He doubled over, shaking violently. Gerrard. Hanna. Mirri. Selenia… Crovax toppled forward to the black marble walkway, his bloody hands sliding on the smooth, cold stone. A toothy demon leered at him from the pavement. The demon's face was his own, contorted with hatred, anger, and suffering.
He smote the floor with his fist. "Why am I here?" he bellowed.
Don't you know?
The speaker was quite close, almost on top of him. Crovax lashed out in the direction of the voice. His fists met nothing. He scrambled to his feet, panting.
"Show yourself, coward!" he said. "Stop playing these stupid games!"
The air before him shimmered, and an image formed. Crovax shook his head and rubbed his eyes. The being before him was like nothing he'd ever seen. Fully seven feet tall, the transparent phantom resembled a grisly statue made of meat and metal. Its long arms were covered with pink skin only to the elbows; above them its limbs were made of metal rods and pulleys. The creature wore a beaded leather wrap around its waist. The head was the most arresting feature of all. Atop a skeletal torso perched what looked like a massive head in a mask of fantastic gray and red plumes, bone, and black fur. Crovax saw no visible eyes or mouth, though corrugated tubes emerged from the being's shoulders and chest and entered the mask at various points. It made audible breathing sounds, like a winded dog. A gorget of brass circled the thing's wide neck. Jewels gleamed all over the creature, and some glowed and blinked with their own inner light.
"I am Kirril, servant of the Hidden One," said the creature in a papery voice. Crovax could discern no lips moving on the creature, yet he heard it plainly. "You are here because you wished to be. My master has taken an interest in you."
"Who is your master? Volrath? Do you serve the evincar?"
Kirril's cadaverous arm made a dismissive gesture. "Speak not the traitor's name! The one I serve has many names-The Dark
Lord, the Hidden One, the First Master. He is our great lord, ruler of all Phyrexia."
Crovax was impressed, but he didn't allow himself to show it. "What does your master want with me?"
"The Hidden One has watched you, Crovax, since the day you were born. He has seen the seed of greatness in you and bided his time until you recognized it in yourself. That moment has arrived. Once you chose to follow the path to power, you became his servant. But greater things await you, Crovax, if you have the vision and the strength to accept them."
He scowled at the Phyrexian. "I am no man's servant, do you hear? I am certainly not submitting myself to your Dark Lord! I've ruined my soul already with hatred and murder, but I will not bow to anyone in this world-or yours!"
Kirril glided past Crovax. The hair on his arms prickled as the Phyrexian's projected image passed. In his wake Kirril left a strong odor of ozone, as if his presence singed the very air.
"It's common for birth pangs to be painful," Kirril said, proceeding down the concourse. "What's important is how one deals with the pain. Do you let it defeat you, or do you return it tenfold upon those who caused it?"
"What are you saying?"
"The deaths of the angel Selenia and the feline Mirri were not accidents. Who is responsible for these acts of pain?"
"I am."
"That is the weakling's answer. You were not bred to be weak, Crovax. Who started you on this journey? By whose hand did you arrive on Rath?"
His face burned. "Gerrard Capashen!"
Kirril moved on. Crovax watched him go. It was unsettling to see the wall reliefs and pilasters through Kirril's image-or was it his words that were so disturbing?
"Wait," Crovax said.
Kirril vanished, only to reappear directly in front of him.
Crovax recoiled, then recovered his nerve. "If all these things are Gerrard's fault, why do I feel so-so bereft?"
For a moment the Phyrexian's only answer was his blinking jewels. Then he said, "Every being arrives at a moment of choice between avoiding their destiny or embracing it. The weak turn away from power and decry in others what they cannot accomplish themselves. The strong throw off the constraints of restrictive morality and recognize that ultimate good is that which is efficient and successful. You, Crovax, have not made the choice yet. You've acted according to your true nature as a predator, but you haven't accepted the truth of your superiority yet. Thus you are in torment, like the fools who brought you here."
