Hell's Songbird - 8

The grass is soft and almost ticklish underfoot beside the pool, and I shift my weight, but Ilya stays at a distance. Both hands filled with sheathed daggers, I shake my head wondering why I grabbed them both for practice.

“You can toss one aside for now; let’s make sure you understand the basics first,” Ilya instructs, and I set one sheathed dagger carefully aside. Even though I hadn’t followed her order, Ilya nods. “Good. Respect your weapons, don’t mistreat them.”

“Why did you tell me to toss it then?” I ask, unexpectedly frustration and even anger is suddenly bubbling around inside me.

Ilya shrugs casually, but her music is building faster. “To see what your instincts are regarding your weapons.”

A huff escapes, and I grumble at her. “Word games—don’t do that.”

She waves a hand almost dismissively in my direction, a sharp pain bends me in two, and shocked my dagger drops from my spasming grasp. My fingertips scramble across flesh, and warmth rushes over them. A silver-wrapped hilt juts from my stomach, and my hands confirm the dagger’s reality before it vanishes and blood washes from the gaping wound across my fingers. A blood-soaked blade appears in Ilya’s hand, dripping with black fluid. Copper, sulphur, and acid fills my mouth, gagging at its foulness radiates a spike of pain upwards through my body; the awful taste fills my throat and I choke back bloody bile.

Clasping my hands tightly over the wound doesn’t stop the blood, but it slows to an ooze between fingers instead of flowing. “Why?”

The gesture is a mere flicker of motion, a magician’s magic trick. Her hand is suddenly empty, a blow impacts my arm braced against my ribs. Agony gnaws its way through my forearm and spearing into my ribs. Metal grating on bone and through bone. A moment later, the blade pinning my arm against ribs vanishes only to reappear in her hand. Fire runs up my arm even as the pain eases from my guts.

“Why are you standing so far away and motionless?” asks Ilya, her words sharper than her blade. “Come here!”

I reappear close enough to touch her. There isn’t even a chance to blink before her blade is pressing coldly against my throat, and her empty hand is tangled painfully in my hair. “Do I have your complete attention?”

Frozen at the intensity of her song and gaze, I manage a whisper. “Yes.”

Her music shivers across my skin and sends ice burrowing through my veins. Her unblinking gaze holds me in its grasp, and I wonder if I could teleport away faster than she can cut my head off. I try to teleport clear, and reality barely ripples before it’s pulled back into place, held down by her grasp.

“I felt you try to shift position—sensible, but too little, too late,” sighs Ilya mournfully.

The tone shudders convulsively through my flesh, and warmth burst from my neck. Fresh droplets trickle down my neck before the cut grows hot with pain.

Through it all, Ilya’s gaze is empty and unwavering in its grasp. Only after all my wounds stop bleeding does she speak. “The fundamental rule of knife fighting is to kill. The moment you draw the knife, its only use is to kill. If you don’t know how to kill your target fast, you should never have gotten within reach. A knife fight is about proximity, control, and speed. Get close to attack, control their responses and your weapon, and kill them quick.”

Her words are dispassionate, but the precise, cold, unfeeling music emanating from her grows rich with life again, and her gaze ceases to dig into flesh.

“The Teleport Power you have restricts you to twenty-five kilograms carry weight. The absolute total weight of all that is hooked on, carried by, holding onto, or worn by you, can’t be greater by even a gram,” lectures Ilya. “Your armour and weapons don’t weigh that, but my fat arse is far more, Isa.”

“You don’t have a fat arse,” I protest sharply, offended on her behalf. Ridiculously jealous she’s disregarding the sensual curves and the lifted peach shape bum that I no longer possess.

Her fingers relax and run through my hair, stirring memories to life. A memory of David cuddled up behind me, fragments of sensations: the warmth of his skin against mine, his arms holding me, hands moving to cup me. Warm hands running across my skin, fingers pressing lightly, drawing me close, the world feeling safer for that closeness. My teasing wiggles, and laughter bubble up inside of me. A kaleidoscope of memories carrying the warmth of his presence washes over me and smacks against something in my mind.

“You’ve had plenty of time to study it following me,” Ilya growls, but her music loses the last of its harshness.

