Moving on from the piles of items they have found in the Cave of Lost Things, most of them tuck away their treasures. All have valuables, except Borark, who impulsively destroyed what Vali identified as Pipes of Friendship. The delicate instrument lay ground into powder at the barbarian’s feet.
Disheartened, Borark turns toward the truck, boots crunching through the accumulated frost and debris. Then—a shadow of something different catches his eye near the pile’s edge. Something that wasn’t there before, or perhaps something he simply hadn’t noticed.
Carefully, Borark plucks up a flat black velvet bag. The material is soft against his calloused fingers. Black drawstrings part easily as he works them open. Inside, folded with precise care, lies a delicate lace mask.
Without thinking, he places it upon his face. The world shifts. His vision darkens slightly, the intricate lacework obscuring the periphery, but what he can see transforms before his eyes. A faint lavender aura shimmers around the dice Reklaw is tucking into his pouch and the bone dust from the destroyed pipes. A much stronger purple light—brilliant, almost blinding—blazes from the monocle Vali is drawing from his eye socket. Magic made visible.
A mask that allows him to see enchantment itself. Powerful, indeed.
The engine rumbles to life, and she throws the vehicle into gear, angling toward the steep icy slope that leads upward, and hopefully out of the caves.
The tires spin uselessly against the glassy surface. The acrid smell of burning rubber fills the cabin as plumes of steam jet from the struggling engine. The truck lurches forward half a foot, then a foot more, finding no purchase on the treacherous incline. Metal groans. The vehicle fishtails violently, momentum carrying it backward in a graceless arc.
With a thunderous crash, the truck slams backward down the hill and into the piles of lost items they’d only just finished exploring. Broken glass, torn fabric and distorted metal all explode outward.
From the top of the hill, a pain devil stares down at the struggling heroes. Its laugh—cruel, delighted, echoing— mock them.
Enraged, Kiki recognizes the creature as the same devil they fought earlier, defeating its partner, the affliction devil. She seizes the stock of the rail gun with both hands, swinging the massive weapon’s muzzle toward the infuriating devil at the summit. She squeezes the trigger without hesitation.
The projectile screams through the frigid air and smashes into the ice wall inches from the Pain Devil’s head, sending up a spray of frozen shrapnel.
The devil laughs even harder. The sound reverberates throughout the icy cavern, bouncing off crystalline walls.
Vali throws himself into the ion cannon’s seat with practiced urgency. The weapon hums, charges, and releases a crushing explosion of arcane force. The blast wipes the grin from the devil’s face—but in the chaos and thunder of it, no one hears the rear hatch spring open. No one sees one of their comrades leap out onto the frozen ground.
Borark charges at the pain devil. Fury drives him up the impossible slope, his feet finding traction where the truck’s tires could not, aided by the razor-sharp blades he uses as to lever himself forward. He ducks beneath the Pain Devil’s grasping arm—but the creature is faster than it appeared. Its barbed scourge lashes out, wrapping around the barbarian’s muscular arms and pinning them tightly to his sides.
The devil twitches its wrist. The whip releases and it attempts to shove Borark backward down the treacherous hill. The barbarian’s boots bite into ice. He remains upright through sheer stubborn will—but the scourge finds him again. Burning leather coils around his torso and arms, squeezing, constricting.
Borark roars in pain and frustration as the Pain Devil’s fiery whip binds him once more.
Arman seizes the stock of one of the arcane cannons mounted on the truck’s roof. He narrows his eyes, finds the devil in his sights, and squeezes the trigger. As soon as the weapon flashes, changeling know his aim is off. The strike brings the cavern ceiling down in front of Borark and his tormentor. The roof collapses in a white cloud of snow and ice, falling with an echoing boom that shakes the entire chamber. Both combatants vanish behind the frozen avalanche.
Kiki guns the engine again. This time, the truck’s tires find purchase. The vehicle grinds its way up the slope inch by stubborn inch until it crests the summit. Without pausing, Kiki activates the mounted saw, bringing it to bear against the wall of ice from the collapse.
The frozen barrier gives way under the spinning blade. Chunks of ice explode outward, revealing the grappling opponents behind it—Borark locked in the devil’s whip.
Thunk, behind one of the remaining arcane cannons, wraps his massive bugbear hands around the weapon’s controls. As he narrows his eyes, he’s trying desperately not to think about his complete lack of experience with artillery. Thunk finds the devil in the sight, holds his breath and pulls the trigger.
Thunk squeezes his eyes shut against the blinding flash.
When he dares to peek, the pain devil has disappeared entirely. Only Borark remains, standing at the hilltop, completely coated in gore.
The group, winded, walks to the very edge of the foul-smelling entrance that descends downward precipitously. Words unfamiliar to most of the group are etched into an archway that spans across the opening. Borark, from his time in hell, translates the infernal word: “Enter and despair the Land of Malbolge, ruled by the ArchDuchess Glaysa, Dark Daughter of Asmodeus, Lord of All the Hells.”
Resting before they descend, the companions eat their meager rations, conversation turns inevitably to Malbolge—the layer that awaits them below. Lula’s luminous form flickers with concern as he shares what he knows. “Malbolge is one of the least stable levels of the Hells. The very ground shifts beneath your feet without warning. And the River Styx, when it flows through Malbolge…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “It transforms. No longer water, but acid and blood.”
She fixes Kiki with a penetrating stare. “Is your vehicle reinforced against such corrosion?”
Kiki shakes her head slowly, one hand resting protectively on the truck’s cold metal frame. “The green iron cladding protects us from fire, not from acid.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implication. No one has an answer. No one knows how they’ll proceed.
“We’ll decide when we’re rested,” Reklaw says finally, his voice carrying the quiet.
The group nods agreement. They settle in as best they can against the unforgiving cold, seeking what rest they can find before descending into the nightmare of Malbolge.
Above them, Stygia’s frozen expanse stretches endlessly. Below them, something far worse waits in the dark.
