All posts tagged Urdrakes

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.

Map of Recent Events

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

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

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

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

**********

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

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

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

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

“We scouted as you requested.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their uplifted roar of response is deafening.

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

(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 February 3, 2022  •  Permalink
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Posted by robertscribbler on February 3, 2022

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

Helkey 29 — Battle of Sunken Crag, A Devils’ Dance

The blocky digital letters of my magical horologium watch tell me it’s 3:13 AM Hell time. I’m wide awake. Sure, I’m hot as Hell. Sweat’s running off me like a waterfall. Legs sore from all the goddamn walking, running, flying. Landing. Yeah, landings are the worst. Eyes burning with all the sulfur crud in the air. Lungs feel like I’ve smoked about a thousand packs of cigarrettes. Tongue tastes like fucking rotten eggs. Yep, they’ve managed to devil my damn tongue like an egg. I’ve been here all of fucking 35 hours.

I look over toward our motley company. The ninja-devil-turtle godzilla-things called Urdrakes stare back at me with their glossy, unblinking lizard eyes. It’s weird and cute at the same time. Not cuddly-cute. But lizard, turtle, godzilla cute. Hey, I’m into godzilla, OK? Deal. Beside the Urdrakes are a floppy-hoppy arrangement of Mottles. A bunch of them are now hanging on the wall. Great. An army of tapestry bats. Original Mottle is in a pile-up of them. They’re doing the touch-telepathy thing. Feathered Plumacats prowl around the cave. One brushes by, its feathers soft and prickly on my neck. Zaya, the green-skinned Vila, is in a ball beside me. Her soft breathing would normally lull me. I’m too jumped up for that. Probably adrenaline. Plus the fear. Definitely the fear. I turn to Zel and Theri.

“We should move again.” My eyes land on Zel.

He shrugs. “Worried?” he asks.

Damn straight I’m worried. We just hit one of Overseer Tower’s giant scorpions. Hard. The magic and destruction we unleashed — visible for miles around. Lit up the goddamn Hell-sky. Then we freed a boatload of their captive wisps. If there’s one thing devils take goddamn serious, it’s the souls they’ve trapped and subjugated. I try to compose myself. “Look. If they don’t know what’s happened by now, that we hit one of their scorpions, they’re fools. I’m guessing whoever’s in charge up there in Overseer didn’t get there by being a fool. So we need to keep moving.”

Theri puts her rough, clawed hand over mine. It’s weird and comforting at the same time. “You got us this far. What do you have in mind?”

Yeah. I got everyone into some deep shit alright. I take a breath, then jostle Zaya. She slowly rises, rubbing her eyes. “You’re going to want to be awake for this,” I say to her. I motion to Mottle, Zorfang, and Featherstar. “Over here, we’ve got to talk.”

Mottle shuffles out of his pile. Zorfang is already standing nearby. He leans closer. Lux from omnis scientia shines through the crystals ridging his back, casting little rainbows. My magical sensor’s hovering over my left shoulder. The amount of magic it takes barely means a thing to me now. The wisps sheltering in my name curse and shadow are pumping out a torrent of energy for my curses. Featherstar leaps up onto a boulder, then looks down at us imperiously. Definitely a cat. “Right. So we need to get moving. And since Overseer’s our objective, there’s no reason we shouldn’t head that way. They won’t expect a force as large as ours. Hopefully. We can use that to our advantage. Especially if we take a good position.”

I turn to Zaya, Zel, and Theri. “So what do you know about the land here? Any strategic points where we might gain an advantage?”

Zel and Theri exchange a glance. “There’s Sunken Crag,” Zel replies.

Theri nods. “It’s a deep canyon running between these hills and Knife Lake. Filled with nasty Scrabbers and Stelo-Mal. The wisp slavers in Overseer avoid its depths. One large bridge crosses it. The bridge has four watch towers. Each with a guard of about ten.”

A Live Reading of Helkey 29

“Scrabbers?” I ask. I know about Stelo Mal. That was Bob. Remember Bob? Yeah. That guy. He’s still with me here in my shadow. Chillin with all the other one hundred and two villains.

“Scrabbers are giant spider-crab devils. The Form Makers often turn wisps into them in this area,” Zel replies. “Deadly. Vicious. Mean.”

I think I might’ve glimpsed a Scrabber earlier tonight. What I saw looked damn nasty. I liked what I was hearing. “OK. We’ve got a shorta plan. Better than no plan at all. We head for Sunken Crag. As we do, we send scouts to figure out if Overseer’s sent a force to hunt us down. My bet is it has. We need to know where it is.” I turn to Featherstar. “You seem friendly with the Mottle Zephyr. Can you find about six others who’re willing to team up with a Mottle?”

