Planeshift

by J. Robert King

  She was an odd ship, constructed not from material but from ideal. She did not sail true seas but rather the seas of dream.

  Amid impossible thousands of others, Eladamri and Liin Sivi stood on deck as the Argosy emerged from beneath the ice. Together they saw the aching blue sky. The sun broke upon the two of them but cast down a single shadow.

  “Once again among the living,” Eladamri said gladly.

  “Once again,” Liin Sivi echoed. Her hand found his, and she slid her fingers between his. “I hadn’t doubted it, not from the moment I saw this ship.”

  Drawing a deep breath of the bright air—no more the wet chill murk—Eladamri replied, “Oh, I doubted. I thought we would never see daylight again. I thought the ship itself a dream. I am not certain it is not.”

  “They are not a dream,” Liin Sivi said, pointing to a nearby shoulder of stone. A Keldon camp perched there. Warlords and lackeys crowded the cliff, gazing in wonderment. “Nor is Port Bay a dream.” She gestured toward the great Keldon city, its domes and spires jagged against the sparkling sea. “How can this be a dream?”

  “This is a dream,” came a voice in High Keldon, though both Eladamri and Liin Sivi could understand. They turned to see Doyenne Tajamin, Keeper of the Book of Keld. “But this dream is more true than truth.”

  “More prophecies from your ancestral cudgel?” Liin Sivi asked.

  Tajamin shook her head slowly. Her eyes were twin embers, and her teeth gleamed in a scarred smile.

  “No, these words are written nowhere except on my soul. I have learned the power—and the limits—of written revelation. It can be misquoted as easily as quoted. The truth of figures is always figurative truth.”

  The doyenne’s smile spread to Eladamri. “These are strange words from the Keeper of the Book of Keld.”

  “These are strange times,” she replied. “It was written that the true heroes of Keld would descend from the Necropolis to fight the true foes of the land. I had always believed that this meant the honored dead would join us against the Phyrexians. In fact, the dead are the dead. They are closer allies to Phyrexia than to us.

  “But that does not mean the prophecies are false. The Golden Argosy has descended from the Necropolis, gathering the true heroes of Keld to fight the true foes of the land,” the doyenne said, fire shining in her eyes.

  Eladamri’s eyes narrowed. “Our fight has only begun, then?”

  She nodded with deep certainty. “The fate of Keld, and all the world, is being decided across the sea. The Battle of Keld is won. Every last soldier who fought was dragged down to death. Only we—the true heroes of Keld—rose again.” There seemed nothing more to say.

  The Golden Argosy breasted the gray waves with the same divine grace she had exhibited in the glacier. The thousands in her hull felt only gladness as she bore them through the tide. On the banks of the flood stood their folk—Keldon and elf—staring. All wore the blank and blind and somewhat worried aspect of sleepwalkers. They could not understand what they saw. It was a spectacle, a phantasm.

  To those aboard the Golden Argosy, it was more real than real. Eladamri, Liin Sivi, and Tajamin stood in company with two hundred Skyshroud and Steel Leaf elves. Nearby, Doyen Olvresk and his ten “fists” watched among the rest of his war band. Even Warlord Astor had survived the icy torrents. He shouted a greeting to the Keldons on the bank but got no response.

  “They cannot understand you,” Tajamin called to him. “They are in a mortal place. We are in a divine one. They are subject to want, to hunger, to fear, to confusion. We are not. They are sleepwalkers, only half aware of eternal things. We will return among them and be like them—some of us.”

  Eladamri was honestly surprised by this. “Return among them? What of the great battle that awaits us? What of the battle across the sea?”

  “It is a battle for some of us but not all,” Doyenne Tajamin replied. “The Battle of Keld may be done, but there is much to rebuild—whole societies. We have not won back our land only to abandon it. Some of the heroes of Keld must fight our battles here, at hearth and fire. Many of your folk must remain as well.” She moved toward the rail and gripped it with powerful fists.

  Suddenly understanding, Eladamri came up beside her. “You cannot leap from the ship. The icy flood will kill you.”

