by Doug Beyer
He looked up. Skepticism. “That mage?” Elspeth was casting. “Ready?”
Mardis showed alarm, but gathered his wits and readied his sword and shield. The storm’s cylinder passed over him, and began to push him off his feet.
“Go!”
A helix of light erupted from around Mardis’s body, lifting him into the air. He shot like an arrow at the vedalken mage. Mardis’s astonishment turned to determination, and his body became one graceful attack motion, like a warrior angel delivering the stroke of vengeance. The vedalken mage looked down, saw him flying toward her, and gasped.
Just before Elspeth could see what happened, the rhox knight Mubin rode through the lines on a huge leotau, his eyes aglow like haunted sapphires—and brained her with his mace.
GRIXIS
Report,” said Bolas.
“The Esper obelisk has been freed and activated,” said Sarkhan. “As the planes have converged, the forces of Esper have begun to invade Bant. A force of about two thousand massed on the shores of Jhess this morning.”
“Casualties?”
“Mostly on Bant’s part. They were woefully under-prepared for the mage assault. Bant’s warriors are brave and strong, but they seem … naïve.”
Bolas bared rows of teeth. “Naïve, you say?”
“They never advanced. They seemed to wait for the army from Esper to crash into them. Some of the soldiers hadn’t even strapped on their armor fully. It was like they never expected to have to fight at all.”
Bolas rolled his tongue across his teeth. “What magic did you see?”
“Esper laid into them with storms, countermagic, control of the mind, and some spells of death. And their army was almost entirely composed of creatures that were summoned from Esper. Only a few mages led the entire offensive. I saw some healing on Bant’s side, and what looked like a protective enhancement on some of the soldiers, but that was all. The Bant army barely seemed to cast anything at all.”
Bolas reflected on that. “Mixed,” he said. “What about the obelisks?”
“As the shards go to war, the obelisks have been channeling mana, as you desired,” said Sarkhan. “But the flow is weak at this point. There’s just not enough of a conflict yet. And the Bant obelisk, the one from the ruined castle—it seems to be resisting. It’s possible that the spell didn’t activate it properly, or that some force is preventing it from channeling Bant’s mana.”
Bolas uttered a string of garbled syllables that Sarkhan presumed formed a curse in some extraplanar language. “If the Bant obelisk isn’t channeling mana, then the reaction cannot start.”
“Do you want me to return to Bant? Draw out some mages? Encourage more magic?”
“No. I need you elsewhere. The mages of Bant should awaken now that their knights are dying; the battles on their Esper front will scare them, and they’ll get over their principles and begin to throw better magics. Besides, you wouldn’t be much of a negotiator. You don’t look much like a Bant human.”
Sarkhan shrugged. “I passed well enough on Esper.”
“I’m sure you stuck out horribly. But no, I have a different mission for you. Pick out your favorite machete. You’re going into the jungle.”
“Naya? But the planes have merged now. I can’t planeswalk from one part of Alara to another any longer,” said Sarkhan.
“You’ll not be planeswalking. Come with me down to the necropolis dungeon,” said Bolas. “I have a surprise for you.”
BANT ESPER FRONTIER
Knight-General Rafiq watched the scene in slow motion. His friend Mubin clutched his head as the Esper mage’s spell came down on him. Then the mighty rhox blinked, took up his mace and his mount’s reins, and hastened into the fray. The surprise of the betrayal carried him deep into the Bant army, and he felled several soldiers before Rafiq had understood what had happened. Mind magic was present on Bant, but not like that. He had heard of spells that would allow analysis of the mind, which was sometimes used to verify travelers’ claims of caste, or to read the wishes of Blessed-caste rulers who were ill or incapacitated. But that was something beyond mind-sight—that was some kind of magic of coercion. The metal-infused creatures seemed not only capable of interpreting the soul, but rewriting it. The dishonor was shocking.
“Mubin! Mubin! Mubin!”
