Mori lifts his weapon — heavy with Macto rounds. Its barrel rises toward the five Pride Eaters. They stand on the storm-washed deck. Clawed feet curl up from the solar panels as the material burns them. They’re more solid than the horrors of the Hell Gate at Furze Bank. Less ghost-like. Living demons on the Earth. A shiver of fear climbs his spine. For all the demons’ substance, the world rebels against them more. Air around them warps and twists — tortured by their presence. It makes a ripping sound — a roar above even the howling storm wind. Bone-white and tapered heads all turn. Hollow, light-devouring eyes look past him to focus on Ivan. Claws lift and extend, making gestures toward Asmodeus’s Chosen. Beckoning. Offering flashes of dark magic that swell up in violet strobes between the Pride Eaters’ claws. Ivan’s hands lift. Grasping for what the demons give.
Power — the heroin of Hell.
Behind the Pride Eaters, the Trekke Pa oil platform — turned into a Nightmare mash-up of machine and giant squid — smashes through a nearby wave. It dwarfs Sea Shepherd which rolls and tosses in the shadow cast by its bulk, shrinking beneath smoke rising from the horror’s burning form. The churning ocean around them blackens with pollution gushing from its body. All about, fires light up — dancing across the waves.
Beside Mori, Beatrice’s rapier explodes with the light of a patterned Macto curse. She crouches, ready to spring. Shepherd’s windows take on its silver light. The glass — a frail divider neither demon nor angel seems to notice. Beatrice glances over her shoulder to Sadie, who nods, then snaps her face back to the threat as she lowers into a crouch. Fine dancer’s muscles coil like a spring. “Everyone! Behind us! Ready to abandon ship!” Beatrice shouts.
Finn scampers back, ship’s PA in hand. “Franz! Karl! Get topside!! Now!!” He shouts before letting the microphone slingshot back to the consol. He catches both Glenda and Sadie up in a sweep of his arms. All cluster near the door. Behind them, the well roils with inky water. Oil sloshes up to spatter the rear windows in black. They stare, eyes wide in terror at the Pride Eaters.
Behind Mori, Ivan takes another thudding step toward the demons. Dark light spills out of his wound causing shadows to bend and quiver. We’re losing that fucker again. Shit’s about to get real bad. His weapon stock tucks into his shoulder, the front Pride Eater resolves. He squeezes. The hammer falls. A white-blue bolt streaks from his barrel, smashes through the window. Shards fly outward. All together, the Pride Eaters spring toward the bridge. The front demon jumping into his shot. The Macto-cursed bullet strikes the demon’s head. It explodes in bright sparks that tear through the Pride Eater’s form — burning away like so much flash paper. In a flare, the demon is gone.
The four remaining Pride Eaters crush through the windows, leaving twisted steel and glass shards in their wake, claws rending both wheel house and ship’s consol. Electric sparks flying through the air combine with the flashes of Mori and Beatrice’s magical curses. Mori swings his weapon left, struggling to track the demons’ furious motion. Beatrice thrusts her rapier upwards as she springs toward a massive demon, spinning away from down-slashing claws. Her blade plunges into the demon which bursts in a fireworks flash.
Ivan takes another step forward. His face — hungry. His eyes — glazed. His hands — grasping. Strands of drool drip from his chin. “MmmmmIIIIIiiiiNNNnnnEEEEeee!!!” he shouts as he lunges toward the Pride Eaters. He grabs at the dark sparks of magic flying from the demons’ hands, stuffing each into his mouth like so much diabolical candy. His cheeks bulge. His throat quivers. His belly begins to to swell. Darkness gushes from his wound.
Mori finally draws a bead on his second Pride Eater. Its chest bursts into a spark flower, then the rest of its body flares and strobes out. Beatrice lands on one foot, jumps, flips, crouches upside down on the ceiling, pushes off, then stabs another Pride Eater through the eye. A cyclone of sparks curl out from the strike. Beatrice flips gracefully again to fall with the firelights, landing on the deck once more.
Mori looks sidelong at Ivan’s bulging flesh. At the changes starting to ripple over his skin. They are too late. The already-wounded Ivan need only accept the demonic offerings. No further wound is necessary to trigger his dark transformation. And Ivan has become more than willing, even lustful, at the Pride Eaters’ advances.
“Exorcizamus te!!” Beatrice begins to incant as she levels her blade at Ivan. His girl’s going to have to drive the demons’ influence out of that rat bastard again. Mori squeezes off another Macto round to cover her from the last Pride Eater. It flies wide.
“Nah-ah!” Comes a shout from across the waves. The word carries with it a pulse of diabolical magic that smacks away Beatrice’s spell and briefly leaves her staggered.
Across the water, upon Trekke Pa turned leviathan Nightmare, amongst a coil of twisted metal and pulsing flesh, the Curse Rider stands. Just a couple hundred feet away now, he looks down upon the foundering Sun Shepherd. His black cowboy hat perches on his head, unperturbed by wind or rain. A wry grin twists his features. No humor in that smile. Only dark satisfaction. He lifts his hand. His devil’s lash rises. The souls in his worb scream with pain in answer. Lightning shoots from his lash to spur the Nightmare — urging it on as it lifts its tentacles above Sun Shepherd.
“It was a great hunt! A chase for the ages!” He shouts above the storm-wind. “But all hunts end, as must.”
The Curse Rider then lowers his lash. Devil’s magic flows from it, leaps across the tossed and burning sea, then plunges into Ivan. The changes in his flesh accelerate. His body twists, lurches, bulges. Flickering, his spine elongates as black metal pins shoot from his flesh. His jaws engorge and grow a hedge of teeth. He falls down onto four clawed paws. Barbed spines emerge from his back — each popping out with a loud snap! A tail bearing a mass of these spines rises up behind Ivan — now returning to his terrible combined wolf, demon, porcupine and stegosaurus form. The shape of Asmodeus’s Chosen. His yellow, slitted eyes focus in on Beatrice as she dispatches the remaining Pride Eater with swift, precise blows.
Too late!
Franz and Karl at last burst onto the bridge. They stare wild-eyed at the monster Ivan has become.
Smash! CRASH! CRACK!! Three tentacles slam down onto Sun Shepherd. The vessel shrieks as it is bent and broken by terrible force. The hull splits beneath them. The burning, polluted ocean swarms in.
Praesidia! Sadie shouts as she forms a protective bubble around Finn, Glenda and herself. Beatrice does one of her leaps directly over Ivan just as his jaws snap hard on the empty space she occupied moments before. Landing between Franz and Karl with a watery splash, she shouts Una! Then, casting a spark into Sadie’s protective barrier, she incants Lanuae! Franz, Karl, and Beatrice’s forms all flicker out, then burst into being amidst flowers of sparks inside Sadie’s shield.
“Hey! What about me!?” Mori shouts as water floods in and the ship breaks apart around him. Ocean envelops him and he’s left to hold his breath and swim like hell for Sadie. Luckily, Ivan’s pulled away by a swirl of current. His knife-like spines at a safe distance for the moment. No incantation’s possible beneath the water. Mori can’t vocalize his magical curses. Sadie, Beatrice and the rest don’t sit idle in their protective bubble as he struggles. At the urging of Sadie, they stand and run together. The effect is like a giant hamster ball spinning toward him inefficiently through the water. Mori chokes back a wry laugh and swims harder.
