All posts tagged Myra Helkey

Gish Optimized 6: The Barbarian Hellblade Tank, Myra Helkey

So it’s time to crack open our Dungeons and Dragons books again for another episode of Gish Optimized! Because D&D is much more fun when you Gish! And boy are we going to Gish today — in the form of a fantasy character as a D&D character build! She delivers some big booms, a lotta splat, serious tankage, and a heapin’ helping of Hellish sizzle!

Welcome to the Barbarian Hellblade Tank — Myra Helkey!

Thus far in our build series, we’ve explored two straight-classed Gishes — the Stab and Smite Dexadin and the Battle Sorcerer. Both pack a serious punch and demonstrate the 5e truism that you don’t have to multiclass to kick serious character optimization butt in D&D. We’ve also explored three dip Gish builds — the Hexblade-Fighter, the classic Fighter-Mage, and the Tempest Cleric-Storm Sorcerer. All dip builds included just 1-3 levels in their secondary class.

For our Barbarian-Hellblade Tank, we’re going for another dip. We’re just taking one level in a second class — Barbarian — to help enable an explosive piñata style tank that is also primarily a caster.

“Explosive pinata, what the eff does that mean?” you ask?

It’s exactly what it sounds like! This tank basically blows up in the faces of bad guys who beat on it. Now doesn’t that sound like fun? Yeah! Explosive pinata! Say it with me now! Sounds like Mustafa! Explosive pinata! And for our explosive pinata tank, that one level dip in Barbarian is going to carry one helluva lot of beefy, damage-soaking weight. The rest, the ice shards piercing bad guys, the shields of magical fire and cold, the temporary hit points stolen from each fallen foe, will be delivered by the nineteen levels coming from Warlock.

Now let’s jump into it!

Myra Helkey as Explosive Pinata Hellblade

Our new build gets its RP cred straight from the Helkey modern fantasy series that many of you have been enjoying here. Though this build will not perfectly mirror Myra Hellkey’s abilities from Into Infernia, it will provide you with a powerful full caster who’s capable of laying down severe blasts of magical power, of delivering some rather devastating NOVA damage, and, most importantly, of tanking like a champ on the battlefields of D&D. With these goals in mind, we’ll leverage both the Hellishly cool mojo of Myra from our series and the D&D ruleset to give you a great template for combat and RP fun in your games.

Myra steals both secrets and powers from devils. IRL, Myra would side with Ukraine in its existential struggle against the diabolical Vladimir Putin. A conflict that forms one back-drop of this modern fantasy tale.

Story-wise, our Myra gains her magical powers through her name curse tattoo. This source of magic is not a Warlock’s fiendish pact in a strictly traditional sense. Instead, Myra has been gifted by her mage parents with the ability to steal power from fiends — either by slaying them directly or by sheltering souls the fiends have taken in her name curse. These souls, in turn, gift Myra with magical energy. In past role-play, I’ve described Myra taking souls from slain fiends (which end up residing in her shadow, perhaps to be redeemed later) and by liberating the souls of the damned in the lower planes (which end up in her name curse, perhaps to be resurrected or carried to the celestial realms later).

This build is heavily lower planes themed. However, the character’s backstory, I find, works great for almost any campaign. Since there are many ways to render and describe Myra Helkey mechanically in D&D 5e, our guide here will be the first of many for Myra. One made more enjoyable owing to its improbable nature. A Fiend Warlock that steals power from fiends — tipping the tables against them. The build also makes excellent use of a Barbarian dip, often considered non-optimal, to great effect. A reverse Elric of Melnibone — in which the soul-sucking nature of fiends comes back to haunt them. Our version of Myra here is thus a rough-and-tumble Paladin — by other means. It often feels like pulling off a major coup to play her. I hope you enjoy her as much as I have.

Level 1 — Strength, Charisma, Constitution, Dexterity, Half-Elf, Barbarian

Starting with ability scores, the first thing we notice is we’re really, really MAD. We need Charisma for our spellcasting, we need Strength for our melee because man are we gonna melee, and we need Constitution because we want to be tough. In addition, we want a decent Dexterity because we don’t want to have a terrible AC. We also want max Strength and Charisma at high level. That’s a lot. But don’t fret! We have an awesome build plan that’s gonna make all this MADness work out for us. We’re just going to have to do some serious ability score gymnastics to accomplish our admittedly ambitious goals.

We begin with Strength — which is our first primary statistic. Using point buy, we dump 9 points into the physical might and prowess attribute. This gives us a 15 before we begin to tap into our racial bonuses. We’re taking Strength all the way to 20 (unless we gain a Belt of Giant Strength as an item drop, of course) and this buy gives us a great start. It also empowers our melee strikes. Since we are taking Fiend Warlock, not Hexblade for our main class, Strength is going to do a lot of work to help us stand tough in close fights. To this point, we’re not going to avoid close fighting. Instead, we’re going to run right into most fights with a high confidence in our power to take a literal crap-load of incoming physical punishment. Hell yeah! Because our Myra Helkey is a real scrapper. Indeed!

For our next stat, we drop 7 points into Charisma. This gives us a 14 before we access any of our race’s ability modifiers. Charisma’s our casting stat and we don’t want to neglect it. Sure, we’re going to be amazingly tough and badass in melee combat. But we are a Gish after all. And by level 6 we gain access to some seriously heavy blast effects. In addition, we have access to the wonderful Eldritch Blast and related supports. To fail to leverage our caster side in this build would be to hand in our Gish card. And we really don’t want to do that.

Moving on to Constitution, we drop 5 points into the stat for physical toughness and resiliency to end up with a total of 13 before any adds from our race. We’re not as heavily concentration focused as some of our other builds (which we’ll discuss more below). However, we do need the HP since we’re going to be wading into melee quite a lot. And though we don’t rely on any specific set of concentration magic, we may want to avail ourselves of a number of wonderful spells from the Warlock list like Hex, Shadow of Moil, or Spirit Shroud, from time to time.

We’re going to rely on our physical toughness, on our magic, and on the Fiend Warlock’s ability to generate temporary hit points for our main defense. However, we don’t want to have absolutely terrible armor class. Since we’re main-lining a Greatsword for our primary weapon and won’t have use of a shield, and since we’re stuck with medium armor from Barbarian, we want at least a halfway decent Dexterity. I’m gonna go ahead and drop 4 of our remaining points into Dexterity. This buy gives us a 12. We won’t max out medium armor. But starting with a 15 AC together with scale mail and all our other fun features ain’t half bad.

After being considerably MAD, we are only left with 2 points to spend on Intelligence and Wisdom. I’m not comfortable dumping Myra’s Int, so I’m going to drop these last 2 to get her a 10 in the smarts stat. That leaves Myra with an 8 Wisdom. I’m cool with her having a lower Wis. She’s always getting herself into trouble in fiction. A low Wisdom in-game lets us really lean into this RP characteristic.

So before choosing our race, we end up with 15 Str, 13 Con, 12 Dex, 10 Int, 8 Wis, and 14 Cha. A solid spread and yet somehow not stretching ourselves too thin.

Moving on, we go ahead and take Half Elf for our race. In RP, Half Elf works great as Myra Helkey is the daughter of the angelic and fey Beatrice Lushael. We could go Aasimar for this RP theme. But I’m more partial to Half-Elf both mechanically and story-wise. For one, Myra’s father, Robert Mori, is Human. Second, Beatrice comes from the very Fey Heaven that is Oesha. Third, Half-Elf gives us some great stats to help us out.

Adding in bonuses (+1, +1, +2) from Half Elf, we boost our Strength to 16, bump our Constitution to 14, and increase our Charisma to 16. Our final ability scores are Str 16, Con 14, Dex 12, Int 10, Wis 8, Cha 16. These are solid stats. From Half-Elf, we also gain Darkvision, two extra skills (which we can trade for 5 feet of extra movement or a wizard cantrip, though I’m partial to the extra skills or movement, myself), advantage on saves against being charmed and magic can’t put us to sleep.

Now at last we come to class. We’re a Gish. But for our first level in this build we are going all in for Barbarian. We’ll never see another level in this class again. But at first level, we get a lot from the Barb. Our starting HP is 14. Wof! We pick up Scale Mail for a 15 base AC — about average. But we’re not too worried given our combined Rage and high HP. We gain proficiency in Strength and Constitution saves. We grab a Greatsword. For ranged attacks, we pick up hand axes or javelins. And, perhaps most importantly, we gain Rage which effectively doubles our Hit Points relative to physical attacks, buffs our damage, and gives us advantage on Strength checks while raging. In RP, I describe Myra’s Rage as an effect of her magical name curse tattoo. Of course this is pure fluff. But, again, I find this distinction from typical Barbarian Rage to be a fun story element.

Overall, at first level, we have nothing to complain about. Our strong ability scores, high HP, ability to Rage and versatility coming from Half Elf are our high points. We might lag a bit behind pure class Barbarians. But we’re no slackers. Our unique capabilities, however, begin to manifest as we progress to level 2.

Level 2 — Fiend Warlock, Eldritch Blast, Armor of Agathys, Dark One’s Blessing

Here we gain access both to our magical nature and to a rather unique combination that I’m calling the explosive pinata tank. To access this new talent, we take level 2 in Fiend Warlock. Immediately, we gain two Cantrips. I’m taking Eldritch Blast and Light. I enjoy Light for its utility and as a party aid. I often run into parties where members lack Darkvision — which can be a real impediment in dungeons if a light source isn’t available. Eldritch Blast is pretty self explanatory here. It immediately provides us with a medium range attack that does decent damage and scales quickly as we level. We can’t use it while we’re raging. But when we’re raging, we’re also tanking. Just in case we need a ranged attack, we keep a few javelins or hand axes at the ready.

We also gain access to two spells. I’m leaning toward picking up the thematic Burning Hands for a blast. Although Arms of Hadar might be a better choice. In any case, we grab a blast of some kind to give us an AOE option. The second spell, however, is pretty crucial. Armor of Agathys both gives us a resilience buff in the form of 5 temporary hit points (THP). This spell requires no concentration. And it lasts for 1 hour. Due to our short rest spell recharge, we can cast this spell multiple times per day. Combined with our two rages, Armor of Agathys gives us a serious edge as a Tank. Here’s how it works. Right now, we have 21 Hit Points. When we Rage, we take half damage from physical attacks. When we cast Armor of Agathys, we gain an additional 5 THP. And when we are hit, our attackers take 5 cold damage so long as some of the THP from Armor of Agathys remains. With rage active, it turns our 5 points of THP into an effective 10 THP for physical attacks. This means we are more likely to deliver that 5 cold damage multiple times. So attackers are taking damage from hitting us. Their hits are less effective due to our Rage. And we are also smacking them around with our Greatsword for 2d6+5 damage as we Rage. Explosive pinata!

Armor of Agathys — Ice Armor with a bite.

Moving on to our Fiend Pact, we get a nice cherry on top of our, already strong, resiliency suite as we gain Dark One’s Blessing. This power enables us to pick up 4 THP every time we reduce an enemy to 0 hit points. It doesn’t stack with other sources of THP. But it can give us a carry-over effect. For example, say we enter combat with six kobolds. We have Armor of Agathys already cast. We Rage and run into battle smashing one to bits. We gain 4 THP that doesn’t matter, because we still have 5 THP from Armor of Agathys. All five kobolds attack. Two hit. The first does 6 damage (reduced to 3 because we Raged) and the second one does 5 damage (reduced to 2 because we Raged). Typically, the first hit would take down our Armor of Agathys. Since we Raged, our spikey ice armor survives the first shot. This means that we have now killed two Kobolds as our Armor of Agathys delivers 5 cold damage to each. We’ve taken zero damage off our base HP. Our Armor of Agathys goes down from the second hit. But, we now have 4 THP because our Armor of Agathys killed the second Kobold that hit us. Only two Kobolds remain. They get lucky and we miss our attack. They attack us, again getting lucky and hitting twice. They each do 4 damage. Because of our Rage, we again lose none of our base HP. It all gets taken off the THP we gained from Dark One’s Blessing. Next round, we kill one of the Kobolds and recharge our THP to 4. The last Kobold crits us for 8 damage, which we turn to 4 because of Rage. Then on our turn, we kill the last Kobold and recharge our THP again. So far, we’ve taken 27 damage, reduced to 13 because we Raged, reduced to zero+4 because we racked up 17 THP in total. In addition, two of the hits against us killed enemy attackers.

Explosive pinata, baby!

Level 3 — Agonizing Blast, Hex

At level 3 we pick up Eldritch Invocations from Warlock along with a new spell and our second Warlock slot. For our first Invocation, we take Agonizing Blast. Devil’s Sight is somewhat less useful for us than for the Hexblade-Fighter as we won’t be leveraging magical forms of darkness to gain advantage very often. We also like to have the powerful ranged option provided by Agonizing Blast during the times when we are not raging. Our second spell slot also gives us a number of helpful options. We can, for example, cast Armor of Agayths prior to combat, wade into battle, on round 1 cast an AOE like Thunderwave, Burning Hands or Arms of Hadar. Then, for our bonus action, we activate rage and begin tanking. For our third spell choice, we pick Hex which allows us to further buff our Eldritch Blast to 1d10+1d6+3 when we are not raging. This provides us with a nice switch-hitting option and adds versatility to the character.

Level 4 — Pact of the Blade, Shatter

Reaching level 4 we hit level 3 in Warlock — granting us our Pact. Since we are an explosive pinata style tank, we immediately jump on Pact of the Blade. Now, our attacks count as magical with this amazing weapon we summon from mid-air by invoking the power of our name curse (err… patron). We set aside our second invocation at level 3, so we go ahead and immediately use it to buff our summoned Hellblade with Improved Pact of the Blade — granting us a +1 Greatsword. Mechanically badass and thematic.

Our Warlock spell slots bump up to level 2. Armor of Agathys delivers 10 THP and 10 damage to attackers that hit us in melee. Assessing our tankishness, we’ve probably accessed Half Plate for 16 AC, our base HP is 35 or about in line with the fighter/ranger average. Armor of Agathys gives us 10 THP and Dark One’s Blessing grants 6 THP when we reduce a creature to 0 HP. Rage effectively doubles both our Hit Points and THP against physical attacks. While raging and while Armor of Agathys is up, we also deal about 23 damage per round assuming our Greatsword attack lands and we’ve been hit once. With Rage ongoing, we can expect Armor of Agathys to reliably last for 2-3 hits or more, resulting in 20-30+ single target damage while also effectively absorbing 20 hit points of incoming fire. When Armor of Agathys goes down, we can still boost our survivability through Dark One’s Blessing (at 6 THP per pop) so long as we can land hits and reduce critters to 0 HP.

Last of all, for our new spell choice, we pick up Shatter. This choice grants us another, more powerful AOE which we can use to good effect just prior to activating our Rage.

Level 5 — Great Weapon Master, Misty Step, Mirror Image

This level isn’t as big for us as for many other builds, mainly due to the fact that we dipped into Barbarian right from jump. That said, level 5 does bring with it a number of major perks. First off, we gain a feat/ASI and we use it to pick up Great Weapon Master. Now, we can subtract 5 from our to hit roll to add 10 to our damage. In addition, we can use a bonus action to deliver another attack after we roll a critical hit or reduce a creature to 0 HP. These features provide us with another boost to our melee damage.

Picking up a new spell slot gives us access to the mobility-enhancing Misty Step. We don’t tend to use it as much as other builds due to a combination of high Strength and access to Eldritch Blast. But we have it for a rainy day when we need to get into or out of trouble quick. Eldritch Versatility also allows us to retrain one spell. We use this ability to switch out our level 1 AOE for Mirror Image. Now we have another spell we can cast in addition to Armor of Agathys that does not require concentration and is compatible with our Rage. It also adds to our tankiness. So we’re all over it.

Level 6 — Thirsting Blade, Fireball

At level 6 we get a big boost. First, we pick the Thirsting Blade Invocation. This grants us two attacks per round with our Greatsword. In addition, we gain a new known spell. We pick Fireball from our Fiend Warlock spell list.

By now, in addition to having access to a solid tanking ability, we also have some powerful offensive options. We can enter combat with Armor of Agathys pre-cast to give us 15 THP and 15 explosive pinata damage. On round 1, we might cast Fireball, then bonus action to Rage. If, on a subsequent round, we score a critical hit with Great Weapon Master, we do an average of 46-76 plus 15 reactive damage if we are hit once for a total of 61-91 damage on a NOVA round. Very solid damage for a build that leans more heavily toward tanking.

Our tanking at this level is also pretty badass. We have 49 base HP. But adding in 15 THP from Armor of Agathys brings us to 64. Our Rage effectively doubles our hit points against physical attacks. Due to Rage, our reactive damage from Armor of Agathys likely lasts for 2-3 hits or more for a total of 30-45 off turn damage. Our Dark One’s Blessing adds 8 THP every time we reduce a target to 0 HP. These THP additions now happen more often with our extra attacks and Fireballs.

Level 7 — Dark One’s Own Luck, Fly

By level 7 we pick up a little boost to our saves and ability checks in the form of Dark One’s Own Luck. I’m partial to saving this clutch ability to add a d10 roll onto a failed save or concentration check. We’re already a little weak on our Int, Dex, and Wis saves. Dake One’s Own Luck helps to fill that gap and shore up a major vulnerability. For our spell choice, we gain some amazing mobility options by picking up the Fly spell. Fly allows us to zoom around the battlefield while spreading havoc with our Greatsword or Eldritch Blasts if mobility is something we decide we need.

Level 8 — Eldritch Smite, Fire Shield

Rolling into level 8 we gain another set of enhancements to our explosive pinata style tank. For one, our key Armor of Agathys jumps to 20 THP. With our base HP at 63, Agathys gives us an effective HP of 83. This compares to a typical Barbarian of this level at approx 85 with the addition of reactive damage. We can’t Rage as many times as the Barb’ so we need to choose our moments. But when we do, we are a serious impediment to foes that try to blow through us. Armor of Agathys lasts for at least 3 hits against most physical attacks while we rage for an average of around 60 reactive damage. We are also now getting 10 THP additions from Dark One’s Blessing. This is all pretty amazing for a tank.

For our new Invocation we pick up Eldritch Smite. I’m honestly not as jazzed about Eldritch Smite on this build as I am with other melee Warlocks. However, if we do manage to land a critical hit, we can burn one of our precious spell slots to add 45 average damage to that single strike. Overall, this net effect is lower than casting Armor of Agathys while raging and taking physical hits. But there are encounters when we will find this extra potential critical hit damage more effective — for example, when we need to take down a big bad, when enemies are resistant to cold damage, or when we are dealing with an encounter when we are mainly dealing with energy-based damage and our Rage ability isn’t as effective.

Speaking of energy damage, we look to add some options for resistance in this category and gain some additional reactive damage by picking up Fire Shield for our spell selection. With both Armor of Agathys and Fire Shield active, we can deliver a total of 20+2d8 reactive damage for an average of 29 each time we are hit so long as Agathys is still up. If we’re in combat against a creature that does Fire or Cold damage, and we have the wherewithal to apply Fire Shield to help deflect this damage, our combat tankishness also gets a boost.

Level 9 — 18 Strength, Counterspell, Wall of Fire

At level 9 with get another ASI. If we don’t have Gauntlets of Ogre Power or a Belt of Giant Strength by this time, we boost our Strength to 18. If we do have one of these highly desirable items, we can either increase our Dexterity to 14 and gain some much-needed AC, or we can increase our Charisma to 18 to further buff our spells. I’m more partial to option 2, but you do you.

Assuming no magical Strength enhancement, the ASI boost to 18 gives us 2d6+7 damage with our Greatsword when we Rage, 2d6+17 if we use our Great Weapon Master feature. Solid. Now our NOVA rounds are looking pretty strong at 123-153 if we’re hit once while Armor of Agathys is active, if we crit, and if we activate our Eldritch Smite on a critical hit. Adding such a high damage potential on top of our already impressive tankishness is pretty amazing to say the least. Though our 2 slots from Warlock make such NOVAs a clutch choice as we decide to unload a lot of our available resources into an admittedly powerful combination.

Using Eldritch Versatility, we might switch Shatter to Counterspell. We are heavy on fire-based magic. However, our ability to use Eldritch Blast does provide us with a force option to counter most damage resistances. I tend to want to have access to Counterspell by this level, so I’m going to recommend it for our Myra Helkey Gish.

Wall of Fire is an effective area denial spell.

Speaking of fire, we decide to double down on this particularly hot elemental damage type by gaining access to Wall of Fire. We probably stole this spell from some devils somewhere. So let’s use it wisely to divide up our foes during a clutch moment.

One caveat — if we’re in the lower planes on a hunt for fiendish souls to power our magic, fire becomes less effective. So we may instead want to keep Shatter and take the wonderful area denial spell that is Sickening Radiance if our Myra is out to go get the fiends.

Level 10 — Devil’s Sight, Synaptic Static

At level 10 we gain access to 5th level spells. I’m not super jazzed about our options. But picking up some non fire AOE damage seems like a good choice to me. So I’m going to recommend Synaptic Static — providing us with tough to resist psychic damage and a nice debuff against monsters with even just a little jot of Intelligence. We also gain another Eldritch Invocation. Since we’re stealing powers from fiends, we now pick up the wonderful Devil’s Sight granting us 120 feet of Darkvision that also ignores magical darkness.

Gaining fifth level spell slots also boosts our signature Armor of Agathys to 25 THP. Combined with our base HP of 77, we have 102 effective HP for most encounters. Rage grants us resistance to physical attacks and our Fire Shield can give us resistance to cold or fire, two very common damage types. Our Dark One’s Blessing grants 12 THP when we bring creatures to 0 HP which we now do rather often given our sweet collection of offensive abilities. We can also boost our reactive damage to 25+2d8 for an average of 34. Our Armor of Agathys typically lasts through three or more hits while raging. So we can expect to do upwards of 75-102 reactive damage over the lifespan of Agathys.