He was hoarse before he realized he was screaming at the rhox knight, preoccupied as he was with the desperate maneuvers of leotau and rider that it took to cross through the sea of combatants to reach him. He shifted his weight to and fro, yanking and kicking to guide the steed deftly through the fray, trying not to trample the injured or the friendly. The enemy mage had chosen her target cleverly; Mubin was one of the most dangerous soldiers on the battlefield—in all of Bant, in truth. By the time Rafiq had reached Mubin, he had already made the decision: he would have to wound the rhox, hard, and bring him down.
He tried to circle around to Mubin’s front side to land a proper blow, but Mubin kept circling his steed to present only the unarmored back—a dishonorable target. It was only after Mubin walloped a young soldier squarely in the helmet, felling her as one might a doll, that Rafiq realized he’d have to violate his code as a Sigiled-caste and as a knight. He’d have to attack the unarmored gap in the rhox’s back, like a child or a common bandit. It was just like the arena, when Aarsil the Blessed had purposely changed the rules to test his willingness to break them himself—except things were beyond a mere swayed judge. It was an entire army, an entire world with no conception of the rules of honor at all.
Rafiq swept up to Mubin, and angled himself to hit the junction between the flanges of metal on the rhox’s back. He saw his opening, and swung with all his might. Rafiq’s sword came down between Mubin’s shoulder blades, and struck deep, tearing through several inches of skin and fat, severing a muscle group or two, and scraping vertebrae and cartilage. It must have cut something else too—something deeper—because Mubin dropped his mace and fell limp, roughly, off his steed, into the mud.
GRIXIS
You’ve done well, my pet,” said Bolas.
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Sarkhan, following Bolas down an enormous cavern under the necropolis. Sconces made from hollowed-out human skulls lined the tunnel. Light flickered through the eye sockets.
“Yes. The Grixis legions have advanced deeper than expected. We’ve captured Vectis on one front and Bloodhall on the other, creating ostentatious firefights in every battle. The other planes have engaged in all-out war on multiple fronts. In this, your reconnaissance and infiltration have proved most useful. As a result, I have a surprise for you.”
Sarkhan’s heart stopped for a moment. He thought of the hundreds of skull sconces he’d seen, and recalled a mountaintop littered with braindead goblins. “What is it?”
“It should be obvious,” said Bolas, his grin a mockery of magnanimity. “I’ve given the gift you’ve always wanted. Come.”
Bolas gestured to an undead guard, who pulled open gigantic doors into the next chamber. Bolas strolled through them, looking surprisingly natural on two legs. With his wings folded and his tail balancing the weight of his torso and long neck, the elder dragon looked almost humanoid.
They emerged in a dry natural cavern. Standing inside were five dragons, their heads held up oddly, as if they were posing for the judges of some sort of contest. They were Jund dragons, their scales scarred and blackened in places from the wear and tear of draconic battles. But something was wrong about them. Their eyes were inert, unresponsive. They breathed and held position, and did nothing else.
They were magnificent, but despite himself, Sarkhan felt his stomach clench.
“What did you … do to them?”
“Aren’t they beautiful? I had them prepared and polished just for you. They’re yours now, Sarkhan. Today you’re getting a lesson in dragon control and summoning.” Bolas licked his teeth. “Strange, isn’t it? Do you think Serra ever taught her disciples to bind an angel?”
“
What?”
“I doubt it. The principle would be the same, anyway. It’s all about the mind, you see. It’s the key to everything. A dragon’s mind is all cloaked in fire—a nasty place to try to maneuver. You don’t get anywhere trying to reason with one, and you can’t hope to best it in some sort of contest of wills. You’ll just be burned. Sometimes literally, of course. So, you extinguish that fire, and their minds are surprisingly empty vessels. Fill them with whatever you want. I’ve chosen to fill them with devotion to me. And to you.”
Sarkhan’s hands clenched into fists; one of his knuckles popped. He didn’t know whether to be thrilled or nauseous, standing before the awe-inspiring specimens of dragon-kind whose minds were shackled by the magic of Bolas. The thought of the dragons at his beck and call made him want to laugh long, loud, and cruel into the face of the sun—but the thought of their fiery souls hollowed out by Bolas’s cunning made him consider simply putting them out of their misery.
