Ravnica

by Cory Herndon

  Something moved in the corner of Kos’s peripheral vision, but when he turned he saw nothing. The nurse had said he’d received a concussion along with everything else. Was it making him hallucinate?

  Again, a pale flash from the opposite side of the room. And when he looked, nothing.

  “Hello?” Kos said, feeling somewhat ridiculous. There was no answer. “You’re getting old, Kos,” he muttered. He was supposed to rest, but he’d just spent three days in a coma and sleep was the last thing he wanted. Maybe a change in position would at least do something about the way the cast pinched the inside of his arm.

  Kos lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Or would have, if the ghostly shape of a bald wojek with a handlebar moustache hadn’t blocked his view.

  His first instinct was to run, but that was out of the question, bedridden as he was. He didn’t want to shout for any number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he wasn’t sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  Besides, if it really was who it looked like. …

  “Mycz?” Kos whispered. “Sir?”

  The figure nodded once and raised a spectral hand.

  “What are you—” Kos said. “Are you leaving?”

  The apparent ghost of Myczil Zunich did not wave goodbye, in fact, but thrust its hand against the front of Kos’s forehead. It felt clammy and cold.

  The moment a violation of the Statutes becomes personal, the officer has lost objectivity, and all of his conclusions are henceforth suspect. The singular exceptions are those cases of homicide involving an active partner. In such cases, any request by the surviving officer to investigate the other’s death may not be refused so long as said survivor meets acceptable physical and mental health standards for active duty.”

  —Wojek Officer’s Manual, Appendix E:

  “On the Vengeance Statute”

  27 ZUUN 9999 Z.C., EARLY AFTERNOON

  Gravity told Kos he was on his back. The cold flat surface he lay on had to be the floor of the infirmary. Without opening his eyes, he let the pain that wracked his body tell him where he was. He knew he had fallen, for he lay beside his bed, one leg tangled in the sheets. His fractured arm ached terribly and must have struck the floor when he fell. His head pounded, and pain centered on the back of his skull. A dull, crashing roar of blood rushed to his ears along with hiccupping thuds, steady but probably faster than they should have been, told him he still had a heartbeat. Good sign.

  Kos knew he had dreamed again, and vividly, but now could not remember anything but brief, tantalizing flashes. He felt a sense of urgency about the dream, but the harder he tried to recall the images the quicker they fled. He fought the urge to open his eyes. If he did that, there was no chance the dream would come back, and it was important.

  “Kos. Wake up, buddy.”

  “Shut up, Borca,” Kos said reflexively.

  The words that left his mouth reached his ears and brain around the same time, and he blinked. The room rushed back into focus, and so did the pale, pudgy, and distinctly translucent ghost of Bell Borca, now permanently the rank of sergeant. The spirit hovering above Kos raised his hand and waved.

  “We need to talk,” the ghost said.

  Kos screamed.

  “Ssh! Quiet!” The ghost said. “Keep screaming and Argh’s going to chain you to your bed.”

  Kos blinked in disbelief. There was no sign of the other mysterious specter that had appeared—what, an hour ago? Two hours? “Borca?” he managed. “You’re a—You’re a ghost?”

  “There are those lightning-quick deductive skills that made you the finest ’jek in the ’hall,” Borca said, floating back to avoid an awkward spectral collision as Kos pushed himself into a sitting position. “I’m no nurse, but I think you just had a heart attack. How do you feel?”

  “Bad, I—Never mind me. Why are you so—you? Except for the intangibility, you don’t seem to have changed a bit.” Normal ghosts, whether vengeful woundseekers or simple, residual phantoms, rarely said anything, and only made the sounds of screams. Until Kos was sure what he was dealing with, he decided to play along. It might be Borca, it might not. Ghosts weren’t known to impersonate others, but an Izzet illusionist would have no problem creating something that looked like a ghost. In fact, the Zunich ghost might have been an illusion, not hallucination. But either way, that one hadn’t spoken.

  Borca’s personality was hard to mistake for anyone else. His gut told him this was his dead partner, not quite as dead as had been advertised.

  “Yeah, that was part of the deal,” Borca said.

  “Deal? What are you talking about?”