Level 11-13 — Fiendish Resilience, Circle of Death, 18 Charisma, Lifedrinker

Reaching level 11, we are now a level 10 Warlock and we access another trait from our name curse (err… Fiend Patron). This trait — Fiendish Resilience — grants us one resistance of our choice at the end of a short or long rest. I’m partial to fire, necrotic, cold or lightning resistance considering we already have access to Rage. This extra resistance pairs nicely with our ability to cast Fire Shield. Yet another helpful addition to our tankish suite. For our level 11 spell choice I’m going to suggest Dispel Magic. It adds still more versatility to our suite. Since we’re getting another spell slot next level, this spell can be pretty clutch. For us, it’s more potent than your typical dispel, as it’s always upcast to level 5.

Level 12 grants us our first Mystic Arcanum. For it we take the very large AOE that is Circle of Death. This spell gives us a huge 60 foot radius area in which we inflict 8d6 necrotic damage. It’s like a gigantic necrotic Fireball. Speaking of Fireball, we can now also cast three of these bad boys at level 5 for 10d6 damage on top of our Circle of Death. Blasting isn’t our main schtick. But our spell choices enable us to still provide powerful blast support when we need to.

By level 13 we’ve hit level 12 in Warlock and gained another ASI. We use it to boost our Charisma to 18 granting us a +4 bonus. As we now lob three Eldritch Blasts, we can do 3d10+12 total damage if all hit. Yet another arrow in our quiver of versatility. Boosting Charisma also fuels our newest Eldritch Invocation — Lifedrinker, which adds our Cha bonus to our Pact Weapon attacks as necrotic damage. Our melee attacks using our Pact Weapon now deal 2d6+9 total damage, 2d6 +11 when we Rage, and up to 2d6 +21 if we use our Great Weapon Master ability to add 10 damage. Pretty badass.

Level 14-17 — Crown of Stars, Hurl Through Hell, Maddening Darkness, Witch Sight, 20 Strength

Level 14 grants us our second Mystic Arcanum. We use it to choose the amazing Crown of Stars. Now we have a ranged bonus action attack that we can use without concentration. This gives us another spell we can cast pre-Rage and use while we Rage. The damage from Crown of Stars at 4d12 is considerable. If we are outside of Rage, this ranged option adds to our already impressive Eldritch Blast. When we wish to, we can buff both of these effects with Hex for a total of 4d12+4d6+3d10+12 or 68.5 average damage per round if all attacks land. Wof!

With the arrival of level 15, we access our final Fiend Warlock feature — Hurl Through Hell. Now, when we hit a creature with any attack, we can take it out of combat until the end of our next turn and inflict 10d10 psychic damage to it if the creature is not a fiend. It’s like a free no-save one-turn banishment combined with a boatload of psychic damage to non-fiends. My fluff for Myra’s RP of this power is that the fiends trapped in her shadow shoot out to engulf the target, temporarily tearing it out of existence and pulling it into a deadly, hellish dimension only to spit it out again six seconds later. On single strike, if we land a critical hit, unload Eldritch Smite and Hurl Through Hell, we do 4d6+12d8+10d10+21 (if we are Raging and if we use Great Weapon Master) or 134 average damage. Our NOVA round damage including Armor of Agathys and Fire Shield is now 224 average. This on a build primarily optimized for HP and THP tanking.

Hell is deadly. So is being hurled into it unexpectedly.

Level 16 grants us our third Mystic Arcanum and we choose the amazing spell that is Maddening Darkness. With this spell, we fill a huge 60 foot radius area with magical darkness that damages opponents for 8d8 psychic each round all while lobbing Eldritch Blasts into the zone. Nasty.

Level 17 provides us with our fourth ASI which we use to boost our Strength to 20. Our Eldritch Blast jumps to 4d10+16 from all missiles. Finally, we pick up the Eldritch Invocation Witch Sight allowing us to see through shape-changing and illusions that mask physical forms. As an alternative, we might want to take Lance of Lethargy to make it more difficult for creatures to leave our damaging area denial zones like Maddening Darkness by reducing their movement by 10 feet when we hit them with our Eldritch Blasts.

Level 18-20 — Foresight, Eldritch Lance, 20 Charisma

Rounding out our high level gains, we pick up Foresight for our Mystic Arcanum at level 18. Foresight grants us advantage on our attack rolls, ability checks and saving throws while causing attacks against us to be made with disadvantage. This powerful buff lasts for eight hours and does not require concentration — meaning it is yet one more spell we can use while we Rage (against the dying of the light…). At level 19 we pick up Eldritch Lance to increase the range of our Eldritch Blast attacks to 300 feet. And last of all, by level 20, we boost our Charisma to 20. If we haven’t yet picked up Spirit Shroud, we go ahead an take it as another melee buff option when we are not Raging. We might need it for some long, high level adventuring days. Spirit Shroud also trades our resilience for some powerful potential NOVA rounds.

For both ranged and melee, we are looking pretty impressive. Our Eldritch Blast attacks now do 4d10+20, our melee attacks with our Greatsword now do 2d6+11 up to 2d6+23 while raging and using Great Weapon Master to boost our damage by 10.

Our NOVA critical round, while raging, hasn’t improved too much from level 14. But it has risen a bit to the hefty 8d6+12d8+10d10+2d8+72+25 or 242. With Spirit Shroud active, we can boost this NOVA by another 8d8 (subtracting 6 from the loss of Rage) for 272. Right up there with our other powerful NOVA builds.

Our tanking also remains very impressive when we do Rage. Our base Hit Points + THP are now 147+25 or 172. While raging, we take half damage from physical attacks. With Fiendish resilience, we’ve chosen one energy resistance. With Fire Shield, we can gain resistance to cold or fire. With Foresight active, attacks are made at disadvantage against us and we have advantage on our saving throws. When we bring a creature to 0 hit points with one of our powerful attacks, we gain 24 THP. The Barbarian has long since outpaced us on base hit points — averaging about 264. However, we surpass the Barb in average HP + THP if we reduce just four creatures to 0 HP over the course of one or more combats. Meanwhile, our strong suite of magical options provides us with powerful ranged attacks, various other buffs, deadly NOVAs, and amazing area denial and AOE damage effects.

Our girl — Myra Helkey as a Hellblade Tank — is one helluva Gish. She’s got badass RP mojo. As I mentioned from a start, I’ve played many versions of Myra throughout my career as gamer. I’ve enjoyed her so much I’ve even written a book about her. I hope your experience with this build version of Myra Helkey is as fantastic as mine has been. We will likely be returning to explore further D&D build renderings of this particular OC.

Love to you all and happy gaming!! 💙💛

1 Comment

by robertscribbler on March 21, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Gish Optimized

Tagged Armor of Agathys, Barbarian, Barbarian Hellblade, Build Guide, Character Optimization, D&D, Dungeons and Dragons, Explosive Pinata, Fiend Warlock, Gish, Hellblade, Myra Helkey, OC, Pact of the Blade, Rage, Tank, Warlock

Posted by robertscribbler on March 21, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/03/21/gish-optimized-6-the-barbarian-hellblade-tank-myra-helkey/

Helkey 34 — The Battle of Sunken Crag, Darkest Pit, Brightest Light

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!”

Mottle vibrates, Faehorn thrums. As one, the Bowflits lift into the sky. Their tails swing behind. From each sprouts a sheaf of four crystalline spines. They gleam like rainbows as they extend. The Bowflits fill with light. It starts at the tip of their horns and flows down into their heads. From the heads it runs through their spines. I can feel the force of it passing beneath me. By the time it reaches their tails, the light is intense, white. Brighter than that ugly Hell sun squatting behind us. Bolts of electricity leap from spine to spine as they ready. Then, the tails shoot forward and beneath the Bowflits’ bodies. The spines launch. Light spills from them as they separate. Bolts jump from one spine to the next as they fly. I’m reminded of a Tesla coil’s lightning watching the energy run from one spine to the next as all sixteen fall down in fury on that bridge above the black chasm. Upon that one devil lifting his glowing spear while riding his stupid golden Vortex.

The explosion covers the devil. It flings bodies and Vortexes high. It forms a wave of stone that ripples out from impact and across the bridge. Shattered stone flies in all directions. A tower near the explosion leans, groans, and then in a sound of ripping stone and rent metal falls into Sunken Crag. As the dust clears, I see a great crack opening in the bridge center. As it grows it devours devils by the score. More cracks radiate out. The bridge sways. It buckles. One side rises up, the other side lowers. This corkscrew is too much. A new series of cracks emerge. Rent into three pieces — the bridge falls. At least a hundred and fifty devils go with it. Falling down, down into that black pit. Some are caught in the webs beneath. Others simply fall and fall. Suddenly the pit swarms. Giant spider crab things the size of cars leap out to seize the falling devils. Great devil lizards, Stelo Mal like Bob from Mottle’s Grotto, lunge to return with more devils in their mouths. The monsters of the crag, awakened and finding their hunger, surge up from the pit. They take wounded and ready devil alike. The enmity between Stelo Mal and Scrabber — forgotten as they swarm together in a ravenous tide. They overwhelm the devils near Sunken Crag. The remaining devils flee — some back toward Overseer Tower, some out into the Wisp Fields where Featherstar is just now starting to pounce.

Elation swells within me. I hug Zaya. I raise my arm into the air. “Victory!!” I shout. “Victory!!” The Urdrake haroom. The Bowflits vibrate their horns. Our cries echo out over the battlefield. Then the Bowflits drop down upon the fleeing devils and join in the feasting on our foes among the Wisp Fields.

I can’t fucking believe it! We just kicked the shit out of Overseer Tower’s army!!

(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)

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

(Enjoying the story? Want to help support the continuance of this tale? Please like, share and subscribe.)

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by robertscribbler on March 17, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Angels, Battle in Hell, Bowflit, Climate, Devils, Earth, Fantasy, Heaven, Helkey, Hell, Mage, Magic, Mottle, Myra Helkey, Overseer Tower, Plumacats, Rebellion in Hell, Souls, Story, Sunken Crag, Urdrake, Vila, Wisps

Posted by robertscribbler on March 17, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/03/17/helkey-34-the-battle-of-sunken-crag-darkest-pit-brightest-light/

Helkey 33 — The Battle of Sunken Crag, Dark Web Revelations

My moment of blackout flickers away. Urgency fills my body like a thunderbolt. “Gotta move!” I groan, thinking of Overseer and the killer devils still left to fight. My eyes open, breaking through a cake of crud, sand, dried tears. Overhead, the Hell-sky is turning from green-black to puke-green. Weird crap the devils hurled up there forms its thin, black net above the sky of this baking hole of a world festering in its own stink and ruin. To my right, the horizon is a bruise over a red-eye sunrise. Featherstar’s tongue rasps over my belly. Each lick draws away some pain. Layers of healing spittle ooze into my wound. A mesh forms — knitting flesh, stopping the outward flow of blood. Mottle quivers as I fight back to consciousness. His fangs are in my neck — injecting restoring fluid through my veins. Another Mottle, Zephyr, drapes over my right arm. He’s also injecting his fluids — this time into my wrist. Zaya’s crouched beside me. She’s got her hand on my name curse. Her touch is warm, soft, electric. She must’ve flown back to me when she saw my fight with the devil leader. Keeps putting herself at too much risk. Like I’m one to effing talk.

I lever myself up. Glance around. Dead devils are strewn across the gully’s edge. Plumacats prowl among the bodies, devouring their chosen prey. Vortexes, their pained soul-warbles silent, lay derelict. Overhead, light streaks. Urdrake, still on the gully’s other side, fire their beams toward a handful of fleeing devils. Running away from them and toward me are Zel and Theri. Theri’s waving her arms. Zel’s shouting some words of concern. They’re both obviously freaked out by me laying on the ground. “I’m OK!” I try to shout toward them. My hoarse voice comes out like the croak of some giant effing frog. I’m pretty sure they can’t hear me. I turn my head, tracing the streaks of light emitting from the Urdrake’s fucking heads. Lumionous lances follow the running devils. An explosion blooms as a Vortex ruptures, hurling its devil rider about eighty feet as it careers across the Wisp Fields. I lever myself up to a sitting position. I look down, see a stain of black upon the ground beneath me. I’m sitting in a pool of my own fucking blood. “How long was I out?” I croak again.

Grimjaw, squatting on his haunches beside me, eyes scanning the destruction surrounding us, lets out a rumbling purr of assurance. “Only moments, father,” he says. “You took down the devil streak’s leader. But his treacherous spine nicked you.” He blinks his large eyes. It’s effing weird being reassured by the big predator. His tiger-like jaws drip with gore. His last devil kill. Maybe some of his last meal.

I shove myself off the ground. Zephyr releases, then flaps off to his Plumacat. The vibration he sends behind him — an exultation at my rising to my feet. I waver, grab for Perry-Fucin-A, take an orange-flavored chug of the fizzy water that keeps replenishing in my Jesus-curse bottle. I’m crazy-thirsty. The hot water isn’t as refreshing as it could be. But this is Hell. I’ll take what I can get. A moment before the flask empties, I pull it away from my lips, letting the fizzy water refill. My waist tinges with pain. I look down. My white fiery phoenix T-shirt is now covered in multi-colored crud — yellow sulfur crap, brown and purple dirt, black and red blood, the off-white mesh of Plumacat spittle. I guess I could’ve picked a color other than white for Hell. But what this fuck, this isn’t a fashion show. My wound is clearly visible through a hole in my shirt. The stuff Featherstar spat-licked over it covers and fills the broken skin and what must be a deep gash. I poke it. It’s rough on the outside, squishy and wet on the inside. It throbs with my heartbeat. As I look, I can kinda see it drawing my flesh together.

“Fucking gross! Cool!” I exclaim. I can’t help myself. Body stuff is always weird. But spit that can heal you is also pretty goddamn cool. I take a breath, drag a somewhat clean patch of my shirt across my eyes to clear them of crud, then look out across the battlefield. Five feet away from me is the devil leader’s dead body. His nasty axe is embedded in the ground ten feet away. His Vortex careened past us and now rests at the gully’s bottom. I draw my moonshadow blade from the air. It never went away. Even after I lost consciousness. My energetic vessel, continuously filling with a deluge of wisp energy, keeps it powered up. Slicing down, I rupture the devil leader’s worb. Wisps flood up the blade in a bright wash of light then shift into my name curse or shadow. A fucking hundred and forty four all come from this one devil’s worb. Sixty three bright wisps, eighty one dark. My shadow swarms. My name curse spits out a second roman candle. Three hundred and fucking nine wisps and I’m responsible for every frigging one. Eighty bright wisps, two hundred and twenty nine dark. I feel like I’m standing on a volcano of magical potential. My energetic vessel surges. I’m gonna need fucking all of it.

I turn. Dead devils are all around. This devil leader’s force of about fifty — destroyed. Its scattered remnants are falling to a nearby barrage of Urdrake light flashes. Further off, I can see more lights lancing through the dawn. Zorfang’s force is still raining his laser-like volleys on the scorpions. One is derelict, burning. The others are wandering, hurling their massive Hell balls in random directions. The small force of about ten Vortexes that surrounded these scorpions are further off, fleeing back toward Overseer Tower. I pump my fist in the air. “Fuckin A! Zorfang did it!”

My eyes follow the retreating Vortexes. In the new light of Hell’s dawn, I can see them making toward a bridge overwatched by wicked towers. The bridge crosses a wide and gaping chasm. Its dark inside — full of creeping shadows. Sunken Crag is what Theri and Zel called it. Looks crazy-nasty. On the bridge’s far side, the faint outlines of more lumbering scorpions waver through a pollution haze of Vortex exhaust. The rest of Overseer’s might on its way to crush us. Dropping my eyes, I shift focus back to my immediate surroundings. A few prone bodies of Plumacats and Mottles are scattered among the dead clusters of devils. My heart makes this jarring lurch as I absorb the losses. They call me father. I feel like a father. In a way I am. My magic and Zaya’s gave them this desperate new life.

I turn to Featherstar, lay a hand on her heavily-muscled shoulder. Her feathers rustle beneath my touch. They’re both tough and soft. A mix of down and armor. “Featherstar,” My voice chokes despite my efforts to keep it clear. “Gather the wounded and dead. Tell the wounded to shelter in this gully.” I point down and behind me. “Leave two Plumacats and a Mottle to help them. Have these three also set aside our dead. Separate from the devils. I also want them to collect the devils’ worbs. We’ll free those wisps and honor our lost when we win this.” I’m trying to convey confidence. I’m pretty fucking certain we’re unlikely to win. But there’s no way we’ll win if we don’t believe. Zephyr lands on Featherstar, they leap-fly off, gather with a cluster of joined Mottles and Plumacats, then disperse to get it done.

Positions of Resister and Devil forces during the Battle of Sunken Crag, Dark Web Revelations

By the time Featherstar’s returned, I’ve made a rough assessment of our present state. Looks like we have seven dead and six wounded. Minus the three I’m leaving to take care of our casualties, that leaves us with sixty three Mottles, Plumacats, and Urdrakes, including me, Zaya, Theri and Zel. Zorfang’s thirteen still seem to be going strong. So our total effective force is seventy six. Peering out beyond Sunken Crag, the movement I’m glimpsing hints as hundreds.

Zel and Theri clamber up the gully to me. “You all right?” Zel asks. “We saw you go down. Looked pretty bad.”

“I’ll live,” I reply with a half-smile. “For now.”

“That’s a relief,” Theri says, then reaches a hand out to pat my shoulder. She seems to be assuring herself I’m still live and in the flesh.

“Thanks for the worry.” I say, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. I motion to the apparent horde of devils in the distance. “When we decided to start a rebellion against Overseer, I didn’t realize we’d be taking it all on in just one day.”

Zel laughs nervously and scratches a horn. Theri simply shrugs. “They’re pretty militarized. Plus they probably sensed your magic. That got them really riled. Then, well, we did this.” She motions around her at the carnage. “You linked up with a Vila and raised an army of forbidden forms. Not only is that incredible. It’s something that’s not happened in Minos for hundreds of years. Yeah. They’re riled.”

“Indeed they are,” I say.

“You got a plan?” Zel asks. “You gotta have a plan.”

“I’m pretty sure you asked me this before.”

“That was like minutes ago. Things change quick.”

This makes me laugh. “I always have a plan,” I say as I continue to scan the devil force. It’s mostly true. Mostly. What’s more true is I’m always coming up with hair brained ideas. But I gotta project confidence. I look down at the fucking Vortexes. I’m concocting another right about now. Yeah. We’re probably gonna need those awful things again. At least for a hot minute. “Speaking of… Do you know how many devils that fucking tower can throw at us?”

Theri turns back toward Overseer. “Maybe five hundred or so. Though I bet they’ll keep back a tower guard of about a hundred.”

“So you’re saying we’ve got like three hundred of those fuckers coming at us now? Complete with more scorpions and Vortex riders?”

Theri shrugs. “Probably. That’s the more or less of it.”

Holy Jesus fuck! I grit my teeth, biting back my curse. “Right. Well that makes my decision easy then. Featherstar!” I shout hoarsely to my Plumacat leader. She pads over. The other Plumacats have finished their victory feasting. The Mottles on their backs are quiet. My team of nine Urdrake scrabble up from the gully. “Good, I see I’ve got everyone’s attention.” I motion to the derelict Vortexes. “It looks like we’ve managed to capture about thirty five of these working nasties. I want everyone to grab one. Pair off. Mottle — I want you to share my learning about Vortex riding with the other Mottles. Then have them share that thinkum with everyone. Do it all in five minutes!” The Plumacats and Urdrake pad off to collect the bikes. I’m concerned about the Urdrake’s hulking forms, ungainly hands, and stubby legs. But with the Mottles helping, maybe my Urdrake can ride.

It takes them about three minutes to gather the thirty three working bikes. If we all pair off with a Mottle, that still leaves four behind. I turn to Grimjaw. “We don’t have quite enough. That’s OK. Your scouts are quick when teamed with Mottles. I want your six to follow us. But be fast!” I glance over to the scouts. They’d been fortunate and not suffered any losses.

“Yes father!” Grimjaw growls, then turns to his group of hunters. They line up. Ready. His response is pretty enthusiastic. Where he seemed to look down on me about an hour before, he now appears to have cemented his trust in my leadership. I’m guessing him watching me kill that devil leader in single combat might’ve clenched it.

I walk up to my chosen Vortex. It’s got devil’s blood splattered all over. My headache starts up again the moment I hear those poor souls wailing in the foul machine’s worb combustion chamber. I’m not happy about the damned stinking thing. But we need to move fast and this is all I can come up with. We’ll have to learn to do something else in future. I hate these machines fucking fierce. I jump on, turn to my company. “Mount up! We ride to those scorpions!” I shout, pointing to the machines careening back and forth about four miles away.

My company clambers onto the Vortexes. They’re awkward at first. The Urdrakes stumble. A few topple off, remount. Their Mottles stretch bodies wide to help them balance. If things weren’t so urgent, it’d be comical. Kinda like a bunch of mini Godzillas trying to ride a kid’s bike. At last, after about a minute of scuffling around, we’re off. The worb’s howls rip at my ears. I grit my teeth. We’re maybe six, seven minutes away at this pace. As I ride, I drag my hand through omnis scientia. Zorfang’s no longer huffing. He’s stationary just north of the Razor Hills and about five miles south of those scorps in the Wisp Fields. I guess he needed to take a breather. “Zorfang!” I shout through the sensor.

“Yes father!” He harooms.

“Stop shooting at those scorpions! Looks like you got ’em! More nasties are coming at us from Overseer! I want you to move northwest! Get back into some hills and keep an eye on the bridge crossing Sunken Crag! It’s that big bridge to the north crossing that massive canyon! I might send someone to help you in a bit! Now get going!”

“We move!” Zorfang shouts.

Four victories against the devils so far. But the big fight’s still ahead. I focus on keeping my motley crew together as we angle in toward the scorpions. Glancing over at the horde of devils boiling out of Overseer in the hot Hell dawn, I crack a half-grin. The bastards must be really freaking out about now. Let them.