Featherstar licks her hand. Long tongue lolls out. She then uses the back of her hand to clean behind an ear. Looking down at me, she finally replies — “Yes. I know six who’ll take a Mottle. What do you have in mind, faeyowther?”

“You’re already quick. I’ve seen you bounding across the cavern. Teamed with a Mottle, you can fly for short distances. Plus the Mottles will help you hide. I want you to scout out toward Sunken Crag and Overseer Tower. If there’s a force coming at us, I want you to find them, then report back. Don’t get into any fights unless you must. This is a scouting mission, clue?”

“Yes,” Featherstar purrs. “A stalking mission.”

That’s not what I said. But it’ll do. I’ve got omnis scientia which should help me get a wide view of the surrounding land. But that’s like having just one lookout on a high point. We needed to make sure we saw any devil force first. Then we could get ourselves into a better position. Plus, the bastards are bound to have their own scouts. We’d have to avoid those. Which brought me to my next aim.

I turn back to Theri and Zel. “So can you tell me what kind of eyes and ears these devils have? We need to deal with those.”

“All sorts,” Theri replies. “Psychic red devils with wide-ranging senses, forces riding rapid, one wheeled machines called Vortexes, horned flying snakes with an ability to teleport short distances called Uktena. Also, a Hell Lord can sense a mage wisp like a shark can sense a drop of blood in the water.”

Great. That made things tricky. It also provided opportunities. I turn to Mottle. “I’ll need all the remaining Mottles but you to spread out in pairs of two around our force. I want ’em to hunt down any of those flying snakes that come close. Small groups of four or less Vortex riders too. If more than four show up, send a flier back to me. Break up into groups of three. Don’t attack unless you have surprise and double the enemy’s numbers.”

Mottle slaps his tail on my arm. I can feel him quivering in excitement and fear. Yes, he sends to me. This is really happening. “Alright, everyone. Get ready. I want to be out of here in ten minutes.”

***********

Overseer Lavross rides into the Hell night, a toothy grin on his face, his dark worb bulging with tortured wisp energy. A rifle and a Night Axe are slung across his broad back. The Vortex beneath him eats up ground. The fast, lethal vehicle sends a thrill through him as its single, spiked wheel digs up furrows — a stinking cloud of exhaust and a hail of dirt clods trailing along behind.

Seven Lances of Vortex riders form around his four scorpions and command center. In each Lance are ten red devils. True fiends driven by lust for profit willing to do the hard, necessary work. The motley cavalcade is in high spirits. They clatter weapons against the flanks of their Vortexes, shout profanities, gun their engines ’til the entrapped wisps howl in torment. Lavross’s grin widens at their enthusiasm. It’d been long ages since he last hunted a mage. Many of these devils had never seen a mage hunt. Now they’re part of the myth. Lavross lets them have their frolic.

An eighth Lance, led by his lieutenant, the Overseer and former Hunter Amagash, runs out ahead. Amagash is already beyond sight. But Lavross is certain the scouts share in his Century’s enthusiasm. Amagash’ll scout the lands around the destroyed scorpion, then return with his report. If all goes well, Lavross will run down the attackers tonight.

Lavross scratches his horn in impatience, glancing at the slow-moving scorpions. His toothy grin fades back into a cavernous mouth. These lumbering machine-beasts tower above his Century. He doubts he’ll need their massive claws, bristling gun platforms, and devastation tails — capable of harvesting wisps and turning their raw energy into terrible force. They’re slowing him down. Yet Lavross is loath to part with the security their presence provides.

If it’s only a mage with a handful of rebels or undesirables, then Amagash will make quick work. The young devil will then try to claim most of the reward. Amagash had already tried overshadowing him once or twice. If that happens, Lavross’ll have to devise a way to take credit. Such subtle social maneuvers aren’t his forte. Lavross finds himself wishing he’d personally taken command of the scout force. But the suspected mage and his rabble demonstrated surprising lethality in taking down a scorpion. The machines, though large and slow, pack a serious punch. Either the mage is lucky or he knows what he’s doing. Luck or experience — Lavross doesn’t know which is worse. His hand drifts down to his chin, giving a speculative scratch. His mouth returns to its toothy grin. Hah! He’s more than happy to allow his lieutenant to take the risks! An unknown force with a dangerous leader! “Good luck, Amagash,” Lavross grumbles to himself. His voice sounds more genuine than he intends.