  “First, let me explain: You’re the first one who’s been able to hear me. Or see me, for that matter.”

  “What are you talking about? You were blown up,” Kos said. “They ran a spectral wash. There was nothing there.”

  “I didn’t show up there,” Borca’s ghost said, assuming that’s who this really was. “One minute I was with the dead girl, the next thing I know I’m floating along behind the rescue griffin that brought you here. It seems I’m sort of, uh, stuck to you.”

  “Stuck?” Kos said. “How?”

  “I’m getting to that. Stop interrupting and keep your voice down. They already think you’re unstable. I heard Phaskin talking to Stanslov when I was hanging around outside,” the ghost said. “Keep talking to yourself and they’ll restrain you. It’s going to be hard enough to get you out of here under your own power. Getting tied up won’t help.”

  That cinched it. Kos had been a ’jek for seven decades, and he’d learned to trust his gut more than evidence or witnesses. Either this was Borca, or someone had gone to such great lengths to capture everything about the sergeant’s personality and create an illusion with no other purpose than to annoy Kos out of his mind.

  “All right,” Kos whispered. “You’re you. Let’s just say that’s true for now. But what are you doing here?”

  “You know, after that impassioned little speech you gave Phaskin, I would have hoped you’d be a little nicer to me,” the ghost said. “And I really wish you hadn’t gotten yourself suspended. That’s not going to help matters any. See, I sort of signed you up to be my, uh …”

  “Your what?”

  “My avenger.”

  * * * * *

  Jarad raised his open hand and froze in a crouch, the universal signal for those following him to stop. Fonn glanced around at the crumbling structures of Old Rav and the random pairs of glowing eyes and wondered which pair, exactly, had caused the dark elf to stop—or if there were something else her senses hadn’t yet detected. The zombie citizens of the undercity, such as they were, didn’t seem to be paying any attention to either of them. It surprised the ledev guardian, whose experience with undead had been limited to the starving, mindless deadwalkers who occasionally attacked travelers. These creatures had lives, so to speak, that from her vantage point didn’t look all that different from those on the streets overhead. Still, they were zombies, and old prejudices died hard. Fonn ignored the few raspy shouts hawking disturbing-looking food and half-rotted souvenirs, and kept her eye on any who wandered too close.

  Of course, zombies hadn’t attacked them—harpies of the teratogen tribes had. Either the priestess had not yet learned her assassination attempt had failed, or the teratogens were waiting for them to clear the undercity, but so far they’d run into no further trouble.

  She wasn’t too sure about the Devkarin hunter. The first sign of deception on his part and she would kill him herself. But for now she had no choice but to join with him. Without Biracazir she felt like half a ledev.

  Whatever the reason, they had not seen evidence of any teratogens anywhere, which Jarad said was both unusual and unsettling. He seemed certain they would be attacked again.

  She wished for the thousandth time that Biracazir was near and wondered if she was doing the right thing trusting her kidnapper. On the surface, it was almost ludicrous, b
ut she’d seen the harpies try to kill him with her own eyes. At the moment, with no other ledev or even a wojek to ask for help, let alone the big wolf, the enemy of her enemy would have to do. Biracazir could take care of himself and was probably waiting for her faithfully at the base of Vitu Ghazi even as she followed this Devkarin down the crumbling, overgrown undercity streets. It was not the first time they’d been separated over the years, and he’d always found her before.

  At the very least, the goldenhide wolf’s senses would have been able to confirm that Jarad was really stopping because he saw trouble. Biracazir could practically smell deception. She hoped that wherever the wolf was he was safe. Perhaps Bayul—

  No, Bayul was gone. She’d thought she’d felt his voice. … Or had she?

  The elf lowered his hand and strolled casually to the side of the street, waving her to follow. Fonn looked at him quizzically but followed.

  “Jarad,” she said, “what do you see?”

  The Devkarin whispered, “There, that group near the butcher shop. Don’t look like you’re looking if you can help it.”

