It started as just another day in the mine. On the steel landing overhanging the lip of the incredibly deep chasm, the morning crew awaited the cage that would take them down into the mine. A number of younger miners had gathered on the opposite side of the shaft, unwilling to wait for the slow-moving lift. At thirty second intervals, these foolhardy miners leapt off into the empty space and fell headlong into the darkness below. It was a spectacular way to start a working day, but had become common practice for many Sessymirians. When the miners had fallen about 1,000 feet – roughly ten seconds of plummeting straight down the icy shaft – they pulled at two cords sitting on their shoulders which released a magnificent silk canopy that quickly filled with the heated air rising up from the base of the mineshaft.
The name of the ice colliery was Strom Mir and it was the largest and most dangerous of all the Nilfheim mines. Thousands of Sessymirians worked in Strom Mir, mining Cold, the frozen fuel that powered engines all over the Myr. Although Cold was unstable and difficult to extract from the frigid rock, the Sessymirians had developed techniques to lessen the likelihood of mishaps. However, the dominant Sessymirian traits – greed, impatience and lack of subtlety – meant a major disaster was always close by. Although they knew it was dangerous work, none could have imagined the calamitous events that lay in store for them that day.
As a distant sun pulled itself up over an ice-bound horizon, a party of burly miners came up Strom Mir’s main shaft, standing on an enclosed platform suspended from a chain with links as large as a grown man. A noisy engine powered by low-grade Cold pulled the chain up the deep shaft.
The gang shuffled off the metal platform as it drew to a halt. Everything about the miners was utilitarian. Picks and hammers hung from dirty, leather belts. A crude helmet fashioned out of scrap-metal was worn by each miner shadowing a grimy face smeared with dust and sweat. This particular team had been working in a cavern prosaically called Room 391, which lay an incredible two leagues straight down. The morning shift grumbled greetings to the night shift and within minutes the new arrivals disappeared into the icy bowels of the earth.
The day shift team was being led by a man known as the Keeler. His full name was Vila Helstrom but most people had forgotten it. His face – however – was not a face one easily forgot. On either side of the Keeler’s face were three six inch long canyons where his flesh had been gouged out. His skin had been ripped to shreds by Keelii off the coast of Arnaksak. He was lucky to still be alive.
Keelii were sleek-bodied pinniped that inhabited the cold waters surrounding the icy land masses of Sessymir and Arnaksak. For thousands of years they lived happily amongst the pale blue seagrasses of the Oshalla, until the Sessymirians and Arnakki developed an interest in them. There was a lot of money to be made from Keelii pelts. Even more money could be extracted from the oils extracted from the Keelii’s large, fusiform bodies. The fact that the Keelii demonstrated many of the traits of a sophisticated, highly-evolved society was nothing more than an inconvenient truth to the keelers, the name the cold-hearted fur-traders of the north gave to their line of work. The keelers believed that if a being did not wear clothes, it was a beast, and all beasts could be killed without any misgivings.
After centuries of being ruthlessly hunted, the Keelii rebelled, preying upon any Sessymirian and Arnakki ships that drifted into their territories. The Keelii would climb aboard and hunt out the captain of the vessel and flay the skin from his body. Whilst the Sessymirians tried to use this as evidence of the Keelii’s lack of civilization, the tactic supported the notion that the Keelii had highly-developed thought processes. Even the Helyans who had openly supported the Sessymirians’ right to hunt Keelii had to admit that the creatures’ strategy of seeking out the enemy’s leader did suggest a degree of tactical insight one couldn’t expect of a dumb beast.
Helstrom was one of the last Sessymirian keelers to sail the Oshalla. The career of keeling had been banned by the Assembly of Nations in a vote of four to thirteen against. ‘Sanctimonious bastards,’ muttered Helstrom whenever the Assembly was raised in conversation. He had made a small fortune in his ship The Termagant plying the waters of the Oshalla, looking for Keelii whose pelts he would sell to the Helyans, Kompirans and Susanese at huge profit. Then keeling was banned and Helstrom found himself out of a job. He squandered his fortunes on women and ale and soon found himself wondering where his next meal was coming from.
It was then he met Lokasenna Hagen, who had just been appointed Foreman of Strom Mir. She was looking for desperate men who were not afraid of risking life and limb to make some real money. His greed and ruthlessness pushed him through the mining guild’s ranks and within a year he found he was in charge of operations in some of the mine’s most important caverns – and Room 391 was such a cavern. Lokasenna had numerous teams working in there day and night and often she would personally oversee the dig.
‘Let’s go Handy!’ the Keeler called to the mineshaft lift-operator standing beside two three-foot long levers in the cage. ‘We don’t want to keep the Foreman waiting.’
Handy bent down and placed a leather satchel he was holding on the floor of the cage next to his feet, one of which was not a foot at all, but an ornately-crafted iron prosthesis, a perfect match for the equally ornate hook that stood in place of his left hand.
Handy was a cripple, a victim of an accident in the mine. He was not alone in this. Quite a few miners had lost limbs working with the volatile Cold. This explained why Strom Mir had three resident surgeons who spent most of their working lives down in the mine. These ‘meathackers’ as they were affectionately known were rumoured to be paid ten times what the miners earned despite the fact that most miners who lost limbs usually lost their lives upon the bloody slabs of Nilfheim’s surgeons.
Other industries benefitted from the perils of mining Cold. In contrast to the meathackers, who were held in contempt by most miners, the artisans who made prosthetic limbs from wood or metal for any miner in need of a replacement hand or foot, were generally revered. Even the Foreman herself was short of a hand but she had not lost it in a mining accident. Lokasenna was a bastard child, and like all bastard children in the cruel land of Sessymir, her hand was cut off according to Sessymirian law. When she was old enough, instead of commissioning a claw or a hook, Lokasenna Hagen had a long, sharp spike sewn into her flesh. She used this spike to intimidate miners. It was rumoured that she had even killed a miner who was caught stealing from the colliery, but the official line was that he had fallen into an unsupervised shaft. That didn’t explain why, when they found his body, it looked as if someone had rammed a skewer into his eye socket, but no-one dared question it further.
The mining cage grunted as it began its thirty minute downward descent. The Keeler’s cheek brushed the freezing metal and he grimaced in pain. He put a hand to his face. It ached on particularly cold days and as every day in Nilfheim was particularly cold, he was generally an ill-tempered, unhappy man. He rubbed his face on his sleeves which gave him some relief. In contrast to the majority of the miners who wore the standard overalls issued to them by the Company, the Keeler proudly wore a tunic and breeches he had fashioned from the pelt of the last Keelii he had killed.
The Keeler noticed that Handy was particularly quiet this day. He stared out over the lip of the descending platform, avoiding eye contact with the miners in the lift. This puzzled the Keeler. For almost five years, he and the lift operator performed the same conversation on the way down the central mineshaft. ‘Busy day ahead, Cap’n?’ Handy would ask Helstrom to which he would inevitably reply, ‘Always busy, Handy.’ But today the customary conversation was curiously absent. Handy just kept his back to the miners, his eyes focused upon some distant point in the blackness below. Occasionally, he would glance down at the satchel by his feet to make sure it was still there. Although this stirred Helstrom’s interest, the lift operator clearly did not want to talk to anyone, so the Keeler decided not to ask what was in the bag.
He turned his mind to what the day held for him. They were close to a breakthrough. Lokasenna had been particularly persistent in digging deeper and deeper in Room 391. Although he was a relative novice in the science of extracting Cold, he had not seen any indication that the room held any promise, yet Lokasenna had demanded more and more miners be rostered on to work in the cavern. The Keeler dwelt upon the mistake he had made the day before. Concerned with the dangers of putting Room 391 under too much stress, he questioned Lokasenna about the decision to double their efforts in this particular room. Her tempestuous response to this valid question was so animated, so intense, the Keeler felt a little nervous about returning to the room. She had held her spike an inch from his eye and she shook with such poorly-suppressed rage, he was lucky to still have his vision intact.
