Somehow he had survived.  Gerriod had been battered badly by the freezing currents of Worldpool, but he was alive.  In the plummet into the blackness, he had temporarily lost consciousness as his lungs were crushed by the ferocious flow, but then he was released.  He had been falling, surrounding by ice, water and broken pieces of his ship.  Retreating to the space inside his head, his descent had felt like an eternity.  And then the fall was broken by the cold, hard surface of an underground lake.

        It was dark and the brittle waters swirling around his body made him shake uncontrollably.  Moments before the Worldpool swallowed up The Crimson Dawn, Gerriod's hand had caught hold of a line attached to the gaff rig.  Although he and the rig were swamped by huge chunks of ice, the gaff popped to the surface of the large underground lake, pulling Gerriod up with it. A thunderous roar drowned out all his other senses and all he could think of doing was moving away from the sound. Fortunately the wake of the torrent pouring in from the world above was pushing him away from the centre of the dark expanse of water and within a few minutes he was far enough away from the din he could hear his own laboured breathing, every exhalation accompanied with an awful rasping noise. Gerriod guessed he had broken a rib or two.

        His eyes slowly became accustomed to the subterranean realm in which he found himself. He was surprised to find three sources of illumination, two of which were lax in their intensity, but provided enough light for him to gain a sense of his surroundings.

        The mariner was in a vast cavern, a small part of the impossibly vast realm called the Endless. The rock walls had a phosphorescent quality and emanated the most delicate red glow. High, high above, the cascading waters of the Worldpool were tinged with the gentle glow of night seeping in from the world above, giving a softness to the dreadful surge that crashed into the cavern with deafening ferocity.

        The ethereal, red illumination of the stony surrounds revealed a dark, ulterior lake into which the blue waters of Lake Erras were poured and mixed until they became black. Much of the lake was cloaked in the grey spray created by the tremendous downpour.  Lumbering waves washed the shores of the lake and Gerriod could see in many places, achromatic openings where the inky waters spilled into deeper darknesses beyond.  He could hear the sound of crashing rapids and the distant rumbling of unseen waterfalls.  It seemed the lake was just the beginning of a vast network of underground waterways.

            The third source of illumination was inconsistent, but brilliant when it was there.  Around the cavern flittered glowing swarms of shatterbugs.  The beautiful creatures were prolific in the cavern, but the space was so massive that they did little more than light up the rocks they flew past.

        Gerriod pulled himself onto the shore, groaning as his suspicion of broken ribs was confirmed.  He was groggy from the fall and his head throbbed.  He clawed at the ground as he dragged himself away from the water.  Suddenly his hand recoiled as he touched something soft.  Fleshy.  Gerriod lifted his head to see the pale white form of a female.  Most of her garments had been ripped from her body and it was with an overwhelming sense of despair he realized it was the Tethran leper who had been torn from The Crimson Dawn moments before the entire ship had been consumed by the vortex.  Her body had been brutally basted in the frozen surge and Gerriod found it hard to look at her. Her dull eyes stared up at the cavern roof, all emotion sucked from them by the vicious Worldpool. Gerriod was surprised to find that he felt a strange sense of guilt over the fact he had survived and she had not, a situation made ironic by the fact that she had tried to kill him less than an hour earlier.

        The mariner edged back from the water until he found a smooth, egg-shaped boulder to lean against.  Strangely, the boulder lacked the phosphorescent quality of the walls of the cavern.  He coughed and his mouth and nose cleared themselves of the thick smell of the lake water, only to be assaulted by a stench he would remember for the rest of his life.  The smell was so palpable he swiped a hand to push it away from his face.  Gerriod could feel the fetor wriggling up his nostrils, forcing itself down his throat until its tendrils squirmed about in the pit of his stomach.  His hands covered his nose. His head started reeling.  He was vaguely aware of a buzzing sound which only added to the sensory chaos in which he found himself.  Gerriod turned using the large rock he was leaning against to rise from the floor of the cavern.

        His hands recoiled as soon as he touched it.  It felt as if it were humming, and it seemed to respond to his contact, the agitation intensifying as if a hive of winged bugs lay within.  On the edge of his hearing Gerriod thought he heard whisperings but his head was thumping from the impact of the water and his senses had not yet gathered themselves together.

        The boulder was not just egg-shaped.  It was an egg.  A huge egg. Gerriod guessed he had stumbled upon the nest of some unimaginable denizen of the underworld.  To his right, a line of similarly shaped eggs stretched out, following the slow sweeping arc of the lake's shoreline.  There must have been thousands of the pale white ovoids lining the vast shore.  Gerriod was intrigued but did not want to investigate.  The putrid smell wafted down the shoreline, a deterrent to any who would seek to go that way.

        The offensive odour emanating from the nearest egg was suffocating him with its stench. He felt his knees grow weak.  Nausea rose up in the mariner and he slumped to the ground. It took a supreme exertion of will just to drag himself away.

        As he crawled, his hands fell upon a most unusual path. Running adjacent to the shore, a road of sorts seemed to have been worn into the rock.  A track of divots in the stone could be seen, each small hole surrounded by flakes of scree.  He crossed the path, hauling himself away from the rotten smell until he could breathe without retching. He looked back at the road.  It was about twenty foot across and continued as far as Gerriod could make out in both directions.  It was an avenue of sorts, lined with the strange eggs encircling the black lake. At times the road rose high above the water, running along ledges and outcrops, and in other places it hugged the shoreline just yards away from the lapping waves.  In a few places the route crossed natural bridges under which the waters of the lake flowed before disappearing into dark culverts.

        Suddenly Gerriod had the feeling he was not alone in the vast cavern.  He scanned the area and in the diffuse light of the cavern he could make out a large shape moving against the far wall, almost half a league away.  The creature was a hazy silhouette against the lambent, red rock across the waters.  It was larger than any beast Gerriod had ever seen and although he could not make out the specifics of the creature from such a distance, he knew it was not one he should seek to befriend.  It scuttled along like the shatterbugs that once nestled in The Crimson Dawn’s hold, only a thousand times bigger, walking with the vigilance of a sentry as if it were guarding the lake.

            Gerriod froze as he watched the beast slowly make its way around the cavern. As it gradually drew a little closer, he could make out details that did nothing to quell his rising anxiety.  Its shape was like nothing Gerriod had ever seen.  The upper part of its body seemed human but it was attached to a segmented body.  Attached to each section was a pair of legs shaped like pikes.  There were ten legs in all and they stabbed the ground with every step.  Its head seemed to be adorned in large circular horns which rose out of a shaggy white mane.  It lumbered along on the shoreline road, its gaze sweeping this way and that. Gerriod pressed himself down on the floor of the cavern and edged his way to a small outcrop of rock where he could be hidden from view.

        The creature continued to make its way around the lake. Gerriod had no opportunity to move any further and hoped his cover was enough for the beast to pass him without becoming aware of his presence.

        It came down a rise towards him and Gerriod quickly gained a horrifying appreciation of how large the beast was.  The legs alone were at least thirty feet long and encased in an impenetrable exo-skeletal shell.  Each leg ended in a thin needle that amazingly bore the full weight of the monster.  The shiny, ebony torso attached to the creature's metameric belly hovered high above the cavern floor. Gerriod could see now that he was looking upon a female but her face had none of the gentleness he had perceived in the few women he had known in his life.  Her physiognomy was cold and expressionless.  As a cloud of shatterbugs passed by, the creature's nacreous eyes blazed forth from her sinister visage. They were iridescent orbs, shiny, sparkling with magnificent, malevolent intensity.

        Gerriod guessed that the creature was intelligent. He could not have guessed where she was from or how long she had been stalking through the cavern, protecting the eggs.

        Her name was Succellos, she was eons old and was entirely evil.  The clack-clack of her approach sent chills up the mariner's spine.  He felt vulnerable and exposed despite his hiding place.  The staccato rhythm of Succellos' gait played in counterpoint to his quickening heartbeat.  The percussive tap-tap grew louder as the creature lurched closer, carving little niches in the rock as it approached.

