(1/2, wouldn't let me post the entire thing at once)
Chapter 1: Armageddon
Choking clouds of caustic black smoke filled the air and chemical fires raged across the endless fields of crackling wires and towering palaces of the sixth circle. Glistening oil rained in torrents from the cracked metal vault above and tortured prisoners poured forth from the hell below seeking revenge for centuries of agony. The entire world quaked, heaved and groaned – the final death rattle of a civilization spanning thousands of years. From atop a great parapet, the praetor, Abcal-Dro, gazed upon the beautiful albeit futile carnage below through myriad eyes as powerstones pulsated beneath translucent membranes and writhing tendrils wove frantic spells. He hurled inky black webs of corrosive darkness down to smite slavering hordes of black gremlins that even now scaled the crenelated walls to tear down their former master.
These inferior beings, who had toiled for countless generations to drive Yawgmoth's great war machine, had arisen in their multitudes after sensing the same thing felt by all Phyrexians: Their god was dead.
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On Dominaria, the invasion force had witnessed Yawgmoth’s demise first-hand.
Yawgmoth had cradled the world against his breast, slaying all that he touched – mortal and planeswalker alike, raising them up from death, re-forged in his glorious image. Every dead thing, every dead cell had arisen with a single, unified purpose - an unconquerable tide to wash away the old, flawed world and usher in a new age of blessed perfection. Phyrexia’s victory was at hand; they would reclaim the world of their birth and from there the grand evolution would continue across all of the multiverse. They would expunge all weaknesses such as love and sentiment, and transform all of existence into a place of constant war and strife. Every lifeform would perpetually struggle to improve itself as they slay their way to the top of the hierarchy and the bodies of the slain would be broken down into their component parts for re-use.
Then, suddenly, a blinding light had erupted amid the all-encompassing blackness, spreading and devouring all it touched. The Phyrexians had stared up in utter disbelief as life left the dead and mud men crumbled back into soil, returning them to their graves. To the Phyrexians, Yawgmoth had been all in all, The Ineffable, perfection incarnate, he who had conquered death and become its master. How then, could anything slay him? Their existence now meaningless, most did not even resist as the ragged bands of surviving Coalition fighters slew them en-masse.
On Phyrexia, Yawgmoth’s Inner Circle of demons and praetors had watched through a great extraplanar lens as their god entered Dominaria. The cataclysmic destruction wrought by Urza and the band of Planeswalkers calling themselves the Nine Titans was ultimately meaningless. Although countless Phyrexians had perished and five of the nine spheres had been all but gutted, they had no intention to rebuild. Phyrexia was an artificial plane, ancient, created in some twilight age by a planeswalker which time had long since forgotten. It had always been but a staging ground from which to wage war, to reclaim their birth-world from the World Witch, Rebbec.
She had cast them out of Dominaria, sealing them within Phyrexia, more than 9,000 years ago - preventing them from spreading Yawgmoth’s glorious vision of Phyresis across all existence. She had clung to Yawgmoth’s shadow, pretended to worship him, when in truth she still embodied all that which was base and weakness. Then, the brothers Urza and Mishra unlocked the portal at Koilos, allowing for their return. Although Mishra had come to bow before Phyrexia, Urza chose instead to fight. After the ignition of his Planeswalker’s spark, he had dedicated his existence to mounting a seemingly futile defense against the coming Invasion.
Yet, in the end, he too would bow. Yawgmoth, in his infinite benevolence, had granted Urza and his mortal champion, Gerrard Capashen, the opportunity to battle to the death in the ninth circle for the honor of ascending to serve at his side. Gerrard ultimately proved himself the fiercer fighter, severing Urza’s head with a mighty blow and offering it as tribute. However, in the end, Gerrard too had proven unworthy. He had fought for the soul of a woman, Hanna, his lover and companion.
Yawgmoth had sought to stoke the flames of his hatred, to fill him with bloodlust and a desire for power. However, like Rebbec before him, he clung to his mortal frailties and base desires and was cast out. Still, his defiance was of little consequence to Yawgmoth. As he entered the world, all perished before his might. Even the surviving Nine Titans, who had cleaved and blasted their way through unending hordes of Phyrexians, perished in an instant at Yawgmoth’s merest caress.
Then, there arose a light that stabbed out at Yawgmoth’s heart with its beams of radiance. Like Yawgmoth, the Inner Circle recognized her as Rebbec – for what else could she be? While Yawgmoth had become a God in Phyrexia, she had become the goddess of Dominaria. She was the Gaea that its peoples had come to worship. She was the embodiment of all that was false, championing the natural cycle over Phyresis, love over hatred and light over darkness.
Yawgmoth would avenge his betrayal and slay her; Dominaria’s peoples would see in that moment the folly of their ways. Then, the unimaginable transpired. The shock among the inner circle was just as great. However, demons who had held such a dominant status for thousands of years did not so readily relinquish life. Instead, Yawgmoth’s death plunged Phyrexia into chaos.
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It began in the seventh circle, where Yawgmoth condemned those who displeased him to unending torture. The great machines that flayed flesh, burned muscle and crushed bones only to endlessly re-knit them suddenly ground to a halt. Those who had been freshly vivisected at the time finally perished, welcoming the release of death that they had long craved. Among these was Mishra, whom Yawgmoth had strapped to a flesh grinder for 4,000 years after failing to defeat Urza at the climax of The Brother’s War. As his eyes darkened for the last time, Mishra sensed that somehow Yawgmoth had been destroyed – but he knew his brother still hadn’t forgiven him.
As Urza had descended to the bowels of Phyrexia seeking audience with Yawgmoth, he had paused upon seeing Mishra’s torments. Avenging his brother had been the source of Urza’s hatred of Phyrexia. However, Yawgmoth’s hold over Urza at the time had been far too great. Mishra had begged and pleaded with his brother for release - Yawgmoth had promised to free him if Urza so desired. Without a word, Urza walked away.
Meanwhile, Croag, the former Inner Circle member who had appointed the first Evincar of Rath, writhed in a haze of pain and fury. For centuries, his favored weapon had been a semi-living cloak, grafted to his body and comprised of countless, razor sharp bands of metal. He had developed a talent for controlling these bands telekinetically to lash out at his foes. However, Yawgmoth’s will was far greater. After Croag’s negators failed time and time again to hunt down and slay Urza, Yawgmoth had bound him in the seventh circle using his own cloak.
The metal bands stretched, twisted and contorted his limbs, breaking them in new ways again and again - only for machines to heal them. Other bands wormed beneath his leathery hide, tearing sharply through the mutated flesh beneath only for it too to mend. Then, after nearly 800 years of languishing, Croag at last sighted his ancient quarry amid the torture sphere. Croag had begged
Yawgmoth to release him; let him rise up and tear Urza to pieces with his own hands and avenge his failures. His prayers fell on deaf ears and his bands snaked down his throat and into lungs, filling them with glistening oil blood to choke off his screams. Urza walked away without so much as turning his head to acknowledge his longtime pursuer.
When Yawgmoth perished, Croag’s bands suddenly ceased their movement. All around him, torture machines powered down and the endless chorus of screams was replaced by a great, shocked silence. Once he had regained his senses and the realization of what had transpired dawned on him, only one thought filled his mind: revenge. Croag rose, oil-stained bands carefully worming themselves free from his punctured body, delicately avoiding rupturing critical organs and arteries. His body once again obeyed his commands.
His compound eyes fell upon his fellow damned – most of them fallen demons themselves but none his equal, none of them former praetors. His teeth gnashed into a skeletal grin. He would lead a rebellion of these tortured souls and overthrow the rest of the Inner Circle. Phyrexia would be his, if he had to slay every last one of his brethren and rebuild them himself. With metallic tendrils dancing around him like tongues of flame, Croag called out to the hate filled masses “Yawgmoth is dead, I, Croag, declare myself the new Father of Machines. Join me, and reclaim your former glory!”
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Croag was not alone in claiming the title.
For more than nine thousand years, Phyrexia had possessed a strict hierarchy with Yawgmoth always at the pinnacle of power. None dared to challenge him, for he was the Ineffable, all in all, perfection incarnate. The Inner Circle of praetors had always reigned as a council of equals, directly below Yawgmoth, overseeing grand-scale projects he tasked them with. While lesser Phyrexians were granted little will of their own and were usually designed to fulfil highly specialized tasks, each praetor was a uniquely lethal creation in its own right. They were largely given free-reign to engineer their own continued evolutions and that of their subordinates and were challenged only after repeated failures proved them unworthy.
Yawgmoth’s death created a vacuum of power which needed to be filled and for Phyrexians the only way to ascend was through bloodshed. The Inner Circle was splintered into numerous warring factions as Phyrexia’s remaining armies fought among themselves. In addition to Yawgmoth’s would-be successors there were those demons who believed their god was not dead and sought to defend his throne from all usurpers. Assailed on numerous fronts, these were quickly eradicated. Stranger still, there arose a faction who believed that since Yawgmoth had been killed by Rebbec, her ways were superior to that of Phyresis.
These heretics released hordes of enslaved gremlin workers. Now believing biological beings to be superior, they allowed the Gremlins to tear them to pieces. As they died, mutated limbs, organs and mechanisms were stripped from their bodies, which they considered their only possible repentance. In death, they would return to the proper cycle and nourish Phyrexia’s natural life. The gremlins, for their part, no longer feared Yawgmoth’s wrath and now knew demons could be killed. They revolted, filled, for the first time, with the hope of freeing themselves from their oppressors whose power was visibly slipping away.
All the while, Phyrexia crumbled. The Phyrexian civil war only brought further destruction to the already gutted spheres. Ruined cities were not rebuilt; instead, their components were used to construct additional war machines. Instead of laborers and diggers, Praetors converted their forces
almost entirely into soldiers – desperately trying to defend their besieged territories. To make matters worse, Phyrexia was not a natural plane, and without Yawgmoth’s spirit to sustain it, the nine spheres were slowly unraveling.
Those spheres that had been devastated by the soul bombs of the Nine Titans were the first to be affected by this entropy. Over time, the first, second, third, fourth and fifth spheres gradually vanished into the Aether. This only made the warring factions more desperate. Whomever arose through their conflict would attain the same power as Yawgmoth possessed – or greater. Only then could they bring stability to their world once more.
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Abcal-Dro alone recognized the futility of it all. Phyrexia would rise again, but it would not be here. Phyrexia could progress no further here; Yawgmoth had done the best he could with a world possessing only black mana. Their foes on Dominaria had not prevailed through superior biology, technology, physical resources or battle tactics. They prevailed because they could draw upon all five colors of mana, combine them and wield them in ways Phyrexia had never anticipated.
They had evolved faster than even Phyrexia could adapt in its current incarnation. To progress, the Phyrexians must shed their old world and their old dogmas. They must evolve to integrate all five colors of mana; only then will nothing be beyond their grasp. It was not impossible, for even on Dominaria species evolved in every conceivable mana environment. He understood quite clearly that to unite the multiverse all must be made one.
A few of the gremlins managed to slip through Abcal-Dro’s magical assault, rushing brazenly toward the towering mass of bulbous flesh that was the Praetor. His unconventional anatomy had been designed to maximize the mutagenic properties of the glistening oil. Most Inner Circle members had completely replaced their flesh with mechanism, using the oil merely to power the various machines that had substituted for their organs. However, Abcal-Dro had been intrigued by the effects of prolonged exposure of living flesh to the substance. His horrific form was the result of 500 years of mutation.
Its first evolutionary advantage was demonstrated as the gremlins raked their claws across him. No sooner did their dirty fingernails tear rivets in his body then they healed shut due to the oil’s rejuvenating properties. Next, formless blobs extended themselves and solidified into tendrils, constricting and crushing Gremlins with wet pops. Others stabbed out as a forest of impaling barbs, tearing through lungs and boring through skulls. While other Inner Circle members selected their favorite weapons to incorporate into their designs, Abcal-Dro could shape any that he wished on a whim – a design he also incorporated into the Evincar Volrath.
Still, for every Gremlin that Abcal-Dro slew, three more climbed up to take their place. Eventually, even he would find himself overwhelmed. The creatures soon surrounded him on all sides, inflicting wounds faster than they could heal and biting through tendrils as they extended. He could not outrun them – his gelatinous mass was not known for its speed. Instead, he would reclaim the dead gremlins as his servants.
Abcal-Dro released an explosion of black mana from all sides, instantly snuffing the life of those Gremlins within its radius. Moments later, they and all those killed earlier by the Praetor rose as a horde of shuffling zombies. With entrails dragging from their opened bellies and shards of bone jutting like spines from their broken forms, they turned on their brethren. They too would eventually be destroyed, but they would buy him the few, precious moments he needed to make his escape. Once he reached the portal, he would leave this dying world behind forever.
Abcal-Dro slithered his hideous mass into a high vaulted hall, pulling a lever which caused a great, gear-like door to roll into place on a track and bar the way. The gremlins would break through eventually with battering rams, but by then he would be long gone. The palace had been designed to his exact specifications; with halls supported by structures resembling a metallic rib cage and walls of pulsating flesh stretched tightly over “veins” of cables beneath. The doors resembled the circular mouths of lampreys, filled with rows of metal fangs. Abcal-Dro could will them to gnash down on any would-be transgressor or retract their teeth to admit guests.
Abcal-Dro preferred to pass from room to room by seeping his body through the pores of the fleshy walls. The architecture was tailored to his anatomy and in here he could move about far more easily than his more solid peers. Those attempting to hack their way through would find themselves electrocuted by the cables running beneath. Casually, the Praetor oozed his way toward a chamber inaccessible through conventional routes. There, within the literal bowels of his palace, Abcal-Dro kept his personal portal.
Abcal-Dro knew precisely upon which world he would sow the seed of a New Phyrexia: Mercadia. Phyrexia’s influence had already festered there for some time. The Overlord of the Cateran guild was a Phyrexian demon named Xarzhun and his chief enforcers were a species bred by the Evincars of Rath. Volrath had even constructed his personal invasion fleet in a subterranean hangar beneath the world’s great inverted mountain. That fleet was never deployed on Dominaria, as the hangar was destroyed by Urza’s champions and their skyship, Weatherlight.
Still, Abcal-Dro knew that this was not the only Cateran stronghold on the plane. They had almost certainly survived and were likely attempting to salvage and repair the fleet even now – unaware that the war had ended. They would make for loyal subordinates, obeying the will of a praetor unquestioningly. Their vast spy networks would allow him to subtly undermine and influence the rest of the world. Then, when the time was right, he would seize complete control.
Abcal-Dro’s inner machinations came to an abrupt halt as one of the walls behind him suddenly exploded in a rain of gore and scrap. Through the cavity emerged Croag, his glowing golden eyes locked upon Abcal-Dro as they smoldered in their sunken sockets. Upon his shoulder, the praetor touted a ray cannon large enough to have belonged to a skyship the size of Predator. “Your reign here has ended,” hissed the Lord of the Damned. “Submit before the new Father of Machines.”
A bubbling laughter was Abcal-Dro’s answer. “Submit? To one whom has already been deemed unworthy? You are nothing but discarded scrap. I am Phyrexia’s future.”
At this, Croag gnashed his metal fangs together and leveled the ray cannon at Abcal-Dro. A searing beam of red mana erupted from the barrel and raced toward Abcal-Dro. In response, the praetor rapidly shifted his form, creating an opening in his body which the beam passed harmlessly through. Instead, the ray melted through the far wall of the chamber, revealing Abcal-Dro’s sanctum and the waiting portal beyond. “So, that is your plan,” Croag taunted as his skeletal grin widened “To flee like fearful prey from the grand melee and reign over some backwater world?”
Croag then set his sights on the portal, but before he could fire, Abcal-Dro quickly lashed out. The praetor fired off several globules of his own body like projectiles. Croag’s metal bands rapidly swatted aside those aimed at his body. However, these had been but a distraction. One glob splashed into the barrel of the ray cannon and from there began to digest itself, secreting a highly corrosive acid.
Sneering, Croag tossed aside the ruined weapon and pounced at Abcal-Dro like a jungle cat. Bands from Croag’s cloak darted out, slashing wildly and effortlessly cleaving through the fleshly barbs and
tendrils that emerged from Abcal-Dro’s body as a defense. Then, one of them struck true, puncturing into Abcal-dro’s body and recoiling with one of Abcal-Dro’s numerous powerstone ‘organs’ in its grasp. The band then constricted around it, shattering it with a flash of black energies into a fine powder. As Abcal-Dro pulled his great mass back away from Croag, a portion of him sloughed free, collapsing de-animated into an oily pool between them.
“No matter how you alter your flesh, it is still inferior to my metal body,” Croag boasted, advancing to close the gap between them. “Your flawed design is unworthy.” With that, Croag’s cloak appeared to further unwind itself, doubling the number of slashing barbs that danced around him. He would not allow Abcal-Dro to retreat, or the time to mount a counterattack. In the fraction of a second that it took Abcal-Dro to form a weapon, Croag had already severed the appendage and stabbed in at the gap with another snaking blade.
This was the advantage of having a single, stable form, thought Croag - his weapons were always at the ready. One by one, powerstones are plucked from Abcal-Dro and crushed in his grasp. He would continue to diminish the Praetor until all that remained of him was a greasy stain on the floor. His victory was inevitable. Or, so he thought.
As Croag’s bands recoiled from Abcal-Dro, many of them suddenly crumbled apart. Croag took several steps back in shock, noticing that all of his bands showed signs of acid scouring. Knowing that he could not defend against Croag’s speed, Abcal-Dro had begun to digest portions of his body that he knew would soon be lost anyway. Croag was equally caught off-guard as snaking tendrils of oozing flesh rose up from the floor to snare his legs, forcing him to his knees. Additional tendrils then rose up to constrict around his arms.
Again came Abcal-Dro’s bubbling laughter. “Did you think all of those powerstones were crucial organs?” the Praetor taunted. “Several of them were simply minor stones, to act as decoys. When you crushed them, I allowed you to believe you were destroying parts of my body so that you would step into my ‘lifeless’ ooze. You took the bait and fell right into my trap.”
Although his body had been reduced to nearly half of its size, Abcal-Dro still towered above the kneeling Croag. Screaming in fury, Croag struggled to pull himself free, but it was too late. The pool of flesh beneath him began to hiss and sizzle as it slowly digested itself into a river of acid. The tendrils restraining Croag would be the last to dissolve, after they had pulled him down to lie face-down in the corrosive substance. Tendrils of half-digested flesh then bound themselves around Croag’s torso and his neck to seal his fate.
Croag’s every nerve burned with pain, but it was a sensation to which he had grown accustomed during his time in the seventh circle. Where most beings would be rendered helpless as their deaths closed in – Croag spat forth a final curse. He would release every bit of his remaining life energy as a great cloud of black mana. If he was to perish, he would take Abcal-Dro with him. Where it touched them, the fleshy walls of the chamber rotted away, with even the metal supports rusting and collapsing upon themselves.
Were it not for his reduced size, Abcal-Dro would have been unable to slither away from the killing cloud. Even still, much of his flesh was devoured by the time he activated the portal. Gushing like a punctured artery, Abcal-Dro jettisoned his remaining mass and most vital organs through the gate. Moments later, the portal was destroyed. Soon after, all of Phyrexia followed.
Unbeknownst to the Inner Circle, the eighth and ninth spheres had already given way to entropy. Oblivion closed in upon the warring demons from above and below. The mechanical hell which had plagued the multiverse for eons disintegrated without a trace.
Chapter 2: Island Sanctuary
Although Dominaria’s defenders had, against all odds, achieved their hard-fought victory, the Phyrexian Invasion would scar their world forever more. Those kingdoms that had not been utterly destroyed were left to rebuild with mere fractions of their original populations. Much of the land had been despoiled by Phyrexian plagues or buried beneath the scabrous hulls of war ships, oozing mana batteries and twisted bio-mechanical limbs. In most cases, it was deemed too dangerous and laborious to remove them and so they lay as grisly war memorials. Meanwhile, survivors scraped whatever sustenance they could from soil that had just a few years ago risen up under Yawgmoth’s bidding to slay them.
Yet, rumors began to circulate of an island that had somehow escaped devastation – where civilization could rise again. Ancient legends referred to it as Otaria, the home of the Numena, the group of mighty wizards responsible for sealing the Primeval dragons. It was said that before they died, the Numena concealed their kingdoms beneath a veil of enchantment that would protect their lands in case the dragons ever broke free. The spell would be broken only when the dragons were destroyed once and for all. Having awoken during the Phyrexian Invasion for an ill-timed bid at global domination, the dragons indeed met their final end at Yawgmoth’s hands.
Most dismissed it as a false hope, but a brave few dedicated themselves to discovering the island.
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Sisay stood at the helm of Victory, her chestnut eyes staring out at the crashing waves as her long, braided ponytail whipped in the wind. Strong hands gripped the wheel as it fought to stay on its easterly course, straining well-muscled arms. Hundreds of huddled bodies sat amidships, dressed in tattered rags and cloaks. The great sailing ship was filled to capacity, carrying with it survivors from the Bay of Pearls to Zerapa. For most of them; there had been no home left to return to, so they decided to place their fates within the hands of the former Captain of Weatherlight
Who better to deliver them to salvation than the greatest heroes of the age? They, who drove their prow into the very heart of Yawgmoth himself to strike down the dark god? Sisay, along with the Samite Master Orim, the Talruum Champion Tahngarth and even the unlikely goblin hero Squee were living legends throughout Dominaria. However, there were many among the former skyship crew who appeared now only as memories, phantoms in the mist. Sisay could still see them all: Rofellos, Mirri, Hanna, Gerrard and so many more had given their lives so that others may live.
Even Crovax and Ertai, who had become consumed by Phyrexia’s evil, Sisay remembered them as the heroes they once were. Karn, the silver golem, had somehow acquired Urza’s planeswalker’s spark. No longer an artifact creature, though he had always been so much more in her eyes, Karn was now truly alive and free to walk the countless worlds of the multiverse for all eternity. She hoped to see him again, at least once, before her time passed. Perhaps most of all, Sisay missed Weatherlight herself.
When she stood, as he did now, at Weatherlight’s wheel, she had felt at one with the ship. As she soared and dove through the heavens, she could not help but shake the feeling that Weatherlight shared her joy. It was as though the ship had been alive, learning as she learned until piloting her became second nature. These suspicions were confirmed as Weatherlight awoke with a mind, soul and voice of her own – only to sacrifice herself to destroy the Lord of Wastes. Now her bones lay in some fathomless ocean grave. There would never again be another ship like her.
Sisay was roused from her thoughts by the feeling of a strong hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
“I miss them too,” said a deep, strong, but sorrowful voice. “They feast now in the halls of Torahn and one day we too shall join them. But for now, we have won our victory and our right to live. Let us make the most of that time, they would want it that way.” Sisay closes her eyes for a moment as she regains her strength, fighting back the tears forming in their corners.
As she re-opens her eyes, she looks over her shoulder with a faint smile at the towering form of Tahngarth. The Talruum Minotaur, like her, had once been a prisoner in the dungeons of Rath’s Stronghold. Once proud and vain, his form had been twisted by a Phyrexian mutation ray, bleaching parts of his fur white and causing a bony crest to emerge from his brow. Broken at first by this “hideous” deformity, his crewmembers had been there to steel his spirits. Tempered by an inner fire, he fought on to claim his vengeance and cleave his double-bladed striva through the tendrils of Yawgmoth himself.
Sisay had always harbored affection for him, ever since they first met. Weatherlight had crash landed in his village after an attack by a volcanic dragon. The punishment for intruders was death, and the village elders cared little that the ship’s crew had no choice in the matter. Her sword arm broken, Sisay was still prepared to fight to protect her comrades. This valor had earned her Tahngarth’s great respect and he offered to take her place in the trial by combat. Although physically outmatched, Tahngarth had prevailed by use of unorthodox techniques that proved to Sisay he was far more than just a dumb brute.
Sisay had never spoken of her feelings aboard Weatherlight. Although Gerrard and Hanna had shared a deep love, Sisay convinced herself that it would only distract from their mission. Perhaps it was because she was the product of Urza’s Bloodlines experiment, a selective breeding program which ensured that she came to possess all the qualities of a hero – including self-sacrifice. However, with the war won and their destiny fulfilled, there had been no more reason to hold back. One night, she confessed her love and found, much to her joy, that Tahngarth shared it.
Tahngarth’s other arm wrapped gently around her waist as he cradled her body against him. Without a word, Sisay leans her cheek against his powerful bicep, warming her face from the cold wind. Her eyes then scan the decks, looking for Orim. She soon spotted her turban and coin coiffed hair as she moved among the refugees. The Samite healer was passing out roots and herbs to help control fever and sea sickness.
Sisay knew that Orim's heart too was filled with sadness; not only for those lost but those left behind. During their adventures on Mercadia, she had fallen in love with the Cho-Arrim leader, Cho-Mano, who led his people in a rebellion to overthrow the corrupt Magistrate. It had always been her intention to return to Mercadia after the war. Karn had brought her there following the ceremony at the Martyr's Tomb in Urborg but her duties as a healer meant that she could not remain. She had informed Cho-Manno of their victory, but that there was still much work to be done on Dominaria.
They had enjoyed one night together under the stars in the Navel of the World which Orim hoped would last forever. Then, they parted again, the second time even more painful than the first. After returning her home, Karn promised that he would check back on her and that when her work was done he would reunite her once more with Cho-Manno. Years had passed since that day and Orim wondered if Cho-Manno believed she would even return. After this mission, Sisay had promised they would travel to what remained of Llanowar in search of Freyalise — hoping that she would remember Orim's discovering the cure for the Phyrexian plague. For now, Orim considered it her duty to come to the aid of other survivors in need. For Sisay and Tahngarth, it granted them a sense of purpose again. Although it wasn’t as grand as being the keepers of The Legacy, it was perhaps just as crucial to the survival of their world.
Sisay’s silence was broken as another thought entered her mind.
“What about Squee?” she asked. The goblin had not aged a day since he had been granted immortality by Yawgmoth. The dark god had intended for him to become Crovax’s plaything; allowing the Evincar to kill him again and again only for his body to re-assemble itself from any mutilation inflicted. Through Squee, the vampire could feed upon an unending pool of life force; allowing him to increase his strength indefinitely. Fortunately for Squee, his comrades had rescued him from this fate and Gerrard laid the monster Crovax had become to rest forever.
Squee had probably “died” a half-dozen times since then, proving that Yawgmoth’s spell had not been broken with his death. Sisay wondered if Squee would one day come to consider it a curse. He would live to see everyone he ever loved slowly age around him and then die, leaving him all alone. If the afterlife Tahngarth spoke of did exist, then Squee was forever barred from its doors. His soul would never find peace or rest.
Looking down at Sisay, Tahngarth says hopefully “Maybe the spell will wear off over time. Or, perhaps, Torahn will grant him mercy when the time comes.” He then chuckles heartily and says “In the meantime, we’ll just have to put up with the immortal nuisance.” Tahngarth had developed a grudging respect for Squee over the course of their adventures. He had proven himself to be loyal and a crack shot with a cannon, but he was still not without his “charms.”
Tahngarth had barely finished the thought when the sound of the goblin retching could be heard from the crow’s nest. Moments later, goblin vomit splashed down atop Tahngarth’s horns. Quickly letting go of Sisay, Tahngarth swore loudly and repeatedly in minotaur as he ran for the nearest swab bucket. “DAMN YOU,” Tahngarth shouted in the common tongue as he dumped the soapy water onto his head and feverishly scrubbed with a towel. “I THOUGHT YOU’D LEARNED TO AIM!”
“ORIM!” Squee’s ear-piercing voice then shouted down from above. The goblin’s green fingers clutched the edge of the wooden bucket in which he sat with one hand while the other gripped a spyglass. If there was one thing that most historians agreed on, it was that goblins made exceptionally poor sailors. This fact had been known since the fall of the Sarpadian Empires, yet Squee wasn’t about to be left behind. Besides, for all his faults, he did have keen eyes.
“Oh come on Squee, you’ll live!” Sisay joked, her mood now much improved. “Dat’s not funny!” Squee shouted back down. “I can still suffer ya know! Member I saved all yer butts from Volrath!” Squee would never let them forget how he had been the one to shoot down Volrath’s ship, Recreant, during the final battle on Mercadia - or how he had single-handedly defeated the corrupted Ertai, who had become Crovax’s archmage.
The latter Squee had achieved by complete accident. He had been killed so many times that he was in a state of delirium, unsure if he was alive or dead. Ertai had gone to recharge his spells having used them all up trying to find one that would make Squee stay dead. Squee had simply tripped into the controls of Ertai’s Rejuvenation Chamber, accidently frying him. Of course, the rest of them didn’t need to know that.
Eventually, after tending to her mortal patients, Orim climbed the rigging to deliver the reviving medicine to Squee. It was the third time she was doing so today.
“You really need to get your sea legs,” Orim said as Squee forced himself to chew the tough, foul-tasting roots. “BLEH!” Squee gagged after forcing himself to swallow. “Don’t you gots any that tastes like centipedes or maybe a nice dragon fly?” Squee complained.
“There’s plenty of bugs below deck,” said Orim. “You should get on them before they get into much more of the rations.”
“Squee is tired of maggots and weevils,” the goblin protested, crossing his arms. “Dats tha only bugs they got on dis ship. I miss Weatherlight, ya didn’t have ta wait foreva to gets from place ta place.”
“We all miss Weatherlight,” Orim began, her reply cut short as Squee suddenly started up, fixing his spyglass to his eye.
“What do you see?” Orim asked.
“Squee thinks…Squee things he see land! LAND HO!”
Squee’s cries quickly roused the rest of the sea weary crew who all rushed to the prow of the vessel to get a closer look. Sure enough, emerging through the mist and growing steadily larger in the distance was a large, grey protrusion dotted with what appeared to be a jagged mountain range.
“Is that it, is that Otaria?” asked Sisay.
The answer came swiftly when what had appeared to be a land mass suddenly heaved and rose above the waves, revealing the beaked head of a Dreamwinder serpent. A long tongue lashed the air between its great maw and long spines ran along its great length. Few sailors had ventured this far east of Jamurra, but those few who had had brought with them legends of this beast. It was able to channel the blue mana of its environment to wreath itself in illusions to lure in unwary prey. Howling aggressively, the serpent cut quickly through the water, closing in.
“NOT LAND!” Squee shouted in a panic as Sisay cursed and un-sheathed her cutlass. There was no time to avoid it or to get to the cannons. “ALL HANDS, TAKE UP ARMS!” Sisay commanded as she rushed down to stand beside Tahngarth. “Ever think trouble goes out of its way to find us?” the Minotaur snorted as he raises up his striva. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew scrambled to take up spears or whatever weapons they had carried with them.
“By now trouble should know better,” Sisay replied to Tahngarth, gritting her teeth.
Then the serpent struck. Its long neck burst from the waves with a spray of seawater as it lunged for the crow’s nest.
“Not again!” squealed Squee as the Serpent snatched him up in its jaws and crushed him beneath rows of fangs as long as a man’s arm.
“LOOSE!” yelled Tahngarth as the crew hurled a hail of spears. Most bounced harmlessly off the creature’s hard scales. A few struck true, but penetrated only shallowly into the flesh beneath. To the serpent, these were little more than irritating pinpricks. It was more pre-occupied by the fact that no matter how much it chewed, there always seemed to be bones cracking like new. This served to momentarily distract the creature, giving Tahngarth opening he needed.
Sprinting across the deck, he leapt at the beast, grabbing hold of one of its spines. Then, with his free hand, he proceeded to drive his Thran metal striva deep into the creature’s body before yanking it forth with a spray of green blood. The serpent howled in pain and spat the pulped remains of Squee back out onto the deck. Moments later, the mass of splintered bones and torn muscles re-assembled into a perfectly whole body. “DOES SQUEE LOOK LIKE A BAIT WORM TO YOU?!” The goblin shouted angrily.
At this, the enraged serpent swung its spine-covered head across the deck. Crew members dove for cover but some weren’t quick enough. Gore splashed across the decks from bodies sliced clean in half. Sisay nimbly dodged and thrust her blade into the creature’s eye. Again the beast howled in pain, whipping back its head and carrying Sisay along with it. She barely managed to grab hold of a horn protruding from the serpent’s head to avoid being thrown into the sea.
Meanwhile, Tahngarth continued to scale the beast. With one hand, he reached up to clutch a new spine and with the other he stabbed a fresh hole with his striva, using it like a climbing pick. Looking down at him, the serpent swept in with its razor-sharp beak. However, before its crushing jaws could close around him, Tahngarth was able to wedge his Striva between them. “A little help here!” the minotaur shouted to Sisay.
“Working on it!” Sisay shouted as she yanked her cutlass free and hung tightly on the horn with her other hand. With a grunt, she then swung her body up and onto the creature’s forehead. Wrapping her legs tightly around sections of armored plating, she drew up her cutlass, gripping it in both hands. Then, thrusting down with all of her strength, she drove the thran-metal blade effortlessly through the serpent’s thick skull. Cold metal pierced brain and the serpent gave one final death wail before crashing lifelessly back into the sea.
The crew watched in awe at this heroic triumph. Cheers erupted across the deck as Sisay and Tahngarth surfaced, gasping for breath and treading water. Ropes were quickly thrown over the side as the crew pulled them in.
After Orim had tended to the injured, the dead were buried at sea. While those lost would be mourned, the crew knew well that had it not been for the efforts of Sisay and Tahngarth, far more would have perished. The rest of the voyage continued without incident and a few days later, Victory reached the shores of Otaria.