“So?” said Bolas. “What do you think?”
The largest of the enslaved dragons was a huge male, its scales as ruddy as molten rock. Sarkhan realized that he’d seen it before.
“Karrthus,” he said.
“What’s that?” said Bolas.
“It’s Karrthus, a dragon I’ve … met before on Jund. A mighty hellkite, a tyrant even among dragons.”
“Well, now he’s your mighty hellkite.”
Sarkhan considered for a moment, then bowed his head solemnly. “Thank you, Master.”
“Enjoy destroying Naya. I’ll meet you at the Maelstrom.”
BANT
Elspeth rubbed her eyelids, and the slight movements of her head set up waves of pain and nausea rebounding between her ears.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You were attacked—by a knight of Bant, I’m afraid.”
She managed to see through her damp lashes. Rafiq, the Knight-General himself, stood over her, and behind him was a woman in cleric’s robes. She was in a bed. It was dark and quiet.
“The betrayal. Was it … a spell?”
“It seems so,” said Rafiq. “Some powerful corruption spell from an Esper mage. It seized the soul of my friend Mubin, who attacked you. I’m very sorry.”
“I should go and see him,” she said, and tried to get up.
“No. You need to lie still,” said the cleric.
The instant return of the headache was a good motivator. Elspeth lay back down.
“Your injury was very serious,” said the cleric. “The healing spells need time to take hold.”
Rafiq’s concern was fatherly, gentle with a note of scolding. “Mubin is a powerful warrior. When he sets his mind to something, he does it “ Rafiq’s voice trailed off as he wrestled with some thought.
Elspeth finished it for him. “Even when someone else is setting his mind to it.”
Rafiq nodded. “Yes. Even then. You are lucky to be alive, young knight.”
“But I’m of no use here, in this bed. My world … This world needs me.”
“It will still need you after you are better,” said Rafiq.
“No, you don’t understand. Bant is under attack by … forces it can’t understand. I didn’t see before, but now I know—it can’t win this way. We’ll fall unless I—”
“Quiet now, young knight,” said Rafiq. “The rest of us will take care of things at the front lines. We have legions of devoted souls fighting this war, and prison to hold the not-so-devoted, those who would harm Bant from within. But Bant will fall to nothing. I’ll see to that personally.”
“From within? What forces would harm Bant from within?”
“Oh, a renegade merchant called Hazid. He was the coward responsible for the destruction of Giltspire. Mubin and I brought him to justice, at the court at Valeron.”
The traitor, Hazid—he might represent an even greater threat than the forces of Esper, Elspeth thought. “I see,” she said. “So, where is Knight Mubin now?”
“He’s …” Rafiq trailed off. He smiled at her, but his eyes went somewhere far away. When he spoke after a moment, Elspeth had the impression he was speaking to the empty air in front of him.
“He is recuperating, just like you. He will be fine.”
Mubin could not feel his legs.
“Tell me straight, healer,” he said. “Will I ever walk again?”
“You’re awake,” said the cleric. He closed his book, a heavy tome of prayers to Asha. “And … yourself. That’s good.”
Mubin’s huge form took up the entire sickbed. He could see his own legs lying there in front of him, unmoving. He didn’t even look injured, he thought. No wounds, no bandages anymore. He just looked still.
“My legs. Will they work again?”
“Time will tell,” said the cleric.
“Uh-huh. But it looks bad.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Mubin. It’s … not in our power to heal this kind of injury. The wound went too deep. It broke crucial parts of your spine.”
Yes, Rafiq had seen to that. One blow, and Mubin was paralyzed from the waist down, possibly for life. His best friend in the world had done that to him. But then, he thought, didn’t he force Rafiq’s hand? Why did he make Rafiq do it to him?
“How many died?” Mubin asked.
“In the battle?”
“No, not in total. How many … did I …?”
