding. Spinning, I look around. The last devils are trying to run away. Getting blasted to pieces by Urdrake fire. Ripped apart by Plumacats. The predators are feasting. Their Vortexes — destroyed or on the ground idle. Off to my left about a half mile off, two massive Hell balls explode. I sit down. A touch to omnis scientia tells me Zorfang’s not there. He’s OK. He’s still shooting and moving.
“Good!” I say. Then more weakly. “Gooooood…” Whew. Why do I feel so light-headed? I look down. There’s a big pool of blood. “Woah. That’s a lot of red,” I say. Mottle quivers in upset. Does his bite thing. It revives me a little. But I’m getting weak quick. He’s freaking out. Calling for help. Shouldn’t I be the one freaking out? Why does everything seem so distant? Then Featherstar is standing over me. With one giant paw she pushes me back.
“Hey! I didn’t say you could do that…”
“Shush,” She says, then begins licking my belly with her big raspy tongue. I musta just passed out. Because everything just went black there for a second.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
My little ragtag army of Mottles, Urdrakes, and Plumacats is ready to go. Sure, they’re scared witless. Who wouldn’t be facing down the worst Hell has to offer in the form of scores of heavily armed devils?? Fiendish Drivers who want to nothing more than to kill your corpus, rip out your wisp, then force it to serve as a slave in a torturous worb. All led by terrible Overseers profiting from the horrible wisp trade. But our little force is fresh from two big victories against the devils of Overseer Tower. They’re also serious badasses. It’s starting to dawn on me that the Urdrakes and Plumacats are both some kind of uber predator. The Urdrakes are mini godzillas as giant snapping turtles — with the ability to shoot beams of killing light out of their frigging heads. Plumacats remind me of some tiger-velociraptor hybrid. Mottles, though not carnivorous, are like a badass mash-up of a giant bat with a cloaker from D&D. Yeah, after all the fighting, I’ve got D&D on my mind today. Deal.
I ride the nasty Vortex up to the canyon wall, my company of uber predators and other misfits following along in the Hell machine’s stinking wake. Its banshee-wail engine rips at my ears. Poor, tortured wisps churning inside a ring of spiritual teeth — spitting out soul-juice to spike the fossil-fuel crud devils burn in their engines. Clouds of noxious smoke rise around me.
I climb over the canyon’s lip, stare out across hills spilling into the Wisp Fields. Mists from earlier are now clear. Lights and shadows play together beneath a fractured night sky. At first, it’s tough to make out what I’m seeing. Though I’m pretty sure most of the lights are wisps, there’s a huge group of devils tooling about down there.
Grimjaw pads up beside me, points with a clawed hand into the lands below. “See them,” he growls. I follow the tip of his claw to a large force of devils churning across stinking lands. They’re still many miles away. A plume of back-lit smoke rises from their Vortexes which swarm around hulking scorpions — tail tips blazing in red-orange orbs from stolen wisp energy. They’re tough to miss once I know where to look. Still far off, so it’s understandable I overlooked them in omnis scientia. Grimjaw shifts his claw lower. “There too,” he says again in more of a whisper. I have to focus. After a few seconds, I catch a smoke plume against the night. Following it down, I see a cluster of flickering worbs. They’re close enough for me to hear the faint sound of Vortex engines wailing now that I’ve briefly throttled down my own nasty machine.
“I see them,” I reply. Mottle quivers as he shares in my senses. He’s excited, afraid, anticipating what’s to come.
Grimjaw shifts his hand a final time. He points above the wisps fields. I focus my sight. I can’t see shit. Closing my eyes, I shift to omnis scientia, then use its enhanced sight to follow Grimjaw’s claw to the point he’s indicating. At last I see the Uktena — its red-ribbon form threading through the night sky.
“Fuck!” I say as I recognize the devil-snake. I’d heard Grimjaw’s earlier report of the sighting. But I hoped the big Plumacat was somehow mistaken. The Uktena’s flying right for that big force of devils. It’s a rather slow flyer. But judging from its path and speed, it’ll meet with the larger devil force in about a half hour. I stare as Plumacats and Urdrake climb up onto the ridge beside me. Mottles glide overhead. Our scouts are already on the next ridge about a half mile away.
Theri and Zel pull up beside me on their own stinking Vortexes. Zaya’s flying overhead. The two wounded Plumacats wail in on their Vortexes behind us. “I want all of you to stay close to me,” I say to them. “Zaya, I’m going to need you again soon. Do you think you’ll be ready to change more wisps in about an hour?”
The Hell faerie hovers close, she has to shout over the wail of the stupid Vortexes. “I’ll have to rely on you more! But yes!”
“Fanfriggingtastic!” I turn to Zel and Theri. “What can you tell me about the scorpions? We took that one out really quick. But I don’t think I got a chance to see what it was fully capable of.”
Zel looks at Theri who replies. “The scorps are great machine monsters. Close in, they can shred about anything with their burning claws. The tails, are the bigger threat, though. They can steal raw wisp energy to throw glowing balls of destruction. Much larger than the fireball rounds. But slow. You’ll see them coming if they do. Better get out of the way.”
Fucking great. I was worried about something like this. Zel took out the tail of the first scorp we ambushed quick. So I didn’t get to see it in action. “How far can it throw its hell balls?”
“About ten miles. But like I said, they’re slow. You can see them coming. If you move, you can get out of their path.” This creates a new complication. The scorps are about eight miles out. Within range if the devils spot us. That’ll probably happen soon. Although one thing’s certain. I don’t intent to sit still.
“Frigging Great! Now follow me!” I gun my Vortex over to Zorfang. He’s got a cluster of Urdrakes near him. They’re walking in a shambling line along the ridge. Their pace is slow but steady. The measured movement is something I’ve thought about as we climb up to the ridge line. Soon, the larger devil force will see us. I’m going to need to move quick. But I’ve got to make sure I employ these Urdrake effectively or we’re all pretty much effed.
“I need to know what you’ve got, Zorfang,” I say to the massive godzilla turtle thing.
He tilts his giant reptile head down toward me giving a quizzical expression. It’s cute, even on a beast I know could bite my friggin arm off with one great snap of his serrated beak.
I point to the crystal formation at the top of his head. “How far do those shoot? Can you run out?”
Zorfang scratches at the crystal formation with a large claw. “Shoots as far as I see. But gets weak with distance. Up close, it cuts. Further, it heats. Further still, it will blind.”
I point down to the large group of devils in the Wisp Fields’ center. “What can you do to that?”
“If some look this way, we can blind them, perhaps.”
I point to the Uktena. “That?” I ask. I’m using omnis scientia to see it. I can’t fracking see it with my own eyes. I’m wondering if Zorfang can.
Zorfang looks in the direction I’m pointing. He casts about for a moment. Then, he closes his eyes. He tilts the crystal structure a little, then a small beam shoots out. In omnis scientia, I see the Uktena momentarily light up. Neat trick.
“Ahhh…” Zorfang hums. “Though closer, it is small and bobs around.” He seems to consider a moment more before replying. “Blind it. Three, maybe four of us can heat it.”
This is new information. “You can combine your beams?”
Zorfang nods.
I’m impressed. This is a hell of a capability. The Urdrakes may be slow, but they could lay down the literal heat over long distances. I felt like a commander of a laser artillery battery. Last of all, I point at the scouts closing in on their Vortexes. “And those?”
Zorfang doesn’t even hesitate. “Small cuts. We can heat the machines to explode.”
Amazing. “OK, Zorfang. That’s really helpful. So I’m going to take these Vortexes, the Mottles and the Plumacats out into the wisp fields. We’re going to be moving crazy fast. I want you to get your Urdrakes to hit that Uktena now. If you can, get him out of the air. But try not to make too much light, if you can.” I point to the next ridge line. “Then I want you to run to that ridge as fast as you can. You might have some fire hurled your way from those giant scorps.” I motion down to the larger force of devils. “So I want you guys to shoot, then move, shoot again, then move again. Keep ’em guessing. Get all the Urdrakes up there and be ready.”
