The beast arose from the darkest depths of the ocean, stirred from a period of inactivity by a nagging pulse in its brain. A prehistoric relic, kin as much to dinosaurs and dragons as to the Komodo and crocodile of modern times, it had existed in suspended animation for millions of years, frozen in the ancient ice cliffs beneath Antarctica before being awoken by secret atomic bomb testing at the turn of the twenty-first century. Mutated by extensive exposure to radiation, the creature had visited itself upon the strange cities of mankind’s populous civilization on numerous occasions these past few years, each time returning to the oceanic darkness when its rage and curiosity were sated.

They had a name for the beast, these humans. Gojira – or, more commonly Godzilla, King of Monsters.

And that epithet was apt, for on this fateful day, so rudely disturbed from his latest, self-imposed hibernation, the King was in a truly monstrous mood…

A procession of antique mirrors was strung out like a thread of pearls in the ocean murk, incongruous in itself but even more remarkable when one understood their greater purpose. These ancient Lemurian artifacts acted as a dimensional conduit between this underwater abyss, where the sinister legions of the Unforgiven Dead were lurking, and the surface realm that this hideous horde planned to attack. It was the Lemurian villain Llyra who had schemed to provoke this invasion, guiding the Unforgiven through the mirrors – but it wasn’t Llyra’s magic that powered the gateways, as the beautiful, otherworldly sorceress Clea had recently concluded.

Clea was attempting to repair the dimensional breach with her own mystic powers but the task was proving difficult, not least because she was also concentrating on maintaining personalized magical fields about her own body and the bodies of her companions, allowing them to breathe underwater and to survive the incredible pressures of the ocean depths. Those companions – Spitfire, the Wasp, Namora, the Black Panther, and Skadi, a young frost giantess – were taking the fight to Llyra and her demonic, undead army, but it was Clea’s responsibility to remain at the edge of the abyss and deal with the spatial rift…

…and thus it was Clea whom the Priestess of the Unforgiven, Artys-Gran, focused upon when the hordes surged forward in one final, desperate attack.

“This is your work,” Clea said, gesturing towards the mirrors that were drifting and glittering in the darkness of the abyss all about her. Her lovely violet-sapphire eyes narrowed in dismay as she stared upon Artys-Gran, and not just because the decaying, blood-eyed Priestess was so grotesque; Clea was sweet-natured to a fault and was always genuinely aghast when confronted with evil and bloodlust for its own sake.

“I was the sorceress queen of an ancient undersea race, the first race, existing thousands of years before the rise of Atlantis,” Artys-Gran hissed, her lipless mouth stretched wide in a black, toothy smile. “We worshipped the dark gods, the Elders. I was their favorite concubine. We seek to reclaim the oceans that once belonged to us – and then the surface world will also be returned to the Old Ones, when mankind has perished in broiling pits of desecrated flesh. I’m proud to herald in this new age…”

“But you aren’t wholly powerful,” Clea countered. “They have an expression, the human people; that tricks of smoke and mirrors are the work of charlatans, in this case quite literally. If you were still a great sorceress blessed with godly favors then you wouldn’t need to rely on basic conveyance enchantments, would you?”

She gestured towards the mirrors. “Interspatial travel is tough,” she said. “Reality is dense, the atmospheric auras and energy lines difficult to breach… even the likes of the dread Dormammu find it taxing. Establishing physical conduits eases the transference, but it’s a painstaking process. You’re struggling to maintain it all, aren’t you? Especially with me working against you.”

“Which is why I shall slay you,” Artys-Gran breathed, slithering forward on rotting limbs, her lank, kelp-like hair trailing behind her and her webbed claws outstretched… only to falter when something occurred close to where Clea was floating, something that made her red eyes flare wide.

Clea turned her head. She was similarly nonplussed when she saw what had disturbed her enemy: it was a child, a young girl of oriental features, pressing against the opposite side of the glass of the nearest mirror as if to get a better look at what was happening beyond – and then beginning to slide through the portal!