Beneath the pollution floating on the storm-riled surface, the water is clearer. Omnis Scientia, pulled below the waves at a nudge from Beatrice gives an expanded view. Mori can see the Nightmare’s gigantic form — like some burning, oil-spewing, sky-scraper sized squid — floating way too close for comfort. Its tentacles writhe and lash as it tears Sun Shepherd to pieces. The Nightmare as hellified oil platform seems to hold an awful grudge against the solar-electric vessel. Ivan kicks and thrashes in the current. He got rolled pretty hard by a big wave that Mori somehow managed to duck dive under. Surfer’s old instincts doing double duty.
The thought brings a reminder of Myra as a kid at the Cape Hatteras that once was. His kid was a real badass on a boogie board. Good times, those. He grins as he kicks into Praesidia, knifes through the barrier, then pops into the air bubble with a gasping intake of breath. Sadie had shouted Una! Just a moment before from inside the bubble to include him. Otherwise, he’d have bounced off it like a giant beach ball.
The bubble is moving with surprising speed beneath the water. A glance through Omnis Scientia tells Mori that Sadie applied a Mobilis curse to the barrier as the group started doing the hamster-wheel thing. It’s now turning fast and swimming roughly in the direction of Bright Spark. Mori scrambles up to join those jogging in the ball. Beatrice has linked hands with Franz and Glenda — helping everyone coordinate as Sadie’s magic aids their movement. For now, running away from Ivan, the Curse Rider, and the leviathan Nightmare.
“Holy Hell!” Mori gasps as Praesidia pops to the surface, then rolls along through the waves. “We lost Ivan!”
“Not quite yet.” Sadie replies, pointing across the storm-tossed North Sea to where Ivan is doggedly swimming toward them. His great, spiked tail lashes in a wave face about two hundred feet away propelling his massive bulk toward them. His eyes gleam with yellow rage. His mouth gapes with hunger, spilling venom into the already befouled sea. That goddamn bastard’s a devil turned sea wolf. Mori wants to say it out loud. But he doesn’t on account of Glenda. She’s jogging beside him, sobbing quietly, staring in stark disbelief at the monster her father has become. Mori puts a hand on her shoulder. He wants to say something to help her. He knows he ain’t got shit. He just gives her the best reassuring squeeze he can muster.
Mori lifts his rifle which, by some account of gods or providence or just flat luck, he managed to hold the fuck onto. Sighting down the barrel, he draws a bead on Ivan the monster as he swims toward them with surprising speed. Lashing tail churning the black and burning water to thrust the demon-wolf like a missile through the raging sea. Behind Ivan, the machine and flesh bulk of the leviathan Nightmare flails its tentacles then leaps toward them. SMASH! ROAR! It flies hundreds of feet through the air then splashes down in a great spray of foam and fire. The Curse Rider atop the oil platform turned hell beast lifts his head to laugh. The noise of his diabolical glee mixing with the tortured scream of wisps in his worb, the furious roaring of the storm wind, and a piercing wail of a howl that springs from Ivan as he lifts his lupine maw to lend his own monster’s voice to the hunt.
********
(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.)
“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.)
Followed by a drifting swarm of wisps, we proceed up a gentle slope. Turning left, I cut behind a land rise that masks us from what must surely be baleful watchers atop Overseer Tower. Out of the corner of my eye, I detect movement. Some spidery thing about ten feet across skittering over a hilltop. When I turn toward it, I see nothing. I flick omnis scientaup and over the rise. It gains height, swoops to the hill’s far side. Nothing. Just scree and large, jagged rocks. I shake my head. Either my eyes are playing tricks or some stealthy creature is lurking nearby. If so, won’t be too surprising. This is Hell, after all.
I motion to Zel and Theri, then point to the rise. “Saw some movement over there. May be nothing. If it’s something, I want to be ready.” They nod, adjusting to keep eyes on the ridge line. But we aren’t immediately troubled by whatever it was. If it was anything at all.
I guide us through another switch-back, moving us into a gully. It slopes down at a steep angle. Rocky walls thrust up on either side. Overhead, putrescent gas wafts up from some nearby water source — masking stars that waver in the hot, poisonous draft. Shimmering lines crisscross the sky creating a kind of shattered glass visual effect. To the east, a burnt-orange cloud-like object rises in various fiery hues. It’s surrounded by a ring. I suppose I’m looking at Hell’s moon Charon, or what’s left of it, through some spider web of crud devils somehow tossed up above the atmosphere. Everything up there is tinted sickly green. Out in the wisp fields, fog had obscured this celestial horror-show. Now, I find my eyes drawn to it when I should be keeping alert to more immediate dangers. Before long, the macabre sky is just a sliver above us.
My focus shifts to our hundred and forty-odd wisps. They swirl around us — spilling light like a flood of ghostly torches. Shadows dance and jigger. The gully’s rock walls bend and twist in ways that prick the imagination. I glimpse leering faces, strange beasts, rippling putrescent waterfalls. All of it — phantoms from a mind tweaked by constant danger. Just my fears getting the best of me in Hell’s environmental funhouse. We round a bend and there before us is a vertical crevice in the gully’s wall. I urge omnis scienta forward, causing it to flare lux for a moment. The cave goes back at least thirty feet. Though bones litter the floor, it appears unoccupied.
I pause at the cave entrance, looking at the bones. It’s an ominous sign despite bones being practically everywhere here in Hell. We’re in a gully, after all. If putrescent water flooded the place it might’ve gassed some inhabitants to death. Might’ve happened as recent as last night during the Hell-storm. I push omnis scienta to the cave’s rear, then have it do a circuit of the walls and ceiling. It’s a large and empty chamber filled with all variety of red, brown, and gray rocks. Some of them glisten with crystals. Despite last night’s storm, the place is now dry. Hell’s heat can do that.
“Looks about as safe as can be expected,” I say. Hey, safety expectations in Hell are low. Kinda goes with the territory.
Zaya flies down, hovering at shoulder height. “Can I send them in?” she asks, motioning to the wisps.
“Let me go first.” I signal to Zel and Theri, then we advance. Mottle allows me to hop and glide from boulder to boulder, getting a better vantage by height. I’m getting used to having his amazing physical assist. I couldn’t do this stuff on my own, much less keep from collapsing in heatstroke. Even at night. As we cross the halfway point, I wave to Zaya. “OK, let them in.” Wisps flow through the entrance. They swarm over rocks, spill into the chamber’s center, then swirl whirl-pool like through the cavern. The chamber fills with their green, blue and golden lights — instantly transformed into a strange fairyland of drifting, luminous globes.
Mottle lets out a few probing clicks. His echo-location confirming what all the lights show. The place is empty. I glance at my horologium watch. Hell time is now 12:17. It’s officially the middle of the fracking night. I’m wide awake. Typically a night owl, the day’s live-wire events and a continuous flood of magic’s got me even more charged up than usual. Give it another two hours or so, then I’ll be crashing hard.
Zel and Theri plop down on some boulders. They break out their rations and tuck in. Can’t say I blame them.
“Hey Mottle, do you mind keeping watch?”