The fading coldness of her song loosens its grip, and the scouring sorrow cuts that anchor’s line free. Her face blurs, and she’s suddenly looming strangely above me. A distant line felt across my neck and face blooming into a biting sting lost to the pain clawing and ripping its way through me—out of me. Agony shakes through me as whatever that damn Oragō put in place cracks and shatters. David!

My longing for him sweeps through me, grief gorging itself as it claws at my sanity. Battered by my longing for him, I have nothing left to hold on to as he’s swept away and memories of the funeral sweep through me. The grief of Julia’s death trip hammers into Andre’s demise at her funeral. The revelations of the days that followed, searing agony that has my brain aflame.

The burning fire of the river seared through my memories, baking anguish and sorrow large and small deep into me. Guilt for not having figured out the abuse Andre had suffered for years. For not being beside her to stop her falling when she tripped the way she did. Was it just a freak accident? All the strange theories about Julia’s immolation. The river’s taunting points out every possible and impossible way I could have saved them.

Searing hot rocks, scouring flesh from bone, each touch burning me with guilt and sorrow, with every impact against the riverbed. Tons of molten stone holding me down, pressed me into the earth no matter how I struggled and reached screaming for the surface. The pain of every guilt magnified a thousand-fold or more. Even the slightest misdeeds of childhood are amplified, burning agonising guilt through me. Even hurtful words, though spoken as a child, break my awareness, bringing guilt and their targets’ pain to burn inside me.

Yet the music of the metal buildings hammering against my mind and sets me screaming and laughing in turns. A net’s stern notes dragging me upwards has me laughing as they haul from the river. The music of my laughter setting a counterpoint to it, the netting rips apart and drops me onto the unforgiving stone.

A stinging pain breaks through the memories’ grasp, and I feel my wings pressed into the hard earth beneath me. Ilya kneeling over me, hand raised as if to slap me, the burning pain across my cheek anchoring me against the impossible music still battering my mind.

“You were screaming like a damned Soul in the River Dis,” Ilya’s says. Her soft tone takes the sting from the words, and whatever she sees in my eyes puts quick notes into her song. “Are you back with me now? I put up a barrier to stop your screams from carrying, but you were battering it down, so stay with me.”

“I don’t think I’m fine, but I’m free of the memories,” I reply with a half groan.

“Laugh,” orders Ilya.

Taken aback at the order, I just stare up at her before forcing a word out of my mental chaos. “What?”

“You giggled to fake insanity before, so laugh or giggle,” says Ilya, but doesn’t wait for me to try. Her fingers flurry across my sides for ticklish spots, and I don’t understand how she can find any, but she does.

I don’t know how long she has me squirming on the clearing’s grass but eventually, she lets me loose. Rising to her feet, she extends a hand and I take it hesitantly. Her song remains steady, and she helps me up without a trick.

“Rule one?” Ilya says, trying to snap the conversation back to long minutes ago; being tickled to the point of peeing—if that’s even possible—apparently having never happened.

“Kill?” The murmured word crosses my lips draws a steel-eyed gaze.

“Such conviction,” Ilya grumbles, “Where’s your knife?”

“Oh,” I start to turn but halt in time before I look away from Ilya.

“Yeah oh!” scolds Ilya. “As soon as I put a knife in your gut you dropped it, control your blade. Where’s your giggling?”

“But-”

“I bought into your laughter in The Exchange. It was so real outside that shrine; then I call you on it, and you gave it up? Don’t drop your weapons or your guard. That giggle of yours is another weapon, it lets you sow confusion. So giggle Isa,” insists Ilya.

“You’re shortening my name on purpose, aren’t you?”  I ask; that she’d care about my preference stirs my curiosity.

Ilya nods before she explains. “You objected to the one they gave you. We can’t change it, but I can let you use another while away from them.”

“Why do you-”

A hiss from Ilya cuts me off, but as soon as I stop speaking her anger fades. “Back to what we need to do. This time I’ll teach you the motions now that you’ve had the most valuable lesson.”

Does anything personal get her mad? Or is it something else?

[Sense Motive [B](4->5)]

“Which one was that?” I ask, not daring to take my eyes off her despite her steady music.

“Keep the blades out of you,” retorts Ilya, and motions to my dropped knife. “Get it and leave the sheath with your other one. Then let me see how you’d set your feet. We’ll go through the basic attacks and then practice them, Aerial combat will be another time.”

