Rokun rose menacingly. In the dark forest, his plate armor seemed more insectoid than reptilian.
Through gleaming fangs, he hissed, “Oh, Rhammidarigaaz the Elder, I have longed for this moment.” He launched himself at his foe.
Black power scintillated across his horns and coalesced down his arms. Rokun’s claws grew preternaturally outward like lines of ink drawn on the air. Those lines intersected Darigaaz’s stomach and cut deep parallel furrows through the scales.
The elder dragon reeled back.
At least one of you remembers how to fight.
Darigaaz did not heed the voice, busy remembering something else—the volcanoes of Shiv. He drew the power to him and formed it into a red-hot column of force that poured from his clawtips. He roared and lunged. His talons clenched the black dragon’s throat. Incendiary heat ripped through the monster’s neck. From the holes torn by his claws gushed a tarry liquid. The acid burned Darigaaz’s flesh. More sprayed between the black dragon’s clenched teeth. Where it spattered Darigaaz, his own scales dissolved. It burned wounds across his neck and shoulders. Darigaaz reeled back.
Use your native power….
Like a well-stoked furnace, Darigaaz drew a hissing breath. Within his chest, breath transformed. It coalesced into pure energy and roared out. Flame blazed from his mouth. It ate the air between the dragons. A ball of fire broke over Rokun.
Ah, you do remember about volcanic heat! You do remember that you are a dragon and a king!
Rokun thrashed in the searing fire. His wings burned away in an acrid whoosh. His scales curled upward like mud drying beneath the sun. He staggered, going to his knees. Even the acid that dripped from his wounded throat burned.
Still, Darigaaz did not relent. Feral flame poured out of him and laved the rebel lord.
Yes, Rhammidarigaaz! Kill him, and the others will fall in line!
As if awakening from a nightmare, the elder dragon shuddered. His eyes grew wide. Fire ceased in his throat. The last of the flames dribbled between his fangs. Rhammidarigaaz stared in horror at the smoldering figure.
Rokun struggled to rise from the blackened ground where he lay. It was no good. His scales were as fragile as dry leaves. The vital fluids of his being drained whitely from every pore. He would die—that much was certain—but he was not dead yet.
Staggering numbly toward his foe—his victim—Darigaaz called out, “Summon the white dragons! Summon the healers!”
“Don’t bother!” rasped out Rokun. “They can only prolong it now. You have slain me, Rhammidarigaaz. You have slain me because I dared to oppose you.”
Yes, Rhammidarigaaz, purred the voice in his head. That is what you have done. That is what you had to do.
Staring feverishly at the ravaged figure, Darigaaz said, “You would have slain me—”
“I would have slain you…to save our people from worthless wars and old myths,” gasped Rokun. “I would have slain you to save the dragon nations…from being the tool of planeswalkers.”
“Better the tool of planeswalkers than the tool of Phyrexians.”
Through smoke-whitened eyes, Rokun looked up past Darigaaz to the other dragons. “Break from him….Escape the doom he brings….”
You must finish him before he turns your people away!
“This quest will destroy you…and all of us….”
“Silence, Rokun! You are defeated. Be silent!”
“You cannot silence me….They will rebel against you….”
A self-fulfilling prophecy!
“I said, silence!”
“Rise against him, dragon nations! Rise!”
You must finish him!
Rhammidarigaaz reached down, grabbing the scorched body. Scales shattered beneath his claws. He hoisted the creature overhead. Fury surged through him. Lifting Rokun high, he hurled him through the air. The ravaged body arced outward. Enough life remained in it that Rokun struggled to right himself. His claws and tail lashed.
Rokun crashed atop the root bulb. Nine spikes ripped through his seared flesh, impaling him. The body slumped on those spikes. Air left him in a long, gurgling hiss.
Darigaaz watched, heart pounding in his throat. He looked down at his claws, black from the deed. He looked up at the dragon nations. In their eyes, he saw his mad figure.
Speak to them, Rhammidarigaaz. Threaten them. You are on the verge of losing them.