********

New day falls hot on an Overseer Tower trembling with the force of Regina Rouge’s rage. The two Dark Psychics, one balled on the floor, flayed and burned by the lash of her scourge, the other quivering in fear, are useless. Too blinded by religious zeal to give her an accurate report on this impossible mage. The pair of doltish guards at the door, casting their emotionless stares out and past her, only annoy her further. A simpering Uktena — Trandix — whirls its red serpent body through the air about twenty feet off, too cowardly to face her. She wheels on Reiza, the second Dark Psychic. Her Holocaust Scourge roars with heat, withers the air, her worb crackles as it grinds down scores of souls to power it. She drinks in the wisps’ pain, revels in Reiza’s terror. Paltry balm.

“Now, Reiza…” she says as she caresses the Dark Psychic’s long, thin horn. It is delicate. Like an antenna. So easy to break. And yet sensitive, capable of channeling wisp energy, of projecting senses far, of seeing through the eyes of other Dark Psychics. “… Show me how this mage defeated my Lavross. Your vision will not flinch. You will supply better answers. Or…” she looks down at Orloxx.

On the ground, in a pool of his own blood, Orloxx whimpers. His pained convulsions cause scorched skin to crackle. The sweet smell of his half-cooked flesh rises to Reiza’s nostrils. He doesn’t dare look down at Orloxx. There’s no help for him. Whether Reiza shares his fate hangs on the whims of the enraged Regina. Reiza takes a breath, extends a hand to Regina. “As my Lady directs. Take my hand and embrace the Web’s darkness. Travel to see what Asmodeus’s threads have witnessed,” the ancient ritual provides comfort. Its words, spoken countless times throughout his order, provide a brief illusion of normal. His horns buzz as his worb grinds out the soul energy needed to power his diabolical magic.

Regina flicks her scourge at him. Flames tease over his skin. His worb’s innate defenses bend back. He lets out a whimper as pain shoots through him. He knows there’s nothing he can do to prevent Regina from lashing him down into a smoldering lump. His order will petition Asmodeus to punish her for mistreating Orloxx. But it will do him no good if she also turns her scourge on him. So he ignores the pain, then grinds down his captured wisps again. In their outcry, he begins to conjure the Asmodeus-blessed vision of the Web.

Regina, at last satisfied Reiza will try to act as commanded, accepts the vision. But instead of taking his hand, she tightens her grip around his frail horn. Reiza gasps at this personal violation, glances down at Orloxx, says nothing. “Now show me!” Regina commands.

The Dark Psychic’s worb wails. Cries of captive souls and a flood of devil-magic washes over them, casting their senses into the great Minosian Web. A filigree of connections spreading between thousands of Dark Psychics scattered over Minos, this Web carries the sight of Asmodeus and his Hell Lords out across Hell’s lands, over waters, through its skies, even crossing time. The strands of energy running between each Psychic drink up surrounding events like a world-spanning eye. The Web is also the heart of the Dark Psychics’ faith. In which their made-Web and its informant-devout grants Asmodeus god-like omniscience — placing them both as his priests and as arbiters of reality on Minos.

Regina, guided by such a Dark Psychic, allows her senses to be pulled back in time along the Web. Lets this fanatical devotee of Asmodeus bring her sight to the pre-dawn Wisp Fields. They stare down on a gully. Watch the flashes of magical sparks shooting out from the mage, glowing brightly, blinding Talith’s Lance.

“Closer,” Regina commands. “I want to see that mage up close and personal. I want to breathe his breath. Smell his air. See his magic flow! Now do it!” Orloxx had brought her back to this point. Then, for some reason, the fanatic turned into a blithering fool. Refusing her commands, he backed out. The punishment she gave for defying her orders was the least that he deserved. He’d cost her precious time as moments bled by. She turns her furious spectral gaze, cast out through the Web’s structure, onto Reiza.

The Dark Psychic feels the heavy force of her anger through the Web. He rushes to obey. Reiza begins to focus the Web to bring their view closer. Flinches as he sees the mage, then freezes. “It is not possible! This is Blasphemy!” He cries.

Regina tightens down on the Dark Psychic’s horn. “Stop your limp-brained bleating. Now, show me what Orloxx would not. Show me what he was too weak and fanatical to reveal, or so help me I will burn you to a cinder,” Regina commands.

The pain in Reiza’s horn as Regina grips and twists jars his connection with the Great Web. The spirit of Asmodeus flowing through its strands around him flickers. In front of him, the impossible stares him directly in the face. It spits at him — defiling everything he thinks he knows. Yet unlike Orloxx, Reiza isn’t willing to die for his dogma. He grits his teeth, lifts his hand, then allows the Web to carry Regina’s sight closer.

Regina gasps as she sees the little mage. A girl! Her mage energy not even yet fully formed. Sparks fly from a sigil on her arm. An impossibly large wave of magic bursts out. It washes through the Web. Leaving her stunned for a moment. Again, Regina cannot understand how the mage is displaying so much power. Again, she feels a great, gnawing hunger to possess this grand wisp. She focuses her sight on that wisp and… RECOILS. The girl’s wisp is certainly large and powerful. But it does not account for all the magical energy she’s emitting. Not even a fraction. As Regina pushes forward, she can see that wisp interlaced with a great internal structure running out from an illegible sigil in her arm. It creates, inside her, something like a full-body worb. But this worb is just a vessel. It contains none of the grinding structures devils use to milk wisp energy. Within this worb are numerous wisps. They are prey spirits from Earth. Regina’s eyes shift and she sees the girl’s shadow. Inside are various prey wisps and then she sees them — devils’ wisps! The girl has captured both prey wisps and devils’ wisps together. Their energy is feeding a massive vessel of energy shaped like a great chalice beneath the girl’s own larger wisp. From this, she flings the powerful explosions of magic Regina is now watching.

Regina doesn’t know how to process what she’s seeing. “That girl is a devil and a mage? She uses something like a worb?” She asks Reiza. “Is this what Orloxx couldn’t show me?”

Reiza foams at the mouth. His spectral body along the Web twitches. “It is not POSSIBLE,” Reiza proclaims, his eyes rolling in madness. “This sight is a blasphemy!”

Regina’s gut churns. She feels an unexpected tinge of sympathy for the Dark Psychic. All in Hell were devoted to Asmodeus, fanatical in the belief that devil-kind are exceptional due to their worbs. That worbs grant them the special privilege of preying on and profiting from the souls of lesser beings. Yet this mage — supposed to be the most desirable of devils’ prey — used something like a worb not for predation but for protection.

“Show me more!” Regina commands. The sight is gut-churning. Sets off a cascade of fear that runs through her in a novel jolt.

“You do not want to see. The wrongness!” Reiza is arching back, rebelling against what he senses further down the Web. Regina’s flick of her Holocaust Scourge in response is almost half-hearted. Reiza, propelled by another wave of pain, at last relents and pushes their Web-meshed senses forward in time. Regina watches the mad play of the girl’s wisp magic combine with the assault of forbidden forms — Plumacats, Mottles — and a pair of Blue Devils to slay Talith’s Lance. The display is brutal, stunning. Plumacats devouring dead devils on the lands they rule, the mage defiling worbs with her obscenly powered sword of light and shadow. An excess of wisps flooding back out, free. Then, Regina flinches as a Vila flies up to the mage, touches her hand in what looks like a lover’s caress, then draws deep from the mage’s housed wisp energy.

“That Vila is using wisps!!” Reiza rants as the sending from the Web freezes yet again.

“I can see that you moron! Now shut your mewling mouth and show me the rest!” Regina doesn’t have to flick her scourge again. Reiza’s flesh is already raw and pained from the first gentle lash. She can smell the fear rising off him. For once, she praises Asmodeus for the cowardice of her subject. With hands balled and eyes closed, Reiza pushes the vision forward. The Vila drinks deep from the mage’s magic. Thunderbolts rise around them as the Vila shapes more than forty forbidden forms from the wisps ripped out of the devils’ and Vortexes’ worbs. All in an instant! Some wisps still remain. Ten of these are from the dead devils themselves. With a shout and another flash of lightning, the Vila transfers these wisps into the worb-like structures within the mage’s shadow.

The vision continues, as devastation orbs from Regina’s scorpions begin to rain down and the mage gathers her force to flee.

“Enough!” Regina says. “I have seen enough!”

Reiza whimpers in relief as he backs them out from the Great Web. She lets go of him. He crumbles to the floor, simpering. “Thank you Lady. You are merciful.” He doesn’t sound at all sincere. Regina doesn’t care. Her thoughts are whirling.

“That mage. So young. Not even ripe for the plucking. Her wisp, still not full-grown. And yet she possesses a thing like a worb that lets her take wisps,” Regina whispers.

“Blasphemy! Great Asmodeus, it is Blasphemy!” Reiza shouts as his body lurches back and forth on the balcony floor. The guards’ gaze, which was set far off, now falls directly on Regina. Their faces display naked horror at her words.

Regina ignores them. To keep control of the situation, she must know the actual facts. Succumbing to the comforts of belief right now could be lethal. Letting her subjects steep in their shock and denial, she paces back toward the balcony as she speaks. “Some of these wisps are devils. So she even captures us.” The words sound so odd, so foreign, spilling from her mouth. But she can’t stop herself from talking. This discovery compels her with its awfulness to continue. “The mage holds wisps without hurting them. The wisps give energy freely to help her. A Vila uses the mage’s wisp energy to make forbidden forms — en masse.”

Those on the balcony with her are stunned into silence.

Regina looks out over the Wisp Fields. Beneath her, Dressler’s three Centuries have formed and are moving out toward Sunken Crag. Beyond, Lavross’s force lays ruined and defeated. A Lance of Vortexes fleeing back toward Dressler and four defunct scorpions — all that remains. “Now I know how she beat them.”

Trandix flies down to her cautiously. “My lady, if I may suggest, perhaps we should send word to Lanthver?”

Regina whirls on Trandix. “Why would we ask for aid from our chief rival? He’ll only exploit our weakness.”

“He is closest. The most likely to reach us should we…” The Uktena trails off. Surprisingly, his hint at a possible defeat doesn’t anger her. Regina considers.

“Ready my carriage,” she says at last. “If Dressler fails, we shall not throw ourselves on the mercy of Lanthver. We will instead retire to our estates in Mechanum where we will petition Asmodeus himself. This mage is…” She chooses her words carefully. “She represents a threat to all devil-kind. Hell’s High Lord must know of this. In the meantime, we shall ensure that we do not need to withdraw. That we…” she pauses again. “That we capture her and take her to Asmodeus ourselves for a gift. A prize.”

Those on the balcony continue to stare at her silence. The relinquishing of a mage wisp to another, even to Asmodeus, is a rare event. Yet Regina knew what they yet did not. This mage is too young to be taken. An unformed wisp like hers would not yield the same power in a worb. And the power she commanded was mostly not her own. The mage had stolen it from its rightful overseers — the devils.

“No. We shall cow this interloper. She shall bring her to heel. We shall present her to Asmodeus as our gift. When we do, we shall be celebrated as heroes across Minos!”

“It shall be so, great Lady,” Trandix hisses.

“Then go. Prepare my carriage.” Regina turns to Reiza. He’s finally standing again. Only lightly burned, he seems to have gathered himself well enough. “And you — send to Dressler. Tell him that our mage is a girl whose wisp is only aged seventeen years. Still unripe by its scent. Tell him to slay all her companions, then to bring her to me in chains. Tell him also that she has a Vila and the ability to rapidly increase her numbers. That she will assault him with a large group of forbidden forms. About eighty now. Possibly double that if she uses the wisps she finds.”

Reiza grits his teeth and closes his eyes against these uttered blasphemies. “And shall I tell him how the mage does this?”

“No. No need to disturb Dressler in his work. If he asks, just say that she uses a novel form of curse magic.”

“Thank you, Lady,” Reiza says in relief.

“Very well. Then do it.”

Reiza begins to close his eyes to access Asmodeus’s great web. It seems somehow defiled to him now after the horror it just bore witness to.

“Oh, and Reiza. Tell Dressler not to fail me.” She motions to the prone form of Orloxx, now still in death. “I will not take failure of any kind against this mage lightly.”

********

Dressler rides his gilded Vortex amidst the great gathering of Overseers forces. Its twin worbs wail with an excess of gathered power. His own worb swells with inky tendrils of dark power. In his hand, a spear of Hell glass. An obsidian colored metal mined directly from the heart of Infernian volcanoes.

Around him mass three Centuries. Each devil under his command torn from their frantic wisp harvesting efforts and shifted suddenly to an equally frantic response to a mage’s attack. The notion of a mage attacking a stronghold like Overseer Tower rankles. Mages are hunted. They are prey. Certainly strong prey capable of resisting. Yet they were unable to stand against the might of Hell. Made to flee when faced with the overwhelming force of Asmodeus’s power — his Curse Riders, his mighty millions upon millions of devils — each commanding the diabolical magic of multiple enslaved souls housed and bound within their worbs.

Not this mage. This mage. This girl, if the servile Dark Psychic, Slevelth, riding beside him were to be believed. Somehow, she’d gathered together a large force of forbidden forms. Somehow, she’d managed to use them in a coordinated series of attacks and ambushes to annihilate Lavross’s Century in a rampage through the Wisp Fields. Dressler knew well the dangers presented by forbidden forms. He was old enough to remember their attacks and the rebellions that spanned Minos for hundreds of years following Asmodeus’s first rise to Hell’s throne nearly three thousand years ago. Their attacks were brutal. Dressler blinks as he remembers the devils slain by the thousands. Consumed as Plumacats, Urdrake, Mottles, Vila, Bowflits and other, rarer forms lashed out against Asmodeus’s new dominion. Back then, there were no mages. Now, a mage had somehow taken command of these ancient enemies.

“Regina and Reiza touched the great Web,” Slevelth drawls. “They say the mage commands around eighty forbidden forms. They say she has a Vila and that somehow she can make more of them. Regina says to expect up to a hundred and sixty or more by the time we engage.”

Dressler scoffs. Slevelth has been blithering on like this for about five minutes. Half of what he says sounds like raving. “She says there is only one Vila?” He asks the cleric evenly.

Slevelth blinks his toad-like eyes, smacks his fat lips, seems incredulous. “Indeed. That’s what I’ve been telling you. It defies everything we know to be true.”

Dressler nods. “Perhaps our dear lady has taken some leave of her senses in the face of this unprecedented catastrophe.”

Slevelth extends a hoary finger covered in golden rings to his mouth as he considers. “Reiza wouldn’t intentionally misrepresent…”

“Yes. But this is battle. First reports are often confused.” Dressler snaps. He runs a hand through his blonde crop of hair sprouting up from glossy red-black skin, then tips his horns toward Slevelth indicating a deference to this cleric’s station that is lacking in any sincerity. “Your great Web may be perfectly accurate. But what others see through it is still subject to interpretation.” Dressler had been on the wrong end of the moronic clerics’ ‘interpretations’ numerous times in the past. He often found what the Dark Psychics saw and shared simply reflected their own biases.

“True,” Slevelth answers, scoops a bit of meat from between his teeth, considers it, then flicks it away. “Though I do not understand what would make Regina or Reiza give such reports. If inaccurate, they are vile blasphemies.”

Dressler pauses. “Yes. But fear of death in battle is often fodder for insane utterances. We shall work with what we know. If a scout can confirm these reports of sudden mass generation of forbidden forms, then we will act accordingly. Until then, let us not be paralyzed by fear of a phantom force that does not exist.”

Slevelth licks his lips, smacks them, draws a living squibble from the vat sloshing about on a chain hanging from his bulbous waist, shoves it into his mouth, bites down on the delicacy. “You are the battle commander…” CRUNCH, “…for a reason. I defer to your…” CRUNCH, “…illustrious experience.” Slevelth has made speaking with his mouth full a kind of grotesque performance art. Dressler had long-since grown used to averting his gaze from the spectacle of masticated bits of various creatures swirling around Slevelth’s words.

Dressler gives a stiff nod. “We shall take the Wisp Fields,” he says to Slevelth. “Send Gormak’s Century out ahead toward the rebels’ main group to the south. Only Vortexes. Keep his scorpions with the command base here. Tell Gormak to fix those rebels in place. Ready all our scorpions to destroy Lavross’s derelict scorpions once we get in range. Then have them hurl a suppression spread against the Urdrake near the Razor Hills. I want a flight of Uktena to ride ahead with Gormak. When he closes, I want them to jump in and use their poison bites to incapacitate the mage and her Vila. Then do the same with any others in the rebel command. Keep them alive for questioning. Kill the rest. Forward!” He says the last with a salute.

Slevelth rolls his bulbous eyes back into his toad head as he dutifully relays Dressler’s orders. Gormak’s Century roars off toward the bridge crossing at Sunken Crag. Dressler keeps his command center in the cluster of twelve scorpions. Around him swirl two Vortex Centuries held in reserve. Once they cross Sunken Crag, he’ll deploy these on the mage’s flanks. Dressler grudgingly admits this girl mage had surprised them so far. But now that her hand is revealed, her forces visible and counted, there is no escape for her. No way out.

“And Slevelth…”

“Yes, Overseer Dressler,” Slevelth hisses around the slobber in his mouth.

“If you will consult your Web to confirm the mage’s numbers. To make sure she doesn’t have any more hidden surprises, that would be most helpful.” Dressler doubted there was much truth to Regina and Reiza’s fearful ravings. But the mage had somehow concealed a sizeable force in the Wisp Fields and Razor Hills. Perhaps Slevelth could provide him with more reliable information instead of these rumors and ravings coming from Overseer. Not that he blamed Regina. Forbidden forms were well outside the context of such a young Hell Lord. Even the older devils, like him, retained only faded memories of those earlier, troubled years of Asmodeus’s first reign.

“Indeed, consider it done. All for the glory of Asmodeus.”

“For the glory of Asmodeus,” Dressler says evenly.

********

Corviss crawls, mostly blind, through the hot sands. Minutes before, he heard the loud Vortexes rush by. Saw Lavross out of the corner of one eye. Tried to jump. Landed in a nearby mound of scree. Now, with Lavross nowhere his Urdrake-ruptured senses can detect, he curses as he scrabbles toward the scorpions.

“Lavross!” He hisses despondently. At least the great machines are still lumbering toward him. He pops up onto a rise, spins his head to bring the great machines into his peripheral vision, then quivers in fear. No longer moving toward him, they lurch under a barrage of flashes coming from the Urdrake. The beasts must be closer now to effectively bring their heating and blinding rays down on the machines and their devil operators. Corviss can barely make out a smaller group of Vortexes beneath the scorpions. He’s gathering himself to scrabble toward them when they turn tail and flee.

“No!” Corviss hisses in despair. Then, in the distance, he hears the sound of approaching Vortexes. Glancing again at the scorpions, Corviss sees that Urdrake barrage has stopped. Did Lavross defeat the mage? Corviss spins toward the approaching Vortexes. They are loud. Numerous. It must be Lavross. Who else could it be?

********

I drive my stinking, wailing Vortex at the head of my motley formation. We shoot away from the gully and its carnage. The Wisp Fields surround us. Zaya, sitting in my lap, is drawing in what wisps we come across. They trail behind in a swarm of lights. About thirteen. But more join with each passing minute. My energetic vessel’s again past half full. I’ve got a big jolt coming in from all the extra wisps now huddled in the protective magic provided by my name curse from my battles along the gully. The three hundred and nine blaze like a liquid sun within me. There’s gonna be literal fucking Hell to pay for those devils at Overseer once I figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do with all this extra magic.

Our company of awful, wailing, headache producing, lung wrecking Vortexes steadily closes in on the scorpions. They stumble about like confused monsters who’ve suddenly lost whatever terrible will impelled them. One lays smoldering on the ground. I can see their crews now. They scramble back and forth, doing this weird, blind man’s bluff, series of movements as they fumble at controls or turn in disoriented circles. Some lay still, shot down by the Urdrake lights even at extreme range.

We’re running in toward the scorpions from about two miles off when I hear a yowl from a Plumacat as it angles off from our company.

“What the fuck?” I say to myself, then shouting louder after the Plumacat, I yell — “Stick together!”

The Plumacat ignores me. I recognize it as the ornery Rarhquick. Go figure. It’s a fucking cat… velociraptor… bird… thing… You get the picture. Shooting out to the left about three hundred yards, the errant Plumacat stops, leans down, then picks up something that looks like a flailing red ribbon. I don’t know what I’m looking at for a second and then I realize it’s the fucking flying red snake I had the Urdrakes shoot at earlier. It must be. It’s covered all over in scorch marks. With a giant, fang-filled, grin and what I imagine must be a gigantic purr, the Plumacat mounts back onto its Vortex, then races toward me with his prize held high.

“What’s going on?” Zaya says to me from where she’s crouched between my arms as she peers out to look at the Plumacat.

“Goddamn,” I reply. “I think we just captured our first effing prisoner.”

(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)

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

(Enjoying the story? Want to help support the continuance of this tale? Please like, share and subscribe.)

1 Comment

by robertscribbler on February 26, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Angels, Bowflits, Climate Hell, Dark Psychics, Dark Web, Devils, Earth, Evil, Good, Heaven, Helkey, Hell, Mages, Magic, Mottles, Myra, Myra Helkey, Plumacats, Predators, Prey, Psychics, Regina Rogue, Urdrake, Vila

Posted by robertscribbler on February 26, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/02/26/helkey-33-the-battle-of-sunken-crag-dark-web-revelations/

Helkey 32 — Battle of Sunken Crag, Thunderbolts Rise

The Vortex’s warbling quiets as I pull up to the scattering of Hell-bikes. Moonshadow blade in hand, I leap from the Vortex. “Good riddance! Nasty thing!” I shout as I kick it over, slashing its worb in half. Two handfuls of wisps flow out in a viscous gush of fossil fuel crap. The wisps lift. Finally liberated from the worb. It lays broken on the ground. A dark sphere whose insides remind me of razors, geodes and reaction chambers. The wisps rise up. Sluggish. Beleaguered. Relieved. I run to another Vortex, cut its wisps free, then pivot to smash a devil’s worb, move on to the next. In a half minute of flurried activity, all twenty-odd worbs are broken. About a hundred wisps drift around me. I’m swimming in a soup of souls.

