Planar Chaos

by Timothy Sanders

  Was that magic truly his? Could he achieve of his own volition what the Weaver King had forced on him? He was tired of being pushed and pulled and chased from one place to another, and he did not look forward to the long drop. Perhaps it was time to try.

  He stared at the ground for a few moments, etching the sight of his destination in his brain. Then Venser closed his eyes and tried to picture himself on the ground, upright and safe. He concentrated, willing himself to appear on the spot in his mind’s eye.

  Nothing happened. Venser opened his eyes, inhaled deeply, and tried again. Nothing.

  It was supposed to be easy. According to Jhoira, he had done it several times before without thinking. He had seen how effortless it was for Windgrace, Teferi, and Freyalise. Then again, he was not like Windgrace, Teferi, and Freyalise. Perhaps his method of teleportation was unique and involved more than willpower alone.

  Venser scooted up with his back against the tree trunk. He closed his eyes again and imagined himself in the ambulator’s seat, its Ghitu controls under his fingers. Breathing deeply, he extended his arms halfway and visualized the commands that would make the device go. Feeling utterly foolish, Venser pantomimed pressing the right switches and levers in the proper sequence, following Jhoira’s example of quick, efficient, and nonrepetitive motion.

  He completed the launch sequence. He was still in the tree. Grumbling in exasperation, Venser repeated the process, tapping his fingers over phantom control panels and listening for the characteristic hum of the ambulator’s power source.

  His stomach lurched, and for a vertiginous moment he thought he had fallen. Eyes closed, he felt something solid beneath his feet. His leg muscles tensed as they bore his weight again, and Venser smelled charred wood and burning leaves.

  He opened his eyes to find himself on the forest floor. He shut his eyes tight, rubbed them with his fists, and opened them wide.

  He had done it. Unable to control himself, Venser shook his fists in triumph and shouted, “I did it!”

  But what had he done? Was he now a mage? Did he have oceans of mana at his disposal? He would have to find a mentor and learn some sort of spellcraft. Venser the Wizard, he thought, amusing himself to the point of laughter.

  Then, unbidden, a small, selfish, and stupid thought occurred. He no longer needed the ambulator. He had wasted his life, spent twenty years on high-level design, dangerous scavenger hunts through the swamp, and painstaking trial and error for a result that he could have achieved by closing his eyes and playacting. He was not a wizard, nor a planeswalker, but an idiot. Venser the Fool.

  Logic and rational thought quickly pushed aside his absurd fit of pique. He had learned the finer points of teleportation by building his machine. Without that experience, he might never have accessed his hidden talent for teleportation, with or without the Weaver King’s influence.

  There were also far more pressing matters on his docket: the fate of his friends, the intentions of his dangerous enemies, and the fate of the entire world. Venser did not want to die at all, least of all as a forgotten pawn in a cosmic-scale game of titans. Jodah had chosen to stay and help Freyalise, but Venser was more than willing to take the archmage’s advice and escape before the patron of Skyshroud brought the forest down around his ears.

  As for Jhoira…she was either with Jodah or she had taken the ambulator to Urborg. Venser wondered if he should dare to take such a long journey under his own power, then realized he might have no choice. He decided to let pragmatism guide his actions. He would teleport himself back to where he had left Jodah and Jhoira. If they were still there, he would tell them what he had discovered about himself. If they were not, he would try to make it home.

  Red electricity spiked and jagged across the sky, lighting up the forest below. Heavy thunder boomed, and the ground churned beneath his feet. Venser quickly settled back against the tree, picturing the last place he had been. He didn’t think he’d have to go far—if “far” was a concept that mattered—as the other crucified corpses he had seen were all along the forest’s edge. Since he was among them, he reasoned that all he had to do was follow the outer rim of the woods and eventually he’d return to his starting point.

  Venser closed his eyes. He reached out and moved his fingers in a perfect re-creation of the motions that triggered the ambulator’s main function.

  Lightning flashed overhead again, and before it flickered away and left Skyshroud in darkness once more, Venser was gone.