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The crew was greeted at the southern shore of Otaria by a group of humans and bird-headed aven dressed in improvised armor, bound together from the grasses of their homeland, the Daru plains. They introduced themselves simply as The Order, a group of nomadic clerics and warriors which had forsaken artifice and revered their ancestors. It soon became apparent that they had little contact with the outside world since the days of the Numena. Thus, The Order was eager to hear what had transpired in the lands beyond the sea. Sisay, Squee, Tahngarth and the refugees were welcomed to enjoy a feast at one of their encampments and share stories around the fire.
From the crew, the order learned of the horrors of the Phyrexian invasion, which only served to reinforce their fear of machines. So too, did they learn the plight of those now struggling to survive in a ruined world. The heads of the order welcomed the refugees with open arms and told Sisay to spread word of Otaria. The Order would welcome any who wished to start a new life among them so long as they respected their ways. For those who could not, there were many other lands which might serve as a new home.
From the order, the crew learned of the cephalid and merfolk empires beneath the waves, of the wizards of Balshan Bay and the goblins, dwarves and human barbarians inhabiting the Pardic Mountains. They learned too of the forests of Krosa and Wirewood, which teemed with life, from centaurs to the insect-like nantuko to human druids dedicated to preserving the balance of nature. They also learned of the greedy Cabal of mages who governed the city of Aphetto and its gladiatorial arena. There would be a place for settlers from all walks of life here. While part of her wanted to remain with Tahngarth and forge a new life, Sisay did not forget her promise to Orim.
Chapter 3: Word of Command
The rampart crawler slithered through the depths of the subterranean hangar, its coils nimbly weaving themselves through piles of debris. The wreckage of Phyrexian warships and corpses had buried most passages, making them inaccessible to all but its species. Its masters has commanded it to investigate the former lower docks, looking for in-tact power stones or other pieces of technology which may still hold value. Since the defeat of Volrath and the rise of Cho-Manno and his council, the Cateran Guild had been outlawed in most civilized lands. However, there were still those who sought the illicit services and dark power they provided.
The recovery efforts were moving along slowly. The Kyren goblins had abandoned them, holding no particular loyalty to the Evincar’s cause - only power. They believed that their return to prominent status was best facilitated by working with the new regime, for the time being. However, they knew better than to outright betray the fact that the Caterans had survived – lest they find a knife plunged into in their backs. Not even the lofty tower of the magistrate was beyond their reach.
The serpentine mercenary comes to an abrupt halt as a flash of hellish red light appears at the end of the tunnel. Along with it, came the pungent odor of smoke and oil. The rampart crawler recognized this as a portal belonging to the dark overseers. They had been surprisingly absent for the past few years, but it still knew to show them the utmost loyalty. Saluting, it hisses “Glory to The Hidden One!”
This was its last thought as a gelatinous ooze suddenly surged forth, washing over and digesting it, flesh, bone and all. Moment later, Abcal-Dro rose from the ground-reconstituting himself into a slumped, vaguely humanoid form. “More…more flesh, I need more….” The praetor groans as he sets about in search of more victims to regenerate his diminished body. The battle with Croag had left him significantly weakened. He would need to become much more powerful if he were to seize control of the guild.
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Xarzhun rose from his throne, which had been fashioned from the bones of slain enemies. His four eyes, black as pitch narrowed at the sight of the enforcer running panicked into his sanctum. The creature’s four arms had been digested up to the elbows. “Master!” the previously formidable horror hissed, desperately clicking its insect-like mandibles. “It’s coming; there’s no stopping it! It has already devoured all of my forces!”
Xarzhun had once been much like the being which stood before him – until his machinations placed him at the head of the guild. Volrath had then rewarded him with numerous enhancements. His skin, formerly green and mottled had become a pallid grey and his two, beady red eyes had been replaced by four that could see in all visible energy spectrums. Several of his organs had been replaced by more efficient machines and his brain had expanded tremendously into an elongated, spine covered skull that curved down the length of his back. In addition, he was gifted wickedly engineered powerstone scythe forged in Phyrexia’s furnaces, which he now gripped tightly in two of his four claws.
“Let it come,” Xarzhun growls, gnashing rows of serrated fangs together. He did not care what came through the door. No one challenged him in his own lair and lived. This creature was walking into a trap and soon it would find itself overwhelmed. Xarzhun expected the door to fly off its hinges, bashed in by some hulking beast. Instead, something black and foul oozed out from under it.
It both looked and smelled like the liquefied muscle and organs that gushed forth from a corpse left out to rot in the sun until ruptured. The horrific substance continued to flow until it formed a small lake in the throne room. Cateran soldiers whom had been flanking the doors, polearms drawn, backed quickly away. Once he had slimed his way completely out from under the door, Abcal-Dro rose, taking the form of a towering black demon. Its dripping claws resembled those missing from the enforcer and Xarzhun recognized the shape of its horns and the fang-filled maws that had formed across his body from other horrors formerly in his employ.
“Your servants are feeble and cowardly,” Abcal-Dro bellowed from multiple mouths. “I have put their biological components to greater purpose.”
“We shall see!” Xarzhun roared as his men quickly cranked winches located behind the demon’s throne. This caused sections of what had appeared to be walls to rise up, revealing prisons wherein hulking giants with slumped foreheads and long, shaggy hair waited. These were Cateran slavers, monsters capable of producing lightning bolts that could either stun escaping slaves or fry lines of enemies. Six of the creatures lumbered forth from their enclaves, turning to face Abcal-Dro as their foreheads crackled with power. Moments later, the Praetor was encircled in multiple arcs of energy, burning and scorching his foul flesh.
However, these appeared to have little more than a superficial effect as the Praetor’s rubbery flesh acted largely as insulation against it. Any damage to his hide was quickly regenerated. Abcal-Dro continued to advance, using his claws to grab two of the giants by the throats and hoist the several-ton creatures up off their feet. As the other four rushed in, black tendrils erupted from his body and restrained them. The Cateran soldiers watched in both awe and horror as Abcal-Dro effortlessly overpowered the entire group of them.
“These beasts have their uses,” Abcal-Dro replied flatly. “I shall not destroy them.” With that, he applied enough pressure to major arteries in each of their necks, cutting off blood flow to the giants’ brains and rendering them unconscious in moments. The ground shook as each was thrown limp to the floor. While this was transpiring, Xarzhun examined his foe closely. His infrared vision revealed glowing objects throughout Abcal-Dro’s body, which had to be powerstones.
More importantly, his blood carried with it a heat signature that Xarzhun recognized as that of glistening oil. This creature was a Phyrexian – and a powerful one at that.
“Back away,” Abcal-Dro ordered his remaining men. “I shall deal with this one myself.”
With that, Xarzhun leapt from his throne and landed in a crouch before Abcal-Dro. Rising, he looked up at the praetor and asked in the Phyrexian tongue “So, have you been sent by the Inner Circle to punish me for failing to protect the fleet? For delaying the Invasion?” He knew well the consequences of failure, but he would not allow himself to be replaced so easily. If he could manage to kill an Inner Circle member, Yawgmoth would instead elevate him.
“The Inner Circle is dead and Yawgmoth along with it,” Abcal-Dro replied threateningly, sensing Xarzhun’s intentions. “I am now the Father of Machines.”
“Lies!” Xarzhun roared, lashing out with his scythe. As he did so, powerstones flashed to life within the weapon, causing the blade to emit a cloud of black plague spores. Xarzhun’s sweeping strike cleaved a great gash in Abcal-Dro’s chest and severed one of his clawed hands. Where the weapon touched, flesh rotted, causing the severed limb to dissolve before it hit the ground. Meanwhile, rivulets of decay spread from the gash in his chest.
This was a new strain of plague, one which his glistening oil blood had yet to evolve an immunity to.
That intrigued him. Xarzhun, meanwhile, leapt back away from the Praetor, watching the infection’s handiwork as more and more of Abcal-Dro’s flesh was fouled.
“The Father of Machines?” he laughed. “I think not. The Father of Machines would not be overcome so easily. You are beaten. Tell me who sent you and I will end your misery.”
At this, came Abcal-Dro’s bubbling laughter. “You presume much.” His body then swelled, gathering his infected flesh into a great pustule and isolating it from his main mass. Moments later, this glob was fired as a projectile at Xarzhun. Xarzhun was quick, but not quick enough to evade it completely. Some of the dissolving flesh splashed onto one of his backwards-bending legs.
Abcal-Dro expected the Cateran Overlord to find himself inflicted with his own infection but he seemed strangely immune.
“It is you who presume,” Xarzhun said as he then began to circle the Praetor. “You didn’t think I would wield a weapon that could be so easily turned against me, did you? This was a new strain of plague, bred in secret here on Mercadia by Volrath. It was to be a contingency in case his masters ever betrayed him. He infused his most loyal servants with mutated glistening oil that granted us immunity.”
Gears on the head of the scythe then rotated back, shifting the blade along with it and transforming it into a polearm. This re-configured weapon would allow him to keep his distance and strike while making use of his superior speed. Xarzhun then thrusted forth his two free hands, his fingers weaving dark spells. The next moment, an ear-piecing wail filled the room and the ghostly illusion of a specter appeared before the Praetor. The spell was meant to assault the senses and disorient foes and it appeared to take effect.
The Praetor’s bipedal body began to melt back into a shapeless ooze as his ability to concentrate on maintaining the form slipped. This gave Xarzhun the opening he was looking for. Gripping the polearm tightly, the Cateran Overlord lunged in, attempting to skewer one of the glowing objects inside Abcal-Dro’s body with a mighty thrust. Instead, Abcal-Dro parried the strike, lashing it aside with tendrils that then proceeded to constrict themselves around the shaft of the weapon. With a swift, wrenching motion, the scythe head which contained the plague sack was torn free.
At the same time, another tendril lashed out at Xarzhun’s head. The Praetor stuck true, sending the Cateran guild master skidding back on his clawed feet and sending up a spray of sparks. Xarzhun then crouched over and shrieked in agony as a trail of slime left behind on his face began to digest itself. The acid was eating through his lower set of eyes. Soon, it would reach his brain.
“Master!” the crippled Cateran enforcer cries out, rushing over to aid Xarzhun. In return, Xarzhun grasped his subordinate by his head and sank his claws deep into his skull. The enforcer’s struggle was brief and futile as its body shriveled into a lifeless husk. Abcal-Dro watched with amusement as tissues were assimilated into the demon’s body, regenerating his face completely. Panting, but healed, Xarzhun then tossed aside the corpse of his former servant.
“Impressive, I may have use for you after all,” Abcal-Dro concluded. “I have no desire to continue this struggle; your death would come only after you had consumed all of your subordinates, leaving me with little of value. I have come to aid you in forging a new Phyrexia. What I said was true, Yawgmoth has been killed – by the very people who destroyed your fleet.” Abcal-Dro, unlike many of his former peers believed that it was The Legacy which destroyed Yawgmoth and not some goddess of Dominaria – he refused to believe that nature could be superior to Phyresis.
At this, Xarzhun tossed aside the haft of his broken weapon. “So, The Legacy was every bit as powerful as Volrath had believed,” he replies. “In truth, Volrath had never intended to hand it over to Yawgmoth. He had hoped to steal Urza’s secret weapon for himself. Then, with its power, he could achieve the title which you now claim.”
“That explains why he chose to pursue his personal revenge and neglect his station as Evincar of Rath,” Abcal-Dro muses. “Volrath was punished severely for failing in his duties and was replaced by another, more loyal Evincar to lead the invasion.”
“So then, the invasion failed?” asked Xarzhun. “Urza has triumphed?”
“At great cost,” Abcal-Dro replied. “Although Phyrexia is lost, The Legacy was destroyed in the final battle and Urza along with it. If we could rise again, there would be no one left to stop us. Our defeat in the war has revealed to me weaknesses which Yawgmoth did not anticipate. I believe the key to correcting those weaknesses lies in your blood.”
“My blood?” the Cateran Overlord questioned skeptically.
“Yes, your blood contains the first mutation ever witnessed in the glistening oil itself,” the Praetor replied. “It shows that it can adapt to new environments and improve. This plague that Volrath concocted in your weapon, it was created from elements found on this plane, yes? I’m sure of it, for he would have known that his masters could defend against anything found on Phyrexia. Volrath, for all of his arrogance, was wise enough to know that.”
“Yes,” Xarzhun replied. “It is equal parts Deepwood ghoul fever, the white ichor of the Saprazzan seas, creeping filth of Mercadia city-”
“Diseases evolved from a multitude of mana environments, as I suspected,” finishes the Praetor. “If the glistening oil can evolve to grant a body immunity to this disease, perhaps it can also allow the body to act as a host all while remaining unharmed. Then, perhaps, the disease itself can be modified to spread not only itself but the glistening oil through the body. Yes, the resulting infection would gradually eat away the weak parts of the body and leave behind only those infused with the oil. In effect, this new organism would transform those infected into a new breed of Phyrexians, born in environments suffused with all five colors of mana.”
“You believe you can achieve this?” asked Xarzhun, now seduced by Abcal-Dro’s vision.
“It is my destiny to achieve this,” replied Abcal-Dro. “I shall be the seed from which springs a New Phyrexia. This world is ripe for the harvesting and through your resources we shall do so. We shall begin by reconstructing Volrath’s fleet; nothing on this world is capable of defending against it. We shall crawl back from the brink of oblivion and claim our revenge!”
“Hail Abcal-Dro, Father of Machines!” Xarzhun cheered in the common tongue. Initially perplexed, the Cateran soldiers, quickly raised their spears and echoed the chant. They believed that to survive they must align themselves with this new regime. However, Abcal-Dro had already deemed their biological bodies insufficient to accomplish the task of rebuilding. They hailed their destroyer.
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Those laboring in the subterranean hangar were driven harder than ever before. It was Abcal-Dro’s method of culling the weak from their ranks. Slavers, enforcers and other horrors survived the strain. However, many of the humans and crawlers were worked until their bodies broke. However, this did not grant them rest; death was no excuse to stop working.
The Praetor employed his necromantic talents to raise the dead as tireless zombies. Those who proved themselves to possess exceptional strength, will or endurance were rewarded with salvaged Phyrexian limbs and infusions of glistening oil. There was only one way to keep one’s humanity and remain alive – to provide replacement slave labor. Caterans who possessed little physical ability but strong underworld connections were spared the labor camps. Abcal-Dro would allow them this luxury, for now, but ultimately they too would become Phyrexians.
Abcal-Dro used these corrupt, bloated puppets to spread lies and propaganda throughout the plane. Whispers also spread in dark alleys and illicit meetinghouses of beings who offered power and immortality. Those who pursued the rumors met with several intermediaries before meeting any official members of the Cateran Guild. These pawns were paid to issue edicts, tests by which to assess to what lengths potential recruits would go to in pursuit of personal power. The darker the deed, the closer they came to the truth.
This was also a means of screening out those too cowardly or too filled with useless notions of morality to be of use. Any who sought to turn back disappeared – either murdered or pressed into slave labor in the hangar. By the time one was officially inducted into the guild, they were hardened mass murderers, abductors and thieves. However, only those who could commit these crimes without being caught were considered. Those careless enough to risk exposure were dealt with long before they fell into the law’s hands.
Throughout the long initiation, Phyrexian ideals were imprinted in the minds of recruits. They would ascend by conquering the weak and proving themselves superior life forms. They were stripped of all empathy and filled instead with cold ambition. Initiates themselves became intermediaries to guide others along their path, teaching them how to manage subordinates and sow corruption wherever they went. They were also taught obedience, but only until the opportunity to overthrow their betters presented itself.
One of the later missions always called for the assassinations of a higher ranking initiate. When a lower-level initiate succeeded, they assumed the deceased’s position. This taught them that they would be replaced if ever they proved too weak to be worthy of their station. It also warned them to be wary of their own subordinates and to anticipate and plan for betrayal. Only when an initiate had assassinated one of their superiors and fended off an attempt on their own lives were they inducted as full guild members.
This system weeded out all but the most skilled and ruthless assassins. By the time they learned of their Phyrexian masters, they readily accepted Abcal-Dro’s gifts. Under the leadership of the new Father of Machines, the Cateran Guild became more of a threat than ever before to Cho-Manno’s governance. The guards were powerless to stop the sudden rash of disappearances and thievery throughout the world. All trails turned up cold.
Many suspected the Cateran Guild, but could find no hard evidence that they even still existed. As a result, the public’s confidence in Cho-Manno gradually began to falter. Worse still, there were those that sought scapegoats for the crimes. Kyren goblins, the former nobility under the magistrate, were often the first blamed. Despite Cho-Manno’s best efforts to contain the violence, goblins still turned up beaten, lynched and burned alive.
These incidents sowed great fear in the goblin community. Cho-Manno assured them that the criminals would be brought to justice and that the violence would end. However, there were those that sought additional insurance. Many turned to paying the Cateran Guild for protection. Some Kyren even aligned themselves directly with the Phyrexians once more.
Chapter 4: Balance
Much had changed in Mercadia City since Cho-Manno’s revolution and the climactic duel between the god of creation, Ramos, and the god of destruction, Orhop. Or, this is at least how the people of Mercadia viewed the battle between Weatherlight and Volrath’s personal skyship, Recreant. The fall of Mercadia’s aristocracy had, at first, led to the underclass carrying out brutal vengeance in the streets. Kyren goblins and wealthy merchant lords were dragged from their homes to become victims of mob justice. It was only the word of Cho-Manno, urging the victorious rebels not to allow themselves to become the very oppression they sought to destroy, that restored the peace.
However, that peace was fragile. Representatives from each district and each faction were invited to form a council and hold talks around a grand table. Each was allowed to voice their vision for a better city and a better world. The debates raged for weeks into months into years, as those who had been historically without power demanded more and those who had possessed power did not want to relinquish it all. To prevent more bloodshed, a balance had to be found and thus Cho-Manno dedicated himself to reforms intended for the benefit of all.
The towering walls of rotting food and feces cluttering the base of the mountain were sown into fields. Cho-Arrim water magic brought new life to formerly barren dessert, creating farmlands around which sprang small villages – decluttering the city. Rather than travel by dust storm, which had been a filthy business to begin with and which had caused the destruction of the land, a network of rivers through these villages carried sailing ships that could be propelled by far gentler wind magic. Mercadia City’s streets which had been maze-like, filled with dead ends and detours to prevent the rabble from easily accessing the tower of the Magistrate, were re-designed into a simple grid. With greater access to the entire city came more competition, with businesses naturally rising and falling due to customer demand, no longer able to literally crowd out competitors.
Though many of these reforms had been hard fought, they earned Cho-Manno, by and large, the respect of Mercadia’s peoples. States whom had once distanced themselves from the capitol, such as Saprazzo and Rishada, now traded freely with their neighbors.
This had been the world Cho-Manno showed Orim during their all too brief re-union. However, it was now on the verge of unraveling once again.
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Orim knelt now with Sisay, Tahngarth and Squee in the heart of Llanowar. There was a time when outsiders suffered one bone broken for every twig snapped underfoot. However, Freyalise remembered all too well the miracle cure Orim had concocted that saved countless elves from Phyrexian plagues. She remembered too the moment when, as they stood in their ancestral treetop villages waiting for death to descend, the light of the Legacy purged Yawgmoth’s blackness from the world forever. Nor, would Freyalise forget the discovery of Otaria, which granted a chance at a new life for those whom Llanowar could no longer support.
Indeed, though Yawgmoth had been slain, his magic had infused once rich soil to transform it into mud golems. Even after the creatures had been destroyed the soil had yet to yield a harvest as fruitful as prior to its corruption. Many crops grew pale and stunted and there simply hadn’t been enough to feed everyone. Even with the magic of Freyalise and her druids, it was a slow remediation. Despite this, the grove of Freyalise remained as magnificent as ever, with abundant wildflowers, trickling brooks and air that smelled of sweet and intoxicating pollen.
The surviving members of Weatherlight’s crew had been granted an audience not with a cleric or avatar or the planeswalker, whose followers fancied her a goddess, but with Freyalise herself. She hovered before them, feet never quite touching the ground. Although she took a human form, it was lithe and graceful much like the elves who served her. She was clad in great robes, woven of moss and leaves, and her closely shorn brown hair was perpetually windblown. Her beautiful but stern countenance was marked by an eyepatch – a wound which she could have easily healed millennia ago but which she kept as a reminder of her mortal self.
“So, is it true then, that you wish to depart from this world?” asked Freyalise. “You are perhaps some of the few mortals who have experienced the luxury of Planeswalking. Most never know of the realms that lie beyond that of their birth. However, know that should you find a way to return, this world will always welcome you. Dominaria will always be your true home.”
With that, Freyalise offered a bow of respect. It was a rare gesture from one such as herself.
“You may rise,” said Freyalise, a slight smile of gratitude forming upon her lips.
“It is true,” Orim replied as she and her comrades took to their feet. “Our journeys have taken us to many lands beyond that of our birth. In one of those lands, the plane of Mercadia, I met a man named Cho-Manno who has become very dear to me. He showed me the beauty of the natural world and how to live at one with it. His people, the Cho-Arrim, work to heal their world just as you work to heal Llanowar and I wish to aid him in doing so.”
Love was an emotion that Freyalise had deadened her heart to long ago. It had been the betrayal of her childhood friend from her mortal life, Jason Carthalion, that prevented her from ever again opening her heart to love. The evil Planeswalker Tevesh Szat had poisoned her against him and it had been he that stabbed out her eye – activating her planeswalker spark on the brink of death. Still, Freyalise understood attachment all too well.
Perhaps the reason she associated herself with elves was due to their longevity. She loved the forest for the same reason; trees could seemingly live on and grow forever. As far as Planeswalkers were concerned, she was an oddity in that she never departed from her home plane for very long. Perhaps this was why she didn’t get along well with other of her kind. Too many of them saw mortals as trivial and their deaths as inconsequential to their grandiose plans – which was exactly how she had seen Urza and his chosen band of heroes until recently.
People like Orim didn’t have the luxury of eternity. Still, in their short lives, she had accomplished greater things than many Planeswalkers could ever dream. If she wished to spend what remained of her time in the arms of a lover, it was the least she could do to help. In many ways, Freyalise envied Orim. However, she would grant her this boon.
“Very well, then join hands with me,” Freyalise replies, maintaining her calm façade and showing nothing of the emotions swelling within. “I shall escort you.”
Then, their hands were linked. In the next moment, Orim and her companions found themselves transformed into leaves and vines making up her cloak. It was easier to transport them this way through the Blind Eternities between the worlds. In that void of chaotic, clashing energies and infinite possibility only Planeswalkers possessed the strength and the will to prevent themselves from being torn to pieces. Orim and her companions regained their consciousness and their bodies beneath the canopy of the Rushwood forest.
Freyalise was gone.
Shaking his head, Squee looked about in confusion.
“Anybody else feel like, for just a moment, they was scared to death of caterpillars but don’t know why?” the goblin asked.
It was especially perplexing to him because they were one of his favorite snacks.
Then, as if in answer, a great, bulbous creature came crashing its way through the tree line. It resembled a caterpillar, but was as large as a house, with mandibles large enough to snatch a man up by his waist. Tahngarth and Sisay were quick to draw their weapons and assume defensive postures. The giant caterpillar paused for a moment as it regarded them with four beady pink eyes. “Squee always gots ta open his big mouth,” the goblin cursed, looking for the quickest way to find cover.
However, Orim appeared to be unconcerned. Slowly, cautiously, she approached the creature and gently rubbed a hand along its fuzzy hide.
“You needn’t worry,” Orim said to the group, smiling. “Even at this size, they’re still herbivores. They’ll only attack you if you look like a threat.”
Nodding, Sisay sheathed her weapon and Tahngarth followed suit, slinging his striva back onto his back. Squee, for his part, leaned against a tree and began whistling nervously. There was no way it knew about all the times he probably ate its brothers, sisters and cousins. Bugs couldn’t read minds, no matter how big they got. Then again, there were those fireflies on Rath that breathed fire...
After letting Orim pet it for a bit longer, the caterpillar lay down onto the ground, coiling into a ball.
“Also, this one is nearly at the end of this stage of its life cycle; it’s about to enter metamorphosis,” said the Samite.
Before their eyes, the caterpillar appeared to die, growing still as its skin became translucent. However, as Cho-Manno had once explained to her, the giant caterpillars of Mercadia were very different than their diminutive cousins. They transformed their small bodies into a chrysalis quite rapidly and within mere moments hatched anew. The excess tissues that they left behind provided sustenance for a number of scavenging creatures. Sure enough, the hide of the former caterpillar soon split open to reveal a butterfly the size of a small hawk that soon fluttered up and away beyond their reach.
Squee couldn’t help but drool as the delicious looking morsel slipped away. Still the caterpillar hadn’t eaten him earlier, so just this once he would return the favor.
“Thanks for the biology lesson,” huffs Tahngarth, a little disappointed that he didn’t get to fight. “But where in Mercadia are we now? This forest does look somewhat familiar, but it has been a while.”
“This is the Rushwood, home of the Cho-Arrim,” Orim replied. “The last time I was here, Cho-Manno and his warriors had moved to the city. Now, mostly hunters, druids and herbalists remain.”
“You mean that stinking dung heap on the mountain?” Tahngarth replied. “Why would anyone want to live there by choice?”
“A lot has changed over the past few years,” Orim laughed. “I think you’ll find Mercadia city a lot less crowded and a lot less smelly.”
“That’s good,” Sisay chuckled back. “Because if it wasn’t, I was going to have you brew up some extra-strength anti-nausea potions before we set one foot inside.”
“Oh! Oh! Merciadia city?!” Squee squealed excitedly. “I’s been savin’ dat fancy coat from last time! With that, Squee hastily opened his pack and pulled forth the great red and gold regalia that had been crumpled up inside of it. “Goblinses run tha show ‘round here!” Squee says, pulling it down over his big, floppy ears. “Without dat jerko Volrath around Squee’ll finally gets ta enjoy da perks of bein royalty.”
“Don’t get too high and mighty on us,” Tahngarth replied. “Remember goblins are only in charge here because there aren’t any minotaurs around.”
“Yeah yeah always gots to pee on my parade dontcha hornhead,” Squee said, waving off Tahngarth in an attempt at an aristocratic gesture ill-befitting the accompanying language.
“So how do we get to Mercadia city from here?” asked Sisay. “You know these woods better than all of us so you can lead the way.”
“Simple,” replies Orim. “Once we find water, follow the river south. That will lead us out and onto the plains. From there we should be able to hitch a boat ride.”
“A boat?” Sisay questioned with a raised brow.
“Like I said, a lot has changed,” Orim replied. “Cho-Arrim water magic has brought the desert new life. No more travel by dust storm, at least around these parts.”
“You know, I’m beginning to like this new Mercadia,” said Sisay with a smile.
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A few hours later, Orim, Tahngarth, Sisay and Squee emerged from Rushwood forest. Sure enough, where the river widened and emptied out into the desert, a dock had been constructed. Waiting there were potion peddlers and hunters bearing dried meats and the pelts of many savage beasts to be transformed into luxurious fur coats. As they waited for their turn to board, Sisay couldn’t help but spot several people giving odd looks at Squee. Tahngarth, for his part, was able to pick up snippets of suspicious conversation.
As Squee waved off attempts to sell him fur coats directly, a few men were questioning why a Kyren goblin was out this far from the city. “Out to stick their pointy noses into our trapping business here.” “Rushwood belongs to us, not to sneaking goblin scum.” “What’s that big one they’ve got with him?” “A Cateran monster no doubt; proves he’s up to no good.” Tahngarth’s fur bristled at that last statement and he began to reach for his weapon before a look from Sisay stayed his hand.
Tahngarth nodded. They would be ready to defend Squee if this group started trouble. However, they were likely just suspicious due to the Kyren nobility’s past affiliations and abuses.
Eventually, a sailing boat arrived and those waiting at the docks boarded. The tension in the air was palpable as the group from earlier remained to one side of the ship, glaring daggers at Squee. Sisay and Tahngarth remained close by his side, making their presence known. Squee, for his part, was practicing looking regal, inspecting his dirty and cracked nails as if they were expertly groomed. He seemed oblivious to the hostile intent of his fellow passengers.
Orim eventually decided to step forth to diffuse the situation.
“You needn’t be concerned,” Orim says to the group. “The goblin, the minotaur and the swordswoman are my allies. We mean you no harm or ill will.”
The coins in her hair identified her as one of the Cho-Arrim, which gave the antagonistic group some pause. However, it wasn’t long before their leader spoke.
“Sounds like a goblin trick to me,” sneered a blonde woman wearing a cloak comprised of the pelts of many creatures. Across her back was slung a composite bow and at her side was a sheathed longsword, which one hand rested upon. “How much did they pay you to dress up like that and be their pretty little mouthpiece?”
“Listen,” Orim replied calmly and diplomatically. “I was one of those who fought by Cho-Manno’s side to liberate Mercadia City. What I speak is the truth. Remember what Cho-Manno said, we shouldn’t let ourselves become the very oppressors we opposed.”
“Cho-Manno be damned,” the woman snarled dismissively. “He asked us to show mercy on those sniveling pigs and look where it got us. They only pretended to accept his rule – but people continue to go missing. Merchants, like myself, continue to be robbed blind. He should have let us kill all of the green skinned bastards when we had the chance!”
The woman then drew her sword, as did half a dozen others that were with her. At this, Orim and Squee stepped back as Sisay and Tahngarth assumed defensive positions in front of them. They were outnumbered and there was little room to maneuver. However, they had faced worse odds than this. They weren’t about to go down without a fight.
“Your words are meaningless!” the blonde woman yelled, pointing accusingly at Orim. “That beast with you is all the proof we need. He’s one of those Cateran Guild monsters!”
With that, the huntress dashed in, attempting to drive her weapon into Tahngarth’s gut with both hands. Her blade was met with Sisay’s cutlass, which deftly turned it aside. Sisay then followed this up with a swift backhand strike to the woman’s nose, sending her crashing across the deck to lie at the feet of her fellow agitators.
“You…*****!” the huntress growled as she struggles to her feet, blood streaming from her nose.
“We do not wish to spill any more blood!” Tahngarh roared back, stomping his hoof. “I am not a Cateran, but a proud Minotaur of Talruum, from the plane of Dominaria! I fought for your world alongside the one you called Gerrard the Giant Killer!”
This elicited several concerned whispers from the mob. All, by now, had heard the legend of Gerrard who slew hundreds of Cateran Slavers in single combat. In truth, their group had simply avoided the altercation due to Squee posing as a Kyren noble. Gerrard was then rumored to have joined Cho-Manno in overthrowing the tyrant Volrath and his Phyrexians. However, after the battle between Ramos and Orhop he was never seen again – prompting questions of whether or not he even existed to begin with or had been a lie manufactured to inspire the rebels.
“Gerrard was nothing more than a legend,” the huntress laughed, wiping the blood from her face. “If you are who you claim to be, then where is he? Why isn’t he with you.”
“Gerrard gave his life to kill the one who created Volrath!” Tahngarth screamed furiously, causing fear to spread on the faces of the mob. “We have faced terrors far greater than you could ever imagine. We have seen the deaths of millions and destruction on a scale you couldn’t begin to fathom. Our world lies in ruin, yet we return here to aid you. The least you could do is to show some damned gratitude!”
Even the huntress appeared to be shaken by the minotaur’s passion.
Orim then stepped forth between him and Captain Sisay.
“Enough of this, we come as friends and allies,” the healer said. “I shall prove to you that we are who we say we are.”
With that, Orim closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath to calm and focus her mind. Suddenly, the currents of the river changed and wind filled the sails, propelling the boat at triple its previous speeds. The influence of Cho-Arrim water magic was unmistakable. For all the doubts she had of Cho-Mano’s efficacy, she did not believe any Cho-Arrim would ever betray him. Hanging their heads in shame, the agitators sheathed their weapons.
“My…apologies,” the blonde woman conceded.
“We shall speak with Cho-Manno,” Sisay concluded. “If what you say is true, then we will get to the bottom of it.”
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Cho-Manno stood at the entrance to the council hall which had formerly been the tower of the magistrate. Behind him awaited a Kyren goblin and the heads of several major mercantile guilds. Word had reached them of the return of Gerrard’s companions. The new leaders of the city were eager to meet these heroes of legend. For Cho-Manno himself it was more than that; a chance to reunite with old friends and his dear love and to pay proper respects for those lost.
In addition, Cho-Manno had known them to be the heralds of the god Ramos. Their coming had once restored balance to Mercaida and now, perhaps it would be found once again.
The former crew of Weatherlight received a hero’s welcome and a royal escort. Flowers were thrown at their feet. Children reached out for a chance to touch them. Guards had to hold back the adoring throngs to make way for them.
Sisay, Orim and Tahngarth waved eagerly to the beaming faces of the Mercadian populace. Even Squee, despite being shaken by their encounter on the river, joined in. However, there were few Kyren faces in the crowd waving back – save the few there to keep up appearances. To the Kyren, these were not heroes – but the ones responsible for their exile from power. It was they who swayed public opinion against them, transforming them from revered nobility to conniving traitors and scapegoats overnight – and for that they must pay.
Yes, the Kyren would soon have their revenge. The great one, the master of the deep, would see to that. Word of the return of Urza’s champions would soon reach Abcal-Dro and the Phyrexian remnant. Even more so than the Kyren, they thirsted for vengeance. Soon, they would strike and destroy all of their enemies in one fell swoop.
However, for now, the heroes remained ignorant of the plans set in motion against them.
As Orim and her companions ascended the steps of the tower, Cho-Manno and Orim broke from their respective ranks. They soon found themselves wrapped tightly in each others’ arms.
“It has been a long time,” Cho-Manno said, brushing a lock of Orim’s hair from her face.
“Too long,” Orim replied and then their lips met.
