Alara Unbroken

by Doug Beyer

  Rafiq ushered Levac out of the way, and they ran as fast as they could back to their hiding spot in the small hermitage. Once they got out of sight, the undead horde lost interest in them and moved on.

  The boy was in their custody once more, but it remained to be seen, thought Rafiq, whether anything could be done about his condition. He helped Kaeda and Levac bring the boy back to the small hermitage, and prayed.

  NAYA

  Marisi’s mind was in tatters. His life had been extended far past its natural prospects by a deal with a dragon—a deal made by his youthful self, but one that his elderly self had to honor. His mind could not hold within it all the evil he had caused—to the nacatl, to the elves, to his entire world. As Naya became only a continent of some larger world, an inkling of the scope of what he had facilitated had begun to pierce his conscious mind. He couldn’t contain it. His reason tore into pieces rather than attempt to reconcile it all. His thoughts turned only to his name as a youth: Marisi, the Breaker of the Coil.

  He had no plan, but knew he had to rally the nacatl around him once more. If he had warriors around him again, he could wear them as a cape of glory, and relive the purest times of his life. He hoped the mystique around his name, his face, his striped form was still enough. Did the Wild Nacatl, who owed him their very identity, still possess the fury in their hearts that had allowed him to overthrow the Cloud Nacatl civilization? Would they, decades later, still feel the pull of his leadership? He had no choice but to believe they would.

  Plus, he had one secret weapon: timing. It was Festival time again.

  The nacatl pride he approached first was small, but fierce by reputation. None of his former friends or soldiers-in-arms lived there anymore; Marisi had outlived them. As Marisi approached the pride’s den in the wooded foothills near the ruins of Antali, he heard the opening roars of the hadu. He was just in time.

  Marisi heard the chief shaman of the little pride begin to speak, heard his own accomplishments being narrated in tones of great ceremony. As soon as the shaman got to the part just before the chanting, he stepped out of the darkness and into the ring of firelight.

  “I am Marisi,” he said. “Come, my warriors—let us make this night a reunion, rather than a remembrance.”

  After a stunned silence, the pride’s chanting began again—but with a different intonation.

  JUND

  A beam of pure, concentrated sunlight lanced out of the smoke-filled Naya sky. It struck the dragon that flew on Sarkhan’s left side. The spell burned a hole directly through its throat. It tried to breathe a blast of fire in return, but flame spurted out through the hole in its neck in staccato bursts, charring it from the inside and sealing off its breathing passages. Then a hail of arrows from the jungle below tore through the beast, puncturing it like a pincushion. It arced down in a long parabola, then eventually fell, crashing into the trees somewhere far below.

  Finally, Sarkhan thought. It must be the elves, or maybe the human tribes of Naya, finally fighting back with magic. The humanoids had begun amassing in the jungles below Sarkhan’s air assault, and although the archers were frustrating, some of them below him were potent spellcasters. It had taken days of Sarkhan’s draconic strafing to elicit that kind of response, days of charring huge swathes of jungle with dragonfire. That sunbeam spell was good. It would do nicely, churning up the mana of Naya, causing it to stream to the Maelstrom as Bolas desired. But he needed more than that, much more.

  He took the one dragon’s death as an excuse to stage a retreat. He wheeled Karrthus around and headed back. Sarkhan craned his neck to see behind him, to see whether the humanoid armies had followed.

  He needn’t have looked back. A blast of consecrated energy narrowly missed Karrthus’s wing. Sarkhan grinned.

  “Come along, my enemies,” he said. “Come and answer my call to war.”

  He slapped the side of Karrthus’s neck, and pressed his knee firmly into the dragon’s flank. The dragon banked slightly.

  “That’s perfect,” Sarkhan said. “Straight ahead, just like this.”

  They weren’t headed back toward Jund. Not exactly.

  GRIXIS

  I can’t believe this,” Salay was saying. Tears were streaming down her face as she helped hold the arms of the creature that had once been her son. “You knew this … He … was out there, and you didn’t tell me.”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” said Levac.

