Humans could not have seen anything in that dank space, but dragons saw the cold air that dragged away from musty walls. They glimpsed the chill drafts that danced like dark spirits across the floor. And in the center of the space, at the precise junction of the building’s transepts, they saw that the floor glowed with unnatural warmth.
“What is it?” asked Darigaaz.
“Who is it, you mean,” replied Rith. On all fours, she stalked slowly toward the spot. “Everything that mortals have, they stole from us. First, they stole dominion over fire, which they used to capture the Primeval of Shiv. Next, they stole dominion over plants—what they call agriculture. With that power, they imprisoned me in Yavimaya. Their greatest weapon they gained next, dominion over words. Stories, histories, sciences—writing is the magic that allows the dead to instruct the living. Books are no less than the memory of the world. Once mortals tapped that memory, they knew exactly how to trap the third Primeval.” Her voice was quiet but imbued with a barely contained rage. “She is Treva, and she lies pinioned beneath the foundation drums of this library.”
Darigaaz had crept near enough now to make out the shape of the warm silhouette on the floor—unmistakably that of a dragon.
She was buried deep within the lime mortar of the floor. She had been crucified. Her forelegs were stretched out unnaturally beneath a pair of massive pillars. Her hind legs were similarly splayed. Her tail formed a large curve beneath the feet of the dragon lords. Her head jutted into the apse beyond. A pair of wide, graceful wings swept into each transept.
Darigaaz glanced up to the sweating ceiling. “This level is older than what lies above.
Rith smiled in the darkness. “Perceptive. Yes, this level is the first library, in fact a monastery, no larger than these crossed transepts. It was leveled and rebuilt in the time of the Thran. That library was destroyed in the cataclysm of Yawgmoth. A university then took this site, only to be destroyed in the Argoth event. So have passed the ages. Knowledge comes and goes, but the foundation of knowledge—” she spread her claws toward the warm silhouette—“remains.”
Staring at the shape, Rhammidarigaaz said, “Yes, but how do we free her? You escaped your prison only after Rokun was—only after I slew Rokun. I am not willing to make such a sacrifice again.”
There was murmured agreement among the other dragon lords.
Rith purred casually, “Oh, you needn’t worry about sacrifices. I know the ancient sorceries.” Her teeth glinted in the murk. “Even so, I need your help. The spell requires black mana, to break the grip of death, and then green, white, and blue mana to restore life. You, the dragon lords of swamp and forest, plain and sea, must tap the magical power of your homelands and bring it here, into this place. Then Rhammidarigaaz will unleash a red-mana spell to cut through the floor beneath us. Once Treva is revealed, I will channel the mana you have drawn to awaken her.”
“That much power could bring the ceiling down on us,” Darigaaz objected.
“The other four may stand safely clear, beside the pillars, in case the ceiling comes down. You, though, Rhammidarigaaz, must stand beside me, risking all.”
The black creature snickered. “Rhammidarigaaz would risk anything for the good of the dragon nations.”
Darigaaz scowled. Rith was singling him out, perhaps intending to use his life force to power the spell.
A hiss came from the black dragon. “Or is Darigaaz willing to require the ultimate sacrifice of Rokun, only to shrink from danger himself?”
“No,” Darigaaz replied levelly. He strode toward Rith. The floor felt hot beneath his claws. Treva’s power seeped up his legs and into his heart, bringing a fierce longing for ancient times. “I will do it.”
Rith extended a welcoming claw toward him. She gripped his talon. Small sparks leaped between their fingers.
“Good. You can trust me, Rhammidarigaaz. Do you feel the power between us? It will be sufficient.” Raising her voice, she spoke to the others. “Spread out equally around us, facing forward, and remain in line of sight.”
Hissing happily, the black dragon withdrew beside one of the four drums that held up the vault. The three other dragon lords took their places beside the other drums.
“Excellent,” Rith said. “Now, to begin the spell, you must tap the power of your homelands. Concentrate. Draw the mana into you.”