In their minds, both were transported back to their last meeting. They again found themselves at The Navel of the World, immersed in the cool waters of the Fountain of Cho. Their skin glistened in the moonlight as they became lost within each others’ eyes. There, in the sacred river of life, their bodies became one. However, Ramos had not blessed them with child, for it was not yet the time.
It still was not – though Cho-Manno could feel that it soon would be.
“The people of Mercadia hail your return,” Cho-Manno said to the group as their lips parted. “Come, join us at our table. There is much for us to discuss.”
Chapter 5: Terror
“The tunnels beneath the mountain collapsed years go,” said Cho-Manno. “There’s no way that the Cateran Guild could continue to operate from there. Our own engineers tried to clear them but the task was deemed too hazardous. De-stabilizing them any further could threaten to bring down the entire mountain. No, they must have relocated their guild hall elsewhere.”
“Uh-dat might not be trueful,” Squee replied, lifting a finger and doing his best to sound stately. “Goblins on Squee’s world live in da mountains. Dey knows how ta dig tha best hidey holes. Never get found by outsiders. Squee da one who found Volrath’s fleet last time ya know.”
“He has a point -” Sisay attempted to interject, only for the Kyren goblin to cut her off.
“My people have no loyalty to the Cateran Guild!” he pled, rising abruptly to his feet in an offended tone. “For you to insinuate as such amidst this climate of fear and persecution is both reckless and harmful to the lasting peace we are all striving to create!”
At this, Tahngarth rose from his seat and snorted “Do not accuse our captain of bigotry! We fought personally with Kyren who were loyal to the Caterans and the Phyrexians. Just because you are willing to support Cho-Manno doesn’t mean that there aren’t those among your people conspiring against him. You should want to stop them just as much as the rest of us. They’re the ones bringing your kind dishonor.”
Reluctantly, the Kyren sat back in his chair, glowering. “There is no evidence of Kyren involvement,” he stated in a far more subdued tone.
“All the same, Squee has a point,” Sisay continued. “There may yet be hidden passages that escape untrained eyes. There was far worse than Kyren conspirators and Cateran monsters in that cavern. There was an entire Phyrexian war fleet being constructed under your noses. Had we not destroyed it, nothing on your world could have stood against that kind of firepower – we watched countless nations on our own world fall before them.”
“If there are Phyrexian survivors, they may not know of their defeat on Dominaria,” Orim added. “They are extremely tenacious foes. They will not quit until they are destroyed completely. On our world, a small handful of them was able to entrench themselves on an island called Tolaria. The infestation grew until an army was laying siege to it.”
“You have told me in great detail the damage that these Phyrexians caused,” Cho-Manno replied, his hands folded in solemn contemplation. “So you believe that a Phyrexian remnant may be pulling the strings of the Cateran Guild?”
“The Tolarian Academy had documented several instances where Phyrexian agents had infiltrated societies and corrupted them from within,” Orim replied. “If there is even a chance that this is the case, we must investigate it..”
“Tch, I never thought I’d have to fight those wretched bastards again,” Tahngarth cursed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “But my striva will gladly drink their blood once more.”
“I hope for all of our sakes that you are wrong,” Cho-Manno concluded. “Very well, you have my permission to enter the tunnels – but take care, the way will be quite perilous.”
“What else is new?” quipped the minotaur.
Then, suddenly, one of the guards stationed outside came running into the room in a panic.
“My lords, you must -” he yelled, desperately, before the entire room went up in a great explosion
Choking dust and the scent of blood filled the air. Ears rang. Bodies ached from freshly broken bones as the survivors struggled to regain their senses. The roof of the council chamber had been blasted clean off and several of the supporting pillars had toppled. The great circular council table had been shattered by a direct hit from above.
Squee’s motionless body lay buried beneath a large slab of stone. The Kyren councilor and several of the human guild leaders were also dead. Orim crawled toward an unconscious Cho-Manno, whose leg and ribs had been shattered. One of Tahngarth’s arms hung limp at his side, a broken bone jutting from his forearm, as he ran to move aside the slab and grab Squee – now gasping in shock as he resurrected. Sisay, who had somehow been spared any serious injuries – looked up, paralyzed in horror at the Phyrexian warship looming above them.
Scabrous and jagged, it was easily the size of Volrath’s former flagship, Predator. It bristled with ray cannons, which pivoted as they found new targets, releasing searing rays to scour the city below. As her hearing returned, her ears were filled with a cacophony of screams and explosions from elsewhere in the city. They had been too late; the nightmare was starting all over again. Sisay clenched her fists in helpless rage as she thought about all the people she had lost to these monsters and tears welled in her eyes.
If only she still had Weatherlight, she could have torn through these flying carbuncles with ease. Without it, she was left to watch, helpless. “DAMN YOU!” Sisay cried out in impotent rage. Then, once again, she felt the clasp of Tahngarth’s strong hand on her shoulder. “There’s no time!” Tahngarth yelled, carrying Squee under his armpit. “We have to escape, now, while we can!”
Sisay shot a quick glance back to Orim. Her hands glowed with white mana as she mended her own injuries and those of Cho-Manno. As the Cho-Arrim leader re-gained his senses, Sisay snapped out of her despair. “Right, everyone out! Let’s move!” She knew not where they would run, but she owed it to Gerrard, Hanna and the others not to give up.
The direct exit was not an option. The winding stairs along the tower were too exposed to ray cannon fire. Fortunately, the palace of the magistrate had been constructed with an alternate escape route in mind.
“This way!” shouted Cho-Manno as he crouched to the floor and pressed down on a floor tile. As he did so, a large platform in the center of the room, beneath where the table once sat, began to descend. The Kyren who built the tower were always wary of an attack and had installed a lift to bring them down into the tunnels beneath it. It was often supposed that the thick, vase-shaped tower was designed extra wide just so there could be extra steps, thereby further discouraging the rabble from bothering the Magistrate. While this was partially true, it was also to provide thick walls to defend the escape shaft from exterior attack.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been designed with ray cannons in mind.
As Sisay and the others scrambled aboard the lift and council chamber slowly disappeared from sight, they could feel the tower shaking to its core. Who knew how many more blasts it would be able to endure?
“You know if they came from the hangar we’re headed into a trap,” grumbled Tahngarth as Orim mended his broken arm.
“Then there’s nothing left to do but spring the trap,” Sisay joked darkly. “Besides, we’ve got a better chance at fighting Phyrexians hand to hand than fighting them in their warships.”
“As Gerrard always said, we’re caught between a rock and a hard place,” sighed Orim.
“My people…what will become of them?” asked Cho-Manno as the adrenaline wore off and the weight of the situation dawned on him.
“Ya really don’t wanna know,” gulped Squee. “It’s times like this Squee’s glad to be immortal.”
“You may rethink that if we’re captured,” Tahngarth retorted, readying his striva.
“Then we won’t be captured,” Sisay said darkly, drawing her cutlass. “I’ve spent enough time in a Phyrexian prison for one life.”
A few moments later, the lift lurched to a halt. Its arrival pushed down on a pressure plate on the floor, causing a section of stone wall to slide open with an audible ding. Revealed was a passage full of dozens and dozens of Phyrexians, who quickly pivoted around to face them. Glowing golden eyes burned in sunken sockets of faces little more than leathery skin stretched tightly over bones. Jaws distended, filled with rows of metallic fangs, matched by jagged metal claws on spindly limbs.
Their armored bodies resembled the shells of insects, covered in wicked spines.
“The champions of Urza, slay them!” roared one of the horrors as the tide of black terrors charged the elevator.
“Where’s da up button?!” Squee cried out, scrambling behind Tahngarth as his eyes darted around the room in a panic. Tahgarth and Sisay moved to block the entrance. Cho-Manno stood behind them, his staff raised, next to Orim who readied protective magics.
“No going back!” yelled Sisay as she lashed out with her cutlass, cleaving the upper jaw from the first of the Phyrexians to reach them.
“Just through!” added Tahngarth, charging forward and bisecting two of the horrors at the chest with his striva and bowling over several creatures behind them. A swing of his head them rammed one of his long horns through the eye of a spider-limbed creature still standing – puncturing through one of many metallic lenses and through brain tissue beneath. With a warbling shriek, the creature collapsed in a heap.
Orim and Cho-Manno wasted no time in joining in.
Cho-Manno lunged forward, striking an artifact engine with a clang. The wooden staff could not puncture through reinforced Thran metal, but it didn’t have to. White mana traveled down the length of the weapon and then surged into the machine, disenchanting its powerstones and rendering it lifeless.
Orim, for her part, released waves of white energies from her open palms, encircling the two frontline fighters in protective barriers. These magics would serve to deflect strikes that slipped past their defenses, for a time. She would not be able to maintain the spell indefinitely.
As for Squee, he waited until one of Tahngarth’s blows sent metallic shrapnel clattering to the floor. Then, reaching into his back pocket, he pulled forth a sling and loaded the improvised projectile – cracked, dull powerstone the size of a plum. His keen eyes drew a bead on a foe moving in to Sisay’s flank and he then loosed the shot, hitting his intended target directly. The Cateran mercenary had been compleated from the waist up and the powerstone struck him directly between the legs. The half-Phyrexian warrior dropped to his knees in agony and was beheaded by Sisay moments later.
Within the first few moments of combat, ten Phyrexians had been destroyed. For those newly indoctrinated warriors, it was inconceivable that any purely biological beings could defeat them – as they were clearly the superior life forms! However, for all of their engineered lethality, it didn’t make up for the experience and skill gleaned from a lifetime of fighting.
Compared to such opponents as Greven Il-Vec or Tsabo Tavoc, these foes were nothing. They fell before Tahngarth and Sisay like wheat before the scythe.
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Xarzhun laughed with wicked delight from the bridge of the Phyrexian cruiser. Two of his four hands were clasped and folded behind his back. The others gripped the rail of a platform overlooking his bridge. Screens throughout the room displayed in detail the devastation that his fleet had wrought. While it was true that the fleet was but a mere fraction of the original which Volrath has commissioned, it was every bit as lethal as he had always dreamed.
Plumes of smoke and flame rose throughout Mercadia city, choking the skies. On one screen, streets were painted with blood and dotted with blasted limbs. On another, the Tower of the Magistrate crumbled under ray cannon fire, shuddering and collapsing to the streets below. Their victory was complete; it had come almost too easily. There was nothing that could stop them now.
“On my command, cease the bombardment and deploy the troops,” Xarzhun ordered. “Seize the survivors and prepare them for processing.”
The Father of Machines would be most pleased. He was sure to be rewarded with several unique mutilations.
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“Captain, look!” shouted the lookout in the Rishadan airship hovering just outside of Mercadia City. The pirate ship, by the name of The Knave, was shrouded in a protective illusion that bent light around it, allowing it to blend seamlessly with the sky. The magic that had produced this effect was the first of three wishes granted by a Djinn, bound to the captain’s service through a ring he wore. This allowed him to easily ambush other pirate airships, capture their wanted passengers, and rob them blind in the process. For these were no common band of brigand balloonists – but privateers in the employ of Cho-Manno’s government.
The Knave has been returning from one such mission, with their prisoner in irons in the brig below. Upon sighting the Phyrexian warships assaulting Mercadia city, that objective was all but forgotten. The crew looked on in a mixture of shock and awe as bolts of red lightning flashed from the horrible ships that circled the dying city like vultures.
“Captain, you have to summon the Djinn!” a crew member shouted, soon followed by a chorus of affirmations.
The Captain, a slender lad with shoulder-length blonde hair, dressed in a tri-cornered hat and ruffled shirt, bore a youthful face that belied his skill or experience. His shadowed gaze fell upon the golden band. He had purchased the ring at a hefty sum from a trader claiming to hail from Rabiah – a place he could find on no maps or charts. He had been told that the Djinn could grant any wish he desired, but to be careful, for it was up to the Djinn to interpret his wishes. Djinns, the merchant had explained, were notoriously unpredictable creatures.
His first wish had been granted much as he intended it. However, this could very well have been a trick to lull him into a false sense of security. The Djinn, the trader had further explained, would only be free when his master had either expended all of his wishes or died. While bound Djinns were unable to harm their masters directly, a poorly worded wish could sometimes have unintended and even fatal consequences. Thus, the captain swore that he would only use the Djinn’s great power in times of great need.
This certainly qualified.
Taking a deep breath, he whispered to the ring.
“From sleep beyond dreams, space beyond starlight, time beyond memory, I call you forth and command you, Dhabbukosh, do appear!”
With that, a cerulean wind erupted from the ring, swinging the ship about as if caught in a gale before consolidating into humanoid form. It appeared as a blue, male giant with a sculpted, hairless physique, golden bracers around its wrists, a golden, jewel encrusted belt holding up baggy trousers that trailed off into vapor. It wore a blood red turban around its head and its eyes glowed like a lightning storm. Its features were sharp and stern and its teeth were clenched in a wide grin. Folding its powerful arms across its chest, it nodded its head in a slight bow.
“What do you command of me, oh master?” Dhabbukosh inquired.
With that, the captain gestured toward the city. “Use your magic to destroy the ships attacking Mercadia city – and only the ships!”
“So be it,” Dhabbukosh replied, clapping his hands together with a sound like booming thunder. Moments later, the skies darkened. The initial thunderclap was echoed all throughout the heavens. A bolt of jagged lightning then erupted from one of the clouds, striking a medium-sized Phyrexian ship and crackling through its frame. The ship shuddered and then plummeted from the sky and into the city below, tearing through several houses on impact.
A second later, the ship exploded, spraying flaming shrapnel everywhere and setting several more buildings alight. The crew looked on in horror as the captain turned angrily to Dhabbukosh.
“My magic summoned the storm, which harmed only the ship,” the Djinn explained with a devious smirk. “The falling ship did the rest.”
“Bastard!” cursed the captain. The mysterious merchant had been right about Djinns.
“You could wish for me to protect the city, or to disperse the storm, but either way that would be your third and final wish,” Dhabbukosh added, his smirk widening.”
“You’ve helped enough!” the captain snapped. “Return now from whence you came until once more I speak your name!”
With that, Dhabbukosh once more reverted into a mighty wind, spinning in a whirlpool of magical energies back into the ring to which he was bound. His storm did not vanish with him. The hurricane he had summoned would likely rage for hours.
“Take us in!” the Captain then shouted to his men.
“But sir, the storm, we’ll be torn apart!” a sailor protested.
“The storm be damned!” the captain barked in reply. “We can still save people! Stay sharp men! Bring us in cloaked!”
“Aye sir!” came the reply in unison.
For, indeed, though the order put them in grave peril, the crew of The Knave would not turn against their captain – he who had brought them fame, glory and renown throughout the lands. If they made it through this ordeal, there would be much celebration and drinking to be had, but there was little time to think on that now. It would take every bit of effort they could muster to remain on-course while avoiding the deadly bolts of light from both the skies and Phyrexian warships
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This feeble storm – it must have been called by the Cho-Arrim. It would not be enough to destroy his fleet. He would find its summoner and eradicate them.
“Take us down!” Xarzhun hissed to his subordinates in the control room. “Release the shock troopers! Slay any water mage you encounter on sight!”
One by one, dozens of Phyrexian ships descended to the streets below, landing spines tearing gouges in cobblestone streets.
Soon, the hellish crafts vomited forth their demonic armies. Cho-Manno’s forces were powerless against them. Spears splintered upon armored carapace and metallic fangs punctured straight through steel breastplate. Within minutes they were routed. Then the slaughter began.
As their protectors fell, panicking civilians attempted to flee, but there was nowhere to run. The Phyrexians were everywhere. Some leapt from the ledge, plummeting to quick and painless deaths below, rather than facing whatever horrors their captors had in store for them – but most were not so lucky. Children were snatched from their parents’ arms as adults were forced to their knees and bound in chains. The old and infirm were gutted, torn to shreds and devoured – their parts considered too defective for re-use.
There were a select few spared from this fate. Throughout the blood soaked streets, Kyren goblins and Cateran guild initiates hailed the coming of their masters. Those who had pledged their loyalty to the Father of Machines recited verses from the Phyrexian scriptures and turned against their fellow Mercadians. Their loyalty would be rewarded with positions of power – which was all they now desired. All remorse or sympathy had long died within these traitors to the flesh.
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As the airship braved the storm above, racing to the rescue, Sisay and her crew beat, hacked and stabbed the way through Phyrexian legions below.
After clearing the first hall, they followed Squee’s goblin instincts in search of a way out of the mountain. From there, perhaps they could follow an underground river back to Rushwood to regroup. Sisay remembered the Rathi rebel Eladamri and how his people had battled against the Evincars for generations, sheltered within the protective cover of Skyshroud. Soon, she thought, she and her comrades may find themselves with no other alternative but to wage a similar guerilla war. One thing was certain, they could not allow this world to fall into Phyrexian hands.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a bubbling laughter echoing from the corpse-strewn hall behind them. The crew pivoted around to witness a great black mass rising up into a twisted, demonic form. From multiple fanged maws it called out to them:
“So, the progeny of Urza yet live? Indeed, although your legacy is lost, you still wield great power.”
“And who the hell are you?!” roared Tahngarth.
“I am Abcal-Dro, last of the Inner Circle and Yawgmoth’s successor,” the Praetor gloated. “I shall finish what he began and eradicate you once and for all!”
“Don’t count on it!” Sisay replied, stepping up next to Tahngarth.
With that, Abcal-Dro charged toward them, arms shifting to form countless killing implements.
Chapter 6: Flight
Abcal-Dro began his attack by one of his arms erupting into dozens of whip-like appendages, ending in wicked hooks. These lashed out at Tahnarth’s face and were parried just in time by a swipe from his Striva. The many thongs of the whips then curled around the double-bladed minotaur weapon as Abcal-Drop hoisted Tahngarth up off his feet. The other arm then extended, far beyond the reach of any creature with a conventional anatomy, bristling with jagged spikes like a flail. Tahngarth desperately kicked down at them, straining to push them back with his hooves.
With the minotaur’s limbs completely occupied, Abcaldro’s torso shifted, forming a spear the size of a ballista bolt. This shout out at Tahngarth’s chest, but was fortunately stopped by a glowing magical barrier summoned by Orim. Still, Abcal-Dro’s strength was causing fracture lines to form rapidly. At the same time, the tendrils constricting Tahngarth’s weapon and pressing against his hooves began to partially dissolve themselves. Thran metal hissed and hooves smoked as the acid began eating through them.
Straining his shoulder muscles, Tahngarth pushed the blade of his Striva into the tendrils, slamming them into a wall and slicing them free. His body then hit the ground hard as he struggled hastily to his feet. The great black, ooze demon loomed over him. His weapon bore striped lines of corrosion and his hooves were noticeably shorter. Backing away, he scraped his hooves against the ground to rid them of any clinging residue.
Orim took the opportunity to chant louder and pour more power into her barrier of light. Still, she knew she could not hold him for long.
“By Torahn’s horns, how does one fight that putrid thing!” Tahngarth snarled. “Are there even any vital areas to strike? It’s like no Phyrexian we’ve ever encountered.”
Squee, swallowing his fear, then piped up.
“Dere’s time ta fight an’ time ta run – and right now it time ta run hornhead,” said the goblin, gesturing to the hall behind them. “Squee go on ahead, find the way out. Da last thing ya want is ta be cornered by da big glob a crap.”
“Do that!” Sisay shouted, biting her lip nervously as Squee took off ahead of them. As she watched, repeated blows from Abcal-Dro were causing the cracks in Orim’s barrier to spread. The Samite was visibly strained, breathing hard as beads of sweat formed on her brow.
Cho-Manno then stepped forth.
“There may be a way, if not to destroy him than at least to slow him down,” he said, retrieving a waterskin from his pack. “Sisay, I need you to make as big a hole as possible in its body, something it won’t be able to immediately seal shut.”
Nodding, Sisay smirks and replies “I think I know what you have in mind. On my signal, everyone get ready to run. Orim, drop the barrier!”
One final blow from Abcal-Dro caused the protective sphere to shatter into motes of light. In the very next moment, he would strike.
But Sisay was faster.
Lunging in, ducking under a swiping tentacle, she drove her cutlass deep into Abcal-Dro’s torso before wrenching it up to gut him like a swine. As she did so, she felt her blade slice through something solid inside the Praetor. As she hopped back away, a large section of flesh sloughed free, exposing a gaping cavity within which the light of powerstones twinkled.
“Now!” Sisay commanded, swiping her cutlass to the side to toss free the slime still coating it.
Cho-Manno then uncorked his waterskin, spilling forth shimmering waters from the Fountain of Cho. As they pooled onto the cavern floor, Abcal-Dro’s body had begun to close itself shut as flesh from other parts of his body shifted into place. However, it wasn’t fast enough. The small pool of water suddenly exploded out into a raging torrent, similar to that which was once used to transport a damaged Weatherlight across Mercadia’s deserts to Rushwood. These waters surged into the open cavity in the Praetor’s body and then expanded.
“Run!” Sisay commanded as Abcal-Dro’s body swelled up like a sickening, black balloon. Moments later, once Sisay and her companions had made it safely away, Abcal-Dro popped. Black rot spattered throughout the cavern, fouling the once pure waters. Floating in this revolting tide were the powerstones that still contained Abcal-Dro’s consciousness and his vital organs. They were not destroyed, and as long as even a drop of his ooze-like body touched his heartstone he would still be able to reconstruct himself.
The heartstone pulsed with black energies as a furious howl echoed throughout the caverns. Sisay looked back over her shoulder as she ran, watching as flesh slowly congealed and separated from the water, forming sacks around the powerstones. If she ran back now, there was a chance she could destroy the Praetor before he fully recovered. She was about to give the order when Abcal-Dro’s screams registered as Phyrexian language. He was casting a spell, and whatever it was it would be too dangerous to wait around and find out.
Still, she could not help but leave one final parting taunt for the bastard who was surely behind this attack on Mercadia City.
“I watched your God die, and the next time we meet you’ll join him!” Sisay cursed.
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Oh they would pay…oh how they would pay…Abcal-Dro thought as he completed his spell.
Clouds of oily darkness manifested before him, which then took the form of summoned creatures, memories of vile things born of the vats of the Fourth Sphere made real. Their pale white eyes were positioned on each side of their head, nearly blind, as like bats they hunted by screams. Fang filled mouths split their heads down the middle and their sinewy biomechanical limbs ended in barbed talons. Their leathery wings were powerful and could carry the horrid imps at great speeds toward their prey. These skirges served many tasks, from couriers, to sentries to even familiars.
For Abcal-Dro, they would serve as bloodhounds to track and run down his prey.
Dozens and dozens of the vicious creatures furiously flapped down the tunnel, seeking the fleeing Captain Sisay and her allies. It would not be long before they caught up to their targets. Abcal-Dro could hear through their ears, see through their eyes, and taste the air against their lashing tongues.
Meanwhile, Abcal-Dro had managed to reconstitute himself into a great, blob-like form and was slithering slowly after them. All the skirges needed to do was slow his enemies down. Then, he would roll over them and devour them.
Yes, there they were, cornered against a pile a rubble. It was a dead end, there was nowhere to run now. They swung their futile swords, cleaving through wings, heads, torsos. Yet, for every blow they landed, a skirge’s claws raked across an arm or bit into a calf. These, combined with other wounds battling the Praetor and his forces would eventually tire them.
“Struggle all you like…your end has come!” the Praetor laughed.
“Nice going!” Tahngarth yelled sarcastically as he spun in place, his striva slicing through three skirges. “Now we’re trapped, and slimeball probably isn’t that far behind us!”
Squee, for his part, crouched behind Sisay and Tahngarth while Orim and Cho-Manno exhausted their remaining protective magics. However, he was not merely cowering, but rather pressing his ears and eyes to the pile of rubble, desperately searching for something.
“Pipe down hornhead!” Squee retorted. “Dere still might be…THERE! Dat rock, push ‘gainst it as hard as ya can!”
Glancing over his shoulder, Tahngarth could see the goblin frantically pointing at one of the larger boulders toward the bottom of the rubble pile. He then quickly turned back to Sisay and the imps, only to see one of the skirges swiping straight for his eyes. The creature earned a headbutt for the trouble, crumpling unconscious to the cave floor.
“I’ve got this!” Sisay growled, her leg still stinging from a fresh bite. The offending skirge in question had been promptly punted across the hall. Now, it was flying back in for another strike – flanked on either side by two more imps.
Sisay dashed toward them, moving as fast as she could muster. The imps then dove at her, practically piling atop each other in a mass of gnashing fangs and swiping claws.
It had been exactly what she was counting on.
Jumping suddenly toward a wall, Sisay kicked off of it, moving herself aboard the flapping skirges. She then fell upon them, gripping the hilt of her cutlass in both hands as she drove it down. Five simultaneous shrieks and sprays of glistening oil blood later, the final five skirges were shish-kabobed.
Landing atop the slain imps, Sisay panted as she wrenched her sword free. At the end of her vision, she caught a glimpse of the black mass that was Abcal-Dro.
Meanwhile, Tahngarth crouched and pressed his shoulder against the boulder, pushing into it with all of his might. His hooves scraped the ground as he grunted and strained with the weight. However, Orim, Cho-Manno and Squee could see the pile of rocks slowly shifting back and Tahngarth could feel some of the resistance disappearing bit by bit and could see cracks of light peeking through the rubble. The passage must have led to a ledge on the side of the great, inverted mountain. “It’s working!” the minotaur shouted as Cho-Manno, Orim, Captain Sisay and even Squee rushed in to aid him.
All the while, Abcal-Dro’s fetid figure grew steadily more visible.
“COME ON! COME ON!” grunted Sisay, fresh waves of pain shooting up her legs each second that she pushed. However, her adrenaline drove her on. If she faltered now, it could cast all of them their lives.
Finally, with one last mighty heave, the large boulder bounded free of the ledge and tumbled down off the side of the cliff. Rushing out of the tunnel, the group could see that the platform upon which they stood was roughly half-way up the side of the mountain. None of the lifts which the Mercadians used to travel from the plains below to the city above were located nearby – likely relocated after the tunnel was considered lost. They would have to make the perilous descent by hand. One false move and they would end up like the boulder, which now lay shattered into pebbles below.
“Squee so glad he immortal right now,” said the goblin as he gulped and began his descent.
The progress was slow, for despite the dread drawing ever closer, they could not afford to rush. That notion was rethought, however, as Abcal-Dro eventually emerged on the ledge himself and began sliming his way down the mountainside after them. Like a vile tree sap, he clung firmly to the rock face as he dripped ever nearer to his victory.
Eventually, panic and Sisay’s leg wound caused her to slip and lose her footing. Gasping in panic, her fingers scrambled to grab hold of the ledge. She was barely able to grasp a thin outcropping by four of her fingers.
“Captain!” Orim called down to her fearfully.
“Grab my hand!” yelled Tahngarth as he scrambled down to reach for her.
That hesitation was the moment Abcal-Dro had been waiting for. He had managed to close the gap enough where he was fairly confident that he could hit the entire group with a discharged globule.
The Praetor’s bubbling laughter was once again heard as his body swelled to form the projectile cyst.
“Die now, Urza’s swine!” he bellowed.
However, before he could strike, Abcal-Dro was suddenly smashed through the side of the mountain by a large cannon ball.
The Knave dropped its illusionary cloak as it revealed itself to be hovering just next to where Sisay and her allies clung. Ropes were then thrown to the hanging heroes, who hardly hesitated before taking them.
“Thank you,” Cho-Manno offered to the crewmen as their group was pulled aboard.
“No thanks necessary my lord,” said the Captain as he walked out onto the deck. “Though perhaps you could tell me what exactly is going on here?”
It was then that the captain noticed who exactly was accompanying Cho-Manno, and they noticed him.
He had been far younger during their last visit, but Sisay still knew the young man before her – Atalla, the farmhand who had been their guide and ally after Weatherlight crash-landed on his family’s Jhovall farm. Now the captain of an airship?
So too did Atalla recognize Orim, Squee, Tahngarth and Captain Sisay – the heroes who had restored order and justice to a corrupt world. Yet, there had been others with them as well. There was the golden haired Hanna, the brash, bearded Gerrard and the silver golem, Karn. What had become of them?
“Thank you, Atalla, for coming to our rescue,” Tahngath said, bowing his head in respect. “We had returned to aid your world, but alas, we were too late. Volrath’s fleet has rebuilt itself; the Phyrexians have survived and they have a new leader. The city…is lost. We have to escape and regroup.”
“But what about Weatherlight?!” Atalla asked, remembering how the mighty skyship had struck down Volrath’s vessel in their climactic duel above the city.
“She…gone, ‘long with Gerrard and Hanna,” Squee replied grimly, hanging his head.
“And Karn?” Atalla asked, shocked by the news.
“Gone too, but alive,” Orim replied.
“There’s no time,” Sisay cut in. “We have to leave now before the Phyrexian ships find us.”
Atalla nodded, shooting a glimpse up at the smoke rising from the city above. “Take us out of here!” he ordered his men.
The lifting gasses flashed to life and the airship began its departure from the conquered city.
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However, before The Knave had completely vanished from sight, Abcal-Dro had oozed his way back out from the crack in the side of the mountain. His horrid mass still clutched the projectile fired at him. His blob form had shielded his precious powerstone organs from being crushed. It would take more than a simple cannonball to destroy the Father of Machines. It would take more than a primitive airship to escape him.
His advanced brain made several quick calculations, estimating the Knave’s trajectory. Then, the shot was returned, drawn back with vacuum pressure and released from his body at tremendous speeds. It struck true, tearing clean through the great balloon holding the ship aloft. The lifting gasses would escape from it quickly. It was going down and losing speed quickly; a sitting duck for his warships.
Abcal-Dro reached out through one of the many powerstones that afforded him a psychic connection to his subordinates. This time, he called upon his second, Xarzhun, the Cateran Overlord. The approximate coordinates of The Knave and the image of its escaping gasses instantly appeared within the horror’s mind. So too, appeared the command of the self-proclaimed Father of Machines: “Hunt them down. Urza’s legacy dies today.”
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“We’re losing lift fast!” one of Atalla’s men yelled in a panic as the lifting gasses streamed from the balloon and out past the envelope of invisibility. The cloaking spell would do them no good now.
“We’ll crash in the desert!”
“The Phyrexians will have us!”
Atalla cursed as he clutched the rigging. There would be no way to repair the damage in time. His gaze then fell upon his ring. There was one wish left, but it would be up to Dhabbukosh. He had already shown his disregard for mortal lives back at the city.
Using the third wish would free the Djinn, and then there was no telling what he would do. He was just as likely to destroy him and his crew for daring to command him. If that was his intention, then what greater irony was there than finding a way to use the last wish to destroy his damaged ship? He could not call upon Dhabbukosh. But was there any other way to save the ship?
“Captain, we have a Phyrexian ship coming in fast!”
The crew turned fear filled eyes back to the city where, like a bolt of black lightning, the single-man ship closed in. It would be upon them in mere moments. Their cannons were useless against its Thran metal hull. Its ray cannons would tear them to pieces. The crew knew they looked upon death, descending to claim them all.
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The storm was too slow to strike down Xarzhun’s personal fighter, Ravager. Nimbly, it had weaved through bolts of lightning, driven on, like a ravening wolf, to run down its master’s enemies.
Bolts of red light screamed from the mouths of ray cannons mounted at the front of the ship. Xarzhun was quite familiar with the airships of Rishada. One of them would tear through the main balloon, the other would obliterate the ship’s engine and the third would disable the steering. He could have destroyed the entire ship with a single shot, but he wanted to prolong their terror and suffering. He would bring the ship down, then descend to disembowel the wounded survivors with his own claws and fangs.
The honor of slaying Phyrexia’s most hated enemies would be his alone to relish.
Yet, somehow, the beams not only missed their mark but seemed to vanish altogether. What trickery was this?
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It was a mad idea, but it was the only way Cho-Manno and Orim knew to save their skins. By combining their skills in Cho-Arrim water magic, they summoned a furious rainstorm around The Knave, causing it to follow the ship. The torrential rains formed a screen of moisture which dissipated the light-based ray cannon fire. The ship was caught within a cyclone of winds which propelled it at harrowing speeds away from Ravager and toward the Rushwood. The crew clung on for dear life as rain whipped their faces and the ship was thrown wildly about.
“THIS IS YOUR PLAN?!” Atalla yelled as crewmembers recited every prayer to every god they knew. “THIS STORM WILL TEAR THE SHIP APART, IF WE DON’T CRASH FIRST!”
“JUST HOLD ON!” shouted Sisay in reply. “IF THERE’S ANYTHING WE KNOW HOW TO DO, IT IS CRASH A SHIP!”
In moments, the canopy of the Rushwood rose up before them. Each tree was as thick around as a small city. A direct impact would shatter the ship into splinters. It took every ounce of Cho-Manno and Orim’s mastery to direct the careening vessel safely around. Their alternative wasn’t much safer.
The ship hit the forest floor hard, splintering the hull and hurling several crew members from the decks. Fortunately, Orim and Cho-Manno were able to maintain concentration on their storm spell long enough to catch them, suspended in the air. The ship would not fly again without extensive repairs and the enchantment that had allowed it to camouflage was broken. The tattered balloon of the airship hung deflated over the decks as crew slowly crawled out from under it. Several stumbled as they regained their senses and a few rolled over and vomited.
“All things considered…we’ve done worse,” said Tahngarth as he reached down to help up Sisay.
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Damn them! Damn them!
He had nearly had them and then they were gone, without a trace!
Xarzhun’s claws furiously gripped the controls of his skyship as his eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of the escaping gases that signified the presence of his invisible quarry. His ship tore through the air in furious loops, ray cannons firing at random until their barrels glowed hot. The airship was nowhere to be found.