        And then, for the first time since Gerriod had laid eyes on her, Succellos stopped.  She sniffed, detecting a smell in the air that had not been there before.  Her eyes scanned the path and a low, rumbling growl emanated from her girth.  She took a few steps forward, purposeful and intimidating.  The stone shattered as did Gerriod's hope of ever returning to the world above.

        The monster was anxious, and Gerriod knew she suspected his presence.  He looked around for an avenue of escape.  The cold black waters seemed his only refuge and he prepared himself to run to the lake's edge.

        Suddenly, a low moaning note sounded from a horn at the far end of the cavern.  Succellos spun around and clattered off in the direction of the noise.  Gerriod's heart was in his mouth and for a few long moments, he was unable to move, such was his terror.

        When his heart had returned to the place that was reserved for it in his chest, Gerriod stuck his head over the rock outcrop to see where the terrible beast had gone.  She had galloped to a large flat area about twenty feet above the lake.  Upon this natural dais, other beings had gathered.  Gerriod could see indistinct human shapes through the grey mist that hung above the water.  There were many of them, and they stood in a column.  Lances and swords suggested they were soldiers of some kind.  Despite the red hue of the cavern rock and the soft blue light falling through the Worldpool with the waters of Lake Erras, these beings were totally monochromatic.  They were sullen-looking, almost docile, although the presence of weapons suggested otherwise.

        At the head of the column two men – captives apparently – were being dragged across the cavern floor.  At the centre of the dais, the soldiers stopped.  The captives were thrust to the ground.  The way in which they fell suggested they were bound.  The column of soldiers split in half as an individual made his way through the phalanx.  The man leaned upon a staff as he walked the crooked path of a cripple, but he seemed to possess the authority of a king.  He turned to the soldiers and as one they knelt in deference to him.  He spoke.  The pounding of the waters falling from Lake Erras drowned out any opportunity Gerriod had to hear what was being said but he dared not approach the dais for fear of being discovered.  He had no choice but to watch the bizarre event that was to unfold before him from a distance.

        Succellos made her way to the new arrivals in the cavern. She folded her thin legs beneath her enormous body and bowed before the man with the staff.  The beast's show of complaisance was cause for concern in Gerriod's mind.  It was unlikely that anyone she bowed down before would be friendly towards him.

He thought of escaping into the black waters nearby but he had no idea where the currents would take him.  Gerriod was a pragmatic man and that meant that in the absence of alternatives he would accept his current situation which amounted to hiding behind a rock watching the bizarre, misty show before him. 

 

 

 

'Lord Caliban, your seat is ready,' rasped his lieutenant .

Despite the fawning nature of the Lucetious' body language, and the reverent connotations his words held, his voice was lacking in emotion.  His cadaverous hand indicated a chair fashioned in the style of a throne and located in the centre of the dais.  The chair had a high arched back, crafted from the tusks of one of the Endless' many unnamed creatures.  The cushioned seat was made from the dark grey hide of the same beast.  The throne had been the first of Lucetious' many gifts to Caliban.  The lieutenant had been quick to recognise the opportunities a mind like Caliban’s could bring about.  It was Lucetious who had convinced others of his kind to follow the leper and now they all stood on the brink of a new age where the Ghul would dominate two worlds.

        'Thank-you Lucetious. You are too kind.'

Caliban's manner was one of gentility but this bore little resemblance to the man's heart.  He sat down on the seat, reclining back, throwing his legs across one arm of the chair like an indolent prince. He laid his staff across his lap. Before him, the Ghul made preparations for the fate of the two captives.  They were Myrrans – 'overworlders' the Ghul called them – unfortunates who had been abducted weeks before. Iron manacles clanked into place as the men were fastened to rusty fixtures on the floor of the dais.

        The poor abductees were high-ranking officials in the Cessair parliament, the political body that presided over the affairs of the world above.  At the request of the parliament’s leader, Chamberlain Llyr, the men had travelled to Morae to investigate the Pryderi abductions, and in doing so had fallen into the hands of the Ghul.

 

 

Caliban looked beyond the struggling captives and gazed upon Succellos.  She had bowed down before her master like a faithful pet and remained still, waiting for a command.

        'Succellos, my sweet, do not crouch before me.'  He gestured for the creature to rise and as he did so, the tattered sleeve over his left arm fell back to reveal a stump.  He glanced at his forearm and then gently folded his garment back over the stump with his swollen and scarred right hand.

        With a clatter of limbs upon the stone, the creature rose to its full height, dwarfing everyone else in the cavern.  The Ghul moved back ever so slightly and the two government officials lifted their heads around to see what Caliban had in store for them.  'Succellos, come to my side.  I have people I want you to meet.'

        'Yes, Caliban.  To your side.  People to meet.'  Her voice dripped with wickedness, every syllable a threat. The shafts of her legs rapped on the stone and her shadow fell on the two men manacled to the rock. She spun around and lowered her torso, so she was almost level with the prisoners.

        'Her name is Succellos and she is almost as old as the rock on which you kneel,' Caliban said grandly as if looking after introductions at a formal ball.  Then his voice changed.  'She will bend you to her will.  And her will is my will.'

        'Most honoured to have your company,' she taunted.  'Seldom we have visitations from the Overworld.'

        One of the captives, a pale fat man draped in purple velvet and sweat, rose up defiantly.  'We are not visiting, you obscene thing!'

        Succellos looked over at Caliban, a mocking show of wounded pride on her ebony face.

        'Now, now, good sir,' interceded Caliban.  He lifted himself out of his throne and limped down to where the man knelt with his arms chained behind his back.  With his right hand, Caliban softly, paternally, patted the man's bald head.  'Dear Mr Windle, we may not see the light of the sun down here, but we still have expectations of good manners. Your attack upon Succellos… most uncivilized.'  Caliban's gnarled fingers stroked the poor fellow’s temples menacingly.

        It was unclear whether the bureaucrat was more shocked by the use of his name or reviled by the rotten flesh of the hand touching his head. He pulled back away from Caliban and fell onto his rump.

        The other captive, a tall, dark-skinned man with a thin, sombre expression, lifted his head and held Caliban in his gaze. The man had been beaten badly.  A mess of dirty bandages had been wrapped around his head.  A thick, red blot stained the bandages – the Ghul had torn off one of his ears when he refused their invitation to accompany them to the Endless.  Despite the injuries that had been inflicted upon him, he held himself with pride and authority.  'How do you know his name?  What do you want from us?'

        Caliban limped back slowly to his throne and sat back down with a sigh.

        'Ah, now there’s an interesting question Lucetious,' he said to his lieutenant, who just nodded sycophantically.  'What do I want?  What do I want?' Caliban clearly enjoyed having a captive audience and played out his part with relish.  'I want what you want, Mr Melkin – yes, yes, I know your name too – I want what every man desires.  Equality.'

        Samuel Melkin glanced at Porenutious Windle who just looked back at him quizzically.  He turned back to Caliban who was grinning with the satisfaction of someone who was in total control of the situation. Melkin rose up as high as his bonds would permit. ‘No man desires equality. Man’s ambition will not be satisfied with equality.'

        If Caliban had two hands, he would have clapped them in delight.  A gleeful sound broke from his thin lips.  'Yes, yes… that's true!' Caliban conceded, impressed with his captive's response.  'You are quite the philosopher, aren’t you Samuel?'

        Ignoring his captor's provocative use of his first name, Melkin held the leper in a vice-like gaze and said, 'Who are you?'

        'In legal terms, I am the injured party.  In sociological terms, I am a pariah.  In religious terms, I am akin to a god.'