Kirril pointed to the floor between them. A conical vessel with a flat lid materialized. It was made of dark translucent stone or glass. Inside the vessel a dimly glowing yellow object moved about furtively.
"Your new life can provide rewards you've never imagined. Do you hunger, Crovax? Is there an emptiness deep within you?" "Yes, damn you." "Pick up the container."
Crovax hefted the jar. It was a foot high and quite heavy. "Remove the cap," Kirril commanded. The jar was sealed with a strip of lead. Crovax peeled away the seal and lifted off the thick cap. "Take care it doesn't escape."
Crovax peered into the jar. A lobed ball of light the size of a plum floated inside. It moved in slow circles, stopped, and reversed direction like a caged animal. Suddenly, it seemed to sense the lid was off and darted for the open mouth. Crovax clamped his hand over the jar. The globe touched his raw palm and melted into it. He saw the glow through the back of his hand.
A shock passed down his arm, followed by an intense sensation of pleasure. Crovax's dour face broke into a wide smile. The emptiness, the anguish inside him evaporated. He felt invigorated and strong. "What was that?"
"The life-force of a living creature. Every living thing contains it. Most creatures replenish their supply by eating common food and expend it through physical and emotional activity. Because you deny your natural role as a hunter and master of flesh beings, you expend your life-force needlessly, fueling useless emotions like pity, anguish, and regret. You have progressed beyond mortals, Crovax. You now have the ability to absorb the life-force from other beings. Will you use it, or perish like a miserable, weak human?"
The cuts on his hands were gone. "How has this happened?"
"The power was always within you. By your acts on Weatherlight you have awakened the latent instinct."
Crovax dropped the jar. It smashed to flinders on the black pavement. "I want more," he said. "Give me more. I need more."
The image of Kirril spread its bony hands wide. "You will have more-as much as you desire-if you meet the Hidden One's final test." With another fluid turn of his hand, Kirril summoned the dream catchers. Spidery claws descended rapidly from the ceiling, surrounding Crovax in a ring of spiny black "hands."
"What are these for?"
"Your education, Crovax. It is important you know the history of Rath so that you will not repeat your predecessor's mistakes. These appliances will allow you to experience the past as it actually happened. Are you prepared for that? You will know terrors and pleasures few mortal men have known."
This time Crovax wasn't alarmed. He kicked aside the fragments of the broken jar and stood in the center of the dream machines.
"My appetite is very large," he declared.
"Good," Kirril answered. "It must be. Now prepare yourself for your lesson."
*****
Crovax lay spread-eagled on an operating table, somewhere on the Fourth Level of Phyrexia. Tubes filled his nose, and a breathing mask covered his open mouth. No less than four Phyrexian birth priests were working on him at the same time, each with his own quadrant of Crovax's body. In the hazy recesses of his mind, Crovax knew this was happening. He had seen the full history of Rath, and he realized he was getting the same treatment Volrath had-he was being modified to fill the role of evincar.
"What conclusion do you draw from Volrath's history?" Kirril asked him.
"Volrath was a fool and a weakling," Crovax replied.
"He was for many years a highly effective governor."
"For suppressing some ragtag elves and whipping moggs, he was fine. The first time a real challenge appeared- Weatherl
ight-he bungled everything. Worse, he became so out of control he abandoned his post to pursue his private quarrel with Gerrard. Not good form for a man with his responsibilities."
"You would not make such mistakes?"
"Never," replied Crovax.
"How would you deal with an incursion by Weatherlight?"
"Weatherlight is not important. It's a vessel, a means to deliver an end."
Delicate microtomes scraped at Crovax's flesh. Through all the detachment and anesthesia, the sensation-or his thoughts about the sensation-seeped in. Through Kirril's eyes he saw his own naked body laid open on the Phyrexian operating table, his ebon skin pinned back like supple leather, his organs still alive, quivering, his heart pumping…
A high-pitched whine distracted Crovax. He saw again his own transformation. This time a small whirring saw blade was being used to open his skull. The hulking priest wielding the saw had three arms, each tipped with slender metallic digits of excruciating delicacy. The Phyrexian touched the bright blade to Crovax's head, and the former member of the Weatherlight crew screamed inwardly.