Clea gasped, instantly casting a protective shield about the girl before she could be physically ravaged by her new environment… but that was all the opportunity Artys-Gran needed to resume her attack. She lashed out with one savage claw, shredding Clea’s violet and silver cloak and her tunic and the tender flesh of her back beneath, causing the swirling waters to mist with blood…

THE ABYSS

Part IV: Like One That Hath Been Seven Days Drowned, My Body Lay Afloat

By Meriades Rai

Spitfire, with her enhanced speed of reflex, was the first to notice the change in conditions. The pressurized weight upon her body doubled, then increased still further, slowing her rapidity of movement almost to that of a normal person and making it difficult to breathe. Worse still, she lagged in the middle of a direct confrontation with five Unforgiven, all of whom recognized the unexpected weakness in their hitherto lethal adversary and now surged forward with victorious shrieks and clutching black talons.

Spitfire would have been torn to shreds if not for the intervention of her nearest ally. A savage flurry of claws and lithe limbs heralded the timely arrival of Shuri, the Black Panther, ripping heads off necks with lusty precision. Spitfire recoiled from the gush of black fluids that passed for demon blood, but remained alert enough to dispatch the last of her foes herself, grabbing it by both sides of its jaw and wrenching its entire upper torso to the side, snapping its spine in numerous places like dry kindling.

Shuri drifted forward, her expression obscured by her mask but her tone surprisingly impressed when she spoke. “You’re strong,” she declared. “I had you down for an English Gwyneth Paltrow type. All a bit willowy and swanlike.”

“I’ve got vampire blood and synthetic chemical fire running through my veins,” Spitfire said, breathing heavily. “And I hate Coldplay. How about you?”

“Can’t stand them. Moaning, soulless, white boy trash. I—”

“No, love, not bloody Coldplay. I meant that you’re strong too, unnaturally so.”

“Oh. Well, that’ll be spirit of the sacred Panther God giving me extra potency… on top of the fact that I’m already the hardest bitch you’re ever likely to meet.”

Spitfire snorted. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“Women are treated with a more genuine equality in Wakanda than in most societies, but we still grow up in the shadow of men. Myself more so than most; I was the little cousin of T’Challa, the King of Kings, the proud bearer of the Panther mantle… and as delightful as that was, it meant I was often overlooked in my own right. I had to prove myself in every way, to develop extremes of personality just to be regarded as something other. You understand?”

“I’m an august daughter of the aristocracy and my father was a wartime legend. He didn’t even approve of me joining the Peace Corps during the Blitz. So, yes, I know something about what you’re—”

Spitfire froze as it suddenly occurred to her why she was feeling the effects of the ocean depths so much more than before. She turned, stricken.

“No! The magic, it’s failing. It’s Clea! Something’s happened to Clea…”

The Wasp was hit hardest by the deterioration of Clea’s enchantment, the ocean pressure threatening to obliterate her in her miniaturized state. She instinctively grew back to her full height as soon as she realized that she was in dire straits, and this granted a measure of relief… but it also rendered her vulnerable to the attentions of the enemy she was presently facing. Dealing with a swift and powerful foe the size of an insect had proved problematic for Suma-Ket, Lord of the Unforgiven; now confronted by a regular human female shorn of the use of her wings and reduced to sluggish movement he was far more assured.

“Your stings were troublesome, woman,” the lich hissed, reaching out with a ghastly hand and closing his talons about his victim’s throat. “A pity you can bring them to bear no longer…”

Janet grimaced, fixing her enemy with one stern eye. “The stings come with the whole Wasp package,” she croaked, “but no one ever said I had to be small to use them!”

She raised a dainty hand, weakly but with defiance, and unleashed a bioelectrical discharge that had thus far proved incredibly effective underwater – and, at this close range, was even more potent at full size. Suma-Ket screamed and staggered backwards, shedding great lumps of blackened kelp and scale from a smoldering wound in his chest. He bowed his head like an angry bull, his eyes flaring with bloody rage. The Wasp prepared to administer another sting, even though her head felt as though it was about to explode and her lungs were beginning to burn. Not enough oxygen, too much pressure…

Suma-Ket advanced… but was plucked up in the next instant by an enormous hand, causing him to flail in astonishment. The undead lord looked up to see another size-shifting heroine staking a challenge, and this time he was faced with a giantess instead of an insect. Skadi of Jotunheim held her enemy high, studying him with bright, frost-blue eyes.

“We have our own legends in the Nine Realms, tales of the walking undead known as Draughr,” Skadi said. “It’s told that the only way to eliminate this threat is through purging by fire… though my beloved father always claimed that ice would work just as well. Shall we give that a try, dark one…?”