        'In psychological terms, you are insane!' spat Melkin, already tired by his host's theatrics.  'A god!' he sneered.  'Look at you.  You're a leper who lives in a hole in the ground.'  He looked derisively at the Ghul lining the dais.  'Your inexplicable command over these walking corpses does not make you a god.'

        Caliban smiled, his teeth hanging like shingles on a dilapidated hut.  He clasped his left arm and did not move for quite some time.  Beside him Succellos shifted her weight and the rock beneath her legs splintered inaudibly.  Lucetious turned his head, watching his master from the darkened recesses of his eyes.  The rest of the Ghul just stared at the scene before them, displaying little interest or concern, blank expressions painted on their etiolated skin.

        'My name is Caliban Grayson.  Thirty years ago, I lived a luxurious life in Pelinore with my father Gideon and twin brother Remiel.  I was a student of the arts, and lived a happy life until my father’s many years caught up with him.  Daddy fell ill and then things went awry.'

        Melkin looked quizzically at Caliban.  The leper's response was not what the bureaucrat had expected.  He looked across to his companion, but Windle seemed so preoccupied with the creature known as Succellos, it was doubtful he had even heard Caliban's soliloquy.

        'My twin doted on him and my father reciprocated Remiel's interest, so I left the palliative care of my father to my brother and contented myself with my studies.  I rarely saw my father.  My brother, on the other hand, I saw daily.  He would come down into my room beneath our stately home, bringing me food and drink.  Remiel was most concerned about me, concerned about the books I was reading, concerned about the visitors I entertained, and perhaps he was concerned about certain practices in which I dabbled.  Anyway, my father took his time to take his permanent leave of us.  Days faded into weeks and weeks into months.'

        He stopped, lost in his thoughts. Long seconds passed and all that could be heard was the thunderous tumult of the waters of Lake Erras crashing down upon the centre of the dark lake. The Ghul stood to attention, patient and dispassionate.

        Samuel Melkin glared at Caliban, his face taut as he stifled innumerable comments he wanted to hurl at his captor.  In contrast, Windle’s eyes flickered everywhere – upon Succellos, upon the Ghul's swords and spears, upon Caliban's ravaged skin.  His temples twitched with terror.

        Suddenly Caliban's head jolted up.  He looked around as if unfamiliar with his surroundings and then relaxed again.

        'Lord?' inquired Lucetious perturbed by his master’s erratic behaviour.

        'I'm sorry everyone,' Caliban said lightly.  'I was a thousand leagues away.'  His gaze sharpened and it was directed at the tall, dark-skinned man at his feet.  'Mr Melkin, what think you of my tale thus far?  Now, your honest opinion Mr Melkin.  We don’t have secrets here in the Endless.'

        Melkin kept his eyes fixed on Caliban and stated plainly, 'I find it difficult to comprehend how a son could show such scant interest in his dying father.'

        Caliban raised what was left of his eyebrows, surprised by Melkin’s audacity.  'Yes, yes.  I suppose you're right.  I should have shown more interest.  That was my undoing.  But family relationships can be so difficult at times, can’t they?'

        Melkin said nothing and Caliban resumed his story.

        'Unfortunately something happened in the dark days my father clung to the fraying tatters of his existence.  I became sick.  Terribly sick.  My skin became acutely sensitive to sunlight so I avoided venturing outside.  My brother found an apothecary and brought me drugs that were supposed to ease the pain, but my condition only grew worse.  A physician was called and gave his diagnosis – I had contracted leprosy.  Knowing Pelinore's well-established intolerance of lepers, Remiel arranged for passage across the Nessan Sea.  My memory of that time is hazy.  The drugs my brother was feeding me robbed me of clarity.  As we made our way across the bogs of Tuatha, I stopped taking them and the fog shrouding my mind slowly dissipated.  On the morning we arrived in Palia, I realised my brother's intention was to take me to Sanctuary and leave me to die in that hellhole of the leper colony.'

        Caliban looked up to see what effect his tale had upon the pair before him.  Windle was so struck with fear that it was plain he had not heard much of the story at all.  Melkin by contrast was unmoved. Caliban’s story did not draw from him one drop of sympathy.  He knew he faced a madman who had survived for thirty years on the servile attention of his underlings.  Melkin could not – would not – indulge him.  'Is there a point to this story?' he said coolly.

        For a second, Caliban’s eyes flared up.  Melkin could see he had angered the leper.  But Caliban quickly adopted a nonchalant gaze that suggested otherwise.  One of his legs hanging over the throne's arms swung idly in the air and he smirked as if to show Melkin that his comment had amused him.  Looking up into the roof of the vast cavern, he addressed the bureaucrat.  'Mr Melkin, I am disappointed that an advisor to the honourable Chamberlain Llyr could be so lacking in the skills required for diplomatic relations.'

        This was more than Samuel Melkin could bear.  He strained against his bonds as he moved forward to confront Caliban on this point.  'Diplomatic relations?  We have been abducted, beaten and no doubt you plan to give us over to this… this thing.'  He nodded towards Succellos who just grinned back at him.  'There's no diplomacy here.  Release us at once, you damned leper!'

        'Gentlemen,' Caliban said softly, 'you have been treated with great courtesy, and in response you have heaped insult upon insult upon me and my colleagues. And furthermore –'

        'Insult? Insult?' screamed Windle hysterically, his prodigious bulk shaking with every syllable.  'Word has reached Cessair of the Ghul abductions in Morae, the genocide in Camulos, the massacre of Skyfall, the attack upon The Princess Orani.  You are obviously in command of these… vermin.  Do not lecture us over matters of courtesy when you are clearly the architect of all this bloodshed.  Let us go immediately!'  Windle's heart was racing and with Succellos hovering above him, panic had overtaken every sense.

        ‘Mr Windle, may I suggest to you that manacled as you are, sir, you are in no position to dictate terms,’ Caliban mused, stifling the joy he felt in seeing such anxiety.

        'And you, sir,' Melkin said, emphasizing the sir with as much sarcasm as he could muster, 'though you may speak with the eloquence of angels, you are nothing but a petty thug, living where you deserve, under the dirt of the world.'

        Caliban shook his head with all the subtlety of a performer in a pantomime.  'Lucetious, these bad manners cannot be endured.  I had hoped we would avoid unpleasantness.  Please break one of Mr Melkin's fingers.'

        'What!' Melkin cried shrilly.  'No! No, please…'

        The Ghul lieutenant strode across the dais and walked behind the pair in chains. He took a position behind Melkin and without hesitation but with surprising strength, snapped one of his fingers.  The resulting cry bounced off the cavern walls until it was swallowed up in the deluge thrusting in from the lake above.

        Seeing this cold display of violence, Windle quickly decided to change tack.  'We are of little value to one as significant as yourself,' he said obsequiously.  'We have nothing to offer you.'

        Caliban swung around in his throne so that both feet were planted on the floor.  He leaned forward to look at Windle's sweating, fat face.  'Excuse me?' he said, his voice low and menacing.

        Windle blinked uncontrollably, his nerves shot to pieces as the sounds of Melkin's whimpering burrowed into his ears.  'I was just humbly suggesting that –'

        Caliban frowned, his scourged face a portrait of displeasure.  It was enough to stop Windle from continuing.  'Mr Windle,' Caliban sighed, 'tell me, are you an invertebrate?'

        All colour faded from Windle's face as he sensed that he had placed himself in harm's way.  'I… I do not understand.'

        Caliban leaned even closer.  Windle could feel his captor's hot, noxious breath upon his face.  Caliban's dark eyes glowered malevolently and he did not blink, as if his leprosy had taken from him his eyelids.  'I asked whether you are an invertebrate.  I think you are.  At least your friend here has a backbone.  Please show a little grit.  I am mired in subservience as it is.  Do not toady to me.'  There was no softness to his voice.