Early positions of devils and rebels in the Battle of Sunken Crag

Up ahead is Sunken Crag. The dark canyon gapes beneath a green-tinted night sky. Shadows lay deep, covering much of the Crag’s interior. Down there Scrabbers and Stelo Mal engage in endless struggles for dominance. Preying one upon the other. The Crag’s depths — a deadly gladiatorial pit where winners eat the losers and grow strong. Filled with super-predators, few who venture into Sunken Crag return alive. Lavross, lifts his eyes to the great bridge crossing a narrow portion of the Crag. It spans five hundred feet. Buttressed with heavy stone and dark steel forged in the pits of Mechanum, this structure provides the best, easiest passage across Sunken Crag. Its battlements and four towers form a strong point. One needed to deter the Crag’s predators while defending Overseer’s main approach.

Occasionally, some of the more rational Stelo Mal or Scrabbers will emerge to trade with the devils of Overseer. For the most part, they come out only to raid, devour and loot — as is the way of things in Hell.

Lavross’s thoughts break as his Vortex roars across the bridge apex. Spreading out to his left is the stinking, poisonous expanse of Knife Lake, to his right, the dead-falls and defiles of the Razor Hills. Lavross salutes the Crag Bridge guard. Their captain does him the honor of arraying his four Lances atop the towers, then tossing sulfur into the flames to light the fires green. Lavross grins at the gesture. One his reputation commands.

Its scorpions lumbering, its Vortexes roaring, Lavross’s force flows out onto the wisp fields beyond Sunken Crag. Up ahead, he can see some smoke plumes from Amagash’s scout force through the darkness and bobbing wisp-lights. The mists from earlier are long-since dispersed. His sensitive devil eyes drink up the night, providing clear sight and detail.

Across those wisp fields, already miles ahead, Amagash’s Lance howls through the night. The rangy Amagash wears a black-dyed Mottle trench coat. A recent prize he had specially tailored to house rows of jet metal spikes on the arms near his elbows and shoulders. Metal plates within the coat clatter in the wind as his Vortex tears up ground. At his shoulder, Corviss the Utenka flies. The red serpent threads through the air like living flame.

“We come near to the place,” the Utenka hisses.

Amagash grunts his reply. They top a rise, then descend into a depression. The scorpion is plainly visible below. A burned-out hulk in a ring of black ash hinting at a severe explosion. The Lance pulls up to the scorpion. Amagash calls a halt. Ten devils grow quiet as they take in the destruction. A couple crack brash jokes, tossing a small skull back and forth as they banter. Amagash dismounts, motions to Qlul, his second, to accompany him, then does a quick circuit of the wreck. As he reads the signs, Amagash begins to grin.

“Just a small group,” he says to Qlul and Corviss. “Only four sets of tracks. Two of them are fliers, though.” He points up toward the hills. “They looted the wreck, then headed off toward the land rise in that direction.”

Qlul nods. “I see the same. Though they hit that scorpion hard.”

Amagash scoffs. “Moved well and were good hunters, I’ll give ’em that. But they were lucky to take down the scorp’. No need to report back. We can take them ourselves.” He motions to Qlul. “Stay here with Jorlix. Investigate the wreckage. Let Lavross know we’ve headed into the hills.” He motions toward the highland.

“Is it wise?” Corviss hisses. “We are already few.”

Amagash spins on the snake, watches it thread itself into uncomfortable knots, then gives a confident grin. “It’s just a rag-tag little band. Nothing we can’t handle. Plus, I’ve got you for eyes and ears, right?” He turns and looks out into the hills. “They’ve probably gone to ground in some crack or crevice. Should be easy enough to smoke out.”

Corviss continues to spin nervously. Amagash takes joy in the little snake’s discomfort, then revs his Vortex engine. “Immolators! Onward!” he shouts the name of his Lance, they form up on him, then with a roar they head up the land rise and into the hills.

**********

I can hear the machine noise the moment we exit the cave. I look around. It’s not a great position. We’re in a canyon with only one visible escape. The Urdrakes, Plumacats, and Mottles all stare at me. A Plumacat blinks. I know the staring’s an affirmation of my leadership. No pressure! I’m seriously freaking out. We’ve all been thrown into this weird, must-survive relationship. It involves a lot of flash decision-making. I’m sure they’re all not-so-happy putting their frigging fates in the hands of some 17-year-old kid.