She breathed then, and the dark waters immediately began to freeze and crystallize about Suma-Ket’s struggling form. The lich snarled and clawed and bit at Skadi’s clutching fingers, a more formidable foe that his Unforgiven legions had proved when Skadi had previously frozen a goodly number of their evil horde – but it was to no avail. The unloving lord was swiftly encased in a cocoon of otherworldly ice, paralyzed in a paroxysm of rage, and Skadi discarded him with a gesture of contempt. Her hand was bleeding where Suma-Ket had wounded her but she paid it no mind, instead reaching down with her other hand and gathering the enfeebled Wasp gently into her palm.

Beautiful but resolute, Janet Van Dyne thought, through a cloud of swelling, depth pressure-induced delirium. Like a glacier from some ancient ice age…

“Your comrade,” Skadi said, urgently. “Her magic’s failing. Something’s happened to her…”

Namora and Llyra clashed repeatedly, each woman an eerie negative image of the other. Both were hybrids of half-human, half-amphibious heritage, but Namora was blonde with Caucasian skin tinctured with pearl and a slight hint of Atlantean blue whilst Llyra bore the dark green caste of Lemuria. Llyra was also shorter and slighter than her more regal adversary, but what she lacked in raw strength she compensated for in cunning and savagery. They were evenly matched to the extent of stalemate, to Namora’s surprise and chagrin, and as they set about bludgeoning each other so remorselessly it soon became apparent that neither warrior was close to earning the upper hand – until, of course, Llyra’s sly nature alerted her to a potential advantage.

Suma-Ket and Artys-Gran – and their legion – were too heavily involved in their own personal battles to offer Llyra aid, but the witch’s tricks were plentiful. She possessed a certain measure of control over the many beasts of the ocean depths, and finally one such leviathan had answered her psychic summons…

“Now, villain!” Namora snarled, seeing Llyra appear to tire and to glance about in search of a route of retreat. “Your defeat – and death – is long overdue. You—”

A dark shadow loomed suddenly at Namora’s shoulder and she twisted… but far too late. Llyra had beckoned a megalodon – an enormous, prehistoric shark, one of the last half dozen of its kind that still existed in the watery abyss, unknown to human records – and this now slammed into Namora from the side, its incredible jaws stretched wide and reaching desperately to clamp down on her flailing legs. Namora was mighty, but the megalodon’s bite would have severed her cleanly at the waist with scant resistance if she hadn’t slithered free at the last second. As it was, the edge of a cluster of horrifically large teeth scraped along her thigh, shredding her durable skin down to the bone and misting the dark waters with her blood.

Namora screamed – and Llyra rejoiced, drifting forward with arms outstretched and hair wild about her terrible face, like a frenzy of snakes. She was akin to the vile monsters spoken of in the rhymes of ancient mariners; she was the inspiration for the Sirens and the Scylla, for the Naiads and the Undine, for all manner of malevolent ocean hags that wrecked cursed ships and lured sailors to their doom with their haunting songs of drowning, and Namora had underestimated her influence as much as she’d once misjudged her capacity for wickedness.

Llyra had almost killed Namora once. This time, with the megalodon at her command, she swore she would finish the task…

Tamara Hashioka shrieked as she saw her young daughter Suki disappear into the mirror at the end of the hallway. It should have been impossible for a physical form to pass through solid glass, but Tamara was no novice when it came to believing unfeasible things; she’d once been a member of SHIELD and had witnessed the rampage of the prehistoric behemoth Godzilla firsthand. That had been many years ago, but she’d never lost her wits or her speed of instinct. Just before Suki vanished completely, into the uncanny ocean world beyond the mirror and all those strange and terrible apparitions that lurked there, she threw herself forward…

…and grabbed her daughter’s trailing ankle.

“They can’t have you!” Tamara cried, her expression hardening with determination. “Stay with me, Suki! Stay with me!”

Stay awake… have to stay… awake…

Clea was convulsing in pain, barely able to think of anything but her own suffering, but even as unconsciousness closed in she forced herself to embrace her duty. She was responsible for her companions; without her magic they’d perish. And then there was that girl, the one she’d seen passing through the Lemurian mirror just before Artys-Gran had attacked. So young, so innocent… she couldn’t let her down.