Mottle quivers in response, detaches from my back, then glides toward the cave opening. He flits through the air, spreading himself blanket-like with his head down, attaching himself to the wall. Tilting his upside down head through the entrance — he peers out into the gully. Best guard bat ever!
Hell’s Hills and the Cave of Changing
I turn to Zaya, already feeling the heat more with Mottle gone. She’s sitting on a boulder about five feet away. Knees pulled up to her chest, she watches the drifting wisps. “It’s like a dream,” she says. “In the past, I’ve had to approach them one at a time. In secret after long waits and lots of preparation. Always watching my back. Wasn’t good enough. The Poachers still caught me. Now, here are scores and scores.”
I ease in beside her. Sitting within arm’s reach, I break out Perrier and drink deep. I’m sure gonna need it. There’s something comforting about the little faerie. It’s like an aura of goodwill surrounds her. Reminds me somewhat of my mother. “Yeah. This is really something else.” I’ve got to agree with her. The spectacle of wisps floating around us is truly stunning. We saved them all. Well, for the moment at least. “I’m pretty sure we don’t have a whole lot of time to make good on our achievement. So best get started, right?”
Zaya nods, determined. “Yes, let’s.”
“Just tell me what to do, then.”
Zaya flaps her dragonfly wings — fluttering up in front of me. She lifts her hands, palms facing outward, then motions for me to do the same. I extend my hands to her. My much larger palms make hers look like a child’s in comparison. We touch. She hums a note and there’s an electric shock as we contact. I jump but keep my hands in place.
“Now, close your eyes,” Zaya says. “Shift your mind to your energetic vessel, to its connections with your protected wisps.”
I shut my eyes, turning my mind to my name curse, to the seventeen wisps sheltering there, then on to the twenty five dark wisps lurking in my shadow. I cast my magical senses inward to these places of shelter. I can feel my connection to these wisps, see the flow of magic into my name curse. The magical energy pools in my reservoir. An energetic vessel roughly in the shape of a chalice. Though it has stretched and grown to accommodate this new wealth of magic, it spills over. “I can see it.”
“Good,” she says. “Now, welcome my energy through our touch.” She sings another note. Our hands spark again. Tendrils of light leap from my left hand, run up my arm, then plunge into my name curse. A feeling like warm honey seeps into me. “So much!” Zaya says. “Yes. Yes! It is enough!” Pushing her little palms into my hands, she begins to sing in earnest. Her magical song fills the cave. Wisps draw close. There’s an in-rush of air. A pull. My magical energy flows out in a torrent, contacts Zaya through her hands. I writhe, whipping like a tree in a gale. Zaya stiffens, arches back. White energy floods up her arms in rivers, spreads through her torso, fills up her mouth. A pause. Then a great, forking bolt of lightning erupts from Zaya. It runs in a crooked spiral through the cave, shattering the air as it breaks into myriad branches. Nearby wisps flop to the floor, elongate in viscous shapes. Dancing on the lightning, they grow, taking form.
Some broaden out, stretching, growing tails, sprouting fluffy, large-eared heads, forming into the now-familiar bat shapes of the Mottle race. Another set darkens, opens ice-blue, slitted eyes, grows long, pointed ears, and sprouts black feathers. Despite the feathers, they have no wings. Instead standing four-legged or two-legged on great clawed feet. They remind me of feathered cats. A last set grows into stocky, reptilian forms. Spikey shells cover their torsos, a ridge of spines erupts from their backs. Long, spikey tails go behind, sharp-beaked tortoise heads thrust out. They are dark green with the spines on their backs topped in crystals. Like the feathered cats, they walk on hind legs or go on all fours. All are roughly human in size with the Mottles likely the lightest and smallest, followed by the feathered cats — standing five to six feet tall, and then the jeweled dinosaur snapping turtles at 6-7 feet tall and quite broad.
The lightning recedes. I pull back my hands. My energetic vessel is tapped. Nearly empty. Yet it’s already refilling. I’m exhausted. The sudden outrush of energy felt like standing on an electrical wire. Zaya starts to fall to the floor. I scoop her up, cradling her like a child. She’s awake and breathing — though clearly stunned by her sudden and intense exertion. As I hold her she nods at me, puts her hands over her face, then lets out a little “screeee!” sound.
I look up at the newcomers. Do a quick count. There are about sixty seven. They stand awkwardly, blinking as they take in the cavern, their fellows, and us. The remaining seventy five wisps continue to drift about the cavern. Mottle flits down from the wall, landing among his kind. He’s distinguishable — larger than the rest and much furrier about the ears. Theri and Zel leap down from their seats, padding up beside me.
Zaya seems to have recovered somewhat from her momentary collapse. She blinks her eyes, takes a breath, flaps her wings, then flutters up to stand on my shoulder. “Zaya,” she says to them evenly as she touches her chest. She taps my head “Myra.”
One of the dinosaur turtle things mutters “Myrza.” He snaps his jaws, as if trying to grow accustomed to the strange new structure of his stone-tough flesh.
“Myra,” Zaya repeats, then points at the Devils. “Theri, Zel.” She points back at the dinosaur-lizard. “Urdrakes.” To the feathered cat people. “Plumacats.” To the Mottles. “Mottles.” To me. “Human.” To Theri and Zel. “Blue Devils.” And to herself. “Vila.”
The Mottles, Plumacats and Urdrakes look us over. A Plumacat leaps up onto a boulder and yowls at me “Heowman!”
Zaya nods in approval. “Good, good.” She turns back to me, smiles. “I’ve changed the bright wisps, giving them forms. The rest are dark wisps.” She draws in another deep breath, flaps her wings, grabs my hand. Hovering before me, she extends her other hand and I feel another tug in my chest. Yikes! Lighting arcs from us again. This time it uses only enough magic to briefly form a bridge between the dark wisps and my shadow. When the lightning touches them, they are yanked in, disappearing from the air in loud pops! then reappearing in my shadow. Now a hundred and three dark wisps shelter there. The effect is to cause my shadow to bulge, twist, and occasionally ripple with light. It’s like a pool of dark water that vaguely takes the shape of a real shadow follows me. It’s unnerving. When joined with the seventeen bright wisps in my name curse, the magical force produced is truly exceptional. I guess it’ll only take two hours for my energetic vessel to refill. The newcomers lurch back as they watch me absorb the dark wisps. “Youman, Devil?” One of the Urdrakes enquires.
“No. She’s a mage,” Zaya says. “She protects wisps. The wisps she just gathered into her shadow cannot yet be trusted with a form. One day, they may be. If that happens, if the wisps are willing, I’ll give them one.”
“Zaya is meother,” one of the Plumacats yowls. “Meyera is feahther. We will listen to meother. Treust that feahther will keep us safe.”
“Zaoya and Myra are mother and fouther,” an Urdrake agrees. As the Urdrake and Plumacats speak, their words become easier to understand even as their tones grow milder. I can tell they retain some of their past humanity. The speed of their language skills reasserting is pretty impressive. Off to the side, the Mottles are silent. They exchange tail grips with one another. A mental handshake I’m entirely familiar with. My Mottle is cluing the rest in. It’s much more efficient than this stumbling with awkward words.