Was this craft somehow able to planeshift? Abcal-Dro had told him that during the battles on Dominaria, Weatherlight evolved to develop such capabilities.
A feeling of dread then gripped Xarzhun as he heard Abcal-Dro again reach out telepathically to him, demanding to know of his results. What price would he pay for failing the Father of Machines?
Chapter 7: Animate Dead
Xarzhun knelt before Abcal-Dro, who stood triumphant upon the pile of rubble that had once been the Tower of the Magistrate. The Praetor had yet to respond to the news of the former crew of Weatherlight’s escape. The storm raging above Mercadia City had ceased after claiming a handful more ships. However, most of the fleet was still in-tact and slaves were even now working to salvage pieces from the destroyed vessels. All in all, their operation was still successful, the city was now in Phyrexian hands and soon their ranks would swell as its populace was compleated.
“Rise,” Abcal-Dro commanded the Cateran Overlord at last.
Xarzhun obliged, but still kept his eyes averted from his master in fear and shame.
“I can see now how Urza’s progeny presented such a challenge for Volrath and his successor,” Abcal-Dro mused. “They are strong, but more than that, they are resourceful, clever, able to adapt quickly. If allowed to survive, their valor would inspire others to resist us. I do not doubt that they search, even now, for a way to free this city. They must be hunted down and utterly crushed.”
“Yes master,” Xarzhun replied. “Allow me to take command of a unit of my best scouts and assassins. We will scour the Rushwood, they won’t escape me a second time.”
“No…,” Abcal-Dro replied, as though deep in thought. “More is necessary. Cho-Manno and his people know the Rushwood better than any scout. They would elude you, lead you into traps and strike when you are most vulnerable. I have dealt with similar foes on Rath.”
“There is only one thing capable of pursuing our enemies now…a soulhunter revenant,” Abcal-Dro concluded.
“A what?” inquired Xarzhun. He had never heard of such a creature.
“Their creation requires an advanced knowledge of the necromantic arts,” explained Abcal-Dro. “It also requires a soul slain in violence, consumed by hatred and with a desire for revenge so strong that its presence lingers beyond its death. They possess an innate link to those upon whom they desire revenge and can track the scent of their souls from across a world.”
Abcal-Dro was one of the few Phyrexians who had acknowledged the existence of the soul. It had not dissuaded him from carrying out any of his twisted experiments. Nor, did he contemplate long the existence of an afterlife – believing that such energies, if unharnessed, simply dissipated back into the cosmos like gas escaping a bottle. It was not the Phyrexian way to be wasteful. Thus, Abcal-Dro had developed a finesse for tortures so foul that they left the soul scarred, broken, and unable to depart.
“Where would we find such a soul, one who so greatly loathes Urza’s champions?” asked the Cateran Overlord, who had come to understand that Volrath actually met his demise on Rath.
“After hours of torture, one of the Cho-Arrim revealed to me the perfect candidate,” replied Abcal-Dro. “He was once a crew member aboard The Weatherlight. A misunderstanding led to his capture by the Cho, who amputated one of his arms that had been injured when the ship crashed here. In a rage, he escaped from his bonds and slaughtered three of his guards before being captured and executed by beheading. He died cursing the Cho-Arrim and is buried on their lands.”
A Phyrexian servitor then approached with a staff that seemed to be crafted from preserved human hearts, handing the grisly artifact to Xarzhun along with a bottle containing a glowing green fluid.
“This divining rod will lead you to his burial site,” explained the Praetor. “Find the grave of Klaars and then pour this potion upon it. He will lead your forces and all he slays shall rise as his spawn.”
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“We must get word to the surrounding villages,” said Cho-Manno. “They have no idea what evils are coming for them.”
“And just where exactly would you have them run to?” replied Atalla as he surveyed the wreckage of his prized airship.
“Ramos will protect us once again,” the leader of the Cho replied. “We must travel to Ouramos and entreat him to take flight once again, as he did to battle Orhop.”
Orim, Squee, Tahngarth and Sisay glanced to one another knowingly. What Cho-Manno had believed to be Ramos concluding his primeval battle with the dark god Orhop had actually been Weatherlight dueling with Recreant, Volrath’s flagship. The real Ramos was a Phyrexian Dragon Engine, captured by Urza during The Brother’s War and re-programmed with a conscious mind. At the conclusion of that war, he had chosen to save as many people as he could, escaping the Sylex blast through a Phyrexian portal and then flying through another portal to Mercadia. He had crash-landed in Ouramos after depositing the survivors throughout their new world.
However, Ramos had not completely escaped the Sylex blast unharmed and had shielded the peoples he had rescued with his own body. Already badly damaged, Ramos was now immobile – having granted the five great powerstones that powered his limbs to Weatherlight’s crew to help them complete The Legacy. To make matters worse, the Phyrexians had deployed armies of dragon engines during their invasion of Dominaria. There, they had provided air support to the Phyrexian warships. A lone dragon engine, even at full power, would not be enough to stop this resurrected fleet.
Still, if Ouramos was probably the closest thing to a safe place that they could bring the refugees. It was watched over by an order of dryads, capable of transforming the forest henge into weapons. Sisay had seen with her own eyes how the forest of Yavimaya on Dominaria had been animated to lash Phyrexian ships from the sky. Furthermore, the surrounding swamps were protected by an army of ghouls – those who fell and burned with Ramos as he crashed into his final resting place. The power of the magical leylines running beneath Ouramos had risen them as undying guardians, capable of endlessly regenerating so long as they remained on those lands.
There, they would be able to hold off the Phyrexians, for a time. However, if the Phyrexians were allowed to spread across the rest of the world then nothing would be able to stop them. Ever resourceful, ever adapting, they would eventually devise a way to penetrate the forest’s defenses. There, should they fail to stop the Phyrexians, they would make their final stand. The last traces of Urza’s legacy would die battling the planeswalker’s lifelong foes -all save for Squee who may find his fate to be worse.
“We don’t have much time,” Orim said, turning to Cho-Manno. “We’ll use our water magics to traverse the rivers as quickly as possible and evacuate as many as we can.”
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It was not long before the shadows of the Phyrexian fleet fell across the villages. Most had evacuated with Cho-Manno. However, there were those who had doubted him and his allies. There were those who believed that he was a weak leader and a coward for abandoning the city. There were those that chose to stand and fight, with bows and arrows and summoned creatures.
At the sight of the hideous warships, incantations failed as eyes gazed up in fear. Bows fell from hands as the hopelessness of their fight and the foolishness of their choice was realized too late. Some stood in futile defiance and watched as their arrows shattered harmlessly against reinforced Thran metal. Summoned drakes were reduced to ashes by ray cannons that then turned their sights on those below. Buildings and bodies burned and those who fled fared little better as Phyrexians fell from drop lines and ran them down.
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Xarzhun marched through a burning village surrounded by a legion of Phyrexian warriors. His scythe dripped with fresh blood as did his fangs and talons. Still, the villages were far more sparsely populated than he had expected. There should have been enough people to create an entire Phyrexian army from. Yet those villages closest to the Rushwood had contained only a few warriors.
They had evacuated quicker than he had expected.
“Advance into the Rushwood,” the Cateran Overlord ordered his troops. “Remain in close formation and fire upon ambushers but do not pursue them.”
Xarzhun’s true objective was to follow the divining rod to the Cho-Arrim village. The sooner he did so the better, for he understood well that within these woods he was at a disadvantage. A lone guerilla fighter might attack to draw off a handful of troops, get them lost, then surround them or lead them into pit traps or the dens of large, predatory beasts. Left to his own devices, he would have firebombed the wretched forest from their ships until only ashes remained. However, Abcal-Dro had desired to harvest its animal and plant life for his experiments with the glistening oil and thus he would need his revenant to hunt down their quarry.
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With the aid of Cho-Arrim water magic, the river escape routes crisscrossing the Rushwood transported the boats full of refugees expediently toward Ouramos. Still, it would take several days to reach their destination. They had long lost sight of their Phyrexian pursuers. Perhaps, some suspected, they had given up and directed their attention to Saprazzo and other targets. Or, as other suspected, an ambush could be waiting for them around the very next river bend.
The mood was somber but hopeful. What little hushed conversation was held was devoted to one subject: Ramos. The refugees prayed frequently to their god to return and save them from the Phyrexian invaders. Sisay, Orim, Tahngarth and Squee were questioned frequently about their meeting with the divine being. They were, after all, his heralds – the chosen ones.
“Is it true that his wings fill the sky?” a small child asked Orim. She was too young to have seen the fateful battle above Mercadia city. Her face was stained with tears and her eyes were full of fear and wonder. The former crew of Weatherlight had silently agreed not to rob these people of their hope. It was all they had left, all that kept them going in the face of utter despair.
Orim fought back tears and her voice trembled as she forced herself to smile. Petting the girl’s head, she nodded and replied “and his scales gleam like the sun and his breath creates the clouds.”
The girl smiled weakly back and her stomach growled in protest. There had been little room for food to take with them, so all were hungry.
“And when we get to Ouramos, there is a beautiful garden with trees that grow the best tasting fruit in all the world,” said the Samite Healer.
That much was not a lie. The magical leyline running beneath Ouramos caused the fruit growing in the grove to be imbued with healing properties. During their last audience with Ramos, the fruit had healed them completely of injuries and sickness that had resulted from battling the guardian ghouls. Hopefully, the ghouls would recognize them this time and conflict could be avoided. Following their past meeting with Ouramos, the undead had allowed them to pass through in peace.
“So tell me,” Sisay asked Atalla. “How did you come to be the captain of that ship? Where are your parents, Tavoot and Sesharral?”
“You aren’t the only ones who have lost,” the young former captain said, turning away from Sisay to hide his emotions. “A while after you left, there was an attack on the farm. Mercenaries set fire to it in the middle of the night. Somehow, I managed to escape. My parents…didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry,” Sisay replied, taking his hands in her own.
“After that, I traveled to Rishada,” Atalla continued. “I thought, a place like that, with its reputation, there had to be someone who knew who was responsible. I dedicated my life to revenge, but all trails turned up cold. I ended up running with some unscrupulous crowds, doing whatever I had to in order to get by. It turned out I was a pretty good pirate, ‘till one day I got caught.”
Cho-Manno then smiled and added “I remembered him from the last time you were here. I pardoned him and put his skills to use hunting down other criminals.”
“You gave me a second chance and I didn’t forget that,” Atalla replied, turning to Cho-Manno. “That’s why we came back and came to your rescue. I only wish we could have done more.”
“You acted honorably,” Tahngarth chimed in, bowing his head and respect. “One cannot win every battle, but thanks to you we survived and may yet win the war.”
“Youse a good kid,” said Squee, before being cut off by the boat suddenly striking something and coming to a stop, halting the rest of the convoy along with it.
“What’s that?” the goblin asked.
“A fallen log?” questioned Orim.
“I’ll get it,” grumbled Tahngarth as he scooted over to the side of the boat.
He stopped as suddenly, all around them, slime covered skulls began to rise up from the water.
Bony fingers reached for the sides of the boat as the horde of ghouls attempted to pull themselves aboard. Screams rang out among the refugees as the warriors among them hastily drew their weapons to batter them back. Some weren’t quite quick enough and their cries transformed into gurgling spurts as rotten teeth sank deep into their throats. There were hundreds of the undead, no doubt lying dormant underwater until their prey arrived. But where had they all come from?
“Torahn’s horns!” shouted Tahngarth as his Striva slashed sent moldy skulls flying from spines. “Are these the same ghouls? What are they doing this far from Ouramos?!”
“I doubt it,” said Orim as she, Cho-Manno and the other Cho-Arrim mages summoned walls of light to protect the boats, blinding the ghouls and causing them to hiss, shriek and step back. “Those were guardians – and they regenerated. These ones stay dead.”
Sure enough, once their brittle bodies were broken apart the pieces lay motionless, not flying back into place. Atalla and Sisay stood back to back, cutlasses severing reaching arms and boots crashing into brittle ribs. Squee kicked one ghoul in the shin, causing its foot to clatter loose and resulting in the undead falling off the side. Another zombie saw its one remaining eye poked out by goblin fingers, rolling back into its hollow head. Then, before running back away from the flailing corpse, he quickly snagged a juicy looking worm wriggling inside the undead’s cheek.
Soon, the remaining dead were driven from the boats. However, they were still clogging up the river. They were trapped and surrounded.
“Now what?” huffed a panting Tahngarth as they looked out at the seemingly endless rows of ghouls standing motionless, staring at them.
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The divining rod had led him straight to his goal. The Cho-Arrim burial ground contained many mounds and crude headstones from the massacre some years ago. At that time, one of Xarzhun’s commanders, the Cateran Enforcer Xcric, had tricked Gerrard Capashen into leading the assault. Shortly after its crash landing, the ship and Orim had been abducted by the Cho-Arrim, who viewed the vessel as Ramos, returned to them but injured. Thus, they took it into their protective custody.
Volrath, then disguised as the crew’s companion, Takara, had convinced Gerrard that the Cho were bloodthirstly, cannibalistic savages. Thus, Gerrard persuaded the former Magistrate to recruit a Cateran Guild army to rescue both Weatherlight and Orim. By the time Gerrard realized the truth, many had lost their lives. When Gerrard had tried to stop Xcric and force his men to stand down, it was all the excuse they needed to arrest him as a traitor too. Volrath should have had them all killed when he had the chance, thought Xarzhun.
Then, like now, Cho-Manno and his people had managed to escape the Cateran Guild’s grasp. However, they would not escape for long.
Abcal-Dro’s grissly artifact pulsated stronger and stronger as Xarzhun strolled between the rows of graves, escorted by his Phyrexian army. Finally, he stopped at an unmarked stone upon which no plant life grew. It was as though a
malign presence still lingered there and snuffed all life from the soil. The air itself was strangely colder here. This was the one.
The Cateran Overlord produces the flask of glowing green liquid and uncorks it, slowly emptying its contents onto the grave of Klaars.
For a moment, there was silence. Xarzhun leaned in examine closer and then suddenly recoiled as the entire grave caved in and an unnatural green light erupted from below. Wisps of green mist smoked from the grave as an ear-splitting shriek pierced the air. Moments later, a black horse, wreathed in smoke and flame galloped out from the grave and into the night sky. It was a Nightmare, an evil spirit born from concentrated darkness.
Looking up, the Cateran Overlord caught sight of a figure riding the devil steed’s back as it passed in front of the moon. It was dressed in old, cracked armor and gripped the Nightmare’s reins with a single skeletal hand. There was no head resting upon its shoulders, but the same eerie green light smoked up from its neck stump. Within those vapors, a pair of glowing eyes burned. The Revenant then turned its gaze upon Xarzhun standing below.
“Klaars!” Xarzhun shouts up to the revenant. “I am Xarzhun your master! I have given you new life and a chance to avenge your death. Your crewmates have betrayed you and they dishonor your memory by joining with the same peoples who took your life. Slay them and the Cho-Arrim, make them suffer for what they did to you!”
Klaars’ voice echoed like a whisper carried upon the wind. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
“Cho…..Die…”
The revenant then rode off, drawn inexorably toward his prey. Abcal-Dro’s divining rod would allow Xarzhun to track it. There would be no escaping him now.
“All forces, move out!” Xarzhun commanded.
Abcal-Dro’s potion had torn from Klaars’ spirit all compassion, all memories of his former life saved those which suited his ends. Klaars recalled not the Weatherlight crew’s mission to destroy the Phyrexians. Nor, did he recall his former friendship with Orim and the others. He had died fighting to free himself and Orim from their captors. Now, that noble, albeit misguided sacrifice, had been twisted and corrupted to serve the ends of the very evil Klaars had once sworn to destroy.
Such was the nature of Phyrexia. It spread like a cancer, corrupting and consuming all that it touched and in the end all would come to serve it. Not even in death could one escape.
Chapter 8: Living Artifact
Atalla looked to the ring containing his Djinn servant. Were they left with no further options but to call upon him?
“Squee knows wat you thinking and nuh uh!” the goblin cut in. “No way! Not gonna do it! Squee not gonna go out there an get eated over an’ over ‘till them zombies too full ta fight. Nope!”
“Wouldn’t work anyway,” Tahngarth cut in. “These kinds of mindless ghouls feed out of instinct not hunger. They’d eat until they burst and then keep eating. Look, some of them don’t even have any stomachs left. Disgusting things.”
“Orim,?” asked Cho-Manno. “Have you mastered the water magic? It may be our only way out of this. Combine it with your white mana, transform it into purifying holy water!”
Orim grit her teeth. She was already exhausted from maintaining the barrier and the moment that it dropped the ghouls would fall upon them. If she failed to maintain her concentration while combining the two spells then all of them were lost. Still, he didn’t see any other way.
“Alright, do it!” Orim shouted to the other Cho-Arrim mages. “Drop the barrier!”
No sooner had the glow faded than a chorus of hideous moans and shrieks erupted from the ghouls. Their rotten bodies again sloshed toward the boats, skeletal fingers reaching and bony jaws chomping.
Chanting quickly, using up every ounce of her remaining strength, Orim uncorked her waterskin and casts herbs from her medicine bag into the falling stream of water. Upon uttering the last syllable, she fainted from the exertion, falling into Cho-Manno’s arms. The stream then erupted into a torrent that glowed with white mana as it spilled into the brackish waters surrounding the boats. Cheers went up among the survivors as the army of ghouls shrieked and crumbled into ashes. The rushing waters flooded onto the nearby shores, pushing with it the log that had blocked their path.
Once again the boats were free to push on toward Ouramos.
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Ta-Spon, the Cho-Arrim executioner and one of their greatest warriors, had elected to remain behind and cover the retreat of the boats. Along with a unit of highly skilled trackers and scouts, he had launched a series of hit-and-run attacks on the advancing Phyrexians. Oddly, he had been unable to get any of them to break ranks. Each attack brought a handful more Phyrexian deaths and still the black tide surged on through Rushwood. The Phyrexians cared little for the lives of their comrades and their deaths did not enrage them enough to disobey orders.
The guerilla fighters were currently a few miles outside of the main village, preparing for their next strike. If the Phyrexians would not stray from their path, then they would make it as hazardous as possible. Pit traps had been dug throughout the trail, with venom-coated spikes waiting below for those unfortunate enough to fall in. The Cho-Arrim warriors were in the process of camouflaging one such trap when an unearthly wail pierced the air. The warriors rose, drawing their weapons – the Phyrexians should still be several minutes away.
Then they caught sight of him.
Flying out from behind a cloud was Klaars, atop his nightmare steed. The headless ghost gripped the reins in a spectral hand. His skeletal hand carried the headsman’s axe from the camp. Far too heavy and unwieldy to carry into battle, it was intended for the sole purpose of severing a head with a single blow and granting the executed a merciful death. It had been this very weapon that had ended Klaars’ mortal life and he had been drawn to it.
“A specter!” one of the Cho-Arrim shouted. “Take it down!”
A hail of arrows were then loosed toward Klaars -only to burn to cinders upon nearing the Nightmare’s flaming body. Those that struck Klaars lodged themselves in cracked armor and bones but seemed to have little affect.
“Cho….DIE!” the Revenant cried out as he drove his steed down upon them.
The first warriors to perish were crushed beneath the Nightmare’s flaming hooves. The next fell beneath the headsman’s axe. Klaars wielded it with a supernatural strength and skill, swinging the heavy weapon in a perfect arc as if it were a lightly balanced scimitar. Three warriors’ heads leapt from their shoulders with a fountain of gore. Within the first moments of combat, Ta-Spon’s forces had been decimated.
The remaining men drew their swords and attempted to close in around Klaars and box him in. Then, out of the corners of their eyes, they saw bursts of green flame engulf the bodies of those slain by the revenant. As the headless corpses burnt away to the bone, they rose from where they lay. Glowing eyes appeared amid balls of flame where heads once rested and skeletal hands again raised up their weapons. The spawn of Klaars then turned upon their former comrades.
Ta-Spon watched in horror as Klaars’ nightmare reared up to trample him, narrowly rolling away. As he returned to his feet, the nightmare charged headlong toward him. Although few of Klaars’ memories remained, the face of the man who killed him was forever burned into his mind. He would claim his revenge with the very weapon that ended his life.
Drawing a spear from where it was strapped against his back, Ta-Spon waited until the nightmare had closed in just enough so that it was within reach but outside of the reach of Klaars’ axe. With a mighty lunge, the Cho-Arrim warrior speared the spirit horse through the chest, piercing what should have been its heart. His weapon pierced only smoke. The nightmare was as ephemeral as smoke billowing from a funeral pyre. No normal weapons could harm it.
Klaars then closed in, swinging his axe down with enough strength to split a man clean in two. Instead, the side of the axe was impacted by Ta-Spon’s spear as he pushed it to the side. Spinning in place, Ta-Spon then slammed the butt of the spear into Klaars’ chestplate. The revenant was flung from his mount to clatter to the ground. The fall was enough to break Klaars’ spine, but this did not hinder him.
The revenant rose, even as a section of spine hung cracked from the back of his breastplate. His bones were puppeteered by Abcal-Dro’s dark magic and he would not be laid to rest so easily.
Ta-Spon raised up his weapon in a defensive stance as the revenant closed in upon him.
“I will defeat you, spirit, even if I have to break all of your bones to dust to do it!” he shouted.
“You took my head…” Klaars replied “Now I’ll take yours!”
Ta-Spon shot a quick glance to where his fellow warriors were engaged in battle with Klaars’ spawn. Once more to his horror it seemed as if those slain by his spawn also rose as revenants. Where once there had been three, the undead ranks had grown to equal his own.
Ta-Spon knew that this would be his last battle. However, he was determined to take this abomination down with him.
With a mighty throw, Ta-Spon hurled his spear into Klaars’ chest, causing it to puncture clean through his armor. Klaars did not so much as pause.
Ta-Spon then drew his longsword as Klars fell upon him. His axe swung with incredible speed and accuracy, which should have been impossible for such a weapon. Ta-Spon was left with time only to dodge and no gap with which to strike back. His undead foe, meanwhile, showed no signs of tiring. He would not be able to keep this up forever.
With Klaars’ next swing, Ta-Spon elected instead to parry. Although he was large and well-muscled, Klaars’ bones possessed a supernatural strength. With their weapons locked, Klaars continued to advance, slowly pushing Ta-Spon back and overpowering him.
Breaking away, Ta-Spon attempted a desperate swing, hoping to sever Klaars’ sword-arm. He was met with a blow to the face from Klaars’ invisible, spectral hand. The Cho-Arrim warrior’s nose was crushed and his vision blurred as blood ran from his nose. Still, his sight was good enough to see the last of his men meet their deaths at the hands of Klaars’ spawn. His former comrades now advanced to aid Klaars in finishing him off.
Klaars did not hesitate to take advantage of his opening, stepping in and bringing the axe down on Ta-Spon’s wrist. The Cho-Arrim warrior cried out in pain as blood gushed from his severed limb. A kick from Klaars’ armored boot then brought Ta-Spon to the ground, his ribs shattered.
A sadistic laughter emanated from Klaars’ hollow neck. The flames billowing from his body then danced and swayed until they formed a blurred image of Klaars’ face.
“Y-you!” Ta-Spon coughed as his throat filled with blood.
Klaars raised the axe high and with a single blow removed his executioner’s head. However, just before his final breath left his lips, the Cho-Arrim completed one final spell – a spell intended to ease the passing of the dying and grant their souls peace. As his body burned away, his spirit did not rise as one of the undead. Instead, Ta-Spon’s luminous form rose from out of his broken corpse. His spirit would soon join the river of souls in the heavens, but first he would warn Cho-Manno.
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When at last the boats ran aground at the haunted crossroads near Ouramos, they found them to be strangely deserted. There was no sign of the ghouls that had previously been its guardian.
Cho-Manno had remained behind with the boats to care for Orim while Sisay, Tahngarth, Squee and Atalla, at his insistence, went on ahead.
“If you run into any trouble you’ll need another strong arm at your sides,” the lad had insisted.
The group had nearly crossed the barren lands and forest that marked the henge of Ramos was within sight when the spirit of Ta-Spon rose up before them.
Atalla and Tahngarth reflexively raised their weapons but Sisay recognized the spirit.
“Wait,” she commanded, waving them down. “Ta-Spon, is that you?”
“Indeed,” the fallen warrior said, dejected. “I fell in battle against our enemies and I have come to warn you.”
“Where are the ghouls that once defended these lands?” Tahngarth interrupted. “We took the refugees here because of their protection.”
“The power of Ramos is fading from this world, even as I am,” the spirit explained. “The magics which once bound them to these lands has weakened and they wandered free, bereft of purpose.”
“So they were the same ghouls,” the minotaur muttered at the grim news.
“Yes,” answered the spirit of Ta-Spon. “And matters have grown worse still. I didn’t perish against the Phyrexians. They have raised one of your former comrades, Klaars, as a powerful undead spirit that even now hunts you. I used the afterlife spell to escape becoming his thrall, but all he slays rise to become creatures like him – as do all they slay.”
Sisay’s fists clenched with rage. First Ertai and Crovax, now Klaars too?
“Dats just great!” cursed Squee as he kicked a mound of dirt. “So what we supposed ta do now?!”
“Meet with Ramos,” replied the spirit, whose form had begun to fade. “In his last moments, he will impart to you his remaining wisdom. Perhaps it will be enough to save our world. Farewell…”
“Farewell noble warrior,” said Tahngarth as the minotaur and his comrades bowed their heads in respect.
The moment of silence was broken by Squee as he tugged on Atalla’s trousers.
“I gots an idea, how ‘bout you just have the genie wish hisself and all the Phyrexians and dere ghost buddies offa dis world?” inquired the goblin. “Solve all our problems right dere.”
Atalla shook his head.
“The wishes granted can’t exceed the Djinn’s power,” the young pirate explained.
“Then we have no choice,” said Sisay. “We will meet with Ramos. Our only hopes lie with him.”
With that, the group trudged through the last of the blackened ground until they at last reached the edge for the forest. Atalla’s eyes were immediately drawn to the numerous powerstones dotting the forest floor and glittering like diamonds. His mouth hung open in awe. There were enough here to live a lifetime of luxury – multiple lifetimes! On instinct, he reached for one only for Sisay to catch him by the wrist.
“The trees have eyes,” she explained. “They don’t take kindly to thieves.”
“Come out!” bellowed Tahngarth. “I know you dryads are there. You granted us passage once before and we seek an urgent audience with Ramos!”
After an uneasy silence, several lithe, green skinned women with hair like moss appeared, seemingly from nowhere. In their native woodlands, dryads could only be seen if they wished to be seen.
“Ramos will see you,” they spoke in a chorus. “Come, the time is short.”
The group the followed the dryads through the grove surrounding Ramos’ resting place. Despite Ramos’ apparent weakening strength, the plump fruits whose healing properties Orim had described earlier still hung in abundance from its branches.
Finally, they emerged through the line of trees to a great, sandy pit. Once, the powerstones known as The Bones of Ramos lay on a pedestal at the center of the pit, bathing the area in the light of all five colors of mana. Now, the pedestal lay barren. The stones had been incorporated into Weatherlight’s engine and had allowed her crew to complete The Legacy and defeat Yawgmoth. However, their power had also sustained Ramos’ life force.
“Heroes…” bellowed the dragon’s mechanical voice, sounding weary. “I remember you well. Why is it that you come again before me? Was your quest successful? Have you come to bid me farewell?”
With that, the ground trembled as, with what remaining strength he possessed, the great Dragon Engine pulled himself free from the sands. Not some clumsy machine like Mishra’s attempts to replicate them during The Brother’s War, a true Dragon Engine appeared as lifelike in their movements any flesh and blood dragon, despite being entirely mechanical.
Atalla’s mouth hung open in awe of the living machine, the likes of which he had never witnessed.
“Great Ramos,” Sisay said, falling to one knee. “Thanks to the powerstones you provided us, we were indeed successful in thwarting the Phyrexian invasion of Dominaria and destroying their dark god. However, Urza and his legacy were sacrificed during the final battle.”
“One of Yawgmoth’s praetors survived,” Tahngarth continued. “He has come to this world to recreate Phyrexia’s armies and declare himself Yawgmoth’s successor.”
“Mercadia City has already fallen,” said Sisay. “We have evacuated all that we could from the Rushwood. We ask that you protect them and aid us in defeating this evil once and for all.”
Ramos appeared visibly saddened by the news of Weatherlight and Urza’s deaths. So too did he notice that neither Hanna, Gerrard or Karn were among them. However, he also understood well the severity of their plight. There was no time to grieve.
“I possess not the strength to defeat a Phyrexian praetor,” said Ramos, much to Atalla’s shock. “However, the druids here will use their magics to defend the survivors. I will use the last of my strength to create a steam barrier around Ouramos to protect it from ray cannons. I’m afraid that is the best that I can offer you.”
“But that-that’s not good enough!” Atalla shouted, stepping forth. “You are the most ancient being on this world, revered as God by all it peoples, and the best you can offer us is a place to forestall our deaths?!”
Ramos turned his huge head toward the boy and regarded him somberly. The young were always the least willing to accept the inevitability of death. However, just then, something that the boy spoke of activated one of his dormant memory banks. Information which he had not accessed in thousands of years suddenly filled his mechanized mind. Perhaps there was a way after all.
“Wait,” Ramos replied. “You are wrong, there was a being more ancient than myself. When I first arrived in Ouramos, it had another guardian – a Maro nature spirit like Titania of Argoth. It was a very old being, even then, and after seeing how I had saved the peoples of Dominaria it asked that I watch over the world while it slumbered. It was called Rushwood and it was how the forest got its name.”
“I can tell you where Rushwood sleeps, though I know not how to wake him,” the Dragon Engine explained. “If there is any with the power or knowledge to help you, it is he.”
Atalla’s eyes suddenly filled with hope.
“Oh, but I have a way,” he said, raising up his hand and showing off the ring containing Dhabbukosh. “I’ll use the last with to awaken Rushwood and then I dare Dhabbukosh to try anything to harm us!”
Atalla’s hope seemed to spread to Sisay and her companions. Sisay, Tahngarth, and Squee remembered their own dealings with a Maro spirit on Doiminaria. Multani, the guardian of Yavimaya, had been Gerrard and Mirri’s tutor. He possessed the ability to inhabit any plant matter and construct from it a body. During the Invasion, he had joined briefly with Weatherlight to regenerate her hull in battle and then went dormant after using all of his strength to create a land bridge between Yavimaya and Uborg for the Coalition armies to march their forces against Crovax.
Perhaps Rushwood had himself gone dormant after a similarly strenuous use of power.
Sisay remembered the trees of Rushwood forest and how each was as wide around as a small city. A Maro spirit formed from such mighty trees would be a powerful ally indeed. A malicious Djinn, mighty as he may be, would stand no chance against such a force of nature.
Chapter 9: Force of Nature
The dryads of Ouramos led Sisay and her allies into the hidden heart of Rushwood. There, the trees grew wild and tangled. Tree limbs were as large as sailing ships, trees themselves were the size of large cities. The root systems were as great underground roads. Their path was winding and fraught with dangers; were it not for the dryads in their company their party may have fallen prey to any number of predatory beasts, carnivorous plants, giant spiders or venomous serpents.
Then, at last, they reached their destination. After emerging through a line of trees the group stood on the edge of a waterfall leading down into a great valley. Below appeared to be yet another forest, drawing nourishment from the crystalline waters that surrounded it.
“Behold, Rushwood, the guardian of antiquity,” said the chorus of dryads.
It was then that Sisay and her companions realized that it was not another forest that lay before them, but a single, colossal being. It was larger than the greatest of Yavimaya’s Magnigoth treefolk, whose limbs has reached into the heavens and whose limbs had swatted Phyrexian ships from the skies during the Invasion. The being before them would be large enough to grapple with the hugest of Phyrexian plagueships and probably strong enough to crush it like a tin can. Entire ecosystems likely dwelt within its slumbering body.
As awestruck as they were, they did not forget their reason for coming to this sacred place.
Atalla stepped forth and spoke once more to his ring.
“From sleep beyond dreams, space beyond starlight, time beyond memory, I call you forth and command you, Dhabbukosh, do appear!”
Once more, the great Blue Djinn swirled forth like a tornado from his confinement before manifesting again into physical form.
“Are you ready to make your final wish?” asked the Djinn in a subtly threatening tone.
Sisay and Tahngarth’s hands rested upon the hilts of their weapons, ready to spring into action. Cho-Manno and the Dryads were also prepared, ready to swiftly summon forth their magics should the need arise. Squee hid nervously behind them.
“I command you to awaken the slumbering Maro nature spirit before you,” replied Atalla. “After that, do what you will.”
Turning to face the dormant guardian, Dhabbukosh begins chanting in a long-forgotten tongue. His voice slowly built in volume until it echoed through the valley, louder than thunder. Squee fell to his knees and plugged his sensitive ears as the others grit their teeth and watched with squinted eyes through the din. The Djinn’s voice grew louder still until the world itself seemed to quake. Blood trickled from the ears of Sisay and her companions until at last, with one last screamed syllable, there was again silence.
Their ears rang but they had not been rendered deaf. They could hear the sounds of the water below them.
Then the world quaked once more, more violently than before. The cliffside upon which they stood began to crack and crumble apart. The dryads’ magic summoned forth vines to help them to quickly descend to the valley below, for what safety that would provide. Mere moments after they reached the ground, the cliff crumbled and tumbled down the mountainside. Without the dryads’ aid, they would surely have been buried.
Then the ground rose up before them, blotting out the light of the sun as Rushwood rose to his full height, more than a mile tall. Sisay and her companions were less than specks before him.