        Windle was out of his depth. Melkin's defiance resulted in one of his fingers being broken but his own attempts to placate Caliban had drawn from his captor even greater animosity. He knew to say nothing would also annoy the leper and so he found himself deep in a trilemma from which he could not extract himself.  Fortunately, Melkin, in a fog of pain provided Windle with a distraction that spared him of the need to respond.

        'We are unarmed,' Melkin hissed through clenched teeth.  'How dare you treat diplomats thus.'

        Caliban turned his head so that he was eyeball to eyeball with the defiant bureaucrat.  'There is no asylum down here Mr Melkin.  You seek sanctuary – you will get none.  Down here, rules of fair play don't apply.  You are in my domain now.  In the Endless, only the law according to Caliban is enforced.'

        Melkin stared back proudly.  The searing pain shooting down his arm from his broken finger was not enough to quell his choler.  'And was it Caliban's law that had the Kobolds killed?' he demanded, his voice booming in the empty space.

        Caliban sat back in his throne and deliberated his response, all the while keeping his eyes on Samuel Melkin. ‘You are misinformed,’ he said after some time.  'The Kobolds have not been wiped out.  They have just been… relocated.'

        Melkin dropped his eyes from the leper as he digested Caliban's comment.  Before leaving for Morae, he had heard tales of the atrocities that had been uncovered in Camulos.  The entire country had been razed and not a Kobold had been found alive.  As he travelled north from Cessair to the land of Morae, Melkin had struggled to come to terms with the apparent genocide that had taken place in Camulos.  It had been something that had deprived him of sleep.  For weeks he had carried with him the sickening imagesof the Kobolds' demise and now he was face to face with a man who claimed the Kobolds were still alive.  His mind was spinning.  He looked up at Caliban and asked, 'Where are they?' his suspicion obvious.

        'Oh you needn’t worry about the Kobolds.  They are safe, busy with some jobs I have given them.'

        Melkin was blessed with a sharp mind and from Caliban's ambiguous statement, he deduced the truth.  'You have them opening up routes to the lands above.  That is how you have spread throughout the Myr without being seen: the Ghul incursions into Morae and Camulos; the monsters that have been released to distill carnage upon Skyfall and the Jurojin Straits.  You have forced the Kobolds to dig for you.'

        Lucetious gazed across to his master, unnerved by the clarity of Melkin's analysis.  But Caliban was not threatened by Melkin's astute mind.  In fact, he was delighted by it.  He fingered the end of his left arm furiously, excited by what he just heard.  'Mr Melkin, do you play Siege?'

        Not for the first time in the conversation, Melkin was taken off-guard by Caliban's wayward discourse.  'What?' he mouthed incredulously.

        'Do you play Siege?  I remember it was very popular in Cessair many years ago.'

        Melkin did not like entertaining Caliban's whimsy, but the throbbing pain radiating out from his broken finger reminded him that he was the vulnerable party in this exchange.  'I don't understand the question,' he said quietly.

        Caliban's face flashed a look of annoyance that threatened to grow into something greater.  'Come now Mr Melkin.  It's a simple enough question.  You have an insightful mind, that much is clear.  I am wondering if you play Siege.  My guess is that you do, and that you are very good at it.  Am I correct?'

        A bead of sweat ran down Melkin's dark brow.  He knew there was more to the question than mild curiousity.  He knew his answer would impact upon him in some unforeseen way.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, a question thrust itself through the crowd of thoughts in his mind and made its way to the front.  'Where are the Spriggans?'

        If Caliban was surprised by this question, he did not show it.  'I asked you a question first, sir,' he said irritably.  'Do you play Siege?'

        Melkin was undeterred.  'What have you done Caliban?'

        'I used to play Siege all the time, in my youth.'

        'The Spriggans!' Melkin shouted.  'What have you done to the Spriggans?'

        'My brother was a formidable opponent, but these Ghul have no head for strategy.  Why even Lucetious can't offer a mild challenge.'

        'Answer me, damn you!'

        'I had the Ghul make me a board, complete with pieces carved out of bone.'

        'Caliban, tell me what you’ve done,' Melkin snarled.  He knew Caliban's refusal to address the questions confirmed his suspicions – the Spriggans had been wiped from the face of the Myr.

        Caliban watched as the realisation of this horrible truth spread across Melkin's face.  'Samuel,' he said softly, almost apologetically.  'The Spriggans were an unfortunate casualty in –'

        'War?' Melkin interrupted, his face contorted in rage.  'War?  We're not at war with you!'

        'Yes, you are,' Caliban said coolly. 'You just don’t know it yet.'

        'You are insane!' Melkin retorted.  'You ask me of board games whilst your minions are out wreaking death and destruction across our lands.  The Spriggans were a peaceful folk. Why kill them?'

        'They sold weapons.  Weapons that could be used against us.'

        Melkin leaned forward, straining against the chains.  'Your isolation down here has made you paranoid.'

        'I am most disappointed by this lack of political acumen.  A diplomat of your abilities should be keenly aware of the necessity of strategy, of the beauty of elaborate and meticulous planning.’

        'What sort of plan involves the slaughter of thousands of innocent people?  Was the wiping out of the entire Spriggan nation an example of political acumen?'

        Without warning Lucetious bent down behind Melkin, grabbed his hand and snapped another finger in half. ‘Enough disrespect,' he said, his unemotional voice making his act of violence even more shocking.

        Caliban smiled, touched by his lieutenant’s unsolicited display of loyalty.

        Melkin screamed in agony.  'You lunatic!' he bellowed at Caliban.

        Porenutious Windle crouched down even lower.  He thought he was about to faint.  The sound of Melkin's fingers snapping kept replaying in his mind.  Petrified that he would be next, Windle started whimpering like a beaten animal, even though he had not been hurt to this point.  Had he known what would soon befall him, he would have fainted many times over.  'Samuel, please,' he pleaded to his companion, 'do not give him cause to harm you.'

        Hearing this, Caliban turned back towards Windle.  'Ah, Mr Windle, you speak at last!  Your prudent advice is characteristically cowardly.  I think you will find, my fat, purple friend, that some people must learn their lessons on their own.  Do not worry about Mr Melkin.  He has eight digits left.'

        Despite the pain in his hands, or perhaps because of it, Melkin reacted to Caliban's taunt.  'You diseased bastard!' he yelled, his voice a clarion call of defiance.

        'Dear me,' muttered Caliban insincerely as Lucetious stepped forward andbroke another finger.  'Make that seven digits left.'

        Melkin collapsed to the rock floor, his entire body consumed in pain.  He curled up into a foetal position, his iron chain an umbilical cord connecting him to the cold, hard womb of the Endless. His breathing was fast and shallow and despite the cool air of the cavern, sweat had gathered on his brow.  Melkin was a handsome man of forty-three years, but his trauma was such that his entire face was little more than a landscape of wrinkled, dark flesh.  A glob of blood broke through his thick lips.  He had bitten his bottom lip in an attempt to subdue the scream his body wanted to release.  Although his head had been clouded by the physical torment he was experiencing, he had enough presence of mind to stop himself from crying aloud – he would deny Caliban the perverse pleasure he would obtain from such displays of weakness.

        The leper scratched his head as if he had an itch.  He turned to his lieutenant and asked, 'Now Lucetious, where was I?'

        'Siege, my lord.'

        'Ah yes, Siege.  Mr Melkin, now for the fifth time, have you ever played Siege?'

        Melkin wanted to refuse to answer, wanted to defy Caliban yet again, but he knew he could not endure the loss of another finger.  The sound of the third finger snapping also heralded the cracking of his spirit.  'Yes, I have,' he whimpered, the pain from his left hand so excruciating, he thought he would lose consciousness.

        The corners of Caliban's thin lips curled upwards in a smirk of satisfaction.  He had triumphed over the obstinate bureaucrat.  'Please regale us with your knowledge of the game. Lucetious, just stay there in case Mr Melkin holds back.'

        The Ghul commander nodded impassively.