Speaking of — I’m not too fracking sure what to think about being called father to a bunch of recently transformed wisps. But hey, it could be worse. I could be all alone in Hell without any help whatsoever. Instead, I find myself in the midst of a small army and commanding some serious magical oomph. We’re going to have to get the new guys and gals up to speed really quick. I signal to Mottle, the original one. It takes a minute, but Mottle eventually sees me waving at him and gets the hint that I want him to come to me. He touches a couple other Mottles with his tail, then glides over, flopping on a nearby boulder before slapping his tail on my arm.
Yes. You talk? Mottle enquires.
“Indeed,” I reply. “I’m going to need your help. The other Mottles too. I want you and the rest of the Mottles to communicate with the Urdrakes and Plumacats. Pass on the knowledge that you’ve already gained.”
May be scared.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s weird at first having your mind invaded by a flying blanket bat thing. But I find I got used to it. Heck. I even kind of like it. They’ll get the hang of it too. Also, we’ve got to come up with names for everyone. You’re Mottle. You’ll always be Mottle. The other Mottles can go by Mottle, then their name — like Mottle Julius or Mottle Maria. Shortened to M. J. or M. M. got it? Everyone else, just have them all come up with names. We can’t keep naming everyone by their type. It’ll get confusing really quick.”
Got it. Mottle flaps off to de-confuse everyone. He returns to the other Mottles, does a few taps, then six of them flit off to the Urdrakes and six more glide over to the Plumacats. The Urdrakes take it all in stride. Pretty soon, they’re chatting quietly to each other in their deep, sonorous voices. The Plumacats take a bit more time. They’re hesitant — recoiling at the Mottles’ slimy touch, lurching away when thoughts and images suddenly flood their mind. One more adventurous Plumacat at last allows a Mottle to drape itself over her. She closes her eyes, settles down with a trilling sound that’s a combination purr-warble, and takes in the visions I know the Mottle is sending to it. A few minutes pass. Then the Plumacat stands and begins talk-meowing excitedly with its fellows. After about fifteen more minutes, both Urdrakes and Plumacats have the gist of what’s happened. They know how they were saved and transformed — each understanding enough about me, Theri, Zel, Zaya and the first Mottle to get by.
They go about the longer process of picking names for themselves. The Urdrakes take the task pretty seriously. Soon enough, Zorfang and Rondsnel approach to tell us their chosen monikers. The Mottles are also quick — picking simple names like Shadow, Lilt, Drift, and Zephyr. My Mottle remains Mottle. Plumacats again take their time. Rather individualistic, a few spats break out as some fight over their names. But after about another half an hour, even they’re finished. Their names are perhaps the most diverse — Rarhquick and Featherstar are chosen for their leaders.
While they’re getting caught up, I turn to Zaya. “Did you design these forms for them? How did you know what to call them? It’s clear you made a Mottle before. Are you really the mother of all Mottles?” I’m more than a little confused. It must show in my tone.
“I’m just a young Vila,” Zaya replies. “My mother, Slip, taught me how to see forms in the wisps. To draw them out. We’ve been making Mottles and Urdrakes and Plumacats and Bowflits and others as far back as history here in Hell. Since Asmodeus, came to rule, we’ve been hunted, enslaved, and killed mercilessly. Those we shape are destroyed, their wisps taken. We threaten his order. We’re a remnant of the old ways. A servant of the one who came before Asmodeus but whose name has been erased even from my people’s memory.”
I feel my eyebrows lift. “The one who came before Asmodeus?” I’m getting the all-overs talking about this. My skin pricks. My eyes water.
“Yes, the old ruler of Hell. The one Asmodeus deposed when he took power.”
I can’t recall too much of what must have been a far more detailed knowledge of this past ruler of Hell. Only snippets of lessons from my parents and mage tutors. Here, it’s obvious that the Memory Draught has rent huge gaps. I’m pretty sure it must be related to my mission in a lot of ways. The secret part at least. “I’ve heard of him,” I say. “I know Asmodeus murdered him. That he was fairer. That he, as Theri and Zel spoke of earlier, tried to teach the dark wisps to let go of their lust for harm. Asmodeus started the enslavement of wisps for labor and to power diabolical magic. He grew mighty and terrible as a result.”
“You know more than most,” Zaya says. “Asmodeus likes to pretend Hell was always this way. It’s part of his mythology. That Hell was once different has long been buried. Theri and Zel knew about it, though. A secret knowledge held and passed down among the Blue Devils.”
I’m uncertain how much I should tell Zaya about myself. Despite the Memory Draught, I do still know quite a bit about Hell’s larger history. My parents and some of their cohorts made numerous contacts with Hell and at least a few forays here. I know they came here to unearth secret knowledge about Asmodeus. I know some of it has to do with my name curse. But the details are gone. I decide to keep quiet.
Zaya pauses, watches on as I struggle with whether or not to say something, then when I keep my mouth shut continues. “Your magic is of the old type. That much I know. And not entirely of the old type from mages. I mean the old type from here. From Hell. The kind sanctioned by the old murdered ruler. I know it because it’s the same kind I use. Although my source is different. Yours comes from Multiversal Spirit and from the wisps themselves. Mine comes from the creatures or substances I transform. Our practice of magic is different and yet akin to one another.”
“Did you ever meet other mages?” I ask, finally unable to contain myself.
“In my brief three hundred years, I’ve met only a handful of mages here in Hell. More than half died.”
“Did you ever meet Mori or Beatrice?” I’m struggling to match up ‘brief’ with ‘three hundred years.’ But I let that slide in favor of info about my parents. So much about them seems a mystery to me now. And they’re my fracking parents.
She looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. Like I just asked her a stupid question. “Mages don’t give their names in Hell. If they do, it’s almost certain a Curse Rider will come for them eventually. Hell is full of informants, sensitive listeners, dark psychics who sift through thoughts, interrogate those taken and enslaved, continuously comb through the newest lore in search of mage names and the wisps that could be taken. I’m surprised you use your name here, Myra. You know they will come for you eventually, don’t you? It’s just a matter of time.”
My heart lurches into my throat. Of course! It was so obvious. How did I not remember something so obvious? Well, that was obvious too. The goddamn Memory Draught. I know it targeted that memory. Why? Did my parents want a Curse Rider to come for me eventually? And what can I say about this to Zaya? Maybe the truth will do? “Look, I’m a part of a much larger plan. And, yes, what I’m doing is going to result in a lot of attention coming my way. I don’t know exactly when. But look at what we’ve done already. Doesn’t matter. Attention of some kind is already coming.”
Zaya nods. “Yes, we’d better get ready for that. Curse Rider or no. Tough days are ahead.”
“That’s for damn sure.” What’s also for damn sure is I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m mostly just guessing, going on instinct, and cobbling shit together from broken recollection on the fly. This method seems like a bad one to me. But it’s all I’ve got.
I turn toward the new-formed. Well, maybe not all… Zel and Theri are mingling with them, sharing our extra equipment, doing their best to encourage. Despite their efforts, there’s an unmistakable tension. We don’t have anywhere near enough food or supplies for our present force of seventy two formed souls in Hell. We can’t stay here long. And our best course of action — raiding the Drivers and Overseer Tower — is basically open warfare. They aren’t fools. They know we’re an ill-fated company. They all seem to know what comes next.
Do I?