The air in the chamber changed. There came a smell of lightning. Power crackled. Beside the four pillars, the dragon lords glowed. Energy cascaded through their blood and lined out their arteries. It limned every scale. It shimmered across horns and teeth and even poured from eyes. Visions of deep forests and deeper oceans mixed with scenes of fetid murk and fecund field.
“Cast your spell, Rhammidarigaaz,” Rith said quietly.
The power mounting in him lashed downward. Crimson rays surged from his splayed claws. They struck the floor and burned through. With precise lines and jags, Darigaaz traced the heat-silhouette beneath his feet. The beams bit deep. Lime mortar cracked over the silent form.
Rith bowed, pulling up hunks of the loose material and flinging them away. Piece by piece, the Primeval was uncovered. Her wings were manifold, formed of featherlike scales. Her limbs and belly plate were as white as chalk. Her throat and forehead were mantled in gleaming pinions.
Last of all, Rith drew back the shard that covered the dragon’s face. The slim snout beneath bristled with teeth, and eyes glowed with beaming magic.
As the red sorcery ceased pouring from his claws, Darigaaz looked up. The four other dragon lords shone with gathered magic. Their eyes glowed. Their teeth sparked. Their limbs shuddered. It was as though they were transfixed on shafts of lightning.
“It is time. Draw off the power,” Darigaaz said to Rith. “Draw it off now, before they are destroyed.”
She did not seem to hear, gazing at the glowing figures.
“Draw off the power. They will die!” Darigaaz demanded.
“But how many more will live and rule?” Rith replied quietly.
“You said there would be no more sacrifices.”
She seemed angered, turning on him. “I said you needn’t worry about sacrifices.”
A quadruple burst of power ended the argument. The four dragon lords erupted in a storm of wild mana. It blasted the flesh from their bones, and then burned bones to ash. It cracked the stone drums behind them. Rock shards bounded outward. The vault itself would have come down except that it was hurled up and away. The energy tore through four subbasements and the rubble atop them and flung it all into the sky. Everything was ripped from that deep pit—everything but Rith and Darigaaz.
They stood untouched in the eye of the storm. Darigaaz could only gape in horror at the destruction all around. Rith meanwhile casually channeled the rampant mana. Her sorceries awoke the Primeval at their feet.
In moments, the white dragon’s eyes blinked. Wind riffled among her feathery scales. Muscles twitched. Lungs filled with their first breath in ten thousand years.
As life entered Treva, it redoubled in Darigaaz. He felt the same strange transformation that had occurred when Rith emerged from the magnigoth. His horror at the deaths of his comrades was washed away in this overwhelming surge of power.
He remembered things. He remembered a world before humans. He remembered ruling that world.
Suddenly it wasn’t a memory. Suddenly the power storm was gone, and Treva and Darigaaz and Rith stood side by side by side.
CHAPTER 21
A Commingling of Flesh
Agnate strode no longer at the head of his troops. He could not. His legs were uncertain things these days. It didn’t matter. His armies were not uncertain in the least.
A tide of commingled flesh—blue muscle and black rot—surged up the volcanic hillside. Living and dead had become comrades in arms. Agnate and his combined armies had scoured the lower reaches of Urborg—
every filthy swamp, every festering pit, every sand spit and bone beach. It all was in his grasp. Hundreds of thousands of Phyrexians had ended in fires on the beach. Metathran held the dry land, and undead held the watery reaches.
Only the volcanoes remained. They would fall easily in the next weeks. The Phyrexian garrisons had already been blasted from above. Agnate needed merely to clear out bunkers—just the job for a half-rotten man and his half-rotten army.
Agnate’s heart tumbled in him. It had to work especially hard these days, pumping blood through collapsing vessels, driving legs that turned to mush. His heart could do it. It was strong. His secret infirmity didn’t matter, for his heart would win the land war of Urborg.
Agnate strode like an old general behind the vanguard. His troops streamed up around him, boys eager to race up a hill. Agnate allowed it. For months, each of these soldiers had fought like ten men. Now they played like boys. After all, there was nothing to fear here in the foothills.