Sound’s approaching fast from up the canyon. I don’t have time to send any scout other than omnis scientia. Whatever’s coming will be on us in about a minute.

“OK. We gotta act fast! But not without info! Give me a second to look!” I listen to the rising sound of approaching engines, then loft omnis scientia toward it. Dark, smoking lands expand below as the sensor rises, then shoots up the canyon. It scans left. Then I see them. Eight red devils riding fat, single-wheeled vehicles sprouting pipes, belching long tails of smoke, and tearing the ground with wicked spikes. Their leader is a tall, thin devil wearing a cloak crafted out of Mottle skin. This pisses me off. I like Mottle skin on a living Mottle. Not for some devil’s sicko trophy. All devils are heavily armed — bristling with rifles, pistols, and various melee weapons. Omnis scientia ripples with magical detection. Ahead and above the devils, a red thread flies. Must be an Uktena — one of the devil snakes Theri and Zel warned about.

“There are eight devils on weird bikes and an Uktena!” I shout as I shift focus away from omnis scientia. “Ambush! We’ll ambush them! Mottles, up on the canyon wall! Plumacats and Urdrakes, hide among the boulders! Now!”

I spin on Zaya. She’s just started to emerge into the canyon. “Back in the cave! You’re too important to risk!”

She gives me a huffy look, then fades back. She’s the only one able to give wisps form. I’m the only one who can help her. But I’ve gotta lead this fracking fight. I don’t have time to argue. I’m glad she listens. I spin toward Mottle, Theri, and Zel. “You guys, follow me! Mottle, I need you!”

I storm off toward the canyon center. Mottle lands on my shoulders. His contact momentarily causes my senses to blur. He bites me. Doing the weird reverse vampire thing, he injects food and vitality into my neck veins. I immediately feel better as coolness and a rush of energy spreads through me. His form supports my body. My steps elongate into bounds. Theri and Zel run up beside me. All around, Plumacats are crouching, Mottles are hanging onto the canyon wall, blending in with the rocks. Urdrakes are pulling legs, arms, heads and tails into their shells, plunking down among the boulders. Once withdrawn into their shells, they look like a bunch of spikey rocks. This might just work.

I lead Theri and Zel past our new force of rebels in Hell. Reaching the canyon center, I turn and begin to gather my curse energy. “Those devils coming are heavily armed!” I shout to all in the canyon. “They’ve got that advantage! If they investigated the scorpion, they probably only expect us!” I point at myself, Theri, Zel and Mottle. “We’ll be bait!”

Zel and Theri give me a look that basically says what the fuck??? I Ignore them and continue. “Let’s make a show! Give ’em what they expect to see! Then, when they get in among the Urdrakes, Mottles, and Plumacats, we all pounce! Got it!?!?”

There are growls, yowls, and shuffles of affirmation.

“Good!” I turn to Theri and Zel. “No fireball rounds except for the Uktena. You can blast that flying snake to Hell if you want.” I point into the air. “Our friends on the ground are too close together.” I wave them toward my back as I face up the canyon. “Now! Get behind me! Be ready!”

The sound of diabolical engines growls loud in my ears. I don’t need omnis scientia to see the fire snake now. I lift my hand. Tap my energetic vessel. It is full — just two hours after emptying to help Zaya shape the Urdrakes, Plumacats, and Mottles. Sparks fall from my name curse, lighting up the whirls of my magical tattoo, casting deeps shadows around us. Lunen! Svert! Umbra! I shout. The sound echoes through the canyon as my moonshadow blade forms in my hand. I’m kicking extra energy into it. I’ve got loads to spare. The effect is one of blacker-than-black shadow, piercing silver moonlight spilling around me, and a loud sound like tearing as the blade’s magical substance hungrily devours Hell’s caustic air. I lift this sliver of destruction up and behind me. Then, I hold my left hand up in front, readying a spell for the devils’ attack.

Both Theri and Zel are grinning despite themselves. They have their rifles out, loaded, barrels poised. I admit, I feel pretty damn badass. We’re all gathered. Ready.

The devils on their weird spiked wheel unicycles turn ’round a bend in the canyon. Spray of pollution and crud kicked up from the ground trails behind their fat, mean-looking vehicles. At last visible to my naked sight, their leader points his gun at me. His devil’s eyes alight with hunger. He’s perceived my magic. His deep-red skin — a sign of devil nobility. Not a Hell Lord. But the kind sensitive to Curse Magic.