He felt he was hurtling through an abyss of total darkness. The plunge was all the more terrible because he knew it would last forever. He would never reach the bottom, never feel the absolving impact of death.
Below him a dim light gleamed. It grew steadily larger and brighter, resolving into the form of a glowing angel.
Selenia!
He tore past her, twisting and grasping at her diaphanous, trailing robe. Her sorrowful face seemed blurred, indistinct. Yet when they recognized each other, the angel folded her beating wings and dropped after him. Crovax strained to reach her outstretched hands. Their fingertips brushed many times and failed to meet. Despair gave way to frustration, then to anger. Crovax knotted both hands into fists and hurled himself at Selenia. A dull red halo surrounded him as he shot upward to meet her. She opened her arms wide to embrace him, and he did likewise, flushed with triumph.
They met in midair, and he clasped the bright angel to him. She was not dead, not dead, not dead…
Selenia writhed in his grasp. "Let me go! Let me go, Crovax, you're hurting me!"
"1 would never hurt you!"
"Let me go, I cannot bear it!"
Crovax drew back far enough to see her agonized face. He knew instinctively the power he exuded was hurting her. The same force that allowed him to stop falling and reach Selenia was now killing her.
"Let me go, Crovax! I'm burning!"
"I won't let you go! You're all I care about!"
Feathers from her wings fell away, scorched brown. She became dead weight in his arms, and they slowly turned in the air until she was hanging limply beneath him. Her robe smoldered, her gossamer hair was singed.
"Crovax, you've killed me."
He kissed her lifeless face. Where he touched her, her lips and cheek blistered. Rather than see her beauty entirely consumed by his raging heat, Crovax released her. She spiraled down into the darkness, wings rigid in death.
He covered his face with his hands. If he could tear out his memory, expunge Selenia from his mind, he might be saved from the torment of her death.
"Kirril? Kirril! Can you hear me? Grant me this boon!"
"No," said the Phyrexian. "You must preserve memories of all your deeds."
"Why? I don't want to remember the awful things I've done!"
"They only seem awful because you cling to inferior concepts of right and wrong. You must learn to savor your experiences. In that way, you will be strong. You'll be superior to those mortals who live in fear and react to pain."
"Can you give me this strength, Kirril?"
"You have it already. All that needs to be done is to delete what remains of your useless moral sense."
"Then do it."
"Are you certain? What is taken away cannot be restored."
"Do it!"
An electrode, tipped with a miniature cauterizing iron, slipped into Crovax's brain. With a hiss, what remained of his painful conscience burned away.
CHAPTER 3
ARRIVALS
At low speed, and with considerable cursing on the part of Greven il-Vec, Predator approached the airship tunnel high on the slope of the Stronghold. It had taken two days to return from Portal Canyon instead of the usual five hours. Negotiating the usually roomy tunnel through the slopes of Rath Peak appeared impossible. Predator's steering was a jury-rigged shambles, and none of the bone-headed crew could do anything to correct it. They made three approaches to the tunnel mouth, only to abort each one at the last instant to avoid piling up on the side of the crater.
Furious and desperate, Greven stormed below to where Ertai was still chained to the mast. "Are we there yet?" Ertai asked cheerfully. Greven dearly wanted to wrench the boy's smirking head off, but he settled for stomping a cider keg to kindling. It was a full keg, and the sweet smell of cider filled the cramped hold.
Predator lurched heavily to port. Shouts of alarm penetrated from the deck above. Greven's scarred lips curled in disgust.
"Well?" said Ertai. "I can't do much chained up down here." "Who says I want you to do anything?" Greven snarled.
"You didn't come down here to offer me cider, did you?"