        Porenutious Windle had lost all colour from his face.  His corpulent body was frozen in fear but his eyes were joined in an animated dance of desperation.  From the depths of his watery orbs, he shot Melkin a look of absolute dread.  'Please do what he says,' the eyes cried.

        'The game of Siege was said to be invented 220 years ago by Queen Malia Essar of Tir Thuinn after the countries of Arnaksak, Cephalonia and Tuirren went to war over the sovereignty of the island of Usnach.'  Samuel Melkin was struggling but he managed to string together a sentence so coherent and detailed Caliban could not help but be impressed.  Melkin's face lay flat against the stone floor and a small patch of saliva and blood pooled next to his mouth.  His eyes were shut as he reached deep into himself and found the strength needed to satisfy Caliban.  He would give the vile monster what he demanded, but not what he sought – he would not plead for mercy.

        'The battle fought on the island decimated the ranks of the armies of all three countries but it did not resolve the dispute.  The white frozen lands of Usnach were the scene of horrific carnage, and thousands died as each army tried to gain the upper hand.  Fearing years of crippling war, the Queen of Tuirren created the game of Siege and offered it to the other two countries.  Rules were established and a seven-tiered board was created for the game. The finest strategic minds in each country were trained and on the icy fields of Usnach a tournament was played exactly one year after the conflict began.'

        The mere act of talking gave Melkin the strength he needed to lift his head from the rock.

        Caliban was enthralled by the mettle his captive had shown and he chewed on the edges of his cloak, captivated by the story and its telling.  'Go on,' he urged, 'go on.'  He sat forward, like a small child listening to a story he knew but wanted to hear again and again.

        'Victory went to Cephalonia. The tournament was won by a woman by the name of Addison Cole from the city of Cibola.  Tuirren and Arnaksak relinquished their claim upon the island.  Ironically though, the Cephalonians soon abandoned the colony they established there.  It was said that the island had been soaked in so much blood, it had been claimed by the dead warriors for all lost souls, and the Cephalonians, fearful of vengeful spirits, left the wasteland, never to return.  And even to this day, many believe the souls of those who die before their time roam the frozen wastes waiting to bid fairewell to those from whom they have been ripped away.  For this reason, Usnach is now known by many as the Isle of Departure.'

        Caliban could hardly contain himself.  After years of limited conversation with the Ghul, Samuel Melkin’s intricate retelling of this unusual piece of Myrran history was fresh air in a realm sorely needing it.  'Oh, most impressive Mr Melkin!' Caliban exclaimed. 'Detailed and reasonably accurate.  You are a veritable encyclopedia!'

        Melkin stared back coldly, unwilling to respond to the praise he had been given.

        'I do love my history too,' Caliban said proudly.  'When I was a young man, I read avariciously.  Whilst all the boys and girls were playing in the sun, I was in a cellar pouring over ancient texts, tomes that told me many long-forgotten things, things about this world under the Myr.'  He gestured up at the vast space surrounding them, his eyes gleaming.  He then returned his gaze to Samuel Melkin.  'Good sir, do you know the greatest lesson history teaches us?'

        'I'm sure you'll illuminate me,' Melkin said plainly, letting his words and not his intonation convey his sarcasm.

        Caliban smiled a wicked smile, clearly amused by Melkin's daring.  'Oh yes, I shall illuminate you, sir,' he said softly, his voice cold and menacing.  'The greatest lesson history teaches us is that in time, all things fade.'

        Melkin lifted his head, not understanding the thrust of the statement.

        Caliban's eyes shone.  He was pleased he had piqued his captive’s curiousity.  'Magicka fed a tempa.  The Morgai magick that has kept the Myr safe for so long has faded.  I can set the Ghul free.’

        'And in doing so you will bring about your own demise.  You will be hunted down and killed.'  It was said with the courage of one who had accepted his fate.  Samuel Melkin knew his other fingers would be broken if Caliban's whim bent that way.  What he said or did was now immaterial.  He also realised that the madman would not let him go, and in that hopeless certainty, he found some comfort.  His fate was inescapable, determined by a mind that had been eaten away over long years.  Melkin knew that it was futile to think he could alter the course.

        Caliban's mood darkened somewhat.  'Hunted down and killed,' you say!’ he sneered.  'If that is the final outcome of my efforts, Mr Melkin, I do hope you will come to the Isle of Departure to see me off.  I must say, your insight into Usnach was an unexpected delight.  Tell me, do you think my father waits for me there… to say goodbye?  I never got the chance to bid him farewell.'

        Melkin held his decrepit antagonist firmly in his gaze and said without a hint of emotion, 'Your father died a natural death.  He does not wait for you.' 

Caliban stared back coldly at the surprisingly resilient bureaucrat. 

A sliver of a smile crept across Melkin's upper lip. ‘What is it you want Caliban?’

        'I want what we all want.  To find my place in the world.'

        Melkin cast an eye around the gloomy cavern.  'It seems you have found it.'

        'Sir, you would be less abrasive with me if you had lost what I have lost.'

        'My mind, you mean?' he said sardonically.

        'I have lost something other than my mind,' Caliban countered.  'I have lost a brother.  Do you know what that's like, to lose a brother?'

        'Everybody dies.'

        'Oh he's not dead.  He's just… missing.  I seek to find him.  And you will help me.'

        'We are mere bureaucrats.' 

Surprisingly, it was Windle who had said it.  As soon as the words left his mouth, he dropped in head in supplication.

        'No.  You are the Chamberlain’s right and left hand.  You set the agenda,' Caliban stated unequivocally.

        'You are misinformed,' Melkin said with none of Windle’s trepidation.  'The Minister for Justice, Maeldune Canna, is the Chamberlain's chief advisor.  We are but small cogs in the machinations of the Myr's politics.'

        'I know what you are, Mr Melkin.'

        'Of course you do.  Shall I tell you what you are, sir?' Melkin said calmly.

        It was a surprising question and the impudence of it was not lost on either Caliban or Lucetious. The Ghul stepped forward to break another finger but was waved off by Caliban who merely said, 'Continue.'

        It was a triumph of sorts.  It did not change his fate, but somehow it altered the relationship being forged in the crucible of the conversation.  'You are a victim who is trying to reassert himself but you have been hurt so deeply, you do not care who you harm in trying to –'

        'Yes, yes.  Quite bored now,' Caliban snarled without warning.  'You diplomats – you do drone on.'

        Windle dropped his head and stared at a small pebble that softly glowed red, its phosphorescent light doing little to dispel the darkness that had enveloped him.  Caliban's mercurial disposition frightened him beyond reckoning.  Losing control, he started weeping, fearful of the price of Caliban's impossibly swift changes of heart.

        Caliban looked down at the frightened husk of a public servant.  'Tears, Mr Windle?  You should be made of sterner stuff.'

        Windle looked up forlornly.  'I do not want my fingers broken.'

        'Then you need not worry.  I have quite a different fate for you.  Succellos, he is yours.'

        The beast rose swiftly.  The sharp ends of her legs clattered on the stone as she lifted herself high into the air. She thrust her torso downward and for a few brief seconds, she was face to face with Windle.  She leaned in close and her breasts rubbed against the bureaucrat's sweat-stained shirt.  She closed her eyes and smelt him.  As she inhaled, a flagitious smile spread across her black lips.  'Thank-you Caliban.  He is ripe.  He is ready.'

        She raised herself and made her way behind the pair chained to the rock floor of the cavern.  Windle was in such a state of shock, he did not turn around, but Melkin did and was horrified by what he saw. Succellos had raised herself high so that her massive abdomen was lifted from the ground and swinging beneath her.  From the bottom of her abdomen a long, dark spike emerged, like the stings of certain insects, only hundreds of times larger.  It was the length of a sword and just as sharp.

        'Get back, you monster!' Melkin screamed but Succellos ignored him, caught up in a delirium of her own.

