Planar Chaos

by Timothy Sanders

  Then he turned his attention back to the whisper-thin strands he had attached to Venser, Jodah, and Jhoira. One of you will be my salvation, he thought, though he already suspected which. And the others will be my pleasure.

  Teferi hovered over the Stronghold, midway between the mountain’s peak and the circular rift in the sky. He watched as Phyrexians fell from it like rain, grimly assessing the foul creatures as they hit the ground and immediately charged out into Urborg proper, rabid as wolves. They were no longer aimless rabble but an army, guided and directed by a steady hand.

  He was not so concerned about the danger they posed as the danger they represented. The rifts were all unstable, but the one above the Stronghold was aboil, crackling with volatile energies that licked out in vivid jags of purple lightning. It shifted and surged more violently as the number of Phyrexians increased and the biting, unnatural cold deepened. They could not allow things to degenerate much more without facing permanent catastrophic results.

  Windgrace’s rumbling voice rolled into Teferi’s head. So, Tolarian, the panther-god said, what have you learned?

  “My lord,” Teferi said, “we are approaching a crisis point.”

  Windgrace appeared before him, a bladed staff in his hand and his tail waving angrily. “Is that all?” he said. “That much has been true for weeks now.”

  “True.” Teferi nodded. “But the wound over Urborg has become infected. Soon it will burst and shower your home with poison.”

  “Poison can be endured,” Windgrace said. “Infected wounds can be cauterized.”

  Teferi bowed his head. “Then you have reconsidered my suggestion?”

  “No,” Windgrace said. “I have taken the measure of these creatures. It will not require all my power to scour them from the swamps.”

  “The creatures, no. But what about the rift that spawns them?”

  The panther-god showed his teeth. “That was your obligation, Teferi. Your riddle to solve. If you have nothing else to offer on that score, I might as well put you back inside the mountain.”

  “I am at your service,” Teferi said. “But I can do much more for you by your side.”

  “Then do so. You are at my side now, and all I hear is more of your academic prattling.”

  Teferi straightened. “The rifts are not merely physical. Nor magical. They are a mixture of concrete and abstract forces. One of those forces is time.”

  “As you have said. Does this repeated revelation offer any insight, or am I missing something?”

  “You are missing the scope of the problem. The rift network is now permeated by time paradoxes that grow more dangerous with each passing moment. These Phyrexians should not exist. This cold weather should not exist. The rift makes both possible. The rift is the heart of the matter. Deal with the rift first, or Urborg will not survive.” Teferi held his head high, proud and confident. “Nothing will.”

  Windgrace growled. “Time is your province, your playground. I am not surprised you found time at the center of this phenomenon.”

  “I will not apologize for my expertise. Temporal energy is my special interest, and there is plenty of it here.”

  The panther-god shifted in the sky, swinging around so that he floated alongside Teferi. When he spoke, Windgrace’s voice was low and tight. “I am a warrior, Teferi. Time stretches on the battlefield, or compresses, or sometimes stops entirely. Mine is the way of tooth and claw, and it is not subtle. I have no interest or facility in the esoterica of chronal disturbance.”

  “Yet I do,” Teferi said. “And you dismiss my opinion time and again.”

  “Because I do not trust you.” Windgrace kept his face toward the rift. “You are a subtle creature, slippery and indirect. I would rather suffer the consequences of overexamining your advice than those that come from following it blindly.”

  “I am what I am,” Teferi said. “What can I do to convince you?”

  “Nothing.” Windgrace drifted up but cast his eyes down on the antlike colonies of Phyrexians that were marching through his marshy home. “I destroyed a thousand Phyrexians today. There are thousands more. It is difficult work but well within my abilities. I am not so drained as Freyalise: I can beat them back indefinitely.”

  “The rift will not last indefinitely,” Teferi said. “It is critical now and will rupture soon.”

  Windgrace fixed Teferi with his gleaming, green eyes. “And the result?”

  “Desolation. If it doesn’t hurl the entire rift network into explosive chaos, it will definitely open a permanent pathway between here and whatever alternate reality the Phyrexians came from. The winter will become permanent, as will your war to keep Urborg free of artifact invaders.”