Plumacats pause in their devouring rampage. Their raptor gaze tracks me. I’m doing my best to ignore their feast. It sickens. A fierce justice. What did Grimjaw say? Something about preying on predators. I turn to Zaya, she’s right behind me, a hopeful expression overlays the desperation on her face. Her eyes reflect fire blazing from the meteor-like orbs rising from the distant scorpions, arcing toward my poor Urdrakes. They’re running flat out again. I can hear Zorfang’s raspy breathing through omnis scientia. All as out on the Wisp Fields, the distant Vortex-wail from the main group of devils grows louder. Though it’s still faint, I figure they’ll be on top of us in less than ten minutes.

I reach my hand out to Zaya. “Are you ready?”

Zaya takes a breath, sings a brief note to draw the collection of wisps in closer. “Yes.” The word is soft. Like telling a secret. She grabs my hand. Hers is so tiny. Fragile as a flower. I fold it into mine, focus on my energetic vessel. It’s nearly doubled in size since I last focused my mage sight upon it. Despite my excessive use of magic, it’s still three quarters full. More energy than I know what to do with. Except for this — liberating souls from goddamn devils. Gifting them with a second life and the ability to fight back. I feel the spark run between myself and Zaya as our energies merge. Mottle quivers on my back. He senses the energy too.

“Ready. Let’s make it right.”

Zaya smiles, sings words like the wind, the rain. Words I cannot understand, but in my mind I see them as the vital songs of glaciers. Of deep fjords. Of cold, teeming oceans. Zaya’s is the song of a living world. Not this tortured place — choking on its own poisoned spew and vomit. The sparks between us lift. My energetic vessel forms a wave of magical force. It explodes outward in streaks of lightning rising into the green Hell sky. Painting the pre-dawn night in an instant of white. Wisps around us are taken in by the flashes. They elongate, forming translucent glowing sacks that bulge into flesh. Feathers sprout. Horns and shells elongate or harden. Bat-like tapestries spread. The light fades. I’m momentarily blind. When my eyes adjust, ten new Urdrake, fifteen Mottles and eighteen Plumacats stand, flop, or crouch before me. Our force of thirty-seven has now grown to eighty. I shift my magical sight back to my energetic vessel. It’s still about a quarter full.

Zaya’s song continues. She took more than last time. I now have far more to give. She’s not using any of her own reserves. She’s alert, her bright eyes lighting up with the sparks of our magical embrace. Her song shifts, swirling in the dark wisps passed over by her music. They bleed into my shadow in a flood. It bulges, spouts tendrils, forms wicked shapes that would make for great Halloween costume fodder back home. Here in Hell, it’s more than a little freaky. Like my shadow’s about to eat me up. Maybe it wants to. One hundred and forty eight dark wisps now lurk behind me. Seventeen bright wisps dance in my name curse. My energetic vessel, now nearly empty after Zaya’s final use of my magic, begins to rapidly fill. I sway in the heat. Magic’s outrush has left me light-headed. The in-rush — buzzing.

I scan the gradual land depression where we stand. We’re somewhat hidden. Though I don’t think the oncoming devils got a direct view of what Zaya and I just did, they sure as Hell saw that light show. Shit’s going to be coming at us fast and hard now. I look at the new-formed as they stare back at Zaya and me with eyes filled with love and wonder. We don’t have time to talk it all out with them. I’ve got maybe a minute before I need to get everyone moving again. Suddenly, the scorpions light up, flinging four more Hell balls. These rise along a new path. I don’t have to glance for more than a moment to see they’re heading directly toward us. Yeah. They saw our magical lights all right. I’d hoped Zorfang would get into position in time to start attacking the scorpions by now. But he’s still running flat out from under the second volley of Hell balls.

I touch Mottle as I lurch back from my magical embrace with Zaya. I need you to get the other Mottles. Tell them to fly over to the new-formed. Give them as much of what we know as they can in about a minute. Do it on the run!

Mottle hesitates. You are weak, he thinks in his matter-of-fact way.

“Yes,” I reply out loud. “No help for it. Now go so you can get back to me fast.”

Mottle flits off. His leaving sets me reeling. I didn’t realize how much he was supporting me physically. Now I feel like I weigh about a thousand pounds. I can barely stand without him. Mottle lands on Zephyr. They both vibrate, calling in the other Mottles. All from our thirty seven fly over. The new-formed Mottles hesitate a moment and then respond to the vibration. Soon there’s a huge pile of Mottles all sharing their thought-touch. I turn to the non-Mottles.

“We gotta run.” I point to the sky at the meteors gradually rising. “That is our destruction. Featherstar! You gather the new-formed Plumacats, run to the end of that gully.” I point to the crevice from which our ambushing scouts emerged. “Wait for the rest of us to catch up. It’ll provide enough cover.” I hope it’ll provide enough damn cover. The crevice’s deeper portion is about a quarter mile away. Featherstar doesn’t hesitate, she nods acknowledgement, meow-talks a few commands to her group, then pairs up to guide the newformed and wounded as they run off together. The new-formed lope out on shaky legs, slowing them down. The two wounded Plumacats, now off their bikes, limp but manage to keep pace as healthy cats help them along. Their movement is still faster than I could run flat out. They’re Plumacats after all.

I shoo Theri and Zel along after them. They don’t have their nasty Vortex bikes anymore. So they’re going to have to haul ass to keep up with the Plumacats. They seem to realize this. After a quick glance between them, they’re off — trailing behind the sleek, quick predators. Zaya hovers near me. She’s blinking in confusion. I can tell she’s afraid but wants to hang back with me.

“What are you looking at?” I ask her. “Why aren’t you gone yet?”

Zaya approaches, touches my head. “But…” she trails off. She can see I’m swaying on my feet. She’s clearly worried about me and is terrified at the same time as the giant Hell balls gradually close in.

I grab her hand, touched by her concern despite myself. “I’ll be OK, Zaya. I’m a tough girl. Now go on. I want you with those Plumacats!” I motion to the swiftly receding black-feathered forms of the velociraptor-tigers. Zaya at last relents. With a sigh, she flies off, her iridescent wings forming a rainbow blur around her in the growing orange glow.

“You’d better be there!” she shouts over her shoulder as she flies off.

I blow out a sigh. What’s it about Zaya that makes me feel so… here? She’s got this unique ability to connect. To show care and concern. I shake my head, forcing my thoughts back to the present emergency. The Mottles have all finished their thought-transfer thing. As one, they flap off like a swarm of bats from their roost at eventide. Mottle returns to me. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Yeah. Hell is too goddamn hot without Mottle to keep me cool. I don’t even think I can breathe this foul air without him. I’ll need to work up some kind of magic to keep me standing at some point. I’m no friggin’ expert on healing magic like auntie Sadie, though. So I’ll be blundering around in the magical darkness. First things first. Don’t get burned up by the devils’ weaponized versions of soul meteors.

The Mottles are chasing around some fearful Urdrakes. I lift my hand. “It’s OK,” I shout to the Urdrakes. “They won’t hurt you!” The ten Urdrakes stop to blink at me. I’m not sure they’re cluing in on what I’m saying. But they slow down enough for the Mottles to land. The words cost me. My head swims again. I bend at the waist, grab my knees. My heart’s racing. I feel like I’m having some kind of heat-induced asthma attack. Goddamn, I’m so fucking lagging right now.

“Ouch! Wow! That feels so much better!” Mottle just landed on my back and bit-fed the effing daylights out of me. Headrush! Whew! Do I feel stronger! Mottle is like a goddamn flying medic and food source combined. His bite IV injections nourish, rejuvenate, stimulate. “Thanks,” I say to him. He says you’re welcome by quivering. In the time it’s taken me to absorb the nutrition and energy Mottle’s injecting into me, the other Mottles have filled the Urdrakes in enough on present events to have scared the living daylights out of them.

Three point toward the sky. One haroooms out the word “Death!”

“Yes! Good! We’re going to run like all get-out! Follow me!” I shout, then hop-glide about a hundred feet down into the gully. Its rough terrain blurs by below me. I land on a boulder. My breath’s still rasping, my heart’s still hammering. But Mottle’s taken the edge off. The other Mottles flap in beside me. They start to land. “Go! Go!” I shout to them, motioning to the Plumacats running away up ahead. The Mottles land, give me a vibrational quiver conveying reassurance and acknowledgement, then flap off fast toward the Plumacats. It takes about ten seconds for the Urdrake to catch up. When they do, I flap off about another hundred feet as Mottle turns me into the Myra version of a flying squirrel.

Overhead, the orange light of the Hell balls grows brighter. I look up and no longer see burnt up marshmallows. I’m now reminded of effing planet-bombs from that old anime Dad loves to watch — Starblazers. Yeah. The frigging devil “Gamilons” are raining down fucking planet bombs on my head. I shout at the Urdrake to move faster. They are running as flat-out as their stubby turtle legs will carry them. I’ve made about six of my flying squirrel jumps. We’re still about halfway from the gully’s end. I can feel the heat from the falling Hell balls on the back of my neck. I can feel it on Mottle too. He’s kind enough to share his heat feeling. I’m grateful-not-grateful. We’re not going to make it.

“Find cover!” I shout as the Urdrake rush up. The giant orange balls fall toward the broken wreckage of devil bodies and Vortexes some seven hundred feet away. I motion for them to jump behind rocks. They get it — flopping down behind boulders and into low spots. Doing the turtle thing, they draw their heads and legs into their shells. Cool. Wish I could do that. I jump down behind a rock. Mottle flops over me like a big, fleshy blanket. It makes me feel safe for a second. I push my senses out through omnis scientia. Hell if I’m gonna die, I might as well enjoy the show, right?

Four gigantic fireballs explode in the air about fifty feet above the wreckage from our last battle. A blast wave as a visible fucking wall of air and debris rips the place apart — flinging earth, bodies, the broken bikes in every frigging direction. A rapidly expanding ball of fire follows. I literally see rocks the size of cars disintegrate into bits as that fireball rips through them. With a roar that causes me to yell and grab my ears, the shockwave and fireball rushes toward us. It destroys every fracking thing in about the radius of a city block. Beyond that, it hurls a rain of debris. By the time the shockwave hits us, it’s slowed down to like category four hurricane force. Rocks the size and shape of knives fly over us. Sand and dirt blast around us. Mottle quivers from the force. It lasts a moment that seems like forever. Then a second blast wave hits us — sucking back toward the center of the goddamn explosion. Jesus fucking Christ! These things are goddamn nuclear! Once the second blast wave is gone, with my ears ringing in the tinnitus aftermath, I gather myself. I stand up. My limbs are all there. Mottle’s got some bad scratches. But he’s good too. We chose our boulder well. Its front face has literal shards of frigging red-hot rock embedded into it.

Positions of Myra’s Rebels and Devils of Overseer Tower during the Battle of Sunken Crag, Thunderbolts Rise

Now I know why Zorfang was so frigging distressed.

I motion to the Urdrake. “Better move!” I shout. My voice sounds quiet to me. Lucky if I didn’t get my eardrums blown clean out. Nine Urdrake stand, sprouting legs, arms, tails, head from out of shells. One doesn’t get up. Still laying face down on the ground. Too far out in the open, it got shredded by three large bits of shrapnel. Busted right through his shell and now he’s bleeding out. Oh fuck! I hop-glide over to the place where the turtle-monster lays. Arrive in time to hear his death rattle. My magical sight pierces his dying flesh, sees the wisp fading beneath. With a quick motion, I draw my moonshadow blade from the air. I’d never halted the magic feeding it. It leaps into my hand. I lay it flatwise across the Urdrake, extending its light and shadow to his wisp.

“Come on. Take it. There’s shelter here.” I lift my name-curse over him. It’s constantly shedding sparks now. Can’t be helped. Too much magical energy’s flowing through me to not be bleeding off major excess. Ignarus is mostly an after-thought. So pretty much everyone sees me for what I am. A mage blazing with magical energy.

The Urdrake’s wisp flickers, almost goes out, then lifts. Drawn by the moonshadow blade’s pull, it rides up the magic-formed sword and passes into my name curse. A bright wisp, if somewhat small and shrunken. The other bright wisps within my name curse cluster around it protectively, granting some of their energy to support it. I breathe out a sign. “I almost lost ya there. That’s good. Now take a rest. You’ve earned it.”

The other Urdrake are staring at me. Their mood is one of combined wonder and relief. I stand, dust some of the crud off. “Alright! We’re all safe or accounted for! Let’s move!” The Urdrake haroom acknowledgement. Then, together, we start running like Hell again. In about a minute, we’ve linked up with the Plumacats and Mottles. Our group of seventy-nine devil slayers is again mostly unscathed after the ambush and incoming fire. One loss — a new Urdrake, not five minutes alive, whose wisp I managed to make safe. It’s a loss I’m feeling pretty hard. And there are bound to be more. I blow out frustration. Despite my jangled feelings, I’m still having another “I’m alive!” wave of euphoria. It’s about the third tonight. No time for it. I’ve got to use this force before we’re all blown off the face of ever-hating-Minos. Hell. Minos is Hell. Yeah. That’s what devils call it. I’m a bit rattled and my emotions are all over the fracking place. That’s OK, it’s understandable. I got planet bombed and we just had our first death.

**********

Ranthvar drives in front of his Lance as it roars alongside four scorpions. Just minutes ago, the monstrous wisp harvesters had unleashed a barrage of devastation orbs. They were targeting Urdrakes along a ridge-line in the Razor Hills who’d given their position away by lighting up the sky. Ranthvar still doesn’t know what they were shooting at. Nor does he care. They’d been foolish enough to give themselves away. Now it’s their turn to feel the sting. The devastation orbs fall to impact. A series of explosions, impossibly bright and large even at this distance, blossoms over the ridge-line.

“If the Urdrakes are still on that ridge, they’re dead,” His second, Svelthre, speculates.

Ranthvar grunts affirmation, then shouts up to the scorpion crews. “Eyes front! Keep a watch for any of those tell-tale white lights. Ready another barrage!” The crews spring into action, pulling levers, they activate the wisp vats to harvest raw energy. Though not traditional worbs, the vats contain a fluid that sucks energy from the wisps. Hellish machinery attached to the vats transfers this power into a chamber in the massive scorpions’ tales. The orange globes of devastation orbs begin to form at the scorpion tail-tips. Growing as they fill with destructive force. Even from high up on the scorpion tails, Ranthvar can feel the orbs’ heat, hear the hum of their rising power.

They continue their steady advance. The distance between the scorpions and the ridge-line shrinks to seven miles. Lavross, is two miles ahead and moving swiftly now. Talith is already running up some of the smaller hills about six miles away. Ranthvar sees no sign of Amagash. No word’s come back from his Lance. He scratches his left horn-tip, wondering if the hot-head got himself into trouble. Won’t be the first time. The Urdrake on that ridge may number ten or more. If he engaged such a powerful group by himself, he might’ve suffered defeat. The longer contact with Amagash is broken, the more likely things went bad for him.

“Ol’ Amagash might be in trouble.” Ranthvar chuckles. The notion of Amagash defeated and sent limping back, humbled, triggers a warm glow of self-satisfaction in Ranthvar’s chest. Often, other devils thought of him as slow and plodding. He liked to think things through before acting. If others mis-interpreted his calculations for stupidity, so be it. Amagash had been one of those most ready to label Ranthvar ‘slow.’ Now who’s out there in the wind? Now who’s lost contact with the main Century as an unexpected large number of hostiles run rampant in the field. “Stupid hot-head,” Ranthvar mutters to himself in satisfaction. “Now maybe the glory will fall to Talith.”

Svelthre remains silent.

Then, up ahead, fire erupts. Talith has passed into a depression out of Ranthvar’s sight. Rifle reports loudly echo. Sparks rise, blossom into flares as bright as small suns, then fall down. Ranthvar’s breath catches. Even he, not yet an Overseer, can sense this magecraft. His nostrils flare as its saltpeter scent wafts out toward him. Strong. Very strong. Its presence calls to him. His inborn lust for power ignites. The wisp that produced such force is mighty, indeed. “Regina stands to gain much once she possess it,” Ranthvar mutters to himself. He can’t help but feel jealousy. “Such a soul…”

Then, from the hills and along a closer ridge, more white lights erupt. Urdrake are shooting their beams down on Talith! They’d moved, quick for Urdrake, to a new rise and are now firing their bright beams at Talith’s Lance. Ranthvar counts the lights before they fade. Thirteen! “Asmodeus’s Might!” Ranthvar curses despite himself. He points to the Urdrake’s new position. “See those lights!?” He shouts up to the scorpion commander.

The commander acknowledges with a thumbs up.

“Target and launch!”

In about ten heartbeats, the scorpion tails swing back, then lift in graceful arcs. Wom! Wom! Wom! Wom! The devastation orbs launch — growing in size even as they fly toward their targets. Closer now. The Urdrake will have less time to react. Ranthvar grins, reveling in the four blasts of outbound death and torment. This was battle. Not just some invigorating mage hunt. But a glorious fight against Asmodeus’s most ancient and hated foes. Ranthvar’s momentary elation is equal parts greed for the inevitable profit and glory of taking a mage wisp and religious zeal for the invincible might of Asmodeus.

“Ready!” He shouts up to the scorpion crew leader. The scorpions once more begin to hum as wisp vats churn out the energy needed to form devastation orbs. Ranthvar shifts his gaze back toward Talith. A second set of bright sparks shoots out, falls down. More rifle reports. Beneath that sound, Ranthvar guesses he hears a chorus of yowls — faint at this extreme distance. The Urdrake’s white lights blast through it all. His mind slowly churns through the incoming details. Thirteen Urdrake on the ridge. A mage and some other things fighting Talith in the depression. “How many of those bastards are out there?” He mutters to Svelthre.

“Enemies?” Svelthre asks with a sidelong glance to Ranthvar. “I’d guess at least twenty. Plus the mage.”

“I wonder if Amagash’s even still out there,” Ranthvar is careful to keep the relish out of his voice. But an unfamiliar feeling, a quiver of fearful uncertainty causes his horn tips to tingle. “I suppose there could be more.”

“No good information’s coming back,” Svelthre replies. “Regina’s freaking out. Sending in Dressler. Lavross is charging off to beat down a still unknown enemy.” Svelthre pauses. Tests her words. “This could be… challenging.”

Ranthvar grunts. In the back of his mind, a dark shadow begins to unfold. He imagines those hills swarming with Urdrake and other forbidden forms. Just waiting to pounce. He shakes his head. “You watch. Talith has them.” His assertion, though, belies his uncertainty.

In the depression, all is now quiet. He can’t see what’s happening over the land rise. It’s infuriating. Then, Asmodeus-be-damned white lightning shoots up into the sky. For an instant, all of the Wisp Fields are illuminated. Then, a second smaller flash silhouettes the depression’s rim.

“The fuck!?” Svelthre exclaims.

Ranthvar feels the same way. “That’s form maker-lightning.”

“We don’t have form makers,” Svelthre says.

“No way that mage has form makers. Unless…” Ranthvar’s slow-moving yet meticulous mind runs through the possibilities. Urdrakes on the ridge in large numbers. A mage. Form maker lightning. Forbidden forms come from… “It’s got to be a Vila. Asmodeus-damned Vila! And a mage! Fuck!”

Svelthre looks at him, aghast. Ranthvar is not known to descend into cursing or to fall prey to wild speculation. “A Vila? Isn’t that unlikely? Aren’t they all dead? Extinct?”

“Not all. Every now and then a Poacher finds one. There were rumors that a group of Poachers discovered a Vila out closer to the shore. They’d sent word to Regina, asking for quite the bounty. Regina demanded proof. They said they’d bring it along with other prizes. They were supposed to arrive at Overseer in a day or two.”

“Sounds dubious.”

“Listen. Look. Urdrake on the ridge. Talith now offers no resistance after getting hit by Urdrake, Plumacats and a mage. Then there is form-maker lightning. Forbidden forms!” Ranthvar tilts his head back to the scorpion crews. “All fire on Talith’s position in that depression!” Ranthvar points as he shouts.

The scorpion crew commander looks over his beast and down at Ranthvar. “Sir? Did I hear that right?”

“Do it!” Ranthvar shouts. “Don’t make me say it again!”

“But Talith!” Svelthre objects.

“Talith is dead!” Ranthvar exclaims, his words punctuated by the Wom! Wom! Wom! Wom! of scorpions releasing their devastation orbs.

**********

Lavross seethes with rage.

The firefight over Talith’s Lance was a fucking disaster. The mage conjured so much magic that it set half his force of Vortex riders to slavering at its delicious stench. Then, the mage hurled some kind of long-range accurate missile and blinding flare combined. The Urdrake blazed away at Talith’s Lance from the Razor Hills. The yowls of at least ten fucking Plumacats sounded through the cacophony. It was about that time when Lavross realized both Amagash’s and Talith’s Lances were both total losses. Then the fucking thunderbolts of form-making shot up into the sky amidst another wave of deliciously powerful magic. Lavross knew that probably meant only one thing. A Vila had linked up with the mage. They were turning wisps into fucking forbidden forms!

Lavross did not at all blame Ranthvar for hurling devastation orbs down on his prize. The mage thus-far had proven more wily and resourceful than anyone expected. The orbs would force the mage to scramble, would degrade his force of rebels. And this new form-making presented a serious threat. Mages could help Vila craft forbidden forms. Forms like Urdrake and Plumacats are deadly predators to devils if left to gather and hunt. But the process of making them is draining. By themselves, Vila could only shape one or two at a time. With a powerful mage to assist, they might shape ten, fifteen… Lavross considers the prodigious magical force he just witnessed… maybe twenty per day. Between the Urdrake and the Plumacats, Lavross is pretty certain they’re dealing with twenty-to-thirty. Plus whatever the mage just conjured up. So thirty-to-fifty.

“That’s a lot of fucking forbidden forms,” Lavross growls to himself, his toothy maw chomping out each word in vicious bites.