        'Such a bouquet!' she sang to herself, still enjoying the fumes of fear rising up from Windle's body.

        'Porenutious,' Caliban said with great familiarity.  'I would like to exert some influence upon the Assembly of Nations.  Over the coming months, the Ghul attacks and the rise of the Cabal will spur the Assembly into action.  I need you to steer the course of that action. Your Lord Chamberlain – he must be influenced. You must use your guile, your cunning.  I will furnish you with full details before you are taken back to the surface.'

        Windle just nodded dumbly. He was not really listening.  Tears continued to flow from his eyes carving clean tracks across his dirty face.  He just stared out through the watery veil and waited for whatever it was Succellos had in store for him.

            Melkin by contrast was horrified.  'Caliban, please call this thing off,' he screamed as he watched Succellos' sting extend even further.  'In the name of humanity, I beg you to stop this.'

        But Caliban was not touched.  'I gave up humanity a long time ago,' he replied softly.  'There is no use for it down here.'  He bent close to Windle and whispered, 'I'm sorry Porenutious – this will hurt.'

        Succellos leaned forward and her massive abdomen swung up high behind her.  Then in a blur of movement, she thrust her sting forward.  The entire bulk of her body came crashing forward into Windle's spine and he screamed as Succellos' sting buried itself in his entrails. For a moment, his eyes shone with agony then quickly dulled, becoming vacant, as if his entire essence had been drawn from his body.

        He slumped forward and fell lifelessly to the ground as Succellos, groaning in ecstasy, withdrew her sting. After a few moments indulging in the sensations coursing through her dark veins, she bent down towards Caliban and said, ‘He isyours now.'  The great creature then clattered across the dais and made her way back to the road encircling the vast underground lake.

        Melkin bellowed in rage. He had no words. He just howled like a beast as he watched Succellos stalk away. She had satiated her strange appetite and had no more interest in the captives. His screams of rage meant nothing to her.

        Caliban was similarly dismissive of Melkin’s fury. He clicked his fingers and Lucetious was by his side.  'Lieutenant, see to it that Windle's wound is dressed and healed.  You may leave Mr Melkin with me.'

        Lucetious nodded and with a gesture, commanded his subordinates to take Windle away. They obeyed without delay.  Melkin looked on helplessly as long thin fingers clutched at the robes of his companion and unceremoniously hauled him across the stone.  The column of silent soldiers left the cavern, with Lucetious at their head and the heavy bulk of Porenutious Windle being dragged at the tail.

        'I'll kill you,' Melkin said so quietly Caliban wasn’t sure whether he had actually said it.

        'Somehow I just do not see you as a threat to me.'

        'I still have one hand left you monster,' Melkin sneered.

        'As do I, sir,' Caliban retorted.  'Now, Mr Melkin, hear your fate.  You will remain here as entertainment for me.  You and I will play Siege.  One day, I may even release you back to the world above a free man – without Succellos' caress.  If you refuse to indluge me, you will be strung up by your remaining seven fingers until you die.  Those are my terms.  Do you accept?'

        'I accept your terms.'

 

 

Gerriod had heard nothing of what had transpired but what he had seen had mortified him.  He recognized the danger he was in from the outset, but was compelled to watch the shocking situation that played out before him. He had bitten his hand to stop himself from screaming when he saw the fat man in purple impaled upon the monster's sting.  His terror rose to unimaginable heights when that very creature left the dais to return to its circumnavigation of the lake. As the Ghul filed out of the vast chamber, Gerriod fled into the darkness on the far side of the road encircling the lake.

        Fortunately, he found a small passage in the rock, a tunnel of sorts.  Of course, he had no idea where it led, but in light of the lumbering beast that was rapidly approaching, his destination was inconsequential. He fumbled

 

 

Melkin’s eye caught sight of movement in the opening to the cavern through which the phalanx of Ghul had just exited. A tall, lean figure appeared there, draped in rich dark fabrics lined with silver brocade. Numerous rings upon the figure’s hands glistened in the red light. There was something distinctly familiar about the person.  It was a man, that much was clear, but his face was in shadow, hidden by a deep cowl that had been drawn up over his head.

        The man stepped forward, his fine leather boots creaking as he made his way over to the throne upon which sat Caliban.  Despite hearing the approach of the stranger, Caliban did not move. It was clear he was expecting the visitor and that was enough to quell any hope that had momentarily flared up in Melkin's mind.

        The man reached back and pulled down his cowl. He had fine, almost feminine features. His skin was smooth and youthful, although his sharp eyes reflected the experiences of many years. His cheekbones were well-defined, granting his face a statuesque beauty. Like all Acora, his eyebrows arced high above his dark brown eyes. There were no lines upon his brow, but his long, dark hair had receded slightly, hinting at his age. Long, pointed ears split through his locks which cascaded down past his ornately lined collar. The man’s cloak was pinned to his tunic with a highly unique, silver brooch encrusted with black diamonds and shaped in the form of a gillygull. The brooch was the symbol of the Royal House of Carrucan.

        Caliban grinned salaciously at Melkin, his grey skin gaining colour as mischievous delight ran through his body like blood.  'Mr Melkin, I believe you know…'

        'Maeldune Canna,' Melkin gasped, stunned to see one of his colleagues moving so freely through Caliban's realm.

        The Acoran looked down at Melkin whose mouth was gaping at the sight of one of the Myr's most influential politicians. ‘Hello Samuel,’ he said nonchalantly, his thin voice displaying little concern and even less surprise.  It was almost as if he expected to find Melkin in such a situation.  Maeldune then turned to Caliban and bowed.  'May I?' he asked, his long velvet-clad arms reaching out for the staff that Caliban had used earlier.

        Caliban nodded. Maeldune reached down and swept up the knobbly bone staff. For a second, he weighed it in his hands and then in a motion that was as unexpected as it was fluid, he swung the staff around and slammed it across Melkin's skull. The crack of bone on bone reverberated around the cavern and Melkin dropped to the stone floor with a sickening thud.

        'I do hope you haven't killed him Minister Canna.'  Caliban's mordant smile gave little indication of whether this comment was sincere or not.

        'He'll live,' Maeldune replied as he wiped the staff with a handkerchief he had pulled from the hem of his robe.  'I'm sorry.  I've made a mess.' His manner was polite, but not obsequious.  Within seconds, he had removed the smear of Melkin's blood from the head of the staff.  'As good as new,' he said holding the rod aloft.

        Caliban gave Melkin's still body a fleeting glance and shrugged.  'Maeldune, old friend, let us walk.  One of my attendants will come to collect Mr Melkin.'

Maeldune helped Caliban from his throne and the pair slowly made their way out of the cavern.  Neither spoke for some time, until Caliban asked, 'Maeldune, did you find her?'

        A proud, thin smile spread across Maeldune's face.  It signified triumph.  'Yes, my lord. Your daughter is alive and as well as can be expected.'

        Caliban stopped. Without turning to face Maeldune, he rasped, 'What do you mean by that?'

        'As you know, the Sessymirians do not take well to bastard children.  She has paid the price for her illegitimacy.'

        'They cut her hand off.'  Under a veneer of dead skin, Caliban blanched.

        'They are barbarians.  The Sessymirians will be among the first to be intimately acquainted with my wrath.'

        'I have made arrangements that should accelerate the process. Your daughter will prove to be a most beneficial ally.'

        'In what way?'

        'In spite of her illegitimacy, she has risen to a position of great prominence.  Your daughter is in charge of Strom Mir, the largest of the Nilfheim mines.'

        'Strom Mir!  The site of the Sessymir breach!  This is a most fortuitous development!'  Caliban sang excitedly. His mind raced as he considered the magnitude of the information. Within seconds of hearing Maeldune’s news, his brain was contriving ways to best exploit the unlooked for advantage that had been placed in his lap.  'Now you're sure it was her Maeldune?  This couldn’t be a mistake?'

