Windgrace exploded into the center of the assembly like a giant black powder bomb, liquefying the metal brutes close by and shredding those in the distance. He rose from the smoking crater he’d made and conjured his bladed staff to his open hand.
“Hoy, clockwork demons,” he bellowed. “I have swamps full of your predecessors’ bones. Come and die to enrich the soil of Urborg.”
They closed upon him immediately, without fear, without mercy. The panther-god swung his staff, slashing through the first row of artifact devils like a reaper among the wheat. Those that weren’t cut in two soon toppled anyway as a bubbling, black infection foamed up in the wounds, dissolving their blue-steel bodies in its wake. The rot spread back to those that hadn’t been touched by Windgrace’s blade, and it gave the planeswalker a savage thrill to melt so many of these icy horrors without the slightest measure of heat.
Something huge and ponderous with crushing claw-hands seized him from behind. It exerted enough pressure to crush a long ship’s hull and sent surges of electric agony coursing through Windgrace’s body.
Windgrace grunted. He flexed the muscles in his burly arms and shoulders, shattering the metal claws into shrapnel. He whirled in place, dropped his staff, and brought his hands together with the clawed creature’s head between them. The Phyrexian’s upper body collapsed, squashed flat and mangled by the brute force of Windgrace’s blow. The panther-god kicked out with his foot, splitting the armless, headless invader up the middle.
Windgrace abandoned himself to the slaughter. There were Phyrexians everywhere, each in dire need of his dark ministrations, and he did his best not to leave any of them waiting. He charged forward into their ranks, scattering them like frightened birds. His bladed staff became a solid circular blur, a sawmill’s blade that left necrotic black foam on every invader it touched. Those so afflicted dissolved, along with any others that were splashed in their collapse.
He increased his size, swelling to over twenty feet tall. He pounced among the enemy’s thickest concentration, breaking them with his teeth and savage blows from his silky black forehead. Time and again they swarmed over him, ants engaging an angry bear, and each time he cast them off with massive sweeps of his arms, flinging them free with such force that they splattered against the trees or crushed themselves against their fellows.
“Weaver!” he rumbled. “This ends here!”
For you, maybe. But I have other plans.
Windgrace tried to isolate the source of the taunting harlequin voice, but even his keen ears were stymied by the racket the Phyrexians made as they fought and died. No matter, he thought. I’ll simply kill every last one of them until he and I are the only ones left.
A bolt of sickly yellow slammed into him, burning his back and blinding him with pain. He shrank back to his former size, his fur smoking. Windgrace turned to face the pair of heavy war-wagons rattling toward him on metal treads. Each bore a cannon that was trained directly on him, and he could see and feel the energy gathering within for another blast.
Enraged, Windgrace flew forward, dodging the cannon beams as he came. He latched onto each long barrel, one in each hand, and his arm muscles bulged. The wagons rose off the ground for a moment, still spinning their treads, then their own weight hauled them down to the ground, bending each cannon into sharp right angles. Windgrace held on as he pivoted and strained. The cannons and their rotating turrets tore free, and Windgrace spun in place, flailing the next wave of Phyrexians with the remains of their most powerful weapons. After enough revolutions to clear a wide circle around him, Windgrace angled his shoulders and cast the mangled turrets high into the air. They landed among the multitude and exploded, leaving only charred and smoking slag inside the blast radius.
The Phyrexians held their distance, menacing him with their limbs and their weaponry but well clear of his reach.
“Lord Windgrace?”
He recognized the voice and didn’t bother to turn. “What do you want?”
Karn stepped up behind his fellow planeswalker. “I have come to urge you to address the Stronghold rift.”
“Then consider your errand complete. You have urged me, and I have refused. Again. Begone, or I will forget that you were only Phyrexian in a past life.”
“With respect…is this the most constructive use of your power?”
Windgrace lashed out with his claws, slicing a Phyrexian scuta into roughly equal parts. “It’ll do,” he said.