Zorfang nods. “Yes father,” he says in his deep, musical tones, then begins to shuffle off.
“Wait a sec. I’m not quite finished.”
Zorfang pauses. I reach out a hand to touch his forehead. Casting my curse magic out, I connect him to omnis scientia. “Una!” I incant. Now he can see and hear through the sensor. I direct it to hover down next to me. “This is omnis scientia. It’s a sensor I’ve crafted out of magic. I’m taking it with me. I’ve just set it up so you can see me through it when you concentrate on me. Close your eyes. Try it out.”
Zorfang closes his eyes. “I can see Myra,” he says. “It is clearer than crystal sight.”
“Fantastic! Now, when I touch the sensor, you will also be able to hear me.” I reach out, drag my hand through the sensor’s curse-shaped body. “Like this,” I say as I touch it.
Zorfang shuffles in surprise as my voice is transmitted to him twice — once through regular sound and once through the sensor. “Yes! I hear!”
“OK. So you know what your first mission is, right?”
“The red snake in the sky. We try to heat or blind it. Then, on to that rise! Shoot, then move!” He sings the last bit loudly. He seems to be getting riled up.
“Excellent! After that, we’ll be in touch.” I tap my ear. I pause, look behind me at Rookfang. For a moment, I muse about their names. Neither actually has any real fangs. Just serrated beaks. I shake off my moment of bemusement. Grabbing Rookfang’s, arm, I slide him gently off the bike. Takes a lot of effort. The guy is huge. Weighs hundreds of pounds. He plunks down to the ground beside Zorfang. “One more thing. I’ll need you to take him with you. Get two of your stronger Urdrakes to carry him.”
Positions of Forces and Recent Events During the Battle of Sunken Crag
Zorfang looks down at Rookfang, then harrooms and affirmation. With a smile and a thumbs up, I ride off in the direction of Featherstar. She’s got ten Plumacats lined up. Eight of them have finally teamed with the remaining Mottles. Grimjaw, Shade, and his scout team flow into them. Theri, Zel, and the two wounded Plumacats on Vortexes ride up. Zaya hovers overhead. My stomach tightens as I take in this motley assortment. Together we number a mere thirty-seven. Including the scouts running out ahead, that’s forty-nine. Pretty thin. But I’m counting on the twenty-three frigging laser artillery Urdrakes I’m leaving behind to give us some heavy support. As I look over my force, I feel like I’m about to take a big drop on a huge roller coaster. But this rollercoaster is diving me straight into heavy combat. Stuff is about to get real brutal.
“The chips are down. It’s time for some desperate moves,” I say to them. “We’re heading out together. Our first objective is to take out that scout company.” I point in the direction of the ten devils on Vortexes heading toward us fast. “Next, we circle back to eliminate their main force. I’m counting on you to be swift and fierce. We’re going to punch ’em in the nose, then draw them into a fight they won’t make it out of.” I sound a lot more confident than I feel. But I’ve got to make them believe it’s possible. Otherwise, it won’t be. “The Urdrakes will set up in these hills to rain barrages of blinding and heating lights down on them. Don’t look back toward the hills.” I point to my eyes, then point back at them. “Eyes to the enemy.”
I ride to the downslope, summon my moonshadow blade, then point it at the leading force of devils. “Now charge!”
***********
Corviss flies through the air as swift as he can. It’s infuriatingly slow.
He’s not a fast flier — more a swimmer of air currents. While near the Vortexes, he can catch a slipstream and glide along. Carried forward by the bike’s motion.
His teleports are crazy-quick, but short distance. At most, his jumps cover about five hundred feet. Making such swift jumps is highly exerting. He’d panicked when the fireball blossomed around him above the canyon. The sudden expense of energy needed to escape its blast drained him. He might be able to jump once or twice more before succumbing to exhaustion. So he’s stuck coiling slowly through the air toward Lavross’s lumbering force. It’s frustrating. Lavross must know about the mage’s large and deadly gathering of Plumacats, Mottles, and Urdrakes.
“Lavross, Lavross… See me Lavross!” He laments, hoping the Overseer will spot him and send out his Vortex riders to scoop him up.
He rides toward a current of falling air he hopes will carry him to Lavross when his skin suddenly becomes blazing hot. He shrieks, JUMPS!, then spins to see where the fireball round came from. There is no fireball round! Just a painful burning sensation all over his body that lets him know the heat he felt was real. He spins in a spiral. His teleport brought him lower, but he still has the advantage of height for perspective. He looks toward the Razor Hills. It takes him a moment to make out the distant forms of Urdrakes in a line along a ridge. Then, a barrage of brilliant flashes shoots out from the Urdrakes. He feels another searing pain — this time over his face, his eyes. Darkness and burning swallow him. He JUMPS! again. Falls through a well of black. Slams into the ground.
All goes dark.
When Corviss wakes, he finds he’s lost all sight except his peripheral vision. A great black hole eats up his gaze. He tries to fly, but can’t gain perspective and slams into the ground again. Popping up, he tips his head to try to see the land around. There’s a nearby rise. He scrabbles atop it, tilts his head. The rim of sight is maddening in its illusiveness. He coils and spins as he tries to see. At last, he makes out the blurry form of a scorpion lumbering about five miles away in the corner of his gaze. Hissing in pain, frustration, and not a little fear, he begins to slither across the Wisp Fields, hoping some land predator doesn’t spot him in his damaged state. Now exhausted, his body aching, battered, stinging all over from burns, he wants nothing more than to sleep. To heal from the terrible damage done to him by the Urdrakes. Each twist of his body feels like it’s doing more damage. Regina did value him enough to grant him a healing infusion of wisp energy. Should he survive. A tickle of fear runs up his spine. Did she? Corviss crawls faster.
**********
Lavross snarls at the stupid psychic. “What the fuck are you telling me, then??” He yells. His fanged mouth bites off each word. He imagines they are chunks of this spineless wretch’s flesh.
The psychic, its long horns more like antennae than regular devils’ horns, wilts — its flesh turning from red to a light pink shade. Myzlic the psychic rides behind a hoary, burly Driver atop a Vortex. Though the machine’s wailing is enough to make Myzlic’s ears ring, somehow Lavross’s yelling seems even louder. “It’s a sending from one of Dressler’s psychics! Nymkat!” Myzlic shouts back. “She says the mage has Urdrake! You need to be careful! Regina’s sending a second group to reinforce yours!’
“I know about the fucking Urdrake! I saw their fucking lights! You think I’m a lemure? I’ve been an Overseer in these parts for a fucking hundred and twenty years!” Lavross shouts back. Stupid psychics and that bitch Regina pointing out the fucking obvious. And she’s sending a damned follow-on-force… That means one thing. Regina’s lost confidence in his ability to take down the mage. “Reinforce?? Felldust!! Who the fuck are they sending?”
“Nymkat says it’s Dressler himself!” Myzlic replies, trying to keep his voice neutral. He knew all too well what it meant, sometimes, to be the bearer of bad news. And Lavross looks furious.
“Look! You tell Regina and Dressler to sit fucking tight. A couple of Urdrake aren’t going to change that damned mage’s fate one notch. His wisp is good as taken!”
“I’ll tell them you received their message!” Myzlic says evenly, then thumps his Driver, motioning for him to slow down. The Dark Psychic drops back, but is treated to a parting barrage of curses coming from Lavross.
Lavross turns away from the cowardly Myzlic. Damned psychic. One of Asmodeus’s supposed all-knowing faithful. Worthless and weak! He should’ve sent him forward with Amagash or Talith. Now he has to suffer Regina’s insistent mewlings. He blows out a frustrated breath from between his jagged teeth. “Fucking Dressler.” Regina’s favorite Overseer is a tall devil with skin so dark red it borders on black. He has a snide, self-assured air that Lavross finds both insulting and effete. Yet Regina had chosen Dressler as her high commander for military situations just like this one. If she’s moving Dressler onto the field, that meant this wouldn’t be his shit-show for very much longer. Lavross looks at the lumbering scorpions in frustration one more time. If he plays a strong hand now, maybe he can keep ahead of Dressler’s meddling and still take credit for taking the mage’s wisp.