  “I was going to leave,” she sobbed. “You were going to let me leave my son, you bastard.”

  “Without a way to save him, it was better not letting you know. I didn’t want that plaguing your heart as we started a new life.”

  “This is my son,” she said through her teeth.

  “And with these people’s help, I got him back,” said Levac.

  “Please,” said Rafiq. “Let’s try to calm down. The boy needs us now.”

  They held Vali down on a makeshift table in the small hermitage shack. Rafiq stood over him. He knew just the words to help the boy, words that he trusted, words that he knew came from the tongue of an angel.

  He took the sigil of Asha from around his neck, and laid it on the boy’s chest. The Vali-creature flinched and snarled, trying to wriggle free, casting evil looks at the medallion, but they held him firm.

  Rafiq said a prayer to Asha over the boy, reciting each line with the faith that burned in his heart. It took all his strength, but he summoned up every pure emotion in his fiber and poured it into the prayer. The words flowed out of him with the same intensity as the light that shone from the throne statue in the Jhessian arena. Every night as a boy he had wondered why the archangel Asha had died, leaving her throne empty and Bant unprotected. But as an adult he had come to understand the meaning of her sacrifice, how her death had stopped the unholy demons from destroying the world.

  The demons had come again. And she had not—at least, not yet.

  But there was no time for doubt. He poured all his faith into the words of the prayer. He realized he was on his knees, sweating, his eyes squeezed shut. The prayer was done. He caught his breath.

  “Is it … Should it have worked by now?” said Levac.

  Rafiq opened his eyes. There was no change. The boy was still an animated corpse.

  “That should have … That should have done it,” said Rafiq.

  “He’s still … He’s still not any better,” said Levac, his voice carrying a note of rising panic.

  “No!” shouted Rafiq. “That was it! That prayer has cured corruption of all kinds. It’s the word of the angel Asha herself. Don’t you doubt her!”

  The creature called Vali snarled and writhed about, its black eyes rolling with hatred.

  “Look at this. This is … You said you could help my boy!” cried Levac.

  “It isn’t my fault. The prayer should have worked. This boy is an abomination!” shouted Rafiq.

  “You bring back my son!” cried Levac.

  “Our son is dead,” said Salay.

  The two men looked at her. She was holding an axe from the hermitage arsenal.

  “Salay—” started Levac.

  “This monster is not him. Vali, our son, is dead. And you two won’t see that until this thing stops deceiving you.”

  With that, she swung the axe, and chopped off the zombie’s head with one clean stroke.

  The head rolled, and the creature sank into stillness. Salay dropped the axe, blinked unsteadily for a moment, and promptly fainted.

  Levac went to her, and put his arms around her. He shook with weeping.

  Rafiq just stood there, watching the couple. He didn’t retrieve the sigil. He didn’t leave to rejoin his troops. He just let events wash over him. He tried to figure out something encouraging to say, but he couldn’t. Deep inside of him, entrenched somewhere under layers of memory and formative experiences, inside of a staunchly protected shell of Rafiq’s innermost self, something died.

  GRIXIS JUND FRONTIER

  This must be it
,” said Kresh through his hand. The stench was unbelievable.

  Ajani, Kresh, and the remaining warriors of clan Antaga had pressed on in the same direction they had been traveling, hoping that the path that led them to Rakka would also lead them to her master.

  They had climbed over shards of rubble to get to their vantage point, and Ajani wished they hadn’t. Jund had given way to Grixis. The landscape of Grixis spread itself out before them, repugnant and obscene like a naked corpse. And the mana—the Grixis mana smelled to Ajani like death, even more profoundly than the literal air. It had the same aura to it as the creatures that had attacked the night Jazal died. Ajani’s heart went cold.

  “I think you’re right,” Ajani said. “This is the place.”

  “What horror is this place, that has invaded our world?” asked one of the warriors.

  “It’s not an invasion,” said Ajani thoughtfully. “It’s a unification. This isn’t a foreign world anymore—it’s part of our world.” And somewhere in there is the being that caused Jazal’s death, he thought. The enormity of the task ahead overwhelmed him.