“Then if you’ll allow me…”
Windgrace stopped and faced Karn. “Allow you to what? Nine Hells, you Tolarians are exasperating.”
Karn bowed lightly. “I was made to battle these creatures, my lord—well, not these creatures precisely, but ones much like them. Please,” he said, “let me clear the field.”
Windgrace coughed angrily. He prepared to lash out at the construct, to send him to the far edge of the world, but the metal man had already begun to shine. Karn lifted his arms out straight and floated into the air. He began to spin, picking up speed as he twirled, and the light coming off him grew stronger and more intense. Intrigued, Windgrace watched carefully as Karn became a whirling mass of white-hot energy.
You should withdraw, my lord, the construct said, or at least take cover.
The panther-god snorted disdainfully, but he raised bubble of solid mana around him. He shifted his visual range to allow him to see through his own barrier just as Karn released an omnidirectional wave of force.
The wave spread over the entire battlefield, disintegrating the Phyrexians as if they had never been. There was no wreckage, no debris, no pools of glistening oil. Even the invaders Windgrace had already dispatched vanished in that killing surge of burning white.
Karn slowed his rotation, and the light around him dimmed. Windgrace lowered his shield and appraised the scene. There were no Phyrexians left in the immediate area.
“Impressive,” he growled, “for a construct.”
The horde was far from vanquished, but the closest invader was now a solid ten minutes away even at a dead run. Karn had bought them time and breathing room, but he had not won the day.
“I thought we might take this chance to talk,” the metal man said.
“About what?”
“About the future. Your future, mine, and Urborg’s.”
“I’ve already had this conversation today.”
“Then it bears repeating. Your duty is here. Mine is far away, halfway around the globe and three hundred years past. I cannot act until you do, or my efforts will be utterly wasted.”
“Like your time on this field,” Windgrace said. “Leave me to my work.”
“I am trying to make your work easier, my lord.”
“I fail to see how.”
“By defeating your enemy. The Phyrexians are not the disease. They are a symptom. You wouldn’t cure a sore foot by chopping it off, would you?”
“That depends on whose foot it is.”
“For the sake of discussion, let’s say it’s yours.”
“Discussion?” Windgrace did not try to restrain his astonishment. “Why are you having discussions with me now? Your power is impressive. Your assistance is grudgingly appreciated. But I am through with discussions and talk.”
“Why? Surely a handful of words with me will not derail your evening’s carnage.”
“For the sake of discussion,” Windgrace said darkly, “let’s assume that I’m a coward. I have become so enamored of my immortality, so greedy for it, that I would prefer to let Urborg die in my place. Would that satisfy your machine curiosity?”
“It would if it were true. But you are no coward, my lord. And the rift may not even take your life.”
“It took Freyalise’s life. And Teferi’s power.”
“So it would seem. But Freyalise was weaker than she had ever been. And Teferi was only diminished to what he was before he ascended. What were you before you ascended, my lord?”
Windgrace glared, and his tail slashed the air.
>
“I was a construct,” Karn said, “an amalgamation of parts and magic designed for a specific purpose. When that purpose was fulfilled, I was put aside. But I would still choose that over knowing I had not done all I could to protect the ones I love.”
“I was a hero,” Windgrace said. “In ages past, the panther tribes ruled Urborg. I was their warrior chief, a man to be respected and feared.”
“And you can be that again. If you are truly Urborg’s protector and you wish to remain so, you must risk what you have. To save your home from these horrors one minute only to lose it the next when the rift erupts would be a poor tribute to the panther tribes of old.”
Windgrace tossed his bladed staff aside. He stalked up to Karn and glared. “Can you lie, construct?”
“If necessary. But I find the truth is far more reliable.”
“Your Tolarian masters lie. They have lied to me at every turn. I cannot and will not do what you ask unless I am given certain assurances. Urborg must be provided for.”
“I give you my word,” Karn said. “It will be.”