He just needed an opportunity.
Then, a ridge-line to his right erupts in bright flashes of light. Lines of white streak out from the Razor Hills and illuminate a region of sky to his front-right. There’s a second flash. The light allows him to zero in on its source. Then he sees them! A row of Urdrake on a hillside about eight miles away. At least five of them are emitting light. He looks for a moment toward Talith. But her Vortexes are well below the beams. He scans the sky. “What in blazes are they aiming at?” He shakes his head. No matter. They’d just given away their position. And none-too-soon with Dressler and Regina breathing down his neck.
“Ranthvar!” he shouts back to his fourth in command.
“Overseer!” Ranthvar shouts as he drives up beside Lavross and gives a sharp salute.
“Take your Lance and stick with the scorpion crews. Make for those hills! There are Urdrake atop that ridge. Put some fire on them now!” Lavross points toward where he glimpsed the Urdrakes’ light beams.
“Yes Overseer!”
Lavross always appreciated Ranthvar’s ease with taking orders. A bit thick. But intelligence is often over-rated. “I’m taking the remaining five Lances! We’re going ahead to charge those hills! If you see any more targets. Don’t hesitate to bring devastation down on them with our scorpions.”
“Very good, Overseer!”
“For the glory of Asmodeus!” Lavross says, giving the customary send off.
“For the victory of Minos!” Ranthvar replies.
Lavross spins off to shout to his other Lances. It takes only a minute for the command to run through the ranks. With a shout of “Forward!” Lavross presses the red and golden button on his Vortex. The worb-engine wails as wisps are ground down — injecting their spirit juice into fiery combustion within the engines. The vehicle leaps forward — shooting out and away from the collection of towering scorpions. The five Lances line up on Lavross, forming a great sweeping V with him at the center. His hand itches to reach for his weapon. His rifle. His Night Axe. “Soon now,” he growls to his axe. “Soon you will taste blood. Soon.”
As he speaks these words of violence-intended, behind him the Scorpions each fling an enormous ball of black and orange into the Hell-night. Casting a dark and fiery light, they rise ponderously toward the hills where he sighted the Urdrakes.
**********
The stupid Vortex is rattling my brain with its banshee wail. I shoot down the slope. On either side of me stretched out in a line are my thirty seven — Mottles, Plumacats, Theri, Zel, Zaya, my Mottle and last of all me. The Plumacats eat up ground in long bounds. The ones teamed up with Mottles can lope as fast as my Vortex so long as I don’t press the evil, spikey red-gold button. They can also frigging fly for short bursts. I’m counting on that mobility to save our bacon. We’re going to run out toward the enemy scouts fast and make ourselves a frigging target. If being a target doesn’t sound bacon-saving, wait around a while, clue? I’ve got tricks. Speaking of targets, I look up at Zaya. The luminous, green-skinned Hell-faerie’s born aloft on translucent wings like those of a giant dragonfly. Illuminated by lux, they become iridescent — casting little rainbows around her. As we reach the valley and start up toward the next ridge, I extend a hand to Zaya.
“I want you to ride with me!” I shout up to her. “Sit here!” I pat a spot on the Vortex’s seat in front of me.
Zaya looks with distaste down at the Vortex. “Must I?”
The Vortex bounces over some rocks, then shoots up the slope. It spits rocks and spews out more of its foul smoke. “Yes! If those devils see you, it might give away my plan! Worse, they could try to snipe you! Then we’d all be screwed!”
Zaya keeps flying near me but makes no move to land. She turns her face forward. I know she’s still listening, though.
“Look! You’re going to like what I’ve got planned! Just hang in there with me for an hour! Maybe less!”
“What’ve you got planned?” Zaya asks, drifting a bit closer.
I grin despite myself. Yeah, she’s hooked. “‘Keep your plans dark and impenetrable as night! And when you move — strike like a thunderbolt!'” I’m quoting Tsu Su here. It’s something Mori — Dad — used to say all the time. He’s fucking right.
“Oh, the secret thunderbolt plan!” Zaya replies. “OK, I’m in.” With one last disgusted look at the Vortex, the Hell Faerie flits down to enfold herself between my arms and behind the Vortex’s handlebars. Mottle quivers pleasantly at the faerie’s arrival. Yeah, Mottle, I like her too.
With Zaya safe, I focus on the slope. The Vortex pounds up toward the second ridge line. Atop it are my scouts. They see us coming, then leap forward, ghosting out ahead of our larger group. I keep the Vortex throttled back a bit to allow all the Plumacats to stay with me. It’s still a pretty stiff pace. I don’t have time to spare.
Before we hit the rise, I see the sky light up with the Urdrake’s frigging white laser beams. There’s a red flying snake with horns on the other end of those beams whose day just got a Hell of a lot worse. I grin wickedly. I shouldn’t be happy. But this is war after all. And that bastard is part of team ‘I’m going to kill you and enslave your effing soul.’ Yeah, count me happy the little bastard’s taking some serious heat right about now. I draw up short of the rise, allow all the Plumacats and Mottles to catch up. I look back to the Urdrakes, pushing my senses to omnis scientia. Through it, I clearly hear his deep, song-like commands. They’ve finished their barrage. Zorfang is moving them down the hill now. Good. They’ll take about two minutes to reach this ridge. Should work out just fine.
Then the night lights up as huge black-orange balls loft toward us from the Wisp Fields. They remind me of giant charred and flaming marshmallows tumbling through the sky. What a weird time to start thinking about smores. They move lazily. They’ll cover the distance to us in about two minutes. I don’t intend for him to be there when they effing land.
I reach out to omnis scientia. “OK, Zorfang, can you hear me?”
“Yes, father, we are moving as you asked. Shoot them move.” His voice is labored, huffing with exertion. Around him, I hear similar noises along with the sound of scrabbling. From what I’m hearing, those Urdrake are seriously halling ass for things so large and typically slow.
“Good. Get the Hell out of there. You’ve got effing meteors heading your way. Did you get the Uktena?”
“It fell from sky. Burned. Probably blind.”
“Perfect! Now, I have another instruction. When you reach the ridge where I am now, I want you to focus all your fire on the group of scouts heading toward us. It’s the small group of about ten devils on Vortexes. By the time you do, we should be engaged with them. Hurry! We’re going to need you!”
“I shall do this!” Zorfang roar-sings.
“Fantastic!” I say, then I shift my senses back to myself and the thirty-six other souls with me. Without another pause, I shout “Forward!” In a great spray of dirt, noxious smoke, flapping of Mottles and scrabble of claws we are shooting up over the rise. I glance at my horologium watch. It’s 4:41 AM, Hell time.
Above me, the giant blazing marshmallows begin to fall toward the ridge Zorfang just vacated. Below, the flat expanse of Wisp Fields opens up, illuminated by deadly lights passing overhead. About a mile and a half off, I can clearly see the ten devils on their Vortexes. They’re coming straight for us. Must’ve seen the Urdrake’s laser beams. They’re following the giant orange balls in toward us. Noise of their screaming engines mixes with my own. Yeah, they’re fucking close and coming in hot.
I turn toward the second, larger group of devils. What I see makes me grin despite the tormented screams of souls being ground up by devils’ engines for fuel tearing out my ever-loving ears. It’s a massive group of about fifty devils riding their Vortexes in my direction at full speed. They’re about seven miles away and running flat out. Must’ve pushed the evil spikey red and golden button. Time to put some heavy fire on these bastards. It’s also time to test the power of all the scores and scores of wisps filling up my energetic vessel.