Dhabbukosh’s grin widened as he watched the golden bracers around his wrists shatter. Crafted by a Planeswalker’s magic, they had been the only force capable of keeping him from returning to his native Rabiah until he granted his supposed master’s three wishes. Now, he was free to do with his power as he saw fit. Still, he could not help but be awed as well by the being which towered above him. There wasn’t a force on this world, or even his native Rabiah, that could best it in battle…but he wouldn’t need to.
“Thank you, oh master, for releasing me,” the Djinn said as he levitated up toward the face of the towering treefolk. “It has been such a pleasure serving you that now, you and all the peoples of this world will have the honor…of serving me!”
“What?!” Tahngarth snarled.
Dhabbukosh then tuned toward Rushwood and thrust out both of his arms before him. Chanting quickly, he weaved wisps of blue magic through the hollows of the nature spirit’s massive head. In a matter of moments, his control magic spell was complete. Rushwood would have no choice but to obey his will!
“Your God is now mine to command!” the Djinn bellowed triumphantly down to those below. “All will serve at my pleasure or be crushed beneath his feet!”
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The hooves of Klaars’ nightmare steed splashed through the muck of the crossroads leading to Ouramos. The headless rider gripped the reins with his spectral hand and the executioner’s axe, freshly stained with Ta-Spon’s blood, in his skeletal appendage. Ta-Spon’s severed head bounced against his waist, his coiffed locks now woven into Klaars’ belt. Behind him marched a squadron of headless dead, ghostly blue fire billowing from their necks just like their creator. All of those Cho-Arrim whom had remained behind to cover Cho-Manno’s retreat now aided those intent on hunting him.
Behind this unholy force marched Xarzhun and his Phyrexian army. The Cateran leader knew of the legends of Ramos, but had always suspected them to be false or an exaggeration. He did not fear entering this sacred place, for he served the true god – the father of machines. All false creeds shall be expunged to usher in a new age of Phyresis upon Mercadia. What better means was there to crush the hopes of the Mercadians than to conquer their most holy site?
It did not surprise him that the revenant lead them here. The forest rising above the swamp would provide its defenders with a high ground and cover from which to strike. Against a conventional army they might have actually stood a chance. However, with Klaars on their side, there would be no hope of victory. No matter what injuries he sustained, the vengeful undead would not fall.
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Sisay and her allies looked up in stunned horror as Dhabbukosh hovered next to the awakened Rushwood – now held within his thrall.
“Kneel before your Sultan!” the Djinn commanded them.
In answer came the chorus of dryads. Their collective voice rose above that of the triumphant Djinn as though the wind willingly aided it. Their song was beautiful, haunting and tranquil. The chirping of birds and the buzzing of insects ceased – even the waterfall seemed to flow more quietly as all of nature paused to listen. Green mana was woven with their words, dispelling the Djinn’s enchantment.
As the last note faded, Rushwood turned toward Dhabbukosh and swatted him from the sky with a massive backhand slap. The Djinn’s body was reduced to vapor as his magical essence dispersed. Atalla was awed by such a display of power. He had seen Dhabbukosh wrestle and defeat a two-headed dragon with his bare hands. Still, he was no more than a fly before the mighty Maro spirit.
“Why have you awakened me from my slumber?” questioned Rushwood, his voice rumbling like an earthquake through the valley. “What is this foul corruption that I smell upon the wind?”
Squee coughed nervously.
“Uh…dat…mighta been me,” Squee answered, prompting an elbow from Tahngarth.
Sisay then stepped forward, falling to one knee.
“Great Rushwood, we have awakened you because a great evil now threatens your lands,” she said. “A force known as Phyrexia has invaded your world. They are unnatural beings, half-machine and half-flesh, and they wish to destroy all that they encounter.”
For a moment, Rushwood fell silent. He then recalled a memory from thousands of years ago.
“Yes, I was warned of their coming,” replied the Maro. “Ages ago, there came a group of refugees from another world. A Planeswalker, Dyfed, brought humans and goblins from the Thran Empire on the plane of Dominaria. The humans were elderly statesmen, fleeing from a mad tyrant they called Yawgmoth. He had imprisoned them upon a world of machines, Phyrexia, and would have transformed them into the very horrors you describe were it not for Dyfed’s intervention.”
“So the Thran survived on Mercadia?” asked Tahngarth. “They didn’t all perish?”
“They were too old to bear children of their own,” replied Rushwood. “Thus, they dedicated the remainder of their years to constructing weapons that could aid in the fight against Yawgmoth. They told me that Yawgmoth intended to become a God and that his ambitions did not end with the conquest of Dominaria. They knew that one day he would find Mercadia as well. When at last age did claim them, the goblins were instructed to carry on their work.”
“However, as generations passed, the goblins became too preoccupied with ruling over this world and their origins as well as the threat of Yawgmoth were forgotten,” continued Rushwood. “The Thran temple was abandoned in favor of a new home high on Mercadia’s greatest peak, beyond even my reach. They had little desire to live at harmony with nature so I turned my attentions away from them and back to the forest. There, I created many great beasts –wumpus, satyrs, gahrs, megatheriums and more – hoping that they could repel Yawgmoth and his armies when at last they came. Then came Ramos.”
“When I first saw the great machine dragon, I thought him to be Yawgmoth,” Rushwood further explained. “I thought at first those that he carried upon his back were his chosen warriors. I assembled an army of beasts to meet him when he landed. However, he landed in ruin, and rather than immediately destroy him I questioned him about the purpose of his coming. I then learned that as great as he was, he had fled from a war that was far greater and yet all of its warring forces combined paled to the power of Yawgmoth.”
“I passed the mantle of Mercadia’s guardian onto Ramos, allowing him to watch over the peoples whom he had brought with him,” concluded Rushwood. “Meanwhile, I slept – dedicating my power to strengthening Mercadia’s magical leylines and accelerating my own growth. I wanted to be prepared for when Yawgmoth truly returned. Now, you tell me, that day has come?”
Sisay shook her head.
“Not Yawgmoth himself, but his successor,” she replied.
“I am part of a group of heroes from Dominaria,” Sisay explained. “We piloted a ship - a weapon created by another Planeswalker, Urza, which was able to destroy Yawgmoth when his armies attacked our world. However, in the final battle, it was lost itself. What we now face is a survivor of that war – a powerful demon who seeks to recreate Phyrexia on this world. Our power alone is not enough to stop him.”
“The time for sleep is over,” Tahngarth cut in. “If you do not act now, not even your great power will be enough. Had Yawgmoth attacked Mercadia with his full strength, your world would have been doomed. You have to stop them now, before they grow any stronger. Even now, their forces march on Ramos.”
“Very well,” replied Rushwood as he took his first, lumbering step from the pool in which had lain dormant for aeons. “Then together we march to battle!”
“Wait, what about the weapons that the Thran were building?” asked Atalla.
Rushwood’s great boughs creaked as he turned his head to the boy.
“What if, even with your great strength, it isn’t enough?” Atalla argued. “The Phyrexians have a fleet; they took over Mercadia city in hours. If these weapons can help us, we should use them!”
“I know not of what the Thran elders built, but it would represent the culmination of their knowledge – knowledge which is beyond me,” Rushwood replied. “Perhaps the boy is right. You warriors of Dominaria may be the only ones capable of wielding these weapons. If indeed they are required, you must find them before it is too late. I shall defend Ramos; you must travel to the place where the sun comes to rest upon the land – there you shall find the Thran temple, built to harness its light.”
“The sun comes to rest – the Deeplands!” Atalla said, turning to face the group. “They are the westernmost lands of Mercadia. It is a vast, rocky desert that has never been fully explored. It is home to crag saurians, manticores, lithophages and dragons – very dangerous. Still, the eggs of any of those beasts is worth a high price on the black market.”
“Wonderful,” grumbled Tahngarth. “What are we waiting for?”
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The forest of Ouramos was shrouded in a thick fog. However, a mere fog would not be enough to stop the armies of Phyrexia and their revenant forces. Xarzhun stood among his fellow Phyrexians, a mass of spines, claws, fangs and sagittal crests. They watched as the first wave of headless dead made their advance. Klaars led the charge atop his nightmare steed.
Arrows loosed from the tree line burned to ash before impacting the flame-wreathed mount, whose incendiary breath burned away swaths of protective vapors. Meanwhile, the spawn of Klaars trudged up the slopes of the mound, tireless, unfettered by mortal fatigue. Their bones rattled in their broken armor and the flames blazing where their heads once were made them appear as a swarm of fireflies to Ouramos’ defenders.
Dryad magic transformed tree limbs into lashing whips, but Klaars’ axe severed them with ease. Other limbs carried with them dozens of Cho-Arrim warriors. These fighters were armed with spears, allowing them to stab out as the branches unwound before the tree limbs pulled them back to safety. It was an ingenious, albeit futile, tactic. Although spears pierced their armor, there were no vital areas to strike their skeletal bodies. Though they lacked eyes or ears, the undead could sense the life force of the living. They leapt with supernatural strength onto the branches and embers leapt from their necks, setting trees ablaze. Cho-Arrim water mages struggled to douse the flames, but they burned hotter than any natural fire.
Some of the spawn of Klaars willingly impaled themselves through their ribcages on Cho-Arrim spears, leaving the spear-wielders helpless. A swing of their blades and the humans’ heads leapt from their shoulders. The corpses immediately ignited with unholy flames, charring away flesh and setting alight the trees beneath them. Those slain by Klaars and his spawn joined their ranks. The ranks of the undead vanguard swelled.
For every spawn crushed beneath lashing boughs it seemed two more rose. The defenders were in chaos.
Then, suddenly, one of the burning trees was doused with a torrent of water, glowing with white mana energies. As these holy waters washed over the spawn of Klaars, the fires blazing in their hollow necks were doused. Their lifeless skeletons clattered to the ground. Klaars turned his attention to the source of the waters, where stood Orim and Cho-Manno. Thanks to fruits of the grove of Ouramos, Orim’s magic and strength and been completely restored.
Orim held her Samite staff in one hand, touching a now emptied waterskin held by Cho-Manno. In each of their free hands, they clutched another fruit of Ouramos. Raising them to their lips, the two heroes took a bite while Cho-Arrim refugees ran up behind them with replacement waterskins. The next blast of holy water was directed at Klaars himself, who pulled back on the reins, causing his nightmare to fly back away in retreat. This caused cheers to erupt from the grove’s defenders as they fought on with renewed fervor.
As Orim and Cho-Manno continued to unleash torrents of white mana infused waters, more and more of Klaars’ spawn were swept from the trees and destroyed. The flames that had once threatened to spread throughout the grove were contained. The Cho-Arrim defenders shifted their tactics from stabbing the remaining undead to bashing and shoving them down into the purifying rivers that now raged below. The tide had literally turned in their favor. Klaars watched from above with bewilderment as the rest of his vanguard was destroyed.
His spectral sight recognized Orim as one of his former allies, they who had betrayed him by allying themselves with his killers. The truth of the Cateran Overlord’s words was proven as she stood there, fighting side by side with the Cho-Arrim leader. It was then that memories which had previously been suppressed awakened within him. Images flashed within his mind of standing on Weatherlight’s decks, battling against hordes of winged slivers within Volrath’s stronghold. He was able to cut down one of the creatures, but another sliver’s talon raked across his chest, slicing a deep gash and causing him to black out from the pain.
Klaars then remembered awakening – still dazed within Weatherlight’s infirmary. His chest had been wrapped in gauze, his wounds closed and treated with healing herbs. By the light of the lantern which hung above his cot in that darkened room, he could just make out Orim’s face. She had been so beautiful to him then. She was like his guardian angel, rescuing him from death.
Next, his mind flashed with another image, Cho-Arrim warriors holding him down as he struggled in desperate fear. His arm, broken from the ship’s crash-landing on Mercadia, was amputated with a swing of Ta-Spon’s axe. Klaars did not know that they were merely hoping to prevent gangrene and infection. In his mind they were butchers, savages, who had abducted him and Orim along with the ship and had now maimed him for life when a simple healing spell would have fixed him. He remembered screaming in pain as a torch charred shut the wound – to torture him all the more.
The vision then showed him and other members of Weatherlight’s crew, locked in a wooden cage – awaiting whatever fate the Cho-Arrim had in store for them. He would kill them all and save Orim and his friends! In a righteous rage, Klaars snapped the bars of the cage with his one remaining arm. He then beat down his guards and slaughtered them with their own weapons. However, eventually, despite his best efforts, the prisoners were re-captured.
Klaars remembered the cold look in Cho-Manno’s eyes as his head was placed on the chopping block. With his last breath, he cursed the Cho-Arrim and then Ta-Spon’s axe, the very same which he now gripped, sliced through his neck and ended his life.
“She loves him now,” a new voice echoed in Klaars’ mind, the voice of Abcal-Dro. “She has forgotten all about you, you who died trying to save her. She never cared about you. Make her suffer. Make her pay by killing her friends.”
Klaars could sense the presence of others on the plane – Sisay and the rest of her crew. They had become separated from Cho-Manno, Orim and the rest of Ouramos’ defenders. He would hunt them down first and exact his revenge upon them. The next time he saw Orim and Cho-Manno, he would throw their friends’ heads at their feet. Curse them, curse them all!
With that, Klaars kicked the sides of his steed, driving the nightmare to gallop off on another murderous course.
Xarzhun watched with utter contempt as his undead forces were destroyed and Klaars seemingly retreated. Worthless spectre; his master Abcal-Dro had clearly placed far too much faith in his necromantic talents. No matter, they had still managed to soften up the forest’s defenders. His Phyrexian armies would finish the job. His biomechanical horrors would succeed where those pathetic bags of bone could not.
The Phyrexian army charged forth, shrieking a hideous battle-cry. However, they came to a sudden halt as the ground quaked beneath them. This quake was followed by another and then another. Xarzhun’s compound eyes widened in terror as he caught sight of the source of this shaking. Rushwood had come, the mile high Maro bounding across the land with tremendous strides.
The Phyrexians looked up in awe as Rushwood fell upon them. His first footfall crushed dozens of Phyrexians beneath him while the others scurried desperately away – appearing like ants before him. His fist then swung down, crushing dozens more as it fell like a meteor upon their ranks. Those that survived did not surrender, however, leaping onto Rushwood’s massive body and clutching hold with metal claws. Stingers injected corrupting pathogens into his bark and mechanical limbs tore chunks of wooden flesh.
Still, to Rushwood, they were no more than stinging flies. From crevasses and hollows throughout his body emerged giant spiders who had made their nests within him. Webs snared climbing Phyrexians and powerful mandibles crushed through armored carapace. Rushwood was an army unto his own. The Phyrexians were hopelessly overwhelmed.
Still, Xarzhun fought on. His scythe swung furiously, each slash blackening bark beneath him and splitting giant spiders in two. The glory of Phyrexia could not be defeated by mere nature! Such was his last thought before the crushing hand of Rushwood reduced him and the remainder of his forces into an oily smear on Rushwood’s leg. The Maro then stripped off those corrupted layers of bark like a human scratching off a thin layer of dead skin.
Abcal-Dro watched his commander’s death through a scrying lens with genuine shock. If such a creature as Rushwood existed, then it would take all of his resources to fight it. Through the powerstones linking him psychically to his forces, Abcal-Dro ordered them all to fall back to Mount Mercadia. His ships would defend the city until he could find a way to destroy the Maro. Klaars would slay Urza’s champions and in the end he would still prevail.
Chapter 10: Badlands
The dryads could commune with every plant and animal in the forest and word soon reached them of the defeat of the Phyrexian forces. They led Sisay and her companions back to Ouramos where they would re-join their victorious comrades and travel to the Deep Lands. However, while on their way, the natural ambience of the forest suddenly grew silent as though frozen with fear. Standing in their path, still far enough away that his features couldn’t quite be made out – was a lone, hooded rider on a black steed. Few beings could track a group of Dryads, much less ambush them.
“Be wary,” one of the dryads said to the group. “That is not a natural creature – it reeks of death and black magic.”
Tahngarth then stepped forward, drawing his striva from where it was sheathed on his back.
“Stand aside!” the minotaur bellowed. “Mortal or spirit my blade will cut you!”
In answer, a gloved hand reached up from under the figure’s cloak and lowered his hood. There was no head atop its shoulders. Glowing green flames then erupted from the hollow neck as a pair of glowing eyes appeared. At the same time, fire and smoke rose hissing from the nightmare it rode. An axe then appeared to levitate up at its side, gripped in Klaars’ spectral hand.
“What are you spirit?!” growled Tahngarth. “And what do you want from us?!”
“You do not know me, but I know you,” replied Klaars. “You are all traitors and you will pay dearly for your betrayal!”
Klaars then kicked the sides of his steed, driving the flaming nightmare in a galloping charge toward the Minotaur and his allies.
Sisay and Atalla drew their weapons as Squee dove for the nearest cover. However, the dryads were first to attack.
Roots which ran beneath their dirt path rose up, attempting to snare the legs of the nightmare. However, the spirit horse bounded over them, flying through the air as it closed in.
Down swung Klaars’ axe, which was parried by Tahngarth’s striva. The minotaur held his ground, though his hooves dug rivets into the ground as the nightmare attempted to push him over. Sisay and Atalla leapt off to the sides of the nightmare, both sending their blades in sweeping strikes at its neck. Their weapons passed only through smoke.
“You’re Klaars, aren’t you?” Tahngarth angrily demanded. “I don’t know what you’ve become, but we never betrayed you! We were allies, brothers in arms! The Phyrexians have lied to you!”
“LIARS!” the spirit wailed as the nightmare reared up, attempting to trample Tahngarth beneath its hooves. Tahngarth spun in place, sending an arcing slash into the spirit horse’s legs. In the moment that it had moved to strike, the nightmare had become partially corporeal. Thus, Tahngarth’s blade was able to strike true. Whinnying in pain, the horse fell backward onto Klaars, pinning him beneath it as it flailed and struggled.
Seeing his opportunity, Squee ran forward with his waterskin. Uncorking it, he dumped the contents of the container onto the flames emitting from Klaars’ hollow neck – only for the water to evaporate harmlessly.
“Take that!” shouted Squee, the look of heroic confidence on his face quickly replaced with an expression of horror.
“I-It worked for Orim!” he whined.
Turning to Squee, Klaars shoved the wounded nightmare off him with his corporeal arm. As the spirit horse retreated, flying off into the night, Klaars’ spectral arm, still holding the axe, swung down and sliced the offending goblin clean in half vertically. The bisected goblin flopped lifelessly to the ground without even having time to react.
Klaars then rose to face Tahngarth, Atalla, Sisay and the dryads.
“Not even a tear shed for the warty toad?” questioned Klaars. “You truly do care nothing for your companions do you? I doubt you even remember my face.”
With that, the flames where Klaars’ head once rested shifted to form a blurred image of his living self. He could only maintain the image for a few moments before his face again vanished into flame. At the same time, severed muscles from Squee’s split body extended and began to knit and pull themselves back together. In a matter of seconds, he was alive once again, scurrying off to hide again. Squee doubted he’d be of much help in this battle.
“You’re wrong,” Sisay replied. “I remember all of those who gave their lives for us – and our mission to destroy the Phyrexians! It is you who have betrayed that quest and who have become a mockery of the noble man you once were!”
At this, Klaars stepped forth, raising up the executioner’s axe in a fighting stance. Sisay, Tahngarth and Atalla took defensive postures, waiting for the undead warrior to make his move.
“You have allied yourselves with the Cho-Arrim – the very people who took my head!” Klaars shouted in reply. “For that, I can never forgive you! I don’t care what Phyrexia does with this miserable world; none of that matters to me now. The only reason I exist is to claim my vengeance upon you!”
Klaars then charged toward the three warriors, swinging at all three of them in a wide cleave. The moments that followed were an elaborate dance of blades. Klaars was mighty, but his foes were skilled and nimble. Still, one false move would be the death of them, so they were hesitant to over-commit to any perceived opening. Klaars swung his axe like no living opponent and lacked any clear vulnerable points.
Abcal-Dro watched the battle through his scrying lens from within his lair on Mount Mercadia. While the conflict had certainly interested him, something else had revealed itself that was even more valuable. He had witnessed the death and resurrection of Squee, and it was like nothing he had ever seen. This was no green mana regeneration enchantment – Squee had died, all of his vital functions had ceased. White mana could resurrect someone very recently killed, but only if their body was mostly intact, a sort of magical defibrillator.
Typically, the only magics that could have restored him from such a state would have been black. However, necromantic magic would have raised him as some form of zombie or spirit. This was something far more powerful. Just what manner of power dwelt within this goblin? Abcal-Dro then recalled hearing of how the goblin had been given to the Evincar Crovax as a plaything after his capture during the Phyrexian invasion.
It was Yawgmoth’s power! A seed of Yawgmoth’s power still dwelt within Squee! That changed everything! He had to acquire that goblin, no matter what the cost. He would absorb Yawgmoth’s boon for himself and then he would be truly invincible!
While Klaars appeared to be holding his own in the battle, it would be foolish to risk him being destroyed here. He was the best way of tracking this group and he could not afford to allow Squee to slip through his grasp.
“Klaars,” Abcal-Dro commanded the spirit. “Retreat for now, you will have your vengeance in due time.”
With that, crackling arcs of black energy traveled from Abcal-Dro’s body and into the scrying lens.
Arcing webs of Abcal-Dro’s power lashed the ground between the three warriors and Klaars, causing the heroes to leap for cover. Where it touched, all plant matter was instantly putrefied. Stray arcs of the blast tore through the sky and struck Klaars’ nightmare, empowering it and regenerating its severed hooves. As Sisay and her allies struggled back to their feet, the nightmare had swept back down and Klaars had mounted it once more. Before they could stop him, Klaars had rode off into the night and out of sight.
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It was nearly dawn as Sisay and her companions returned to Ouramos, weary from their battle. The survivors were celebrating their victory, but they knew it was not the end of the war. Abcal-Dro still controlled Mount Mercadia and Klaars was still out there somewhere, waiting for his next opportunity to strike. The quest to reach the Thran Temple, somewhere in the treacherous Deep Lands lay now before them. How to reach it, without leaving themselves exposed to Phyrexian attack, was the question.
“The way I see it there is only one way,” Cho-Manno explained to the assembled heroes, who sat in a circle around him. “It will require an advanced water magic technique that I had yet to teach you last time and which unfortunately you will have little time to master now. When last the Cho-Arrim attacked Mercadia City, our warriors transformed themselves into water vapor form and rode within a storm cloud. As the storm broke, they fell to the streets as raindrops and then returned to their normal forms. Rushwood has informed me that such a cloud will be traveling over these lands and to the Deeplands within a day’s time.”
“Your minds must be clear and unburdened in order to succeed,” he continued. “Your senses must be sharp, able to sense the wind currents that you may follow them. Maintaining your focus is key, lest you return to your true forms several thousand feet off the ground and plummet to your doom.”
“No pressure,” grumbled Tahngarth.
“The Phyrexians will not expect you to travel using this method,” Cho-Manno continued. “It should allow you to cover the great distance far faster than on foot or even on Jhovalls. We will begin with meditation – you must breathe in concert with Orim and your emotions must be linked with hers.”
Sisay took a deep breath and clenched her fists. Her thoughts often wandered to dark places; how could they not? All of the things they had been through, all that they had seen, all those whom they had lost? She was plagued by constant nightmares and even with Tahngarth’s company she was lucky to have a truly restful sleep. It seemed an impossible task.
“I’ll try,” she said. “We don’t have a choice.”
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“Think happy thoughts,” Squee said with a smile as he closed his eyes, the group now several hours into their attempts. “Nice breeze, smell good food, a plate a nice juicy grubs squirmin’ ‘bout…”
“Keep the bug eating to yourself,” Atalla cut in. “You’re gonna make me lose my lunch.”
The boy then tried to think about what things brought him peace. His childhood, growing up on the Jhovall farm. Petting one of the young felines when they were still just affectionate kittens. Home cooked meals. His bed.
Tears then began to well up in his eyes. It hurt to think of such things; all of that was gone now. Was there a way to remember the good times without dwelling on that? Or was it better to go numb?
No, he may have lost one family – but he had a new one now. Sisay and her companions had always been there for him. They had fought for his world even though it was not their own. He owed it to them to step up and become heroes like they were. Their bravery would inspire his own.
For Tahngarth, there was one thing that brought him peace. He remembered his nights aboard Victory, the rocking of the waves. Sisay’s warm embrace. They had lost many friends, that much was true. However, she remained by his side and he swore that he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.
It was not long before Sisay’s mind wandered to a similar place of comfort. She and Tahngarth may have been different races, but they were kindred spirits; brave warriors, leaders, heroes. Their hearts beat as one.
As for Orim, her place of comfort was neither past nor present but future. She longed to settle down with Cho-Manno and raise a family together. However, her duties, her battles always led to them parting. She imagined a future in which Phyrexia had at last been defeated, in which their struggles were at an end and they at last found peace. They were so close to making that dream a reality – one last fight and it was within their grasp.
Slowly, a sense of calm overtook the group. Their eyes were closed and their hearing was heightened. In the quiet clearing, the loudest sound was their own breathing and slowly it fell into synch. Silently, Orim mouthed the syllables of her spell. This time, it was a success, their bodies appeared to painlessly evaporate as they transformed into water vapors and rose on the wind.
It was a strange sensation - like dreaming. They did not see, not truly, and were guided solely by their unified unconscious minds. They were weightless, bodiless, voiceless. All sense of time was lost. Orim’s magic had taken over.
As Cho-Manno watched them depart, he prayed for their success. Once more, they carried the hopes of the world on their backs. However, he would not simply wait around for their return. There was still much work to be done to prepare for the battle to come. The dryads would use their magics to send animal messengers to alert the peoples of Mercadia to the Phyrexian threat and Rushwood would call the mightiest beasts of the world to him along the plane’s magical leylines.
Cho-Manno would train the survivors for war, make them masters of both magic and steel. Only then could they have any hope of victory.
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While Cho-Manno prepared for battle in Ouramos, Abcal-Dro’s slaves, living and undead, toiled to transform the destroyed Mercadia City into a Phyrexian fortress, death camp and laboratory all in one. Ray cannons were mounted along the walls of the city along the wide top of the inverted mounted and others were positioned along the underside of the great disc to blast those who attempted to scale the mountain. Those ships destroyed by the lightning storm were salvaged or replaced. The growth of the fleet was slow-going, but the city’s captive populace was compleated at a rapid rate. Phyrexian horrors paced along blood-stained corridors as captives waited, packed like cattle into dirty cages, to be harvested.
Some specimens were taken whole. Others had choice limbs sawn off without anesthesia. Those Kyren who had sided with the Phyrexians had become prison wardens, coldly keeping tally of their human chattel. The most prominent of the once lithe race, had now become monstrous. Their legs has been replaced with quadrupedal artifact engines, ending in serrated talons and their forelimbs were similarly replaced with elongated arms ending in claws that scraped along the ground.
Most among the goblins who had not yet been completed longed to earn their masters’ favor and join the ranks of these fearsome beings. However there were some, even among those who had supported the Phyrexians, that were horrified by these mutilations. They had supported the Phyrexians’ rise to power out of fear that the new order was inevitable and had wanted to secure a place in it. However, now that they had experienced Phyrexian rule, despised its cold, regimented existence. What point was there in ruling if the world were transformed into this hideous, mechanized hell and they lost everything that made them goblins?
The goblins did not dare act on these feelings. They were terrified of the Phyrexians’ power and saw no way of defeating them. They were as much prisoners as the humans only they walked free of their cages. They had realized the true nature of their new masters too late. Each day they waited, paralyzed with fear, any chance of revolting grew even more slim.
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Sisay and her companions regained consciousness crouched in a rocky desert. The wasteland stretched as far as the eyes could see, dotted by small peaks resembling the spine of some half-buried beast. All around them, warm rain fell in torrents and thunder clapped above. The spell had worked – they had arrived safely in the Deeplands. Hastily, they opened their waterskins and any other container they could fill.
Rain here, Atalla had informed them, was rare. Water in general was scarce and most of the animals that lived here had evolved to require very little to survive. Humans, minotaurs and goblins weren’t so lucky. Whatever they were able to collect now would likely have to last them the duration of their quest here. Hopefully it would be enough.
“Enjoy the rain while you can,” said Atalla. “Soon the only thing keeping us cool will be our own sweat. This desert is as dry as bone. During the day it scorches you and at night it freezes you. If we’re lucky, that will be the least of our troubles.”
The group then began to survey the landscape before them. There was a great deal of open terrain, from which an enemy could easily be seen coming but in which there would be little cover. There were also the mountains, which would make travel more treacherous and whose caves could both provide shelter and contain hidden predators. Neither option was exactly safe. However, when one of them involved being potentially caught in the open by a two-headed dragon, the choice was clear.
“We’ll take the mountain route,” Sisay said, pointing to the nearest peak. “If they’re anything like the mountains of Dominaria, Squee will make an excellent guide. Besides, we’re probably looking for something like a powerstone forge. In Shiv, the mana rig was built into a cliffside. Orim, you studied archeology with Hanna at Argive, keep an eye out for any Thran runes or anything else which might point us in the right direction.”
Sisay then turned to Atalla.
“You mentioned that poachers sometimes came here in search of monster eggs,” she said. “You’ll be in charge of steering us clear of those areas.”
“Right,” Atalla replied. “Some of the hunters I spoke to made mention of certain signs to tell the lair of one beast from another. If you smell anything like sulfur or rotten eggs, that’s a dragon’s nest. If you see any giant quills lying around or scratches along the mountainside, that’s manticore territory. If you see any rocks that look like they’ve been melted by acid, that’s from a lithophage feeding. Saurians don’t leave as many markings, but they’re cowardly things as long as you can convince them you’re stronger.”
Leave that to me,” replied Tahngarth with a snort.
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The travel was arduous, but nothing to which Sisay was unaccustomed. During her search for The Legacy, her journeys had taken her across many treacherous landscapes on Dominaria. As long as they made good progress each day and kept water rationed carefully they would make it through this. The band of heroes traveled west, following the path of the sun which beat down on them from overhead. The cool rains that had dampened their clothes had dried all too quickly.
Fortunately, they were well-rationed. The dryads of Ouramos had permitted them to carry several of the fruits of the henge of Ramos. While these wouldn’t keep long in the sun, they provided the group with a great deal of nourishment and energy during their first few days of travel. From there, they switched to more standard traveling foods – dried meats and fruits and a handful of sweet candies from Mercadia City which gave them little bursts of energy when the going got tough. As much as possible, the group found shade where they could during high noon – taking that time to rest and recover their strength.
However, by the end of the seventh day, there was still no sign of the Thran civilization. Water and rations were beginning to run low. Soon, they would have to hunt the dangerous beasts of the desert and seek out signs of water. More so even than this, the thoughts of their Phyrexian enemies spreading and growing ever more powerful hung over them like a suffocating haze. They could not afford to turn back, the Thran temple had to be out here – somewhere.
Freezing winds whipped through the mountains. The group was huddled around their campfire, their cloaks pulled tightly around them as they fought to keep the fire alive. They could not help but think of the flame as allegorical to their quest. Darkness surrounded them on all sides and threatened to snuff out the light. All that stood between it was the determination of a few brave fools.
Still, after several hours, the winds eventually died down. The fire burned steadily now. They could sleep at last. Members of the group would take turns keeping watch, ready to rouse their comrades at the first sign of trouble. Most of the night would pass without incident.
However, in the hours just before light, on Squee’s watch, an intruder crept stealthily toward the camp. Abcal-Dro’s agents were everywhere, scouring the globe for signs of Urza’s champions. However, the Deeplands had been last on their list of priorities. It was by sheer coincidence that one of his few agents in the region stumbled upon the group. He had been tasked with acquiring blood samples from the region’s savage predators for use in Abcal-Dro’s experiments.
Clad in a cloak that bent the light to render the user invisible, the Cateran Hunter’s eyes widened in shock as he realized the identity of the group. Abcal-Dro would reward him handsomely for this; perhaps even by making him his new second in command. Moving ever so slowly, not making a single sound, he raised a blow-gun to his lips and breathed into the tube. A poison-tipped dart flew with tremendous speed and accuracy into Squee’s neck. The hunter watched with amusement as the goblin swatted the wound and then picked out the dart, assuming it to be an insect and trying to eat it.
His senses had already begun to abandon him. He would make easy prey. The hunter watched as Squee stood up, stretched, and began staggering away from his sleeping comrades – wandering off into the night. First, he would slay the sleeping heroes and then deliver Abcal-Dro his prize.
Chapter 11: Mind Twist
The Cateran hunter crept slowly, soundlessly toward the sleeping heroes as he drew a long dagger out from underneath his robes. He would kill the healer first. Soon he stood over Orim and turned his dagger’s blade down, placing his hand upon the pommel. He would drive it through her eye with one blow and kill her without giving her a chance to scream. Then he would make short work of the rest of them.
His blade was about to descend when suddenly a warbling shriek pierced the still of the camp. A crag saurian, standing well over twice the height of most men, stomped into view. The giant lizard’s mouth hung open hungrily as drool dripped from its massive fangs. The creature’s cry was quick to rouse the camp and the hunter had little time to flee. Although his body was still clad in the light-bending cloak, Orim woke with a scream at the sight of the dagger raised above her head. Tahngarth, Sisay and Atalla were fast to their feet, grabbing their weapons as they noticed both the floating dagger and the approaching lizard.
The would-be assassin tucked his weapon away, rendering him once more invisible as rolled off to the side of Orim. However, Tahngarth was quickly upon him, rushing in and tackling him to the ground. Sisay and Atalla, meanwhile, squared off against the giant lizard.
“Where’s that good-for-nothing immortal goblin when you need him?!” yelled Tahngarth as he fought to restrain the Cateran. Although Tahngarth was far stronger, the Cateran had been trained as an escape artist.