Greven's normally sallow face darkened. He reached out with his massive, sinewy hands, and Ertai feared his time had come. Greven grasped the chain between Ertai's hands, and with little more than a shrug, snapped them in two.
Ertai just stared in amazement. Greven did the same with his leg shackles, and the young wizard stood up for the first time in more than a day.
"Many thanks, Captain. I was beginning to cramp-"
"Shut up," Greven said. "Get on deck!"
*****
Ertai shuffled up the gangway, chains jingling as he went. He emerged on the main bridge. The sailors were trying to steer Predator with her tattered mainsails. Even if they had been in top condition, such methods were too coarse for steering the airship into its home base.
Ertai craned his head and gazed at the Stronghold. A vast rounded cone rose steeply from the surrounding plain to a height of over three miles. The barren slopes were yellow stone, streaked with red and brown mineral deposits. The western side was covered by a silver-gray cascade of newly fabricated flow-stone. At the peak, the great Hub floated on a continuous stream of sizzling blue energy. This vast cylindrical object received the energy lancing down from indefinite space above. Though not bright in the sense that the Dominarian sun was bright, Ertai's eyes began to water from the light.
"This is no time for tears," Greven said.
"I'm the sensitive type," Ertai said, dabbing his eyes.
Greven dragged Ertai to the forward rail. "We have a steering problem." He really loathed what he was about to say, and it showed clearly on his brutal face. "You will use magic to get us through the tunnel."
"I'm a prisoner of war."
"You're on my ship," Greven replied, his teeth beginning to grind. "If we crash, you go down with us."
Ertai couldn't help but smile. "That's persuasive." He strolled to the port side of the bridge, then to starboard. Predator was making a large, slow turn that would eventually bring it back on course for the tunnel opening.
"The rudder is wrecked?" Ertai asked. Greven nodded. "Can you steer with differential thrust from your engines?"
"Normally, yes, but the starboard engine is off its mountings. Only the port engine is supplying thrust."
Ertai shaded his eyes from the blue glow of the peak and studied the sailors trying to manhandle the port mainsail to counteract the off-center push of the engine. Even as he watched, the flapping sail whipped loose and swept three men off the boom. They plunged to their deaths, and no one paused to mark the fact, least of all Predator's captain.
"Can you abandon ship?" asked Ertai.
"That's not an option," Greven said, folding his arms across his chest. "What can you do? Remember, if you fail, you'll follow those clumsy fools over the side!"
/> "As you so eloquently stated, Captain, we're all in this bucket together."
Ertai closed his eyes and extended his hands. Power crackled from his fingertips. There was plenty of energy in the air here, even if it was primarily of a destructive variety. He drew in some of this harsh background energy. It felt bad and made his bruised body ache, but desperate times sanctioned daring actions.
"What are you doing?" Greven demanded.
"Making a road," Ertai murmured. He visualized a great rod of magical energy emanating from his hands to the distant tunnel entrance. That was simple enough, but then he drew the stream of force down his arms and pushed it through his body to his feet. By anchoring the power stream through the hull, he would force Predator to follow it. The sensation was akin to hugging a naming tree, but it had to be done.
Predator shivered and turned smartly toward the Stronghold.
"Prepare for a crash landing," Ertai gasped. "This will be rough."
Greven gave the order, and the surviving sailors and moggs hunkered down behind bulwarks fore and aft. Disdaining danger, Greven remained on the bridge with Ertai.
"Moron," Ertai whispered.
"What?"
"Uh, I'm more on course." His limbs began to tremble. Sweat soaked through the filthy rags he wore.
The bow sank, and the airship gathered speed. Here was the real danger, though Ertai didn't bother explaining it to Greven. His spell could easily keep the airship straight, but he didn't know if he would have enough strength left to stop the ship once inside the crater.
"Cut engines."
Greven sounded far away. Ertai struggled to keep his balance. Heat was building where his body touched the ship. The soles of his feet blistered. Under them the decking began to smolder. Someone-presumably Greven-threw a bucket of water on Ertai's feet.
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