  He appeared again as the thunder from that same lightning strike boomed down, almost a half mile behind him. Venser blinked, disoriented, and when his vision cleared he realized he was standing directly behind Jodah.

  The archmage was still adjusting his transport tunnel with short, sharp gestures and a flowing trail of blue mana. Venser called out, “Jodah.”

  The archmage whirled with a spell at the ready. He seemed surprised to see Venser. He also seemed disconcerted that he hadn’t heard the artificer coming.

  “Venser,” he said, “are you…you?”

  “The Weaver King is gone for now,” Venser said. “I’m not sure why he released me.” He cocked his head at Jodah’s alarmed expression, then realized what it meant. Venser said, “I share your concern. Is there any way to tell if he’s still waiting in my head?”

  “None that I know of,” Jodah said. “But I suppose it won’t matter if we move quickly enough.” He stopped moving his hands across the liquid surface of the tunnel entrance. “But I don’t mean to speak for you. Will you accompany me to Freyalise, or do you prefer to stay here?”

  “Hm,” Venser said. “About that…” The artificer’s voice trailed off as he stared at Jodah’s transport. Venser hoped his expression wasn’t betraying his thoughts. Jodah was quick-witted, and he would probably stop Venser if he knew what the artificer had in mind.

  “Is this thing safe?” Venser said.

  “Absolutely.” Jodah stood and stepped back, presenting the tunnel to Venser with a wave. “I’ve used it for thousands of years, and it’s never failed me. Simple but reliable.”

  Venser nodded. “And does it lead to Freyalise?”

  “Not yet. Right now it’s still part of the circuit between here and Urborg.” He blinked. “Say,” he said, “you have a third choice, now that I think about it. You can use this tunnel to go after Jhoira.”

  The Ghitu’s name raised a strange set of conflicting emotions. Venser said, “She took the ambulator?”

  “She did. At my urging, mind you. She wanted to stay and look for you, but since I was staying anyway I convinced her to let me do it.” He grinned. “Thanks for making my job so easy.”

  “I would prefer to go back home,” Venser said. He cleared his throat and added, “I’d prefer it if you came too.”

  “Sorry,” Jodah said. “I’ve made up my mind. But don’t worry about me. I haven’t lived this long without learning a few tricks.” Jodah stepped back to the tunnel and extended his hands. Warm, blue light sparkled across the liquid surface and sparked to his palms.

  “Still works,” he said. “And it’s ready for you. Good luck, my friend. Give my regards to Jhoira. And Windgrace. I hope to see you all again someday.”

  “Count on it,” Venser said. The artificer lunged forward with both hands, stiff-arming Jodah backward into his own tunnel.

  “Hey!” Jodah said, but his voice melted away as the tunnel’s magic took hold and whisked him out of sight.

  Venser scanned his surroundings, knowing he had to work quickly. Jodah’s tunnel was practically instantaneous, and he didn’t want the archmage to simply leap back in on the Urborg side and return here.

  The ground was littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes. Venser recognized some as possessing metallic ores, and while he was not familiar with the geology of Keld he did know something about magical transport and the energy it required. He seized a wide, flat stone with sharp edges, raised it over his head, and brought it down on the roots that surrounded Jodah’s tunne
l.

  It only took three swings to sever the dry, wasted root. Venser went to work on another, and another, until he had broken the entire upper framework of Jodah’s spell conveyance. Venser threw the jagged stone in, then bent and shoveled more stones in with both hands. He cut all of his fingers and almost crushed his thumb in the process, but within seconds he had piled rocks high enough to fill the lower half of the entrance.

  Panting, he watched with satisfaction as the liquid suspended across the tunnel collapsed, drenching the pile of stones in a clear, syrupy substance. The glow within the liquid fizzled out like a match immersed in water. Jodah would not thank him for it, but Venser had saved the archmage as the archmage had saved Jhoira.