“Can I ask a question before we start?”

“That would depend on the question,” Ilya says, with a burst of suspicion in her voice.

“Oragō did something to me. It was like a barrier inside me, that left me numb, and just then it all came undone. I..”

The words feel insufficient to explain what happened, but that doesn’t seem to matter.

A distasteful look flickers across Ilya’s face. “Oragō’s was promoted from a Succubus but her former-kin can feed off any potent emotions, not just lust, and she kept the Power. Likely she got a rush from you, given the way you were screaming. Now hold your knife properly.”

Hollywood makes knife fighting look cool.

Ilya teaches me how much it hurts.

Once we move beyond her demonstrations, every mistake has a knife cutting me and repeating them earns stabs. Her cuts are blurringly fast when I slip up, silken brushes caressing my skin that explode into burning pain. Learning to use my free hand to deflect and control another’s attacks earns me a new Unarmed Combat skill and improves Short Blades. Several skills progress furiously from her tuition as day lengthens into the night and back again. The lack of need for rest or other Mortal requirements sets my mind reeling. Whenever the world spins around me, and screams rise in my throat, Ilya brings me back with bone-deep cuts. Hours of torment has Mr Message chirping away, so at least someone’s happy about the day.

The sun is nearing noon again when she steps back away and flicks my blood from her knife.

“Clean yourself up and get dressed. We’ll see about finding targets for your bow,” Ilya says at last, waving at my armour.

I give a nod, but my attention is already on my latest healing wounds. I’ve repeatedly heard the music in the knitting flesh, and the deep cut rings with it. Using a strangely merry giggle, I hit every note. The music within my flesh strengthens, and the wound’s healing rushes ahead.

[Resonance [Ap](9->10)

True Song [B](1->2)

Stealth (1->4)]

Ilya’s gaze rises from the wound as the blacken bone closes from sight. “You’ll need to practice that as well. Your giggling was musical, keep being sneaky that way.”

“My Stealth Skill actually progressed from doing that,” I admit, and Ilya halts.

Her expression is thoughtful, but her music jumps about. “The thing to remember, Stealth isn’t just about remaining unseen. It’s about learning to mask what you’re doing and presenting it with a different intent, like striding through a room, as if you're meant to be there when you’re not allowed in it. Now that doesn’t seem like Stealth but it is if you’re blending in with others’ expectations.”

“Wouldn’t that be Acting?” I ask. The skills and Profile I can see have me baffled, but it matches the imprint, and well, I woke up in Hell. With the numbness gone, I try to learn about the impossibilities and keep from the screams that want to swamp me.

“Skills aren’t standalone things. They work in synergy with each other. An example is Stealth, Acting, Bluff, Diplomacy, these can overlap depending on your intentions. Acting the part while blending into a crowd lets Stealth work easier. If your presence will cause trouble for the guards having Bluff helps as well,” explains Ilya, her hands busy cleaning her blade before she sheathes it.

“What’s the difference between Bluff and Diplomacy?” I ask, considering the skills in my Profile.

“Bluff is needed to convince someone into a decision that can get them in trouble or cost them. Diplomacy is useful to ensure you greet someone or ask for something without offending. There are places in Hell where you really should avoid that, and others where you can bluster past,” explains Ilya.

I can’t help the wince, and even I can hear how sheepish I am. “Like a Quartermaster?”

“What did you do with the Quartermaster?” Ilya asks her gaze wary.

“Stealth and Seduction, wouldn’t you want the person to know you’re interested?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.

Ilya’s gaze narrows, but she answers my question. “The person you’re trying to Seduce, yes, everyone else, not so much. What mess did you make?”

I shrug and drop one of the siege packs on the ground. “I got him to give me a pack, just not the pack I wanted.”

“You idiot, don’t mess with any Quartermaster. Also, I don’t know where you hid that pack but stop showing your cards.”

Ilya growls in frustration, and rips open the pack to reveal its contents: a folding spike edged grappling hook, a leathery-looking rope, climbing spikes, a large harness with empty pouches, and a box of sealed jars. Checking the jar’s markings, she hurriedly replaces them in the box. Shaking her head, she repacks and seals everything before motioning towards it as she stands. “It seems you weren’t just asking randomly at the market. I’ll need to pay attention to your stranger questions, it seems. Where were you hiding it? I don’t see any magical items about you beyond the bracers and armour.”