“Ha! Yet you yourself are bound for Tolaria to seal the time rift there. Who says you will be able to return, that you’ll survive long enough to keep your word?”
“There are always uncertainties,” Karn said. “But the danger posed by that rift is not one of them. You are no coward, Lord Windgrace, but you are overcautious with regards to your home as well as overestimating your own importance. Urborg will endure.”
Windgrace made a sound that was half growl and half roar. Almost as a reply, the rift over the Stronghold let out a thick, jagged stroke of lightning.
“Tell me the truth, construct. Will this actually work?”
“It will. It has before, and it will again.”
“You make no sense to me,” Windgrace said. “None of you do. The last time I followed someone else’s grand scheme, nothing went as planned and everyone died.”
“You speak of Urza and his Nine Titans’ raid on Phyrexia proper. That was a long time ago, my lord, and things are even more dire now than they were then. Yes, this is someone else’s grand scheme. But you know it’s the only real option.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“Then consider this: The last time, when everyone died, was the outcome worth the cost? Was stopping the Phyrexian Invasion and killing Yawgmoth once and for all a noble cause worth dying for? Urza thought so. And so did countless others. Many of them died here, in Urborg, under the shadow of that cursed mountain.
“I put it to you, Windgrace. This is still the same threat you agreed to meet all those years ago. The Invasion helped cause this current strife, created your hole in the sky. That battle is not yet complete and never will be as long as remnants of it continue to spoil Dominaria. It’s time to finish it once and for all.”
Windgrace felt tired. He was tired of arguing, tired of fighting with no hope of victory. “So be it,” he said. “But if Urborg is left without protection, I will return from the grave and punish you severely.”
“And I would deserve it. I trust you to survive. Do you trust me if you do not?”
Windgrace shook his head. “No. I will make my own arrangements.” The panther-god crouched on his powerful hind legs and slammed his claws into the soil. He concentrated, summoning up the totality of forest and swamp mana that was his to command. The broad muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged, and a crushing jolt of pure magic thumped into the ground, making it ripple and undulate like liquid.
Windgrace rocked back, pulling his hands free. He stiffly rolled his neck and rose to his feet.
“What did you do?”
“I have infused a part of myself into the land. I may not return, but my spirit will continue to watch over Urborg. Your rift solution will have to work with whatever portion remains.”
“Thank you, Lord Windgrace. I pray it will be enough.”
The panther-god showed Karn a toothy smile. “Pray harder.” Without giving Karn the chance to fill his head with more words, Windgrace settled back down to his haunches, every bit the mighty predator. He let his body slip into the soil, through the thin veneer of ice and the layers of rich, black mulch below. For a brief, shining moment, he was Urborg, every blade of grass, every rock, every last pine needle. It felt right. It felt proper. It felt like the fitting last act of a stalwart and noble protector.
Windgrace gathered himself, collected his ultimate force, and set his sights on the crackling circle of purple light in the sky.
Then he pounced, surging up with his jaws spread wide. He was gigantic, his head larger than the Stronghold itself. The rift responded as he approached, reacting as the Tolarians said it would, reaching for him, striving to absorb his power. It was laughable, he thought. All this clamor and commotion over something so small?
He engulfed the rift in his jaws, clamping down on it with his sharp fangs and his short, crushing molars. It burned him, ripped his flesh, blistered his throat, and broke his teeth. His jaw split, and his skull cracked. The pain was terrible, crippling, but Windgrace kept on. For a dreadful moment he felt the balance shifting, felt the rift tearing parts of him away and devouring them raw. He responded, pouring more of his limitless might into the task of breaking the disk and swallowing the bitter blood that gushed forth.
In the end, he outlasted it. The rift’s force was spent before his own, and he felt the brittle disk shatter between his jaws like an overbaked cracker. As his consciousness drained away, and his life force was sucked into the shattered hole in the sky, Windgrace celebrated his victory. He roared, a hurricane wind of triumphant fury.