  Windgrace hesitated, his gaze traveling back and forth between the rift and the Phyrexians on the ground. “I would consult with Freyalise,” he muttered.

  “Please do. I imagine Skyshroud is as put-upon as Urborg by now. The sooner you both accept the truth of what I say, the sooner you can stop the destruction of your homes.”

  Windgrace’s muscles tensed. He clutched his bladed staff so tightly that his hands shook. “Very well,” he said. “But Freyalise is not easily swayed. It may take more than my voice to convince her.”

  “Are you convinced, my lord?”

  “I am convinced of your brazen recklessness. It will take more than your voice to turn me to your methods.”

  “Call out to Freyalise,” Teferi said. “Perhaps hers is the voice that will sway you and yours the one to sway her.”

  Windgrace growled again, his anger palpable. “Presumptuous cur,” he muttered. Then he called with his mind, Freyalise. I would speak with you.

  Teferi tried to calm his thoughts as he waited. Just as it seemed the patron of Skyshroud would never answer, Freyalise’s voice came clear and sharp through the frosty air.

  And I with you. Hail, Windgrace. Be patient a while longer. If I fall, or fail, I will need you to take up my cause.

  What do you mean?

  Watch, she said. And you will see.

  * * *

  —

  The world went mad just as Jhoira reached the point in Karn’s story where the planeswalking golem regained control over his all-metal plane.

  Everything happened at once. Jodah came shooting out of the woods, propelled against his will by unseen magic. A distant roar rose up from the west side of the forest, the ghastly sound of the Weaver King’s army running rampant. The ground shuddered, and the sky was split by red lightning. The Skyshroud rift emerged from the gloom, an eerie canyon with foglike walls that soared high into the night sky.

  Jhoira leaped up when she saw Jodah but stopped dead when the cacophony of noise hit her. Venser rose and stood beside her, knowing that Karn’s further adventures would have to wait for another day.

  They glanced at each other, nodded, and ran toward Jodah. He was moving faster than they could run, but his course was clear and they raced him to its endpoint. Venser could only guess at how long the archmage had been carried this way, but judging from Jodah’s angry expression and tightly crossed arms, he guessed it had been a considerable journey.

  Jodah noticed them coming, and his demeanor improved. He shouted and waved his hands as the last of the impelling force around him petered out. Jodah dropped stiffly onto his feet and stumbled back a step just as Venser and Jhoira reached him.

  “What’s going on?” Jhoira said. “Where did you go?”

  Jodah gestured wildly with both hands. “Freyalise is about to do something rash,” he said. “You have to get away from here.”

  “Rash?” Venser said. “Be more specific.”

  “Explosive,” Jodah said. “Devastating. She means to cast another World Spell or its equivalent. Half of Keld could go up in flames.”

  Venser stifled his immediate reaction, that Keld would welcome the fire. Jodah was clearly distraught, and his agitation was already affecting Jhoira. To her, Venser said, “Will that close the rift?”

  “I d
on’t know.” The Ghitu watched Jodah as she answered. “The only practical experience we have is Teferi’s, and he cast no spell. Freyalise’s best effort may be enough to ruin Skyshroud without sealing the rift.”

  “Theories and conjecture.” Jodah spoke angrily. “But it serves my point. We have to stop Freyalise from putting herself at risk for no possible benefit.” He turned and pointed to the ambulator. “Can that thing take me back across the forest?”

  Venser paused, afraid of the reaction an honest answer would draw.

  “It can,” Jhoira said. “But unless you know exactly where she is, it can’t take you to Freyalise.”

  “Actually,” Venser said, “it can’t take you anywhere else in Skyshroud. This is the only place I’ve seen.”

  “I’ve seen more,” Jhoira said. She placed a hand on Jodah’s shoulder. “I can’t guarantee success, but we can search for her if you think it will help.”

  Jodah looked at her hand, then into Jhoira’s face. “Never mind,” he said. “The two of you should take the chair back to Urborg.”