“You told me not to show my cards,” I point out, and Ilya gives a bemused snort.

When I store it away again, she looks at me warily. “Don’t go explaining any abilities that don’t display in the imprint  and ensure you use them discretely in Hell. Wash up and get dressed, we’ll get moving.”

Julia would tease me about being a naturist, though with the sun now high overhead again, I can’t bring myself to care that I just spent a whole day nude. “You’re not teaching me how to use a sword?”

My question earns a barked laugh before Ilya explains. “Not soon. Get better at Short Blade and then we’ll start with swords. I’ll need to get some other weapons besides knives for you to learn with or you’re going to develop habits that aren’t applicable to other types of short blades.”

“Why does that matter?” I ask curiously. “I’ve only got knives to fight with at present.”

The lack of objection clear in my voice has Ilya nodding. “I want to get your awareness of weapons expanded so you know their capabilities as well. Being used to adapting ensures you’re flexible in battle.”

A dive takes me towards the pool’s depths and even though I’m aware of its icy-cold, it doesn’t bite into me. I had expected the constant music to be muffled under the water. I feel the music vibrating through my chest instead of hearing it. Having broken through the water, the music underneath it is clear, and sad, with grim songs echoing from spiked protrusions sitting deeper in the pool. Kicking back towards the pool’s edge, I leave them behind in a hurry. Not wanting to be near them, I scrub myself clean in ankle deep water. Ilya adding jets of water to scour dried blood, and then air to dry me off before I get dressed.

“Miss, ‘I can see my imprint, and know when skills improve’, what is your Short Blade at now?” asks Ilya, the moment I’ve got my armour settled.

The Profile’s music sweeps across my awareness, and I get the details. “It’s level five, of the apprentice-”

A hand wave from Ilya cuts me off. “Just give the rank and then level rating; no need for anything else.”

“In that case, Short Blade is apprentice five, Unarmed is beginner eleven,” I say considering the other improvements her training has provided.

“I covered some basics this time. I’ll teach you more next time. You progressed a lot faster than others I’ve trained. Keep it up and you’ll be kicking my feathers,” Ilya says, her lips twitching in amusement. “Flight and Fly?”

“They’re both adept six,” I answer quickly, and continue on, “Acrobatics is apprentice twelve, and Balance is beginner twenty. Improved Regeneration increased to apprentice nine recently.”

Ilya gives a nod and lifts effortlessly into the air with a mere flex of her wings. “That’s enough for now. Let’s see if some of these places I visited haven’t collapsed. The undead can serve as targets once you get beyond hitting stationary objects.”

“Ilya, my Acting is only beginner three,” I warn.

The smile from Ilya is predatory, but it’s the amusement in her song that makes my eyes narrow. “Not once I’m done with you.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to say more, and starts off towards where the sun set yesterday. Sparse woods along the mountain’s foothills turn into a thicker forest—dark and overgrown—with various animal sounds echoing from beneath the canopy.

Eerie cold music, with a hissing growl beneath it, starts up from somewhere ahead. The chords only steal some of the ruins’ surprise when we get close enough to see over the last crest. Far ahead, giant statues with Elven-like features rise above the city streets, each holding a large circular edged hoop aloft as if ready to throw. Further, than I can see, buildings stretch out in a massive circle of stonework, fighting to survive the choking plant life. Circles are a common theme throughout the ruins; not a single street runs in a straight line; rather, circular streets and crescents dominate the place. A hundred metres in from the city’s edge are a series of regularly placed towers rising far higher than other buildings.

“Who lived here?”

I speak into her mind, and along with her amusement, I catch her reply.

“I don’t know! This isn’t the place I wanted. Though I can sense it lies further ahead in this direction. This is some dead Elven civilisation from its looks,” replies Ilya. “Let’s see if undead are about; we could have two cities for practice. We’ll land on the observation deck of that watchtower to our left. Aiming at a target on a lower elevation is harder than it seems, even without obstructions. If we have to retreat separately, return to the pool.”