I point my Vortex toward the scouts and gun the engine. They’re opposite the larger group. If I head toward the scouts, I buy myself a little time. So I race toward them. Plumacats teamed with Mottles fly down the slope beside me. The remaining Plumacats race behind. They lag a bit. But that’s OK. I want a follow-on force. My own scouts are up ahead. I see they found a gully to run and fly through on their way toward the ten devils on Vortexes. If I’m lucky, they’ll come at the bads from the left at about the same time I’m ready to hit them from the front.
My immediate worry is the fact that the goddamn devils have me outgunned. Only Theri, Zel, and I have firearms that can be used with any real skill. Sure, there are two Plumacats with rifles that got about five minutes of training. Enough to give away their positions, but little else. The ten devils rushing toward me are all armed with rifles. I can see them lifting their weapons from saddle holsters on their Vortexes, aiming toward us as our groups converge. These rifles probably have a maximum range of about a quarter mile. Fireball rounds — about the same. Given our closing speed, they’ll be coming into range really damn quick. I don’t want to give them a chance to use those weapons effectively.
I’m lifting my hand when all Hell breaks loose behind me. The giant burning marshmallows are finally landing. WHUP! WHUP! WHUP! WHUP! Four massive explosions tear the air. I don’t see any strike points. I’m blocked by the ridge. But burning material flies high and shrieking rocks rain down hundreds of yards away. I hope Zorfang’s long gone. I can’t afford any delay despite the frigging cataclysm practically coming down on my effing head. “Vexare! Verberare!” I incant, bleeding a crap-ton of energy from my rapidly refilling vessel to increase my missiles’ range. Five bright sparks shoot toward my enemies. As they rocket out, I shout “Una! Lux!” and bleed another excessive plug of energy into my incantation. The missiles swell with brilliant light. Each blazing like a sun, five five huge lights converge on the devil scouts. Range is excessive. Three miss altogether. But two strike a Vortex — causing its spiked tire to unfold like a ripped soda can. Its rider is flung about fifty feet before landing with a thump I can hear a mile off. Lux continues to spill out brilliant light. The devils hold up hands to shield their eyes as they skid to a halt.
They’re shouting in confusion. One is pointing at the larger force of Vortexes closing fast. The others recover as the blinding lights fade. They rev their engines. In a spray of dirt and rocks they rush forward again. More cautious, this time. I’ve bought us about thirty seconds. Pushing my focus back toward omnis scientia, I shout to Zorfang — “How soon ’til you get in place?”
For a moment, I don’t hear anything from Zorfang. Oh fuck! What if the giant marshmallows took him out!? Then, I hear the reassuring rasp of his labored breathing. “Thirty heartbeats!” he shouts through omnis scientia.
“Good!” I pour on speed and hurl another volley of over-juiced and lux-enhanced “Vexare Verberare!” at the scouts. This time, I intentionally aim short, lighting up the land to the riders’ front. One missile strikes a lead devil who’d broken away from the pack — blasting off an arm. He slams into the ground and is swallowed by churning spikes from a following Vortex. The nasty machine grinds the devil into hamburger before it skids to a halt in front of my blinding displays of lux.
“We are here, father!” Zorfang sings to me through omnis scientia. As the lights from my barrages fade, Urdrake lasers begin to rain down on the scouts. We’re still rushing them. By now we are in rifle range. Theri and Zel lift their weapons.
“No fireballs!” I shout.
Zel drops his weapon, exchanges the fireball round he was about to use. Theri shoots with her weapon, misses. Then I see shadows flying up from the crevice to my left. Six Mottles and six Plumacats crash into the devil’s flank. They tear two devils from their Vortexes. I don’t see everything that happens. But I hear the sounds of screaming, of chaotic rifle reports, of bones crunching, of flesh ripping. A Plumacat falls to the side, bleeding from a bullet wound. Its Mottle flaps off to engulf yet another devil. By now, lights from the Urdrake are raining down on the devils. One manages to get off a fireball round. It streaks toward us. I lift my hand. Sparks shoot out of my name curse as I shout — Confractus! The fireball round dissolves in mid-formation. Ten Plumacats and Mottles pounce on the remaining devils — many of which are now blind or surrounded by glows of raging air as they burn.
In a moment, all is silent. We’ve crushed another scout force. This time head-on. But with fifty more devils breathing down my neck, I’ve got zero time to celebrate. Out in the wisp fields, four more massive balls blossom from the scorpions’ tails. Four more burning marshmallows rise up. I reach out to omnis scientia. “Zorfang! Get the Hell out of there! Down the rise this time!”
“Shoot and move!” I hear Zorfang sing out again.
“Good! Stay alive! And when you get to the bottom, I want you to shoot at those scorpions. Try to blind those fuckers. We can’t continue to have this crap raining down on us.”
“Yes Myra!” Zorfang sings out. His voice is strained, his breathing labored. But there is no complaint in his tone. I plow on toward the downed devils. I see some Plumacats actually devouring their frigging corpses. I can’t take time to deal with that now. Besides, Plumacats gotta eat. Pulling up to a cluster of idle Vortexes, I shout “Lunen! Svert Umbra!” My moonshadow blade leaps out. A darkness in my hand. Soft light spreads all around. I turn to Zaya. “Are you ready?” I ask.
Her eyes twinkle. Her iridescent wings flutter. I think she’s guessed what I have planned next. “Oh yes! Very much yes! It’s thunderbolt time!”
(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 blocky digital letters of my magical horologium watch tell me it’s 3:13 AM Hell time. I’m wide awake. Sure, I’m hot as Hell. Sweat’s running off me like a waterfall. Legs sore from all the goddamn walking, running, flying. Landing. Yeah, landings are the worst. Eyes burning with all the sulfur crud in the air. Lungs feel like I’ve smoked about a thousand packs of cigarrettes. Tongue tastes like fucking rotten eggs. Yep, they’ve managed to devil my damn tongue like an egg. I’ve been here all of fucking 35 hours.
I look over toward our motley company. The ninja-devil-turtle godzilla-things called Urdrakes stare back at me with their glossy, unblinking lizard eyes. It’s weird and cute at the same time. Not cuddly-cute. But lizard, turtle, godzilla cute. Hey, I’m into godzilla, OK? Deal. Beside the Urdrakes are a floppy-hoppy arrangement of Mottles. A bunch of them are now hanging on the wall. Great. An army of tapestry bats. Original Mottle is in a pile-up of them. They’re doing the touch-telepathy thing. Feathered Plumacats prowl around the cave. One brushes by, its feathers soft and prickly on my neck. Zaya, the green-skinned Vila, is in a ball beside me. Her soft breathing would normally lull me. I’m too jumped up for that. Probably adrenaline. Plus the fear. Definitely the fear. I turn to Zel and Theri.
“We should move again.” My eyes land on Zel.
He shrugs. “Worried?” he asks.
Damn straight I’m worried. We just hit one of Overseer Tower’s giant scorpions. Hard. The magic and destruction we unleashed — visible for miles around. Lit up the goddamn Hell-sky. Then we freed a boatload of their captive wisps. If there’s one thing devils take goddamn serious, it’s the souls they’ve trapped and subjugated. I try to compose myself. “Look. If they don’t know what’s happened by now, that we hit one of their scorpions, they’re fools. I’m guessing whoever’s in charge up there in Overseer didn’t get there by being a fool. So we need to keep moving.”
Theri puts her rough, clawed hand over mine. It’s weird and comforting at the same time. “You got us this far. What do you have in mind?”
Yeah. I got everyone into some deep shit alright. I take a breath, then jostle Zaya. She slowly rises, rubbing her eyes. “You’re going to want to be awake for this,” I say to her. I motion to Mottle, Zorfang, and Featherstar. “Over here, we’ve got to talk.”
Mottle shuffles out of his pile. Zorfang is already standing nearby. He leans closer. Lux from omnis scientia shines through the crystals ridging his back, casting little rainbows. My magical sensor’s hovering over my left shoulder. The amount of magic it takes barely means a thing to me now. The wisps sheltering in my name curse and shadow are pumping out a torrent of energy for my curses. Featherstar leaps up onto a boulder, then looks down at us imperiously. Definitely a cat. “Right. So we need to get moving. And since Overseer’s our objective, there’s no reason we shouldn’t head that way. They won’t expect a force as large as ours. Hopefully. We can use that to our advantage. Especially if we take a good position.”