  Fonn surreptitiously gazed sidelong and saw four gaunt, hungry-looking shapes that stood milling in front of a storefront beneath a sign that proclaimed this was “Old Rav’s original slaughter market and home of the bottomless meat bowl.” The quartet of zombies, unlike the rest of the undercity’s denizens thus far, watched Fonn and Jarad with heavy-lidded stares that did a poor job of hiding their interest. Their slit pupils glowed red, and their gray-black skin bore festering, open wounds knitted together with veined, necrotic filaments. Each one carried a curved blade on its hip and flashed varying numbers of broken, yellow teeth as they saw the pair had spotted them. Without preamble, the zombie gang stepped into the street ahead of them and stood, waiting.

  “Rogue agents,” Jarad said. “Perhaps. They’d better be.” He drew a long knife from the back of his belt. “Just try to leave one kicking so we can question him. I’ll take the four in front.”

  “In front?” Fonn whispered. “What do you—” she glanced over her shoulder and saw that an equal number of zombies carrying the same wicked-looking scimitars had stepped into the street behind them. “Oh.” She drew her sword. “I’ve got the ones to the rear. Any others I should know about?”

  “Not unless there are bat-riders, but I have yet to see any elves,” Jarad said. “I suspect this may not be Savra’s doing.”

  “Well, they’re not friends of mine,” Fonn said.

  The zombies closed in from both sides slowly, confident their prey had nowhere else to run—and they were, as near as Fonn could tell, completely right. They looked cunning and dangerous, as different from the wandering roadside deadwalkers as Biracazir was from a stray mongrel dog.

  That didn’t mean they were cunning enough to look behind them.

  Biracazir slammed into two of the rearmost zombies at once. The goldenhide wolf beheaded one with a swipe of his paw and crushed the other with his hind paws when he came back to earth. The other two zombies slashed out with their scimitars in surprised, inaccurate strikes that hit only air. The wolf skidded to a stop beside a surprised Fonn and greeted her with a few quick, slobbery licks on top of her head as she laughed despite the circumstances and gave the big wolf a one-handed hug. The two remaining undead assassins seemed to reconsider their vocations when Biracazir growled low in his throat, and a moment later they turned and bolted. “Go get ’em, boy,” Fonn said and patted Biracazir on his flank. The wolf charged after the fleeing zombies, and Fonn sidled up to Jarad.

  “Found your wolf?” he asked.

  “I can see why you’re the huntmaster,” Fonn said. “You don’t miss a thing.” Fonn eyed the uncertain-looking gang of zombies down the street. Far behind her she heard the wolf roar, and a pitiful scream cut short with a wet snap. Fonn didn’t turn to look, but whatever Biracazir was doing, it made the four in front of them turn and flee as well. The wolf knew better than to eat the undead, but he could still dismember them with ease.

  “Damn,” Fonn swore. “Should we go after them?”

  “Any chance your wolf is going to leave the other two intact?” Jarad asked.

  “Let me look. Uh, no, not really,” she said and crinkled her nose. Biracazir was going to need a bath.

  Jarad didn’t reply but pulled the longbow from his back and nocked an arrow. He drew a bead on the rearmost of the fleeing attackers, adjusted for distance, and let the arrow fly.

  A few seconds later Jarad’s arrow struck the zombie square in the middle of its back. The assassin went down like a marionette with its strings cut and flopped to the stone.

  “I thought you had to hit the head to kill them,” Fonn said.

  “Wasn’t aiming to kill it,” Jarad said. “I am planning to ask him some questions.”

  Biracazir, finished with his quartet of assassins, sidled up to Fonn. Without warning the wolf shook off a coat of gore that showered the ledev and the bounty hunter with droplets of things Fonn didn’t want to think about.

  “Well, now we all smell the same,” Fonn said. “Should help us blend in.”

  “I already blend in,” Jarad said. “Come, he’s trying to drag himself into that alley.” He set off down the street at a run. Fonn vaulted onto Biracazir’s back and followed at a trot.

  The zombie wore a torn, patched black shirt and leggings that might have once been the attire of an Orzhov assassin. Only one of its arms worked, but the zombie still tried valiantly to haul its paralyzed carcass away from Jarad.