As the saurian stomped closer, Atalla raised up his sword high above his head and shouted at the top of his lungs as he began swinging it around wildly. Sisay, seeing this, remembered what Atalla had said about the lizards being a cowardly species and followed suit. The saurian roared back at them, but did not continue to advance. The creature saw those afraid of it as prey and those who presented a challenge as potential predators. After a brief standoff, it began backing away and out of sight.
Tahngarth, losing patience with grappling the slippery warrior, decided to end his struggles by bashing him with his crested forehead. The cateran’s eyes rolled back and he lost unconscious. Orim then stepped forth to check his pulse.
“He’s still alive,” said the Samite. “Comatose, but I should be able to revive him.”
“Good, I’m going to have plenty of questions for him,” huffed the minotaur as he rose to his feet. Sisay then took out some of the climbing rope from her pack and began to restrain him.
“Wait a minute,” said Atalla after looking around. “Where IS Squee? Do you think that lizard got him? Maybe he revived inside of it and is stuck!”
“No,” Tahngarth replied, sniffing the air. “his scent is still close-by.”
The bull-headed warrior then placed his nostrils to the ground trying to pick up Squee’s…unique odor.
“Atalla, you and Orim stay here and watch him,” said Sisay. “Tahngarth, you’re with me. Squee may not be the bravest person I know, but he’s still loyal. It’s not like him to wander off on guard duty. Something is wrong here.”
“You’re probably right,” replied the minotaur as he nodded and jogged off after the captain.
Atalla then looked to Orim as she began fishing for smelling salts in her healer’s kit.
“Do you suppose the Phyrexians sent him?” he asked.
“No,” Orim replied. “If they knew we were here they’d send a lot worse.”
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“Stupid mosquito, too crunchy,” said Squee as he spat out the poisoned dart along with some broken chunks of his own teeth, which healed within moments. “No good bugs fer days out here. Need ta find some watah, like Tolaria. Lots a big bugs dere. Zephid larvae the best dere is.”
Squee had already wandered close to a mile away without even realizing it. In his state of stupor, he felt as though his feet were gliding across the land. Any fatigue he might have previously felt was gone. The only thing on his addled mind now was finding his next meal. However, in thinking about Tolaria, he couldn’t help but remember the time one of the isle’s students tried to pull a prank on him.
What were they again? Bubbles? Boggles? They had been created by the Tolarian students to annoy their professors and classmates, but for the ever youthfully minded Squee, they had been a source of much amusement. What did they look like again?
Blurred images began to appear around him before taking on the form of diminutive little blue and pink bears – or were they more like mice? Beebles, that’s what they were!
Suddenly there were hundreds of the little things, giggling and scurrying about before him, bouncing, dancing and cartwheeling about. Squee laughed and tripped over himself as he tried to dive and grab for one – landing a few inches short of a cliff’s edge. However, the illusion slipped through his grip and proceeded to taunt him with a high pitched “can’t catch me!”
“Yes I can!” replied the goblin.
“No you can’t!” taunted the beeble as it stuck out its tongue and blew a raspberry.
Squee then continued to half stumble half spring after the beebles as they bounced up a narrow, winding mountain path.
In his disoriented state, Squee was somehow able to navigate it perfectly while running at full speed. He balanced on his toes as he reached for the creatures that were somehow always just beyond his reach. Eventually, one of the Beebles stopped at the top of a mountain peak, bent over and began slapping its rear-end and making kissy faces at Squee. This prompted the goblin to charge headlong up the mountain, dive for and tackle the beeble, which released a squeaking sound like a child’s toy. As Squee landed, he began rolling down the other slope of the mountain, still cradling the captured beeble in his arms.
“I got ya! Ouch! I got ya! OUCH!” yelled Squee as his body crashed into several large rocks on the way down. He didn’t care. He was immortal.
As he neared the bottom, the beeble winked and vanished in a puff of smoke. Landing in a heap, Squee’s head was now spinning even more than usual. Struggling to his feet, Squee’s blurred vision began to focus in on the biggest bug he ever saw. It was like a half-cockroach and half-centipede and bigger than a house! The Lithophage, for its part, turned toward the goblin but was unconcerned, not seeing him as a threat as it continued to melt a man-sized boulder with its acidic saliva.
However, the creature underestimated Squee’s appetite as well as his lack of reasoning.
Sharp pain suddenly shot through its body as it turned around to see Squee clinging onto one of its back legs, biting away furiously. The creature hissed loudly and bucked, but Squee’s grip was vicelike. In a panic, the Lithophage took off at a run, dragging Squee along with it.
*“WHEEE!” yelled the goblin. “I’m gonna eat you all up! You can’t gets away from me!”
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Tahngarth and Sisay huffed as they sprinted up the mountain ridge. The goblin’s tracks were totally erratic. Something was definitely wrong with him – and not just the usual things. Upon reaching the top, they beheld the ridiculous sight of Squee swinging from the legs of the huge mountain predator and laughing all the way. Running down the slope as carefully as they could, they watched as the creature put more and more distance between them.
Even if they caught up to the thing, their ability to battle it at full strength – much less when winded, was questionable.
“Any ideas?” Sisay questioned the minotaur, inwardly thanking her duelist’s training for providing her with skilled footwork.
“Just one,” replied Tahngarth as he snorted and grit his teeth, sprinting ahead faster with all of his power. Mid-stride, he drew the striva from where it was sheathed on his back and hurled it like a discus at the Lithophage’s back legs where Squee clung. The heavy, Thran-metal weapon was not intended to be thrown – but the mutations he was subjected to provided him with far greater strength than most minotaurs. Fortunately, the weapon’s curved shape did lend it to arcing through the air like a boomerang. The weapon hit its mark, cutting the legs free and embedding itself into the Lithophage’s underbelly.
The creature shrieked in pain and angrily turned to face Tahngarth, who now found himself unarmed. Sisay skidded to a stop at his side as the creature’s proboscis sniffed the air.
Squee, for his part, rolled back and forth on the ground clutching the severed insect leg with his full body and laughing in victory. It would be enough to feed him for weeks!
“Here it comes!” yelled Sisay, gritting her teeth as the Lithophage let loose another hissing shriek and charged the two warriors.
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Back at the camp, the Cateran hunter stirred awake after smelling Orim’s reviving vapors. His hood had been pulled back to reveal a pale, middle-aged man with a strong jaw covered in stubble. His first sight was Atalla’s cutlass pressed against his throat, which caused his eyes to widen in fear.
“Talk,” ordered Atalla. “Tell us who sent you.”
“No one,” the Cateran replied. “I just happened to be in the area – and I remembered that a bounty had been placed on your heads. The new guild leader promised immortality to anyone who could capture you – dead or alive.”
“Cateran scum,” Atalla replied angrily. “You sold out the whole world to those Phyrexian bastards!”
“I don’t even know what a Phyrexian is, truthfully!” the hooded man replied, laughing nervously. “Please, let me go and I’ll forgot I found you. My greatest loyalty is to myself and that means staying alive. I’ll tell you what, I’ll show you where I spotted a nice clutch of dragon’s eggs earlier. They fetch quite a handsome price – enough to let you live like kings!”
“You’re just telling us what we want to hear,” Atalla snapped back. “None of you can be trusted.”
Atalla would never forgive the mercenary guild for the deaths of his parents and the destruction of their ancestral farm. Every impulse within him screamed to end the bastard’s life.
The Cateran then turned to Orim.
“Please, you’re a holy woman, tell him to show mercy and spare me!” the Cateran begged, more desperately now. “You wouldn’t murder an unarmed man would you?”
Orim vividly remembered awakening earlier to the sight of that man standing over her with his long dagger. Were the roles reversed, she knew she would have received no mercy from him.
“How can we know that you won’t just run back to your superiors and tell them that we’re here?” Orim questioned.
“There’s one way,” Atalla cut in. “We can blind him but leave him with his life. He may find his way out of the desert, he may not. Even if he does, it won’t be any time soon. What do you say Cateran, do you want to live or not?”
“F-Fine…do what you must,” the prisoner replied, wincing at the pain he knew would come soon. However, as soon as Atalla’s blade left his throat, his eyes squinted open and his lips curled into a nefarious smirk. Flexing his elbows, the prisoner revealed that he had somehow managed to undo his ropes. Twin daggers slid out from where they had been expertly concealed up his sleeves and lashed out at Atalla’s waist. The boy was barely able to leap back in time, receiving two long, shallow cuts along his abdomen.
“Idiots!” the Cateran shouted as he took to his feet and assumed an aggressive stance.
Atalla, meanwhile, staggered back, clutching his injury with one hand as the other raised up his cutlass defensively. Orim ran back to stand behind Atalla, quickly chanting as she touched his back, sending healing white mana into him to close his wounds.
“You should have finished me when you had the chance,” the Cateran replied. “Mercy is for the weak! That is one of the first lessons one learns when inducted into the Cateran guild. You should also know that all initiates in our guild are implanted with powerstones which allow our master to connect psychically to us. Abcal-Dro, Father of Machines, I, the dreaded Dakath have located your quarry!”
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From within his lair on Mount Mercadia, Abcal-Dro heard a voice call his name and turned one of his numerous eyes upon a scrying lens attuned to Dakath – a low level boss within the guild. He had yet to earn the blessings of Phyrexia, but he seemed intent on advancing himself. As the lens swirled to depict the battle in the Deeplands, it became apparent to the self-declared Father of Machines that Dakath had merely been lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time. He would not trust such skilled opponents to Dakath alone. Thus, he reached out with his mind to all other agents in the area.
“We have discovered the location of Urza’s champions,” Abcal-Dro communicated, relaying the coordinates mentally. “Eliminate them by any means necessary, but bring the Goblin to me.”
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The soulhunter revenant, Klaars, was among those to receive Abcal-Dro’s orders. However, the undead warrior upon his nightmare steed was still several thousand miles away from where he sensed his quarry. How had they managed to put such distance between them? Was his revenge going to be usurped by some mortal bastard? No, he would not allow it!
Klaars shrieked with rage as he kicked the sides of the spirit horse, driving it in a mad gallop on toward the horizon, hoping to catch up with his prey before it was too late.
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As it closed in, the lithophage fired off three large gobs of acidic juices from its proboscis at Sisay and Tahngarth. The two warriors jumped quickly away, but the house-sized monster was almost upon them.
“Tahngarth, I need a distraction,” Sisay yelled, to which the minotaur charged headlong at the giant insect.
The beast spat another gob of acid at Tahngarth who pushed off the ground with great force and landed square on its face. Grabbing hold of its two antennae, he stomped his hooves into the creature’s compound eyes. The lithophage wailed and flailed its head madly from side to side trying to shake Tahngarth free. However, he was able to hold on, albeit barely. Nonetheless, Sisay saw her opening.
Gripping her cutlass in both hands, Sisay ran beneath the lithofage and thrust her Thran metal weapon deep into its underside. She then ran along its length, slicing it open and leaving a shower of insect guts raining behind her before rolling out behind it and yanking free Tahngarth’s striva from where it had been embedded.
Stumbling, blinded and badly wounded, the lithophage charged forward, slamming Tahngarth’s back into the mountain wall. The minotaur yelled out in pain and blood streamed between his clenched teeth, but he wasn’t beaten yet. Wrapping his arms completely around the beast’s antennae, he pulled with all of his might until they were torn free, showering him in gore. Now deprived of all of its senses, the Lithophage tripped over its own legs and collapsed to the ground. The great beast gave a few more twitches before finally lying still.
Panting, Tahngarth looked to Sisay as he pulled himself free.
“Well, how was that?” he boasted.
However, as the adrenaline of battle began to wear off, a sharp pain shot through his back. It was definitely sprained, possibly fractured. Tahngarth fell to his kees before shakily pushing himself back up, trying to fight through the pain.
“Are you alright?” Sisay asked as she scooped up a now passed out Squee under one arm. “Can you make it back on your own?”
She then offered her free arm to him as a support.
His people would have found accepting such help from a woman dishonorable. However, Sisay was no ordinary woman, she was one of the fiercest warriors he knew. This had been apparent from their first meeting at his village so many years ago. Swallowing his pride, he accepted her help and the two began slowly limping their way back to camp. There, Orim could treat their injuries and figure out whatever was wrong with Squee.
Little did they know that Orim and Atalla currently had their hands full with a fight of their own.
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“There’s no escape now,” Dakath said with a manic grin on his face as he began to circle Atalla and Orim. “My allies will he here soon to help me hunt down your friends, but first I’ll kill you nice and slow brat! I think I’ll begin by cutting out your eyes, just like you planned for me!”
“If you’re trying to scare me then give up,” Atalla replied, a serious expression on his face. “I’m not just some common boy. I was the captain of the Knave, and I’ve taken down more than my fair share of lowlife bastards like you. Make your move.”
With that, Dakath kicked his boot into the campfire, sending a shower of embers and smoke up to blind Atalla. Although his eyes stung from the smoke, he did not allow them to close nor did he flinch from the embers. Dakath charged him head on, believing he had his opening. However, Atalla was swift and his cutlass blade was longer than the Cateran’s knives. He lunged forward himself, spinning in a half-circle as he swung his blade around in a crescent arc.
The cutlass sliced clean through the Cateran’s neck. Dakath’s eyes widened in disbelief a moment before his head rolled off its shoulders. As his body collapsed in a heap, Atalla sheathed his weapon and turned to face him. He knew that a decapitated foe did not die immediately, but remained completely aware for at least a few seconds.
“You should have accepted my offer,” he said, darkly. “Now, go to hell.”
Orim watched the brief battle with a look of deep sympathy. She had caught only a brief glimpse of the cold-hearted person that Atalla had become following the death of his parents. While it was true that he acted in her defense and fought for a noble cause, she could plainly see that the wide-eyed boy from their first visit to the plane was gone. He had become hard to survive in a hard world.
“Come on,” Atalla said, turning to her as he wiped tears from his eyes. “We have to find the others and warn them. If that bastard got word to his boss, we’re going to have company soon.”
Orim could not help but wonder if his tears were merely his eyes irritated from the smoke, or did fighting the Cateran remind Atalla once more of the deaths of his parents?
“Right,” Orim replied, following after him as they began to follow Tahngarth and Sisay’s tracks.
It would be several minutes before they re-united, but in the end all returned to the camp safely. Orim applied her healing touch to Tahngarth’s back and made Squee drink an antidote to negate the poison. As tired as they were, however, there was no time to rest. They had to find a new place to hide before more of Abcal-Dro’s minions arrived.
Chapter 12: Mana Flare
The following morning, after taking shelter in the lithophage’s former lair, the group retraced their steps to where the dead creature lay. Squee would take as much of the beast with him as they could carry, which would extend their rations by having to divvy it among one less person. There were no signs of additional Caterans or Phyrexians yet, but they still could not afford to linger long. While Squee was digging through the giant insect’s spilled guts, however, he noticed something shiny glittering among its innards. Upon pulling it free, Squee was astounded to see a flawless powerstone.
“Lookit what Squee found!” the goblin cried, holding the fist-sized stone up high above his head.
The group gathered around him, awed by the ways in which it scintillated in the sunlight.
“That’s an original Thran powerstone alright,” said Orim as she looked it over. “The ones they made in Shiv were somewhat flawed compared to the originals. Most that we found in Argive that looked anything like this had become somewhat faded though – having lost their stored energies with the passage of centuries. This..this looks like it has been kept fully charged until very recently. What’s more, it seems to contain all five colors of mana – which is even rarer still!”
“Could it be that this is what made the insect grow so big?” asked Sisay. “Didn’t Hanna mention something about powerstone radiation to us once?”
“Yes,” replied Orim. “Archeologists found evidence of it in Shiv, near the mana rig. Goblin and Viashino bodies that were buried near the mana rig were somewhat preserved by its energies. Some of the older generations showed signs of harmful mutations or cancerous growths caused by prolonged exposure to large concentrations of powerstones. However, successive generations eventually evolved an immunity. Furthermore, some bloodlines even began to show signs of being strengthened by the powerstones – growing larger and with tougher hides.”
“So this stone is what made that bug so big?” questioned Tahngarth.
“Some large source of powerstones could have caused its species to grow tremendously over time,” nodded Orim in affirmation. “Maybe that’s why they evolved to eat the rocks as well. This has got to be a sign that we’re on the right track.”
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After several more days of travel, their rations thin, but spurred on by the belief that they were drawing ever nearer to their objective, Sisay and her allies finally reached their destination.
Standing atop a great mountain peak, they were awestruck by the verdant vista before them. Twin waterfalls flowed from an ice-capped mountain that stretched up into the clouds into a mist filled valley below. The flowing waters caused rainbows to form in the moisture-rich air as the sun passed overhead. Brightly plumed birds of paradise called to one another as they swooped above dense rainforests. At the center of the rainforest, almost entirely concealed by the trees, was a golden dome and spire – the Thran temple.
“If only Hanna were here to see this,” said Sisay.
Orim and Hanna had spent much of their lives digging around in crumbling Thran ruins, many of which had already been pillaged. To find a Thran City that appeared, even from a distance, to be so much more in-tact was an astounding sight indeed. One of the most ancient of human civilizations on their home world of Dominaria, the Thran Empire had at last come to its end here on Mercadia. While many of its people had been seduced by the evil of Yawgmoth, this was the legacy of those who chose to resist. Here, they would see the true beauty of the once vibrant culture.
“We may be the first intelligent beings to set foot onto these lands for thousands of years,” said Orim.
“Everything we have fought for, everything we have fought against, it all comes back to The Thran,” Sisay mused. “They gave birth to Phyrexia and now they will help us to end it once and for all.”
Slowly, cautiously, they descended into the valley and into another world untouched by time.
Upon reaching the bottom, they were quick to locate one of the many shimmering, crystalline rivers flowing through the land. Their thirsts were quenched. Their bodies were washed clean of the dust and grime of the desert. Soon, they had caught several large fish which they cleaned and cooked over a warm fire. Their bellies were filled and their spirits restored.
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“How long must we wait for these chosen ones?!” demanded the Cho-Arrim warrior Ta-Kolad. “It has been 10 days and each day that we wait the Phyrexians grow stronger. We must strike at them before they grow too powerful to defeat. We have waited long enough. We must be the ones to make the first move.”
A chorus of voices joined Ta-Kolad in affirmation.
The deposed ruler of Mercadia city’s expression was grim. Cho-Manno’s assurances to have faith in Orim and her companions would only satiate his warriors for so long.
“Give them just a little more time,” Cho-Manno pleased. “While they gather our strength, so do we. We do not want to attack them before we are ready or we would be marching off to a slaughter. Already Rushwood has gathered the great beasts of the land, but we have yet to hear back from Saprazzo and Rishada. We will need their warriors and their spellshapers if we are to prevail.”
“The merfolk aren’t coming, nor are the pirates,” Ta-Kolad replied. “Both of them care only for themselves. They didn’t help us in the last attack on Mercadia city either. They haven’t seen what the Phyrexians are capable first hand. They don’t understand that this fight is about more than just Mercadia city, but the survival of the whole world!”
“We cannot prevail with our current forces alone,” argued Cho-Manno.
Ta-Kolad then rose from where he sat and approached Cho-Manno, placing his hand on the leader’s shoulder.
“I know that you don’t want to see any more of us die than is necessary,” said the warrior. “However, there are people still alive within that city. If we continue to wait, they will continue to die- harvested to build more Phyrexians. We can free them, arm them, and we will have our reinforcements. We have to do something before it is too late.”
Cho-Manno looked the warrior in the eye. He did not think his challenger to be a fool. Indeed, his arguments were quite valid. It was difficult to hold on to hope in the face of such terrible foes. However, Cho-Manno had seen Orim and her companions bring miracles before and he knew that they could do it again.
“Please, just a little longer,” Cho-Manno repeated.
“Three days,” Ta-Kolad relented with a sigh. “Then, we march.”
“Very well,” Cho-Manno relented. “Then if that is the case, I will make the best use of those days that I can. I will travel to Rishada and Saprazzo personally to ensure that they come to aid our cause. What good am I as a leader if I cannot negotiate on behalf of our cause? Any here are welcome to join me, but I will go alone if I must.”
With that, Cho-Manno closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his body melting into water vapor and traveling up into a nearby cloud. Clouds passed frequently over the coastal city of Rishada, unlike The Deeplands where his companions now quested. He would arrive at the port soon and perhaps there could still be time to gather allies to aid his cause. Time, he knew, was running short either way. Still, he would not lose faith.
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Sisay and her companions were awestruck by the beauty of the valley. If there were such a thing as powerstone pthisis there was no sign of it here. The forest seemed to be strengthened by the strong presence of mana. There didn’t appear to be a dead or withered leaf or branch in sight and all was brightly, vibrantly colored as though it glowed with an inner energy. All around them were the sounds of life – chirping birds, buzzing insects – a primordial symphony of life.
It was then that they caught sight of something even more astounding. A unicorn, a rare enough sight already even in the deepest woodlands, bounced into a clearing ahead of the group. The reclusive creatures were often hunted for their horns, which possessed healing properties, but here they were able to thrive unmolested. What made this equine creature particularly fascinating though was that its horn appeared to be itself a powerstone. Was this the result of thousands of years of evolution within such an environment?
The atmosphere around the unicorn appeared to sparkle with motes of light. Its mane seemed to glow with the five colors of mana. Upon a closer look, these motes were actually several smaller powerstones that hovered around it, orbiting the larger stone that was its horn. As the unicorn’s hooves touched the edge of the woods on the other side of the clearing, the vegetation parted to allow for its easy passage. Was it able to control them through the powerstones?
After a moment of stunned silence, Sisay spoke.
“Let’s follow it,” she said, turning to Tahngarth, the best tracker among them. “With any luck, it will clear the way for us. With that many powerstones around it, maybe it makes its home near to the temple.”
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After several hours, the southern sea winds carried Cho-Manno to Rishada. Warm rains fell on a desert hillside overlooking the multicolored rooftops of the port city as the Cho-Arrim leader once more took corporeal form. Clad in an unassuming grey, hooded cloak, he descended the slope and made his way to the notoriously rowdy town. The smell of the sea air was overpowering, but it was mixed with the strong odor of alcohol. The sound of lively voices and accordion music carried toward him on the wind.
Could it be that despite his dire warning of Phyrexian invasion, the city was celebrating some sort of festival? Perhaps his message had been intercepted. He would have to find some sort of leader among this gathering of thieves, pirates and drunkards. Thus, he made his way into the boisterous crowd. Unfortunately, despite his efforts to appear unassuming, it soon became apparent that his choice of plain attire stood out like a sore thumb amid the revelers.
The men and women of Rishada were dressed in long, ruffled coats with popped collars and tri-cornered hats decorated with the plumes of exotic birds. Their faces were concealed beneath equally gaudy party masks, some ending in exaggerated beaks, others with the snouts of pigs. They stumbled through the twisting streets, hanging off the shoulders of flirtatious lovers or raising great, frothy mugs to their lips. Dancers and jesters wove their way dexterously through the crowd, twirling ribbons, shaking tambourines, and juggling handfuls of fruits. There were sword swallowers, fire eaters and minor illusionists of all strides.
As he sought to locate the ringleader of the carnival, suddenly his hood was pulled back from his head. Cho-Manno pivoted around to face the one responsible, raising up his staff aggressively. He was greeted by the sight of a stumbling, drunken woman with red, flushed cheeks.
“Get ridda that ratty old thing,” she slurred. “This is a party not a m-monastary.”
The woman than raised up a stylized, laughing theater mask and placed it on Cho-Manno’s face.
“Thas better,” she said. “Wanna buy me a drink?”
“I think you’ve had enough Cho-Manno replied as he slinked back away into the crowd.
He was fortunate that she did not recognize him. He only hoped that others had not caught a glimpse of him before he chose to reveal himself. Still, she had the right idea. He needed new attire if he was going to blend in. A few minutes in Rishada and he was already becoming a thief.
It wasn’t long before he spotted a man slumped over, passed out in an alleyway. He had likely already been relieved of his valuables, knowing this city. Hastily, stealthily, Cho-Manno crept over to him and exchanged his cloak for the trappings of one of the gaudy revelers. However, he made sure to unweave some of the gold coins from his hair and leave them in the man’s pockets. If he woke up before he was robbed again, it would be more than enough to replace what he stole.
Creeping back out of the alley, he assumed the stumbling gait of the other festivalgoers. Like this, he would be all but invisible.
Little did Cho-Manno know that he had already been spotted.
It was unmistakable: the Cho-Arrim leader had come here, alone. The fool.
His pursuer followed closely behind him, keeping to the shadows, using passing people as unwitting cover. He was dressed in a dark crimson – like arterial blood. His masque was a stylized skull. This was not mere theatrics – he was one of Rishada’s most high-priced assassins. Although not officially associated with the Cateran Guild, he aimed to collect on their bounty.
Drawing forth a hand crossbow concealed in his cloak, he silently fires a bolt at Cho-Manno’s back. No words. No grandiose boasts. No risky confrontations. Cho-Manno was wanted dead or alive and so he intended to achieve his task with the lowest chance of personal danger. He wouldn’t even see his end coming.
But he did hear it.
As part of his training to master the rain form spell, Cho-Manno had trained his ears to pick up the slightest variation in wind current. He could hear the crossbow bolt coming from a mile away.
A swift backwards swipe from his staff deflected the missile effortlessly. Cho-Manno then turned to face his would-be assassin. The crowds parted as most of the bystanders made themselves scarce. However, some of the more curious remained on the sidelines to see how this battle would play out. Some of them would cheer for either contender while others whispered wagers.
“I see you,” Cho-Manno said as he raised up his staff in a defensive stance. “Do you dare to attack me again now that my back isn’t turned? Or are you just a pathetic coward?”
At this, the assassin quickly re-loaded his weapon and fired another shot, this time aimed between Cho-Manno’s eyes. A quick flick of his wrist and the bolt was again deflected.
Wasting no time, Cho-Manno slammed his staff into the ground and used it to vault through the air toward his foe. Before he had a chance to re-load again, Cho-Manno’s foot was planted squarely in his face.
As the assassin crumped to the ground, Cho-Manno placed one end of his staff on the man’s chest to hold him down.
“You should have run while you had the chance,” Cho-Manno said to him. “In truth, I couldn’t see you, but your shot revealed your exact position to me. Now, tell me who sent you!”
The assassin’s head spun as he looked up at Cho-Manno. The staff was pressed hard enough against his chest to pin him but he had no doubt that Cho-Manno possessed the strength to crush his ribcage and pierce his lungs.
Still, he could not help but find the situation humorous.
“Who sent me?” he asks with a laugh. “My own love of gold! There’s a king’s ransom on your head, Cho Manno!”
At this, the crowd momentarily fell silent. Then, three more warriors came dashing forth to attack from behind. The red cloaked man was hardly the only scoundrel out to claim the bounty.
“So much for subtlety,” cursed Cho Manno as he rendered the first assassin unconscious with another swift blow to the head and turned to face his new attackers.
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The unicorn’s trail led Sisay and her companions, at last, to reach the lost Thran temple. It was even more awe-inspiring up close. Its architecture included numerous tiers of columns spiraling up from the ground before culminating in a golden dome and a needle-like spire reaching up into the clouds. The thran architects who built it modeled it after Rebbec’s design principles: grandiose, beautiful and symbolic of the desire to strive toward the ideal. It was the opposite of Phyrexian architecture: hideous, mathematical and soulless.
The group could not help but crane their necks up to admire it as they approached. However, as they at last stood before it, they were faced with a great, golden hued, thran metal door. It was not split down the middle, nor was there any handle or any other obvious means of entrance. Even when Tahngarth pushed against it with all of his might, it showed no sign of budging. The group then pushed as one, still to no avail.
“It’s like they didn’t want this place to be found,” huffed Tahngarth the group panted for breath. “So what do we do, break our way in?”
A feral roar than rang out from the tree-line.
The group turned toward it and were confronted by the sight of a towering white Jhovall. The six-legged cat was as big as a house – larger even than the “Jhovall queens” often found leading packs of the ferocious felines in the wild. While most of the giant cats resembled tigers, this one possessed a flowing white mane, like that of a lion, that trailed off behind it. Its eyes glowed with the power of white mana and great spikes – like antlers, erupted from its shoulder blades. These spikes, like the horn of the unicorn they spotted earlier, were made of powerstone crystals themselves and motes of white mana energies danced around them.
The Jhovall sniffed the air and let out a low growl as it began stalking toward them.
“It seems it doesn’t like what it smells,” Sisay said, drawing her cutlass. Battling such a creature was not going to be easy.
“It not Squee dis time,” protested the goblin. “We just had da bath ‘n everythin!”
“That’s not it,” said Orim. “It smells our blood.”
During the Phyrexian Invasion of Dominaria, Orim had been the one to discover the cure for the Phyrexian plague. However, to do so, they had to inoculate themselves with a diluted amount of glistening oil blood. To sensitive noses, there would always be a trace of Phyrexia’s scent on them.
If this creature had been left to guard the Thran temple, then perhaps it had been trained to smell their Phyrexian enemies. Unfortunately, there would be little they could do to explain the situation to the animal.
Left with no choice, the rest of the heroes drew their weapons as the majestic creature pounced at them.
Chapter 13: Righteousness
Cho-Manno sidestepped the first assassin who lunged at him with twin daggers, slamming his staff into the back of his head. He then raised it up to parry the longswords of the other two, which cut deeply into the wooden weapon. Whispering a quick spell, Cho-Manno sent white mana coursing into the two blades, causing them to crumble into motes of light as they were disenchanted. The two aggressors were stunned by this turn of events and Cho-Manno took the opportunity to slam his staff into their lower jaws, sending them both crashing back to the ground. All three of his foes had been rendered unconscious in a matter of seconds.
Several faces in the crowd watched him nervously. They were hesitant to attack such a skilled warrior but the price on his head was too tempting not to try to collect.
Seeing a handful more fighters inching closer, Cho-Manno held up his right hand in a halting motion.
“STOP!” he commanded. “Enough of this, I have not come to fight you, I have come to warn you! The new Magistrate whose bounty you aim to collect will not deliver on his promise. He is not a man, but a monster beyond your darkest nightmares! If you do not help me to defeat him now, while we still can, all of this – your humanity, your way of life, will be destroyed!”
At this, the crowd momentarily fell silent. Cho-Manno was not a hated figure in Rishada; Since he had assumed power trade had only improved. However, since he had been ousted, there were many that had hoped to get in the good graces of the new power rumored to control Mercadia city. For many of the city’s less savory elements, the lure of gold outweighed any sentiment toward ousted rulers. Still, none of them enjoyed the idea of collecting a reward only to be cheated.
“How can we know that what yer sayin is true and tha’ yer not just out ta’ save yer own hide?” a voice called out from the throng.
The crowd then parted as a tall man strode through them to confront Cho-Manno. This had to be the leader, or the closest thing to it, that Cho-Manno had been seeking.
The man’s coat was trimmed with gold and he wore several jewels on his weather-worn fingers, which he surmised could easily double as brass knuckles. He stood at least three inches taller than most men, with a finely trimmed grey beard and eyes like a storm at sea. A thick cigar glowed, clenched, in the corner of his chapped lips. One of his legs appeared to have been replaced with a brass artifact facsimile which clanged as he walked. Upon his shoulder was perched an exotic bird, which rattled off intermittent curses and death threats.
At the man’s side was sheathed a gilded falchion and a powder pistol hung from his belt. This loud Kyren weapon was not as popular as its quieter and more reliable counterpart in the crossbow, but it was faster and known for its ability to penetrate even plate armor with ease. For someone whose prosthetic leg and feathered companion negated any potential for stealth, it was a logical choice of sidearm. More importantly, he wouldn’t be able to deflect it with his staff. One well-placed shot could end him.
Still, the man had yet to draw either of his weapons, which indicated that he was open to negotiation.
“Tell me, have any that have traveled recently to Mercadia City returned alive?” questioned Cho-Manno. “By airship or by dunestrider lizard, surely, some would have?”
“Perhaps they decided ta see the sights, enjoy themselves a bit ‘fore making the return journey,” the older man replied. “Thas not unusual.”
Cho-Manno then pondered for a moment and said “I can show you, exactly what it is I speak of.” He then reached slowly for his waterskin.
At this, the older man quickly drew his pistol and leveled it at Cho-Manno’s chest.
“I’m warnin’ ye, no funny business water mage,” he threatened.
“Keelhaul the swine!” cawed the bird perched on his shoulder.
“I will not harm you, but you will not like what you see,” Cho-Manno replied, slowly uncorking and emptying to contents of the waterskin into a puddle between the two of them.
It occurred to the pistol wielder that more water had pooled forth than could have possibly been contained within. Finally, the waters formed into a perfectly circular, still pool, resembling a mirror.
“What sorta magic is this?” questioned the pirate lord.
“It’s a scrying pool,” Cho-Manno explained, waving one hand over the water and causing ripples to form from the center. “It will show you any land with which you are attuned. In this case, it will be showing us Mercadia City.”
“Stinking dung heap!” cawed the bird.
Meanwhile, the pistol wielding pirate took several clanging steps closer. Other members of the crowd strained their necks to get a better look at the waters as well as shadows began to form among the ripples, slowly shifting into shapes and then images.
What they would see would haunt their lives forever.
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The Jhovall’s paw raked toward Sisay and then send up a cloud of dust as she leapt away and it stuck the ground where she stood. She could tell that the power behind that claw would have been enough to rip her to shreds.
Tahngarth then lunged in and sliced with his Striva at the extended limb. However, where it struck, it was blocked by a shimmering barrier of light. The powerstones on the creature’s shoulders glowed as they absorbed the motes of white mana dancing around them and conducted it through the Jhovall’s body. It was the same type of barrier that Orim had used to protect them from Abcal-Dro during their battle beneath Mercadia city. Was this animal able to wield such magic by instinct or did it possess an intelligence far beyond others of its kind?