I turn to Zaya, Zel, and Theri. “So what do you know about the land here? Any strategic points where we might gain an advantage?”
Zel and Theri exchange a glance. “There’s Sunken Crag,” Zel replies.
Theri nods. “It’s a deep canyon running between these hills and Knife Lake. Filled with nasty Scrabbers and Stelo-Mal. The wisp slavers in Overseer avoid its depths. One large bridge crosses it. The bridge has four watch towers. Each with a guard of about ten.”
A Live Reading of Helkey 29
“Scrabbers?” I ask. I know about Stelo Mal. That was Bob. Remember Bob? Yeah. That guy. He’s still with me here in my shadow. Chillin with all the other one hundred and two villains.
“Scrabbers are giant spider-crab devils. The Form Makers often turn wisps into them in this area,” Zel replies. “Deadly. Vicious. Mean.”
I think I might’ve glimpsed a Scrabber earlier tonight. What I saw looked damn nasty. I liked what I was hearing. “OK. We’ve got a shorta plan. Better than no plan at all. We head for Sunken Crag. As we do, we send scouts to figure out if Overseer’s sent a force to hunt us down. My bet is it has. We need to know where it is.” I turn to Featherstar. “You seem friendly with the Mottle Zephyr. Can you find about six others who’re willing to team up with a Mottle?”
Featherstar licks her hand. Long tongue lolls out. She then uses the back of her hand to clean behind an ear. Looking down at me, she finally replies — “Yes. I know six who’ll take a Mottle. What do you have in mind, faeyowther?”
“You’re already quick. I’ve seen you bounding across the cavern. Teamed with a Mottle, you can fly for short distances. Plus the Mottles will help you hide. I want you to scout out toward Sunken Crag and Overseer Tower. If there’s a force coming at us, I want you to find them, then report back. Don’t get into any fights unless you must. This is a scouting mission, clue?”
“Yes,” Featherstar purrs. “A stalking mission.”
That’s not what I said. But it’ll do. I’ve got omnis scientia which should help me get a wide view of the surrounding land. But that’s like having just one lookout on a high point. We needed to make sure we saw any devil force first. Then we could get ourselves into a better position. Plus, the bastards are bound to have their own scouts. We’d have to avoid those. Which brought me to my next aim.
I turn back to Theri and Zel. “So can you tell me what kind of eyes and ears these devils have? We need to deal with those.”
“All sorts,” Theri replies. “Psychic red devils with wide-ranging senses, forces riding rapid, one wheeled machines called Vortexes, horned flying snakes with an ability to teleport short distances called Uktena. Also, a Hell Lord can sense a mage wisp like a shark can sense a drop of blood in the water.”
Great. That made things tricky. It also provided opportunities. I turn to Mottle. “I’ll need all the remaining Mottles but you to spread out in pairs of two around our force. I want ’em to hunt down any of those flying snakes that come close. Small groups of four or less Vortex riders too. If more than four show up, send a flier back to me. Break up into groups of three. Don’t attack unless you have surprise and double the enemy’s numbers.”
Mottle slaps his tail on my arm. I can feel him quivering in excitement and fear. Yes, he sends to me. This is really happening. “Alright, everyone. Get ready. I want to be out of here in ten minutes.”
***********
Overseer Lavross rides into the Hell night, a toothy grin on his face, his dark worb bulging with tortured wisp energy. A rifle and a Night Axe are slung across his broad back. The Vortex beneath him eats up ground. The fast, lethal vehicle sends a thrill through him as its single, spiked wheel digs up furrows — a stinking cloud of exhaust and a hail of dirt clods trailing along behind.
Seven Lances of Vortex riders form around his four scorpions and command center. In each Lance are ten red devils. True fiends driven by lust for profit willing to do the hard, necessary work. The motley cavalcade is in high spirits. They clatter weapons against the flanks of their Vortexes, shout profanities, gun their engines ’til the entrapped wisps howl in torment. Lavross’s grin widens at their enthusiasm. It’d been long ages since he last hunted a mage. Many of these devils had never seen a mage hunt. Now they’re part of the myth. Lavross lets them have their frolic.
An eighth Lance, led by his lieutenant, the Overseer and former Hunter Amagash, runs out ahead. Amagash is already beyond sight. But Lavross is certain the scouts share in his Century’s enthusiasm. Amagash’ll scout the lands around the destroyed scorpion, then return with his report. If all goes well, Lavross will run down the attackers tonight.
Lavross scratches his horn in impatience, glancing at the slow-moving scorpions. His toothy grin fades back into a cavernous mouth. These lumbering machine-beasts tower above his Century. He doubts he’ll need their massive claws, bristling gun platforms, and devastation tails — capable of harvesting wisps and turning their raw energy into terrible force. They’re slowing him down. Yet Lavross is loath to part with the security their presence provides.
If it’s only a mage with a handful of rebels or undesirables, then Amagash will make quick work. The young devil will then try to claim most of the reward. Amagash had already tried overshadowing him once or twice. If that happens, Lavross’ll have to devise a way to take credit. Such subtle social maneuvers aren’t his forte. Lavross finds himself wishing he’d personally taken command of the scout force. But the suspected mage and his rabble demonstrated surprising lethality in taking down a scorpion. The machines, though large and slow, pack a serious punch. Either the mage is lucky or he knows what he’s doing. Luck or experience — Lavross doesn’t know which is worse. His hand drifts down to his chin, giving a speculative scratch. His mouth returns to its toothy grin. Hah! He’s more than happy to allow his lieutenant to take the risks! An unknown force with a dangerous leader! “Good luck, Amagash,” Lavross grumbles to himself. His voice sounds more genuine than he intends.
Early positions of devils and rebels in the Battle of Sunken Crag
Up ahead is Sunken Crag. The dark canyon gapes beneath a green-tinted night sky. Shadows lay deep, covering much of the Crag’s interior. Down there Scrabbers and Stelo Mal engage in endless struggles for dominance. Preying one upon the other. The Crag’s depths — a deadly gladiatorial pit where winners eat the losers and grow strong. Filled with super-predators, few who venture into Sunken Crag return alive. Lavross, lifts his eyes to the great bridge crossing a narrow portion of the Crag. It spans five hundred feet. Buttressed with heavy stone and dark steel forged in the pits of Mechanum, this structure provides the best, easiest passage across Sunken Crag. Its battlements and four towers form a strong point. One needed to deter the Crag’s predators while defending Overseer’s main approach.
Occasionally, some of the more rational Stelo Mal or Scrabbers will emerge to trade with the devils of Overseer. For the most part, they come out only to raid, devour and loot — as is the way of things in Hell.
Lavross’s thoughts break as his Vortex roars across the bridge apex. Spreading out to his left is the stinking, poisonous expanse of Knife Lake, to his right, the dead-falls and defiles of the Razor Hills. Lavross salutes the Crag Bridge guard. Their captain does him the honor of arraying his four Lances atop the towers, then tossing sulfur into the flames to light the fires green. Lavross grins at the gesture. One his reputation commands.
Its scorpions lumbering, its Vortexes roaring, Lavross’s force flows out onto the wisp fields beyond Sunken Crag. Up ahead, he can see some smoke plumes from Amagash’s scout force through the darkness and bobbing wisp-lights. The mists from earlier are long-since dispersed. His sensitive devil eyes drink up the night, providing clear sight and detail.
Across those wisp fields, already miles ahead, Amagash’s Lance howls through the night. The rangy Amagash wears a black-dyed Mottle trench coat. A recent prize he had specially tailored to house rows of jet metal spikes on the arms near his elbows and shoulders. Metal plates within the coat clatter in the wind as his Vortex tears up ground. At his shoulder, Corviss the Utenka flies. The red serpent threads through the air like living flame.