The platform pounded the frozen floor of the mineshaft and Handy dropped the cage’s iron gate, allowing the miners to step off the lift. They were in a broad cavern known as the Lobby and it was a hive of activity.
To the Keeler’s left, a large, flat expanse served as a landing zone for those miners who had chosen to freefall into the mine. Although he considered himself to be a fearless man, the thought of throwing himself into a black hole with only a thin sheet of Kompiran silk keeping him afloat seemed needlessly reckless, an opinion backed up by a number of dark red marks upon the landing; these smears were the stains left behind by men and women whose chutes did not open. It was a regular occurrence in the mines and a sophisticated betting arrangement was held between the miners dedicated to predicting when the next freefall accident would occur. A sign next to the landing area read: 3 days. The Keeler had bet his weeks’ wages on four days. He was relieved to find that no-one had died since his last shift, but the day was still young. Upon the wall where the jumpers hung their chutes someone had scrawled: ‘It’s not the fall that will kill you – it’s the sudden stop at the end.’ It was typical Sessymirian humour.
Directly ahead of the Keeler was Manny’s Bar. As was customary, it was packed with miners. Many night-shifters spent a good hour or two here before taking the lift back up to the surface. This custom inevitably led to arguments, brawls and unwanted pregnancies, but the Company figured that it was a much needed distraction from one of the most difficult and unrewarding jobs in all Sessymir.
The Keeler looked enviously at the men and women cavorting in the bar. He wasn’t much for socialising, but he sure felt like a drink. Lokasenna had that effect upon him.
To the right of the lift was the Farm. This was where the miners kept a collection of native animals all of which were employed in the pursuit of Cold.
The snufflegroot ranked among the world’s most awkward-looking animal. It was a bird of sorts, but it lacked two aspects Myrrans usually associated with avian species – wings and a beak. It had short, oily black feathers covering much of its body, but nothing vaguely resembling wings. Short, stumpy legs poked out of a barrel-shaped torso. These legs did not end in talons but rather two flat appendages that were more like suction cups than feet. It used these suckers to climb over the icy walls of the subterranean rooms, even the roofs. It was a common sight to see flocks of snufflegroots waddling their way across the ceilings of the cavern, honking excitedly as they smelt out traces of Cold in the frozen rock. The snufflegroot’s head was little more than a vast nose on a feathered lump. It had no mouth because it did not need one. It ate smells, and was particularly attracted to Cold. The ‘groots would shuffle down mines, sniffing out the smell of Cold, which they would feed upon until the miners came and extracted it. As a reward, the ‘groots would be left a lump of Cold to sniff until they would fall asleep where they stood, their hunger satisfied.
Equally unusual, and perhaps a little more disturbing were the bombats. These spherical-shaped rodents were tethered to lines that were tied to a railing running around the Farm. They bobbed in the air like the balloons that held the Spriggan skyshops aloft. Natural gases inside the bombat gave the creature its buoyancy, and as the hours passed the build-up of gases within the bombat’s body made it increasingly lighter than the air surrounding it. This was indicated by changes in its pigmentation. The less gassy bombats floating closer to the ground were blue in colour, but the ones that were higher up, taut on lines that stopped them from floating up out of the mineshaft, were bright red. A newcomer to the mines could assume that these creatures were merely decorative, but they would be wrong. The mine’s very existence depended upon the presence of the inert rodents. The bombat’s gaseous state would culminate in a loud outburst of flatulence that would fill a cavern, however unlike most animals which produced methane, the biochemical process in the bombat produced oxygen. This gave the miners access to clean, fresh air without the need for ventilation shafts. This meant the Sessymirian miners could delve deeper and work longer than any other nation in the Myr.
Most of the Farm was dedicated to housing Strom Mir’s twenty-six pulloks. The pullok possessed a segmented, serpentine body that could be as long as fifty feet from end to end. The size of the pullok was unfortunately disproportionate to the size of its brain. It was a patently stupid beast, capable of doing little more than moving its long, furry body along the icy surfaces of the mines. This would have been a simple enough task to achieve if the pullock had a head at either end of its body. Unfortunately, the absence of a head meant the creature was inclined to move off in one of two directions at any given time which was a problem for the Sessymrians who used the beasts as a form of transportation in the mines. It was necessary to have a driver at either end equipped with thick reins and endless patience. It was no easy task piloting the cumbersome animals, especially when the beast changed its mind about which end was its front and which was its rear. It was not uncommon for this to occur mid-journey, which often led to passengers swivelling around in order to see where they were going. Fortunately, the pullok’s furry body had an adhesive quality which meant it could head down the steepest tunnels without falling.
The Keeler hated riding the pulloks. He had braved some of the Myr’s most unforgiving seas, but after five years in the mines, he still got twitchy every time he took a seat on a pullok. ‘Any beast that don’t know its head from its tail shouldn’t be trusted,’ he grumbled to himself as he pulled himself onto the pullok’s snowy white back. He felt the hands of the passenger behind him clutch his waist and he reluctantly leaned forward to place his own hands around the hips of the woman in front of him. He didn’t like this part either. If he wanted to throw his arms around somebody, he would have taken the morning off and wasted some money in the brothel behind Manny’s Bar.
It had been a hard night in the mines. In Room 295, twelve miners had lost their lives when the small cavern collapsed. It was a tragedy but one Lokasenna could not dwell upon, despite the part she may have played in the accident. She had redeployed much of the crew from Room 295 to Room 391 which had left the chamber undermanned. The disaster had surprised no-one but there was not a miner still alive who would speak against Lokasenna Hagen. They knew better than to question the Foreman. The Company had a long-established tradition of making redundant anyone who criticized middle management.
Until her seeming obsession with Room 391, Lokasenna had a track record for finding high-grade Cold that was better than any other Foreman before her. She was hardened, resolute and able to extract the maximum return for the smallest financial cost. The cost of human lives was another thing altogether, but the Company was never fearful of running out of employees, something Lokasenna knew too well. She had realized long ago that the Company valued those who took the greatest risks. It was a simple equation: the deeper the Cold, the better the quality, the higher the price. She chose to ignore the fact that the deeper the Cold, the more dangerous the mining.
The Sessymirian mines were also responsible for supplying much of the world's steel, iron and copper, but in Nilfheim, the only business was the Cold industry. The highly compacted ice could only be found deep below the surface of Nilfheim, a fact that not only made the locals proud but had also turned the city from an unimportant, frozen village to one of the Myr’s largest and most influential metropolises. Ironically, the very thing that ensured their livelihoods, Cold, had been responsible for the deaths of more Sessymirians than war, famine or disease. A pick swung into a deposit of Cold could bring down an entire cavern, a fact evidenced by the collapse of Room 295.
Lokasenna’s fixation with Room 391 was widely known. More and more miners found themselves reassigned to what had become Strom Mir’s deepest and largest room. Only Lokasenna knew how many miners worked the room, but the one thing was clear - the cavern was growing more and more crowded despite its increasing size.
A number of pulloks slithered through the wide entrance of the chamber. The beasts carried the last of the morning shift. It was a welcome sight to those who had toiled through the night under Lokasenna’s stern gaze.
