by Doug Beyer
“What’s happening?” she said.
“This is it. We’re hitting the tunnels. Grab the satchel.”
“Where’s Captain Haim?”
“He’s dead. They’ve come, Salay. It’s time to go. Where’s Vali?”
Salay’s face went pale. “I thought he was with you! He said he was going to help you with your watch, and headed out to find you …”
“Oh, no, no—”
His son was outside the stronghold, unprotected among the undead. He was sure of it. The world closed in on Levac’s mind.
BANT
Aarsil held her hand up to quiet the court assembly again.
Rafiq looked at Mubin. The rhox’s mouth hung open at the prophet’s words—the thought of other lands appearing all around Bant, and the onset of war with them, was hardly to be believed. But his expression seemed not to convey disbelief so much as wonder.
“What is it?” Rafiq whispered to him.
“It all fits,” said Mubin, but he didn’t elaborate.
Aarsil the Blessed narrowed her eyes at the Skyward Eye seer Iama. “Assuming we believe this—your proposal would be what, exactly?”
“I’m just a prophet, not a ruler, your honor. But I would propose that we go to war immediately. That we raise an army, and assault our enemies who emerge from distant lands, those who wish to crush all of Bant. That we invade the world they call Esper, to save our own.”
Aarsil stood up from her throne, her gilded robes flowing around her. She paced back and forth across the dais, all eyes on her.
“Thank you for your words, Iama,” she said.
Iama bowed and sat.
“These are words none ever wish to hear,” she said. “These portents of catastrophe are never welcome. But they align with the whispers I have heard in my ear of late, both from my fellow man and from the angels themselves. My dreams, it seems, are coming true as well. For months now I have been convinced that there are forces afoot that are greater than my caste, greater than my nation, and greater perhaps than all of the nations of the world together—but in my lack of resolve, I kept silent. Seeing Giltspire fall convinced me that I needed to listen to my heart, and to act. I called this meeting not just to discuss philosophy with you, my friends and advisors. I called you here to declare the unification of the nations of Bant, and to declare war.”
Rafiq’s heart pounded. He gripped the arm of his chair.
“Bant faces invasion by a foreign world, a world its denizens call Esper,” said Aarsil. “Bant is now at war with Esper. The army is being raised as we speak.”
Aarsil clasped her hands together in a gesture of unity, or prayer. “All I need now is a general. And I am happy to say that there is one among us who can lead this force. He has shown that he can do what must be done, and he will lead us to victory.”
All eyes turned to Rafiq.
Rafiq took a deep breath.
BANT ESPER FRONTIER
Knight-General Rafiq and his second Mubin rode on ahead of Asha’s Army—the unified legions of all the nations of Bant—into the gray mist that shrouded the Jhessian coast. The first gale of the stormfront hit them like a wall, and pelted them with diagonal rain. The air smelled of moisture and ozone. In the distance Rafiq saw a huge gray thunderhead looming from the earth to the heavens, swirling in on itself and spinning with flecks of unknown matter. Particles swarmed ahead of the storm. They were flying creatures of some kind—hundreds of them.
“It looks like a swarm of bees,” said Mubin.
“How far are they? Those are some big bees,” said Rafiq. “Aven?” he guessed.
“Well, they certainly aren’t angels.”
“Scouts!” Rafiq called up to the hawk aven above. “I need eyes on those flyers. Do not engage them—just report back as soon as you can.”
Three aven scouts screeched assent and flew off ahead.
“You and I need to call out their army’s champion,” said Rafiq.
“Rafiq, we don’t know this army.”
“That’s exactly why I need to beat their champion immediately.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Look, they’re an unknown force from who knows where. We don’t know their strength, but frankly, to me, they look like they could raze all of Jhess in a matter of days. That’s why you and I are riding ahead, and why we’ll challenge their leader and put this matter to rest before this gets out of hand. Ready my ceremonial shield.”
Mubin’s ears twitched, but he didn’t say anything.