        'The birthmark,' Maeldune said as he touched his face, 'is unmistakable.'

        'She is beautiful,' Caliban said enigmatically.

        Maeldune paused.  'She is indeed.  As beautiful as the night.'

        Caliban nodded. The response pleased him.  'And she remains in Nilfheim?'

        'Yes. She wanted to see you but –'

        'But you told her to stay.'

        'Yes.'

        'To dig.'

        'Yes.'

        Caliban considered Maeldune’s decision. He had put practicality before sentimentality – it was the right choice.  'Good. You have done well.  What of her mother?  Killed for her crime?'

        'Annika is dead.'

        Caliban said nothing in response to this. He had assumed she was dead long ago.  He did not grieve.  The desire for vengeance had killed in him the capacity for grief.  In the Endless, one did not survive by having a soft and bleeding heart.  'Maeldune, why is it you have not found my brother yet? Is the world above too large for you?'

        'Caliban, it has not been easy. I have set up spies in every city.'

        'What of Pelinore?'

        'I searched Pelinore myself but with to no avail. It is clear he left the city many years ago, not long after he stole you away to Sanctuary.'

        'Then my Cabal will continue to tear the Myr apart until you find him.'

        Maeldune smiled.  'If you must. It matters not to me.'

 

 

The path upon which they walked twisted its way through the Endless until it emptied out into a cavern so large, the red roof resembled sunset-soaked sky. On the long, flat rock plain before the pair, dwellings could be seen. They were strange-looking domiciles. Huge hides had been stretched over intersecting arches of extraordinarily large bones.  These brown domes were the abodes of the Ghul. Hundreds of them lay upon the land.  The Village, as the place was known, was a chaotic sprawl, and though it was a place where the Ghul came together to eat, sleep and communicate, it was not a community in any real sense. The occasional Ghul could be seen attending to daily duties such sharpening their teeth on ivory flints, or killing and eating the rattu that infested the Village. There were very few Ghul who were actually talking, and most of these were on their own anyway.  It was a sad place, a lonely place.

        As they made their way through the maze of domes, Caliban observed that something was troubling Maeldune and questioned him on the matter.

        The Acoran thought long and hard before answering.  'Caliban, I have heard that Morgai can change their appearance, can shapeshift. How am I to find your brother if he is blessed with this talent?'

        'It has been many decades since you and I explored the ancient texts together, but have you forgotten so much?  The talent you describe can only be found in female Morgai.  Males inherit the ability to heal.  To move objects with the mind.  To transform base metals into gold.  These are the rewards of our hereditary succession.'  His voice rose slightly as he spoke. ‘Gifts that should have been mine!’

        He stopped and grabbed Maeldune’s face with his only hand.  He turned the Acoran's head so he was looking at him face to face. Maeldune's nostrils flared as the smell of Caliban’s rancid breath crossed the small distance between them. ‘Look at me closely Maeldune. Imagine my face free of the ravages of this disease. That is the face you seek. Find him and the world above is yours.'

        Maeldune tenderly took Caliban’s hand from his face.  'The world will be ours,' he corrected, his voice soft and clear.

        'Whilst the sun shines upon the Myr I must remain here below.  My brother has seen to that. This is no mere disease I have contracted.  The poison Remiel has fed me was more intricate than that. Have I not told you, my skin burns at the touch of the sun?'

        Maeldune said nothing.  Caliban's comments were always best digested slowly.  He would take his time with them.  He had known Caliban since the days of their youth and had realised long ago that it was always better to listen than to talk when in his company.  Caliban was capable of discerning all manner of meanings from the smallest comments and with so much to gain, Maeldune did not want to compromise their arrangement by saying too much. He knew that Caliban’s affliction was not just a simple case of leprosy – if such a disease could be called simple – but this news of his ailment occluding his return to the world above was both unexpected and full of promise. If Caliban could not enjoy a homecoming in the in the wake of the chaos he had unleashed upon the world, others should be ready to take advantage of the situation. And who better than the Minister for Justice?

 

 

'Lucetious! You surprised me!'

        Maeldune looked up, surprised by Caliban's exclamation. They had arrived at Caliban's cottage and his lieutenant was waiting by the door.

        Lucetious gave a slight bow.  'My lord,' he said softly to Caliban whilst keeping one eye on the Acoran beside his master. ‘I have the Pryderi witch Meggan attending to Windle’s wounds. He will be ready to be dispatched to Cessair tomorrow.'

        Caliban gave a slight nod.  'Good work, Lieutenant.  Stay a moment whilst I bid farewell to Minister Canna.'

        Lucetious returned the nod, and stepped back reverentially.

        An acute sense of time passing shot through Caliban’s heart as he looked up at the Acoran to whom the past thirty years had been much kinder.  Maeldune had hardly aged a day in over three decades. He still looked young and full of life.  Although his face was sallow – it had always been so – his good looks gave his cool personality an enigmatic quality. Maeldune’s reputation for aloofness had not hurt his popularity with women. Although his deep, dark eyes were the type to ensnare the prettiest Acoran noble, they were often unfocussed, as if his mind was not where his gaze lay.  His proud, baronial features had been enough in recent years to gain the hand of an Acoran princess. 

Of course, his looks had no such influence in the Endless.  Down here the Ghul viewed him with suspicion and none more so than Lucetious who staredat Maeldune, his eyes like stones.

        Maeldune gave the Ghul commander a quick glance before giving Caliban his attention.  '‘What are your wishes?'

        'My wishes?’ Caliban said, a little scornfully. His face reflected the saturnine quality evident in his voice.  'I thought I had made these clear Maeldune. Find my brother Remiel!'

        Maeldune's face did not betray any emotion. Years of listening to endless political debate in Cessair had inured him to the excesses of emotion often found in those who occupied positions of power. ‘Caliban, I can assure you, I am trying,' he said without any suggestion of offence in his reply.

        ‘But you have no leads!’ Caliban said incredulously.  'After all this time?'

        'I did not say that,' Maeldune responded. ‘There are rumours.’

        Caliban's dour look faded as curiousity spread over his scabby face.  'Yes?'

        'I have heard there is a priest who lives in the abbey at Garlot.  It is said he has powers that hint at something more than religious inspiration.'

        Caliban thought carefully about this comment. Although it was expressed in Maeldune's typically obtuse fashion, it did signify something to be considered.  ‘Maeldune, this priest. His name?  What is his name?' he asked quietly.

        'He goes by the name of Father Gideon.'

        'Father Gideon!' Caliban exclaimed loudly.  It was like the sound of a branch snapping. ‘How audacious of Remiel to hide behind our father’s name!’ he cried, his voice assuming a tone of triumph.  'Maeldune, my servant Scree will take you to Madron's Pass, where lies a breach in the mountains above Nessa.  From there you will travel south-east to Garlot and find this holy man. If he is indeed my brother, he will smell you out should you make a hasty move.  Be careful.  Subtle.  Use your political skill.  Force will not work.  He must want to come to me.'

        'What of the Ghul incursions? If this is your brother, then…'

        'Maeldune, the Ghul will continue to scour the Myr until I deem otherwise.  You do not need to concern yourself with them.’  It was a gentle rebuke and Maeldune did not question Caliban further.

Caliban's servant Scree, a wretched-looking Ghul female with a permanent sneer upon her face, appeared beside her master. She was fastening a ragged scabbard to her belt as she scanned the Acoran up and down. It was clear she had heard Caliban’s instructions and without a word she led Maeldune away.

 

 

Caliban watched the two walk away in the dim light, making their way back through the Village below.

        'Is it wise to place so much trust in one so deceitful?'

        Lucetious’ question brought a wan smile to Caliban’s face. In lesser Ghul, the comments would have smacked of temerity, but as always, Lucetious had Caliban's best interests at heart.

        'Lucetious, how could you not like the Minister for Justice? So pernicious, so willing to do what is required of him,' Caliban said glibly.  'You two are not unalike.'