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
Light from the explosion sears into my eyes, then fades, leaving a ghostly after-image. With a groan, the infernal scorpion-machine crashes to the ground. Pieces of it scatter. Its massive tail coming to rest in broken segments. A burning claw, sheared off from the main structure by the explosive force of our assault, cartwheels through the air then lands about fifty feet away. Zel whoops out a cheer. It’s infectious. Soon we are all giving out a victory cry. The cheers die down. They’re all looking at me. Waiting for me to say something. Just like that, I realize they trust me. It’s a pretty heady feeling — commanding my first victory.
I turn back to them, give a confident grin. “Way to kick some serious ass!” I’m trying not to gush. I want to gush. I’m feeling a bit manic about it. But I’ve got to keep it together — for me as much as for the rest of our little band of rebels. “Now let’s see what we can salvage. Be careful — some Drivers might still be alive. Plus that whole thing is one ginormous hazard.”
Mottle and I move forward, taking point while keeping everyone in sight. It’s not hard with my expanded senses through both Mottle and omnis scienta. What’s tough is keeping all my sensory input straight. Especially with the occluding effect of mists combining with fires and after-explosions. It’s like running through a lit-up cloud. I’m also grappling with more than a little bit of worry. Those flashes in our mist cloud will be visible all around Knife Lake. That gigantic scorpion machine went down hard. I’m pretty sure every critter in the vicinity, every devil sitting watch at Overseer Tower will have heard and seen the noise and light. I’m pretty certain we just kicked a hornet’s nest of the absolute worst sort. I don’t want to wait around long enough for the swarm to arrive.
We come upon the wreckage. Fires are still flickering, though the largest are out. I hop up onto a leg, then climb and glide to the platform. It’s a mess of twisted metal and broken machinery. There’s not much left of the Drivers — those poor devils who operated this monstrosity before we ripped it to pieces. I see what looks like an arm hanging from a twisted railing. There’s some bits of horn and teeth embedded in a crevice. I open up a panel that isn’t jammed, retrieve some ammunition, and toss it to Theri. I find a rifle that’s still in decent shape laying on warped deck plates. I hand it to her as well. I’ve got my own rifle from the Poachers’ Cave. Haven’t needed it yet since my magic’s been going so strong. My energetic vessel’s still over halfway full even though I really unloaded on these devils. Am I up to my parents level of badassery yet? Probably not. But getting close.
Destroyed Scorpion Amidst the Wisp Fields
I must’ve paused for a second because Theri is standing beside me, tapping me on the shoulder. “What’re we going to do with those?” she asks, pointing to six large glowing bulbs arranged in groups of three along the scorpion’s flanks. They’re connected by a tubular apparatus to the scorpion’s tail. I focus my mage’s sight. My eyes swirl with light as I detect numerous flashes of wisp-energy emanating from the barrels. They are newly-captured wisps. Raw, primal spirits. Not yet bound to worbs or forced into various foul forms by Lords of Hell or Form Makers.
I walk up to one set of bulbs. They’re more like vats than anything else. Containers filled with some kind of foul magical fluid that stuns the wisps into submission. “Lunen Svert Umbra!” I shout, calling forth my moonshadow blade, then slice open the vats one-by-one with three quick strokes. The ugly fluid spills out. It stinks something god-awful. Even worse than the sulfur air of Hell. Wisps, stunned by the fluid, plop to the ground. I hop-glide over to the scorpion’s other side — slicing open the other three vats. More wisps and blobs of slimy fluid spill out onto the ground.
The wisps pulse on the sand — reminding me of stranded jellyfish. There are scores. Perhaps eighty in all. Though I feel compelled to draw them into my name-curse, to protect them, these wisps are still free. It somehow seems wrong for me to take them now. I turn to my companions, my hesitance playing across my face. “Do you think I should take these wisps? I don’t know how else to keep them safe. Devils will eventually find them. Devour them. Turn them into awful beings.”
They stare back at me. Zaya is smiling. There’s a mischievious joy in her eyes. “Or will they?” the faerie says, then points to Mottle.
I raise a hand to touch the muscular, cloak-like body of Mottle. “You weren’t made into something so terrible. Can I believe a devil gave you this form? There must be something still living in Hell. A natural being of a sort who’s able to shape wisps into creatures that aren’t so horrific. I suppose if we found one…” I’m speaking my thoughts out loud. The more I think about it, the more Mottle doesn’t add up to what I know about Hell. There must be some kind of under-current I’ve missed. Of course, the Memory Draught might’ve blasted that key bit of Hell-lore right out of my noggin.
Theri looks at me — glancing between Mottle and Zaya. “No Form Maker or Hell Lord shaped Mottle from a wisp. If so, he almost certainly would’ve betrayed you by now to survive because a Devil would’ve made it a requirement of the form. It is not the nature of Devils to craft a being to…” she seems at a loss for words for a moment. She thinks, then says. “They wouldn’t shape a being to cooperate. To even be capable of benevolent cooperation.”
I pat my Mottle helmet-head. “If not a devil, then who shaped you?”
Mottle quivers, then sends a flickering thought through our physical connection. Answer is with usalready.
Zaya flies up overhead. She is smiling, a serene expression on her face.
“There’s a myth among the Blue Devils,” Zel says as he watches the smiling Zaya begin to sing. “That long ago Hell’s nature-spirits forced evil beings into forms that required cooperation to survive. It is for this reason that they were sent to Hell in the first place. To unlearn the lonely evil of selfishness. Of course, for most spirits, it took ages along with many deaths and reformings of their wisps to learn this lesson. Hell was then seen as a prison to reform them. Literally. Again and again. But that was before Asmodeus came. And he has forbidden all to speak of those times. Yet we, the enslaved, in secret, have kept this knowledge as stories. It is a defiance.”
I’m hearing Zel’s words blend with Zaya’s song. My mind makes a leap. “Nature spirits? You’re talking about Zaya! She’s a faerie. One of the last. Did she shape Mottle?”
Mottle quivers again. Zel and Theri grin at me. Zaya reaches the apogee of her flight. She hovers over the wisps. Her song touches them. I can see its vibrations as gentle threads of magic reaching out to the wisps. They break from their slime-induced torpor, swirl together in a group, then rise up behind her.
“I will keep them tonight,” she says. “They are not yet ready for form. But once they’ve recovered, I will clothe them — each according to their nature.”
Like the wisps flopping on the ground before Zaya’s magic roused them, I’m stunned. I watch as they swirl gloriously above Zaya’s head like some cloud of will-o-wisps from Dungeons and Dragons. “How?” I want to say more but I can’t. Was finding Zaya also part of my parents plan — of my plan before I got broken up into now-me and Mirror Specter me? It’s just too much to be coincidence. If we planned for me to link up with Zaya before sending me to Hell, then we are serious geniuses. “Right.” I’m getting my thoughts together. Still — I can’t quite pull my heart out of my throat. “Well, this is an amazing development and I’ve got about a thousand questions. But each new thing we do somehow ends up making more light and noise.” I look at the swirling cloud of wisps. “Zaya, can you ask them to stop doing that. To stay low to the ground and, well, wisp about normally?”
Zaya actually laughs at my request. “Of course,” she says. She sings a few notes in a language I can’t quite understand but somehow seems familiar to me. The wisps drift back down to the ground, hovering just a few feet up, meandering about more. They’re still circling Zaya. Just less obviously.