As they watched the front ahead, they saw the three aven scouts approach the mass of flyers ahead of the swirling storm. Two of the aven spasmed in flight, then arced out of the sky. Their bodies crashed to the ground and bounced once, limply, and didn’t move again. The other aven seemed to hesitate in the sky, then turned around and flew back in the direction of the knights.
Rafiq and Mubin exchanged glances.
“Magic?” said Mubin.
“No magic can kill a man outright,” said Rafiq. “They must have archers.”
“Rafiq, this doesn’t feel right. …”
“Get out the banners,” said Rafiq. “We need to make it clear we’re champions here for ritual combat.”
“No. Rafiq, my old friend, I think we need to retreat,” said Mubin.
“Don’t be foolish. Their archers have already broken the war protocols. Their Knight-General will want to know the details of the breach.”
Their leotau mounts slowed. Mubin had grasped the reins of Rafiq’s steed.
“What are you doing?” demanded Rafiq.
At that moment, the hawk aven scout flew over them, going in the wrong direction. It led a mass of scaly flying creatures. The aven fired a treasonous crossbow bolt down at the two knights, narrowly missing Mubin.
“What in Asha’s name?” cried Rafiq.
“Witchery,” said Mubin. “We’re up against dark things, Knight-General.”
The aven screeched as it flew toward the rest of Asha’s Army. Behind it, they heard other screeches.
The enemy force was composed of a variety of alien flyers: reptilian things with wings and back legs like a bird, but sharp, jutting scales like a metallic snake; ugly, dog-faced, animated gargoyles whose skin resembled white marble; strange contrivances with wings that flapped on improbable pulleys and wheels. And all of them contained delicate filigree structures of a gleaming metal, fused right into their anatomies in ways that looked like they should have been disabling or lethal. The wind was full of their strange cries as they flew overhead, and a whistling caused by their filigree speeding through the air. Not one engaged the two knights, but instead they flew on, heading for the front lines of the Bant army.
Behind the flyers, the storm approached. In the center of it flew a thin, bald woman with blue-gray skin, riding on the back of an enormous, stone-faced gargoyle. Her forearms were made of the filigree metal, and her robes billowed with the winds. She raised her arms, and the thunderhead bulged outward, threatening to sweep the knights up in its gales.
“That’s not their champion,” said Mubin.
“Let’s go,” Rafiq agreed.
They wheeled their steeds and whistled shrilly. The leotau steeds dug their hooves deep into the turf of Jhess, and launched into a gallop back to the front lines.
Behind them, the otherworldly mage recited a spell, her words lost in the winds. Mubin moaned in pain and clutched his head.
GRIXIS
Levac took up his sword and headed back down the stairs, shouting for his son.
“Vali! Vali!”
He pushed through the other soldiers, shoving them aside in his haste but accosting every face he recognized.
“Clairan, have you seen Vali? Hargrove? Hey, Malunis? Seen Vali? Anyone? Has anyone seen my son?”
“Daddy …” came a faint voice.
Levac looked out the doorway. Up in the guard tower he saw little Vali waving at him. The tower’s ladder was pulled up, but zombies and skel
etons crawled spiderlike up the outside of the tower. They would be on him in a matter of moments.
Levac swept past the soldiers and went straight for the statue that stood out in the front room of the stronghold, the so-called Lady of the Scythe. He stood up on its base and grabbed its scythe with both hands, and yanked. It pulled free easily—as he had always suspected it would. Her hands had always been outstretched in a gesture of forgiveness, not force. Her outstretched wings and gentle eyes expressed a kindness that had never befitted Grixis, as if she were a relic from a gentler time long past.
Levac hefted the scythe into his own arms, and in doing so clumsily grazed a zombie who was attacking one of the soldiers. The scythe’s blade sliced clean through the creature’s thigh, and it dropped squirming in two pieces on the floor.
“What the hell, Levac? Do that again!” said the soldier.
Levac blinked. He swung the scythe awkwardly forward and sliced through two more zombie minions. The scythe sang with a strange harmonic as black gore dripped from the blade. Levac pushed forward through the doorway, into the fray. The scythe swerved back and forth easily, almost hungrily, and with every swing, Levac bisected several undead.