“Oh. I haven’t heard whether the exact number has been reckoned. But it wasn’t your fault, sir. Your mind was controlled by the enemy.”
“Tell me. Please. I have to know. How many was it?”
The cleric wouldn’t meet his eyes. That was a bad sign.
“It was a lot, wasn’t it?”
“Perhaps …”
“What?”
“Perhaps with time, your legs might heal. Miracles may happen with time and prayer. The angels grant blessings to the faithful.”
“Get out.”
“Sir …”
“No, I get it. We’re down to hoping for miracles already. I understand. It’s fine. You’ve done your proper penance, by staying with the invalid murderer. I’ve woken up. You can go tell Rafiq. No—actually, don’t tell him. Tell him to stay away. I don’t want to see him.”
“Sir, I …”
“It’s all right. You may go.”
The cleric nodded, closed his book of prayers, and got up to leave.
Great, he thought. That was how the rhox was treating a Sighted-caste cleric who was just there to help him.
“Wait,” said Mubin. He slumped down on a stack of pillows. “Do something for me.”
“Yes?”
“Would you … leave me that book of prayers?”
GRIXIS
You summoned me, Master?” said the demon-dragon Malfegor.
“It’s the maelstrom,” said Bolas. “It’s forming so slowly.”
“The worlds have collided. War has broken out across every border. We’re harvesting more life essence than Grixis has known. Not since Alara fractured has there been this kind of chaos across these worlds. The maelstrom will be born in time.”
“I don’t have time,” said the elder dragon planeswalker. “All these infinite worlds, all these millennia, and I have hitched my hopes to the energies of this one world, you understand? I’m counting my breaths. Another goes by, another goes by, and I’ll never get them back. And I’m held back at every turn by the failings of leonin and humans. We need to speed things along.”
“Yes, Master.”
“I want you to travel to Bant.”
Malfegor’s eyes narrowed.
“Go to the site of the obelisk there, and awaken it.”
“I? Personally? Master, wasn’t that your agent’s task?”
“He failed to appear at our last rendezvous. An entire walk to Bant wasted. My minions among the Skyward Eye report that he’s been captured, so he’s useless to me now.”
“So you want me to conduct the ritual in his place. By marching on Bant.”
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
“The place from which you just returned. A place filled with angels and paladins.”
“I believe I was clear enough.”
“Master, that would be an enormous undertaking. The journey alone would take—”
“Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you? Unless you’d prefer to feel my claws squeezing the pulp from your consciousness. Unless you’d prefer to wither and die an irrevocable death, nibbled by leviathans under the Kederekt Sea. Unless you’d prefer that I grant Grixis to the lichlord Sedris, or perhaps the soothsayer Caladessa.”
“I’m going,” said Malfegor.
“Hurry, please,” said Bolas. “And anything you can destroy in Esper on your way there—I’ll leave that up to you.”
BANT
Mubin,” said Rafiq quietly, stepping into the recuperation room.
The old rhox didn’t look up. His bulk was turned away from the doorway. Rafiq couldn’t tell if he was awake or not.
“Mubin, old boy, are you up?”
“Go away,” was the grunted response. What did one say in such a situation? “They … said you were awake.”
“I told them I wanted you to stay away. I don’t want to see you, isn’t that clear?”
“Well, you’re being seen anyway,” said Rafiq. “You think they would refuse an order from me, or that I’m going to obey one from you? I just wanted to know how you were doing. So … how is it? Are you feeling better?”
No answer.
“Never mind,” said Rafiq hastily. “That’s a stupid question. Listen, Mubin, I’m going to find a way to make this right. I know they said it couldn’t be healed, but there has to be magic, somewhere, that’ll make you right again, and I’m going to find it.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Mubin, I know what I did was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have slain your steed, or tackled you, or—”
Mubin reached over with his arm, grabbed a bedpost, and pulled himself over onto his back. It was excruciating, watching him. The powerful rhino-man, a many-sigiled knight of the Order of the Reliquary, was reduced to pulling himself around on a hostel bed. There was a book of prayers in his other hand.