“We come near to the place,” the Utenka hisses.
Amagash grunts his reply. They top a rise, then descend into a depression. The scorpion is plainly visible below. A burned-out hulk in a ring of black ash hinting at a severe explosion. The Lance pulls up to the scorpion. Amagash calls a halt. Ten devils grow quiet as they take in the destruction. A couple crack brash jokes, tossing a small skull back and forth as they banter. Amagash dismounts, motions to Qlul, his second, to accompany him, then does a quick circuit of the wreck. As he reads the signs, Amagash begins to grin.
“Just a small group,” he says to Qlul and Corviss. “Only four sets of tracks. Two of them are fliers, though.” He points up toward the hills. “They looted the wreck, then headed off toward the land rise in that direction.”
Qlul nods. “I see the same. Though they hit that scorpion hard.”
Amagash scoffs. “Moved well and were good hunters, I’ll give ’em that. But they were lucky to take down the scorp’. No need to report back. We can take them ourselves.” He motions to Qlul. “Stay here with Jorlix. Investigate the wreckage. Let Lavross know we’ve headed into the hills.” He motions toward the highland.
“Is it wise?” Corviss hisses. “We are already few.”
Amagash spins on the snake, watches it thread itself into uncomfortable knots, then gives a confident grin. “It’s just a rag-tag little band. Nothing we can’t handle. Plus, I’ve got you for eyes and ears, right?” He turns and looks out into the hills. “They’ve probably gone to ground in some crack or crevice. Should be easy enough to smoke out.”
Corviss continues to spin nervously. Amagash takes joy in the little snake’s discomfort, then revs his Vortex engine. “Immolators! Onward!” he shouts the name of his Lance, they form up on him, then with a roar they head up the land rise and into the hills.
**********
I can hear the machine noise the moment we exit the cave. I look around. It’s not a great position. We’re in a canyon with only one visible escape. The Urdrakes, Plumacats, and Mottles all stare at me. A Plumacat blinks. I know the staring’s an affirmation of my leadership. No pressure! I’m seriously freaking out. We’ve all been thrown into this weird, must-survive relationship. It involves a lot of flash decision-making. I’m sure they’re all not-so-happy putting their frigging fates in the hands of some 17-year-old kid.
Sound’s approaching fast from up the canyon. I don’t have time to send any scout other than omnis scientia. Whatever’s coming will be on us in about a minute.
“OK. We gotta act fast! But not without info! Give me a second to look!” I listen to the rising sound of approaching engines, then loft omnis scientia toward it. Dark, smoking lands expand below as the sensor rises, then shoots up the canyon. It scans left. Then I see them. Eight red devils riding fat, single-wheeled vehicles sprouting pipes, belching long tails of smoke, and tearing the ground with wicked spikes. Their leader is a tall, thin devil wearing a cloak crafted out of Mottle skin. This pisses me off. I like Mottle skin on a living Mottle. Not for some devil’s sicko trophy. All devils are heavily armed — bristling with rifles, pistols, and various melee weapons. Omnis scientia ripples with magical detection. Ahead and above the devils, a red thread flies. Must be an Uktena — one of the devil snakes Theri and Zel warned about.
“There are eight devils on weird bikes and an Uktena!” I shout as I shift focus away from omnis scientia. “Ambush! We’ll ambush them! Mottles, up on the canyon wall! Plumacats and Urdrakes, hide among the boulders! Now!”
I spin on Zaya. She’s just started to emerge into the canyon. “Back in the cave! You’re too important to risk!”
She gives me a huffy look, then fades back. She’s the only one able to give wisps form. I’m the only one who can help her. But I’ve gotta lead this fracking fight. I don’t have time to argue. I’m glad she listens. I spin toward Mottle, Theri, and Zel. “You guys, follow me! Mottle, I need you!”
I storm off toward the canyon center. Mottle lands on my shoulders. His contact momentarily causes my senses to blur. He bites me. Doing the weird reverse vampire thing, he injects food and vitality into my neck veins. I immediately feel better as coolness and a rush of energy spreads through me. His form supports my body. My steps elongate into bounds. Theri and Zel run up beside me. All around, Plumacats are crouching, Mottles are hanging onto the canyon wall, blending in with the rocks. Urdrakes are pulling legs, arms, heads and tails into their shells, plunking down among the boulders. Once withdrawn into their shells, they look like a bunch of spikey rocks. This might just work.
I lead Theri and Zel past our new force of rebels in Hell. Reaching the canyon center, I turn and begin to gather my curse energy. “Those devils coming are heavily armed!” I shout to all in the canyon. “They’ve got that advantage! If they investigated the scorpion, they probably only expect us!” I point at myself, Theri, Zel and Mottle. “We’ll be bait!”
Zel and Theri give me a look that basically says what the fuck??? I Ignore them and continue. “Let’s make a show! Give ’em what they expect to see! Then, when they get in among the Urdrakes, Mottles, and Plumacats, we all pounce! Got it!?!?”
There are growls, yowls, and shuffles of affirmation.
“Good!” I turn to Theri and Zel. “No fireball rounds except for the Uktena. You can blast that flying snake to Hell if you want.” I point into the air. “Our friends on the ground are too close together.” I wave them toward my back as I face up the canyon. “Now! Get behind me! Be ready!”
The sound of diabolical engines growls loud in my ears. I don’t need omnis scientia to see the fire snake now. I lift my hand. Tap my energetic vessel. It is full — just two hours after emptying to help Zaya shape the Urdrakes, Plumacats, and Mottles. Sparks fall from my name curse, lighting up the whirls of my magical tattoo, casting deeps shadows around us. Lunen! Svert! Umbra! I shout. The sound echoes through the canyon as my moonshadow blade forms in my hand. I’m kicking extra energy into it. I’ve got loads to spare. The effect is one of blacker-than-black shadow, piercing silver moonlight spilling around me, and a loud sound like tearing as the blade’s magical substance hungrily devours Hell’s caustic air. I lift this sliver of destruction up and behind me. Then, I hold my left hand up in front, readying a spell for the devils’ attack.
Both Theri and Zel are grinning despite themselves. They have their rifles out, loaded, barrels poised. I admit, I feel pretty damn badass. We’re all gathered. Ready.
The devils on their weird spiked wheel unicycles turn ’round a bend in the canyon. Spray of pollution and crud kicked up from the ground trails behind their fat, mean-looking vehicles. At last visible to my naked sight, their leader points his gun at me. His devil’s eyes alight with hunger. He’s perceived my magic. His deep-red skin — a sign of devil nobility. Not a Hell Lord. But the kind sensitive to Curse Magic.
Not like he fucking needs it. I’m making quite a show with sparks spewing out of my name curse flying everywhere, moonlight glow surrounding me, and blade of frigging black moonshadow held aloft in my hand. The devils’ eyes all lock on me as they rush forward.
“The mage is mine to capture! Slay the rest!” The leader shouts in Minosian to his companions. They fan out, gunning their engines, aiming their vehicles like lethal missiles toward me, Theri, Mottle and Zel. The leader and two devils — one on each far end of the formation — lift their guns.
Clypeus! I shout, bleeding another large plug of energy from my swelling vessel into the protection curse. Sparks fly from me — converging to form a spectral shield of white like the unfolded petals of a flower in front of me.
Three guns report. Hell-bullets shoot out. Their trace lines speed toward Theri and Zel. They explode against my shield, then ricochet off in streaks of molten metal. Mottle quivers in rage. He’s finally noticed the leader’s coat. I lift my moonshadow blade. The devils approach the ambush point. More bullets impact against my shield. The devils’ leader is taken in by battle rage. “Little mage! Your wisp is forfeit! My mistress…!” He never finishes.