“Any other traitors—” Darigaaz began, even before he was sure what was coming from his mouth—“will die the same way.”
It had been the wrong thing to say. The beasts visible recoiled from him.
It didn’t matter. A transformation had begun.
The dead dragon spilled acid and blood onto the magnigoth’s bark. The humors did not drip down but up, drawn skyward. They sank into a crevice and pried it apart. The caustic liquids ate through bark into the quick of the tree. The seam peeled back. Year by year, century by century, millennium by millennium, the rings were exposed.
“What’s happening?” wondered Darigaaz aloud.
You did it. You remembered what it was to rule your nation. You awoke your volcanic fury and united your kindred. It is enough. You have awakened me.
Rokun had been a sacrifice, Darigaaz realized. To free the Primeval, Darigaaz had had to sacrifice a mortal dragon on the tree.
The sorcery that split the tree had reached to its very core. Instead of deep darkness, the space shone sunlike. From it rolled the scent of dragon life essence. The air seemed liquor—stinging and numbing and intoxicating. It poured out and bathed the dragon nations. They could not remain standing but fell to their haunches and bowed their heads.
Only Rhammidarigaaz kept his feet. He stared with bald eyes at the creature returning to the world.
The blinding cleft widened, taking on a distinctly draconic shape. Long wings raked upward. Talons gripped the wood that once had gripped them. A tail lashed with new life. Scales glimmered like prisms. The creature strode from the wood. As it emerged, the tree closed. The dragon dimmed. It went from white-hot to red-hot, and then to its native color—green.
She was beautiful. Her scales shone like jade. She was powerful. Her claws and legs and wings and tail all spoke of brute strength. She was brilliant. Within her gleaming eyes were stored millennia that modern creatures could only guess at. She approached Darigaaz.
His heart pounded. The enervation of the fight was gone. Bathed in this creature’s glow, Darigaaz felt as beautiful and powerful and brilliant as she.
When she spoke, her voice was just as it had been in his mind. “You found your fury, Rhammidarigaaz. You found your dragon’s soul, and you awakened me. I am Rith, Primeval of Yavimaya.”
He could only nod in response.
“The circle is begun again. It is but a short arc now. When it is complete, no one will be able to stand before the nation of dragons.”
* * *
—
The dragons did not remain long. They followed the gleaming green Primeval skyward. The last of them lifted off before the forest’s defenders could rally.
En masse, Kavu bounded down the three-thousand-foot trunk of the magnigoth tree. They reached the root bulb below. Massive and horn studded, the great lizards circled the tree and sniffed the air. Dragon stench lingered. It stung their eyes. Nictitating membranes drew across them. Nostrils pinched shut.
These dragons had been foes as surely as had the Phyrexians. They had stolen one of Yavimaya’s most ancient treasures. The Kavu had defended the forest against Phyrexians, but they would have to marshal greater defenders to reclaim the lost serpent.
Circling the wounded magnigoth, the Kavu placed their claws on its root bulb. They threw back their heads and filled their wattles with air. From fangy mouths emerged a deep, mournful bellow. The song resonated among millennial trees.
In tim
e, the magnigoth guardian awoke. With terrific motion, it drew its roots up from the tangle of others. The cleft that once had held Rith split into an enormous pair of legs. A mouth gaped open beneath pitlike eyes. Most important of all, though, was the great canopy of leaves overhead. They nourished the beast, and through billions of stomas, they sniffed the air.
The Kavu ceased their song. Their message had been conveyed. Rith had escaped. The treefolk lord must lead its people to bring her back.
The magnigoth guardian drew in air all across its dome of leaves. Ah, Rith had headed out across the sea. It would follow her scent trail, the unmistakable smell of draconic power.
The treefolk lord strode from its spot in the forest of Yavimaya. Kavu in their hundreds climbed onto it. They too would go seek Rith. Even if they must hibernate beneath chill oceans, they would go. They were not the only ones. As the treefolk lord went, it awoke others of its kind. In the scent language of plants, it conveyed the news. Rith had escaped. She had headed over the sea.