At the far end of the cavern, a number of miners clambered onto the shoulders of ice gluks, huge leathery bipedal beasts which were the Sessymirians’ primary means of excavation. A single tooth stood out of the creature’s mouth, a long pointed incisor that curved upward to the top of its head. On either side of the tooth, tiny white eyes stared out of a dark face. The gluks’ skin was black and coarse with a shock of long white fur that ran from the nape of their neck to the stubby tail at their rear. Their hands did not have any fingers, or digits of any description. Each hand was nothing more than a massive knot of muscles, bone and rock-hard tissue. The ice gluks fed on the rockmites that delved out their colonies deep in the Cold deposits below Nilfheim. The ice gluks’ role was quite simple – they would bash away at the rock where the snufflegroots could smell the veins of Cold that led to the juicy rockmites.
The Keeler groaned as he saw the number of workers Lokasenna had gathered in the room. There were at least ten separate teams which was not in keeping with the unwritten rule that a cavern would only be mined by one team at a time. The potential for disaster was immense.
Lokasenna stood in the middle of the room shouting at a small, squat miner. He was a glukker which meant he had the unenviable job of managing a team of hungry, unresponsive ice gluks. But if he thought the chain-gang of ten ice gluks was hard to handle, Lokasenna was another thing altogether.
‘And I am saying we will continue to dig until the deposit is found,’ she screamed. ‘Is that so hard to follow?’
After nine hours straight without a break, the glukker was not thinking clearly and made the mistake of speaking his mind. ‘But Madam Foreman, there is no vein. The ‘groots have no scent of any Cold and the gluks are getting hungry and careless.’
‘A good miner occasionally has to go with his instinct, and I say push on.’ She strode to the lip of the channel the gluks had bashed into the frozen floor of Room 391, glowering at the miner who had dared to voice an opinion contrary to her own.
The man glanced up at her then lowered his eyes deferentially. He realized his mistake and did not want to appear as if he meant to oppose her. He knew that it would be imprudent and dangerous to stay on her bad side; the dangers of over-mining the chamber faded when being stared down by the Foreman of Strom Mir.
It was not just the spike at the end of her left arm that made Lokasenna intimidating. Every aspect of her physical presence discouraged insolence. She was extremely tall and muscular. Her shoulders were as broad as a Sessymirian man’s and her demeanour just as brooding. Her face was not one easily forgotten. A dark birthmark covered her left eye like a patch. Ironically, when she was younger, any youth stupid enough to comment upon the birthmark usually ended up sporting a black eye closely resembling Lokasenna’s permanent one.
Her nose had been broken three times in her life, illustrating the sort of treatment received by all bastard children in Sessymir. Lokasenna’s pugnacious nature as a child meant she never walked away from an insult, even from those handed out by adults. The third break in her nose was given to her by Nilfheim’s Magistrate when she had turned seventeen. She was proud of the fact that his nose had ended up just as broken as hers. Not too many people troubled Lokasenna after that infamous fight.
‘You know, it almost sounds as if you were questioning my authority in this matter,’ she said slowly, lowering her voice so that only he could hear it.
The glukker’s face went white with fear. ‘Not at all Madam Foreman. I lack your inspiring perseverance, that is all,’ he said meekly. ‘I will try harder.’
‘Then take these gluks and don’t stop digging until you have reason to stop.’
He nodded and struck his team of gluks into action. The cavern filled with the sound of the gluks’ huge fists pounding into the frozen rock at the base of Strom Mir. It was music to Lokasenna’s ears.
Without turning around, she greeted her second-in-command who had quickly dismounted the pullok as it pulled into Room 391 and made his way to her side. ‘We’re close Mr Helstrom. I can feel it,’ she said proudly.
‘What are your orders Madam?’ the Keeler said, careful to avoid anything resembling casual conversation. He knew this would please her.
‘Dig,’ she said plainly as she pointed at the floor of the cavern. ‘That way. Down. I’ll be in the Lobby if you need me.’ By Lobby, she meant Manny’s Bar. It had been a long night, but she did not want to go home. A stiff drink or two would hold her over until the miners broke through.
‘What’s your poison?’ Manny asked as he wiped the broken glass from the table. He was just cleaning up after the first brawl of the day when Lokasenna came in and dropped herself on the old couch by the fire. Manny, the owner of the establishment, was a Spriggan and one of the few foreigners willing to reside in Nilfheim. The key to his acceptance in the inhospitable city was cheap alcohol. This was not to say he was liked, but he was less likely to wake up missing a limb or an organ than most other visitors to Nilfheim. He endured the taunts and the rebukes of the local populace because they were willing to pay for alcohol he would not be able to sell anywhere else.
‘The usual Manny,’ she replied, lifting her boots up onto the small table which wobbled under the weight of her long legs. She closed her eyes and as soon as the lids met, she felt herself spiralling into a heavy slumber.
‘Your drink Madam Foreman.’
She thrust her eyes open to find the Spriggan standing before her with a clear tumbler containing a dark purple liquid that bubbled and popped like an apothecary’s potion. The drink was called a Sleepkiller and one sniff explained why. As she lifted it to her mouth, the smell of the alcohol bit into Lokasenna’s nostrils and ripped all sense of fatigue from her body. The oily beverage slid down her throat and into her stomach. The muscles in her face quivered and a tingling sensation shot across her skin. This was followed by a rush of warm energy moving through her body like a river bursting its banks. ‘Ah!’ she sighed loudly, not caring if anybody could hear.
‘The beverage is to your liking, Madam Foreman?’ Manny asked politely.
‘Yes, it is Manny,’ she said with a tone akin to friendliness. ‘You’d better get me a bottle.’
‘At once, Madam Foreman,’ said the Spriggan, bowing before rushing off to the cellar.
Lokasenna looked across the Lobby. It was quiet. The Farm was almost empty except for a number of beasts that were being rested following a 32 hour long shift. It was small consolation to the Sessymirian miners that the animals were worked even harder than they were.
To the right of the Farm, the cage that brought the miners down the main shaft was empty. The iron platform lay deserted in the middle of the Lobby. Lokasenna noted the lift operator Handy had disappeared. It was expected that the lift operator always stayed by his lift when it was at the base of the shaft. It was one of Strom Mir’s few safety regulations – in case of an emergency, the lift had to be manned but Handy was nowhere in sight. Lokasenna looked around. No-one seemed to have noticed his absence. She smiled to herself and fell back into the couch, happy in a way she had not experienced before. Things were about to change and the anticipation of it was intoxicating. Or maybe it was the drink. Entranced by the red rivulets of embers in the fireplace before her, Lokasenna let her mind wander far away from the ice and rock that had surrounded her for the greater part of her life.
‘Madam Foreman, you need to come quickly. We’ve found something.’
It was rare for the Keeler to speak with such emotion, so she sat up and leant forward to hear what he had to say. ‘Well?’ she said, encouraging him to continue. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s something most unusual. The gluks have scraped away a layer of rock to reveal something we can’t explain.’
‘Try.’
‘Well ma’am, it’s masonry.’
‘What?’
‘It seems we have unearthed a stone floor of sorts. Someone has been here before! The floor sounds hollow and –’
‘You stopped the dig?’ she said excitedly.
‘Yes. I thought you would want to be present when we broke through.’
‘You did well Mr Helstrom. Let us see what lies beneath.’
By the time Lokasenna and the Keeler arrived back at Room 391, it was absolute carnage. The Ghul, wasting no time to seize upon the opportunity had set hundreds of Kobolds to finish the job the Sessymirians had started months earlier under the direction of Lokasenna Hagen. As soon as the breach was made, burying a large number of Kobolds in the process, Lucetious had sent forth a squad of his most brutal warriors. They cut a path through the Sessymirians who were in such a state of shock they were easy pickings for the Ghul who had waited for this moment for innumerable days.
‘Madam Foreman, I’m sorry –’ It was the glukker she had shouted at earlier.
‘Have they said anything? Made any demands?’
‘No, but ten minutes ago, gangs of Kobolds appeared, clearing away the rock. They seem to be widening the breach.’
‘Widening it?’ asked the Keeler. ‘What for?’