Something huge suddenly eclipsed the sun. Its shadow slid like a leviathan over them. The playfulness left their legs. Soldiers turned, half-crouched away from the shape, and peered up at it with fear.
It was no Phyrexian ship, that was sure, but neither was it a vessel any of them had ever seen before. The craft was headed up with a massive ram, its end carved in the shape of a powerful woman. Spikes proliferated along either side of this figure, leading back to a sleek hull covered in thick armor. The metal shone mirror-bright. At the stern, the armor swept outward in a pair of gleaming metal wings. Long, steely pinions could slide closed across each other like folding fans. Between them jutted a pair of thermal exhausts for what must have been a massive drive mechanism. Fire burned in twin cones of red behind the ship.
Most ominous of all, though, were the Phyrexian ray cannons that gleamed at forecastle, amidships, stern, and belly.
Agnate cursed himself for a fool, but it was too late to recall his men. They were caught in the open, beneath…whatever it was, yet Agnate’s heart told him not to run.
The ship cruised toward a flat spot on the volcano’s side. Steam hissed from numerous ports along its base. Troops below scattered back. Beneath the ship, landing spines extended from metal panels. The vessel eased down toward its perch.
Only then did Agnate see the ship’s profile—her needle-sharp bowsprit, enclosed bridge, and slim stern. Joy swept through him.
“Weatherlight.”
When last he had seen her, she was battered. To see her transfigured by her wounds gave Agnate the hope that perhaps he himself could be healed.
He strode forward faster than his legs wished to go. This was a meeting of champions. Agnate was winning the ground battle, and Weatherlight was winning the sky. It was a moment of triumph. Agnate needed a moment of triumph.
He hailed the ship: “Commander Gerrard. It is good to see you among the living!”
From the rail came an answer, “I would say the same of you, Commander Agnate, though you seem among the dead!”
Gritting his jaw grimly, Agnate approached the vessel. It seemed even larger on the ground than it had in the air.
Agnate cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “This alliance—strange as it may be—has won the wetlands of Urborg. Soon we will win the mountains too.”
Gerrard jutted his head over the rail. His face was handsome and dark against the beaming sky, though his eyes were worried. A humorless smile spread across his lips.
“Yes, soon you will win the land, but at what cost?”
The joy that had flooded Agnate drained away. He suddenly seemed all rot. “Permission to come aboard, Commander.”
“Permission granted.”
A rumble came above as crew members lifted free a section of rail and slid the gangplank in place. It extended down to crunch on a patch of pumice.
Agnate strode slowly toward it. He did not want to seem overeager. Nor did he want his legs to fail. As he ascended the gangplank, he saw the crew members who had lowered it—minotaurs. They were everywhere, crowding the refitted ship.
In their midst stood Gerrard. The young man’s eyes were grave, though he wore a welcoming smile. Agnate remembered that smile—the look of a commander who wins all the battles but loses the war. Agnate wore such a smile himself.
The commanders met. They clasped forearms in a hearty greeting.
Gerrard said, “Welcome aboard Weatherlight.”
Nodding graciously, Agnate replied, “Welcome to Urborg.”
Gerrard returned the nod. He swept his hand out to one side of him. “I have brought you reinforcements. A thousand minotaurs. The elite troops of Hurloon and Talruum. The Phyrexians liked them so well they were planning on recruiting them. I beat them to it.”
Agnate took a deep breath and gazed at the minotaur troops. They were the fiercest natural warriors Dominaria had to offer. Urza had used much of minotaur physiology and flesh to design the Metathran. They were cousin races, one conceived by Gaea and the other by Urza.
“Excellent. Minotaurs fight like ten men. You have given me a levy of ten thousand soldiers.”
“More like twenty thousand. These troops have lost their homelands. They’ve sworn a death oath against Phyrexians.”
“Yes,” Agnate agreed. “Then perhaps even thirty thousand.”