  Tajamin did not smile, but her teeth made a hopeful line. “No. It did not kill me before and will not kill me now. I must plunge into the waters as a sleeper into dream. I will rise on the far bank remembering this ship as if it were but a delusion—I and the thousands with me. We will climb, muddy and shivering, from the flood, and we will turn around to glimpse this ship. We will see it with the same unbelieving eyes as those on shore.”

  Staring levelly at her, Eladamri said, “If you cannot remember anything else, Doyen Tajamin, remember this. The folk of the Skyshroud are your allies, now and forever.”

  “Yes, Eladamri, Uniter of Keld,” the doyenne said formally, “I will remember.”

  With that she hurled herself over the rail. She dropped away into the gray flood and was swallowed up. After her went another and a third. Warlord Astor soon followed, and Doyen Olvresk as well, and then more than Eladamri could count. Each one disappeared in the bow waves, each reappeared, drenched and struggling in the cold tide at the ship’s stern. All swam for shore and for their folk, who waded in to bring them back to the land of the living.

  Eladamri rode on. He, Liin Sivi, some hundred elves, and some ten thousand Keldons rode on. From the banks, their companions watched with bald disbelief.

  Only Doyenne Tajamin wore a different look. The forgetful tide had not washed away one memory. She knew.

  The sight of it in her eyes gave Eladamri great comfort. His people had found a home in this land. He smiled as the Golden Argosy bore him and the heroes of Keld out into the churning sea.

  CHAPTER 29

  Life Must Ever Battle Death

  Commander Grizzlegom emerged from a grim scene. Agnate lay within the tent, unmade by an axe. There wasn’t much blood; he had been nearly dead before the weapon fell. The axe strokes—one for Agnate the man and the second for Agnate the undead—had been the only mercy in that awful place. The rest was grimness: the failed philters, the pus-covered bandages, the cot marked with finger-scars, the body that had died weeks ago but rested only now.

  These were the foul provisions of a covenant with death.

  In his four-fingered grip, Grizzlegom bore the provisions of a new covenant, a covenant with life. Commander Agnate’s signed and signeted orders gave the Metathran army to Grizzlegom.

  The Metathran guards outside the tent snapped to attention as Grizzlegom appeared. These two towering warriors would have to be his first witnesses, else they would enter, discover the scene within, and spread the wrong story.

  “Warriors, stand to. I have something you must see.”

  The soldiers turned toward him. Starlight shone against their silver hair. One wore shackles at his belt, the equipment of a guard captain.

  Grizzlegom presented the orders to him. “Note your master’s seal. Open it. Read it.”

  The soldier’s blue eyes studied the seal, seeing the warmth still within the wax. He cracked the wax and read. His face grew grim.

  “What has happened to Commander Agnate?”

  “He is dead. The plague had destroyed him. He begged me the mercy of ending his pain. I did. My healer is within, preparing the body.” Drawing back the tent flap, he allowed the two Metathran to gaze within. “Agnate signed this before I dispatched him.”

  “This is not written in his hand,” the guard captain said.

  “No, he was too weak—but this is his signature, and this his signet stamp.” Grizzlegom allowed the guard captain a moment before he said, “You now take orders from me. Corporal, close this tent and prevent anyone from entering. Captain, lead me to General Rilgesh.”<
br />
  Nodding, the guard captain said to his comrade, “You heard the commander.” Then to Grizzlegom, he said, “Follow me, Commander.”

  They set out through the night-swathed camp. Old foes—the people of mountain and island—soon would be allies against the forces of death.

  Along the near flank of the volcano, Metathran crouched in their dark circles, chewing the rock-hard fare that had come up the supply lines. They needed no fire, no light, and not even the comfort of conversation on that savage slope. These creatures were bred for war, happiest in battle. It was all they needed.