The tower is an obvious example of the city’s architecture. Though the base and its top are perfectly circular, its sides aren’t straight up and down; its irregularities remind me of a wave hitting the shoreline and churning into white water. Their buildings appear to have erupted from the ground and solidified into place. Undulating stone thickness leave hollows for windows and doorways. The tower possesses scores of windows from tiny to large, the range starts at barely two finger widths through to others big enough to stand in. Doorways are equally erratic, from one where I’d have to hunch over to some twice my height, opening onto walkways around the tower. The top has an irregular oval opening flat across its surface, with a wavey edged spiral staircase descending into the darkness.

Swooping into land, I can see through doorways and notice the accumulation of leaves and dirt thick across the floor. Yet despite the debris inside, the tower’s exterior is unblemished and shows no sign of erosion. Stately music arose from the stone beneath us, mingling with the lively tones carried by the wind from the forest. Music shifted to eerie whistling as it played across the fluted openings of the buildings. I can’t imagine what use, except watchtower, this place might have had, but nine stories above the closest building seem excessive.

A rasping of steel crossing a whetstone drew my attention, even before the metallic sound from within the watchtower. A footstep has my bow in my hand, its roaring music helping counter the cold malice hissing at me. The fletching’s energy brushes my cheek as I draw, staying intent on the opening. When the skeleton comes around the corner of the stairway beneath us, the red light in its hollow sockets grows brighter. Its music isn’t slow or soft, but rage-filled and hungry.

Features picked clean of flesh, still show the high Elven cheekbones perched above the shattered remains of its mouth. Broken teeth along its upper jaw are a jagged weapon, but look pitiful with its lower jaw gone. A curved sword rises as it advances, the steel somehow unrusted, gleaming in the sunlight that spears down the stairs. The moment its gaze fixes on me, it sprints forward.

My arrow’s song snarls in the moment of its release, silencing the hunger notes when the skeleton’s head explodes with flames. The arrow’s energy carries on through and buries fletching deep into the wall, its impact sprays rock shrapnel across the stairs, and a resounding boom echoes through the tower. The irregular openings of the tower made the boom into bellow from a giant, discordant bass saxophone. At the noise, the raging music of the undead screams from below.

[Ranged Attack Power: 48 x 3 (Soul Bow - Beginner Rank) = 136

Innate Chaos infusion: 100 + 31 (Magic Rating) = 131

Total Damage: 136 + 131 - 22 (Foe’s Defence) = 245

]

Ilya flows with a grace that makes the blinding strikes she’d used to correct my mistakes slow. Her blade wrapped in red flames that carry the stench of Hell—hot metal and sulphur. One moment she’s beside me and the next she’s nearly a blur to move beside the stairs, sword in hand. “I wasn’t expecting that noise. You’re primary, but I’ll take any that get out.”

The second skeleton comes running almost before I have another arrow drawn, and the numbers race from a trickle to a stream. They don’t even attempt to dodge sprinting forward in a procession of bones. The pace of my arrows can’t keep up with them. Repeatedly I stop firing my bow and let llya deal with a rush, and then she steps away again. A pattern of her making—not mine—developing, but I kept trying to play my part. Pushing a notice from Mr Message aside, the chimes come to a halt, and yet the stream of undead keeps coming.

An arrow’s strike proves too much, and stone burst outwards into the open air, with the tower’s wall giving way. A skeleton spun by the destruction becomes a steppingstone for the one behind it. Its struggle to stand sends its ally to the ground. My next arrow misses overhead and sprays both with debris. A racket from below hurries me to loose another arrow at the pair hampering each others’ efforts to stand.

Its essence drinking up daylight, a hound-like thing leaps around the corner. Twisting in mid-air, it perches on the wall, and claws digging into stone, rushes forward along the wall. Rushing to draw against the shock of its snarl, the vibrant energy brushing my wrist tells me my mistake. A snarl sends a stench of death and rotting meat rolling across me, echoing nightmares of Hell, and a scream stabs out from my throat.

The note leaves blood coating my throat and slices into the thing’s side. It does nothing to slow the momentum of the leap, but sends blood hissing around it. Ilya’s strike parts the droplets and its tumbling head smacks me in the face a moment before its mass impact. The weight sends me airborne off the tower’s edge. Blood-soaked fur and hissing blood coating my mouth have me gagging. The tower’s top is so high, yet the ground races towards me. The approaching stones dragged at my gaze.

Look towards where you want to go.

The voice from a memory—an event race car drive—that David arranged pulls my mind away, and I look back above the tower.