  “Take heart, warriors!” said Kresh. “Look, they’ve got land, and mountains, and clouds. They’ve got beasts clambering around, and flyers in their skies. It’s just another Jund—only it’s darker and deader. We care not. For us, it’s just another hunting ground. For us, this is the final hunt!” He banged his sword on the bone of his chest armor.

  Ajani marveled at Kresh’s irrepressibility. He needed some of that fire. Maybe they could do it.

  GRIXIS

  We should move on soon,” said Kaeda the aven.

  “The undead armies have passed.”

  “If we move, they’ll find us again,” said Levac. “The rank and file aren’t smart, but their leader is a cunning demon called Malfegor.”

  “Malfe—what did you say?” asked Rafiq.

  “Malfegor. They call him the Abomination, or the Annihilator. He’s the oldest and most powerful demon in all of Grixis.”

  “The Malfegor?” Rafiq was incredulous. “He’s still alive?”

  “He’s always existed, as far as our history is concerned. Malfegor is older than all our stories.”

  “He’s in my people’s stories, as well,” said Rafiq. “But in our scripture, the angel Asha gave her life to destroy him.”

  “If only that were true,” said Salay, groggy but awake.

  “So I think we should give him a wide berth. Head in the other direction. Or maybe we can just make a life here in Esper.”

  Rafiq’s eyes were far away. “No,” he said. “We need to follow that army.”

  “What?” said Levac and Salay together.

  “In fact, we need to get ahead of it if we can. I think I know where Malfegor might be headed.”

  NAYA

  Marisi moved with his swarm of nacatl warriors to the Qasali Valley. There he would find the last pride of Wild Nacatl left, the only one that he hadn’t rallied under his banner of legend. He had saved it for last purposefully. He knew the pride would be gripped by fear and grief—it was there that Bolas’s magic had been used directly. It was there that the kha Jazal, greatest threat to Marisi’s legacy, had been assassinated, partly by his own actions. He didn’t know whether opinion had turned against the name of Marisi, or whether they would also embrace the knowledge that he was alive. He knew that the shaman-witch Chimamatl lived there, which would work in his favor; his deeds would help her son’s quest to become kha of the pride. But he also knew that the white-furred Ajani was from that pride; he was not anxious to see him again.

  To be safe, he ordered his army of warriors in first.

  “By the proclamation of war-kha Marisi, your pride is ordered to submit all its able warriors to join his army,” said Marisi’s envoy.

  “What is the cause of this?” said the pride’s representative, the nacatl called Tenoch.

  “The Cloud Nacatl have caused the earth to quake with their unholy magics,” said the envoy. “Marisi has risen from the dead to resume his fight against this tyranny. We go to war against the Cloud Nacatl once again.”

  The ruse was enough. The fear caused by Jazal’s death, and the recent movements of elves, behemoths, and the earth itself had prepared the pride for change. Marisi felt confident enough that he emerged personally from behind his army, and the last pride of Wild Nacatl cheered his return. Marisi roared, his warrior spirit kindled by the show of fierce camaraderie, and hundreds of nacatl joined in Marisi’s roar of rebellion.

  Only one among them said nothing. Zaliki watched as her pride, her extended family, dissolved into Marisi’s army. She had never met Marisi, but she knew of him—and the thought of him burned her heart. Without a word to anyone, she stole up to Jazal’s lair. There she gathered Jazal’s notes, the documents representing Jazal’s research into the legends and prophecies of nacatl and Naya, and slipped away into the wilderness.

  BANT

  Mubin’s wagon came to a halt outside the grounds of the palace of Aarsil the Blessed. He could hear the four leotau roar with relief after the long ride.

  “We’re here, sir,” said the wagon driver.

  Mubin looked out. It was dusk. Through the gate, he could see the Twelve Trees of Valeron lined up in two tidy rows of six across a long reflection pool, the pool reflecting the dying light of day. Each twisted tree symbolized both a noble family of Valeron and a virtue to live by. And if Mubin was right, each one hid an ancient, crucial secret.

