“Are the other gateways sealed yet?’ Þráinn asked the seiðskratti.
The seiðskratti lowered their hands, causing an ebb in the flow of seiðmagn around them.
“You were briefed about the extradimensional nature of this place, Agent Meinholt,” Magister Ginfaxi hissed, their voice sounding almost serpentine. Through red-tinted glass Þráinn could see the hints of feverish eyes, gleaming with fervour and wild sorcery. “First the portal must be anchored. When it does so, it will cause the other gateways to seal shut over time. Like coagulating blood.”
Þráinn bristled. “I recall the briefing just fine, magister,” he said in a stern voice. “What I am telling you is that I want them shut – now.”
The seiðskratti stared at him stoically, the long white mask lending them a skeletal, predatory semblance. Magister Ginfaxi slowly clasped their white-gloved hands in front of them. Þráinn tried to hide his discomfort. He couldn’t discern anything about this son of a bitch.
“Perhaps you need another seiðskratti, Agent Meinholt,” Ginfaxi said in a measured, flat tone. “One more capable of following your brilliant plan.”
The portal started flickering, wavering in and out of existence.
“Don’t waste time playing games. I just want it done, magister.”
Magister Ginfaxi nodded slowly, almost bowing.
“Of course, sir.” They spat out the last word like a curse. The portal sputtered out for a moment, then reappeared. “Please rest assured that this humble servant of the Crown is using their meagre abilities to their best to serve your noble plan. Should that not be adequate, well … Then we will retreat and request that Count Trampe find a suitable substitute.”
“No, listen … All right. Just get it done. As quickly as possible.” “Very well. I will continue the work. It will proceed according to the plan laid out in the briefing – with your blessing, that is.”
Þráinn nodded. He could almost hear the smile in that abomination’s voice. He marched over to the formation of officers and the seiðskratti turned again towards the portal, the seiðmagn flaring up with a muted thunder as the gate again solidified, the thaumaturgical energy around the gate tightening, making his stomach turn with inexplicable vertigo.
The police officers stood at the ready in tight formations, skorrifles in hand, the front line with their shields raised, armed with thaumaturgic batons. The riot gear lent them the appearance of inhuman golems rather than human flesh and blood. Þráinn grinned. This he understood. Feet on the ground, weapons in hand.
“All right,” he said, activating a small charm on him that caused his voice to boom as if he were speaking into a megaphone. “This interdimensional anomalous zone is now under the official jurisdiction of the Directorate of Immigration. Any and all denizens of this area are now considered in violation of the borders of the Commonwealth of Kalmar. Any persons encountered are classified as international criminals and can be assumed to have non-citizen status.”
Inspector Lárus stepped forward.
“For the thick-skulled of you out there,” he bellowed loudly, “this means that there is no paperwork when you gun them down – keep that in mind!’
Þráinn nodded before continuing.
“This is a clear-cut operation. Comb every street, break down every door, arrest any persons found and shoot any who resist with extreme prejudice. I want to turn this godforsaken place back into a ghost town within twenty-four hours. This is also a manhunt – one rogue galdramaður, likely having manifested an Omega-class transmundane infestation in his corporeal form, and one half-breed terrorist, known to use a form of liquid delýsíð. Do not take off your mask under any circumstance. It might not necessarily save your life, but the filter should hold off the seiðmagn for long enough that you can put her down. Both of these individuals are high priority. Apprehend or neutralise them at any cost. Any questions?’
He glared at the lines of constables. His own little army.
“Move out!’
The police officers moved quickly and silently, weapons raised, spreading out over Rökkurvík. Þráinn approached Magister Gapaldur, who was standing by.
“We need to find the galdramaður and the half-breed. Fast.”
“She was at the protest,” they said. “The one who has so creatively utilised the delýsíð.”
Þráinn nodded. “The galdramaður is our priority. We need to make sure enough of him survives for questioning.”
The seiðskratti tilted their head, leaning towards Þráinn. It made him uncomfortable, the movement almost predatory in nature. He tensed up, reminding himself that the protective charms he carried would shield him from the seiðskratti. He had submitted a highly classified report about his encounter with Sæmundur. Þráinn had only survived it due to the sorcerous reinforcements made to his body as part of his training. The Directorate’s galdramenn had cleared him of any lingering transmundane influence, but he still felt uneasy knowing that the two seiðskrattar had been given access to the report.
“That might prove to be impossible,” the seiðskratti said in a low voice. “If the report you submitted is correct, he is quite formidable. But we will see.”
Þráinn seethed with anger, but kept his mouth shut. Magister Gapaldur raised their hands and turned to the sky. A stream of crimson tendrils flowed from their fingertips into the air.
“If they are here I will find them soon enough.”
* * *
Plumes of smoke rose into the sky, shaded red by the swarming flares. The house was now properly ablaze, joining several others in the area. It had served as a bar, likely a meeting point for members of the resistance. The local denizens from this and nearby streets were lined up on the muddy road, on their knees, hands cuffed behind their backs. Three corpses were lying in the mud by the fire, patrons