Not like he fucking needs it. I’m making quite a show with sparks spewing out of my name curse flying everywhere, moonlight glow surrounding me, and blade of frigging black moonshadow held aloft in my hand. The devils’ eyes all lock on me as they rush forward.

“The mage is mine to capture! Slay the rest!” The leader shouts in Minosian to his companions. They fan out, gunning their engines, aiming their vehicles like lethal missiles toward me, Theri, Mottle and Zel. The leader and two devils — one on each far end of the formation — lift their guns.

Clypeus! I shout, bleeding another large plug of energy from my swelling vessel into the protection curse. Sparks fly from me — converging to form a spectral shield of white like the unfolded petals of a flower in front of me.

Three guns report. Hell-bullets shoot out. Their trace lines speed toward Theri and Zel. They explode against my shield, then ricochet off in streaks of molten metal. Mottle quivers in rage. He’s finally noticed the leader’s coat. I lift my moonshadow blade. The devils approach the ambush point. More bullets impact against my shield. The devils’ leader is taken in by battle rage. “Little mage! Your wisp is forfeit! My mistress…!” He never finishes.

“Now!” I shout to my companions, then fling my curse-sword. It flips end over end, cutting the air like a roaring scythe. It tilts, spins to the side, then shears directly through the devil’s leg and his weird unicycle in one go. Damaged and deformed, the machine tumbles, rider flying headlong through the air to land with a crunch twenty feet from me. One of his horns breaks off from the impact. His body lurches and quivers.

Zel and Theri emerge from behind me. Zel raises his rifle. Theri follows. Both shoot fireball rounds into the sky. The red streaks rise to meet the flying serpent. It seems to waver, then is engulfed. The ball burns like a brilliant sun, illuminating the battle below. Urdrakes spring up from the shadows like so many monsters. Their heavy hands, snouts, tails lash out. They come away with arms, chunks of metal, spines. Those further off from the fray angle their shells toward the riders. Light ripples up their spines. Collecting in the crystals near the Urdrakes’ heads, it shoots out like frigging laser beams. Three converge on one rider. The devil is lopped into three pieces as his cycle careens off, hits a boulder and explodes. Plumacats pounce. Some fly on the wings of mottles. Two more devils are ripped from their seats by slashing claws and fangs.

I reform the moonshadow blade in my hand. By the time its shadow and light touches me, the Mottles are swooping down. There are only two bikers left. They’re engulfed. Their bones crunch as the Mottles use their muscular forms to crush them. Ouch. Before I can move, Mottle is flying off my back. He covers the distance between us and the prone leader in one leap. The guy is seriously fucked up. Blood gushes out of his leg stump as he struggles to grasp one of his many weapons. No luck for him. Mottle takes him in one swoop, rolls up his body like some wicked bat candy wrapper, gives him a nasty squeeze, then pushes out pulpy and shattered remains.

It all happened in maybe 30 seconds. Holy shit! We won! The words form in my mind first, then I shout them out in exhaltation. “We won! We fucking won!” My cry is infectious. Plumacats yowl, Urdrakes roar, Mottles flap. Theri and Zel join in the cheer. Zaya bursts out at last to sing her own celebration.

Yeah, we just won another freaking battle. Holy shit, do I feel lucky! But this lethal dance with the devils of Overseer Tower has only just begun.

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

(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 January 28, 2022  •  Permalink
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Posted by robertscribbler on January 28, 2022

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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!

Hell’s Hills and the Cave of Changing

I turn to Zaya, already feeling the heat more with Mottle gone. She’s sitting on a boulder about five feet away. Knees pulled up to her chest, she watches the drifting wisps. “It’s like a dream,” she says. “In the past, I’ve had to approach them one at a time. In secret after long waits and lots of preparation. Always watching my back. Wasn’t good enough. The Poachers still caught me. Now, here are scores and scores.”

I ease in beside her. Sitting within arm’s reach, I break out Perrier and drink deep. I’m sure gonna need it. There’s something comforting about the little faerie. It’s like an aura of goodwill surrounds her. Reminds me somewhat of my mother. “Yeah. This is really something else.” I’ve got to agree with her. The spectacle of wisps floating around us is truly stunning. We saved them all. Well, for the moment at least. “I’m pretty sure we don’t have a whole lot of time to make good on our achievement. So best get started, right?”

Zaya nods, determined. “Yes, let’s.”

“Just tell me what to do, then.”