  The elf dropped to one knee, grabbed the shaft of the arrow in the zombie’s back, and twisted. The assassin groaned pitiably and flailed at the elf with its good arm. Jarad forced the zombie’s hand down with one boot and leaned close to the assassin’s leathery ear. “So tell me … can you actually feel that?” The elf twisted the arrow again and the zombie cried out.

  “Just ask him who he’s working for, Devkarin,” Fonn said from atop the wolf. “What’s the point in torturing him? Torturing it, I mean?”

  “Makes me feel better,” Jarad said. He returned to the assassin. “She wants me to ask you who you’re working for,” he said. “Me, I’d much rather keep making you squirm, dead thing.”

  “We found you on our own,” the zombie hissed. “We work for the bounty.”

  “Bounty?” Fonn asked. “Who put a bounty on me?”

  “Not just you, girl,” the zombie said. “Him too.”

  “Me?” Jarad said. “Answer her! Who put up the bounty? Was it the matka?”

  The zombie craned its neck around in a way that would have been impossible for a living creature. “The matka? No, not her.”

  The zombie began to change. At first, Fonn thought the thing might have expired and was rotting away, but it was more like melting. Its body and clothing faded into a white-blue something with a waxen, liquid appearance. Then all at once the outward shape bubbled into a writhing blob of something that looked like insects or—worms. Definitely worms. The writhing swarm extended a pseudopod made of wriggling worm flesh that brushed against Jarad’s hand. The elf jerked his hand back as if burned and snapped it like a whip to shake the clinging creatures loose.

  “What’s it doing?” Fonn asked.

  Jarad scrambled back to his feet. “I don’t know, but the rest of them aren’t doing it.”

  The blob of worms advanced, regaining its humanoid shape as it moved. The squirming creatures pressed their millions of tiny bodies tightly together, regaining its waxen appearance. It looked like the worms were trying to put themselves back into shape.

  “I think maybe we should consider picking up the pace,” Fonn said. She backed up to Biracazir and pulled herself into the saddle. “Get on!”

  The waxen worm-thing took a step toward Jarad, tentatively. It seemed cautious. Jarad just stared at it.

  “Devkarin, come on,” Fonn said. “What’s wrong with you?” Biracazir growled, low and threatening.

  “It’s … when it touched my hand,�
�� Jarad said. “It wasn’t going to let go. I had to push it, coax it, like the insects. I think I hurt it. Hurt them. It. I know I did. They’re telling me. It feels. …” The elf trailed off. The worm-thing moved closer, every half step restoring a little more color to the shape. “It wants me to stop fighting. I should. I should do that.”

  “You’re not making sense,” Fonn said. “Snap out of it.”

  The elf didn’t respond. The shapeshifting thing, now almost fully restored to its original form, was almost on top of him.

  The average person, after getting kidnapped, held captive, and attacked, might have left the elf to die, or be absorbed, or whatever that worm-zombie- whatever-it-was wanted to do to him. But that was not in the character of a ledev guardian. Fonn cast about for someone, anyone, who could help. The rest of the zombie assassins, apparently just zombies, were lying about in pieces. The street had become devoid of undercity inhabitants. Her sword would likely prove useless. And the elf seemed hypnotized by the worm-thing.

  Fonn cursed under her breath and dug in her heels. Biracazir launched forward as the ledev let herself hang over one side, her arm extended. She caught Jarad around the waist just before the ersatz assassin got to him.

  “Ow! What are you do—” Jarad said. “Oh. Thanks. What was that?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you did. Just try and get onto the saddle, would you?” Fonn said. “Is that thing chasing us? And don’t look if you think you’re going to go all catatonic on me.”

  The elf managed to clamber into place behind her, craned his neck, and lifted his mask to check on their bizarre enemy. “No,” Jarad said. “It’s just watching.”

  “Fine,” Fonn said, “What was it?”

  “Something made of worms,” Jarad said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Think your friend might know anything about it?”

  “It’s worth a tryaaAAAH!” The elf just about rolled off the back of the saddle when Biracazir had to leap to avoid a section of fallen wall, a recent addition to the roadway that the zombie maintenance crews hadn’t gotten to yet. He almost took Fonn with him when he grabbed at her elbow, but she held tight to the reins and hauled him back up.