Lavross glances side-long at his five Lances. He has fifty Drivers on Vortexes here along with the support of Ranthvar and the scorpion crews. Against even fifty forbidden forms that still gives him the advantage of numbers and firepower. The Asmodeus-damned mage is the wild card. He must be running out of magic after such prodigious expenditures. What a prize! Lavross hasn’t heard of such a strong mage in Hell in centuries. Perhaps ever. He wonders if Asmodeus will step in to claim the wisp for himself. And the glory of this mage’s capture is his to take. Lavross is heady with all the possibilities. Yet, if this night had revealed one thing — it was that capturing this mage was a deadly gambit. Amagash, Talith and both their Lances — likely gone. This was war. Lavross needed to treat it as such.

“Vorthis!” Lavross shouts to the Lance leader on his immediate left.

“Overseer!” The clever devil says as he snaps a casual salute.

“I want to you take your Lance around to the left of that gully! Attack any hostiles you see there! Expect heavy resistance! Go now!” The ten Drivers break off, their Vortexes spewing dirt, rocks and pollution.

“Exantha!” Lavross pivots to the Lance leader on his right.

“Ready Overseer!” Exantha, a newly minted Lance leader, exclaims with her own stiff salute.

“Good! Now you run down and take the right flank! Heavy attack! Numerous hostiles in that gully!” Lavross points at the land-fall that’s now just four miles away and is closing fast. Exantha’s Lance roars off, taking an arching sweep toward the gully.

“Everyone spread out!” He shouts to his remaining three Lances. “Skirmish formation! Encirclement! Expect incoming fire! Urdrakes! Plumacats! A powerful mage! We shall take them! For the glory of Asmodeus!” His Lances let out a loud cheer. They brandish weapons — rifles, swords, axes — as they increase the spacing between each Vortex to about a hundred feet. They form an inverted bow a half mile across. The open end faces the gully. Exantha and Vorthis keep their own Lances in tight wedges. These shoot like spears toward the mage and his group of rebels. Lavross’s hand itches to lift his rifle, to swing his Night Axe. He taps his worb, froms his signature black shell of deadly spirit energy around his Vortex. This action of diabolical magic draws another cheer. Lavross lifts his fist — pumping the air in expectation of violence.

“Tonight! We conquer!” His shout echoes through the night.

**********

My force is huddled at low spot in a gully snaking out into the Wisp Fields. There are seventy-nine of us. We’re mostly Plumacats and Mottles. But now I’ve got this badass force of nine laser artillery Urdrakes. That means I can seriously reach out and touch someone. We’re just going to have to shoot and run like Hell. But first, I’ve got to make sure Zorfang’s ready. I drag my hand through omnis scientia. Tapping my link with Zorfang, I sense his position about three-quarters of a mile to my west.

“Zorfang! You still there!?” I shout through the sensor.

“Yes father!” He sounds even more out of breath than before. He’s had to out run two of those Hell ball volleys. Having just escaped one by the skin of my effing teeth, I don’t envy him.

“Are you ready?”

He harooms loudly. Omnis scientia jumps from his loud exclamation. Almost jolts my hand out. Yeah. I’d say he’s ready.

“Fucking great! Now I want you to light up those scorpions. The bastards have been hurling Hell balls down on us for long enough. Now it’s their turn to taste some pain!”

“They shall no longer see!” Zorfang shouts. “I swear it!”

“Fanfriggingtastic! Do it!” I pull my hand out of the link. Everyone’s staring at me again. They’re all huffing from exertion. But they’re ready.

“OK, everyone listen up! I’m going to make some changes so I need you to execute quick!” I turn to Featherstar, the scouts, and the veteran Mottles. “You old Mottles! I’m going to need nine of you to switch out with the new Mottles. Five for Grimjaw’s scouts. Grimjaw, you keep Shade.” Grimjaw and Shade made one Hell of a lethal team. I’d be a moron to break that up. “Four from your Plumacats, Featherstar. Do it now!”

There’s a rustling as the Mottles fly off. Featherstar starts to protest, but sees the Mottles already in motion. My Mottle’s got the rest of the Mottles pretty much toeing my line. Which is damn good. I don’t have fucking time to explain everything right now. These veteran Mottles gather to do their wall hanging thing beside me along the gully’s slope. “OK. I want you Mottles to team up with these Urdrake. I know you won’t be able to glide-fly with them. This is more for sharing knowledge. Ride with them and show them what the other Urdrake do. Because I’m going to need their beam crystals in about sixty seconds. Go! Do it now!”

The Mottles fly over to the Urdrake. Mottles have more trouble attaching to the Urdrake than a squishy hooman like me or the sleek Plumacats. But they manage. They look kinda comical — like rumpled bags hanging over the spikey and squat Urdrake.

“Now! You new Mottles — link up with the veteran Plumacats. I want you to share what you’ve learned so far with these Mottles. I expect you guys to be up to speed quick. Then pair up in buddy teams with the new Plumacats. So a vet Plumacat plus a new Mottle each to a new Plumacat. If there’s a odd cat out, send them to me. They’ll come with us.” I point to Zaya, Zel, Theri, Mottle, myself and the nine Urdrakes. The Mottles and Plumacats team up.

As they do this, I move to my next concern. “Wounded Plumacats! You’re with me as well. Slow for you is fast for us and the Urdrake. So hurt Plumas are with us.” In total, I end up with four Plumacats. One of the new Plumacats who didn’t have a buddy and three wounded. I somehow missed wounded number three. But this battle’s been fucking crazy. So it’s understandable I’d miss something. Battles usually are, I imagine. Like I’ve ever been in a fucking war like this before! Jesus H!

I look over my force. They’re as reorganized as they’re gonna get. It’s taken me about two minutes to do this. I loft omnis scientia to get a better view of what the fuck is going on. Up close and personal, about fifty devils on Vortexes are breathing down my neck from like two miles out. Four more Hell balls are flying toward Zorfang. But two of these are off-kilter — hurtling into frigging nowhere. I can tell why when I see the scorpions, now about six miles distant, lit up in white as the Urdrakes lay those awesome laser beams down. Looks like some of the devils operating those damned things are dazzled or otherwise fucked up. Fuckin A! That said, two Hell balls are heading straight toward Zorfang. He and the Urdrake are running over the Wisp Fields fast as their stubby legs can carry them even as they bombard the scorpions with white flashes. A plume of smoke begins to trail from one of the scorpions. I let out a cheer. Everyone on my side pauses to stare at me, puzzled over what I’m suddenly so happy about.

It’s all good. Time to get their attention anyway. “Now we’re going to do a little bait and switch! We’ve got fifty devils on Vortexes heading our way. What they don’t know is that we outnumber them. So we,” I point to my force of Urdrakes and crew, “are going to be the bait. And you,” I point to the rest of the Mottles and Plumacats, “are going to be the switch.”

“My bait group is going to run up out of the other side of this gully here. We’re going to shoot at those Vortexes with our Urdrake as we run like there’s no tomorrow. At this range, we should be able to get a decent number of them. The devils are already after us. So they’ll try to chase us down.

“That’s where the switch group comes in. I want you to spread out in a line along this gully. When those Vortexes chase us, when they get close enough, then you pounce!”

The Plumacats have really gotten into my description of them pouncing. This elicits a chorus of excited yowls.

“Just make sure you keep eyes on the devils so you can position yourself to attack them. They’ll have to come at us or get picked off by the Urdrake. So your positioning’s gonna be key.”

Grimjaw and Featherstar exchange a look. “We shall hunt them,” Featherstar says as she licks her jowls hungrily. The casual predatory gesture kinda freaks me out. But I don’t have time to pause.

“OK! We are off!” I gather my bait group and lead them to the other side of the gully. Featherstar and Grimjaw are already having their switch group spread out along the low ground. I pop up, springing into the air as Mottle does his flap, then glide thing. I allow myself to trail sparks, fly about fifty feet, then land on a boulder. I’m deliberately creating a spectacle. As I land, I see the Vortexes are less than a mile off and closing fast. We’re still of their weapons range.

The new-formed Urdrake are rushing up to me. “Mottle, I want you to transfer my orders to the Urdrake through the other Mottles.”

Mottle quivers his affirmative response.

As the Urdrakes cross my position, I shout “Turn! Target the Vortexes! Fire!”

Nine Urdrake ponderously spin their turtle bodies around. Nine Mottles balloon up like parachutes to reveal rows of crystals ridging along jagged shells beneath. Nine beams of white light streak out. In that flash, four Vortexes blow up. They spin and cartwheel — throwing riders through the air. Debris rains down. In response, the Vortexes increase speed. They’ve hit their damned red and golden buttons. I can hear the high-pitched wail of tortured wisps ground down in terrible worbs. Pollution and trails of dirt rain in nasty rooster tails behind.

“We run!” I shout, then do two fly-hops. Covering another hundred feet, I find a mound to stand on as I wait for the Urdrake to catch up. Those powerful flashes of light take about ten seconds to recharge. I’m guessing we’ve got two more shots before those devils get into rifle and fireball range. Then shit’s gonna get hot. I check my energetic vessel. It’s already about a quarter full again. I’m not sure I know how to burn it off fast enough to go negative. Good thing. I’m probably going to need it all.

The Urdrake arrive at my mound. “Fire!” I shout again. They spin, shoot. This time, three bikes are destroyed. The devils are weaving from side to side. Makes it tougher for the Urdrakes to zero in even though the range is shorter. Still, we’ve already more than decimated them. That’s gotta hurt! I jump down. I’m fracking so damn exhausted. But I run with them anyway. I slap hard shells. I slap fleshy Mottle bats. I shout words of encouragement. I’m fucking hoarse. I don’t even know if they really understand me. That’s OK. My tone of encouragement seems to be helping them along.

After another hundred feet, I call a stop. “Fire!” I shout again. Beams streak out toward bikes that are about half a mile off. Damn! They’re moving crazy-fast! I focus on the left group and unleash my own magical blasts. “Vexare Verberare! Una! Lux!” Five intensely glowing missiles streak out, causing this group to slow down as they’re suddenly flash-blind. My volley rips through a front rider who takes two shots through the torso. My other three missiles fly off. The Urdrake down three more. Then the devils’ rifles are up. It’s long range. But I hear bullets start to snap through the air near my fucking head. The mass volume of fire making up for loss of accuracy.

“Get down!” I shout, slamming into ground. Rolling. Taking cover behind a rock. Well shit! I’d hoped to get another volley off. Then I see a mass of fireball rounds shoot out from the devils. Holy Hell! The whole of the Wisp Fields to my north flower in blossoms of fire like a Hell version of the Fourth of Frigging July. Again long range. But some of those balls will reach us. “Up again! Run!” We make it about fifty feet before the flames are on top of us. I spin, draw in about a third of my present magic, do a Mottle-jump into the air above my scrambling buddies. Confractus! I incant as I hurl an arc of incandescent blue magic into the onrushing inferno. Five fireball rounds made it to our position. Confractus unravels four. The last, though weakened, explodes around us. Praesidia! Clypeus! Protective magic envelops me, then forms a dome above my allies. I draw hard from my energetic vessel, desperate to save my friends.

The gouts of flame push clypeus into my chest, blast holes through praesidia. I breathe in sulfur stench and extreme heat. But the bubble holds. I fall back, landing in my blue protective bubble with a loud ‘thunk!’ When the flames clear, I see the smoldering forms of my company rise. Praesdia absorbed the brunt of the explosion. Most of us are still standing. Though my gut drops as an Urdrake and a Plumacat lay still. Spinning, I see the first devils are almost to the gully. Ten of them led by this nasty big guy riding his Vortex in a jagged field of darkness. He’s brandishing a wicked axe that slings spines from his dark aura as he swings it about.

“Shoot what you can from here!” I shout. “I’m going back in!” Time to pivot. I lift my hand. “Vexare! Verbarare!” The missiles of magical force streak toward the big guy with the axe. He’s clearly the leader. With my other hand, I draw my moonshadow blade from the air. My exhaustion forgotten, battle elation threading fire through my veins, I charge.

As I fly forward, as my missiles converge on the hulking devil surrounded by his field of darkness, Featherstar, Grimjaw and the Plumacats pounce. The ones paired with Mottles leap into the air. They take a single enormous flying bound. In a moment, twelve Plumacats and twelve Mottles are ripping through this leading force. My missiles impact on the big devil’s black aura. Four are snuffed out in darkness. One streaks through, blasting his shoulder in a spray of blood. Though his arm falls limp. He seems unrelenting. He lifts his dark axe and cleaves clean through a Mottle-Plumacat pair. They fall to the ground. Instantly dead.

“No!” I shout as I see two of my companions — two creatures I had a part in making — instantly reduced to dead material by the devil’s vicious strike. I land on the gully’s lip opposite the fight. I’m still about a hundred and fifty feet off. My eyes are only on this devil now. Mottle and I glide-fly over the gully. From behind me, the lights of Urdrake flash. Up ahead, there are explosions as Vortex are shorn by the laser-like blasts. More devils are converging. Some shoot up as I descend toward the fray. My shout of clypeus! to deflect their rounds is an afterthought. Though wounded, the lead devil fights like a titan. He makes a gesture with his axe, three spikes of darkness shoot out from his aura. One of the spikes fells another Plumacat.

At last, I land beside this terror. My shell of clypeus sparks as it contacts his own dark field. “Finished!” I shout as I hurl my moonshadow blade. It slams through the black shell, but is deflected. Its trailing edge catches the Vortex wheel — sheering a chunk of it off. The devil is hurled toward me. He tumbles through the air, axe spinning.

“I see you mage!” The devil howls in Minosian. “A mere girl! Surrender to Asmodeus!”

I snap my fingers, conjuring my moonshadow blade back. The dark axe falls. Spikes of darkness claw at my protective bubble of clypeus. Parrying with my blade of light and shadow, I spin beneath the axe, tumble past a spine of darkness that pierces my shield. Pushing beneath his arm I thrust the moonshadow blade upward. It buries deep in devil’s flesh.

The devil howls in pain, opens his maw — filled with teeth the size of my thumb — then lunges down to bite me. “Amplio! Macto!” I shout, channeling my massive flood of magical energy into my sword in the form of a devil-smiting curse. White-blue energy blasts through the devil, shoots out the other side. His form splits in half. Topples. Mouth still agape.

I feel wet on my belly. Look down. There’s a deep cut where one of the dark shards from his weird devil magic shell got me. I put my hand over it to stop the bleeding. Spinning, I look around. The last devils are trying to run away. Getting blasted to pieces by Urdrake fire. Ripped apart by Plumacats. The predators are feasting. Their Vortexes — destroyed or on the ground idle. Off to my left about a half mile off, two massive Hell balls explode. I sit down. A touch to omnis scientia tells me Zorfang’s not there. He’s OK. He’s still shooting and moving.

“Good!” I say. Then more weakly. “Gooooood…” Whew. Why do I feel so light-headed? I look down. There’s a big pool of blood. “Woah. That’s a lot of red,” I say. Mottle quivers in upset. Does his bite thing. It revives me a little. But I’m getting weak quick. He’s freaking out. Calling for help. Shouldn’t I be the one freaking out? Why does everything seem so distant? Then Featherstar is standing over me. With one giant paw she pushes me back.

“Hey! I didn’t say you could do that…”

“Shush,” She says, then begins licking my belly with her big raspy tongue. I musta just passed out. Because everything just went black there for a second.

(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)

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

(Enjoying the story? Want to help support the continuance of this tale? Please like, share and subscribe.)

1 Comment

by robertscribbler on February 18, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Angels, Battle of Sunken Crag, Curse Magic, Devils, Helkey, Hell, Lavross, Magic, Mottle, Myra Helkey, Plumacats, Theri, Thunderbolts Rise, Urdrake, Wisp Fields, Zaya, Zel

Posted by robertscribbler on February 18, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/02/18/helkey-32-battle-of-sunken-crag-thunderbolts-rise/

Helkey 30 — Battle of Sunken Crag, Predators’ Games

Elation pumps through my body. Heartbeat pounds in my ears. All nerves jolt in celebration. I’m still alive! Our rag-tag force lets out another cheer. I take a breath. No time to celebrate, not now. Maybe not ever. This is Hell after all. I let my moonshadow blade flicker out. The sight of all the dead devils, their gore strewn across the canyon floor, makes me reel. The smell of death — extraordinary. It’s the coolest part of the day. Heat pounds down on me like a hammer. I lean to one side. Catch myself on a boulder, pop out Perry fuckin A, take a long drink.

Mottle must sense that I’m swooning from heat and exertion. He shakes himself, flicks off bits of crushed devil, then returns to cover me. The cool is welcome. The blood coating the inside of him sticks to me. I stumble again, look up. Urdrake and Plumacats are casting about. One walks around with long ropes of drool dripping from its jowls. Are they fucking hungry? Do they want to eat the devils? What do Plumacats and Urdrake eat anyway? I stare at them, taking in the Plumacats’ fangs and claws, the Urdrake’s serrated beaks. A Plumacat licks its jowls, glances at me, then actually frigging meows like it wants to eat the devil carcass and is asking me for permission.

This is too much for me to process. I suddenly feel really damn sick. Then I’m barfing the empty contents of my stomach all over the ground. Mostly just bile and water now. Last real food I had was at Starbucks in Berlin. A whole fucking world ago. A yesterday and a half ago. Frail fucking human who’s now surviving on Mottle injections. I wipe my mouth, make myself stand. I can’t afford a moment of weakness. Not now when everyone is fucking counting on me. Not when Zaya’s conjured up a pack of uber-predators for our allies that I now have to somehow appear strong enough to lead. Mom. Dad. All the souls here — in my name curse, in my shadow, I’m guessing maybe a whole Hell of a lot more than just that — they’re counting on me to get this right.

I glance at my horologium watch. It’s 3:47 Hell time. Goddamn dawn’s gonna break in a few hours. That won’t be pretty. I’ve got a full-on fucking war on my hands. I’m gonna be fighting it in the fucking heat pretty damn soon. I’m already fighting in the heat. It’s like a hundred and five out here. Day’s gonna kick that up to like one-thirty plus. I take another breath, let it out. Everyone’s quiet now. The victory elation has settled down. Some are picking through the devils’ equipment, poking at those weird unicycles, or nosing the corpses. Most are staring at me again. Waiting. Some watched on as I barfed. Great!

I wipe my mouth off, pull myself together, then jump up on top of the boulder I’m standing next to. Hell, if Plumacats can do it, why not me? “We just scored another major success. Here, in this canyon, we plant our second victory flag!” I scan them as I talk loudly. I’m basically imitating my Dad’s impression of a drill sergeant from basic fucking training. I never went to basic — I’m just a frigging seventeen-year-old. But I think I got most of it through osmosis from early childhood. My manner seems to be working. I’ve got their attention at least. “So patting ourselves on the back is in order! But we can’t rest for too long! We just made a shit-ton of light and noise! Plus those were likely just a group of scouts! For now, we need to take stock. If there are wounded, I want to know. If any of you know how to help wounded, I want to know.” I point at Featherstar. “You’re in charge of setting up a detail to manage those who’ve been hurt! If there are casualties, I need to know about it fast!” If there are dead, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Featherstar gives me a speculative look, then bounds off.

I turn to Zorfang. He’s one of the Urdrake who shot beams of light out of their fucking heads. “I didn’t know you could…” I think of the right words for a moment. Oh Hell, it doesn’t matter. “…shoot beams of lethal light out of your heads! That’s crazy useful. Will have to keep that in mind for future. For now, I want you to get a group of Urdrakes to collect all the useful gear here. A lot’s broke. Some’s not. Find out what’s not. Collect it and distribute it. Also — put the weird bikes that still work to one side.”

Forces and Major Events in the Wisp Fields and Razor Hills

Zorfang growl-hums his agreement. I nod. He rumbles off, thick tail swishing back and forth. I lift my voice again. “You both have ten minutes! When you’re done report back!” I’m not sure if they know what minutes is. Doesn’t matter. They can tell from my tone that I want them to effing hurry.

“OK Mottle,” I whisper over my shoulder. “While they’re doing that, can you have the team of six Mottles and Plumacats head up to the canyon wall and fan out? I don’t hear any more of those weird devil bikes nearby. But if they’re coming I want to know.” Omnis scientia’s still floating high above the canyon. I can use that too. But more eyes are always better. I take a breath. This next part is a big risk. But it’s gotta be done. “Also, if any devils got away from our engagement, I want our scouts to hunt them down and take them out. Go for stragglers and small follow-on forces. Take down anyone who can run back and rat us out. Tell them to make a circuit of the ridge-line facing the Wisp Fields, get some eyes on both the fields and the scorpion we destroyed, then report back.”

Yes, Mottle thinks back to me simply, then flies off. He goes to the small group of scouts we organized back in the cave, touches a Mottle named Shade. There’s a brief pause as the two share thoughts. Shade’s Plumacat partner — Grimjaw — growls a couple commands. Then our scout squad bounds off. Our company watches them go. A few Plumacats give yowls of encouragement. Everyone seems to know they’re taking a huge risk for us.

With Mottle off my back, the heat hits me again like a hammer. I’m never going to get used to it. It’s way beyond human physiology to deal with this crazy inferno, the stifling sulfur air. My folks said a good chunk of devil magic’s set up just to keep them going through Hell’s nasty environment. Sure, they’re better adapted to it than humans. But adaptation can only do so much. Worbs and the magic they produce became a kind of Faustian bargain for most devils — enslave souls to survive in Hell. It all happened in the deep long ago when Hell’s environment took a nose-dive for the worst. There’s a reason most creatures left alive in Hell are devils. Many blue devils don’t have worbs. They tend not to live long. Maybe to age 35. When you’re dying off that quick, it’s hard to raise children to keep a species going.

Zaya flies up to me, tipping me out of my momentary reverie. Maybe I’m finally starting to get tired after two fights and hours of slogging through Hell’s crazy environment. “You wouldn’t let me fight,” she says with a cross look on her face.

“Yeah. Not this time. But don’t be too upset. There’s a lot of fighting left. So you’d best get ready for some more action.”

Zaya gives me one last frown. “What’s next, then?”

“Next we get ready to take the fight to them. But smart-like.”

“You have a plan?”