Beyond the Earthly dimension Clea existed in a semi-physical state, able to manipulate the sorcerous energies of her Faltine bloodline to a certain extent. She tapped into that power now, just as her enemy surged forward in murderous assault once more, and before the Priestess’ claws could inflict more damage upon her person, Clea phased…

…and each of those she was mystically linked with, including Suki Hashioka, phased also.

Artys-Gran’s black talons shredded the remnants of Clea’s cloak, but not her flesh, not this time. A short distance away, the speeding Spitfire experienced the magical dissemination of her cellular self – not for the first time since making Clea’s acquaintance – as she raced to her friend’s aid. The Black Panther also dematerialized without warning, as did Skadi and the Wasp. And as for Namora…

The bleeding Atlantean wheeled helplessly in the churning waters, blood in her mouth and hair and eyes, but she faced her oncoming enemy without flinching. She was Atlantean, a warrior born, and she held no fear of death in whichever form it came for her. The megalodon opened its enormous jaws wide, its razor-edged teeth shining like a thousand deadly sword blades—

There was the splintering crack of exploding glass, followed by a series of cries as the air was peppered with shrapnel. Tamara Hashioka instinctively gathered her daughter in her arms and protected her with her own body, clenching her eyes tight shut and ducking her head as her black hair was suddenly littered with stinging, sparkling shards.

Somewhere, someone – or something – screamed. It was a truly unholy sound.

And then, mercifully, it was over. Suki Hashioka whimpered and curled even tighter against her mother’s breast. Tamara slowly raised her head, trembling as she scanned her hallway. The walls and floor were wet, stained with kelp and blood. The mirror at the end of the passage was shattered utterly, not a single scrap of glass remaining in its ancient frame. And Tamara and Suki were no longer alone.

There were six strangers in their home, scattered along the length of the hall. Skadi had reverted to her regular size but was unconscious; the Wasp, Spitfire and the Black Panther were all awake but sluggish, struggling to their hands and knees. Namora was leaning against a wall, her lower half dark with purplish-red Atlantean blood and her right thigh torn open to the bone. She was fighting against her pain but her eyes were dark and vacant, betraying her true suffering.

Clea was unmoving, a bundle of shredded violet rags and limp white hair, one of her arms splayed to her side like a puppet with cut strings. Her back was dark with blood.

“Clea!” Spitfire cried, dragging herself towards her fallen friend. “Clea!”

The Wasp glanced about through disheveled hair, then flinched when her gaze came to rest on a gruesome sight close by: Artys-Gran’s upper torso, all scale and kelp and corpseflesh, severed just below the ribcage. The Priestess was truly lifeless now. Janet swallowed back her nausea at the sight and looked over to the shattered mirror that had once been a dimensional gateway between this location and the abyss of the Unforgiven. Artys-Gran must have tried to follow them through, or been inadvertently dragged through when Clea’s final spell had traversed the threshold, pulling them to safety – and she’d been chopped in two as the rift had closed. She wasn’t a threat any longer.

But what of Llyra? And, more importantly… what about Clea?

Llyra surveyed the devastation that littered the abyss, her gaze surprisingly cool considering the ruination of her scheme. The Unforgiven Dead were fallen, returned once more to a state of inanimate black bone, and their bodies were already fragmenting to dust and dispersing to an oily slick upon the undersea current. Suma-Ket was lost, plummeting into the endless darkness of the trench in his icy cocoon; if he was ever destined to return it would be unlikely to be at Llyra’s request. All that remained of Artys-Gran was her bloodied lower torso.

Llyra’s plan had been a failure without question, although she believed herself a victim of misfortune rather than miscalculation. Without the intervention of Namora and her cursed allies there would have been nothing to prevent the invasion of the surface world, and the Unforgiven would have proved their worth instead of being thoroughly routed. Now the Lemurian mirrors were obliterated and the dimensional rifts had been sealed once more with Artys-Gran’s demise… but Llyra’s thirst for vengeance wasn’t slaked.

She would lead the leviathans of the depths against the world as Namor himself had once done. She would ride the kraken itself into war and gather a stronger army than the Unforgiven to slaughter and conquer in her name!

This battle wasn’t done.

Llyra of Lemuria could still reign supreme…

NEXT: Godzilla, King Of Monsters, advances upon England! Don’t miss HERALDS # 5 and the stunning conclusion of… The Abyss!