  The wagon driver unhitched the largest, strongest leotau from the wagon, and brought it around for Mubin. With difficulty, they got Mubin into the saddle. The leotau was tired, but it knew its duty; it held Mubin’s weight proudly and didn’t stumble.

  “Thank you,” Mubin said to the driver. “Make camp. We’ll leave again in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the driver.

  Mubin hoped that Aarsil the Blessed would hear his arguments. He rode up to the castle. The guard waved him through the gate.

  Aarsil came out to meet him.

  “Mubin of the Reliquary,” she said. “I got your note. I was very sorry to hear of your injury.”

  “Thank you, but I am fine.” Mubin had his leotau sit, but with his useless legs he stayed in the saddle. “I apologize for not dismounting, Highness. I mean no disrespect.”

  “That’s quite all right, under the circumstances.”

  A thin man with a robe draped over his hunched shoulders walked out of the castle keep and came down the steps to join them. As he approached, Mubin noticed the emblem stitched into the man’s robes: a half-lidded eye, with the iris pointing upward. He was the same man that had accompanied Aarsil the Blessed to the match in the arena, Mubin thought. How long had that order had had the ear of the Blessed caste?

  “Sir Mubin,” said Aarsil the Blessed. “May I introduce my advisor?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir knight,” said the Skyward Eye advisor. “The Order of the Reliquary is a worthy cause, deepening our roots in the history of Valeron and all of Bant.”

  Mubin nodded in what he hoped was a polite manner.

  “What brings you here, may I ask?” asked Aarsil.

  “I’m here to ask for your help.”

  “You’re welcome to any assistance we can provide.”

  “Thank you. Let me be blunt. I need to dig up the Twelve Trees of Valeron.”

  NAYA

  Zaliki’s journey took her deep into the woods and up through the foothills. When night came, she didn’t stop, and traveled by the light of the moon. Overhead, she heard the sounds of flying creatures—horrible monsters making war on Naya, and she saw streams of fire and the bright spellcraft of elves. The world was changing in ways she didn’t understand, but she had to focus on what she could affect. She only knew she had to get to the ancient forbidden city of Qasal—before Marisi’s army did.

  By morning she had reached the outer walls of Qasal. She saw a tower spire reaching up from inside the city. On the hills bey
ond it, she saw the broken white stones of the Coil, carved with the scratchforms that codified nacatl law before Marisi’s revolution had smashed it to pieces. How she longed to spend time with them and Jazal’s documents, comparing the writings between them.

  An arrow pierced the ground next to Zaliki’s foot. She turned to see Cloud Nacatl archers along the top of the city walls.

  “I’m unarmed and alone,” Zaliki called up to the walls of Qasal, the capital of the Cloud Nacatl prides.

  As far as Zaliki knew, the Cloud Nacatl hadn’t had a Wild Nacatl visitor since the breaking of the Coil. The two super-prides had been divided since Marisi’s revolt. If they trusted her, it would be a miracle.

  A guard called down from the top of the wall. “You’re a Wild Nacatl and a shaman,” he said. “You coming here even with hands empty is an act of aggression. Speak quickly and carefully, before I tire of instructing my archers to miss.”

  “I need your help,” said Zaliki. “And, I fear, in a few days’ time, you will need mine.”

  The Cloud Nacatl ambassador was a stern, gray-furred nacatl. He wore layer upon layer of fine robes in colors of ochre and maroon, and silver rings on his fingers. Beside him sat an old female with white eyes.

  “I am Banat, and this is my advisor, Ruki,” said the ambassador. “You’re being given an audience only because you cooperated with the guards, but I warn you—if you cause any disturbance, we will be forced to act.”

  “Yes,” creaked the old crone Ruki. “I’ll be forced to kill you.”

  Zaliki kept her retort to herself. She nodded.

  “You say an army approaches,” said Banat.

  “Yes,” Zaliki said. “Marisi, or someone claiming to be him, has gathered all of the Wild Nacatl together once again. They intend to mount an attack on Qasal.”