  The ground shook once more, so violently that Venser fell to one knee. A second tremor shook several trees loose from the ground and sent them toppling against their neighbors. Venser flashed back to Shiv, moments before Teferi had gone out to seal the rift there, and realized that Skyshroud was in a similar state. The air here tingled and pressed in on him from all sides. Lightning and thunder came almost continuously now. It was way past time to go.

  Struggling to keep his movements calm and measured, Venser sat with his back against the pile of stones. He pictured his workshop in Urborg, the place where he had worked, slept, eaten, and dreamed for almost a decade. He knew this place better than any other. If he was to test his power over long distances, he’d never find a better destination.

  Venser’s fingers danced, though he kept his eyes wide open. He saw a flash of light in his peripheral vision that quickly crawled across his irises. Then he disappeared.

  * * *

  —

  Freyalise marched alone into the precise center of Skyshroud. The forest’s mana was almost spent, and her own resources were approaching their limit. There were countless slivers and dozens of Phyrexians clamoring to get close to her, to engulf her like a wave and tear her to pieces.

  She sneered at them. “Too late,” she said. And it was. She had arrived.

  The planeswalker looked up into through the middle of the Skyshroud rift. Its sheer fog walls soared up on each side of her, and she knew they also penetrated deep into the Keldon bedrock below. Phyrexian machine magic had created this rip in the multiverse’s fundamental structure, but it was her efforts that had diverted Skyshroud here from its intended destination. The rift was as much her fault as it was Yawgmoth’s.

  Perhaps things would have been different if she hadn’t interfered. She could have become Skyshroud’s patron no matter where the forest landed, but both practicality and pride had led her to put it here.

  Practically speaking, Keld was ideal. There were no elves here, or goblins, or ogres. There was virtually no competition for space from anyone but the Keldons, and since they had no interest in forest dwelling and her people had no interest in leaving, it had proved to be a near-perfect arrangement. Once she had established her own boundaries and come to terms with the Keldon Council, the elves of Skyshroud were free to live and prosper. Good relations with the council also meant the elves were free from the threat of hostile outsiders, for in all its long history, Keld had never been successfully invaded. It was hardly worth the effort, for one thing, as no rival nation would ever fight for a frozen chunk of stone that was without resources beyond tough wood and fiery mana. For another, the Keldons thrived by making war on other countries, and it was the height of foolishness to antagonize them. It was safer to offer your throat to a hungry lion. She had heard tales of how the stone-gray berserkers made examples of unwelcome visitors, sending foreign merchant and warships alike back to their home ports burned and blackened and weighted down with corpses.

  Freyalise spat a curse at the Weaver King’s horde, her magic pressing them farther back. As for pride…she wanted to establish an elf kingdom here, far enough from Llanowar to be independent but close enough for her two fiefdoms to support each other in times of trial. It had never come to pass as she intended, and Skyshroud and Llanowar remained separate and distinct. But she knew that she had done right by her people, always making sure that they grew strong enough to weather whatever storms blew in without abandoning them completely. She never coddled them, never provided more than the bare necessities to ensure their survival, yet they had always prospered. Of that she was unreservedly proud.

  The slivers and Phyrexians pressed in once more, their noise and fury souring Freyalise’s reverie. The rift was a consequence of Skyshroud’s appearance here, a part of it, yet it was destined to destroy the forest. The rift had depleted the local mana until Freyalise herself had to make up the shortfall. The rift brought the Gathans, who did not respect the ancient Keldon pact between beserker and elf and made bloody war upon her people. The Gathans enraged Radha, who abandoned Skyshroud to punish them for their crimes and claim her half-Keldon heritage. Radha’s defection caused Freyalise herself to take command of the sliver horde, which had been turned against the planeswalker so easily that she despaired ever relying on the symbiotic little beasts.

  Which brought her to this. Skyshroud had fallen, not in battle or to overwhelming magic, but to the slow, steady depletion of its vital force. She thought she could sustain it indefinitely, but now it was overrun by metal Phyrexian war beasts and the twisted, abhorrent results of Phyrexian science on living flesh. Her elves had been forced to flee their home and endure the horrors of an unnaturally cold Keldon winter. She reckoned that less than half would survive the first year, but half was better than none. When she was through, every living thing in Skyshroud would be but ashes and memories.

