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