“Daddy!” screamed Vali from the top of the guard tower.
Rage took hold. Levac swung the scythe wildly, cutting a swathe through the undead, heading straight for the tower. Undead fell every which way, forming a gory pathway that Levac followed all the way to the tower.
He couldn’t see Vali anywhere. The undead had snatched him inside the tower.
“I’m coming for you, Vali!” Levac screamed.
He sliced at the legs of the tower. The scythe hewed straight through them, and the tower fell, toppling dozens of undead in the process. The creatures fell in a writhing pile, each one getting up to face him in hunger.
Vali stood up in the center of the dogpile. His eyes had rolled up in the back of his head, and his skin was grayish and sallow. Then Levac saw that a zombified humanoid had his mouth clamped onto the back of Vali’s neck.
“Vali, no!”
The boy roared, an inhuman sound born of hollowness and a thirst for death.
No, Levac thought. Not him. Anyone but him.
The boy’s pupils rolled into view, and focused on Levac. The experience was horrible.
Malfegor, the demonic general, marched into view behind the wreckage of the tower, and dull terror washed over Levac’s mind.
“Time to go, Levac, let’s go!” shouted a soldier.
Levac dropped the scythe and ran. He pushed or leaped over anything that got in his way, and tore through the crowd.
He leaped into the tunnel entrance and slammed the metal door behind him.
Salay clutched his shirt and shook him. “Where is he?” she shrieked.
“He’s gone.”
“No! You go back and get him! I’m not leaving without him!”
“We’re going. He’s gone, Salay.”
Salay slapped him across the face.
Three heartbeats passed.
She turned her back to him, and marched down into the tunnel.
“I … I couldn’t,” said Levac. “I was too late. Salay, I’m sorry.”
The only answer was his own echo, and the sounds of her footsteps on the tunnel floor. He picked up the satchel and followed after her.
JUND
It was night on Jund, and the tight, sweat-slicked abdomens of the warriors shone in the bonfire. One warrior hoisted a pair of effigies and hung them over the fire: one a long-haired man with a dragon-skin cape; the other, an older woman painted with a shaman’s stripes. Both lit immediately, and the warriors cheered.
Their cheers sounded thin to Kresh. In his long, blood-stuck braids he wore trophies of some of the warriors who had fallen at the lair of Malactoth. Ever since Rakka had betrayed him, since she had used the clan as bait for the dragon while casting some destructive spell of her own, his brain had burned. It was an obvious matter for revenge. As the effigy of Rakka crackled in the fire, he felt an easy hatred.
But it was the new betrayal that had him perplexed. Sarkhan, the stranger who had accompanied them to Malactoth’s lair, had seemed driven to seek out the hellkite. He was a powerful ally in that fight against the dragon—and yet, just days ago, he had seen Sarkhan leading a flight of dragons of his own, riding astride one of them like some kind of god. Sarkhan’s pets ravaged the low-lying areas, where dragons rarely fed, and expelled their hot breath on several valleys, razing them to the blackened ground.
Kresh had lost eleven of his remaining clanmates in the conflagration that followed.
So there they were, the thinned-out remains of his once-noble clan. They still had pride in their eyes and ferocity in their hearts, but their numbers were so few that the clan was in danger of dying out. Kresh knew something would have to give soon, or his clan would die the ignoble death of old age, shivering in some cave surrounded by goblin dung.
No, he thought.
If the clan’s fate was to face death, then he would lead them headlong into it. Vengeance for the shaman Rakka? A fitting downfall of the dragon-lord Sarkhan? Those needs burned inside his heart, yes. But he would hold them inside his ribcage, and smother them in his corpse-scream, if it meant he could give his people the ultimate gift: a death worth being born for.
He was ready for the final hunt, the pursuit of that enemy called death, and so was his clan. As they cheered the cinders from the effigies, and watched them float up and join with the rage-coughs of the volcanoes, he felt the readiness in their hearts.