Zaya flaps her dragonfly wings — fluttering up in front of me. She lifts her hands, palms facing outward, then motions for me to do the same. I extend my hands to her. My much larger palms make hers look like a child’s in comparison. We touch. She hums a note and there’s an electric shock as we contact. I jump but keep my hands in place.

“Now, close your eyes,” Zaya says. “Shift your mind to your energetic vessel, to its connections with your protected wisps.”

I shut my eyes, turning my mind to my name curse, to the seventeen wisps sheltering there, then on to the twenty five dark wisps lurking in my shadow. I cast my magical senses inward to these places of shelter. I can feel my connection to these wisps, see the flow of magic into my name curse. The magical energy pools in my reservoir. An energetic vessel roughly in the shape of a chalice. Though it has stretched and grown to accommodate this new wealth of magic, it spills over. “I can see it.”

“Good,” she says. “Now, welcome my energy through our touch.” She sings another note. Our hands spark again. Tendrils of light leap from my left hand, run up my arm, then plunge into my name curse. A feeling like warm honey seeps into me. “So much!” Zaya says. “Yes. Yes! It is enough!” Pushing her little palms into my hands, she begins to sing in earnest. Her magical song fills the cave. Wisps draw close. There’s an in-rush of air. A pull. My magical energy flows out in a torrent, contacts Zaya through her hands. I writhe, whipping like a tree in a gale. Zaya stiffens, arches back. White energy floods up her arms in rivers, spreads through her torso, fills up her mouth. A pause. Then a great, forking bolt of lightning erupts from Zaya. It runs in a crooked spiral through the cave, shattering the air as it breaks into myriad branches. Nearby wisps flop to the floor, elongate in viscous shapes. Dancing on the lightning, they grow, taking form.

Some broaden out, stretching, growing tails, sprouting fluffy, large-eared heads, forming into the now-familiar bat shapes of the Mottle race. Another set darkens, opens ice-blue, slitted eyes, grows long, pointed ears, and sprouts black feathers. Despite the feathers, they have no wings. Instead standing four-legged or two-legged on great clawed feet. They remind me of feathered cats. A last set grows into stocky, reptilian forms. Spikey shells cover their torsos, a ridge of spines erupts from their backs. Long, spikey tails go behind, sharp-beaked tortoise heads thrust out. They are dark green with the spines on their backs topped in crystals. Like the feathered cats, they walk on hind legs or go on all fours. All are roughly human in size with the Mottles likely the lightest and smallest, followed by the feathered cats — standing five to six feet tall, and then the jeweled dinosaur snapping turtles at 6-7 feet tall and quite broad.

The lightning recedes. I pull back my hands. My energetic vessel is tapped. Nearly empty. Yet it’s already refilling. I’m exhausted. The sudden outrush of energy felt like standing on an electrical wire. Zaya starts to fall to the floor. I scoop her up, cradling her like a child. She’s awake and breathing — though clearly stunned by her sudden and intense exertion. As I hold her she nods at me, puts her hands over her face, then lets out a little “screeee!” sound.

I look up at the newcomers. Do a quick count. There are about sixty seven. They stand awkwardly, blinking as they take in the cavern, their fellows, and us. The remaining seventy five wisps continue to drift about the cavern. Mottle flits down from the wall, landing among his kind. He’s distinguishable — larger than the rest and much furrier about the ears. Theri and Zel leap down from their seats, padding up beside me.

Zaya seems to have recovered somewhat from her momentary collapse. She blinks her eyes, takes a breath, flaps her wings, then flutters up to stand on my shoulder. “Zaya,” she says to them evenly as she touches her chest. She taps my head “Myra.”

One of the dinosaur turtle things mutters “Myrza.” He snaps his jaws, as if trying to grow accustomed to the strange new structure of his stone-tough flesh.

“Myra,” Zaya repeats, then points at the Devils. “Theri, Zel.” She points back at the dinosaur-lizard. “Urdrakes.” To the feathered cat people. “Plumacats.” To the Mottles. “Mottles.” To me. “Human.” To Theri and Zel. “Blue Devils.” And to herself. “Vila.”

The Mottles, Plumacats and Urdrakes look us over. A Plumacat leaps up onto a boulder and yowls at me “Heowman!”