“So I think our priorities just changed in a big way. Cyda’s still important. But he’s not our only giveaway any longer. We just now gave ourselves away. Big time. So our next move should be to get out of here quick. Then find a safe place to hide so Zaya can do her work.” I turn to Zaya. “How long will it take you to shape one wisp?”
Zaya rubs her chin. “It only takes a few moments. Problem is, I need to conjure a bolt of spiritual force. That can be taxing. Without help, I might manage about ten before I need to rest a while. Maybe ten a day.”
“Ten a day? It’s going to take a long time to change these wisps, then.” I pause. “Hold on, you said — without help. How would you get help? Other Vila? Are there other Vila?”
My question seems to sadden Zaya. “I don’t know any other living Vila,” she says. The momentary cloud over her face quickly passes. “But I do know that a human mage can use their curse-magic to give a Vila energy for a transformation. So you can help me!”
This is also an amazing development. “OK. Hopefully, I can help you do a lot more.”
She shrugs. “It depends on the size of your reserves. Your reserves are quite large.”
I glance down at my name-curse casting off sparks of wisp-energy. Tell me about it. “So it looks like we have another plan. Find shelter in these wisp fields, hide out, and help Zaya transform as many of these wisps as possible.” They seem ready to spring up. To get a move on. But I’ve just had a thought — a possible modification to our new plan. “Hold on. I just had a brainwave,” I say to them, then turn back to Zaya. “Can you gather every wisp that can hear your voice?”
Zaya thinks about this for a minute. “As long as I can see them, as long as they can hear my voice, I should be able to call them to me.”
“OK. New plan.” I look out into the mists and see more lights bobbing in the Hell night. They go on as far as my vision can resolve. Further out, the mists take on a general glow that seems to dance and sway. Those are wisps too even though I can’t make them out individually. “We move out through the Wisp Fields in that direction.” I wave toward where the wisps seem thickest. “I’ll take point. Zel, you go right. Theri, you take the left. Our job is to keep our eyes open for shelter, to avoid any contact with other devils. We’re looking for a big cave or crevice that’s unoccupied.”
Zel and Theri tilt their horns — a devil gesture of affirmation.
I turn to Zaya. “I don’t want you to worry about any of that. You just call as many wisps as you can. We’ll take them to our shelter, transform them, and then Overseer Tower will really have some trouble on their hands.”
Everyone now has a shit-eating grin on their face. I seriously have a shit eating grin on my face.
Zel mimics me and gives a thumbs up. He does my best to imitate my voice and says — “Let’s do this.” It’s cute. I laugh. But his imitation of me is way too squeaky. With that, we are off, moving through the Wisp Fields of Knife Lake. The steamy mist condenses over my body, over Mottle’s form as we walk. His body supporting mine, aiding each step through the broken lands surrounding that stinking, fetid water. Thank the gods the wind is blowing toward the lake and not away. It’s still hot as, well, Hell. But Mottle is cooling me. So I’m just sweating profusely. At least it’s not fucking daytime. I force myself to drink more water, gulping down the strange licorice tasting Perrier.
Zel and Theri form up. Both their heads are on a swivel. One thing’s certain about the devils — they are freaking crazy hyper-vigilant. Not really a surprise considering the horrific shit popping up all over the place here in Hell. Zaya flies overhead, singing out. She’s loud enough to catch what wisps we pass close by. But I can tell she’s also trying not to attract attention. Solid move. We cut through the night. After a couple hours, I find a crevice that looks interesting. By now, Zaya has added about another forty wisps to our host. That’s a friggin lot of wisps. I hop up to inspect the crevice. It’s empty but too shallow for my taste. Plus no cave at the back. Besides, I want to gather more wisps before we stop.
I glance at horologium. It’s 9:21 PM Hell time. Still way too early to stop. So we continue on, cutting through the night, gathering a larger and larger following of the ghostly wisps. Steadily, the mist begins to fade and thin. The overhead cover breaks and I can again clearly see Overseer Tower. It’s all lit up with wicked green and purple lights. The product or result of whatever infernal magic is used to enslave wisps, to force them into devil’s worbs. Overseer is closer now. Despite the heat, I shudder. I glance at my wrist again. It’s 10:17 and our wisp entourage has grown to around one hundred and forty. The bouncing, glowing orbs are tough to count. I call a halt.
I point up toward the wicked tower that is Overseer. “It’s starting to get too open for my liking. How about we cut back toward the hills?” I motion to the land rise — visible as a long, dark shadow — to our left. “We’re more likely to find a suitable cave or crevice there. It’ll also hide us from watching eyes.”
Keeping low and using whatever scraps of mist remain to conceal our growing numbers, we swiftly climb back into the hills and away from the wisp fields.
(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)
Mori gives Beatrice a last look. She’s at ease on her cot – platinum hair spilling out behind her, dancing lights all around. Blood on her clothes tells a tale of past violence with no trace of wound remaining. Sadie puts a hand on his arm. “Let her rest,” she says, as she arranges some of Beatrice’s hair. The gesture strikes Mori as motherly. “She’s safe.”
Mori trusts Sadie. There’s no better people. But it’s tough to let go. He tenses at the thought of leaving Beatrice alone after the battle at Furze Bank. At the memory of their only daughter stepping into the great inferno. It makes him want to take Beatrice in his arms and gently rock her. Mori wonders what Myra must be going through down in that poisonous heat-well of a literal climate hell-hole teaming with all the worst monsters in all the worlds. Everything will be touch-and-go for her. We knew it when we signed up for this mad-ass caper. Mori tries to steel himself for what he knows is coming and for a thousand likely surprises. Most of their work will now aim at spoiling any response by Asmodeus – giving Myra enough time to liberate the wisps she’ll need. Meaning Mori and Beatrice will be doing their honest best to get in the frigging face of the actual Devil. To distract him with as much light and noise as possible. An insane enough project by itself. Mori looks to Sadie. The specific details of this dangerous Devil-baiting are mostly her domain. He just knows he and Beatrice will be on board to help her the whole way through. With the added wrinkle of the endeavor hinging on Ivan’s ‘cooperation.’
Sadie is heading for the door. Mori and Ivan follow. They exit. Sadie shuts the door behind them. It closes with a quiet ‘whup.’ Mori can see the ignarus curse activate the moment the latch fastens. There is a nearly imperceptible splash of light. Door and wall suggest to him politely that they blend seamlessly, thank you very much. But Mori’s mind is trained to recognize such tricks, so he’s not fooled. Ivan is staring with bewilderment at what he must imagine is a wall that just ate the door. “Where did it go?” He asks to no-one in particular.
Rendering of the chapel where Sadie healed Beatrice
“Never mind that,” Sadie says coyly. “Let’s get you some decent clothes.”
Ivan looks self-consciously at his bare legs and feet — the rest of his body covered by Mori’s leather jacket. He’d do great as one of The Village People. “Da. Please.”
“Really, Mori, you could have had some extras on hand for Ivan,” she says, mock-scolding Mori as she walks them down the hall to a closet. She opens the door. Inside are a number of black robes for the clergy. She pulls one off the rack and sizes it up. “This should do for now. Shoe size?”
Ivan is looking at the robe with pursed lips. “Nine,” he replies.