  Glaring hatefully at the horde, Freyalise slowly and deliberately peeled off her long leather gloves. She cast the accessories aside and lowered herself to her knees. The patron of Skyshroud pressed her hands into the soil and opened her eyes wide, seeing all of the Weaver King’s army and beyond to the edges of the forest itself.

  This was her place, her kingdom. If it was going to die, she would deliver the death blow and make sure to take as many of its despoilers as she could.

  Freyalise cupped her hands to form a small mound of dirt between them. She stared hard at the tiny pile and felt the strength of forest mana flowing through her. It had been so long since she used Nature’s energy for anything but the continued existence of this garden among the frozen peaks, but now she reclaimed it. The verdant force that sustained this place leeched from it now and flowed back into its source, the planeswalker Freyalise.

  All around her, trees shriveled and blackened as if surrounded by fire. Most of the forest was dead or half-dead already, but without her blessings the plants could not even maintain their natural shapes. In seconds the Skyshroud forest withered away to almost nothing, as fallow as a forgotten field.

  A small, green shoot sprang up between Freyalise’s hands. She focused on the tiny, green tendril, shutting out the sights and sounds of the nearby horde. She whispered softly to it, coaxing it up from the dirt and encouraging its growth with the ancient language of Gaea, the living spirit of this world.

  The shoot responded, swelling fat and green as it reached up past Freyalise’s head. Broad, flat leaves sprouted from the first vine as a second tendril broke through the surface of the dirt. Freyalise spread her hands wider to accommodate the vines, which twisted and braided themselves together as they climbed to form the last living Skyshroud tree.

  The surge of growth continued. Satisfied, Freyalise stood and took several steps back. The braided vine continued to expand outward and upward as she fed more mana to it. When the tough, woody column was taller than she was and ten yards wide, Freyalise gracefully leaped to the top. She stood firm as the vines seethed and slithered below her, riding them high above the forest floor, high above the ravening mob of the Weaver King’s puppets.

  As she fed mana to the burgeoning tree, it in turn fed her. She felt clearheaded and joyous, stronger than she had in decades. Reclaiming the power she had lent Skyshroud meant the forest was truly lost, but it also meant she c
ould deal with the challenges that faced her as she saw fit.

  Freyalise rose higher, bounded on each side by the walls of the canyonlike rift. The base of her column was now one hundred yards across, almost to the edge of the force barrier that kept the Weaver King’s army at bay.

  Higher, she thought. Wider.

  The column responded, stretching up and swelling out until it smashed through the magical barrier. The Phyrexians and slivers did not hesitate. They scrambled up the woody tower, and though dozens of them were crushed to paste by its thick, undulating vines, hundreds more came shrieking up the sides, trampling each other in their zeal to reach Freyalise.

  Freyalise watched them come. She felt nothing but the desire to see them all die for their effrontery, and beyond that a peculiar calm. Unhurried, Freyalise reached behind her and took Jodah’s mirror into her hand. She examined it as the wooden column continued to carry her up, as the horde continued to close the gap between them and the planeswalker at its peak.

  It was a marvelous mirror, she thought. Jodah had smashed the original, but his replacement was even better—more elegant, more subtle, and more powerful. It was a shame it was useless to her. With a careless flick of her wrist, Freyalise tossed the silver-handled mirror away, casually watching it from the corner of her eye as it tumbled.

  Freyalise. I would speak with you.

  Windgrace’s words irritated her, as she did not want to be distracted. Still, she respected the panther-god and could sympathize with the strain in his voice.

  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.

  Windgrace’s presence dwindled. She heard the buzzing click of Phyrexian voices and the rasping sound of slivers taking flight. They would be upon her soon.

  Freyalise crossed her arms, gathered strength from the tower of vines beneath her, and waited for the end.