A deep sound reverberated in the cavern. Lokasenna could feel it through the soles of her boots. Something massive was hauling itself up, out of the crimson darkness below. ‘I’d say they were widening it for that,’ she said as twelve long, armoured tentacles thrust themselves out of the hole in the middle of Room 391. The underside of each tentacle grabbed onto the lip of the breach as the creature to which they belonged prepared to pull itself up into the cavern. The surviving miners let loose a collective gasp as they laid their eyes upon the Kaggen.
It was as ugly a creature as could be imagined. Its tentacles were covered in five-foot wide scales that formed a suit of dull, green armour around the monster. The Kaggen’s spasmodic movement gave it a terrifying aspect, as if it were not in full control of its limbs. Rising up from the breach in a jerky, uncomfortable fashion, it moved slowly, like a cripple. But it was not the sort of creature that would arouse feeling of pity in those who looked upon it. It was anything but pitiable. By the time the monster had completely pulled itself into the cavern, it was at least eighty feet high and filled a third of Room 391 with its repugnant body.
The tentacles connected to a thin section between the Kaggen’s thorax and abdomen. The abdomen was spherical shape, and hung beneath the creature like the bulb of a plant that had been ripped from the earth. Protected by the armoured tentacles, the abdomen had no scales covering it. The Keeler almost retched when he realized the Kaggen’s skin was translucent – he could see the beast’s internal organs swimming in a fluid that swilled around inside it like ale in a half empty glass. The cavern shook as the monster plumped the bulk of its flaccid abdomen down on the flat, rocky floor on the far side of the breach.
In contrast to its abdomen, the Kaggen’s thorax was heavily armoured. The scales there were wide, thick and yellow, resembling in a perverse way the golden armour worn by the knights of Pelinore.
The Kaggen’s head was long and thick. It could have been likened to the keel of a capsized ship. It was thinner at the front, like a boat’s prow, and it seemed to have gathered barnacles over much of its surface. But the barnacles were not separate creatures, they were not parasites nor were they symbiotes. The barnacles were actually eyes. Thousands of them. And they were not fixed. They scuttled across the Kaggen’s head with alarming speed, gathering in thick bunches wherever its attention was, and the effect of this was unsettling to all but the staunchest constitutions.
But Lokasenna wasn’t unnerved. She had known it was coming for months.
It was mid-afternoon and night was about to fall on Nilfheim. Compared to those experienced in other Myrran nations, winter days were much shorter in Sessymir. Adding to the gathering darkness, plumes of black smoke poured out of countless foundries and smelter houses, staining the low-lying clouds with their filth. The snow that fell on the tightly-packed metropolis was anything but pristine; it dropped in grey lumps, sullied by the pollution the mines spewed into the skies.
The buildings in Sessymir’s capital city were predominantly wrought of black iron. Nilfheim was a congestion of metal, bereft of any sign of life. There were no main roads. Instead a chaotic network of ice-covered paths and alleys crisscrossed their way across the cold city. Above these empty streets an intricate collection of iron-mesh walkways connected the buildings, adding to the enclosed atmosphere surrounding Nilfheim. The city resembled a prison. There were no trees, no lakes, no fields. Everything seemed manmade, even the sky.
The only things that moved in the hebetudinous environment were the snorse-headed pumpjacks, which rhythmically swung up and down, their characteristic nodding motions an affirmation of the Sessymirian’s commitment to extracting anything of value from the ground beneath. The pumpjacks were used to draw water from the steel mines. The water, melted from the frozen caverns far below the surface, ran up long copper pipes that connected the mines to the pumpheads above. These pipes had to be constantly heated and smoke from the furnaces that supplied this heat contributed greatly to the pall that lay over the city, as did the Cold-powered engines that endlessly raised and lowered the pumpjacks’ broad beams.
The buildings in the ghettoes of Nilfheim were ornamented by a thick mantle of rust. It was an ugly sector in an ugly city, inhabited by swarthy, mean-spirited individuals who were as quick to stick a knife in one’s back as they were to accept a bribe. There were taverns but there were no inns – hospitality was an unpopular idea in this part of town. Visitors were unheard of, which is why Lokasenna Hagen was stunned to hear someone rapping upon her door.
Accompanying the passing of the day, a storm had moved in upon Nilfheim. At first Lokasenna thought the banging on her door to be a particularly aggressive gust of wind. But then, above the howling current of air buffeting her house of iron, she heard a voice calling out her name.
He was Acoran. They were no strangers to Sessymir, but usually stayed by the docks on their ships where they conducted business. It was most unusual to see a foreigner venture into the city and even more remarkable to see one in Nilfheim’s most disreputable precinct.
‘My name is Maeldune Canna,’ he said as he stood in the doorway. The temperature of the room dropped dramatically as flurries of snow, carried by invidious northern winds pushed past him to enter the house. ‘I am the Myrran Minister for Justice. I am also a friend of your father’s.’
Momentarily, Lokasenna forgot about the brutal winds sweeping into her house and stood dumbfounded by his introduction. ‘My father?’ she said finally. ‘I don’t have a father.’
‘But you do,’ he said through clenched teeth as the cold wind unmercifully slammed into his back.
Lokasenna admitted the Acoran, leading him into a small room that was both her lounge and her bedroom. She gestured to a mound of marrok furs on the floor and not waiting for him to sit, placed herself down on an old couch directly opposite them. She made no offer of a hot brew to warm up her guest. She just sat staring at the furs, waiting for Maeldune to sit.
He shook the snow from his cloak and wiped back the long strands of dark hair that hung from his head in frozen clumps. He had more jewels on the rings on his fingers than Lokasenna had ever seen in her entire life. He also sported a brooch shaped in the form of a gillygull; Lokasenna knew it was worth more than she earned in a year. Smoothing out the coarse furs, he settled himself down, enjoying the sensation of warmth that gradually spread across his shivering body.
She stared coldly at him. ‘Why should I believe you?’ she said after some time.
‘Because I knew your mother. Many years ago, I lived in Pelinore as the Acoran ambassador to Scoriath. Your mother was also stationed there, a representative of the Company. Politics seldom allow for the development of friendships, but over the years I can say that Annika and I became close.’
Her mother. Although Lokasenna was only a small child when it happened, she remembered – with absolute clarity – the day they came for her. She had watched as local thugs, paid off by Nilfheim merchants, murdered the poor woman and left her body in the alleyway outside in a rapidly freezing pool of blood. This was the price that was paid in a society that condoned all manner of heinous crimes but could not accept the sin of bastardy. It was this horrible day that Lokasenna was taken away and grotesquely punished for the terrible transgression of being born. Her mother had worked for twenty years representing the Company’s interests abroad. She had created trade relationships that had contributed greatly to the Company’s enormous wealth. But when it was discovered that she had given birth to a bastard child…
This bitter spectacle of the perversity of Sessymirian morality had hardened Lokasenna’s heart, crushing down on it, turning it into a smaller, colder organ. Much like the Cold she mined, this heart was volatile; the explosion, when it came, would be devastating.
She leant forward and stared at Maeldune, her eyes like a vice squeezing down upon him. She spoke, her voice constricted by suppressed emotion. ‘Why did my mother return to Nilfheim, knowing what we Sessymirians do to bastard children and their mothers?’ It was a question she had wanted to ask all her life.
‘She had no choice,’ Maeldune said coolly. He did not evade her intense gaze. ‘The Company sent a squad of mercenaries to retrieve you and your mother from Pelinore.’
Lokasenna had to stand. Her mind was reeling. She wanted to run outside, away from this stranger who sat there calmly divulging horrors from her past, opening old wounds whilst making new incisions. She hated the feelings of vulnerability he had brought out in her. ‘You mentioned my father? Who was he? Where was he when they came for us? Why did he not protect us?’ The rapidity of the questions was matched by the beating of her heart. She had not felt such emotion before and it unnerved her. And there was one question that superseded all others. It had to be answered before they went any further: ‘Why should I trust you?’