Zaya nods in approval. “Good, good.” She turns back to me, smiles. “I’ve changed the bright wisps, giving them forms. The rest are dark wisps.” She draws in another deep breath, flaps her wings, grabs my hand. Hovering before me, she extends her other hand and I feel another tug in my chest. Yikes! Lighting arcs from us again. This time it uses only enough magic to briefly form a bridge between the dark wisps and my shadow. When the lightning touches them, they are yanked in, disappearing from the air in loud pops! then reappearing in my shadow. Now a hundred and three dark wisps shelter there. The effect is to cause my shadow to bulge, twist, and occasionally ripple with light. It’s like a pool of dark water that vaguely takes the shape of a real shadow follows me. It’s unnerving. When joined with the seventeen bright wisps in my name curse, the magical force produced is truly exceptional. I guess it’ll only take two hours for my energetic vessel to refill. The newcomers lurch back as they watch me absorb the dark wisps. “Youman, Devil?” One of the Urdrakes enquires.

“No. She’s a mage,” Zaya says. “She protects wisps. The wisps she just gathered into her shadow cannot yet be trusted with a form. One day, they may be. If that happens, if the wisps are willing, I’ll give them one.”

“Zaya is meother,” one of the Plumacats yowls. “Meyera is feahther. We will listen to meother. Treust that feahther will keep us safe.”

“Zaoya and Myra are mother and fouther,” an Urdrake agrees. As the Urdrake and Plumacats speak, their words become easier to understand even as their tones grow milder. I can tell they retain some of their past humanity. The speed of their language skills reasserting is pretty impressive. Off to the side, the Mottles are silent. They exchange tail grips with one another. A mental handshake I’m entirely familiar with. My Mottle is cluing the rest in. It’s much more efficient than this stumbling with awkward words.

Speaking of — I’m not too fracking sure what to think about being called father to a bunch of recently transformed wisps. But hey, it could be worse. I could be all alone in Hell without any help whatsoever. Instead, I find myself in the midst of a small army and commanding some serious magical oomph. We’re going to have to get the new guys and gals up to speed really quick. I signal to Mottle, the original one. It takes a minute, but Mottle eventually sees me waving at him and gets the hint that I want him to come to me. He touches a couple other Mottles with his tail, then glides over, flopping on a nearby boulder before slapping his tail on my arm.

Yes. You talk? Mottle enquires.

“Indeed,” I reply. “I’m going to need your help. The other Mottles too. I want you and the rest of the Mottles to communicate with the Urdrakes and Plumacats. Pass on the knowledge that you’ve already gained.”

May be scared.

“Yes, you’re right. It’s weird at first having your mind invaded by a flying blanket bat thing. But I find I got used to it. Heck. I even kind of like it. They’ll get the hang of it too. Also, we’ve got to come up with names for everyone. You’re Mottle. You’ll always be Mottle. The other Mottles can go by Mottle, then their name — like Mottle Julius or Mottle Maria. Shortened to M. J. or M. M. got it? Everyone else, just have them all come up with names. We can’t keep naming everyone by their type. It’ll get confusing really quick.”

Got it. Mottle flaps off to de-confuse everyone. He returns to the other Mottles, does a few taps, then six of them flit off to the Urdrakes and six more glide over to the Plumacats. The Urdrakes take it all in stride. Pretty soon, they’re chatting quietly to each other in their deep, sonorous voices. The Plumacats take a bit more time. They’re hesitant — recoiling at the Mottles’ slimy touch, lurching away when thoughts and images suddenly flood their mind. One more adventurous Plumacat at last allows a Mottle to drape itself over her. She closes her eyes, settles down with a trilling sound that’s a combination purr-warble, and takes in the visions I know the Mottle is sending to it. A few minutes pass. Then the Plumacat stands and begins talk-meowing excitedly with its fellows. After about fifteen more minutes, both Urdrakes and Plumacats have the gist of what’s happened. They know how they were saved and transformed — each understanding enough about me, Theri, Zel, Zaya and the first Mottle to get by.

They go about the longer process of picking names for themselves. The Urdrakes take the task pretty seriously. Soon enough, Zorfang and Rondsnel approach to tell us their chosen monikers. The Mottles are also quick — picking simple names like Shadow, Lilt, Drift, and Zephyr. My Mottle remains Mottle. Plumacats again take their time. Rather individualistic, a few spats break out as some fight over their names. But after about another half an hour, even they’re finished. Their names are perhaps the most diverse — Rarhquick and Featherstar are chosen for their leaders.

While they’re getting caught up, I turn to Zaya. “Did you design these forms for them? How did you know what to call them? It’s clear you made a Mottle before. Are you really the mother of all Mottles?” I’m more than a little confused. It must show in my tone.