  “What about you?” Venser said.

  “I’m not through here.” He turned back toward his transport tunnel. “I can modify that to take me straight to Freyalise. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

  Jhoira’s grip on Jodah’s shoulder tightened. “To what end?”

  “Ow.” Jodah smiled sadly and placed his hand over Jhoira’s. He gently pried her fingers loose and said, “She needs me. She needs someone. A goddess without supplicants is a tragedy. A planeswalker without companions is a disaster waiting to happen.” He smiled at Jhoira. “You know that already, don’t you?”

  “For a thousand years,” Jhoira said. “But I think you’re mistaken. Freyalise will not be deterred by your voice or any other. She’s desperate.”

  “I’ve managed it before,” Jodah said. “I have to try again.” He turned partially away from Jhoira and bowed to them both. “Go. I’ll be all right. It was a great pleasure meeting you both.”

  The ground shook once more, and sheets of crimson electricity cascaded across the sky. Venser instinctively took Jhoira’s hand and took a step toward the ambulator, pulling her with him. To his genuine surprise, she did not resist.

  “Stay alive, Archmage,” she said. “Don’t die here. I will come for you.”

  Jodah nodded. “Count on it.” He looked over Jhoira’s head to Venser and said, “Thank you, my friend. Now get your machine humming and get out.”

  Venser paused. “Farewell, Jodah.”

  “And you.”

  Isn’t this precious?

  Tension knotted Venser’s stomach muscles. Not now, he thought. With everything else they had to contend with…

  Now is the perfect time, said the Weaver King. And I can’t have you leaving before the party’s over. Jhoira, maybe. But you, Venser. I want you by my side forever and ever and ever.

  Venser saw both Jodah and Jhoira staring at him. He still held Jhoira’s hand and stood in midstride, but he hadn’t moved since the Weaver King spoke.

  “What’s wrong?” Jhoira asked.

  “It’s the Weaver King,” Jodah said.

  “I don’t feel him.”

  “Nor I. But I recognize that look on Venser’s face.” He stepped forward and snapped his fingers in front of Venser’s eyes. “Hoy! Builder! Are you yourself?”

  Venser’s pupils darted back and forth in his eye sockets. All of his other muscles were paralyzed, his legs and tongue alike.

  “He’s beguiled,” Jodah said. “The Weaver King still has his hooks in.”

  Clever Archmage. Venser heard the voice, but neither Jodah nor Jhoira reacted to it. I’m going to miss him if he doesn’t live through this. And I’m going to punish him if he does.

  Jodah said to Jhoira, “Can you carry him?”

  “Not quickly. Not on my own. But the two of us together could.”

  No you can’t. Now they did hear the high, mocking voice, and Venser saw the chills running through both his friends.

  Stand ready, Venser. I am expert at expanding my subjects’ horizons. You may not know what you can do or how to do it…but I’m willing to try. What’s the worst that could happen? To me, that is.

  The artificer moaned softly through his nose. Help me, he tried to say. Or at least kill me.

  Mana flared around Jodah’s fist, but he had no target for his spell. He jerked his head around, trying to find some trace of the Weaver King to attack. “Let’s just grab him,” he said to Jhoira. “Stuff him in the ambulator and turn it on.”

  “Right.” Jhoira stepped forward and slipped her hands under Venser’s arms. “It’s almost that easy, you know.”

  No, my child. Nothing is easy. Not even this.

  Venser moaned again as his body began to tingle. It was a similar sensation to traveling in the ambulator, an icy-hot shower of needles all over his body.

  Jhoira’s hand slipped out from under his arm. Or rather, her hand passed through his arm as his entire body dissolved into intangibility. Venser could see their expressions, but he knew that their shock was far less than his own. What was happening to him?

  Come now, the Weaver King said to him. We have things to see and gods to murder.

  Jhoira cried out as Venser disappeared. He took some small comfort from her concern, then was gone.

  * * *

  —

  “He’ll be back,” Jodah said.

  Jhoira stood in the spot Venser had recently occupied, her fists clenched tight. “Venser?” she said. “Or the Weaver King?”