Maeldune Canna nodded politely, recognizing the importance of the questions. He did not open his mouth to reply, but rather reached into the folds of his travelling cloak. He withdrew a cube-shaped object no bigger than the palm of his hand. It shimmered as if made of water but it was solid. He handed it to Lokasenna.
The cube was smooth but it was not made of glass despite the fact she could see right through it. It was warm to touch, surprisingly heavy and – strangely – once she held it in her hands, she did not want to let it go. ‘What is it?’ she asked curiously.
‘This is a memory cube,’ Maeldune answered softly. ‘It was made for me by a Pryderi witch I met in the town on Coldbrook. It cost me quite a lot of gold.’
‘What does it do?’ she asked, knowing the object was more than a transparent paperweight.
‘It captures moments in time, moments of… emotional significance.’
‘Emotional significance? You’ve come to the wrong place Minister. You’ll find more warmth out there,’ she said giving a nod to the icy city that lay beyond her balcony.
‘Not emotionally significant to you. Significant to me. This is my memory cube.’ Maeldune closed his eyes. 'Let us go back thirty years.'
Lokasenna gave an audible gasp as she peered into the cube. A three-dimensional image coalesced in the middle of the object. Three individuals stood huddling around a bassinet. Two of them, she recognized immediately. On the left stood Maeldune, smiling as he looked down into the cot. He looked exactly as he did now. To his left stood her mother. It was an incredibly uncomfortable feeling to look upon her murdered mother but Lokasenna could not turn away from the cube.
Her mother was also peering into the bassinet. A look of pride was stamped across her face. She held hands with the third individual, a tall, young man with long dark hair. The man’s face was somewhat sallow, as if he had not seen the sun for many years, but he was handsome in his own way. His eyes shone with intelligence and his face radiated such a smile that Lokasenna could not help but smile back. ‘Who is this man?’ she asked, suspecting the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.
‘That is your father. A man by the name of Caliban Grayson.’
Lokasenna brought the cube even closer and peered down through its transparent top to better see the child in the bassinet. She was asleep. Despite the distinctive birthmark over her left eye, Lokasenna thought she was as beautiful as the night.
‘You were only a day old there, Lokasenna.’
A minute passed before she lifted her head away from the cube. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Because he needs your help.’
‘He’s still alive?’ She did nothing to hide the amazement in her voice.
Maeldune reached out a hand and Lokasenna reluctantly returned the memory cube. It disappeared into the folds of his snow-stained robe.
‘About the same time that you and your mother were abducted and brought back to Sessymir, Caliban Grayson disappeared. I was away when it happened, in Cessair. I heard rumours of the Sessymirian mercenaries that had been sent for you and I assumed they had also killed your father for his part in your bastard existence. But he had not been killed. He too had been abducted.’
‘By Sessymirians?’
‘No. By his own brother as it happens.’
‘His brother?’
‘Yes.’ Maeldune fingered the gemstones on his rings as he thought carefully about how to proceed. He could see that Lokasenna was hanging on his every word. She was ready to hear the complete story. He was sure she would be willing to commit to the course of action he was about to put before her. ‘For three decades, I believed Caliban to be dead. He was a dear friend and I grieved for him. But he was not dead. He was lost, and now I have found him. Or rather, he has found me. Months ago, in the dead of night, I was visited by an emissary who came on behalf of your father. His name was Lucetious and was a member of a race of beings called the Ghul. He told me of Caliban’s forced exile in a world beneath our own, in a realm called the Endless.’
‘Forced exile?’ Lokasenna asked. ‘How was he imprisoned there?’
Maeldune smiled but there was neither warmth nor humour in lean face. ‘Now that’s an interesting tale. Let me tell you about your uncle…’
Nilfheim's shock troops existed for two reasons – to respond quickly to the all-too-frequent accidents that occurred in the mines and to guard against attacks by pirates and mercenaries sent to sabotage the Company's business. Cold was power in the Myr and power to the powerless was everything. The troops were responsible for security in the mines and they took that task very seriously. It was not uncommon for them to cut down a miner stupid enough to try to smuggle a lump of unrefined Cold out of the colliery. The troopers were not highly intelligent individuals but had a reputation for doing the job they were expected to do and doing it well. As they sprinted through the entrance to Room 391, every one of them realised immediately that they were out of their depth.
The Kaggen had picked up twelve miners at once and held them high before hurtling them across the cavern where they collided with the frozen rock wall. The lucky ones had their necks broken immediately, but some survived only to be picked up again and tossed a second time. The Kaggen was not only dangerous; it revelled in its cruelty.
The glukker that had argued with Lokasenna was pulled off the back of his ice gluk and lifted up into the air. The Kaggen shook the man so savagely, it snapped his spine and he flopped about in its coiled tentacle like a broken marionette. It brought the glukker up to its face where thousands of eyes slithered together to better view the dead man, his blank face reflected in the mirror of the onyx eyes. The Kaggen’s grip upon the man tightened, the coils of its tentacles pushing in on him harder and harder until his head popped off like a cork out of a bottle.
The shock troops hovered around the edge of the breach, not knowing what to do. A thick-jawed gunnery sergeant carrying a lightweight cannon stepped forward. The weapon, powered by Cold, was brand new technology and untested in the field. It was a shoulder-mounted unit and stored four Cold-tipped steel shafts about four foot long. The cannon was designed to blast away rock and ice in the mines but the gunnery sergeant was more interested in seeing how a living creature would fare against it.
Lokasenna smiled sardonically. ‘Boys and their toys,’ she muttered to herself as the gunnery sergeant took aim. She had no doubt that the man would regret his actions.
The missile exploded from the cannon and thundered across the room. One of the Kaggen’s tentacles whipped up and snapped around the projectile, catching it before it could impact upon its body. The eyes on its head all slithered to the front, focusing upon the man who had fired the cannon. One of its tentacles struck out and wrapped around him. The Kaggen rammed the man’s head into the roof where it was crushed like an egg. The monster then discarded what was left, letting the Ghul have the pleasure of dismembering the body.
A number of the shock troops took the death of the gunnery sergeant as the signal to leave, but a small group of stoic troopers were resolved to fight back. Each man had a slingshot strapped to his forearm. In unison the troopers placed a small ball of Cold into the pouch of the slingshot. ‘Aim at the eyes, aim at the eyes!’ one of them hollered as the slingshots were brought to bear, and without waiting for the command to fire, the projectiles were released.
Even with its incredibly quick reflexes, the Kaggen could not hope to deflect or catch all the small missiles. The slug-like eyes scattered to the rear of its cranium as the missiles impacted. Small pieces of the green chitin encasing the Kaggen’s head broke away revealing soft, pink skin underneath.
From an unseen mouth beneath the tentacles, the Kaggen screamed furiously, the pain from its exposed flesh searing across its malevolent brain. The tentacle holding the Cold missile the gunnery sergeant had fired flung the rocket back across the cavern. It exploded into the roof above the entrance to the room and the entire mine shook. Massive chunks of ice and rock fell down from the cavern roof, irrefutable signs of the room’s imminent collapse.
The Kaggen’s demolition of Room 319 was not a part of Caliban’s plans. At the sight of the chamber’s impending destruction, Lucetious barked one simple order to his troops. ‘Get into the mine!’ He screamed it over and over, inciting his troops to surge forward before the breach was closed again. He had to move as many troops into Strom Mir as possible.