He only needed a sign, some way to know in which direction their fate lay. But they had no deep-seers left in the clan. Without Rakka acting as their shaman, the signal might be too subtle for them to detect.
One of Kresh’s warriors ran out of the bladed wilderness to their camp. She looked like she was sweating adrenaline, and didn’t have her second with her.
“Tol Kresh!” she said. “You must come see. A white cat has appeared out of nowhere.”
Kresh’s grin started at one ear and unfolded all the way to the other.
BANT ESPER FRONTIER
Don’t be afraid to cut them down, any way you can,” Elspeth whispered to the other knights and soldiers around her.
War had come to Bant, and there was nothing the planeswalker Elspeth could do about it. The leonin planeswalker, Ajani, had been right all along—there were other worlds intimately connected to Bant, and their borders were intruding on one another, almost before her eyes. Her despair paralyzed her at first; she sent away the couriers who called her to war, and entreated the angels to spare her from seeing her beloved Bant fall. She found herself wishing she could see Ajani again, to express her grief to understanding ears.
She only hoped she could prepare her Bant brothers-in-arms for what lay ahead of them. “If you see an opening, any opening, you strike,” she said. “Even if it means violating the laws of war.” The others looked at her strangely. She didn’t care, as long as it got through their heads that the rules were gone, and that there was no arena judge, no Blessed decree, to protect them here.
There was still hope. She was not about to curl up and let Bant fall, not while she could still hold a sword. That was how she had found herself on the border terrain between Bant and Esper, among the ranks of Asha’s Army. Though her sigils were many, she had not served as a Sigiled-caste for long enough to lead as a general—but that suited her. She didn’t need rank to defend her home; she just needed a sword, a battlefield, and—as she told herself silently—a bit of Bant’s pure mana. Besides, from inside the infantry lines, she would be able to watch over her friends.
“Charge!” shouted the captain of her legion.
Elspeth rushed forward with her fellow knights and soldiers, steel in hand. She was easily as fast as her peers, but she let them pass her little by little, so she could watch over them from behind. Ahead she saw the flyers approaching, and with a flood of memories from her travels, recognized t
heir shapes: drakes, gargoyles, and strange devices she decided were thopters. They were all modified with peculiar artifact magic—it must be an army backed by a legion of artificers. She knew their strength would surprise her fellow citizens of Bant. She readied a protection spell and did her best to delay it till the perfect moment.
The aven troops were the first to clash with the enemy. Elspeth willed them strength and resilience, and many of the aven tore into the enemy drakes with their enhanced prowess. But she couldn’t watch over them all. One aven soldier fell to the talons of a pair of jagged-scaled drakes. Another was grappled by an enormous gargoyle and crushed to death.
A third aven fell to a mage’s evisceration spell, keeling over and crashing to earth without even a single blow landing on it.
“No,” gasped Elspeth. Just as war had come to Bant, so had death magic.
Some of the gargoyles dropped their heavy bulk into the fray, smashing a few Valeron soldiers on their way down. Other troops swarmed them and hacked at the gargoyles’ stony skin with swords and maces learning to chop through the wiry metal enhancements first. Screeching drakes swooped and snatched individual soldiers, flew them high into the air, and dropped them, then swooped down again to repeat the process.
The storm met the army like a stampede. The wind blew most of the army off its feet, Elspeth included—but the heavy gargoyles remained standing, and stomped the fallen with granite footfalls. As Elspeth scrambled to her feet, she saw the mage in the center of the storm—a vedalken by the looks of her—her whirling metallic arms maintaining a stream of constant spellcasting. The winds that whipped around her deflected a hail of arrows from archers of the Order of Dawnray, and buffeted away an assault by a pair of determined aven. I need to stop the mage, thought Elspeth. But it’s going to take some finesse.
“Mardis!” shouted Elspeth, to her nearby knight friend.
“Elspeth, are you all right?” he shouted back.
“Mardis, listen to me! When I tell you, you attack that mage, do you understand?”