Sadie produces some black slippers to match the robe. She motions for him to enter the closet as she leaves, then closes the door behind her. “Just knock on the door when you’re done,” she calls back to him. They here a muffled “Da” from inside. Sadie’s looking directly at Mori now. “So, you got Myra into Hell without a hitch?” she asks in a whisper.
“Well, wouldn’t say without a hitch,” Mori whispers back as he scratches the side of his head self-consciously. “Ivan…” He trails off. Sadie already knows about the possession so no need to go into it now. “She got through. Her name curse worked as planned. But Ivan sent out what sure as hell sounded like a summons when he went all wolf on us. It was pretty scary.”
“Probably. Don’t know for sure. But as you know Ivan’s been watched by him for a long time. All of us from the Council knew something was up with him. The rumors big A was grooming him for his Earthly herald seem to be true. If so, that means…” Mori pauses ominously.
“Ivan likely bird-dogged you and Beatrice for a hunt,” Sadie says what he doesn’t want to. Mori knows Terror Hounds can do it. And the call Ivan put out sounded a lot like one of them. “Well, that’s good news.”
Mori can only laugh nervously and raise his eyebrows at her poser. He sure as hell didn’t want to be the target of one of Asmodeus’s lethal and soul-stealing hunts. But that was the object of the whole distract the Devil mission after all. On the other side of the door, he can hear Ivan cursing and rustling.
“Don’t forget to put buttons-side front,” Sadie says more loudly through the door. They only hear Ivan’s exasperated exhalation as reply. Sadie drops her voice again. “No one saw Myra?” Sadie asks in a bare breath with intensity.
Mori can understand it. That part was pretty important. “A Pride-Eater saw her sparks. That was the first one I took out with Macto,” Mori whispers back.
There’s a rap on the door from Ivan. “It’s all as good as can be expected. We’ll talk more after,” she says as she opens the door to reveal an Ivan bedecked in priestly robes. Sadie looks him over. “It oddly suits you,” she says.
“Yeah, if you’re looking for a vampire priest,” Mori can’t help himself. Sadie cuffs him.
“Jacket,” Ivan says, handing Mori his coat. Out of habit, Mori makes sure Ivan didn’t drop anything untoward into one of his pockets or attach something to it. It’s clean. Why wouldn’t it be? The guy was frigging naked.
“Now, if you would please follow me, gentlemen.” Sadie glides down the hallway, returns to the stairs, and ascends. They pass up through the cathedral area, rising past a balcony with choir benches facing an organ. The organist is still playing. He gives them no notice. They continue to wind upward, ascending to a fourth floor – at last entering a long hall with office doors in rows on both sides. Sadie comes to one with her name on it. She produces keys, opens the door, waves them in. Inside is a cosey office with bookshelves covering one side, a half-moon stained-glass window for its back wall, some comfortable chairs scattered about, a green throw rug over hard wood flooring, and an old, ornate desk facing the door. On the opposite wall is a painting of a lioness padding through sun-dappled forest, reminding Mori of a female Aslan. A stack of papers on the desk is entitled Laudato Si. Beside it is a binder labeled – Interfaith Coalition for Earth Justice. Sadie flops down behind her desk and motions to the chairs. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
They sit down while she rummages behind the desk. In a moment, she produces a thermos, cups, and some paper-wrapped peanut butter and banana sandwiches. “I know it’s not gourmet dinner. But the PB&B and coffee will have to do.” She hands them to Mori and Ivan. Mori’s stomach rumbles gratefully. He didn’t realize he’d worked up such an appetite. He checks his watch. It’s 8:11 P.M. Beside him, Ivan is pouring himself a cup of coffee. Mori tucks into his sandwich. Ivan sips from his coffee.
“So, you have…” Ivan looks at Mori’s watch, “I give you until 8:30 to explain all the…” he seems at a loss for words for a moment “…phenomena. To convince why I don’t call police to have you both arrested.”
“For your first request – gladly,” Sadie replies. “Although, it might take more than the 20 odd minutes you’ve asked for. As for your second, no need, the police are already here.” She motions to Mori.
“Thanks for blowing my cover Sadie,” Mori grunts. He figures he’d have told Ivan soon enough anyway. Mori flips his badge out of his pocket. “Robert Hansen, Special Investigator, Climate Crimes Division, DOJ, Interpol, at your frigging service.” Ivan looks at the badge with raised eyebrows, scrutinizing its veracity. Again, the poker face settles in. He’s seen crazier stuff tonight for sure. But Mori is a little disappointed by his non-reaction.
Ivan spreads his hands out before him in a fanning gesture that is both dismissive and accepting. “Explain.”
“First, tell us what you remember of the evening’s events,” Sadie says. Her eyes glitter as she watches Ivan. Mori figures he could see the two squaring off over a high stakes game of poker.
“Da. I was in bathroom when Mr. Hansen broke in…”
“Investigator…” Mori interrupts.
“Investigator Hansen broke in on me in the bathroom,” Ivan continues. “His wife, Beatrice Hansen ran up behind him. She was shouting insanely and assaulted me with sword. Thankfully, she missed.”
“She hit you exactly how she intended,” Mori corrects him. Sadie doesn’t bat an eye. She’s watching Ivan like that lioness in the painting might watch a creature of the savanna. Ivan rubs the mark on his forehead.
“Go on, what happened next?” Sadie says.
“It is inexplicable. I saw dark ghosts. Terrible. There were three of them. They had… giant claws. One of them is cutting me with claws. There is something coming off me. The ghost is eating it.” Ivan’s face contorts with involuntary fear as he recalls the event. He points an accusing finger at Mori. “Beatrice… she drugged me.”
“With a strike from the flat of her sword? Try again,” Mori replies.
“She is witch. She cursed me.”
Mori balls his hand into a fist. “Never say that word!” he growls. Ivan lifts his hands defensively.
“She did curse you with the sword-touch, Ivan. I’ve seen her do it before. It was a helpful curse,” Sadie says calmly as she waves Mori down. “That’s what let you see them. The ghosts, as you call them, are actually Pride Eater demons. They were attracted to you because you were full of the pride they crave.”
Ivan’s heard some of this before. He seems to accept it a tiny bit more the second time. “She cursed me?”
“It’s a kind of magical spell,” Mori says. “Beatrice cast a curse upon you so you could see the demons that had gathered around you. They’ve been coming there every night you sit on that damn golden toilet.”
Ivan sits forward. “No. I can’t believe.”
“Of course you can’t. You’re a frigging moron.”
Sadie turns her eyes to Mori. “Give him time,” she says evenly.
“Sure,” But Mori’s thinking time probably won’t do squat for Ivan. Garbage brain equals garbage out.
“Now, what else did you see?” Sadie prods.
“There were the ghosts … tall demons, above me. Below me there was a circle. A glowing circle of light on the black. It pulsed with red light.” Ivan looks to Sadie and then to Mori. “What was it?”