Without any concern for their own welfare, the Ghul forces pushed forward. Many were squashed under falling debris but they were legion and would not be stopped. Lucetious scanned the area before him. Most of the Sessymirian miners had made their way to the tunnels beyond the entrance to the cavern. A number of his soldiers had pursued them, but most of his troops were being crushed under the rock and ice cascading into the chamber. Strangely, a number of Sessymirians had not fled. On the far side of the breach Lucetious could see a woman standing, staring blankly into the Endless. She was tall, much taller than any Ghul and she bore a distinct mark upon her face. ‘It’s her,’ he said to himself. ‘Caliban’s daughter.’
He pointed at her, singling her out to the Kaggen. The stupid brute may have compromised their incursion into Nilfheim, but it could still serve a purpose. ‘Grab the woman and give her to me!’
The Keeler picked himself up from the floor. The maelstrom of falling rock had pushed him away from Lokasenna. He could feel the warm stream of blood that flowed from the broad gash on his head, but he didn’t care. He was alive and that was all that mattered.
The scene was one of absolute chaos. The Ghul soldiers ran through the storm of rock and ice, vainly trying to get to the entrance of the cavern before the entire roof gave way. They were not interested in fighting and passed him by as if he were not there. Many of them were pummelled in the crossing, but this did not deter the others from racing across the chamber.
On the far side of the breach, a Ghul soldier was screaming at the creature and pointing to Lokasenna. The beast's eyes squirmed across its vast head to look at her.
‘Madam Foreman!’ the Keeler screamed at Lokasenna ‘We have to leave!’ He would not abandon her. As much as he disliked her, he could not leave her to die. The Kaggen shuffled towards her, its tentacles extending to take Strom Mir’s foreman.
She said nothing. Did nothing. Her eyes looked towards the breach and the approaching monster, but they were unfocussed. She seemed to have no sense of the danger she was in. Her mind was somewhere else...
Maeldune stood in the doorway. It had been two months since she had seen the Acoran. Although he had not aged a day since that visit, he did not look the same. His dark cloak had been replaced by a bright red robe that seemed inconsistent with his personality. Lokasenna also noticed that Maeldune no longer sported jewelled rings upon his fingers. Even the way in which he carried himself seemed different.
‘Lokasenna, it’s so good to see you.’ He seemed overly familiar, almost smug. Insincere. ‘You look... tired.’
Lokasenna’s hand rose to her face and ran down from the corners of her eyes to her chin, as if trying to wipe away the signs of lethargy from her skin. She knew her face reflected the weariness she felt in her bones. She had spent half a year concentrating on one thing – excavating the deepest part of Strom Mir in the hope of breaking through to the Endless. Thoughts of her father had not left her since Maeldune had last visited. She had become obsessive.
The Acoran waltzed into her quarters. He placed a large leather satchel upon her couch and then commenced walking around the room, as if inspecting it for the first time.
He pulled back the ragged curtains to reveal a dark alleyway beyond where piles of refuse had gathered. ‘Lovely view,’ he said contemptuously.
‘I have no need for lovely views,’ she sneered back at him. She stood on the other side of the room, arms folded, scrutinising his every movement.
‘I would have thought that Strom Mir’s foreman would be a more enviable financial situation. But you live in squalor. I am almost embarrassed for you.’
Lokasenna’s body stiffened as she drew from her shallow well of self-restraint. She wanted to leap across the room and plant her spike deep in Maeldune’s eye socket, but he was her only connection to her father and she did not want to jeopardize that. She had too much to lose.
When Maeldune had first informed her of her father’s plight, she wanted to leave Sessymir and make her way into the Endless via the route Maeldune had travelled but the Acoran had dissuaded her. He had convinced her that she would serve her father better by staying in Nilfheim. ‘It is provident that Caliban seeks to open the breaches and here you are holding the key to one of them,’ he had said to her. ‘Stay here in Nilfheim. Open a path to him and reap the rewards of his gratitude.’ And so she had stayed, not for any thought of reward but because Maeldune had said it was what her father would have wanted. She understood Maeldune’s reasoning but this did not make the long winter any easier to endure.
He slumped down on the armchair of her couch and leant forward staring back at her. He was grinning and did not seem the least bit perturbed by her steely gaze. He seemed oblivious to any offence he may have caused with his preoccupation upon her financial situation.
Lokasenna looked around the room trying to suppress the sense of shame Maeldune had evoked in her. ‘Minister Canna, let me remind you,’ she snarled, ‘I am a bastard child. I am paid accordingly.’
‘That doesn't seem fair.’
‘It is the way it is.’
‘And you are not predisposed to change it? You deserve more Lokasenna.’
She decided to put an end to the subject. She was not interested in the wealthy Acoran’s views on her socio-economic status. She had accomplished more in her life than any other bastard child in Sessymir – his criticisms of her smacked of arrogance and ignorance.
‘You told my father you found me?’ she asked, keen to pursue the subject she had thought about every waking hour since he had last visited. There was a note of desperation evident in her voice.
‘Your father?’ he asked as if surprised by the question.
‘Maeldune. Do not toy with me,’ she said her voice low and dangerous. ‘I am not one to be trifled with.’ She stepped forward, her arms slowly unfolding as her anger grew. ‘What did my father say when you told him?’
‘I do not know your father,’ he said nonchalantly.
She pounced on him. With her right hand clenched around his neck, Lokasenna lifted Maeldune clear off the couch. He was surprised by the ferocity of her attack, but could say nothing with her fingers gripping his windpipe like the hilt of a sword. Maeldune’s right hand rose to loosen her grip, but Lokasenna plunged her spike forward. The sharp steel of the spike split the skin and tendons of Maeldune's palm, spearing through to the other side with ease. A stifled groan escaped Maeldune’s lips as the pain of the impalement made him temporarily forget that Lokasenna was also crushing his throat.
She did not withdraw her spike. Instead she held it high. Maeldune’s right arm hung from the spike and in a strange way he resembled a young child wanting to ask a question.
‘Who are you?’ she snarled, her face inches away from his.
Maeldune did not try to speak as the Sessymirian’s fingers loosened slightly on his throat. He lifted his left arm and wrapped his hand around her wrist, his fingers digging into her white skin.
Suddenly a most surprising smell filled the room. The heavy stench of burning meat rose into the cold air around them. At first Lokasenna didn’t know what it was, but a searing pain shooting across her right forearm quickly made it clear that it was her flesh that was burning. She winced as her skin blistered under Maeldune’s scorching grip.
‘What do you want?’ she growled, ignoring the pain.
‘I want you to pick yourself up from the ground. I know you only too well Lokasenna Hagen. I know the hate you harbour in your heart for your countrymen. I know how you have been treated.’ He glanced up at the spike embedded in his hand. ‘You have been made a pariah because of your mother.’
The smell of burning flesh intensified. Lokasenna could not bear the agony any longer. She yanked her left arm down extracting the spike from Maeldune’s outstretched hand and released her hold on his throat, shoving him back down to the couch as she did so. Blood sprayed out from either side of his right hand but he did not seem overly concerned.
Lokasenna looked down at her forearm. The skin was dark brown where he had held her. Her arm throbbed with unimaginable pain and she could do nothing to stop tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Get out! I don't know what you are, but go now, while you can!’ she screamed, expelling any thought that the individual before her was the same man she had met earlier that year.
Ignoring the demands that he leave, he rubbed his hand where she had stabbed it. Looking up at the spike that still dripped with his blood, he nodded at her metal prosthesis and said, ‘You should be careful where you point that thing, girl. Someone could get hurt.’
Suddenly Lokasenna felt her left arm go cold. The sensation travelled from the base of the spike up her arm to her shoulder. The entire limb went numb and stiff. A film of frost formed over the entire arm. The skin underneath was light blue.