“I always have a plan.” I didn’t have shit. Well, not yet at least. I look at my watch. It’s 3:59 Hell time. I spring up, clap my hands together. I’m still standing on my boulder so I can see everyone. “OK! Time’s up! Zorfang! Featherstar! Mottle! Come back here and report!”

My newfangled commanders shuffle back. Theri and Zel return beside them together with a Plumacat and two Urdrakes. They’re carrying armfuls of weapons which they lay down in front of me. I told them to distribute these weapons. Guess I’ll have to tell them who gets what. Another five Urdrakes wheel the giant spikey unicycles toward us. Wow. Looks like five of their nasties still work.

I wait another minute for them to gather, then speak up, again adopting Dad’s drill sergeant tone. I admit, this part of my new ‘job’ would be kinda fun if the subject of it all weren’t so goddamn grim. “OK! First tell me about casualties.”

Featherstar leaps forward with a proud yowl. “Only three wounded. We lick their wounds now.” I think this is just a figure of speech. But when I follow Featherstar’s lashing tail, I see two prone Plumacats and an Urdrake being minstered to by a third Plumacat who’s actually licking them. I’m too much at a loss to say anything. Which is good. Because I stare on for another moment which is enough for me to notice some kind of white film spreading out with each lick of the Plumacat’s tongue. The film covers wounds, creating a natural binding.

Zaya’s still hovering nearby. I turn to her. “Care to explain that?” I point to the film. I’ve got a lot more questions for Zaya about the Urdrakes and Plumacats. But I’ve got like no frigging time — so I stick to essentials.

“Oh. It’s a kind of natural healing salve they produce through glands in their mouth. It stops bleeding, aids the healing process, can even be used to re-attach limbs.”

Re-attach limbs? That’s pretty potent healing. I file this information for later and carry on. “Fanfriggintastic!” The next question is one I dread to ask. “Any dead?”

Featherstar gives a proud if dismissive flick of her tail. “No dead,” she says simply. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. There are probably going to be dead by the end of today. Still not something I want on my conscience. When a creature dies in Hell, its wisp might reform after a time, if it is strong. Otherwise, second death in Hell means annihilation.

“Good! Excellent!” I say to Featherstar, trying to keep some kind of command presence. I’ve gotta project confidence to keep ’em all together and believing they’re going to live and such. Turning to Zorfang, I ask my next question. “So what’ve we got for spoils?”

“Five of these,” he points to the weird unicycles. His words, though still sonorous, are now much more articulate. “Six of those,” he points to a pile of rifles. “Seven of those,” he points to a cluster of handguns. “Eleven close-fighting weapons. Plus this –” he points to the bag of ammo hanging from Zel’s shoulder. I think for a moment. None of them but Zel, Theri and me know a damn thing about firearms. They’re going to need to learn quick. “Zel — you and Theri pick some Plumacats that you think might train up quick with the pistols and rifles.” Looking at the Urdrakes, I’m not sure if their hands will fit the firearms’ grips. I look at the pile of serrated swords and axes. “Distribute the heavier melee weapons to the Urdrakes. Give the lighter ones to the Plumacats.” There’s nothing here for the Mottles. From what I’d seen, the Mottles are badass enough. Hell, they’re all badass enough.

Theri and Zel start moving to distribute the weapons. They each pick a Plumacat, then immediately start giving it a basic instruction on firearms use. I give them a couple minutes to talk. The Plumacats aren’t going to be very effective with those weapons anytime soon. But it’s a start.

“OK. I hate to say it,” I say, raising my voice to address everyone, “but we’re going to need to get a move-on fast. So gather ’round!” I glance at horologium as the Plumacats, Urdrake, and Mottles cluster in the canyon’s center around me. “It’s already 4:06 AM Hell time. About twenty minutes ago we ambushed a squad of scouts.” I don’t know if this is the right technical term. But the devils on the Vortexes were about the size of a squad. “These scouts are almost certainly part of a larger force that’s coming out of Overseer Tower. We don’t know how big it is. But I’m guessing it’s not too large given the fact that we weren’t a fucking army when we hit the scorpion. So as I said before, we’re going to start moving toward Overseer. That’s our ultimate objective. We’ll stick to this canyon for now. But I want another group of six Mottles and Plumacats to form a …” What did Dad call it?? Oh yeah. “To form some pickets. We don’t want anyone surprising us as we move. So fan out about two hundred yards from us and report back if you see or contact any enemy. Got it?” Everyone is silent. “Good! Now let’s be ready to move in ten minutes.”

I plop down from my rock, gather Theri and Zel, then angle over to the wounded. The Plumacat and the Urdrake both have bullet wounds that the ‘medic’ Plumacat, Velestra, has bound up with her magical spit. The bullets were somehow neatly plucked out and are on the ground in a bloody pile. Both are conscious. They crane their heads to look at me as I approach. The other wounded Plumacat is unconscious with a large gash on his forehead. This gash is also bound up by the magical healing spit. I kneel by the two conscious wounded. “Can you move?” I ask them.

“They can. But no hard work.” Velestra speaks for them before they can answer.

I look at Zel and Theri, then point to the weird unicycles. “I know those are devil machines. I can see their worbs, sense the wisps within their jagged traps. But we’re going to need them now. We’ll free those wisps once we win this battle. If we win. Now I want you to figure out how to use them. I want you each to drive one and then to teach these two here how to drive them.” I motion down to the wounded Plumacats.

“What about the last one?” Zaya asks from her hovering position over my shoulder. She looks at the Vortex, various shades of disgust playing on her green face.

“I’m driving that one. I’ll be carrying the unconsious…” I turn to Velestra, “…what is his name?”

“Rookfang,” Velestra replies.

“I’ll be carrying Rookfang. Now let’s get to Hell’s version of driver’s ed. We only have five minutes.”

It takes more like ten minutes to get everyone moving. Jobs are assigned. Scout groups arranged and deployed. Looted weapons distributed. Rudimentary instruction on firearms use given. Everyone looks confused. ‘Clear as mud,’ is what Dad would say. Sounds about right. The bikes are thankfully simple to use — throttle, breaks, and turning all managed with the handlebars. The fat tires are surprisingly easy to balance on. The seats that rest atop them, if not comfortable, are functional. The machines, Theri and Zel call them Vortexes, are large, powerful, and covered in lethal spines. So using them takes caution. Like everything else in Hell, they burn some kind of nasty fossil fuel spiked with worb energy. All worbs are terrible — grinding down and torturing wisps to access their energy. But the Vortexes have a second setting that activates the worb to get more from the wisps. I tell everyone not to use that button unless they absolutely have to.

We finally start rolling out at 4:23 AM Hell time. More than three quarters of an hour after our fight with the scouts. I’m getting real damn anxious about follow-on forces that haven’t arrived. I’m conjuring up things to be paranoid about. I loft omnis scientia, sending it out toward Sunken Crag even as we move north among the hills. The Mottle-Plumacat teams of scouts fan out to our right and in front of us — venturing as close to the Wisp Fields as they dare while still keeping cover. The Vortex roars and spews stinking clouds of pollution beneath me as our main force continues down the canyon. The wisps within it moan in pain. The noise makes me cringe. It reminds me of a banshee wail. I’ve never heard a banshee wail. But this is what I imagine it would sound like. I take a breath. Ignore the horrible stink and sound. I’ve gotta think about next moves. But I really need to figure out where the bads are before I commit.

**********

Corviss plunges toward the ground, barely rights himself, then skips and skids to a stop. His last minute teleport saved his life. Above and to the left, a fireball blooms in the air five hundred feet away. It consumes the space where he flew just moments before. Hissing in terrified frustration, he threads his way back up into the air. Careful to stay low, he flees as fast as he can fly back down toward the wisp fields.

“Amagash you fool!” Corviss spits. But he can’t entirely blame Lavross’s lieutenant. No one expected the mage to have an army backing him. Her! He reminds himself. “Her,” he hisses out loud. He can still see her clearly — dripping an extraordinary excess of magic, sparks flying about her like the fireworks of some victory celebration held by Asmodeus on the battlefield of Avernum, a blade made of pure curse magic held in one hand, a shield like a spectral rosette blooming in front of her. He’d only ever seen two mages. Three now. This one was by far the most potent. The most brazen in her use of magic. He was certain Regina, high in Overseer, would’ve tasted the flood of power, seen the lights and explosions blooming over the Razor Hills. Lavross would’ve noticed as well. But both could only guess what they meant.

“I’m the last survivor. I must let them know.” Corviss didn’t see all his companions die. But he might as well have. The ambush was as sudden as it was fierce. No-one could survive that. The Mottles, Urdrakes, and Plumacats numbered three or four score at least. Other rebels — two blue devils stood with the mage. This was worse than any mere machination of Regina’s regional rival — Lanvfer. This was a rebellion of the old sort. Of the kind that hadn’t happened for hundreds of years. Corviss spits in disgust. There were still only seventy, eighty perhaps. “But how did so many hunted gather together? How did they organize?”

Corvis realizes he’s talking to himself as he flies, swift as his battered body will carry him toward Lavross. He can just make out the large scorpions lumbering across the Wisp Fields. Too slow for his liking. “All is well. I know her whereabouts. Once I report, Lavross will know what to do.”

**********

Out across the Wisp Fields, riding his Vortex, Lavross scratches his chin and frowns at the explosions flowering above the Razor Hills. The fireball rounds are familiar. Those lines of light are energy beams from at least ten Urdrake or he is a fool. It seems he was wise to send Amagash out ahead rather than lead the scout force himself. Looks like Amagash is getting more than he bargained for. This thought draws a chuckle from Lavross as he signals to Talith, his third in command and the remaining Overseer in his Century.

“Take another Lance and head into those hills. If Amagash needs help, back him up. And, get me a fucking report on the enemy’s number and location!”

Talith gives a smart salute, then drives off with her Lance. That’s two Lances deployed, violent contact made, and he still didn’t know squat. He sends out a command, adjusting the movement of his dwindling Century toward the explosions, and glances angrily at the scorpions. If he needs to pour on the speed, he’ll have to leave the beastly machines behind. He had the sinking feeling this night was about to turn into a shit-fest real quick.

***********

Qlul and Landrax are startled from their investigation of the scorpion’s wreckage by a loud series of explosions above the Razor Hills. Qlul’s just picked up a bit of glossy green membrane before he’s distracted by the loud rumble. About four miles off, the thunder of fireball rounds tear through the air. Sharp rifle reports crack. Then lines of light shoot up into the sky. “What the fuck?” Qlul exclaims as another explosion roars out of the hills. “It sounds like Amagash is getting his ass kicked over there,” he says to Landrax.

Landrax isn’t looking at the explosions. Instead he’s staring at the bit of insect-like membrane Qlul is holding in his hand. “Oh fuck,” Landrax says as he stares at the wing.

“What?” Qlul says.

“Well, you know I used to be a Poacher right?”

“Yeah, get to the fucking point.”

“That’s a Vila wing shedding. They’re really damn rare. But I’d bet my horns on it.”

“Vila?” Qlul asks, stunned for a moment more. Then, he looks back to the rent wisp vats on the scorpion. “Fuck? You think?”

“Whoever hit this scorpion, opened up those wisp vats. Maybe they we’re just looting the wisps. Maybe they took them for another reason.”

Qlul’s mind is catching up quick. “If there’s a mage and a Vila they could…”

“… shape a lot of fucking wisps into forbidden forms. Those lights look a lot like something the Urdrake can do. They’re not so rare as Vila these days. Tough buggers. I captured one once. Near blasted my face off with lights like that.”

“Oh fuck! We have to report back to Lavross and quick!” Ignoring the plight of their companions in the Hills, Qlul and Landrax mount their Vortexes and rush swiftly back toward Lavross.

**********

High up in Overseer Tower, Regina Rouge continues to scan the Wisp Fields for her new prize. Unable to rest, she instead revels in the imagined hunt, anticipates the taking of a great mage wisp. Her body lights up with energy. Like some primordial leviathan swimming through ancient waters, she tastes the air for her prey. Every now and then, she detects a tantalizing hint. The air is full of rumor of him.

Then, after hours, her patience is rewarded. A flood of magic rushes up from the Razor Hills. She feels it before she sees it. The outrush heats her face like Hell’s sun. Her sensitive eyes detect the broad arc of powerful curse-magic shining up from the Hills in a rain of sparks. It is a stunning display. For a moment, she’s taken aback at how much power the mage expends in what must be merely one or two magical castings. Then the air above the Razor Hills lights up with explosions and white rays of energy.

“What?” Regina is seldom at a loss for words. But, for a moment, she’s mystified by what she’s watching. “Urdrake?” she says as understanding begins to dawn. “How?”

Regina will puzzle this mystery out in due course. What is clear now, though, is the mage isn’t some cat’s paw in one of Lanvfer’s games. What’s happening on her lands is something else entirely. If multiple Urdrake and a mage are hiding out in her Razor Hills… it means a rebellion of the old kind may be underway. And Asmodeus hates nothing more than vile organizations of old kind on Minos, much less reports of them striking at any of his resources. These are Wisp Fields. One of the most precious land commodities in all the Hells. Regina cracks her Holocaust Scourge at her attendant. “Get me Dressler and a Dark Psychic. We may need to deploy the other Centuries.” Startled by her sudden mood-shift, her attendant skitters away.

************

Grimjaw’s powerful form springs across a deadfall. Above and behind him, the Mottle — Shade — billows out, forming a wing. Together, they fly fifty feet then land on a precipice over-looking the Wisp fields. His streak lands beside him. Five companions for his hunt. Just hours before, he was a frail wisp captured in a scorpion’s vat. It felt like being in the stomach of a great monster as it prepared him for digestion. Its horrible Hell magics stunned him, then began to taint his very being. Terror didn’t even begin to describe what he’d felt. But now the meaother Zaya and the feaother Myra had gifted him with a vicious and powerful body. A Plumacat form possessed of raptor eyes, feather-like fur and armor combined, deadly fangs and claws, sacks of healing salve at the back of his mouth, and a muscular form as powerful as that of a moderate-sized tiger. They’d made him into a hunter of hunters, a predator who preys on the slaver race. They’d partnered him with this majestic Mottle that granted him flight, camouflage, and a vibrational sense of everything around him. He rejoices in his new form, at his helpful allies, at the opportunity to do vengeance on those who sought to enslave him in the worst way imaginable.

It’d taken perhaps two hundred hearbeats for the swift Plumacat and Mottle streak to free themselves of the canyon, to leap over the ridge line, and to peer from this high hilltop down onto the Wisp Fields below. Grimjaw scans the land about. His eyes, keen as any bird of prey, make out minute details. He immediately sees the larger force of devils out among the drifting wisps. They’re in the middle of the fields. Four scorpions, eighty riders. Another ten riders breaking off to head in his direction. Grimjaw shifts his gaze, carefully scanning for any other movement. Then he sees it. Below him and moving in the direction of the larger devil force is the red thread of a flying serpent. An Uktena — as meaother and feaother had called it. Grimjaw growls in frustration. The Uktena is too high up. Too distant to strike. But it is slow-moving and doesn’t seem to notice the smaller force of ten riders. It will take another hour or so to reach the large group of devils.

Shade tenses. Something comes, the Mottle’s words form in Grimjaw’s head even as its senses merge with his. He can now feel a vibration off to his right. He turns his head in time to see two of the spiked, one wheel bikes roar out toward the Wisp Fields’ center. They’re heading out from the ring of debris marking the destroyed scorpion. In about a minute, they’ll pass a hundred yards in front of Grimjaw’s position. He growl-signals to his team. His Mottle touches the others. His intent for them to strike spreads through them as emotion and thought. Careful to use a ridge-line jutting out from the hills to mask their movement, Grimjaw leads his streak closer in. They fly-run-fly down to a low rise about twenty feet above where the Hellish unicycles will pass. Grimjaw tenses, his streak-mates smile in anticipation. The bikes arrive. Grimjaw pounces, Shade unfurls. The combined force of his jump and the Mottle’s flap propels him thirty feet up. At the top of his flight’s arc he extends his claws, locks his eyes on a prey. It is the front biker.

“Qlul!!!” the rear biker bleats in terror is at sees Grimjaw descend. Too late!

Claws catch in the devil’s flesh. The Plumacat’s jaws close over the devil’s head. There is a satisfying crunch. Wet blood floods his mouth. He turns, with flesh in his mouth, to his streak-mates. They have dispatched the other rider. No more screams of warning from that one.

Grimshaw swallows the delicious-tasting devils’ flesh. “Good! It is good!” he growls. For a minute, he and his streak are taken in by the devouring. Shade ultimately shakes him out of the frenzy. “Yes,” he snarls at last. Shaking his fur a second time he snaps at his streak to drag the carcasses and bikes into a depression. He does not have time to revel in his hunt’s success. He must return to Myra. Must report the prey’s position. Satisfied these prey won’t be telling their fellows another word, Grimjaw, Shade and his streak leap-fly back toward the canyon. Grimjaw licks his fangs. The hunting tonight has been excellent.

**********

The nasty Vortex is giving me a fracking headache already. The fucking thing stinks. The wailing worb is a thousand times worse than a crying baby. You know, the kind that sticks burs of pain through your ever-loving ears and all the way into your effing brain. Yeah. Imagine that but ten times worse. It’s not just the sound. It’s the fucking fact that I know I’m torturing those souls just by riding this fucking infernal machine. That’s what it’s like riding a fossil fueled, soul-sucking Vortex. And I’ve only been at it for like five minutes. Feels like a fucking million years. According to horologium, it’s 4:28, Hell time.

The canyon cuts deeper into the hills. The land grows more jagged and threatening. I check on Rookfang. The big guy’s sprawled across the Vortex behind me. Still unconscious. Lucky to be him. I turn to look back up at the green-black puke of the late-night, early-morning Hell sky, stars barely visible, the moon Charon squatting down on the horizon like a frog when I see the silhouette of a Mottle and Plumacat fly overhead. They land with barely a sound beside me. Then five more pairs ghost down. It’s creepy and slick at the same time. Makes me jump just a little. They’re all covered tail-to-nose in blood. For a second I freak out. Then I realize the blood’s not theirs. I throttle down the Vortex and enjoy the blessed ever-loving silence of my ringing ears. Damn things should carry like five hundred warning labels.

Jumping off the Vortex, Mottle and I land lightly beside the scout team. It’s clearly the scouts. I’d recognize Grimjaw’s elongated fangs from a hundred feet off. I look the scouts over for a moment. Yeah. They are covered in gore. It was real bad for whoever or whatever it was they took down. “OK. Tell me what just happened.”

Grimjaw pads forward, dark eyes taking me in. His black feathers remind me a bit of what I learned about velociraptors. Feathered dinosaurs. Although I’m pretty sure velociraptor feathers were colorful and this Plumacat looks like some crazy mash-up between a black tiger and an eagle of some sort. Like seventy percent black tiger thirty percent eagle, but who’s counting. He flops down comfortably next to me and begins washing the gore off with his tongue. Maybe that’s eighty percent tiger?

“We scouted as you requested.”

I ordered it. But who’s splitting hairs. “Report what you saw.”

“There is a large force of about eighty Drivers in the Wisp Fields. They’re about halfway down from Overseer Tower. The Uktena escaped and is flying toward them. It’ll take about an hour to reach the force. There’s a smaller group of scouts out ahead and heading toward us. Perhaps another ten. We also ran into a couple of stragglers from the last group. We pounced them. They were heading back from the scorpion’s wreckage. Seemed to be in a hurry.” He continues to lick himself.

I give him a pat. “Good work. Damn good work.”

The Plumacat gives a rumble that sounds like a purr. “It is a pleasure. I delight in turning predator into prey.” His dark eyes twinkle with relish and something else. Perhaps satisfaction.

Grimjaw’s information is key. His taking out the two scouts probably saved us some time. Maybe the element of surprise too. I’m worried about that Uktena. It saw us. Probably got a decent account of our numbers. I don’t know if it’s figured out how we gained those numbers. I look to Zaya. The Vila’s flying a little bit off to my left. She’s hung back ever since we started using the Vortexes. She’s frowning and has a disgusted look on her face. I totally feel the same way about these disgusting machines. But each of them houses like ten wisps. And that might prove to be crucial to our next effort. They’re too heavy to drag. So we’ve gotta ride them.

Everyone has stopped. They’re staring at me. Waiting for orders. I’m in a kinda crucial moment. It’s go big or go home time. Go home’s not an option. I step back from Grimjaw, turn to my company of the transformed. They cluster around, large, feeling eyes stare down. The Plumacats and Urdrakes are predators. They kinda terrify me. But I remind myself that they’re a part of Hell’s order. Maybe they’re even a last-ditch reaction by nature here to throw off the destructive, world-wasting devils. The Mottles are a comfort. Though they too possess the capacity for great violence. It’s how you survive in this broken world. The way of the sword, the tooth, the claw. And now is the time to walk that path or be destroyed.

“Grimjaw and his scouts just discovered the enemy’s position. There’s about ninety bads down there in the Wisp Fields. Ten more scouts are headed toward us. The larger group’s also out there. But they’re moving slower on account of the four scorpions they’re bringing with them. They only outnumber us slightly now. But they still have a major advantage in organization and hitting power.” I’m kinda impressed with myself. Dad really beat tactics into my head with all the war gaming as a kid. Plus, you know, D&D can actually teach you up on tactics pretty quick if you’ve got a good game master. Dad was the best — always throwing me into the shit. Since like age seven or so. “We can’t let them survive this night. Overseer has much greater numbers to command. If they find us here, they’ll use that force as a base, then send out more fast-moving reinforcements to hem us in, pin us down, and annihilate us. So now is the time for us to strike a blow and take down those devils!”

The Plumacats yowl in support of my suggestion. The Urdrakes, inspired, raise their voices in a growling song. Even the usually chill Mottles seem taken in by the predators’ bloodlust.

“So we are going over that rise. We are heading out into the Wisp Fields. And we are going to take down those devils. Are you ready!?”

Their uplifted roar of response is deafening.

(New to the Helkey multiverse? Haven’t yet read the first chapter? You can find it here: Helkey 1 — The Memory Draught.)