“Now!” I shout to my companions, then fling my curse-sword. It flips end over end, cutting the air like a roaring scythe. It tilts, spins to the side, then shears directly through the devil’s leg and his weird unicycle in one go. Damaged and deformed, the machine tumbles, rider flying headlong through the air to land with a crunch twenty feet from me. One of his horns breaks off from the impact. His body lurches and quivers.
Zel and Theri emerge from behind me. Zel raises his rifle. Theri follows. Both shoot fireball rounds into the sky. The red streaks rise to meet the flying serpent. It seems to waver, then is engulfed. The ball burns like a brilliant sun, illuminating the battle below. Urdrakes spring up from the shadows like so many monsters. Their heavy hands, snouts, tails lash out. They come away with arms, chunks of metal, spines. Those further off from the fray angle their shells toward the riders. Light ripples up their spines. Collecting in the crystals near the Urdrakes’ heads, it shoots out like frigging laser beams. Three converge on one rider. The devil is lopped into three pieces as his cycle careens off, hits a boulder and explodes. Plumacats pounce. Some fly on the wings of mottles. Two more devils are ripped from their seats by slashing claws and fangs.
I reform the moonshadow blade in my hand. By the time its shadow and light touches me, the Mottles are swooping down. There are only two bikers left. They’re engulfed. Their bones crunch as the Mottles use their muscular forms to crush them. Ouch. Before I can move, Mottle is flying off my back. He covers the distance between us and the prone leader in one leap. The guy is seriously fucked up. Blood gushes out of his leg stump as he struggles to grasp one of his many weapons. No luck for him. Mottle takes him in one swoop, rolls up his body like some wicked bat candy wrapper, gives him a nasty squeeze, then pushes out pulpy and shattered remains.
It all happened in maybe 30 seconds. Holy shit! We won! The words form in my mind first, then I shout them out in exhaltation. “We won! We fucking won!” My cry is infectious. Plumacats yowl, Urdrakes roar, Mottles flap. Theri and Zel join in the cheer. Zaya bursts out at last to sing her own celebration.
Yeah, we just won another freaking battle. Holy shit, do I feel lucky! But this lethal dance with the devils of Overseer Tower has only just begun.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
Gibbons Crane howls in diabolical fury. White-hot sparks rain over his body. His human form, a gift of Asmodeus’s court, is tatters. His devil flesh — now naked for all to see. Not that any regular human wretches are nearby. The angel-mage, Beatrice, guided them away to safety before she and her companions trapped him here. The train stationary. Angelic magic locking him in, pummeling him with curses. His prey more distant with each passing minute. He can still see her. Beatrice Lushael — arrayed in glorious light. Rapier held before her like a dare. Her delicious wisp fluttering — delicate as butterfly wings. How could he not rush her? Claim her wisp for his own? A crown jewel among all his enslaved prizes.
It was a trap! So obvious! So irresistible! He, the great hunter, render of mages’ souls, Asmodeus’s own hand on Earth, played for a mere pawn! Now held in a cunning bottle.
Gibbons takes a breath. The air around him is super-heated by his wrath. By the destruction raining down on his devil’s form. Chairs burn. Plastic and metal melts. Windows crack. His eyes flick up and down the cursed caboose. The solar train itself is an insult. An impossible fantasy. Yet here it exists. No Blood of Earth sacrifice to Asmodeus fuels it. His Nightmare cannot possess it. Not enough delicious harm for his demon steed to latch onto. To take control. They chose this sacred ground to counter him, to mount their own attacks. It worked. He tips his hat, still whole on his head between his devil’s horns, to the mages who concocted this trap. Worthy prey. He should’ve sensed this was holy ground. The quarry, Beatrice, Mori, Ivan the Wolf, were all too distracting. The prizes too great. Their abilities — surprising.
“It’s been a little while,” he drawls to himself, reflecting on the last time prey put up such a fight. “More than a Century.” His Curse Rides are mostly straight-forward affairs. His diabolical might reaping souls like so many sheaves of wheat in a thresher. “Now I’m checked.” He says the word with amusement and rage combined. He does not lightly suffer delay. Defeat is unacceptable. Yet he must admit his setback. This holy train will never serve his Nightmare. The fate of its passengers — a distraction. There’s no victory to be had here. His true prey — long-gone.
But there may be a way to escape. To return to his hunt. Gibbons tilts his devil’s eyes toward melting plastic dribbling down onto the floor like so much slime. He reaches a clawed hand down, scoops some up, holds it up. The plastic gobbet ignites. Petroleum inside it burning off in red-blue flames. Blood of Earth. A delicious bit of corruption in this otherwise evil-free train. He conjures his wisps, flipping his lash until ten enslaved souls leap to his command. Each rising in a rictus of pain. He bleeds the wisps into the oozing plastic. They animate it, causing it to rear up in a promontory of burning plastic slime. Shifting his focus to the praesidia bottle confining him, he drives the wisps forward, lifts his right-hand six-shooter, then fires his third black bullet into the trap. Its black orb bows out, splashing over praesidia causing it to flicker in momentary darkness.
“Now!” He shouts, lifting his left hand to claw the air, lashing wisps to rush forward. Wrapped in Blood of Earth plastic, they rise. Confronting disrupted praesidia, they flow through its barrier. The plastic then splots onto the train’s wall. It touches the spirit of his Nightmare demon-steed. The Nightmare howls in victory, latches onto the familiar substance. Takes molten plastic for its new form. The wisps pop out, then flow back to his worb. His Nightmare, now given form, rips a hole in praesidia. Sending out pseudopods, it tears off a train window, then flings it into a nearby field. Gibbons springs. A whirl of sparks and flames surrounds him as he emerges. He lands on his feet — one hand holding his hat, the other holstering his pistol. He is free!
The Nightmare plops down from the train’s window. It flows over the ground, rising up in a swell of slime beside him. A nearby police officer sees them, then flees. Tabbing his radio, he sends a frantic call for help. Gibbons smirks at his terror. A delicious thrill — refreshing to his diabolical spirit. Free from the continuous barrage of macto curses, his mock-human flesh drinks up the fear and begins to reform. It slowly re-covers his devil flesh. His clothes also reweave and repair.
A cluster of police officers rushes around the train. Lifting weapons, they shout for Gibbons to raise his hands. Gibbons laughs, gives a tip of his hat to the officers, then bounds off toward the burning trees. Each leap covers twenty feet. A few stray bullets snap around him. If any hit, he doesn’t care. His Nightmare flows along beside him. Too small to ride, he allows it to keep its plastic form. Screams of fear from passengers, eyes glued to windows as the Nightmare’s burning blob flows beside his half-devil, half-human form, buoy him. Their terror — too delicious a banquet to pass up.
He angles away from the holy train. Its presence recedes to his right. He leaves its field of influence, running a bit more crooked, feeling a little stronger in his wickedness. Then, he’s plunging through the burning wood. Hot fires surround his body. Choking smoke enters his lungs. It almost feels like home. Almost. About ten more bounds and he’s through the flames. He emerges onto a back-road. Cutting past the fires, he finds one of his thralls. A Berserker who laughs maniacally as he hurls another Molotov Cocktail into the inferno. Seeing Gibbons, he grins, then gives a Nazi salute. “Mein fuhrer,” he says with relish.
Gibbons grins back, tips his cowboy hat. “Hey, buddy,” he says, “I need your mount.” He points to the motorcycle parked by the dirt path. It doesn’t matter if his words are English. His connection to the Beserkers is strong enough for telepathic communication. His thrall hears the words in his native tongue.
“Ja!” he says with a slavish smile of devotion. Walking over to the bike, he kicks the stand, then presents it to Gibbons. “Es ware mir eine Ehre,” the biker replies, waving his hand with a flourish. His eyes spark with delight as Gibbons mounts the bike.
“Hey, thanks,” Gibbons replies. “Now go on,” he says to his Nightmare. The horror sluffs off its burning plastic form, then inhabits the rumbling motorcycle with a purr of demonic delight. The bike grows as the Nightmare’s possession takes hold. New tail pipes form. Black smoke belches. Ghostly flames flicker along its flanks. It lurches, gives an eager growl — headlight blinking like a monstrous eye.