Gerrard clapped a nearby bull-man on the neck and drew him over. The warrior wore a solemn expression, despite Gerrard’s casual demeanor.
“This is Commander Grizzlegom, leader of the minotaur army.”
Agnate dipped his head in greeting, but his eyes remained on the bull-man’s face. There was strength in this minotaur but also subtlety, intelligence, perhaps even wisdom. Minotaurs judged each other this way, by the lines of the face and the soul in the eyes. Agnate made a snap decision. It was uncommon for him, but he hadn’t much time.
“Commanders, I must speak with you privately,” he said in a hushed voice.
Gerrard seemed surprised. He looked around the crowded deck before gesturing toward the stern castle. “We could ask to use Captain Sisay’s chambers—”
“No,” preempted Agnate. “The sickbay. Your healer should be there too.”
Gerrard nodded seriously. “Yes. Yes, of course. This way, Commanders.”
* * *
—
The ship had transformed. That was the miracle of Thran metal. It grew.
Karn entered the metal. This was more than peering out the rail lanterns or feeling areas of heat stress on the manifold. This was merging with the ship. Karn’s body still crouched beside the engine block. His fists still clutched the twin control rods deep in their ports, but Karn’s mind lived in Weatherlight.
The feeling was exquisite. Thran metal was more alive than his own silver frame. Oh, to be made of the stuff, to be a Thran-metal man.
That sparked a memory:
He stood in a hot red place, a laboratory where another metal man was being made—a Thran-metal man. Lizard folk took measurements from Karn and added pieces to the mechanism. Jhoira was there. She seemed not to have aged a day since that horrible time of slaughter in Tolaria. Still, her young eyes were sad. Her jaw clenched in consternation as she studied diagrams. Beside her stood a handsome young man with a dark complexion. Teferi? How had he aged decades when Jhoira had not aged at all? Why would they make a new Karn?
The memory was gone. How strange. Another Karn, made of Thran metal? A replacement? His friends would replace him with a better design?
Karn had often wondered about his creation. He knew he was ancient. Many of his components were Thran in origin, even the symbol on his chest. Those facts had allowed him to believe in a lofty creation. This memory told of humbler beginnings. He was almost replaced by a Thran-metal man. He was almost traded to lizards.
Desolated, Karn wandered through the fittings of the ship, a man pacing the decks. He absently
adjusted a lantern outside the captain’s study, enlarging its parabolic mirror. There was also a misaligned latch on the study door—a fitting that hadn’t changed to accommodate the enlarged frame. Karn fixed it as well. Every major change to the ship brought a thousand minor ones. Once Karn was done, Weatherlight would be perfect.
Another few months, said a voice deep in his mind, and Weatherlight will be perfect.
Karn paused a moment within the doorknob to Sisay’s chambers. The remembered voice brought another scene to mind—a deep woodland. A tree grew there with unnatural speed. It rose from the Weatherseed. Tendrils reached up around hunks of Thran metal, floating in air. Each new shoot brought the tree into closer configuration with its metal parts.
Well, she won’t be perfect, said the voice in Karn’s memory. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Beside him stood a man with intense eyes and ash-blond hair. Nothing’s ever perfect. Conditions change and designs must too. A bemused look came into those glinting eyes. Suddenly Karn remembered who this was—Urza Planeswalker. Come to think of it, Karn, you’re the only machine I ever made that I stopped fiddling with. That’s because you’re the only machine that keeps redesigning itself.
Karn was glad he rested in a doorknob. Had he been on his own feet, he would have fallen over.
Urza was his creator. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Urza was Karn’s originator. Karn was his own creator. That’s why he was still around. Karn redesigned himself. Though his metal body did not grow, his soul did.
He suddenly remembered the fate of the Thran-metal man. It had grown until its joints locked up and its plates popped free and it literally burst. It grew outwardly, not inwardly.
The doorknob to the captain’s study grew a faint smile.
* * *
—
There were no smiles in sickbay as Orim bent over Commander Agnate. Her coin-coifed hair sent little circles of light dancing across the bulkhead.
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