Then the panther-god vanished, taking the Stronghold rift into oblivion like a trophy between his teeth.
The Weaver King watched Windgrace’s final effort through the eyes of a thousand Phyrexian puppets. He felt a disquieting tug deep within when the purple disk winked out, but that was soon replaced by the warm, satisfying sense of a job well done. Windgrace was gone. Urborg belonged to the Weaver King.
There were no more Phyrexians to master, but he could make do with the multitude he already had. The cold remained unabated, but it would deepen no more. He had done all that his unseen patron required, and though he had not succeeded in besting his enemies, they were dead, and he remained.
He wondered, would that earn him praise or rebuke? For the first time he understood Dinne’s recalcitrance and sullen moods. It was hard indeed to live for another, to be bound to another’s will. Now that the most obvious obstacles before him had been removed, the Weaver King could focus on reestablishing his own autonomy. For that he needed Venser, and perhaps Dinne too.
Abandoning his army to their own devices, the Weaver King skated free along the silver threads that bound his subjects to him. He was unstoppable now. All he needed to do was wait.
Sooner or later, they would let themselves become vulnerable. When they did, he would own them all, body and soul.
* * *
—
Venser stood inside his workshop still half-dazed and exhausted from the day’s events. Freyalise’s death had come as a shock because he didn’t know it was happening. It was far worse being a partial witness to Windgrace’s final act of heroism. He understood that the panther-god was not a god at all, but that didn’t change the lifelong awe and respect he had felt for Urborg’s champion. Losing him was like losing his father all over again—along with his grandfather, his uncles, his mentor, and everyone else he had ever looked up to. He had lived his life in fear of seeing Windgrace and his gladehunters, but now that Windgrace was gone, Venser was even more afraid of the Urborg he left behind.
It had happened faster than any of them could process. Teferi had been working his way through a bowl of thin soup when he let the spoon clatter to the floor. On the bald man’s urging, the three of them went outside just in time to see the great, black cat’s head seize the Stronghold rift in his teeth and shake it to death. When the purple light went out and Windgrace went with it
, Venser, Jhoira, and Teferi could only stand and stare silently.
Now they were back inside, and Venser’s appetite had dwindled to a dull, manageable ache that was almost totally eclipsed by the shock and horror he felt. He could almost understand Teferi’s renewed energy—they had succeeded in fending off the end of everything for another short while—but their successes were more costly with each step forward they took. Teferi, Freyalise, and Windgrace had been among the few planeswalkers gifted, driven, and noble enough to give their lives for the sake of others, and now they were all dead, missing, or disempowered. They had achieved their immediate goal of fixing the most dangerous time rifts, but they were changing the magical balance of Dominaria as radically as the rifts themselves.
Jhoira said nothing after Windgrace’s display. She simply watched with a probing eye as the ex-planeswalker slurped his soup.
Karn materialized outside Venser’s open door. He stood politely as Venser stared and Teferi happily chewed on the last piece of bread.
“May I come in?” the silver man said.
“Please.” Venser was so numb that Karn barely registered as a singularly complicated artifact. Any other day of his life would have found Venser full of questions and a desire to examine the silver golem’s mechanical innards. At the very least he would have peppered Karn with questions. Today, however, Karn was just another unfathomable player in this game of dangerously high stakes.
“Karn, my old friend,” Teferi said. He mopped up the last of the soup with a piece of stale bread. Chewing and crunching as he stood, Teferi stepped back from Venser’s humble table and circled around to greet the metal man. “You’re arrived just in time to help us form the next steps in our plan.”
“Lord Windgrace is—” Karn said.
“Gone,” Venser said. “We saw.”
“His spirit remains,” Karn said. Venser must have visibly expressed the doubt and exasperation these words dredged out of him because Karn added, “I’m not speaking poetically, young man. Windgrace refused to go until he had seen to Urborg. He would not have gone if he didn’t think this place was protected.”
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