“Heil dir im Siegerkranz!” the Berserker shouts as Gibbons drives off in a shower of dirt and smoke — flames belching from massive tail pipes. He lifts his black cowboy hat, waves a salute, then guns it down the path and toward the Brons. A stiff wind meets him. Scent of storm in the air among the forest fire smoke. The sky grumbles its malcontent. Evening shadows lengthen as a dark bank of cloud runs in overhead. A wall of titanic columns pushing up and up, spreading wide at the top. Their bases appear to grip the horizon with trailing talons. Gibbons grins. It’s his kind of weather — pumped up by the hot breath of foul fuels as they rise from millions upon millions of infernal engines ranging the Earth. Each a supplicant to Asmodeus’s dark power. They feed a great miasma of Hell’s heat riding Earth’s winds. This storm gobbled the heat greedily — growing from a gentle shower into the great monster above him. Gibbons lets go of the handle bars, allows his Nightmare to drive, and embraces the storm’s hellish winds. What a wonderful servant of destruction! No devil-stifling solar train. But a hellish storm gorging on fiendish fires. This is something he can work with.
Thunder rumbles from across the North Sea. His quarry moves amongst its towering waves. Destination uncertain. He senses them like a hunger in motion. No sight. Just a tension pulling away from him. Drawing him taut. He lowers his hands to the grips, angles his bike onto a main road, guns it up the ramp and onto Route 11. Turning north, he buzzes an angry motorist, smiling maniacally into the flipped bird, then ignites the throttle. Raucous acceleration blasts him up to 120 miles per hour. At this rate, he’s just six minutes away from his destination. The Oil Vessel Trold and its helicopter pad in Esjberg’s port. The Vulcanlundre corporation tends to its massive North Sea oil platform — Trekke Pa — with this vessel. Gibbons remembers it well. A gigantic, squat platform with its drill piercing sea bottom, pumps sucking up devilish fuels. Its tender ships mooring at Esjberg on the shrinking Dutch coastline. In his mind’s eye, he can see it along with the location of every oil facility dotting Europe’s lands and beyond. He knows them far better than most Catholic priests know their churches. Well he should. They’re shrines to Asmodeus’s presence here.
His quarry’s flight across the North Sea pointed almost directly at Vulcanlundre’s Trekke Pa oil platform. Its ship, the Trold, kept a helicopter on its landing pad. Just the kind of machine his Nightmare could easily inhabit. Once Gibbons took the ‘copter, he could then take the platform. No. This hunt was far from finished. In fact, he was about to kick things up a notch.
Gibbons cuts onto the off-ramp. Barreling through a red light, he jumps a barricade, then slams down onto Esjberg’s streets. Sidewalks are disappointingly empty. He rides in along a walkway, hoping to run over a stray pedestrian. Everyone’s inside. Huddling against the storm’s raging approach. Rain begins to fall. To Gibbons it tastes good. Just like wet cigarette butts. Turning down a side-street, he emerges into an industrial center. At the road’s end is a chain-link fence. Its padlocked shut. He ignores the barrier. His Nightmare blasts through the fence like a footrace winner crossing the tape. Metal shrieks. A twisted wreckage is left behind. Gibbons turns, tires squealing, fire blasting from tail pipes, water flying, across the parking lot. Shipping containers, cranes, and trucks blur by. In front of him the blue-hulled Trold bobs in the waves. Its red deck rocking. Fat, white helicopter squatting on a green pad like an overfed seagull. Beside the ship is a large pile of gravel. Gibbons races toward the gravel, shoots flames out the back of his Nightmare motorcycle, then explodes into the air. Trailing black smoke, he flies fifty feet, then lands with a squeal of tires on the helicopter pad. Rain pounds down. Smoke swirls up from his Nightmare. Back in the ship terminal, onlookers shout in surprise, then fear, as the smoke rises up into the shape of a skull, its eyes seeming to momentarily spark with ball lightning.
Gibbons senses, more than hears, their cries. Grins. For a moment indulging in this new feast of troubles. Then, cracking his knuckles, arching his back, he turns to the helicopter. With a snap from his whip, he channels diabolical energy out of his worb. The wisps trapped there scream in delicious pain as the worb’s cruel structure grinds them down. The Nightmare melts out of his motorcycle. The cycle shrinks down — looking odd and derelict sitting on the pad. A ghost shape rises up from it, taking on a horse-like form outlined in orange-red fire. In a flash, it jumps the ten feet to the helicopter. Gorging on petroleum fuel, it bulges through the craft, granting diabolical aspects. The rotor transforms into a shape like a bat wing. Hooked talons sprout to grasp the landing wheels. Long fangs grow from the vehicle’s nose. Its tail rotor takes the shape of a horn. Cockpit glass ignites into two flaming eyes. Its sliding door opens like a mouth — rimmed with serrated teeth.
The cries of those in the terminal fall into shocked silence.
Gibbons whipsaws himself through the open door, slams it shut behind him, then sits down in the cockpit. Grasping the throttle, placing his feet on the pedals, tweaking the collective, he naturally connects to his mount. No flight expertise necessary. The Nightmare-possessed vehicle is simply his to command. He engages the throttle. Batlike rotor blades turn, cutting through rain and storm. The Nightmare wails through the helicopter engine as its combustion engine revs up. It blasts out a ring of fire that neatly cuts the safety lines.
“Won’t need those,” Gibbons grunts as he pulls back. His new beast springs up in a whirl of smoke, flinging fire into the rain. Behind, the platform is left rent — ruined by the Nightmare’s talons. They rise to meet the storm. It seems to stoop to swallow them. The Nightmare shudders in delight as rings of cloud form around them. The diabolical storm enfolds the Nightmare — speeds its passage by generating a tunnel of air. Within this cavity, the Nightmare grows to still greater monstrosity. Taking on aspects of storm. Its spirit bulges beyond the helicopter. It drinks up the flying rain, clothes itself in howling gusts. A shape like a great black dragon grows out of it and into the sky. The helicopter becomes its head. Giant wings of turbulence thrust out. A trailing tail dips to the ranging ocean surface to become a waterspout. A Home Guard helicopter, sent to intercept the hi-jacked bird from Trold, Esjberg is buffeted by one great sweep of the Nightmare’s ghost-storm wings. Control lost, the Defense helicopter careens into the monster’s swinging tail. There it spins in three loops before being ejected — slamming into a towering wave face that swallows it whole.
The Nightmare rages through the furious storm. Joining with it, the Hell-beast becomes its most intense feature. A demon from a ruined world steadily entangling the Earth, the Nightmare roars over miles upon miles of towering waves. It slams the sea surface with wings of howling winds. It thrashes its waterspout tail. Observers on ships and planes marvel in terror. A teen posts a clip of the Nightmare dragon-cloud with lightning eyes onto Instagram. The huge frontal storm striking most of Europe with hurricane force, causing hundreds of billions in damage, gains a new name that explodes onto social media — Storm Kaiju.
At last Gibbons and his Nightmare emerge above the Trekke Pa oil platform. His monster stoops above. The platform tosses through towering seas below. The Nightmare seems to take the platform in its jaws. The helicopter head drops down on a neck of storm. It a swirl of fire and a howl of winds, it lands. The mouth-door swings open. Sirens blare as the watch triggers a security alarm. Gibbons grins, opens his arms to the oil workers watching him through a nearby window. Then, he activates his whip. The worb grinds its wisps. Their shrieks of pain spur his Nightmare. It leaps from the helicopter in a gout of rain and fire, rises in an arc in the storm’s mouth of darkness above the oil platform, then it plunges down into the massive structure with a spectral cry. One of the oil workers, hearing its banshee’s howl, is reminded of the Nazgul’s cries from Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Then, the great platform groans as it begins to take on a monstrous aspect beyond any of the oil workers’ worst imaginings…
(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.)
Scribbler’s Fantastical Workshop 