By the time the magnigoth guardian had reached the shores of Yavimaya, a hundred of its kin followed. Kavu filled their boughs. The Yavimayan army strode out to sea. Their roots churned the sandy shallows. Faster than any sailing ship, they pursued their lost Primeval.
CHAPTER 13
The Warrior’s Feast
How like Thaddeus he is, this Lich Lord Dralnu, thought Agnate. He hefted his torch and glanced sidelong. Yes, he could almost be him—Thaddeus’s face, his eyes, his hands. More than anything else, it was Thaddeus’s voice. These were his words.
“When I lived, I was as you—a great warrior. It is the province of men to make war, to kill, as it is the province of women to make life.”
Agnate and Dralnu descended through a black and twisting cave. Their companies followed—the five hundred Metathran who had fallen into the quicksand and the five hundred undead who had saved them. Boots and bones pattered in a stream at the base of the cave.
“I suffered a likely enough death for a warrior—slain by a greater foe,” Dralnu continued. “That is when my story became unlikely. At that time, there was a lich lady in Urborg who collected fallen warriors. She raised them and restored their armor, their clothing, their very flesh. She raised me and put me in her collection.”
Agnate nodded. “Not a fate worthy of a great warrior.”
“No indeed. The ultimate sacrifice should not have been so meanly repaid,” Lord Dralnu said. “I should have been burned or buried or left to rot in the swamp. I should not have been raised to dance on wires, but I bided my time.
“I learned all I could from the lich lady. She even taught me her necromantic spells. I used them first to enhance my body and mind. I used them next to destroy her.”
“Destroy her?” Agnate echoed, surprised.
“It was a brutal act but an act of war. I was liberating the occupied nation that she ruled. I was taking her collection to turn it once again into an army.”
Agnate’s eyes gleamed like sapphires. “These troops, who saved us—these were her collection.”
“Some,” Lich Lord Dralnu responded. “Most are mine. I’ve become the equal of my mistress. I can raise even ashes to do my bidding.”
A fragile question came to Agnate’s lips. “How far does your power reach?”
“Throughout Urborg. My troops stand guard all across the island. The dead can wait indefinitely, whether within a shattered tree or a quicksand slough.”
“I mean your magic,” Agnate clarified. “How far can it reach? Can you touch other lands, distant battlefields?”
A dry smile formed on Dralnu’s pallid lips. “There is someone you wish to raise. Every mortal has someone.”
Agnate’s gaze darkened. “Forgive my presumption.”
“Forgive my inability to aid you,” Dralnu replied. His breath had a dry, unwholesome quality. “My powers do not reach beyond this isle.” He paused, seeming to consider. “Was this someone a great warrior?”
Blinking, Agnate said, “Yes. A great warrior slain by a great warrior—me.” With a shuddering breath, Agnate changed the subject. “Why did you save us?”
“What?” asked Dralnu, seeming surprised.
“Why did you save us? You could have had a whole new division in your undead army if you’d allowed us to die.”
“Unlife is no substitute for life,” Dralnu responded without pause. “You forget, Agnate. I was once a warrior. No true warrior should die before his time. The world needs you and your troops, and it needs you alive. I would rather have you as living allies than undead minions. I do what I do for the good of war and warriors.”
They were the sort of words Thaddeus would have spoken. It was more than that. Agnate and his troops owed this lich their lives. When Dralnu had invited them to his underworld kingdom to feast the new alliance, Agnate had been honor bound to accept.
Ahead, the pathway descended through its last, snaking turn. It opened into a large, deep cavern. Water led the way. From the moment they had left the world above, the troops had marched down through the trickling stream. It guided them to a world below.
Side by side, Agnate and Dralnu peered across the yawning spaces.
The cavern before them was immense. All around the perimeter of the space opened caves like the one where Agnate and Dralnu stood. Some of these passages emptied mere trickles of water across the sloping floor. A few to the right gushed regular rivers. The streams wended through deep channels, joined with other streams, and at last plunged into the wide pit at the center of the chamber.
