Midworld by Alan Dean Foster

nowhere near enough open space for the sky-devil to spread its wings. But it had thick clawed legs and just maybe could scramble through the open places.
    Hence his enlisting of the orchid as a silent ally.
    Born reached the edge of the well bottom. A cluster of shattered wood and herbaceous growth bordered it. Everything here was sticky and slippery from spilled sap. He would have to watch his footing. Then suddenly he was staring at the skydevil from between the leaves. It battered and dug in frustration at something deep within the blue metal disk. The moaning, Born now was sure, came from somewhere inside. Taking a deep breath and wishing for a more stable footing, he lined up the end of the snuffler with the skull of the demon, a difficult target that was bobbing and weaving on a long flexible neck.
    Born jerked the trigger. There was a tiny explosive puff as the tank seed popped. The jacari thorn hit the devil just behind the left eye. It quivered, its slow nervous system reacting dully to the poison, then it spun to look in the direction of the shot. At the same time Born yelled, “Be strong!” at the top of his lungs, to alert those within the blue metal, then he turned and raced back along the branch.
    A tremendous thrashing sounded immediately behind him as the sky-devil, showing unexpected strength, smashed through the outer wall of branches and vines in its drooling desire to get at him. Born fancied he could feel its fetid breath hot on his neck. The giant orchid loomed ahead.
    That crawling leathery horror was at his spine. At any second long teeth might close on his neck and snip his head off. There was no time to look back, no time to think or consider. He dove past the soil ball of the flower, reaching out with the end of the shuffler so that the green wood pipe brushed several of the dozens of dangling rootlets.
    Born fell another couple of meters before landing with a jolt in a bed of hyphae below. Above him, the tiny rootlets he had brushed and everything around them curled protectively inward against the bulk of the plant. The sky-devil burst through the undergrowth, reaching with claws and jaws for Born, who stared up in helpless fascination at that descending abomination.
    Too quick to see, the thick white petals of the pseudo-orchid thrashed in blind fury in all directions. Three of the petals struck the rampaging devil, curled shut about it and contracted. The devil seemed to explode, eyes shooting like ripe seeds from the skull, wings crumpling, guts and innards shooting in all directions. The plant continued thrashing about for several minutes before the petals began to relax.
    As it returned to its normal shape and form, the orchid released the mangled pulp that had been the sky-devil. The shattered corpse fell bouncing into the depths. Born sat up and watched it fall, his heart beating fast. The devil had died too quickly to scream, never knowing what had hit it.
    Using his snuffler as a brace, Born pulled himself erect and climbed over to where Ruumahum lay, watching him quietly. “I think,” he said, trembling slightly, “we can go help the people now.” The furcot nodded silently.
    They started back toward the worldwell, once again giving the now quiescent pseudo-orchid—known in Born’s village as “Dunawett’s plant”—plenty of room.
    Born parted the broken stems and walked out into something he had experienced only a few times in his life. Something few people ever experienced— the open air. He stared upward, but from here the sky was a distant circlet of blue pasted against an otherwise green heaven, “Will watch Upper Hell,” Ruumahum announced, sitting himself down by the edge of the well. His head inclined and he studied the distant blue disk stolidly.
    Born extended a cautious foot, set it down easily on the deep blue surface of the object. It was cool and hard, just like the axeblade. Reassured, he walked out onto the curving surface, making his way toward the half-dome