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

(Enjoying the story? Want to help support the continuance of this tale? Please like, share and subscribe.)

2 Comments

by robertscribbler on February 3, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Ambush, Angels, Demons, Devils, Drivers, Earth, Fantasy, Featherstar, Games, Grimjaw, Heaven, Hell, Knife Lake, Mottle, Myra Helkey, Overseer Tower, Overseers, Plumacats, Predators, Scorpion, Sunken Crag, Theri, Urdrakes, Vila, Zaya, Zel

Posted by robertscribbler on February 3, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/02/03/battle-of-sunken-crag-predators-games/

Helkey 23 — Queen of Drivers and Overseers

Regina Rouge stands atop Overseer tower, balcony railing clenched between two gauntleted hands, eyes scanning the flurry of activity below, a smile like a splash of blood on her lips. Her gun-metal armor grips her lithe form, fanning its spines into the hot, sulfurous air of Hell’s night. A red worb brimming with hundreds of captive wisps swirls over her left shoulder. At her hip is a long, ruby rod. Its end capped in black metal. A true Holocaust Scourge. One of the handful crafted by Asmodeus’s masters of infernal device. Not one of those cheap imitations bragged about by the petty nobles of Mechanus. She lays a palm over the weapon’s handle and peers out over her realm — the rich spawning grounds of Knife Lake. One of the most fertile basins for wisp formation in all of Eastern Infernia. Her source of power and profit this past Century. The one thing enabling her tenuous hold on Hell-Lord status.

The wisp-mongers of Mechanus are expecting a new supply of culls. And she is running late. A situation she seeks to remedy through that old Hellish occupation of over-work. Twenty scorpions are now grinding away to meet the jilted demand. Her full force of hundreds of Drivers along with a few score mercenary Poachers out scouring the lowlands for the wisps that continuously form here. Brought by demons, Terror Hounds, or simply by the increasingly terrible and competitive existence of those living on the prey world — Earth. Ever hungry, the Lords of Hell and their vast servant entourages require more souls to power their magics, to fulfill their never-sated lusts, or to curry favor in the endless power games of Asmodeus. His own ingenious lures bringing them more and more. She just need trap them, cull them, send them docile and ready for shaping into forms or use as a kind of liquid power in worbs.

Tonight’s effort will bring her more wealth, more favor. As long as it succeeds. So she watches from her balcony, ready to send a missive flying should any of the planned work run awry. Tonight, an annoying mist lies over large sections of the fertile lands to her south and east. She frowns as she tries to glimpse the scorpion she dispatched there. Through the mists, she thinks she sees the flick of its tail. Catches a glimpse of the tail contacting the wisp, then undulating with light as it draws the soul into a refinement vat. The tail flicks again. She smiles, stretches, cracks her knuckles. All is going well. The wisp mongers will be happy. Her wealth will continue to grow.

Then, near her scorpion, she sees a red flash that swiftly blooms into a flower of flame. A fireball shot. Her breath catches. Could her rival be taking action against her tonight? Lanvfer might be tempted to make a bold move to upset her shipment. He’d know the wisp-mongers are desperate. Any failure on her part will give him leverage. Regina had to admire the move. But it’s risky. Asmodeus will only turn a blind eye to the most minor internecine squabbling. Challenges between competing nobles are supposed to be settled on the battlefield of Avernum. But that only happens in instances of open warfare. Far more common are veiled conflicts or quietly incited rebellions. It’s one of the ongoing features of Hell — its lords ultimately fall prey to the endless grind of infighting. All except Asmodeus who delights in playing one against the other.

Her armored fist tightens on the railing. Ever the pragmatist, Regina knows she is just as vulnerable to a fall as the rest. Another fireball round explodes near her scorpion. She can’t see what’s happening down there, but that light is unmistakable. Then, she sees the streaks of force — trailing sparks as they cut through the fog to explode over the scorpion. Five bolts of pure spiritual energy followed by the more familiar arcs of orange fireball rounds. The massive explosion rends a hole in the fog. She can see the wreckage of her scorpion clearly now, her keen devil’s eyes piercing miles to make out small forms crawling over it — collecting the pillage of victory.

“That was magecraft.” She whispers the words, then involuntarily licks her lips. Her sensitive devil’s nostrils flare. She can smell a scent that to a human would hint of saltpeter. Spark scent, the devils call it. A tell-tale of human magecraft that a devil noble such as Regina could sniff out better than a shark could sniff blood in water. That magic, those sparks, this smell. To her mind there is no doubt. In her hundreds of years, she’s captured a mage wisp but three times. Each rending — a victory that served to secure her present high place in Hell’s ever-shifting heirarchy. A hunger settles into her gut that has nothing at all to do with food. “This changes everything.”

Somehow, a mage had come to her lands. If she could capture it — one of the most valuable of wisps, worth more than a destroyed scorpion, worth more than the entire rushed wisp harvest, worth more than any of her best years’ crops — would be hers for the taking.

She lays a hand on her Holocaust Scourge, channels a tongue of its angry fire through her worb. The wisps within scream in pain — sending out her signal. In a few moments, the air above her ripples. Unfolding from a flash of flame, an Uktena — a flying red serpent with two horns jutting from its head — appears. It treads the air in front of her languidly as it drifts down to her. This serpent is Corviss. One of her many messengers.

“How might I serve you, mistress?” Corviss hisses.

“Someone has destroyed a scorpion.” Her tone is relaxed but it bears the subtle weight of those used to command. “It happened in the Lowlands’ Wisp Fields at the East End. “

Corviss hisses again, this time in surprise and delight. Uktena were unabashed lovers of conflict and mayhem. Trouble of all kinds and the suffering of others was a joy to them. “Does my lady suspect who would commit to such a thing?” A forked tongue flicks out. Two dark eyes glisten in anticipation.

“Not yet. Though there is a mage among them.”

Corviss cannot contain himself. He corkscrews through the air, spits burning venom above him, then bathes in it. Shuffling his coils in ecstasy, he curves back toward her. Should they capture a mage, all in Overseer Tower will bask in glory and receive Asmodeus’s favor for a year and a day. “Superb! What is your command!”

“We require the perpetrators. Send a Century and four scorpions to the Lowlands. Tell them to find the wreckage and deploy a hunting party — a Lance or two, each led by an Overseer should suffice — to pick up our quarry’s track from there. Hold the scorpions and the rest of the Century in reserve.”

“Yes lady Regina!” Corviss replies. “Shall I be off?”

Regina touches her Scourge. A red flame bites Corviss’s tail. He shrieks in momentary agony. “Do not presume,” she says evenly.

“Forgive me lady. I just… It’s been so long. My excitement got the better of me. It won’t happen again.”

Regina nods curtly, then continues. “Choose Overseer Lavross. He has the most experience dealing with magecraft. And warn him — the mage had enough skill to take down a scorpion with only a small group of companions. Perhaps as few as six. That said, he was able to exploit Hell’s society and gain allies. Probably from among the slave classes. One also cannot ignore the possibility that a rival may employ a mage as a cat’s paw.”

“The treason!” Corviss hisses, aghast at her suggestion.

“… will be plausibly deniable so long as the mage’s wisp is taken. And the mage wisp may serve as a mitigating gift to any Hell Lord, such as myself, who captures so dangerous an interloper. Lanvfer is quite cunning. I won’t put such maneuvering past him.”

“You are deft as ever, lady,” Corviss simpers. “I see why you send such a large force.”

“Yes. If this is a veiled plot by Lanvfer to unseat me, we’d better be ready. Alert the other four Centuries and put them on standby. It will slow the harvest. But our capture of a mage will more than offset our loss. However, do not allow any word to spread to the mercenaries. Just keep them hard to task. Instead, quietly double the number of spies we keep among them. Tell our agents to send back word if our mercenary friends act unexpectedly.”

Corviss bows. “It shall be so,” he hisses. He writhes in the air before her — almost tying himself in knots as he lurches into motion, then stops himself. He will not risk another burn from her Scourge. And yet this news of a mage, of a possible assault by Lanvfer is too delicious for an Uktena not to react.

Regina smiles, drawing out the moment. Toying with her Uktena messenger is one of her more sumptuous hobbies. “Very well…”

Corviss hangs on a tenterhook.

“One last thing.”

The Uktena lurches in mid-lunge, almost caught as he nearly withers the air to leap to Overseer Lavross. “Yes, my lady,” he manages lamely.

Regina is too overjoyed at her coup to inflict punishment for his minor insubordination. “Tell Lavross that the Lance responsible for capturing our mage will receive two allotments on top of the usual reward. Allow rumor of the reward to spread to the mercenaries, just not the aim of our present hunt. I trust in your subtlety.”

“My lady!” Corviss beams at the unexpected compliment.

Disappointed Corviss didn’t attempt to jump off again, Regina waves a hand in dismissal. “Now go!”

Corviss coils his body, bursts into flame, then disappears. Far below, she sees his fire light among a formation of Drivers. They stand, heavily armed and ready, at the base of Overseer. A contingent force prepared to deal with any surprise. In only a few minutes, they’re in motion, mounting their one-wheeled Vortexes which spew long tails of black smoke as they rush off toward four scorpions. Her force now in motion, she turns back to the east. The fog there is breaking up. But even her keen eyes can no longer make out the tiny forms she glimpsed in the distance. There is, however, an odd movement of wisps. A large group breaks off, then flows into the hills. It’s not unheard of for wisps to move together in such a way. They seem to naturally sense when they’re hunted. Often clustering together. Seeming to hope numbers alone will save them. It never works out. Her Drivers are as brutal as they are efficient. Yet these wisps do not appear to merely cluster and drift fearfully this way and that as they tend to. Instead they move swiftly into the hills, then cut into a lowland where they vanish from sight.

Strange and stranger. No matter. Whatever your magics, whatever alliances you think you have here in Hell, mage, will amount to nothing. They will crumble as ash in your hands. With mine, I will rend your wisp personally. I will make you my slave in the most horrible way imaginable. And forever-on you will serve me, Regina Rouge, Queen of Overseer Tower and Hell Lord. This I swear.

(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.)

(Enjoying the story? Want to help support the continuance of this tale? Please like, share and subscribe.)

2 Comments

by robertscribbler on January 4, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Devils, Drivers, Fantasy, Helkey, Hell, Holocaust Scourge, Knife Lake, Myra Helkey, Overseer Tower, Regina Rouge, Scorpions, Soul Harvest, Souls, Wips

Posted by robertscribbler on January 4, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/01/04/helkey-23-queen-of-drivers-and-overseers/

Helkey 22 — Ill-Fated Company

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.)

(Enjoying the story? Want to help support the continuance of this tale? Please like, share and subscribe.)

2 Comments

by robertscribbler on January 1, 2022 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Asmodeus, Devils, Fantasy, Helkey, Hell's Hills, Mage, Magic, Magical Tattoo, Mottle, Myra Helkey, Name Curse, Plumacats, Urdrakes, Vila

Posted by robertscribbler on January 1, 2022

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2022/01/01/helkey-22-ill-fated-company/

Helkey 14 — Liberator of Souls

I’ve pushed too hard. An easy thing to do in Hell’s combined toxic air and crazy heat. I’m dizzy, seeing double, feeling sick in my stomach. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.

Mottle is next to me. I feel a prick on my wrist as he does the weird IV bite. I cool off a little as nutrient and fluid from him flows into my veins. The stuff is cooler than my body temperature. My heartbeat slows down. My vision returns. I feel less queasy. Mottle withdraws. I lever myself up to standing position. Whew. Hell really sucks. Human beings can’t manage it for squat. I’m not even 24 hours in – I’ve got all the support of my magic, a nearly endless water bottle, Mottle is cooling blanket plus emergency food and fluid source – and I’m still falling apart.

Speaking of water bottle… I feel something wet on my side. I look down to find that Perrier is laced with web-like cracks. Shattered but not yet broken. That fireball bullet shot from the devil’s pistol must’ve cracked it. Thing’s leaking through my flannel shirt pocket and down my leg. Duplici exemplari is still refilling it. But it’s pretty fucked up. “Shit!” I exclaim.

I steady myself on the wall and look down at the Poachers. Both are red-skinned devils — decked out in what might be useful gear. I crouch down next to Norg. He’s got a knife, his fireball pistol, and various items hung from his belt. Fuck yeah! There are two metal flasks. I pick up one, open it. Smell of fermentation wafts out. I dump it. Might be fun or interesting to try back home. Out here experimenting with exotic Hell alcohol is a health hazard. I gently pull out the Perrier bottle and pour a bit of the sparkling water into the flask. It fizzes. I use this as rinse, swirling it around, then dumping it. I then upend all the fluid from the Perrier bottle into the metal container. Duplici is acting on the water after all. So I should be good. I take a swig. Yep. Same Perrier. This time with a little hint of taste like liquorish. Must be a remnant of Norg’s booze. I’ll take it.

I remove the Perrier bottle and put it on the ground. The action is almost gentle. It’s a memento of my world – Earth. One that saved my ass. Sure, I’m feeling nostalgic about a friggin glass bottle. “Rest well, Perrier, your heroism will never be forgotten,” I say to the bottle as I give it a mock salute. Stooping, I gather the rest of the devils’ gear. The hell rifle goes over one shoulder, the equipment belts and bullet baldrics over the other. I’m careful to make sure knives and pistol are secure. Mori gave me firearms training in prep for my journey to Hell. Looks like it might come in handy. Though guns aren’t really my thing. I kinda have a fear relationship with them. Too easy to kill something by pulling a trigger. With curses, at least you have to go through the intentional and mentally strenuous exercise of casting a spell first.

I can hear Mori talking in my head now. “People on Earth have said that war is Hell. Well, Hell is war. You’re going into Hell Myra. Best be ready to fight.” Hey, something got past the Memory Draught! Cool deal. Yeah. I remember this cute little Mori aphorism along with his firearms instruction all-right. I lug the guns and gear up to Mottle who is doing his wall-hanging thing. “Where to now?”

As answer, Mottle flaps further into the cave, waiting for me to follow. The passage winds down some natural stairs, around through rock columns, finally coming to a larger chamber. It’s blessedly cooler down here. Water bubbles up from a nearby spring. Doesn’t smell too sulfurous. Might be an actual drinkable source. Will test it later. Right now, I’m looking at a horror of pelts, prepared bones, racks of various smoked flesh, and a table stacked with worbs. Beside this shit-show are cages made of bone. Inside are three devils with blue skin. I remember from my earlier training these blue devils are the devil slave class. Well, there are all kinds of slaves in Hell. But blue devils make up the more numerous subsets of actual devil society. They don’t have any rights and other devils can pretty much do with them as they please. The three blue devils hover about in their cage, looking at us with various curious and plaintiff expressions. Beside their cage is a bloody whipping post whose purpose requires no explanation.

A separate cage contains a green-skinned humanoid creature with insect-like wings and yellow orb eyes. It’s about two and a half feet tall. Looks like a faerie of some sort. Mottle extends his tail. I accept the contact. Vila. Blue devils. His matter-of-fact thoughts identify the creatures. I’m drawing a blank on the Vila.

“What’s a Vila?” I ask.

Tree spirit. Almost extinct. Mottle replies. Rare. Exotic. Valuable to Poachers for trade or body parts. These thoughts make me sick. If I have any lingering doubts taking down the poachers was justified, they’re erased by the spectacle of exploitation before me.

The blue devils are chattering among themselves. They notice I’m carrying the Poacher’s gear. I hear the word “human” uttered a few times in hushed tones. One of them steps forward, extends a hand toward me. “Therivelle,” she says as she pats her chest. She moves with a limp. I can see her back is mostly flayed raw from whipping. “We will serve. Help in exchange for food.” She makes slow hand motions as she talks. I’m pretty sure she thinks I can’t understand what she’s saying.

The whole scene makes me furious. Throwing away caution, I step forward. Opening my left hand, I draw my still active moon-shadow blade from the air. The devils let out cries of anguish. I bring the sword down on the chain holding the bone door to the cage shut. Sparks fly as the chain parts. I kick the door open. “You’re free. Get out.” I say to them in Hell’s tongue – Minosian. In two more steps, I’m beside the Vila’s cage. It has no obvious door. In two slashes, I destroy a wall of the bone cage. “You’re free too Vila.” I say this in Minosian and then in English. Not sure if the Vila can understand either. Mottle hangs back through the whole exchange. He’s not doing anything to stop me. I suppose I’m being careless. I don’t give a shit. This stuff is all just wrong.

The blue devils rush out. One runs past us, pauses for a moment near a rock column, then sprints on toward the entrance. Mottle touches my cheek. Might go warn devils. High reward for human mage. Even for blue devil. Right now, I don’t care. I know it’s stupid-reckless. Sure, the twisted little devil living in Hell since forever is probably going to do me a bad turn. I just can’t bring myself to harm the poor wretch over a mere almost-certitude. The other two devils watch their companion run. Instead of following, they walk over to the drying flesh stretched out on racks and begin devouring chunks of it. I don’t typically eat meat. I have no idea what poor creature the poachers killed for it. My empty stomach grumbles nonetheless. Pretty sure I’m going to end up lowering my standards to survive here. I look at Mottle. Maybe. I hold off for now.

The Vila is hovering in a high corner near the cavern’s rear after a short flight to put space between her and the rest of us. Can’t say I blame her. She doesn’t know me for squat and, if Mottle’s right, her precious parts are a valuable commodity to the devils I just freed. She’s looking down on us – eyes flitting from me to the devils gulping down mouthfuls. I feel a pang of sympathy at their hunger even as I worry over what threats they might pose. No take-backs now. I let them out all-right. Probably going to regret that. Keeping my eyes on them, I move over to the table and start slicing up the worbs. Sparks and wisps fly. Another seventeen — five light, twelve dark — are sheltered behind my protective spiritual enclosures. Forty five souls now. Sixteen light wisps, twenty-nine dark. The energy they’re giving me back is quickly refilling my name curse. I’m up to a third already after being next to empty fifteen minutes ago.

Blue devils pause from their food devouring to watch. Their pink eyes widen in surprise. The boy spouts an infernal curse. Theri — I mentally drop the velle part — drifts forward and looks at my arm dripping sparks. “You keep wisps?” She asks.

“It’s part of my magic. Makes them safe. They help me in turn.” I can tell she’s scared of me. Feeling is fucking mutual. The look she’s giving me is one of open disbelief.

“You don’t enslave them for power? Don’t devour them?” The way she says it sounds like an accusation. Like she’s saying I’m lying with a question.

In answer, I lift my arm, then turn my body so she can see my shadow. “Revelare,” I incant. My name curse and shadow briefly remove their protective shroud — showing the light and dark wisps within. They swarm in my shadow, flicker and dance with the sparks in my name curse. More vital and alive since their removal from Hell’s spiritually caustic environment. For a normal human, this might look like a parlor trick. But devil eyes are specially adapted to see wisps. The entire race has preyed upon and hunted them for thousands of years. Before that… Why can’t I remember what they did before? Oh yeah, damn Memory Draught took it out. But I assume they did something less obnoxious with wisps before Asmodeus took over all those thousands of years ago.

Theri hisses in surprise and disbelief. The other blue devil steps forward, clutching at Theri’s arm. “She’s not lying,” he says to her softly.

She puts her hand over his. “Zel, how can it be real?”

“It’s what you always said, Theri. Try to find another way. Maybe it found us?”

I close my hand, allowing Ignarus’ protective shroud to fall again. My wisps are growing agitated even at the brief Hell contact. The soft, dare I say compassionate, exchange between Zel and Theri gives me a glimmer of hope. I’m conflicted. You’re not supposed to feel hope in Hell. But if not, then why am I here? Seeing how I still don’t know shit about my mission, I decide to improvise. Worked with Mottle after all.

“Look. I can’t even begin to imagine your life here. What you’ve been through. And, yeah, I’m a human mage. So you’re probably looking at me like I’m some combo between fish out of water and big sack of gold. Maybe if you hand me over, you can win what passes for devil freedom here. I’ve an alternate proposition. Join up with me and I’ll show you what real freedom looks like.” I’m totally playing this by ear. Some of what I’m saying I’m sure is pretty much pure bullshit. But if I pull the thread of everything that’s happened, of Mottle and my name curse, I must not be too far off. If I can chip souls out of the typical hell cycle of exploitation. If I can get Mottle out of that harmful loop, then why not the dregs of devil society who’ve been shit on for millennia? Maybe I could help them out? Gods I must be frigging nuts.

Theri and Zel are staring at me. Zel gives a toothy grin as smile. “Well, I didn’t expect to live for more than a few days anyway. Here’s to giving the big stiff middle finger to the man,” Zel replies. I’m translating a bit liberally here. What he really said was more like “give the man the big pointy horn.” But you get the picture. Anyway, it seems my little speech and show of protection for wisps has won them over. At least for now.

There’s a flutter of wings as the Vila flits down closer. Her green face is covered in tears. She touches her chest. “Zaya,” she says. “I’m Zaya. You’ve taken my tree’s wisp. Given it real light and good earth.” She points to my name curse. A green-tinted wisp rises to just below the curse’s whorls as Zaya flutters closer, lifting a hand to touch me. I let her. The hand is tiny, smaller than a child’s but perfectly formed like an adult’s. She’s a frigging faerie. In Hell. “You… I feel… alive again. Can I come? Will you take my wisp if I die? I promise to help you.”

My name curse sparks at her pledge. It seems her good intention and sincere ask for aid has forged a bond with it. “There’s your answer,” I reply softly.

Zaya exhales in relief. She keeps her hand on my name curse. It seems to comfort, so I let her.

The devils’ soul-sensitive eyes see the bond form. Mystified, they watch the sparks fall. Zel tentatively extends a hand.

“It’s OK. Go ahead,” I say.

Zel puts his much larger hand on top of Zaya’s. Theri looks at him. He nods. She places her hand on top of Zel’s.

“Give my wisp your protection and I will help you.” Theri says.

“Me too,” Zel says. His skin becomes kind of purple. It’s a blue devil blush. “I trust you with my spirit.”