  Along the opposite flank of the volcano sat minotaurs at blazing bivouacs. They needed fire and light and stories—and better food. Though they all ate their rations of jerked pork and flat bread, they also feasted on frogs and mushrooms harvested from the swamps below, along with the occasional marsh deer. A small platoon of minotaurs hunted wild game, sending it and firewood to Grizzlegom’s troops. Minotaurs loved battle, yes, but they loved life as well.

  The gulf between the two armies seemed almost unbridgeable, especially by a slender slip of paper. Still, Agnate had bridged life and death. Perhaps enough of his power remained to unite these old foes. It would have to, or both armies were doomed.

  Beyond the camp, Lich Lord Dralnu’s forces—ghouls, zombies, revenants—patrolled the outer darkness. No fire, no stories, no food, they needed only unwavering devotion to their master. Though now they guarded the living, in mere hours, they would be slaughtering them.

  Grizzlegom clutched Agnate’s orders. The Metathran second-in-command, General Rilgesh, dwelt in a tent nearby, among the other generals in the command core. Though Metathran did not need tents, they did need hierarchy, and tents were signs of ascendancy.

  Ahead of Grizzlegom, the guard captain approached the soldiers outside Rilgesh’s tent. They traded quiet words. The soldiers stood back, holding up the tent flaps and making way for the minotaur.

  “Announcing Commander Grizzlegom,” the guard captain said solemnly.

  Grizzlegom stepped through their midst.

  Rilgesh was a Metathran general like any other—sleeping on a cot only because his rank required it. There were no adornments in the tent, nothing beyond a cot, a lantern, a small table where the evening’s meal lay untouched, and a strip of velvet that held the general’s polished and sharpened arms. Rilgesh had cleaned his arms before cleaning himself. He still sat in battle-scarred armor.

  Rilgesh stood, wiping his hands on the weapon rag before tossing it away. He bowed his head in greeting to Grizzlegom.

  Nodding in return, Grizzlegom handed the slip of paper to Rilgesh. “Commander Agnate issued these orders, to which his guard captain is witness.”

  The guard captain nodded his confirmation.

  Silently, Rilgesh took the sheet, studied the broken seal, opened the page, and read. There was no surprise in his eyes, not a moment of insurrection. He folded the note and handed it back.

  “What are your orders, Commander?”

  “Guard Captain,” Grizzlegom said, gesturing the Metathran farther into the tent, “sit there, upon the floor. General, sit there, upon the cot. The rest of you, leave us.”

  The two officers found their seats, and the guards withdrew.

  Grizzlegom crouched down near the two Metathran leaders and said intently, “At first light, we will attack the troops of Lich Lord Dralnu.”

  The unflappable warriors showed a moment’s hesitation.

  General Rilgesh said, “Dralnu is our ally—”

  “No longer,” Grizzlegom preempted. “Life can never ally with death. Life must ever fight death. We must fight Dralnu and his legions.”

  Rilgesh’s mouth gaped. “But to turn without warning on a friend—”

  “Dralnu has already turned on us. He infected Agnate with plague, hoping to raise him again as a minion. He planned to gain the whole Metathran army by gaining its commander,” Grizzlegom replied evenly. “And don’t think my axe has stopped him. If he cannot gain this army through Agnate, he will gain it by infecting us all. Unless we act now, all is lost.”

  Rilgesh’s eyes steeled with belief and duty. “We are yours to command.”

  “Good,” Grizzlegom said. “We will send word among our troops to muster quietly. Meanwhile, the three of us will strike. We will visit Dralnu, catch him off guard, surround him, and slay him.”

  “How does one slay a lich lord?” Rilgesh asked.

  “Destroy the brain first,” Grizzlegom said. “Next, shatter the necromantic implements on the body. Then dismantle the body, separating its parts and smashing any crystals imbedded within. Lastly, battle his host and slaughter them, every last one, so that none remain to return to his lair and provide him a new body.”

  “An elaborate assassination,” mused Rilgesh.

  “An elaborate foe,” Grizzlegom replied. “Will you do it?”