Lokasenna’s guest leant forward. ‘I could snap your limbs off one by one and there would be nothing you could do to stop me. I could keep you alive, an unhappy stump of a thing, unable to stab at anything. Be careful who you threaten, Lokasenna. You would not want to make an enemy of me. I am not Maeldune Canna. My name is Addison Cole and I am Morgai.’
Maeldune’s angular, handsome features vanished before Lokasenna as her visitor’s face melted into that of an old woman. Simultaneously, his long, thin black hair transmogrified into even longer grey hair. A few strands of red hair amongst the grey hinted at the vibrant locks Addison had possessed in her youth, but that was centuries ago in a distant land. Maeldune’s tall, lithe body was replaced by a smaller, fuller one and the clothes that were well-suited to his frame hung on her body like stolen robes.
‘Morgai?’ Lokasenna said incredulously when the shock subsided to a point where she could speak.
‘Yes,’ said Addison as she lazily waved her hand in the direction of Lokasenna’s left arm. The numbness immediately subsided as warm blood rushed down her veins. The sensation was almost pleasurable, contrasting in no small measure with the throbbing ache that resonated from her right wrist. The burnt skin was permanent. It would not fade away with a casual gesture. It would serve as a reminder to Lokasenna of the power Addison possessed. ‘I assume that Maeldune – the real Maeldune – filled you in on the Morgai. Told you what your father’s twin did to take your grandfather’s Morgai power.’ She had not just altered her appearance. Addison’s voice had changed too. It had a husky quality, not deep like a man’s but not feminine either.
‘Yes. He said the Morgai were all but dead,’ she replied.
‘No – they are not all dead. Remiel Grayson still lives. The seer who condemned your father by her visions still lives. And I still live, my presence hidden from all but you.’
Lokasenna’s heart was beating fast but the mention of her father accelerated her pulse even more. ‘You said you’ve never met my father. Why do you know so much about him? About me?’
‘One question at a time, my girl,’ Addison said lightly. ‘I know of your father. I am sensitive to his plight.’ Her appearance changed again. In seconds her feminine form was discarded. A man sat in her place. His skin was ravaged by disease, textured by scabs and flakes of dead flesh. A hideous smile spread across the grim visage, exposing yellow, chipped teeth hanging from bleeding gums. Addison’s left hand retracted to become an ugly stump. She lifted the obscene limb in the air and said morosely, ‘You see you have more in common with your father than just blood.’
Maeldune had told Lokasenna the story of how her father had to cut off his own hand to escape the fate his brother had planned for him. ‘Stop it!’ she growled, not wanting to look at his handless arm a second longer.
‘Don’t you want to see your father?’ Addison taunted, her voice much deeper reflecting the physical change she had effected.
‘Not like this,’ Lokasenna said weakly and cast her eyes down to the floor.
Addison shape-shifted once more. Caliban’s physiognomy was replaced by a much more familiar one. Lokasenna lifted her eyes to see herself staring back. The resemblance was perfect. The grey eyes. The burnt forearm. Addison even copied the chipped tooth Lokasenna had received in an altercation she once had with a miner who didn’t take well to receiving orders from a bastard female. ‘Perhaps this is more to your liking,’ the Morgai said provocatively.
‘Hardly. Can't you just be yourself?’
‘Why? There’s no fun in that.’
Lokasenna gazed at herself. She did look tired. The last few months had drained her. She did not like what she saw, but it was better than the disturbing presentation of her father. She wanted Addison to leave and the only way to do that was to get to the heart of the matter – Caliban.
‘What is your interest in my father?’ she asked as she sat herself down in the tatty furs opposite the couch.
‘I have something he seeks.’ Addison twisted to her left and picked up the satchel she had dropped onto the couch earlier. She undid the old brass buckles and reached inside.
‘What is it?’ Lokasenna gasped as Addison pulled out a thick, leather-bound text. It almost looked too large for the satchel that had carried it. Mystical tendrils of coloured light curled like smoke around the book’s edges. Unfamiliar gold letters shimmered down its spine. Strangest of all, Lokasenna could hear voices; quiet whispers and hushed chants emanated from the book’s pages which seemed to move slightly to allow such vocalizations to escape.
‘It’s called the Incanto. It is a book of ancient spells, written by the Pryderi long ago.’
‘The Pryderi?’
‘How like a Sessymirian!’ Addison scoffed. ‘Arrogant. Oblivious to anything beyond your own borders. The Pryderi is the name given to the witches who live in the land of Morae. This book was once located in the Moraen city of Bregon, a city that your people took from the Pryderi until its usefulness had expired and you abandoned it in a much poorer state than you found it. This grimoire was considered so powerful that my people, the Morgai, grew jealous of the power the Pryderi had gathered within its pages. Many, many centuries ago, the book was stolen from the Pryderi and taken to Grisandole, the Morgai stronghold to the south-west. It was hidden from all and forgotten by most. Indeed, as the years went by, even the Morgai lost sight of the significance of the Incanto. By the time I inherited my mother’s power, the few remaining Morgai who knew of the text had concluded that it had perished long ago. But I knew otherwise. The Incanto was not something that people could destroy, nor was it something that time could diminish. After many years of searching, I found it, buried among the graves on Grisandole.’
Lokasenna could hear the pride in her voice. It seemed Addison’s recovery of the Incanto was more important than it seemed. This puzzled the Sessymirian. ‘What good is the book to you?’ she asked. ‘You do not seem to be lacking in the area of magick. My burnt skin is evidence of that.’
‘You are right. It is of no use to me,’ Addison responded, not showing any sign of remorse over the damage she had done to Lokasenna’s wrist. ‘I have neither the patience nor the desire to learn the incantations found here. But there are others who crave possession of this compendium of magick.’
‘The Pryderi?’
‘Oh most certainly. Over time, the power of the Pryderi has faded and without the book to guide them, they have become but a shadow of what they once were. But they are not the only ones who seek this text.’
‘My father?’
‘Yes. Your father desires this book and would do anything to get it.’
‘How could you possibly know this?’
‘I have seen it.’
‘You’re telling me you’re a seer too? Apart from the rare skill of freezing my left arm and burning my right, you can also read the future?’ Her tone was incredulous.
‘I can catch glimpses of the future. Moments of significance. Junctures in time. It is a trait once common to many female Morgai.’
‘That must make life very dull for you, knowing everything to come,’ Lokasenna countered. She did not know why she felt so unsettled by the Morgai’s claim to the gift of prescience. Perhaps it was the arrogance that accompanied it, or maybe it was because she had spent most of her life trying to avoid the future expected of a bastard child in Sessymir. She had committed herself to avoiding predetermination and now she was faced with someone to whom the future was already known.
Addison ignored Lokasenna’s comment. ‘The Incanto is foremost in your father’s thinking. It is the keystone in his plans, so much so that it influences the fate of countless Myrrans. In my prophetic dreams, the Incanto is like a motif. Merely possessing it has made me aware of Caliban’s desire to obtain it.’
Lokasenna’s eyes squinted with suspicion: ‘It’s strange – Maeldune never made mention of the Incanto when he visited me six months ago. He told me much of my father’s plans but nothing of the Incanto.’
‘Maeldune!’ Addison sneered. ‘He did not mention it because your father has not told him of it. Through my visions I feel I have come to know your father well. He will not tell Maeldune anything more than that which he needs him to know.’
Lokasenna’s brow creased. Maeldune had presented himself as someone in whom Caliban had invested absolute trust, and he seemed to deserve it. He had journeyed all the way to Nilfheim to find her but now this Morgai implied that the Acoran was little more than an errand boy. Lokasenna felt foolish; she had accepted everything Maeldune had said and had followed his instructions to the letter. ‘Are you saying that Maeldune is not to be trusted?’ she said anxiously.
Addison laughed. Lokasenna grimaced. It was a disturbing thing, to see herself laugh.