Atalla then lunged in with a thrust at the Jhovall’s side, only for his weapon to be similarly blocked. The Jhovall then swatted out at Atalla with its other paw, sending the boy crumpling to the ground with deep slashes across his torso. The Jhovall sniffed the air. Something was wrong. This one did not smell of glistening oil.
Glancing to the boy, the large cat saw quite clearly that he bled red blood, not the golden chemical found within Phyrexians.
“Atalla!” shouted Orim as she ran to aid the youth, putting herself in danger as she crouched over him and channeled white mana into his body to help seal closed the cuts.
Phyrexians did not channel white mana, nor did they care for their fallen. This was wrong.
As Orim ran to aid Atalla, Sisay dashed back into the fray and sent a sweeping slash toward the Jhovall’s face with her cutlass, hoping to blind the beast. If it had attacked, that meant that it had dropped the defensive barrier, she thought.
Her blade was met by the Jhovall’s other raised forepaw. Its claws were as strong as Thran metal and its strength was more than enough to cancel her momentum. Sisay could not help but think that such a parry was far too skilled for a normal animal to perform.
As Tahngarth prepared for another strike, Sisay called out to the creature.
“Wait!” she said. “We are not Phyrexians, can you understand us?”
Phyrexians did not seek to avoid conflict.
The Jhovall looked between Tahngarth and Sisay and sized them up with eyes that seemed far too intelligent for a mere beast. Sisay’s suspicions were confirmed as the giant cat backed away and sat, as if expecting something from her.
“You do understand us, don’t you?” Sisay replied.
She then lightly ran the edge of her blade against her fingertip to create a shallow cut. Holding it up for the cat creature to see, she pinched her fingertip to reveal droplets of red blood.
Tahngarth and Squee, looking to Sisay, each bit the tips of one of their fingers and then held it up for the creature to see as well.
Red blood. All of them had red blood.
Atalla’s cuts were nearly mended. His eyes struggled back open and gazed upon the cat creature now sitting non-threateningly on its haunches.
“What is it doing?” he asked.
The Jhovall then released a low, remorseful sounding meow. He remembered hearing that noise on his family’s farm whenever his parents scolded one of the beasts, usually after they had stolen food from one their fellow cats’ dinner troughs.
“I think its sorry that it attacked us,” said Atalla, answering his own question.
“It should be!” yelled Squee, pointing angrily at the creature. “Bad kitty! Bad!”
Orim then rose from the boy’s side and slowly approached the Jhovall, trying to appear non-threatening.
“We smell like Phyrexians to you because we have been fighting them,” Orim explained. “They made people sick and the cure came from their blood.”
Sick.
That was a word that it had not heard for thousands of years. However, it awoke long buried memories. Sad memories.
Once, it had had human and goblin companions, who had trained it to protect the temple from Phyrexians. Then, the humans became sick and weak. They spoke of trying to find a cure but it never came. Then they died and the goblins left it alone. The temple kept it alive and it had waited ever since for the enemy that never came until this day, or so it thought.
But these were not the enemy. They were humans…and a short goblin…and a bull man? They wanted to fight the enemy too, said the pretty lady with the shiny hair. It would help.
The majestic Jhovall then released a long, mournful sounding cry. The powerstones on its shoulders began to once again glow, resonating with the sound. As it did so, Thran runes suddenly manifested themselves on the door, which began to rise, receding into the archway. A multicolored light, like an aurora, shone forth from the entranceway. A low hum of some distant machinery filled the air.
The guardian had unbarred the gate.
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The Rishadans watched with silent terror as images of Mercadia City’s fate flashed before them. They watched as humans were dissected alive, their entrails cranked out of their bodies on winches, their skin flayed and pithed as their muscles were carefully removed, layer by layer, and stitched onto the frame of some hulking monstrosity. Once the harvested specimens were reduced to nothing more than a skeleton, Phyrexian necromancers re-animated them into undead servitors, gathering up their own discarded flesh and tossing them into chemical vats to be reprocessed. They then watched more skilled laborers, whose limbs had been replaced by spidery limbs ending in a variety of tools, as they welded carapace-like hulls onto the metal ribs of Phyrexian warships. The hideous craft circled above the city, spewing toxic clouds of soot into the air.
“That is the enemy we face,” Cho-Manno said to the horror-struck crowd. “Do you think these creatures can be bargained with? They care not for gold or trinkets. All they want is to do to you what they have already done to the city’s populace. Unless we stand together and fight them, all of us will be broken down into parts and used to build more monsters!”
The crowd wanted to fly into a panic, but they were too fearful even for that. For several long moments there was nothing but a dread silence.
“How do ye even begin ta fight something like that?” asked the pirate lord. “Their ships are like armored cities, I don’t know how they even keep them in the air.”
“We have one defense,” Cho-Manno replied as he rose from where he crouched over the pool, which once more showed their reflections. “The Phyrexian ships are armed with ray cannons, weapons based on concentrated light. Our water mages have the ability to shroud your airships in screens of water vapor, which can disperse those beams.”
“Fat lot a good that’ll do,” replied the pirate lord. “Those ships are faster than ours and their ramming prows would still tear us to ribbons.”
“Which is exactly what they’ll do,” answered Cho-Manno. “We can’t match their speed and we can’t outmaneuver them, so we’ll bait them to charge at us.”
“And then what?” demanded the skeptical pirate.
“Then, we’ll have groups of spellshapers aboard each ship,” Cho Manno began, waving his hand across the pool.
Several large bubbles formed, representing the large Phyrexian ships. Before them were several smaller bubbles, representing the Rishadan Airships.
“Our devout witnesses will release a combined burst of white mana to try to disenchant the powerstones keeping them aloft,” Cho-Manno continued. “Then, you’ll have hammer mages blast their stabilizers with red mana and cause them to melt down. This will cause the ships to plummet to the city below. If we do this right, we can position ourselves above their gun towers and cause the falling ships to hit them, destroying both in one fell swoop. That will allow our ground forces to move in.”
Ripples formed in the pool, spreading from the smaller bubbles to the larger ones and causing them to pop.
“That’s a good plan, but a dangerous one,” the pirate captain replied. “If we get in close enough for the spellshapers to hit them, we’ll have very little time to get out own ships out of the way.”
“This is going to be a dangerous battle no matter how we approach it,” answered Cho-Manno. “But I trust that your men have the skill to pull it off. There are no better sailors in all of Mercadia than the Rishadans.”
“Aye, that be true,” the captain said with a grim smile and a nod. “But if we do manage to pull this off, you owe us big time.”
“If we survive this, you’ll all be heroes, your names will live on forever in song and-” Cho-Manno began, only for his heroic speech to be cut short by the squacking parrot.
“Give us ‘yer gold! Give us ‘yer gold!” cawed the bird.
“-and you may have any treasure you claim,” Cho-Manno concluded.
“Aye, I like the sound of that!” replied the pirate lord as he turned toward the assembled crowds.
“These Phyrexian bastards think they can take this world from us?!,” he bellowed. “Are we going to let them out-steal the city of thieves?!”
The crowd raised their weapons high and answered in a resounding “NO!”
“They think they’re bad, but we’re the most ruthless scum on this rock aren’t we!” yelled the captain.
The crowd cheered as Cho-Manno looked on, confused by their strange brand of righteousness.
“We’ll sink those flying barnacles and then keel-haul the lot of ‘em!” the captain yelled, raising up his pistol and then firing into the air. “Give ‘em no quarter lads!”
Again the crowd went up in cheers as the city swelled with pride that drowned out their fears. Bloodlust quickly sobered those who had only moments earlier been lost in revelry. The city then set to work preparing for war. Cho-Manno would have his army. Now he needed only get word to the merfolk and return to Ta-Kolad before he launched his attack.
Cho-Manno was about to ask the captain about procuring transport when suddenly the sound of a large horn blowing rang out above the crowd. Then it rang out a second time.
“What’s that?” Cho-Manno asked as the Rishadans stopped in their tracks to listen.
The horn then blew for a third time.
“Saprazzan Breakers,” the pirate lord answered. “Sea ogres. The city is under attack!”
“Damn!” cursed Cho-Manno as he ran off to join the pirates in the defense. This was the last thing he needed.
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Just a few miles from shore, hundreds of fins like those of giant sharks broke the surf. Among them were the metallic spines of spinal centipedes. These weapons had been deployed on Dominaria, killing their hosts and replacing their spines, re-animating them as zombies under Phyrexian control. The Caterans had already been moving to seize Rishada, releasing the centipedes into the sea. The once solitary predators had now been transformed into the armies of Phyrexia.
Chapter 14: Ancestral Recall
As Sisay and her allies entered the Temple, they beheld walls lined with Thran runes and pictograms illuminated by the strange, multicolored light. Orim, who had studied this language along with Hanna at the Argivian University on Dominaria acted as translator.
“The runes speak of a civil war between an imperial faction and those who desired a Republic,” Orim said as her fingers traced the ancient markings. “It would seem that, at one time…Yawgmoth was a human and a member of the latter faction.”
Sisay, Tahngarth, Squee and Orim recalled their final battle with the dark deity aboard the Weatherlight in its final configuration as The Legacy Weapon. Then, Yawgmoth had been a being of utter darkness, clutching the globe and choking the life from it. To think that such a thing had ever once been human was terrifying.
Atalla, who never knew Yawgmoth, still knew that the horrors which now plagued his world somehow originated from the twisted mind of this one man. How, he wondered, could anyone have been so utterly wicked?
“He was exiled for his heretical ideas that the body was a machine and could be repaired and enhanced without the use of magic,” Orim continued. “However, eventually, the empire became affected by a great plague of powerstone phtisis. Magic only worsened the disease and so out of desperation they called upon Yawgmoth to return. From there, he made himself out to be a savior, curing those loyal to him and allowing his enemies to succumb. Still, the empire remained blind to his evil until delegations of minotaurs and catfolk and elves arrived at the capitol.”
“Yawgmoth apparently viewed these races as inferior and, during his exile, had deliberately affected them with plagues just to study the effects,” Orim read, seeming more and more sickened as she read.
Tahngarth clutched his striva, remembering how it had cut into the tentacles of darkness that were Yawgmoth’s body. His ancestors had suffered greatly at the bastard’s hands, but he had avenged them.
The minotaur snorted and then spat upon the pictogram depicting Yawgmoth – seen as a strikingly handsome man with a long shadow.
“Half of the empire remained loyal to Yawgmoth, while the other revolted,” Orim continued. “A Planeswalker named Dyfed had been deceived by him as well and showed him an empty world to use as a great hospital for the sick. He instead transformed this world into Phyrexia and those sent there to be cured into Phyrexians. When Dyfed discovered his true nature, she rescued Thran council members and their goblin servants whom Yawgmoth had taken hostage. She brought them here, to Mercadia, so that they would be safe from Yawgmoth while she went off to confront him.”
“And he must have destroyed her,” Sisay muttered. “How could a mortal man have defeated a Planeswalker?”
“By then he was likely no longer mortal,” reasoned Tahngarth. “If he had learned to transform people into Phyrexians then he had likely already begun transforming himself into that form we battled. Not even Urza would have been able to defeat him alone.”
“We know da rest of tha story,” Squee cut in. “Tree man tell it to us. Yawgie’s dead. We gotta find somethin’ here ta beat da Phyrexians now, today.”
Orim skimmed over several more passages as they continued to travel down the tunnel. These spoke of how the Thran elders had sought out food and shelter while waiting for Dyfed. Then, when it was determined that she was not going to return, how they began the long, seemingly hopeless task of recreating Thran technology on Mercadia. Rushwood had come to them and questioned them of their purpose. When he learned of Yawgmoth’s evil he gladly helped them to mine minerals, divert rivers and whatever else was needed to create successively more advanced factories which eventually culminated in the temple in which they now stood.
“The elders created a powerstone forge which they used to build a mighty weapon, equal parts magic and technology,” Orim continued as the group reached the last section of runes. “They then sought to create a planar gate with which to send it back to Dominaria and liberate the empire from Yawgmoth. The experiments took decades and it was clear that they would not be completed within the council members’ lifetimes. So the task was left to the goblins to complete. That’s where the records end.”
“Little did they know that the Thran empire had already fallen,” Sisay said, folding her arms across her chest. “That explains where the powerstones on this plane came from. I’d be willing to bet that the powerstone forge is the light we’re seeing is as well. It could very well still be operational. But what about that weapon; just what was it that they were making?”
The group descended deeper into the ruin, intent on answering that question.
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Powder cannons boomed along the coastline of Rishada. They had been put into this place to defend against this very creature, but the invaders were not as they seemed. Canon balls tore off arms and blasted through stomachs and still the zombified sea ogres clawed their way to shore. Only then did the pirates comprehend the true terror of what they faced. Fang filled maws had been outright replaced by crushing metal jaws, the heads of the spinal centipedes.
The sea ogres’ naturally superior strength allowed them to barrel through cutlass wielding warriors. Powder pistols aimed at hearts hardly caused the ogres to flinch. When these weapons were instead aimed at the zombies’ heads, the bullets tore through flesh and bone but bounced harmlessly of off thran-metal legs and coils that were clutched around the ogres’ brains. Meanwhile, probing needles along the centipedes’ underbellies stimulated dead neurons and drove the host bodies on. It seemed as if the beachhead would soon be overrun.
That was where Cho-Manno came in.
The water mage charged into the fray with a group of hammer mages at his back. These red-mana wielding spellshapers’ primary purpose in Rishada was melting down stolen treasure into gold. However, their ability to destroy artifice and machinery en-masse would this day be the city’s greatest weapon.
“Target the centipedes!” Cho-Manno ordered the spellshapers, knowing that such vile devices had to be the work of the Phyrexians.
The task mages then muttered quick, well-practiced incantations and struck the ground with their hammers. Red mana rippled forth in waves, causing destroying all metals that they struck. Pirate warriors quickly scrambled aside lest their pistols and cutlasses melt in their hands. The zombified sea ogres weren’t so quick. Their metal spines turned molten and dead eyes burst as tears of molten metal and liquefied brains flowed out.
One by one, the de-animated ogres fell with a thud to the sandy shore. However, there were still hundreds more coming.
It would be up to the water mage to literally turn the tide.
Cho-Manno chanted loudly over the sounds of battle in his native Cho-Arrim tongue.
The waters began to rapidly recede, carrying with them the ogre reinforcements. Their powerful limbs struggled forth against the tide but their advance had been significantly slowed. So long as Cho-Manno maintained concentration, he would give the hammer mages time to do their work. Then, with any luck, they would be able to clear the beachhead and mount a stronger defense for when the next wave rolled in. They had to hold until the airships could get aloft, then they could drop large powder bombs directly into the ogre horde and blow them to pieces.
Cho-Manno grit his teeth as beads of sweat formed on his brow, using the full force of his will to push back against the undead army.
Everything hinged on him. He could not fail.
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Meanwhile, the heroes entered a new section of the Thran Temple. Here, row upon row of transparent glass and metal coffins lined the halls. Within, the bodies of the Thran elders themselves lay in repose. Perhaps due to advanced technology or perhaps due to the magics permeating the temple, neither their bodies nor their clothes showed much sign of decomposition over the thousands of years. It was as though they were merely resting and could any moment open their eyes and rise again.
“It is as though they wanted the temple to be found,” said Tahngarth. “They wanted someone to carry on the fight they could not finish.”
“That is correct,” a mechanical sounding voice answered from further down the hall.
Heavy, clanging footsteps were then heard drawing steadily closer.
“Who are you?” Sisay demanded.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” the voice replied. “After all, you’re the ones in my temple.”
With that, a golem stepped into sight from the far end of the hall. He bore a striking resemblance to Karn, but his body has been sculpted from brass or bronze and had greened with age.
“I was created by The Thran to watch over this temple after they died,” the golem explained. “I was to instruct the goblins and guide them as they completed their masters’ work. However, they abandoned this place ages ago. They decided to rule this world rather than return to their home and face the evil that drove them here. You are the first life forms I have encountered in millennia.”
Squee then stepped forward and proudly beat his chest.
“Not all goblins ‘fraid of old Yawgie,” he said puffing himself up with all the bravado he could muster. “We kilt him deader than dead. The dummie made me immortal instead of hisself.”
The golem paused for a moment to process the information.
“So then the war has at last ended?” the golem inquired. “You were able to receive the weapon? We sent it to Dominaria before this place was abandoned, but the portal malfunctioned and was destroyed soon after.”
“No,” Tahngarth answered. “We used another weapon created by Urza Planeswalker. And the war has not ended. Though Yawgmoth was indeed destroyed one of his servants survived and has come here to Mercadia. Now, he threatens to conquer this world and rebuild Phyrexia from its ashes.”
“We have come here to see that does not happen,” Orim interjected.
“It doesn’t matter!” Atalla shouted angrily, interjecting. “The weapon, whatever it is, is gone! Didn’t you hear him? He sent it to Dominaria and we don’t even know where it is or if it even got there! Even if it wasn’t lost we have no way of going to get it!”
The others turned toward Atalla and saw that his teeth were gnashed in despair-filled rage. His whole body trembled and his eyes fought to hold back tears.
“You were brought here…on a Planeswalker’s whim,” Atalla continued. “Without Weatherlight or a portal there is no way to go back. The Phyrexians will destroy the world. We won’t be able to save anyone. We’re all going to die and all of our struggles, all of our fighting, all of our friends’ sacrifices it will all be meaningless!”
Squee’s bravado drained from him and the goblin’s ears drooped. Tahngarth lowered his head and clenched his fist. Orim looked, pleadingly to Sisay who then turned to the golem.
“There has to be something we can do,” Sisay said, fighting to keep hope alive in her heart. “You said the portal was destroyed, but the technology that built it, that’s still here?”
“Yes,” the golem answered simply. Unlike Karn, it seemed incapable of emotion.
“Are you saying we build another portal?” Orim asked. “Without Hanna-”
“Well all saw the schematics from Volrath’s laboratory,” Sisay said, gesturing dramatically. “We saw the plans for the Phyrexian portal ships and we figured out how to destroy them.”
She then turned back to the golem.
“With our new data and your mechanical mind to calculate, maybe we can reverse engineer one,” Sisay continued. “I’m not willing to give up just yet. If there’s a chance, any chance at all, I say we take it. We owe it to Gerrard, to Hanna and Mirri and all of the others. They fought until their last breaths and I’ll be damned if we quit before giving the same effort!”
Sisay’s words seemed to restore the hope of the heroes as they forced the despair from their hearts.
“Right,” Orim replied.
“I’m with you,” said Tahngarth.
“Squee too,” squeaked the goblin.
Atalla then wipes the tears from his face and swallowed hard.
“All right,” he said with a hoarse voice. “I’m in.”
“Take us to the forge,” Sisay commanded the golem. “Tell us everything about this weapon.”
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“Where are those damn airships!” yelled Cho-Manno as he and the surviving pirates and hammer mages formed a tight circle. His water magic was spent and the hope that he had hinged his plan upon had yet to arrive.
Little did the Cho-Arrim know that, even now, another battle waged in Rishada’s hangar bays. Cateran mercenaries had sabotaged many of the ships and were now clashing with those sent to retrieve them.
Meanwhile, the centipede-controlled ogres continued to climb ashore, gnashing their metal jaws eager to crush through soft flesh and bone. Although their corpses continued to pile up, the spellshapers were beginning to exhaust their reserves. The blasts of unforging red mana were growing smaller with each casting. The undead were massing around them, trampling over the corpses of the slain. It seemed as though this could very well be their last stand.
Cho-Manno looked to his side where the pirate lord he had spoken with earlier stood, cutlass in one hand and Kyren pistol in the other.
“We’ve been outflanked,” the Rishadan rogue cursed. “Our weapons are useless. Once their magic runs out it’s over. But I’ll still go down fighting, kicking, screaming, slashing and shooting until my lungs no longer draw breath! Ya hear me ya stinkin’ bags of rot!? ”
Cho-Manno, for his part, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to Ramos.
Then, as if in mockery of his hopes, the hammer mages collapsed. The last burst of power had required every ounce of their remaining energy.
The final wave of undead ogres slithered up the wall of dead to claim their victory.
A hail of pistol fire ran out ineffectually from the pirates, clanging off the protected skulls of the zombies. Then, tossing their guns aside, the Rishadans let forth one last defiant cry as they charged forth with swords in hand.
That cry was answered by shrieks from above and a deep bellow from the sea. Saprazzan Legates, merfolk drake riders, fell from the clouds like angels to deliver them salvation. Enchanted tridents speared through flesh and muscle to skewer mechanical control spines. Meanwhile, an enormous wave rolled toward the shore and the colossal head of a tidal kraken broke the surf. The four-armed monster was the undisputed king of Saprazzo’s seas and regularly devoured sea ogres who strayed too close to its depths.
It had taken powerful magic to summon forth such a beast, thought Cho-Manno, not seen in Saprazzo since the death of the Vizer. It seemed that the reclusive merfolk had at last appointed her successor.
Cheers went up from the Rishadans as the Kraken crushed and hurled the undead ogres about.
The pirates then charged into the fray, using the distraction caused by the drake riders to get behind their foes. There, they could plainly see where metallic spines protruded from their backs. They slashed between these segments, sliding their blades between the jointed segments of Thran metal to cut into vulnerable wire. The Saprazzan breakers were themselves broken. Their bodies soon littered the beach.
Finally, it was done. The Caterans in the hangar bay fell soon after, their attempts to sabotage Cho-Manno’s liberation fleet thwarted. Victorious pistol fire echoed along the shoreline as pirates reveled in their triumph. The Kraken returned to the depths with a full stomach as merfolk and pirate leaders met to plan their next move.
The battle of Rishada was over but the battle for Mercadia would soon begin.
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Abcal-Dro watched his undead army fall with disgust.
“Let them have their meaningless victory,” the self-declared Father of Machines bubbled as he turned his attention from the shores of Rishada to another scrying lens.
Hordes of hideous, deformed monsters crawled, slithered, scuttled and flapped their way through the mountains of The Deeplands in search of their quarry. Not even the native dragons dared to challenge such a massive infernal force.
Leading the vile legion was Klaars atop his nightmare steed. The headless rider’s flaming eyes soon honed in on the lush valley where lay the Thran Temple. Soon, this paradise would burn and he would at last have his revenge.
Chapter 15: Sacrifice
“The weapon was the culmination of Thran aspirations,” explained the golem as the light of the powerstone forge drew ever closer. “The empire’s chief architect, Rebbec, believed that one should ascend to become ideal. Thus, the machine drew upon the collective thoughts of its occupants to manifest them in physical form. If it did indeed reach your world, it would have been venerated if found. It would appear as a holy relic or some other object of great importance in history or mythology – have you heard of another matching that description?”
Just then, the group arrived at their destination and before they could reply to the golem they were awe-stuck at the sight they beheld. It was a crystal array as large as a skyship, with flawless powerstones that in some cases were larger and glowed brighter than even the bones of Ramos. The five colors of mana reflected in beautiful, scintillating patterns off Thran mechanisms. It was like standing in the heart of an aurora. There were enough powerstones here to power an army of Ramoses…or in the hands of Abcal-Dro, a full sized Phyrexian war fleet.
As their eyes slowly adjusted to the radiance, the group spotted what must have been the remains of the ancient Thran portal. The circular gate still stood, but it appeared charred and corroded, with wires hanging loosely from blasted compartments. Before it was a smaller crystal array which lay dormant. Perhaps it was the portal controls, Orim thought, like they saw with the permanent Phyrexian portal in the caves of Koilos. Upon closer examination, all of the crystals in this array appeared to have cracked, likely releasing their stored power to lethal effect.
Sisay then spotted human shadows seemingly burned into the ground surrounding the portal. It would seem that the last of the Thran elders did not join their predecessors in repose.
“The goblins were fearful that they would share their former masters’ fate,” explained the golem. “However, as much as they attempted to refine purer and purer crystals, they could not guarantee the success of the experiment. That is why the project was abandoned. However, they were able to devise a beacon – a means of locking on to the weapon’s unique powerstone radiation signature. If you are able to reconstruct the portal and if you visualize the weapon, the beacon should be able to lock on to it and call it back to us.”
“How do we visualize something we have never seen?” questioned Tahngarth.
“Maybe we have seen it, somewhere,” Sisay cut in. “We just didn’t know of its true power of purpose. We, and Urza, would have dismissed it as just another legend or prophecy.”
“Prophecy…” Orim thought aloud as the group turned toward her.
“Whatcha thinkin?” Squee asked. “Does ya knows of somethin’?”
Orim then recalled a tale she had heard from a master of her order. Prior to the Phyrexian invasion, the Keldons were among the most warlike races on Dominaria. Pain and ruin followed in their wake and so the wandering order of healers often found themselves tending to the few survivors of such attacks. The survivors described the Keldons as fearsome, demon-like men though their warrior ways had made then invaluable allies during the Invasion. Still, the Keldons once sung of another Apocalypse in which they would ride across the world on the five Winds of Ascension and trample all beneath them.
“The first Wind of Ascension is the Forger, burning away impurity
The second Wind of Ascension is the Reaver, slaying the unworthy
The third Wind of Ascension is the Eliminator, clearing Keld’s path to victory
The fourth Wind of Ascension is the Anointer, deifying the worthy.
The fifth Wind of Ascension is the Exalter, fulfilling Keld’s destiny.”
“Uh…is you ok there Orim?” Squee questioned as Orim finished orating the Keldon prophecy.
“What’s a Keld?” asked Atalla, unfamiliar with the Dominarian race of grey-skinned barbarians.
“While we fought our way into Crovax’s stronghold from above, the generals of the Coalition armies, Grizzlegom, Astor, Eladamri and Lin Sivvi, were brought to Urborg from Keld aboard the Keldons’ mythical flying longship, The Golden Argosy,” Orim explained. “According to the prophecy, it was what their greatest warriors, would ride upon the Winds of Ascension in order to fight the final battle. It took them there faster than any skyship. Then, after the generals arrived, the ship flew off into the skies, the prophecy seemingly fulfilled. The Golden Argosy…must be the Thran weapon.”
Squee, Tahngarth and Sisay could easily visualize a Keldon longship. That was the form that it had taken for the Keldons. With Sisay at the wheel, it would take on another form. They all knew what must be done. To finish the fight against the Phyrexians, Weatherlight would take flight once more.
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Cho-Manno stood upon the decks of a Saprazzan outrigger surrounded by several merfolk. In water, their legs transformed into the tail of a fish. On land, they appeared mostly human save for their skin, which was blue, green and grey like the sea, and in some cases vestigial fins around their faces. On either side, the seafaring vessel was escorted by drake riders. It had not taken long, following the battle of Rishada, to convince the merfolk of the gravity of the Phyrexian threat.
They had agreed to join the pirates in liberating Mercadia city, but first Cho-Manno demanded an audience with the new Grand Vizer. If the heir was anything like her predecessor, she would possess the ability to glimpse into an individual’s future. Cho-Manno believed that any information that could aid in the assault would be useful. If she could reveal that they would, in fact, be victorious, then it would be a huge boon to morale. If the attack was doomed to fail, then perhaps they could come up with a new plan to avoid that disastrous fate.
The water mage could not help but feel a sense of calm while out on the waves. The sea winds whipping through his coin coiffed hair, the sea breeze, the cool mist on his skin. He knew that it was the calm before the great storm. His eyes focused on the horizon as the ship drew ever closer to a glowing pink reef rising from the sea. It was the stinging barrier, Saprazzo’s first line of defense.
Most of the city was underwater, with land entrances guarded by the magical reef. Ships attempting to enter without the blessings of the merfolk would find their hulls breached by the supernaturally sharp coral. It didn’t matter what course one charted, as the living wall could stretch and shift as it was directed. Fortunately, Cho-Manno had come as a welcomed guest. Upon his arrival, the coral actually parted to admit the outrigger.
As they stepped ashore, their feet found ground atop a structure built from giant brain corals. Vibrant sea sponges, partially submerged, lined the path to the Vizer’s chamber. As they approached, a sense of apprehension began to grow within the Cho-Arrim. He had always believed in prophecy and destiny. Why, then, was knowing it and dispelling of uncertainty such an uncomfortable prospect to him?
Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had only one future in mind for once this battle was through and that was to spend the rest of his life with Orim.
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Thran welding tools remained in remarkable condition despite the fact that they had last been used thousands of years ago. Atalla, Sisay and Orim were the most mechanically inclined among them, with the former having worked on his airship for many years and the latter two having picked up many odds and ends from Hanna during their time aboard Weatherlight. Tahngarth, for his part, put his great strength to use in assisting the golem in hauling the giant pieces of machinery into place. Squee did his best to dictate to the workers what pieces went where, mispronouncing everything, as he followed a schematic of an old Phyrexian portal ship that the crew had drawn up as a guide. They had remembered most of the ship’s inner workings from the plans stolen from Rath and the Thran golem ran mathematical calculations to fill in the gaps.
Slowly but surely the portal took shape. It was just completed when an alarm suddenly blared through the temple.
“The doorway has been opened,” said the golem as he hurried over toward a scrying lens. “It shut automatically after you were admitted. It should not have opened again without the Guardian or my doing.”
The crew ceased in their labors as looks of dread formed on their faces. The Phyrexians had found them. As the scrying lens glowed to life, the group could clearly see hordes of half-compleated Caterans forcing their way through a charred breach in the door. Leading the group was none other than Klaars.
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Outside of the temple, the majestic Jhovall lay on its side, breathing its last breaths. Its body was covered in blood from a thousand wounds. Piles of dead Caterans lay surrounding it, torn to pieces by his claws and fangs or annihilated by holy fire breathed from his maw. However, in the end, there were simply too many of them. His barriers had eventually fallen and then cruel pikes and blades found their way through to stain his flawless fur with his lifeblood.
The great cat had lived countless lifetimes, chosen by the temple to be its protector. However, in the face of this terrible enemy, it had failed. As its vision faded, its mind was filled with images from bygone days. It remembered being found, as a kitten, by the Thran elders. It remembered their withered hands caressing its fur and their kindness in sharing their food.
Perhaps it would be reunited with them now.
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“Torahn gore them,” Tahngarth cursed. “We’re trapped and outnumbered! Our best bet is to meet them in the hall where we can’t be surrounded and fight wave after wave…”
“Do not lose hope just yet,” the golem replied as he ran to the control system before the powerstone array. “This temple still has one more line of defense.”
Moments later, the black mana stones were activated. Arcs of crackling dark energies shot down the hallways of the temple and into the chambers where the bodies of the Thran elders lay in repose.
“The Thran ordered their bodies preserved in case this temple were ever found by the Phyrexians,” the golem explained. “For thousands of years they have been absorbing ambient magical energies, just like the Jhovall that guarded the gate. Now, they will rise to claim their revenge.”
The sound of shattering glass echoed throughout the temple as the no longer frail bodies of the mummified elders broke forth from their tombs. Klaars and his forces paused in their advance as the ancient undead appeared, charging forth to meet them. Their eyes were ablaze with magical might and talons of energy had emerged from the tips of their dead fingers. They moved with an animal ferocity and speed that seemed impossible for their withered husks. Then, with magically augmented strength, they tore leapt upon their foes, tearing through black armor carapace and spraying glistening oil against the temple walls.
Klaars’ nightmare bucked in its saddle as the new foes swarmed around him. He then swung his executioner’s axe down to cleave a leaping mummy clean in half. However, as soon as its body hit the ground, animated muscle fibers elongated and snatched hold of one another, pulling the mummy back together as his wounds closed. With their regenerative abilities, one mummy could count for dozens of his warriors. He would have to break them into dozens of tiny pieces and then burn them before they could regenerate again.
Klaars’ attention was then drawn to another ferocious battlecry from further down the hall. Tahngarth, Sisay, Orim and Atalla charged, weapons drawn, to aid the Thran in defending their temple. The living and the dead fought as a small phalanx, two lines to hold back the Cateran tide. With the heroes’ skill and the mummies’ superior strength, augmented mercenaries fell fast. However, no sooner had one warrior fallen than another ran forth to take his place – slowly pushing the line back further and further toward the Powerstone forge.
Once they were forced out of the hall, it was over. Still, they kicked and scraped and slashed furiously as they clung to every inch of ground.
Klaars’ axe burst into flame as he hacked down a mummy standing between him and his former crewmates. As the mummy struggled to re-assemble its burning body, Klaars’ axe was parried by Sisay’s cutlass on the backswing.
“You’re only delaying the inevitable,” threatened the soulhunter revenant as flames leapt from the weapon onto Sisay’s body. The dark-skinned woman cried out in pain as Orim quickly held out her hands, releasing a spray of water infused with healing energies to douse her captain and the mummy.
“Maybe so,” replied Orim. “But we’re not going down without a fight!”
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The chamber of the Grand Vizer was dimly lit from an oculus in the ceiling from which held long, drape-like curtains of seaweed. Pearls were set into the roof to give the chamber the appearance of a starry sky. The Vizer herself sat around a shimmering pool of water, her legs in their fish-tail form as the tip of her tail hung over the tip of the pool. Her body was a pale blue hue and her long green hair seemed perpetually windblown. She was dressed in loose-fitting indigo robes and her grey eyes did not leave the rippling waters even as Cho-Manno entered the room.
“Farewell Cho-Manno,” the Vizer stated before he even had a chance to greet her.
The Cho leader paused in confusion but his questions were answered before he could form them.
“I know of the enemy of whom you’ve come to speak,” she continued. “Our people will aid your cause, but for you there is another battle.”