Sparks spill out of my name curse beneath their touch. A fountain of lights casting shadows throughout the cave. I feel like a roman candle without the burn. Three lights separate from the rest. Lifting up, they hover before each of my new companions in turn, then slowly descend to alight upon their chests. The sparks melt into them. Zaya giggles. Zel gasps. Theri smiles and says “It’s warm and it tickles.” I’m just as surprised. It’s the most unlikely of scenes I’d ever have imagined taking place in Hell. But here I am in a Poacher’s larder, forming a holy bond of friendship with liberated blue devils and what is probably one of the last remaining Vila in all of this blasted and burned world.

Mottle puts his tail on my shoulder. A spark floats off for him as well. My, my, aren’t we the odd quintet?

(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.)

1 Comment

by robertscribbler on April 16, 2021 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Angels, Blue Devils, Climate, Devils, Earth, Fantasy, Heaven, Helkey, Hell, Liberator, Myra Helkey, Poacher's Cave, Souls, Vila

Posted by robertscribbler on April 16, 2021

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2021/04/16/helkey-14-liberator-of-souls/

Helkey 6 – Exorcising the Demon-Wolf

Beatrice watches as Myra does an acrobatic handplant, suspends for a second, turns to look at her one last time, and then is snatched into the Hell-Gate’s opening maw. A part of me goes with you, Beatrice thinks. But she knows it’s more. She’s sending her only daughter into Hell — with zero knowledge of the secret plan they have to break her out. Only trust and Myra’s self-made Mirror Specter guide set to awaken when she enters Hell. It seems a thin assurance to her now, but the guide, a little ghost of a hitch-hiker riding down into Hell on Myra’s wisp, is packed with helpful intel. Preset to give Myra just the amount of information she needs. To help keep Myra alive and on plan as she ventures through the most vicious of worlds. It’s all part of their bold strategy. Maybe too bold. A seriously risky plan Beatrice dares not even think of now lest the stray memory be caught up by a sensitive listener.

In front of her, the ridiculous Ivan Volkov still sits on his golden toilet. His face in blank shock at her shout to the Pride-Eaters. They’re invisible to him, for now. But given how much sin they’d already slurped from Volkov, his blissful ignorance wouldn’t last long. Better now for him to know early so he has a chance to understand. Not that it’s likely to do much good. Volkov is probably a lost cause. Probably. But she’d been surprised before.

“Una!” she shouts, gathering the power of her curses. She rushes forward, making the bound across the marble in two leaps. She spins in mid-air between two demons lifting their claws to attack. They have semi-form here. A hit from any one of those wicked claws could be lethal. Hunger ignites in their eyes as she channels the curse energy to the tip of her blade. It gleams – starlike – then she slams the rapier tip flatwise onto Volkov’s forehead. The curse energy transfers into him with a white-hot flare.

Video blog for Helkey 6

Ivan can see the demons now. His shock turns to frenzy. He stands up, tries to run, but is tripped up by his pants. He falls face first in front of the bidet, cracking his elbow on its golden rim. He howls in pain. The place where she channeled Una into his forehead is an angry red. That’s going to bruise. She’s holding the curse in place for him. He has no mage talent as such. But his demon energy is strong and it grasps the curse hard in its jaws. He’s muttering now as one of the demons bends its head down – ethereal spittle dropping on Volkov. “Red… red…” he stammers as he notices the wisp energy wafting off him. He looks at Beatrice. “What did you do to me!!” He shouts as he crawls away, whimpering, from the Pride Eaters. He has apparently forgotten his pants. They are down around his ankles.

Mori springs into motion. Racking the slide on his over-grown rifle, he sights in on the first Pride Eater. The weapon erupts in a hail of blue-white bullets. Its ammunition is heaven-blessed curse energy. Macto curses. The bullets rip through one of the Pride Eaters. Great holes appear in its form. These grow larger as it looks down at itself in shock. It charges toward Mori. But the rapidly growing holes consume its form in a bright flash of falling sparks after just three steps.

The second Pride Eater leaps for Beatrice. She sees its enormous claws tearing toward her as she rises from her lunging curse delivery to Ivan’s forehead. She’s over-extended, so her best move is to spin away. She does a barrel-roll in mid-air as she avoids a series of vicious slashes – then nimbly lands on one grey-booted foot as the other points back behind her. The rapier tip shoots forward like a comet.

“Ivan!” she shouts. “You’ve endangered your soul! These demons hunger for your hubris!” Ivan’s face melts into panicked disbelief. Yes, Ivan, the monsters in your closet really do exist. Her riposte strikes one of the Pride-Eater’s clawed hands. It ripples with white light. Sparks flow from it. Then the hand – claws and everything – bursts into red mist. The Pride Eater pauses in surprise. Serious error. Mori sights in on the thing’s head. A brief trigger-squeeze and another blue-white bullet erupts from the rifle’s barrel, its flash casting shadows across Mori’s angular face. The bullet makes a perfect, purple-rimmed circle in the hollow near the demon’s cavernous nose. The hole spools outward in a widening spiral of sparks like one of those Fourth of July spinners. Now headless and handless, the demon falls. It twitches once, then explodes in a red-spark outburst. The sparks arc through the air like a flower of flares.

“Shit!” Mori shouts.

Beatrice turns her head. The third Pride-Eater has caught up to Ivan. He is raving in Russian, then switches to English as the demon sinks an ethereal claw into him.

“Not this soul. Protected! Was baptized! Was baptized!!” His tone has turned to pleading. His eyes imploring to Beatrice – as if she were somehow both cause of his current trouble and source of possible mercy.

Unfortunately for Ivan, he is not protected. Not in the least. To the contrary, he summoned these demons. His Earth-wrecking work at Furze Bank culminating in self-deifying daily dumps from the golden toilet on top of Berlin drew them the way road kill draws carrion birds. Pride Eaters. Some of Asmodeus’s favorite nasty errand boys. These were the things that came to Ivan. Day after day after day. Over time, one of these nasties had managed to spin a spirit tether between it and Ivan. A demon’s dog chain for his hubris hound. Beatrice can see it as a trailing lead of red mist rising from Ivan. The wound he now suffers would typically be lethal in a variety of ways. But for the spirit tether, instant heart attack, aneurism, hemorrhage… any number of things all resulting in death untraceable to its demonic source would have befallen him. But for poor, tethered Ivan, the effects of such a wound can be at once less final and more horrific. A Pride Eater’s long claws are very useful for gouging away a wisp’s protective coating, for developing its tether, and for using that tether to invade the wisp — possessing body, mind, and spirit. Of course, the natural protection over Ivan’s wisp was already greatly weakened by his own harmful thoughts and acts long before the demons arrived. The Pride Eater just came in, like a vulture swooping down on a dying creature, to finish the job.

“Baptized…” he wheezes pitifully as the impossibly long claw sinks deeper, questing beneath Ivan’s flesh. Then the demon possession takes hold. The Pride-Eater shimmers. Beatrice is bounding toward it, lashing out with her rapier. Mori is swinging his rifle around, drawing a bead. Sword and bullet strike toward the demon in unison. The Pride-Eater flickers, wriggling as if suddenly consumed by thousands of worms, then shoots into Ivan’s body. The mages’ weapons meet only the air where it once stood over Ivan.

“Oh, holy Hell!” Mori curses again. His weapon’s magazine is empty. With practiced motion, he ejects, pulls another blue magazine from his pocket, inserts it into the chamber, and pulls back the charging handle.

Ivan is writhing on the ground. His body is now flickering, bulging, growing larger. There is a sickening crackle as muscles and bones rearrange. A fur like thousands of black metal hair-pins shoot out of his flesh. His jaws elongate. Great teeth sprout and grow pointed. His eyes yellow. Four limbs become four legs. A row of larger, wicked and barbed spines emerges from his back. A tail sprouts from his rear. The tail’s end is tipped in barbs. At the shoulder he is now easily five feet tall. From tip of nose to tip of tail – 15 feet. He’s transformed into some horrific mash-up of wolf, demon, porcupine and stegosaurus all rolled up together.

He lifts his maw and lets forth a great howl. The sound echoes through worlds. It spirals down into the Hell Gate. It crosses the darkness and enters the Arch of Time. Into the wastes of Infernia where Myra is now just beginning to get her bearings it roars, out beyond the terrifying metal madness that is Mechanum it clangors, through the battles now raging in Avernum it explodes, past the terrible slave prisons of Carcerus it keens, and echoing at last across the great spires of Asmodeus’s impenetrable fortress Invicti on the shores of the burning purple ocean of Hell it wails. Somewhere, in that great black fortress, a Curse Rider hears the call of Ivan the Wolf, puts on his wide-brimmed black hat, and begins to make his way down to Asmodeus’s stables in search of his Nightmare. For at Ivan’s possessed summons a new Curse Hunt is begun. The Curse Hunt for Beatrice and Mori.

Beatrice feels shivers over her body at the sound. She knows the howl entered the Gate. She knows in her gut – this is a summons. She knows half of Furze Bank HQ must have heard it as well. For Ivan was now a hybrid demon-human. Not just a mere possession. But a full-on transformation only the likes of the Pride Eaters could bring out. He exists both as ethereal – which is that shadow realm the demons typically inhabit on Earth – and as corpus. Live and in the flesh.

“He just rang one hell of an alarm bell,” Mori says, sighting in on Ivan the Wolf. “You handle the exorcism curse!”

Beatrice points her blade at the massive demon-wolf. It is lowering its head, still getting its bearings, still becoming accustomed to its new form. They have time yet. Mere moments. But it should be enough. The transformation hasn’t fully taken hold.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica protestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii!” She incants as she points her sword blade at the wolf demon. A kind of bow shock of light has formed in front of her sword.

“Una!” Mori shouts and the bow shock extends to his rifle.

Ivan the wolf lowers his head and growls. It is not like a normal wolf growl. This comes out more like a grating growl-cough.

“Omnis legio, omnis congregation et secta diabolica!” Beatrice continues as the bow shock grows brighter.

Outside the chamber of the golden toilet there is shouting and the pounding of feet. Guards are at the outer door. Ivan takes an awkward step forward. There is terrible power in those muscles. He doesn’t know how to use them just yet. He crouches to pounce, but his legs splay too wide on the slick marble flooring.

“Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica ADJURAMUS TE!” Beatrice finishes. Together, her weapon and Mori’s phase fully into the ethereal realm. They will target the demonic part of Ivan with this abjuration’s full force. Its bow shock is now extreme. A bright light that briefly turns the Furze Bank HQ executive water closet into a light house tower. Beatrice lunges forward, Mori shoots, the still awkward demon wolf as Ivan lashes out with iron-fanged jaws. Sword and bullet strike the beast carrying with them their bow shocks of light. Ivan’s fangs clamp down on Beatrice’s leg. The exorcism rocks through Ivan’s body. It evaporates all demonic flesh it touches – leaving only human flesh behind. The Pride Eater is excised. Nothing of it remains. Ivan shrinks back to his original shape and stature. He is completely naked. All his clothes are in shreds on the floor. Beatrice cries out in pain – looking down at her leg-wound oozing blood and poison.

“Einfach! Halt!” The guards have kicked the frosted doors open and are drawing their pistols.

“Time to go!” Mori shouts. He grabs Ivan with one arm. Beatrice follows, but has to limp as searing pain shoots up her leg. Mori levels his gun at the globular glass window, waits one more second for the exorcism curse to fully fall away, and fires. The far larger than normal bullets riddle it with enormous holes. It swiftly loses integrity and showers down, filling the room with shards. Permanent curses, woven into their clothing, protect them from the sharp, though mundane rain. The guards, however, are not quite so lucky. They flinch, cover their heads, and slip back down the stair for protection.

Ivan is shaking, incoherent, covered in little nicks from the glass. An ugly black scar has formed where the Pride Eater entered him. He is yammering Russian, English, and occasionally tries to howl. Beatrice takes his other arm as she and Mori run to the edge of the tower. Dropping all other curses, they jump off while yelling the “Pluma!” curse together and then “Una” as Ivan starts to fall faster. The shared curse energy causes them to descend at a gradual if still gut-wrenching pace. It’s like a fast lift down.

“Well, you wanted to get Asmodeus’s attention. To draw it away from Myra. I think we did that in spades.” Mori says with a cynical half-smile as they glide toward the street with Ivan between them.

“Grand spades,” Beatrice replies. “That howl rang all through Hell and into half of Berlin. Who would’ve expected Ivan here was so far gone? I thought if we convinced him to come with us after seeing the demons, he might take us up.”

Mori gives his crow-cackle laugh. “You think he’d be scared into doing what’s right? Hah! No plan survives contact with the enemy.” He shifts his gaze to her leg. “That looks bad.”

Beatrice nods. “It is. Some of his venom got me. We need a healer.” She can feel it burning in her veins. Her head is already starting to grow heavy. The outer borders of her vision blurring.

They land on the pavement. Beatrice stumbles. A few onlookers watch them in stunned surprise. One points at Ivan. In the distance, sirens begin to blare. Far above, flashlights are gleaming through the wreckage that was once the Furze Bank HQ executive water closet. Ivan suddenly seems to realize his surroundings and covers his private parts while making a scrunched-up expression of embarrassment. Mori throws his leather jacket over the Russian after transferring his ammo to his jeans pockets. He’s light on it anyway. The jacket is rather long and Ivan is rather short. The combination results in a modicum of modesty – even if Ivan does look like he’s wearing a high-cut onesie.

“I’d call this a serious wardrobe improvement,” Mori says, cuffing the still confused Ivan on the shoulder. “Man, pink is definitely not your color.”

Beatrice swoons a little as her vision darkens for a second. She’s not in the laughing mood. That look on Myra’s face is still stuck in her head. A piece of her is still with Myra down in that hell. She looks to her leg. “Left a piece of Hell in me too,” she says, imagining it’s pretty incoherent, but not caring. “Let’s get moving before you have two invalids to deal with,” she says lifting her head to Mori. It takes far too much effort.

“Well, it’s a good thing we know a healer, isn’t it?” Mori replies. “Come on. It’s off to Marienkirche to see our old friend Sadie. Glad we had a back-up plan.”

(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.)

6 Comments

by robertscribbler on March 18, 2021 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Beatrice Lushael, Demon Wolf, Demons, Exorcism, Helkey, Hell, Hell Gate, Ivan Volkov, Myra Helkey, Pride Eaters, Robert Mori, Wolf

Posted by robertscribbler on March 18, 2021

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2021/03/18/helkey-6-exorcising-the-demon-wolf/

Helkey 2 — The Golden Throne

Holy shit. Holy shit! Holy shit!! We are going to break into hell!!!

The recognition causes goose flesh to immediately break out all over my body. I begin to notice the strange sounds of people talking – notably the strange words. To recognize the strange street signs outside and the subtle, not-American look to the whole place. I glance around at the Starbucks again. It isn’t just any Starbucks. It’s a German Starbucks. One bustling with German people speaking, well, German and reading from German menus. The lay of the land and the sprawling city outside reveal a place that has long held a mysterious if ominous allure for me.

We’re in Berlin!

(Reading via video blog)

Man, this is one heck of a summer vacation. If you can accurately call it anything close to a vacation. More like watching the start to a Stephen King horror show while experimenting with magically enhanced mind-altering drugs. And my continuing feeling of not knowing what the hell is going on combined with a pervasive sense of disorientation is making me start to think this is all a very bad idea.

There are still so many bits missing… Obviously, I was part of one of my parent’s big plans. Something they filled me in on over the years. But now, because of the potion, I didn’t know squat.

“Uh, guys, if we’re going to break into Hell, then why the hell are we in metropolitan Germany?”

Mori and Beatrice share a look. It’s one of those – yeah, the potion worked better than we expected, perhaps too good kind of looks.

“Because, my dear,” Beatrice explains, “There’s a gateway to Hell on the top floor of the big bank building HQ just blocks from here.”

“It’s in the shitter,” Mori adds nonchalantly.

“To put it bluntly, it is the shitter,” Beatrice adds.

At those words, the memory starts to seep back. Furze Bank HQ is situated directly in the center of Berlin. It’s in this gigantic glass and iron tower. Looming over the city like some modern recreation of a medieval castle. On the top floor of that sky-scraper is a gilded bathroom that houses a great golden toilet. But this isn’t just your run-of-the mill opulent bathroom. This bathroom comes with a special window that allows those seated on the toilet to look out over the entire city of Berlin and its environs. To get the impression that one is sitting on the top of the world and shitting all over it.

“The Furze Bank HQ executive water closet. An appropriate metaphor of the sad mentality of many of this era’s richest people,” I observe with posed eloquence. “I think even my tight-ass AP English Lit teacher would appreciate the symbolism.” I laugh nervously at my own joke, still unable to shake a growing sense of dread. What’s the matter with us? – I ask myself silently, wanting to scream the words at my parents. Why would we ever plan to do anything so stupid as attempt to break into Hell?

“Ah, so you are starting to remember,” Beatrice replies with a wink. “Good.”

“Indeed, we live in the Age of Gilded Crappers,” Mori adds with dry humor. “And this particular crapper is our ticket, girls. A one-way ride straight to the worst place in the multiverse.”

So just between you, me and the wall, and because I really am starting to remember as Beatrice just observed, gateways to Hell are weird. I mean, really fracking weird even for a girl who grew up raised by actual live garden gnome nannies (redcaps are mean!) and with two of the strangest Martian ducks on the planet for parents. OK, well, they really aren’t Martian ducks. But you get the picture.

Now these gateways to Hell come in two forms. The first is a mostly permanent gateway. And there aren’t very many of those – about 13 or so correspondently existing during any given age and at any given time. One such monstrosity gapes its spiritual maw wide not far from here in the ruins of Auschwitz. Another lurks in the ground below the central point of impact at Hiroshima. And one just recently collapsed into existence in the thawing permafrost at a place called Yamal – which happens to mean ‘the end of the world’ – in Russia. Permanent Hell gates tend to form where bad shit has happened or is likely to happen. Places where fear or greed or war or neglect or blind pride or wanton lust or outright rage or abuse of innocents or of nature itself has resulted in or is all-too-certain to cause something goddamnbadaweful. And though they’re not exactly completely permanent, they can last for years, decades, even centuries.

Going into one of those gates is dangerous. They are watched by mysterious, strange and powerful beings that defy mortal understanding. Beings that are typically unable to cross over the boundary into our world, but who can nonetheless draw in our negative emotions in a manner similar to a crack junkie puffing away on the water bong pipe. Who gather in the event that some poor sod might die near the mouth of such a gate and be drawn in – at which point a feeding frenzy is likely to begin.

Of course, some idiot mage possessed of the right curses and understanding might actively cast themselves across such a permanent barrier. But this course is decidedly not advisable. If you want to have your wisp ripped directly out of your recently decapitated or otherwise mauled, mangled, or killed corpus, and used to feed the awful engines and forges of power-mad Asmodeus, then try to enter Hell by one of those gates. My parents, both possessed of not your average share of intelligence and badassery, would never try such a stupid thing. But, yeah, if you’re badder than the rest of us or have a death wish combined with a lust to experience spiritual torture before the ultimate and most terrible of all ends that could ever possibly befall any poor being, then be my friggin guest.

Us? Well we – meaning me, Mori, and Beatrice – have found our own private gateway into Hell. It’s not a regular permanent gate. But it is a pretty regular dump, as the case may be…

You see, the second kind of Hell Gate can form under almost any nefarious circumstance that provokes a very strong negative emotion. Murder scenes, for example, are pretty much certain to open one. War zones too. And you can often find the things yawning open pretty frequently at the various trading floors around the world during times of big booms or busts. Greed, fear, overweening pride, mass death can all serve as a key. A Helkey. A thing that attracts demons who subsequently shape a rift to peer in on the unsuspecting bad actors of our present world. These watchers aren’t usually as powerful or dangerous or numerous as those creatures that tend to mass around the permanent gates. So entry isn’t quite as dangerous. Of course, confronting even the demons of a temporary Hell Gate is still a serious risk. And temporary gates present their own unique challenges. Most are either unpredictable or open in Earthly locations that are dangerous, filled with snoopy cops, or are otherwise simply chaotic. If we are going to be bat shit crazy enough to try to get in to Hell, then we want both a safer route and one that is predictable.

And that’s where Ivan Volkov comes in.

Ivan is a big investor from mother Russia. Us mages suspect that he’s here in Germany laundering or attempting to launder money for the various powerful Russian oil oligarchs who’ve looted billions in public funds and turned it into private wealth. People who do these kinds of things and get away with it often have an over-developed sense of self-worth. They tend to view other people not as real persons, but as objects. In the case of Ivan, Ivan the Wolf as his friends like to call him, he appears to get a ridiculously and maniacally prideful rush from the notion of sitting at the top of the world and shitting all over the rest of us plebes. This self-deifying pride and enjoyment over the imagined degradation of fellow human beings is enough to attract the attention of more than a just a few demons. Demons possessed of coldly cruel minds both utterly bestial and yet also advanced beyond human comprehension. Beings once orphaned from our world but now entirely alien to it. Creatures trapped in a broken world of poison airs and ash that are yet capable of lifting their grasping limbs to stroke the ether and to tear an opening between Hell and the Earth at precisely 630 PM Berlin time every day to look in on baleful Ivan as he ascends the grand glass tower, enters the gilded throne room, unceremoniously drops trou, puts his self-imagined royal ass on the seat of a golden toilet, and begins to unleash the pent-up volume of his great bowls upon a quietly unsuspecting world.

And so Ivan’s big daily shit is our big opportunity. If opportunity is at all the right word for describing such an insane enterprise as entering Hell through a toilet bowl swarming with demons.

(Haven’t read the first chapter? Check it out here.)

(Looking for another chapter? Find it in this Table of Contents.)

5 Comments

by robertscribbler on April 27, 2019 • Permalink

Posted in Helkey

Tagged Fantasy, Greed, Helkey, Hell, Hell Gates, Hell on Earth, Modern Fantasy, Myra Helkey, The Golden Throne

Posted by robertscribbler on April 27, 2019

https://scribblersfantasticalworkshop.wordpress.com/2019/04/27/helkey-2-the-golden-throne/

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