All the light in the cavern came from that pit. It glowed crimson, the color of bare magma. A constant column of steam gushed upward from it. No doubt the waters that poured into that well fell until they stuck the world’s hot soul. The incessant steam had built up a massive collection of stalactites above the pit. Even now, sultry winds coiled about the stalactites, adding minutely to them before slipping upward through cracks in the ceiling.
“Behold, Agnate, the city of Vhelnish.”
Within the stalactites, lights glowed. Yellow and green, orange and purple, windows shone in their thousands. No solid fingers of stone, these structures were inverted towers. Instead of yearning skyward, they plunged toward fiery depths. Within their dripping walls would be chambers and stairways, libraries and staterooms, garrisons and guardhouses. Walkways stretched from tower to tower. Balconies perched above the reeling deeps. Here and there, just visible in shifting shadows, were the unliving inhabitants of this city.
“Vhelnish,” whispered Agnate in awe.
“Yes. It is my city. Once it had been only a showcase for my mistress’s collection. She kept warriors in niches as if they were statues. I have given them quarters of their own. She wished them to do nothing but stand. I have given them duties. I have made a life here for the dead. We work. We guard. We fight. We feast.”
“All in mockery of the cities above,” Agnate murmured before he could catch himself.
Dralnu did not bristle. “Not mockery but reflection. Throughout the world are priests who say death is not final, that we will live again in glory. I have died, Agnate. I tell you, there is nothing after death, nothing except oblivion. I have made a bargain with death to live again, to make a haven for virtuous souls that have gone before. No, it is not paradise, but neither is it oblivion.”
A deep sadness moved through Agnate. Here was a righteous warrior who, in the absence of a loving deity, determined to provide an eternal reward to those who deserved one. Yes, he was a necromancer. Yes, Dralnu had made a dark bargain, but all mortals try to bargain with their killers. This was not the inevitable end of a perverse soul but the inevitable end of a righteous one.
“Come,” Dralnu said.
He gestured toward a wide walkway that stretched from a nearby knob of stone up to the hanging city. Though wide enough to accommodate ten warriors abreast, when
glimpsed against the yawning spaces, the path seemed a mere cobweb. Agnate had not even noticed it before. Now he glimpsed numerous other threads, ascending from distal points around the cavern.
Dralnu motioned Agnate upward.
“Are we the first living beings to walk this road?”
“Yes,” the lich lord said. “But I hope you will not be the last, and I swear that all of you will return living to the daylight.”
That was assurance enough. Agnate stepped onto the broad path. It was fashioned of braided cables, solid and flexible. With Dralnu beside him, he ascended the silken road.
If only this path had extended to Koilos, Agnate thought, perhaps Thaddeus could have climbed it.
A cold thrill went through Agnate. The sensation passed as he rose into misty heights. Water beaded on his tattooed forehead. He drew steam into his lungs. It wrapped his heart in a hot hand. Agnate’s steps became numb things. He strode forward in happy bliss, a spirit entering the cloudy afterlife.
His troops followed more reluctantly. Hands were ready on weapons. Confusion and impatience showed in their eyes.
They do not understand death, Agnate realized. They deal it to others without hesitation, but they do not understand it. Death is not a thing that can be grasped. Death does the grasping.
From the time Agnate had slain Thaddeus, death had had its hold on him. Only here, on this strange highway, did he at last feel free.
Clouds rolled back. Vhelnish appeared, sudden and beautiful before him. Water-smoothed curtains of rock draped down around vast stalactites. Lantern and tallow set warm squares of light in the red mists. Monoliths jabbed down, their tips silhouetted against magma. The pit seemed almost an enormous sun at noonday.
Agnate swooned with vertigo.
A strong, cold hand steadied him. “Come, my friend. My people await. You are more than our guest. You are an avatar of all we once were.”
Nodding, Agnate turned and exhorted his troops. “Do not fear, my people. We do not enter Vhelnish to remain. We come only to honor our host and his people, the warriors who went before. We come to honor those we have lost, those we had never known, those who live on in the weapons we bear and the knowledge of how to wield them. Come, my people. Do not shrink from death. Let us befriend it today! One day it comes for us all!”
Planeshift Page 11