“That, Ivan, was a Hell Gate,” Mori says turning to face Ivan, meeting his stone-faced gaze. “When the demons saw you dripping with pride from their perch in Hell, they ripped open that gate with their claws so they could come to feed on you. Since you did your little crap on the world thing pretty regularly and in the same place each day, they knew you were a sure thing. An easy hunt. But that’s not all. You didn’t just attract the eyes of the demons. Someone else caught wind of you. You see, Pride Eaters are a kind of demon that the Devil keeps on a short leash. He uses them to hunt the most prideful of mortals as they are often his best servants. When he asked them what they were doing with you, they happily told him. And that’s how the Devil became very intimate with the name of Ivan friggin Volkov.”
“Devil?” Ivan is whiter than usual which is saying something.
“Yes. The frigging Devil. Not a devil. The Devil. And his name is Asmodeus.”
“Your claim is kakashka. Preposterous.”
“It is written in your flesh now. I saw the mark on your back.”
“You shot me.”
“I shot the Pride Eater possessing you. If that was an earthly bullet, we wouldn’t be having this enlightening little chat.”
Ivan sits back, going silent. Sadie steeples her hands. “Now Ivan, tell us what you remember of the thing that happened next.” Ivan looks away. He rubs a hand over his head. His eyes glint.
“It stabbed me with long talon. Girl, Beatrice told me it was demon. I should have been protected. Was baptized.”
“Baptism doesn’t do squat for what you invite willingly,” Mori says under his breath. Ivan continues talking as if Mori hadn’t spoken.
“I felt terror, pain, rage. Power came into me like the rush of fire. I grew and changed — becoming wolf. My eyes could see far, my ears could ear heartbeats, the sound of far away voices like echoes, my tongue could taste feelings, emotions, fear, my nose could smell city, the stink of sulfur rising up through red circle. With my senses I knew your…” Ivan struggles for a moment, not wanting to say the word, “… magic. I saw and smelt your names. Mori, Lushael.” He laughs. “Not Hansens. That is alias. I felt mighty above all things – glorious and terrible. What was in me gave me strong voice. I knew I could call to others for help against you. To track you down and make you pay for your crimes against me.” A wicked glint has bloomed in Ivan’s eyes as he recounts his experience. Mori can see that the demon possession was so complete Ivan still mistakes its thoughts and desires for his own. Again, he almost feels pity for the guy as he wonders at whatever broken or crooked thing within Ivan made him so vulnerable to willing possession by evil. “So I used my great voice to shout your names,” Ivan continues. “To mark you. My voice went out through the mighty kingdom. I am certain it found ears.”
Ivan is sweating now. He has raised his hands into the shape of claws. He is reaching for Mori’s neck. Mori’s arm shoots out and he smacks Ivan on the forehead, hitting near the mark Beatrice left there. The force causes Ivan to fall back. “Get a hold of yourself, man!” Mori shouts.
Ivan self-consciously drops his hands. “Then you shot me! Stabbed me! Pain! Death! I was dead. Dead.” He is blithering as he recalls the moment of trauma. He omits the part where he almost bit Beatrice’s leg clean off.
“We didn’t kill you, moron. We shot and stabbed the demon that possessed you. Our strikes were an exorcism. Yet you sympathize with the demon that took you in mind, body and spirit.” Mori turns to Sadie. “Please tell me you know how we can work with this guy. I am drawing a blank. He looks like wasted effort to me. The moment Asmodeus gets a demon to touch him again, he’s a complete goner.”
“Dead… How am I not dead?” Ivan says accusingly toward Mori who waves his hand at Ivan dismissively.
Sadie stands up, walks forward from behind the desk and puts a hand on Ivan’s shoulder. Her eyes glow with faetor oculorum. Mori figures she’s seeing the scar the demon left on him. She runs her hand down to his back. “You are not dead because Beatrice and Mori, in their grace, decided to save you. To give you this last chance, Ivan, not to be damned as a destroyer. Beatrice nearly died to save you. Yet you are still marked in body, mind and spirit. Asmodeus has claimed you for his own with that, still-burning, brand upon you. We will intercede. We will try to save you from him. But you have to help us. We need you to agree.”
Mori laughs harshly at this. “Sadie, the guy is a total lost cause, can’t you see it? He doesn’t even realize what he does for his vile life’s-work is the dead-wrong thing that summoned the demon he now chooses over us.”
“Then we will teach him.”
This must be a part of the ‘plan’ that Mori’s not yet fully cluing in on. He and Beatrice were mainly focused on the Myra side. Sadie had identified Ivan and his Hell Gate. Had instructed them to use the Gate and to bring Ivan to her. For Sadie, Ivan is as important as Myra. She saw him as Asmodeus’s earthly implement and wanted to, as she called it, “take Asmodeus’s rod from his hand.” But Sadie was cagey about the modus operandi part. Typical mage with her secrets. Mori can’t talk, he’s got about a hundred up his sleeve too.
“How do you intend to teach this guy? What makes you think he’ll learn a damned thing after all he’s already done?”
“We will take him to the celestial realm. Its ocean heart – Merrin.” Sadie probes at Ivan’s scar and faces him. “Does this hurt you Ivan?”
“Yes. Pain in my back. Burns… Exactly in place I can’t scratch. It maddens.”
“What if I said I could heal it fully? What if I told you – I could take you to a place where this death in your flesh could not touch you any longer? Would you come with me to Heaven? Would you open your heart?”
Ivan looks over Sadie. Mori can see the condescension and disbelief on his face. Mori can tell Ivan’s even less able to take it in because of the black-skinned, female face before him. Can tell he sees her as a lesser being. Oh man, you can’t even begin to comprehend how far beyond you she really is.
“How could someone like you show me, Heaven?” Ivan says. Mori grinds his teeth to hold back his anger. On top of everything else, this guy’s a bigot too. Mori isn’t surprised. But it still pisses him off.
“Oh, you just live in that doubt, don’t you?” Sadie says evenly, taking his insult right in the teeth then biting down hard enough to break it. “I dare you to let me show you. What you will witness, through me, will be far more spectacular and wonderful than the healing I did for Beatrice. Consider it a gift I offer you. One you do not at all deserve. But a great gift none-the-less.”
Mori is silent as Sadie plays magical Santa Claus. He shrugs his shoulders and thinks to himself Friggin special treatment.It’s the only thing that seems get through to guys like Ivan.Because they always want more.
“You can fix back? You can take to Heaven?” Ivan says as he reaches toward the scar. These words seem meek, as if from another person entirely. Mori’s magically sensitive eyes flare and he picks up Ivan’s thoughts. He has a brief vision of a snow-speckled wind blowing over Siberian forests. Of a tiny mitten in Ivan’s larger hand. A sense of love and belonging. Associations from a more wholesome past. Maybe. Mori wonders if this is the real Ivan. This frail as butterfly wings flicker of nostalgic love beneath a lifetime so dark it caught the eye of Asmodeus. He reminds himself – which one is real is up to Ivan. Mori, for his part, doesn’t hold much hope. He’s seen too many like Ivan. Too many unable to turn back.
“We can bring you there bodily at great cost. To remove you from Asmodeus’s grasp, if only for a brief while, will be worth it. The rest is up to you,” Sadie says. Mori can see a perplexing kind of joy light in her eyes.
“Da. OK. We go to Heaven.” Ivan’s face is still half-disbelieving his own words. All Mori can think is – Great, I just sent my own daughter to Hell and now this jack-ass gets to go to on a free all-expenses-paid trip to Heaven.Oh, the humanity!
Scribbler’s Fantastical Workshop 