Addison leaned forward. ‘I would trust a convicted criminal before I would trust the Minister for Justice!’ she taunted. ‘I am not saying he has lied to you – he probably has no need to at present – but if you think he is altruistic or loyal, you are very much mistaken Lokasenna Hagen. Do not confuse his interest in your father for concern or fealty. The Acoran assists your father because he hopes to catch a few scraps that will fall from the table when the Myr is eventually overcome.’
‘And what is your interest Addison? What do you hope to catch?’
‘I have no interest in your father. I have no agenda.’
‘Everyone has an agenda.’
‘Lokasenna, for centuries, life in the Myr has stayed the same. The rot has set in.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You commented that it must be dull knowing the future. It doesn’t compare to the excruciating tedium of knowing the present. Life in this world has stagnated. It is predictable. Known. Tamed. I am old – centuries old – and my life has become an endless succession of indistinguishable days. Until recently. Over the past fifty years I have caught glimpses of a future where the order of things is tipped on its head. Changes of a magnitude that have never been witnessed before. None will be unaffected by what is coming.’
Addison’s glibness had completely vanished. She spoke with such passion, such intensity, that she seemed to forget her guise and by the time her speech had finished, she had reverted to her true form. Blonde hair faded into grey, tinged with streaks of red. Wrinkles and blemishes appeared across her skin. It looked as if she had aged a hundred years in a few seconds. Lokasenna watched in uncomfortable fascination as the stump at the end of Addison’s left hand sprouted a hand. As unsettling as this transmogrification was, Lokasenna was pleased not to be looking at herself, pleased that Addison no longer hid behind borrowed faces. But she remained wary of her all the same.
‘And you hope to usher in this new era,’ the Sessymirian suggested.
‘I don’t believe in much, but I do believe the time has come for old practices to be cast aside The wheel is finally turning. The Myr has a chance to revitalise itself and Caliban Grayson is the key.’
Despite all the shape-shifting that did little to imbue Addison’s speech with truth, it was clear that she spoke honestly when she talked of her desire for change. Lokasenna did not trust Addison, but could not see a reason why the Morgai would lie about Caliban. Unless, she opposed him, saw him as a threat, or perhaps a rival.
‘You don't seek power?’ Lokasenna asked suspiciously. Maeldune had said that her father knew that the Myr would rise against him. He had warned that there would be people who would seek to keep Caliban in his subterranean prison. They would seek to protect the established order by any means. And then there were those who wait for someone to take power only to wrest it from them when they have done so. ‘Perhaps you seek to help my father only to depose him at the moment of his ascension.’
Addison’s thin lips became even thinner as a mirthless smile cut across her craggy face. ‘I have power. I do not require more. My ego is not so fragile that I seek dominion over others to appease it. I do not want to place myself in the centre of the events about to unfold. I prefer to work from the shadows. It is much more satisfying to influence the behaviours of others than control them overtly.’
‘Do you seek to influence me, Addison?’ Lokasenna said bluntly. It was her turn to grin. ‘Or maybe you come to give me help,’ she said, her sarcasm doing nothing to hide her dislike of the woman.
‘You don’t need any help. The hole you put in my hand is evidence of that.’ In all the talk of books of spells and her father, Lokasenna had forgotten the injury she had inflicted upon her guest, the injury that had disappeared as soon as Addison shifted from the guise of Maeldune Canna into her true form. ‘Despite your attack upon me, I hope you and I can work together in a mutually beneficial relationship.’
‘What do you require?’ Lokasenna said coldly.
‘Nothing you aren’t prepared to give. Simply put, I want you to proceed with your plan to break through to the Endless.’ Addison’s withered hands trembled a little as she spoke. ‘You must double your efforts to carve out a passage through to this realm beneath us.’
‘It is not easy work.’
‘You are the Foreman!’ Addison barked. ‘Accelerate the process. Bring in more teams. Do what you can, but get it done.’ Her voice was shrill. Beady, bloodshot eyes stared out from an ancient face. She looked annoyed, an emotion her grizzled features seemed to exaggerate.
‘Why?’ asked Lokasenna boldly, enjoying the effect she was having upon the old woman before her.
‘Because I have waited centuries for the winds of change to scour this land clean and the nearer I am to that time the more impatient I grow,’ she snapped. She paused to wipe away some spittle that had formed on her bottom lip. Her voice trembled as much as her hands. It seemed the longer Addison stayed in her true form, the more her age revealed itself. ‘The sooner your father gets the Incanto, the sooner he can use it as he intends. Believe me, Lokasenna Hagen, without this book, Caliban’s return lies in doubt. Address your failure thus far to break through to your father’s prison,’ she snarled, goading the Sessymirian.
‘How will you get the Incanto to my father?’ Lokasenna asked, deliberately challenging the Morgai.
‘Do not doubt my ability to uphold my end of this arrangement. If you manage to dig a hole for me to go through, I will find a way to sneak into the Endless.’ She shifted shape again, her aged skin fading as her features were moulded into the shape of Handy, the lift operator Lokasenna saw every day on her trip down to Room 391.
There was nothing more to say. Lokasenna stood and held the door open for Addison. Taking the hint, the Morgai stood and carefully placed the Incanto back in her old leather satchel. Moments later she was gone, swallowed by the soughing grey mass of snow that endlessly swirled down the alleyways of Nilfheim.
It was hopeless. The Keeler had been thrown aside by one of the Kaggen’s tentacles as another wrapped itself around Lokasenna, ripping her from his grasp. The cavern was seconds away from completely collapsing. The Ghul continued to pour through the breach, racing across the rubble-strewn floor before their access to the rest of Strom Mir was cut off. They clambered over boulders and thought nothing of stepping on the bodies of their comrades who had been crushed by the rock and ice that continued to rain down across the chamber.
The Keeler lifted himself up and cast his gaze upon Lokasenna. There was nothing he could do to save her. She hung limply, wrapped up in the coils of the monstrous beast that had destroyed the cavern.
Then he saw something strange, something inexplicable. At the lip of the opening to the dark realm beyond, he could see the old lift operator Handy speaking to the Ghul soldier who seemed to be in command. Handy reached into a satchel at his waist and slid out what seemed to be a large book. The eyes of the Ghul commander spread wide open when he saw the object. He raised a hand and a number of Ghul soldiers gathered around Handy and escorted him away.
As Handy disappeared into the darkness, the Keeler was momentarily distracted by a chunk of falling rock that scraped his shoulder. When he gazed back at the breach, Handy was gone. Curiously, a frail old woman was standing where the lift-operator had stood, holding the book Handy held only seconds before.
A pair of thick, worn hands reached down and picked up the cannon the gunnery sergeant had dropped when he had been snatched by the Kaggen. The weapon was hoisted onto the man’s shoulders and after considerable fumbling with the firing mechanism, the second of its four missiles shot across the cavern.
The Kaggen was so preoccupied with Lokasenna, it failed to notice the projectile speeding towards it. The head of the missile buried itself into the exposed pink flesh at the front of the Kaggen’s head. A second later the Cold warhead exploded, taking half the beast’s skull with it. Lokasenna was pelted viscera as was much of the cavern. The Kaggen fell to the floor of the room. Its tentacles flopped about for a few seconds before the entire body shook one last time.
The man who dealt the killing blow ran over to where Lokasenna lay unconscious, awash in the Kaggen’s internal fluids.
She eventually opened her eyes to see a man peering down at her, showing more concern than one would expect to find in a Sessymirian mine. But the man was no Sessymirian. ‘My name is Gerriod Blake. I’m going to get you out of here.’
Lokasenna wanted to protest but she felt her consciousness slip away from her once more. She could not even feel the mariner’s arms around her as he dragged her to safety, away from the Kaggen, away from the Ghul, away from her father.