“I’m just a young Vila,” Zaya replies. “My mother, Slip, taught me how to see forms in the wisps. To draw them out. We’ve been making Mottles and Urdrakes and Plumacats and Bowflits and others as far back as history here in Hell. Since Asmodeus, came to rule, we’ve been hunted, enslaved, and killed mercilessly. Those we shape are destroyed, their wisps taken. We threaten his order. We’re a remnant of the old ways. A servant of the one who came before Asmodeus but whose name has been erased even from my people’s memory.”

I feel my eyebrows lift. “The one who came before Asmodeus?” I’m getting the all-overs talking about this. My skin pricks. My eyes water.

“Yes, the old ruler of Hell. The one Asmodeus deposed when he took power.”

I can’t recall too much of what must have been a far more detailed knowledge of this past ruler of Hell. Only snippets of lessons from my parents and mage tutors. Here, it’s obvious that the Memory Draught has rent huge gaps. I’m pretty sure it must be related to my mission in a lot of ways. The secret part at least. “I’ve heard of him,” I say. “I know Asmodeus murdered him. That he was fairer. That he, as Theri and Zel spoke of earlier, tried to teach the dark wisps to let go of their lust for harm. Asmodeus started the enslavement of wisps for labor and to power diabolical magic. He grew mighty and terrible as a result.”

“You know more than most,” Zaya says. “Asmodeus likes to pretend Hell was always this way. It’s part of his mythology. That Hell was once different has long been buried. Theri and Zel knew about it, though. A secret knowledge held and passed down among the Blue Devils.”

I’m uncertain how much I should tell Zaya about myself. Despite the Memory Draught, I do still know quite a bit about Hell’s larger history. My parents and some of their cohorts made numerous contacts with Hell and at least a few forays here. I know they came here to unearth secret knowledge about Asmodeus. I know some of it has to do with my name curse. But the details are gone. I decide to keep quiet.

Zaya pauses, watches on as I struggle with whether or not to say something, then when I keep my mouth shut continues. “Your magic is of the old type. That much I know. And not entirely of the old type from mages. I mean the old type from here. From Hell. The kind sanctioned by the old murdered ruler. I know it because it’s the same kind I use. Although my source is different. Yours comes from Multiversal Spirit and from the wisps themselves. Mine comes from the creatures or substances I transform. Our practice of magic is different and yet akin to one another.”

“Did you ever meet other mages?” I ask, finally unable to contain myself.

“In my brief three hundred years, I’ve met only a handful of mages here in Hell. More than half died.”

“Did you ever meet Mori or Beatrice?” I’m struggling to match up ‘brief’ with ‘three hundred years.’ But I let that slide in favor of info about my parents. So much about them seems a mystery to me now. And they’re my fracking parents.

She looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. Like I just asked her a stupid question. “Mages don’t give their names in Hell. If they do, it’s almost certain a Curse Rider will come for them eventually. Hell is full of informants, sensitive listeners, dark psychics who sift through thoughts, interrogate those taken and enslaved, continuously comb through the newest lore in search of mage names and the wisps that could be taken. I’m surprised you use your name here, Myra. You know they will come for you eventually, don’t you? It’s just a matter of time.”

My heart lurches into my throat. Of course! It was so obvious. How did I not remember something so obvious? Well, that was obvious too. The goddamn Memory Draught. I know it targeted that memory. Why? Did my parents want a Curse Rider to come for me eventually? And what can I say about this to Zaya? Maybe the truth will do? “Look, I’m a part of a much larger plan. And, yes, what I’m doing is going to result in a lot of attention coming my way. I don’t know exactly when. But look at what we’ve done already. Doesn’t matter. Attention of some kind is already coming.”

Zaya nods. “Yes, we’d better get ready for that. Curse Rider or no. Tough days are ahead.”

“That’s for damn sure.” What’s also for damn sure is I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m mostly just guessing, going on instinct, and cobbling shit together from broken recollection on the fly. This method seems like a bad one to me. But it’s all I’ve got.

I turn toward the new-formed. Well, maybe not all… Zel and Theri are mingling with them, sharing our extra equipment, doing their best to encourage. Despite their efforts, there’s an unmistakable tension. We don’t have anywhere near enough food or supplies for our present force of seventy two formed souls in Hell. We can’t stay here long. And our best course of action — raiding the Drivers and Overseer Tower — is basically open warfare. They aren’t fools. They know we’re an ill-fated company. They all seem to know what comes next.

Do I?

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

(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 January 1, 2022  •  Permalink
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Posted by robertscribbler on January 1, 2022

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