Teleport puts me right back where I imagined in time to see a hound race up the stairs onto Ilya’s blade.

Another coming around the corner has her flow back into position beside the opening. I don’t fumble the draw this time, but the arrow’s impact barely slows it before Ilya’s strike cuts its closest legs off. Her free hand grabbing the tail, she spins it away from us both and using the momentum to set herself before the stairs again. The rustling of bones, steel, and howls echoes up from the streets below, and Ilya’s laughter rings out.

“Sing. No arrows.”

The quick words are all she takes time for before turning to meet the next rush of foes.

Without a warm-up?

A liquid sound leaves my lips not from a song but a Blessing. Fortunate Strike adds a shifting glow to the flames around her blade, leaving a trail of light behind a strike that cleaves a hound in two.

I try a note and find the pain gone but I try to keep my wordless sound under control. Memories of hearing opera singers warming up makes me groan and I lose the notes I want. More skeletons fall and I push the memories aside to focus on the Power’s feel.

Notes slip softly from my lips, the music of a Spell that Ilya had demonstrated pulses through me, its Resonance beating in my heart and yet nothing shows in True Sight. The sudden burst of air I’d expected cracks into existence and blasts a skeleton out the hole I’d made.

The notes of other spells slip free or stumble and fall astray. Resonance lets me feel the notes that ring off true, even when the effect manifest and I try them repeatedly. Skeletons and hounds, smacked by energy or not, end their existence on Ilya’s blade. Alternating in the liquid grace of Blessings adds to Ilya’s killing power and oddly gives the growing flames in my throat a chance to ease. Without the boom of arrows impacting stone, the stream dies to a trickle again, before it finally ends.

[Combat Summary:

Skeleton x351 (x50%)

Death Hound x9 (x50%)

Total experience gained: 29,379

Erinys: +5,826

Glinnel: +9,710

Glinnel Levelled Up! x3

Archer: +2996

Archer Levelled Up!

Fighter +2996

Fighter Levelled Up!

Priest: +7851

Priest Levelled Up! x3

Greater Teleport (Self) [Ap](4->5)

Resonance [Ap](10->12)

Soul Bow [B](16-19)

True Song [B](2) -> [Ap] (1)

Improved Regeneration [Ap](9->10)

Recurve Bow [Ap] (12->14)

Duet (9) -> [B] (1)

Singing (13) -> [B](5)

Channelling (4->8)

Focus (4->9)

]

The echoes of the fighting have fallen into stillness and Ilya waves for me to land. “Can you sing anymore?”

The razor blades in my throat have me shaking my head, and I manage a painful question. “Why did you want me singing?”

“You progress according to what you use in a battle the most. It was an almost perfect bottleneck, so it gave me a chance to see what you could do with singing,” Ilya replies thoughtfully. “I could see the effects but there still wasn’t any Mana. Plenty of air bursts, lightning darts, and other spells I showed you even a few that mimicked the Blessing you used at the start.”

“Singing was wearing me down so I started using more Blessings,” I remark, swallowing to ease the pain. “Those wear me out differently.”

“Using up all your Mana takes a toll until you are used to the effect of running on empty,” explains Ilya, and I’m glad it wasn’t something I was doing wrong.

“How long could you keep fighting for?” I ask, considering the changes in my Profile’s song.

Grinding a jawbone under a heel, Ilya’s gaze flicks across the remains on the stairs. “If it was pure bladework I could continue until I suffered a bunch of injuries too close together and couldn’t heal properly—that’s unlikely with this lot. Either nothing dangerous is about or it can’t come out in the sunlight.”

“Like vampires?”

The question comes out with too much excitement, caught wondering if they have sparkling vampires or just Nosferatu ugly ones.

“Sunlight is a bane to lots of powerful undead, not just vampires. If it doesn’t destroy them, it weakens them, and takes some of their stronger abilities away. Undead that are intelligent and strong don’t give advantages away lightly, even if sunlight isn’t destructive to them,” Ilya replied. “We’ll go back to the pool and let you recover.”

“Phew.”

I know I’ve made a mistake the moment I see the gleam in Ilya’s gaze.

“Let’s not waste time. You can just stick to using your bow next tower, get progress for Fighter and Archer; though Priest has its combat side, so it will grab progress as well.”