        'I beg to differ, my lord. The Ghul, we are what we are. Creatures of darkness.  Kin to evil.  We do not pretend to be one thing and –'

        ‘Oh Lucetious, take pity on him,’ Caliban said with pervasive familiarity. ‘He is ambitious. Always has been. He thinks he can sense which way the wind will blow.’

        ‘Down here Lord, the wind does not blow.’

        ‘Precisely, Lucetious. Precisely,’ said Caliban emphatically, enjoying the poetry of the exchange.

        ‘I do not believe that we can rely on him,’ Lucetious said prosaically, evidently ignorant of the metaphor in which Caliban had just taken so much delight.

        Caliban sighed slowly and heavily, tracing out circles in the dirt with his boot. ‘I do not rely on one man. Quite the contrary.’ He paused for a moment, a precursor to deeper, more significant contemplation. ‘It’s a bit like a game isn’t it?’

Lucetious recognized the rhetorical nature of this question and waited patiently for Caliban to proceed. 

'My brother and I played Siege often. Now, Remiel, he was good.  He would turn your gaze away from the most dangerous pieces.  He would move one piece to endanger my king and force me to attend to the nearest, most immediate threat, but all the while he would be moving other pieces around the board and so claim the victory.  It took me some time but I learnt a lot from my defeats.'

        Lucetious gave no indication whether he understood Caliban’s point.  Prompted by this apparent lack of insight, Caliban explained himself further.  ‘Maeldune is but one piece.  Others are being moved around the board as we speak – Windle, for example. Maeldune knows he’s on the board, but he is facing the wrong way. His real opponents are standing behind him but he won’t discover that until it’s too late.’

 

 

Maeldune and Scree had faded from view. The Village below was still, save for the movement of three figures making their way up the slope to Caliban's cottage: two tall, slender Ghul females with long white hair, accompanied by a squat, dark-haired female who was clad in jagged bone armour that still proudly bore the bloodstains of the countless Spriggans she had slain almost a year before.

        'Chabriel, Drabella and Defecious are here,' Lucetious observed, his soldierly duty to the facts driving him to state the obvious.

        'And so they are,' Caliban replied.

 

 

The trio halted a few feet in front of Caliban and Lucetious.  They stood in a line, Majors Chabriel and Drabella standing proud and tall whilst the low-set Sergeant Defecious slumped, leaning on her sword as she tried to regain her breath from what must have been a rather fast march across the Village.

        'Your orders my lord?' said the sisters in unison.  Defecious, not to be outdone quickly shouted the same comment, hoping her volume would hide the fact that she was last to speak.

        'Gather round underlings,' Caliban said with a sense of urgency in his voice. ‘It is time we stepped up our attacks.  The Kobolds have dug deep and delivered more of the Cabal to us.  The Kaggen,Abaddon, Kleesto and Anaresis are all ready to join in the chaos currently being wrought by the Ryugin and the Morrigu.'  Caliban was almost gloating.  'Major Chabriel, I think you need to take a break from those infernal Pryderi.  Take Kleesto out to the Isle of Grisandole.'

        'Grisandole?' Chabriel remarked, her interest aroused.

         'It is unlikely my brother will be there,' Caliban continued, 'but there may be other Morgai still living in the citadel.  If you can, kill any you find, especially the women.  The last thing we need is some forgotten seer botching our plans.  Take some marroks with you.'

        'Marroks, Lord?'

        'Yes, if they can track down the Pryderi, they should be able to pick up the scent of a Morgai.'

        Chabriel nodded.  'Yes, my lord.  Is that all?'

        'No. There is something else.  I need you to locate two items for me. I believe both to be hidden on Grisandole.  The first is an ancient book bound in leather with golden writing on its cover.  It is called the Incanto.  I would be most pleased with you should you find it.'

        'And the other?' Chabriel asked.

        'Something of sentimental value.  I will give you the details later.  This is an important mission Chabriel.  If any overworlders get in your way, you know what to do.'

        'It will be my pleasure, Lord,' she said, her hollow voice sugared with malicious intent.

        Noting the glee in Chabriel's response, Caliban added, 'Except Pryderi, Chabriel.  You have killed enough witches for the time being.'

        He then turned to the squat soldier beside Chabriel.  'Defecious, you’ll head to the Sulis breach.  Take Anaresis to meet the Helyans.'

        'It will be my pleasure, Lord,' Defecious replied, copying the confident Chabriel word for word, her grisly voice doing nothing to disguise her limited imagination.  Drabella gave her sister Chabriel a quick look, rolling her eyes as she did so, not caring whether Defecious noticed the contempt she had for the stumpy sergeant.

        Caliban continued.  'Drabella, you will take Abaddon and go deep into the swamp of Mag Mel, to the town of Marshmead.  The people there have much to pay for.  The swamp's mists are not thick enough to obscure the apothecaries from my view.’

        Drabella did not know what Caliban was talking about, nor did she care. All that mattered was that he had given her another opportunity to exercise her malignant will.  'It will be my pleasure, Lord,' she said dropping her voice an octave in an attempt to mimic the low-voiced Defecious.

        'And the Kaggen?' Lucetious asked.

        'It will be sent to the Sessymirian city of Nilfheim.'

        Lucetious thought carefully before responding to this.  'Lord Caliban, forgive me but we have not yet deployed all Kobolds assigned for that region.  The Sessymir breach is far from open.  Perhaps it would be worth considering sending the Kaggen to another location.  It will be months before we have broken through the frozen rock beneath Nilfheim.'

        Caliban grinned.

        'In spite of her illegitimacy, she has risen to a position of great prominence.  Your daughter is in charge of Strom Mir, the largest of the Nilfheim mines.'

        'Let us be patient, Lucetious. One never knows the possibilities that may come our way when we are patient.'

 

 

Gerriod stumbled through the half-light of the underworld realm.  He wasn’t sure whether he had been wandering for hours or days.  Time had been contorted by the darkness.  Occasionally shatterbugs would shoot by, momentarily illuminating the caves and passages with a light so pure it seemed out of place in the dim world of the Endless.

        At one point, he noticed hoofprints in the dirt. The soldiers he had seen back in the cavern, as far as he knew, did not have hooves.  Nor did the gigantic creature that lurked around the dark lake.  Gerriod guessed that the hoofprints must have been made by another inhabitant of the subterranean labyrinth.  However, he had heard of a hooved race of people living on an island off the coast of Ankara.  He had also met cloven-footed Spriggan traders.

        But his thoughts were broken by something that caught his eye as he rounded a bend in the underground tunnel.  Before him lay a grotto where a swarm of shatterbugs danced in their own ghostly light.  The waters of a wide pool lapped at the walls of the small cavern.  The ground in the centre of the grotto was raised, like a small, underground island.  On top of the mound were two large beams, fashioned in the shape of an X.  As Gerriod drew closer, he could see that the beams were actually bones, the femurs of a colossal beast.  He edged closer to the bone edifice. 

            It dawned on him that the simple structure was actually a crucifix.

        'Oh dear gods!'

        Upon the crucifix the wasted figure of a man in ragged clothes could be seen hanging limply, silhouetted against the halo created by the glow of a small cloud of shatterbugs hovering nearby.

        It was a grisly sight.  The man had been bound to the crucifix with thick green vine.  Gerriod could see the man's back, stretched hard against the ivory cross.  Deep cuts and dark welts covered almost every visible patch of skin.  The blood was still wet, so Gerriod assumed the poor wretch had only been recently killed. 

 

 

The mariner stealthily made his way across the mound. The victim seemed to be an old man. Long white hair fell from his bloodied scalp.  His motley garb was Tuathan as indicated by the traditional maroon and gold scarf that had been hung in mockery around the man's neck.

        And then something happened that made Gerriod yelp in fright. The corpse moved.

        'Gerriod?' it said.

        'Dad?'