  “We are yours to command—”

  “I don’t mean as subordinates,” Grizzlegom interrupted. “I mean as warriors. Will you do what must be done? Already tonight, I have slain a noble comrade. I slew him twice. It was no easy thing, but it had to be done. Now we must slay an ally. I don’t want soldiers following orders. I want heroes who believe in each stroke of their blades. If you do not believe, we will die tonight. If you do believe, we will live. So, how say you? Will you do this thing?”

  Before they could answer, a voice came from the guards at the head of the tent. “Announcing Lich Lord Dralnu.” The flaps drew back, and the beast himself entered.

  In bright armor, the lich lord was an amazing sight. He might have been a living man. Gleaming boots drummed to a halt. Cuisses glinted beneath the silk tassels of his tabard. Only his head rose free of the pristine armor—his scabrous and horrid head. The lines of nobility remained in his high cheeks, though here and there the flesh split to show bones. The once-aquiline nose was sunken. Desiccated lips parted above teeth like dry corn. Only the eyes lived, and they burned with anger.

  “There is an assassin in the camp,” Lich Lord Dralnu said.

  The other three warriors had risen. Rilgesh stared in mute frustration at his weapons, lying out of reach on the floor.

  It was Grizzlegom who spoke, “What? An assassin?”

  Dralnu’s eyes were unblinking—his lids long since gone. “I just went to visit Commander Agnate in his tent, and when I got there—” he paused, seeming to eye the minotaur’s axe—“I found Agnate slain.”

  Grizzlegom feigned surprise. “Slain! In his own tent! What of the guard?”

  “Yes,” Dralnu continued, watching closely. “What of the guard? He would not allow me near the tent. He tried to force me away. I slew him, entered, and found Commander Agnate lying there, his head in pieces.”

  The two Metathran shifted their gazes from the lich lord to the minotaur.

  Dralnu continued. “There was a minotaur wrapping the body. He said he was a healer, though there was no hope of healing Commander Agnate. I ordered him away from the body, but he would not relinquish Agnate to me. I accused him of the murder, and he attacked me. I killed him as well.”

  Grizzlegom’s hackles rose. “It sounds as though you have found your assassins.”

  “Two of them, but the axe that slew Agnate was nowhere to be found. There must have been a third.”

  The Metathran gazed at the axe.

  Grizzlegom gritted his teeth. “You mean an axe like this?” He drew the weapon with a sudden, angry movement. “A minotaur’s axe, with a broad enough curve to cleave a man from pate to throat?”

  The lich lord warily watched the blade. “Yes. That sort of blade exactly.”

  Grizzlegom continued. “Good. Means and opportunity link me to the death of Commander Agnate. Perhaps even witnesses, for you have the power to question the dead.”

  “I am questioning you, Commander Grizz
legom.”

  “All that remains is motive, yes? Motive is what makes a killing an assassination or a murder or the normal course of war—or perhaps even a matter of honor.”

  “There was no honor in this killing. You slew him in order to take command of his troops,” the lich lord hissed.

  “Are those my motives or yours?” Grizzlegom asked, studying the notched blade. “Your gangrene slew him, not my axe.”

  “You have as much as admitted your guilt.”

  “As have you!” the minotaur retorted. “But we argue because we each need these men—Agnate’s men. They are our judges. Let them judge. Let them strip away our arms. Let them shackle us in iron—for even a lich lord cannot escape iron. Let them hood our heads, and once we are incapable of striking back, let them choose which they believe and which they kill.”

  Through rictus lips, the lich lord said, “Why should I submit to such a disgraceful act?”

  “If you speak the truth, you have nothing to fear.”

  “I speak the truth. It was your axe that slew the commander.”

  Grizzlegom dropped his axe. It clattered to the ground beside General Rilgesh’s own weapons. He drew his arms behind him, presenting them for the shackles.

  Simultaneously, Dralnu drew the gauntlets from his emaciated hands and positioned them at his back.

  The iron bands locked simultaneously in place. The two commanders were turned to face one another. Hatred sparked between them.

  “These warriors are honorable,” Dralnu said. “They will not believe the murderer of Agnate.”