  A flicker of embarrassment crossed Jodah’s face. “I meant the Weaver King. I don’t know where he’s taken Venser, but I don’t imagine it’ll be healthy.” He stepped forward and placed his hand on Jhoira’s shoulder as she had done to him. “You still have to go,” he said. “It’s not safe here.”

  “Not for any of us,” she said. “And I can’t leave Venser any more than you can Freyalise.”

  “You have to,” Jodah said. “You’re the only one who can keep this going.”

  “Keep what going? Nothing I’ve done has made any difference at all.”

  “Then now’s the time to start. Go back to Urborg.”

  “No. Not without Venser. Not without you.”

  Jodah smiled sadly. “It’s good to be us sometimes, isn’t it?”

  Jhoira nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “And sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes…because we know things no one else knows…we have to do things we hate.”

  “What can I do in Urborg that I can’t do here? Die? Be swallowed up by a time rift?”

  “You can share what you know. Teferi’s a basket case, but with your input he might still come up with the answer you’ve been chasing. And Windgrace might listen to you even if you’re only repeating what Teferi says.”

  The Ghitu shook her head. “No. Venser is here, and Karn is coming. There’s still hope.”

  “Who is Karn?”

  “An old friend. He can help.”

  Jodah frowned suspiciously. “Planeswalker?”

  “Yes. And you really must stop assuming that about everyone I know.”

  He started, unsure if Jhoira had intended to be humorous. She smiled slightly, and he shook his head. “How do you know he’s coming?”

  “I summoned him with the ambulator. He’ll be drawn to it.”

  “Then he’ll be drawn to Urborg when you take it there. Don’t argue any more, Jhoira. Skyshroud is going to burn, and if you survive that and the Phyrexians and the slivers, you still have to deal with the Weaver King.”

  Jhoira hesitated. “I don’t want to leave.”

  “And I want you to stay. I’m sure Venser does too. But you need to go.”

  Jhoira was torn, her body vacillating between the ambulator and the forest. “Venser?” she said.

  “I’ll find him,” Jodah said. “If there’s a place for him to be and he’s still alive there, I’ll find him and bring him back to you.”

&nb
sp; Jhoira stopped moving and stared hard at Jodah. “But Freyalise comes first.”

  “She has to. If I can stop her then all of our chances for survival increase.”

  “All right,” she said. Jhoira lunged forward, wrapped her arms around Jodah’s neck, and kissed him deeply.

  She broke off, leaving him dazed, and said again, “Stay alive, Archmage.” Then Jhoira turned and ran to the ambulator without looking back.

  Venser awoke nestled in the boughs of a stunted Skyshroud tree. He blinked, trying to clear his head and determine exactly where he had landed. Carefully, he shifted his weight and turned his head.

  Venser choked and sputtered, almost dislodging himself from the tree. A dead berserker’s face sat inches from his own, the warrior’s livid scars connected to form a jagged symbol. Venser glanced down, both to gauge how far he had almost fallen and to look at something besides the dead man.

  Past the berserker’s burly form and the thick, wooden spikes that held him in place, Venser estimated it was thirty feet to the ground. It was a considerable drop, and dangerous, but Venser counted on the thick layer of ash and mulch below him to cushion his landing. He also decided to risk a broken ankle rather than crawl down across the mutilated corpse, which would require him to use the wooden spikes and handholds and footholds.

  Venser drew his long legs under him and took a firm hold on the tree branch. The Weaver King’s hold on him was gone, and that gave him some relief. It was likely that the mind raider had gotten what he needed from Venser and turned him loose to focus on his other distractions, but Venser was still heartened. He was growing increasingly fearful of the Weaver King’s presence and the control he had over Venser’s mind and body.

  Prepared to let himself fall, Venser stopped. What had the Weaver King really done to him? He had never consciously teleported (or planeswalked, if Jhoira’s theory was to be believed) without his ambulator, never cast the most basic of spells. Yet he had vanished from the edge of Skyshroud and reappeared high in the trees with no other explanation than powerful magic.