The Vizer then touched the tip of her tail to the pool, sending waves rippling through it as an image took shape. Before them flashed images of the battle within the Thran temple. Orim, Sisay, Atalla,Tahgarth and Squee, fighting at the mouth of a tunnel, unable to give another inch of ground, while they battled with Klaars and an army of half-Phyrexian Cateran mercenaries.
“Go to them,” said the Vizer. “You will find a hollow gate located at the back of this chamber. It is a one-way portal and it will take you to meet your destiny.”
At the sight of the heroes in danger, Cho-Manno wasted no time as he sprinted for the gate. The battlefield took form before him in the archway and a moment later he leapt through.
Once he had departed, tears pooled in the eyes of the Vizer. She had foreseen many things, including the outcome of this battle. Still, she knew that it must occur.
“Guards!” she then shouted. “Prepare our forces, we fly to Mount Mercadia!”
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For every injury Klaars inflicted, Orim sealed them shut. Still, despite suffering many casualties, his forces had pushed the temple’s defenders to the threshold of their defeat. It was time to break the line. Still, some part of Klaars wanted to hold back - he had loved Orim once, though he never told her. It was for her that he fought to free them from the Cho-Arrim but now she had joined forces with their leader, the very man who had ordered his death.
No, those feelings were gone. They died with his flesh. Now, nothing but hatred burned within him. He would make her pay for dishonoring his sacrifice. With her death, they would all fall.
Klaars’ nightmare suddenly reared up as Klaars focused every bit of his hatred into his spectral arm. A javelin of green fire hissed to life and then was launched with all of his might at Orim. The Javelin flew over Tahngarth’s shoulder, expertly aimed to fly past her protectors and seek out the object of his greatest hate. The samite healer’s eyes went wide as she stared her impending death in the face. There was no time to dodge and soon her pretty face would be reduced to ash and bone.
But it was not to be. Appearing suddenly between Orim and the flaming missile was Cho-Manno. Uncorking his waterskin, Cho-Manno unleashed a wall of purified water, hoping to douse the infernal javelin. However, Klaars’ hate burned too hotly. The water barrier evaporated into steam as the spear continued, unhindered through it.
However, instead of striking Orim, the weapon instead burst through the back of Cho-Manno. The screeching, hissing cries of the Caterans ceased as the Cho-Arrim leader collapsed to the ground, a charred hole slowly burning its way through his torso. He did not bleed, but in mere moments his vital organs would disintegrate. Squee, Sisay, Atalla and Tahngarth stood in stunned shock as their comrade fell. Orim’s cries of despair then echoed throughout the temple.
The Samite rushed to his side, desperately trying to infuse his body with healing energies. It was too late, his wounds were to great to heal.
“No, please, no!” Orim cried as she cradled his body against her, blinded by her grief.
“O-rim…” Cho-Manno managed, weakly. “Fight on…save this world….then one day…our souls will join in the river.”
Cho-Manno’s eyes then closed for the last time as the holy warrior breathed his last. Dying within the arms of his love, his body crumbled into ashes. However, his inner light appeared to linger after his death. This orb of light, containing the last of his mana, hovered near Orim and then touched her breast, seeping into it. Suddenly, her whole body was suffused with a brilliant aura of light.
Tahngarth then released a roar of pure, maniacal rage, taking up his striva as he turned toward Klaars and the Caterans with bloodshot eyes. Sisay, Atalla and Squee released their own battle cries as they abandoned their defensive formation and charged into the Cateran forces. The Thran mummies followed behind them. However, those who clawed and slashed through Klaars’ nightmare passed through it like smoke. The spirit horse strode through the charging warriors toward Orim’s light.
“So ends Cho-Manno,” the headless rider stated coldly. “His fading light cannot protect you. Now, my revenge will at last be complete.”
Klaars then kicked the side of his steed, driving the now physical spirit horse in a barreling charge toward Orim. He raised his executioner’s axe up high, ready to bring it down to cleave her in twain. Orim waited until the last possible moment, when the Nightmare’s flames were almost close enough to burn her. She then unleashed every last once of her remaining power along with Cho-Manno’s. The light left her body and filled the chamber with an explosion of celestial power.
Klaars cried out in pain as he and his steed vanished like a shadow before the light of dawn. His axe and empty armor clattered to the ground as his spirit was finally laid to rest. For indeed Orim’s power did more than just destroy the revenant. It purged Klaars’ soul of Abcal-Dro’s darkness, allowing him one final moment of clarity. He recalled fighting at Orim’s side against the Phyrexians and he saw how her alliance with the Cho-Arrim had brought prosperity to this world.
“Forgive me…” Klaars voice begged in repentance before fading into silence.
Orim then fell to her knees, in a daze, as consciousness slowly slipped from her. She imagined herself holding Cho-Manno’s hand one last time, her lover’s spirit kissing her brow, and then floating away from her into the night sky.
Meanwhile, without Klaars, the Cateran advance was broken before the avenging fury of the heroes and the Thran mummies. Glistening oil sprayed the walls of empty tombs. Undead claws tore mechanical limbs from their mutilated bodies. Tahngarth’s striva and Sisay’s cutlass cleaved through armored carapace, severing horrible heads from spiny shoulders. Atalla fought furiously at their side and even Squee lashed out with every ounce of rage his tiny body could muster.
The immortal goblin ignored his wounds as he leapt onto monsters’ faces, clawed out eyes and bit off noses. He was unstoppable.
Abcal-Dro once again watched as his forces fell. However, their deaths were the furthest things from his mind. Even the powerstone forge was a trivial prize next to the power within his grasp. His tendrils feverishly tapped the controls of the scrying array before him, opening a portal through one of the lenses. A mass of writhing black tentacles then surged forth into the hall.
The embattled warriors did not notice until it was far too late. As Squee stood over a fallen Phyrexian, kicking its lifeless head, dozens of slimy tendrils wrapped themselves around his body, choking off his screams.
“Squee!” Orim cried, snapping out of her daze.
Squee’s pleas for help were choked off as Abcal-Dro’s black flesh seeped into his lungs.
Tahngarth broke away from the fighting and sprinted at full speed after the retracting limbs, but he was too late. The goblin was pulled through the gate and it closed behind him.
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Squee lost consciousness as his body was pulled into Abcal-Dro’s foul form, encased in a sack of tissue much like his powerstone organs. He was overwhelmed by constant, excruciating pain as his flesh melted away in layers only to regrow. Countless minute tendrils flowed into his veins, siphoning his blood only for it too to replenish. Abcal-Dro’s hideous mass swelled with a now unending supply of goblin flesh to feed his growth. Meanwhile, arcs of black mana surged throughout the Praetor’s body as he tapped into the full strength hidden within Squee.
“YES!” the Phyrexian Praetor bubbled triumphantly. “I’ve trapped him inside me and there’s nothing he can do! I can feel Yawgmoth’s power within you. Such an unworthy vessel, but now all of Yawgmoth’s overwhelming strength is mine! Come, fools, come and face oblivion! There isn’t a force in the multiverse that can stand against me now!”
This is a novel-length fan fiction I'm working on. It is set after Apocalypse and will deal with the surviving members of Weatherlight's crew returning to Mercadia and facing off with a Phyrexian remnant. Each chapter will be named after a card from Alpha.
. The first chapter deals with the fall of Old Phyrexia, which was only alluded to happening "off-screen" while Scars of Mirrodin's lore was being fleshed out.
. The second chapter deals with Captain Sisay and the others sailing refugees to Otaria and explains how it survived the Phyrexian Invasion so much better than the rest of Dominaria.
. The third chapter deals with the final surviving praetor from Old Phyrexia taking over the Cateran Guild on Mercadia.
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12234267/1/The-Golden-Voyage-a-Magic-the-Gathering-Fan-Novel-In-Progress
Chapter 1: Armageddon
Choking clouds of caustic black smoke filled the air and chemical fires raged across the endless fields of crackling wires and towering palaces of the sixth circle. Glistening oil rained in torrents from the cracked metal vault above and tortured prisoners poured forth from the hell below seeking revenge for centuries of agony. The entire world quaked, heaved and groaned – the final death rattle of a civilization spanning thousands of years. From atop a great parapet, the praetor, Abcal-Dro, gazed upon the beautiful albeit futile carnage below through myriad eyes as powerstones pulsated beneath translucent membranes and writhing tendrils wove frantic spells. He hurled inky black webs of corrosive darkness down to smite slavering hordes of black gremlins that even now scaled the crenelated walls to tear down their former master.
These inferior beings, who had toiled for countless generations to drive Yawgmoth's great war machine, had arisen in their multitudes after sensing the same thing felt by all Phyrexians: Their god was dead.
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On Dominaria, the invasion force had witnessed Yawgmoth’s demise first-hand.
Yawgmoth had cradled the world against his breast, slaying all that he touched – mortal and planeswalker alike, raising them up from death, re-forged in his glorious image. Every dead thing, every dead cell had arisen with a single, unified purpose - an unconquerable tide to wash away the old, flawed world and usher in a new age of blessed perfection. Phyrexia’s victory was at hand; they would reclaim the world of their birth and from there the grand evolution would continue across all of the multiverse. They would expunge all weaknesses such as love and sentiment, and transform all of existence into a place of constant war and strife. Every lifeform would perpetually struggle to improve itself as they slay their way to the top of the hierarchy and the bodies of the slain would be broken down into their component parts for re-use.
Then, suddenly, a blinding light had erupted amid the all-encompassing blackness, spreading and devouring all it touched. The Phyrexians had stared up in utter disbelief as life left the dead and mud men crumbled back into soil, returning them to their graves. To the Phyrexians, Yawgmoth had been all in all, The Ineffable, perfection incarnate, he who had conquered death and become its master. How then, could anything slay him? Their existence now meaningless, most did not even resist as the ragged bands of surviving Coalition fighters slew them en-masse.
On Phyrexia, Yawgmoth’s Inner Circle of demons and praetors had watched through a great extraplanar lens as their god entered Dominaria. The cataclysmic destruction wrought by Urza and the band of Planeswalkers calling themselves the Nine Titans was ultimately meaningless. Although countless Phyrexians had perished and five of the nine spheres had been all but gutted, they had no intention to rebuild. Phyrexia was an artificial plane, ancient, created in some twilight age by a planeswalker which time had long since forgotten. It had always been but a staging ground from which to wage war, to reclaim their birth-world from the World Witch, Rebbec.
She had cast them out of Dominaria, sealing them within Phyrexia, more than 9,000 years ago - preventing them from spreading Yawgmoth’s glorious vision of Phyresis across all existence. She had clung to Yawgmoth’s shadow, pretended to worship him, when in truth she still embodied all that which was base and weakness. Then, the brothers Urza and Mishra unlocked the portal at Koilos, allowing for their return. Although Mishra had come to bow before Phyrexia, Urza chose instead to fight. After the ignition of his Planeswalker’s spark, he had dedicated his existence to mounting a seemingly futile defense against the coming Invasion.
Yet, in the end, he too would bow. Yawgmoth, in his infinite benevolence, had granted Urza and his mortal champion, Gerrard Capashen, the opportunity to battle to the death in the ninth circle for the honor of ascending to serve at his side. Gerrard ultimately proved himself the fiercer fighter, severing Urza’s head with a mighty blow and offering it as tribute. However, in the end, Gerrard too had proven unworthy. He had fought for the soul of a woman, Hanna, his lover and companion.
Yawgmoth had sought to stoke the flames of his hatred, to fill him with bloodlust and a desire for power. However, like Rebbec before him, he clung to his mortal frailties and base desires and was cast out. Still, his defiance was of little consequence to Yawgmoth. As he entered the world, all perished before his might. Even the surviving Nine Titans, who had cleaved and blasted their way through unending hordes of Phyrexians, perished in an instant at Yawgmoth’s merest caress.
Then, there arose a light that stabbed out at Yawgmoth’s heart with its beams of radiance. Like Yawgmoth, the Inner Circle recognized her as Rebbec – for what else could she be? While Yawgmoth had become a God in Phyrexia, she had become the goddess of Dominaria. She was the Gaea that its peoples had come to worship. She was the embodiment of all that was false, championing the natural cycle over Phyresis, love over hatred and light over darkness.
Yawgmoth would avenge his betrayal and slay her; Dominaria’s peoples would see in that moment the folly of their ways. Then, the unimaginable transpired. The shock among the inner circle was just as great. However, demons who had held such a dominant status for thousands of years did not so readily relinquish life. Instead, Yawgmoth’s death plunged Phyrexia into chaos.
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It began in the seventh circle, where Yawgmoth condemned those who displeased him to unending torture. The great machines that flayed flesh, burned muscle and crushed bones only to endlessly re-knit them suddenly ground to a halt. Those who had been freshly vivisected at the time finally perished, welcoming the release of death that they had long craved. Among these was Mishra, whom Yawgmoth had strapped to a flesh grinder for 4,000 years after failing to defeat Urza at the climax of The Brother’s War. As his eyes darkened for the last time, Mishra sensed that somehow Yawgmoth had been destroyed – but he knew his brother still hadn’t forgiven him.
As Urza had descended to the bowels of Phyrexia seeking audience with Yawgmoth, he had paused upon seeing Mishra’s torments. Avenging his brother had been the source of Urza’s hatred of Phyrexia. However, Yawgmoth’s hold over Urza at the time had been far too great. Mishra had begged and pleaded with his brother for release - Yawgmoth had promised to free him if Urza so desired. Without a word, Urza walked away.
Meanwhile, Croag, the former Inner Circle member who had appointed the first Evincar of Rath, writhed in a haze of pain and fury. For centuries, his favored weapon had been a semi-living cloak, grafted to his body and comprised of countless, razor sharp bands of metal. He had developed a talent for controlling these bands telekinetically to lash out at his foes. However, Yawgmoth’s will was far greater. After Croag’s negators failed time and time again to hunt down and slay Urza, Yawgmoth had bound him in the seventh circle using his own cloak.
The metal bands stretched, twisted and contorted his limbs, breaking them in new ways again and again - only for machines to heal them. Other bands wormed beneath his leathery hide, tearing sharply through the mutated flesh beneath only for it too to mend. Then, after nearly 800 years of languishing, Croag at last sighted his ancient quarry amid the torture sphere. Croag had begged
Yawgmoth to release him; let him rise up and tear Urza to pieces with his own hands and avenge his failures. His prayers fell on deaf ears and his bands snaked down his throat and into lungs, filling them with glistening oil blood to choke off his screams. Urza walked away without so much as turning his head to acknowledge his longtime pursuer.
When Yawgmoth perished, Croag’s bands suddenly ceased their movement. All around him, torture machines powered down and the endless chorus of screams was replaced by a great, shocked silence. Once he had regained his senses and the realization of what had transpired dawned on him, only one thought filled his mind: revenge. Croag rose, oil-stained bands carefully worming themselves free from his punctured body, delicately avoiding rupturing critical organs and arteries. His body once again obeyed his commands.
His compound eyes fell upon his fellow damned – most of them fallen demons themselves but none his equal, none of them former praetors. His teeth gnashed into a skeletal grin. He would lead a rebellion of these tortured souls and overthrow the rest of the Inner Circle. Phyrexia would be his, if he had to slay every last one of his brethren and rebuild them himself. With metallic tendrils dancing around him like tongues of flame, Croag called out to the hate filled masses “Yawgmoth is dead, I, Croag, declare myself the new Father of Machines. Join me, and reclaim your former glory!”
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Croag was not alone in claiming the title.
For more than nine thousand years, Phyrexia had possessed a strict hierarchy with Yawgmoth always at the pinnacle of power. None dared to challenge him, for he was the Ineffable, all in all, perfection incarnate. The Inner Circle of praetors had always reigned as a council of equals, directly below Yawgmoth, overseeing grand-scale projects he tasked them with. While lesser Phyrexians were granted little will of their own and were usually designed to fulfil highly specialized tasks, each praetor was a uniquely lethal creation in its own right. They were largely given free-reign to engineer their own continued evolutions and that of their subordinates and were challenged only after repeated failures proved them unworthy.
Yawgmoth’s death created a vacuum of power which needed to be filled and for Phyrexians the only way to ascend was through bloodshed. The Inner Circle was splintered into numerous warring factions as Phyrexia’s remaining armies fought among themselves. In addition to Yawgmoth’s would-be successors there were those demons who believed their god was not dead and sought to defend his throne from all usurpers. Assailed on numerous fronts, these were quickly eradicated. Stranger still, there arose a faction who believed that since Yawgmoth had been killed by Rebbec, her ways were superior to that of Phyresis.
These heretics released hordes of enslaved gremlin workers. Now believing biological beings to be superior, they allowed the Gremlins to tear them to pieces. As they died, mutated limbs, organs and mechanisms were stripped from their bodies, which they considered their only possible repentance. In death, they would return to the proper cycle and nourish Phyrexia’s natural life. The gremlins, for their part, no longer feared Yawgmoth’s wrath and now knew demons could be killed. They revolted, filled, for the first time, with the hope of freeing themselves from their oppressors whose power was visibly slipping away.
All the while, Phyrexia crumbled. The Phyrexian civil war only brought further destruction to the already gutted spheres. Ruined cities were not rebuilt; instead, their components were used to construct additional war machines. Instead of laborers and diggers, Praetors converted their forces
almost entirely into soldiers – desperately trying to defend their besieged territories. To make matters worse, Phyrexia was not a natural plane, and without Yawgmoth’s spirit to sustain it, the nine spheres were slowly unraveling.
Those spheres that had been devastated by the soul bombs of the Nine Titans were the first to be affected by this entropy. Over time, the first, second, third, fourth and fifth spheres gradually vanished into the Aether. This only made the warring factions more desperate. Whomever arose through their conflict would attain the same power as Yawgmoth possessed – or greater. Only then could they bring stability to their world once more.
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Abcal-Dro alone recognized the futility of it all. Phyrexia would rise again, but it would not be here. Phyrexia could progress no further here; Yawgmoth had done the best he could with a world possessing only black mana. Their foes on Dominaria had not prevailed through superior biology, technology, physical resources or battle tactics. They prevailed because they could draw upon all five colors of mana, combine them and wield them in ways Phyrexia had never anticipated.
They had evolved faster than even Phyrexia could adapt in its current incarnation. To progress, the Phyrexians must shed their old world and their old dogmas. They must evolve to integrate all five colors of mana; only then will nothing be beyond their grasp. It was not impossible, for even on Dominaria species evolved in every conceivable mana environment. He understood quite clearly that to unite the multiverse all must be made one.
A few of the gremlins managed to slip through Abcal-Dro’s magical assault, rushing brazenly toward the towering mass of bulbous flesh that was the Praetor. His unconventional anatomy had been designed to maximize the mutagenic properties of the glistening oil. Most Inner Circle members had completely replaced their flesh with mechanism, using the oil merely to power the various machines that had substituted for their organs. However, Abcal-Dro had been intrigued by the effects of prolonged exposure of living flesh to the substance. His horrific form was the result of 500 years of mutation.
Its first evolutionary advantage was demonstrated as the gremlins raked their claws across him. No sooner did their dirty fingernails tear rivets in his body then they healed shut due to the oil’s rejuvenating properties. Next, formless blobs extended themselves and solidified into tendrils, constricting and crushing Gremlins with wet pops. Others stabbed out as a forest of impaling barbs, tearing through lungs and boring through skulls. While other Inner Circle members selected their favorite weapons to incorporate into their designs, Abcal-Dro could shape any that he wished on a whim – a design he also incorporated into the Evincar Volrath.
Still, for every Gremlin that Abcal-Dro slew, three more climbed up to take their place. Eventually, even he would find himself overwhelmed. The creatures soon surrounded him on all sides, inflicting wounds faster than they could heal and biting through tendrils as they extended. He could not outrun them – his gelatinous mass was not known for its speed. Instead, he would reclaim the dead gremlins as his servants.
Abcal-Dro released an explosion of black mana from all sides, instantly snuffing the life of those Gremlins within its radius. Moments later, they and all those killed earlier by the Praetor rose as a horde of shuffling zombies. With entrails dragging from their opened bellies and shards of bone jutting like spines from their broken forms, they turned on their brethren. They too would eventually be destroyed, but they would buy him the few, precious moments he needed to make his escape. Once he reached the portal, he would leave this dying world behind forever.
Abcal-Dro slithered his hideous mass into a high vaulted hall, pulling a lever which caused a great, gear-like door to roll into place on a track and bar the way. The gremlins would break through eventually with battering rams, but by then he would be long gone. The palace had been designed to his exact specifications; with halls supported by structures resembling a metallic rib cage and walls of pulsating flesh stretched tightly over “veins” of cables beneath. The doors resembled the circular mouths of lampreys, filled with rows of metal fangs. Abcal-Dro could will them to gnash down on any would-be transgressor or retract their teeth to admit guests.
Abcal-Dro preferred to pass from room to room by seeping his body through the pores of the fleshy walls. The architecture was tailored to his anatomy and in here he could move about far more easily than his more solid peers. Those attempting to hack their way through would find themselves electrocuted by the cables running beneath. Casually, the Praetor oozed his way toward a chamber inaccessible through conventional routes. There, within the literal bowels of his palace, Abcal-Dro kept his personal portal.
Abcal-Dro knew precisely upon which world he would sow the seed of a New Phyrexia: Mercadia. Phyrexia’s influence had already festered there for some time. The Overlord of the Cateran guild was a Phyrexian demon named Xarzhun and his chief enforcers were a species bred by the Evincars of Rath. Volrath had even constructed his personal invasion fleet in a subterranean hangar beneath the world’s great inverted mountain. That fleet was never deployed on Dominaria, as the hangar was destroyed by Urza’s champions and their skyship, Weatherlight.
Still, Abcal-Dro knew that this was not the only Cateran stronghold on the plane. They had almost certainly survived and were likely attempting to salvage and repair the fleet even now – unaware that the war had ended. They would make for loyal subordinates, obeying the will of a praetor unquestioningly. Their vast spy networks would allow him to subtly undermine and influence the rest of the world. Then, when the time was right, he would seize complete control.
Abcal-Dro’s inner machinations came to an abrupt halt as one of the walls behind him suddenly exploded in a rain of gore and scrap. Through the cavity emerged Croag, his glowing golden eyes locked upon Abcal-Dro as they smoldered in their sunken sockets. Upon his shoulder, the praetor touted a ray cannon large enough to have belonged to a skyship the size of Predator. “Your reign here has ended,” hissed the Lord of the Damned. “Submit before the new Father of Machines.”
A bubbling laughter was Abcal-Dro’s answer. “Submit? To one whom has already been deemed unworthy? You are nothing but discarded scrap. I am Phyrexia’s future.”
At this, Croag gnashed his metal fangs together and leveled the ray cannon at Abcal-Dro. A searing beam of red mana erupted from the barrel and raced toward Abcal-Dro. In response, the praetor rapidly shifted his form, creating an opening in his body which the beam passed harmlessly through. Instead, the ray melted through the far wall of the chamber, revealing Abcal-Dro’s sanctum and the waiting portal beyond. “So, that is your plan,” Croag taunted as his skeletal grin widened “To flee like fearful prey from the grand melee and reign over some backwater world?”
Croag then set his sights on the portal, but before he could fire, Abcal-Dro quickly lashed out. The praetor fired off several globules of his own body like projectiles. Croag’s metal bands rapidly swatted aside those aimed at his body. However, these had been but a distraction. One glob splashed into the barrel of the ray cannon and from there began to digest itself, secreting a highly corrosive acid.
Sneering, Croag tossed aside the ruined weapon and pounced at Abcal-Dro like a jungle cat. Bands from Croag’s cloak darted out, slashing wildly and effortlessly cleaving through the fleshly barbs and
tendrils that emerged from Abcal-Dro’s body as a defense. Then, one of them struck true, puncturing into Abcal-dro’s body and recoiling with one of Abcal-Dro’s numerous powerstone ‘organs’ in its grasp. The band then constricted around it, shattering it with a flash of black energies into a fine powder. As Abcal-Dro pulled his great mass back away from Croag, a portion of him sloughed free, collapsing de-animated into an oily pool between them.
“No matter how you alter your flesh, it is still inferior to my metal body,” Croag boasted, advancing to close the gap between them. “Your flawed design is unworthy.” With that, Croag’s cloak appeared to further unwind itself, doubling the number of slashing barbs that danced around him. He would not allow Abcal-Dro to retreat, or the time to mount a counterattack. In the fraction of a second that it took Abcal-Dro to form a weapon, Croag had already severed the appendage and stabbed in at the gap with another snaking blade.
This was the advantage of having a single, stable form, thought Croag - his weapons were always at the ready. One by one, powerstones are plucked from Abcal-Dro and crushed in his grasp. He would continue to diminish the Praetor until all that remained of him was a greasy stain on the floor. His victory was inevitable. Or, so he thought.
As Croag’s bands recoiled from Abcal-Dro, many of them suddenly crumbled apart. Croag took several steps back in shock, noticing that all of his bands showed signs of acid scouring. Knowing that he could not defend against Croag’s speed, Abcal-Dro had begun to digest portions of his body that he knew would soon be lost anyway. Croag was equally caught off-guard as snaking tendrils of oozing flesh rose up from the floor to snare his legs, forcing him to his knees. Additional tendrils then rose up to constrict around his arms.
Again came Abcal-Dro’s bubbling laughter. “Did you think all of those powerstones were crucial organs?” the Praetor taunted. “Several of them were simply minor stones, to act as decoys. When you crushed them, I allowed you to believe you were destroying parts of my body so that you would step into my ‘lifeless’ ooze. You took the bait and fell right into my trap.”
Although his body had been reduced to nearly half of its size, Abcal-Dro still towered above the kneeling Croag. Screaming in fury, Croag struggled to pull himself free, but it was too late. The pool of flesh beneath him began to hiss and sizzle as it slowly digested itself into a river of acid. The tendrils restraining Croag would be the last to dissolve, after they had pulled him down to lie face-down in the corrosive substance. Tendrils of half-digested flesh then bound themselves around Croag’s torso and his neck to seal his fate.
Croag’s every nerve burned with pain, but it was a sensation to which he had grown accustomed during his time in the seventh circle. Where most beings would be rendered helpless as their deaths closed in – Croag spat forth a final curse. He would release every bit of his remaining life energy as a great cloud of black mana. If he was to perish, he would take Abcal-Dro with him. Where it touched them, the fleshy walls of the chamber rotted away, with even the metal supports rusting and collapsing upon themselves.
Were it not for his reduced size, Abcal-Dro would have been unable to slither away from the killing cloud. Even still, much of his flesh was devoured by the time he activated the portal. Gushing like a punctured artery, Abcal-Dro jettisoned his remaining mass and most vital organs through the gate. Moments later, the portal was destroyed. Soon after, all of Phyrexia followed.
Unbeknownst to the Inner Circle, the eighth and ninth spheres had already given way to entropy. Oblivion closed in upon the warring demons from above and below. The mechanical hell which had plagued the multiverse for eons disintegrated without a trace.
Chapter 2: Island Sanctuary
Although Dominaria’s defenders had, against all odds, achieved their hard-fought victory, the Phyrexian Invasion would scar their world forever more. Those kingdoms that had not been utterly destroyed were left to rebuild with mere fractions of their original populations. Much of the land had been despoiled by Phyrexian plagues or buried beneath the scabrous hulls of war ships, oozing mana batteries and twisted bio-mechanical limbs. In most cases, it was deemed too dangerous and laborious to remove them and so they lay as grisly war memorials. Meanwhile, survivors scraped whatever sustenance they could from soil that had just a few years ago risen up under Yawgmoth’s bidding to slay them.
Yet, rumors began to circulate of an island that had somehow escaped devastation – where civilization could rise again. Ancient legends referred to it as Otaria, the home of the Numena, the group of mighty wizards responsible for sealing the Primeval dragons. It was said that before they died, the Numena concealed their kingdoms beneath a veil of enchantment that would protect their lands in case the dragons ever broke free. The spell would be broken only when the dragons were destroyed once and for all. Having awoken during the Phyrexian Invasion for an ill-timed bid at global domination, the dragons indeed met their final end at Yawgmoth’s hands.
Most dismissed it as a false hope, but a brave few dedicated themselves to discovering the island.
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Sisay stood at the helm of Victory, her chestnut eyes staring out at the crashing waves as her long, braided ponytail whipped in the wind. Strong hands gripped the wheel as it fought to stay on its easterly course, straining well-muscled arms. Hundreds of huddled bodies sat amidships, dressed in tattered rags and cloaks. The great sailing ship was filled to capacity, carrying with it survivors from the Bay of Pearls to Zerapa. For most of them; there had been no home left to return to, so they decided to place their fates within the hands of the former Captain of Weatherlight
Who better to deliver them to salvation than the greatest heroes of the age? They, who drove their prow into the very heart of Yawgmoth himself to strike down the dark god? Sisay, along with the Samite Master Orim, the Talruum Champion Tahngarth and even the unlikely goblin hero Squee were living legends throughout Dominaria. However, there were many among the former skyship crew who appeared now only as memories, phantoms in the mist. Sisay could still see them all: Rofellos, Mirri, Hanna, Gerrard and so many more had given their lives so that others may live.
Even Crovax and Ertai, who had become consumed by Phyrexia’s evil, Sisay remembered them as the heroes they once were. Karn, the silver golem, had somehow acquired Urza’s planeswalker’s spark. No longer an artifact creature, though he had always been so much more in her eyes, Karn was now truly alive and free to walk the countless worlds of the multiverse for all eternity. She hoped to see him again, at least once, before her time passed. Perhaps most of all, Sisay missed Weatherlight herself.
When she stood, as he did now, at Weatherlight’s wheel, she had felt at one with the ship. As she soared and dove through the heavens, she could not help but shake the feeling that Weatherlight shared her joy. It was as though the ship had been alive, learning as she learned until piloting her became second nature. These suspicions were confirmed as Weatherlight awoke with a mind, soul and voice of her own – only to sacrifice herself to destroy the Lord of Wastes. Now her bones lay in some fathomless ocean grave. There would never again be another ship like her.
Sisay was roused from her thoughts by the feeling of a strong hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
“I miss them too,” said a deep, strong, but sorrowful voice. “They feast now in the halls of Torahn and one day we too shall join them. But for now, we have won our victory and our right to live. Let us make the most of that time, they would want it that way.” Sisay closes her eyes for a moment as she regains her strength, fighting back the tears forming in their corners.
As she re-opens her eyes, she looks over her shoulder with a faint smile at the towering form of Tahngarth. The Talruum Minotaur, like her, had once been a prisoner in the dungeons of Rath’s Stronghold. Once proud and vain, his form had been twisted by a Phyrexian mutation ray, bleaching parts of his fur white and causing a bony crest to emerge from his brow. Broken at first by this “hideous” deformity, his crewmembers had been there to steel his spirits. Tempered by an inner fire, he fought on to claim his vengeance and cleave his double-bladed striva through the tendrils of Yawgmoth himself.
Sisay had always harbored affection for him, ever since they first met. Weatherlight had crash landed in his village after an attack by a volcanic dragon. The punishment for intruders was death, and the village elders cared little that the ship’s crew had no choice in the matter. Her sword arm broken, Sisay was still prepared to fight to protect her comrades. This valor had earned her Tahngarth’s great respect and he offered to take her place in the trial by combat. Although physically outmatched, Tahngarth had prevailed by use of unorthodox techniques that proved to Sisay he was far more than just a dumb brute.
Sisay had never spoken of her feelings aboard Weatherlight. Although Gerrard and Hanna had shared a deep love, Sisay convinced herself that it would only distract from their mission. Perhaps it was because she was the product of Urza’s Bloodlines experiment, a selective breeding program which ensured that she came to possess all the qualities of a hero – including self-sacrifice. However, with the war won and their destiny fulfilled, there had been no more reason to hold back. One night, she confessed her love and found, much to her joy, that Tahngarth shared it.
Tahngarth’s other arm wrapped gently around her waist as he cradled her body against him. Without a word, Sisay leans her cheek against his powerful bicep, warming her face from the cold wind. Her eyes then scan the decks, looking for Orim. She soon spotted her turban and coin coiffed hair as she moved among the refugees. The Samite healer was passing out roots and herbs to help control fever and sea sickness.
Sisay knew that Orim's heart too was filled with sadness; not only for those lost but those left behind. During their adventures on Mercadia, she had fallen in love with the Cho-Arrim leader, Cho-Mano, who led his people in a rebellion to overthrow the corrupt Magistrate. It had always been her intention to return to Mercadia after the war. Karn had brought her there following the ceremony at the Martyr's Tomb in Urborg but her duties as a healer meant that she could not remain. She had informed Cho-Manno of their victory, but that there was still much work to be done on Dominaria.
They had enjoyed one night together under the stars in the Navel of the World which Orim hoped would last forever. Then, they parted again, the second time even more painful than the first. After returning her home, Karn promised that he would check back on her and that when her work was done he would reunite her once more with Cho-Manno. Years had passed since that day and Orim wondered if Cho-Manno believed she would even return. After this mission, Sisay had promised they would travel to what remained of Llanowar in search of Freyalise — hoping that she would remember Orim's discovering the cure for the Phyrexian plague. For now, Orim considered it her duty to come to the aid of other survivors in need. For Sisay and Tahngarth, it granted them a sense of purpose again. Although it wasn’t as grand as being the keepers of The Legacy, it was perhaps just as crucial to the survival of their world.
Sisay’s silence was broken as another thought entered her mind.
“What about Squee?” she asked. The goblin had not aged a day since he had been granted immortality by Yawgmoth. The dark god had intended for him to become Crovax’s plaything; allowing the Evincar to kill him again and again only for his body to re-assemble itself from any mutilation inflicted. Through Squee, the vampire could feed upon an unending pool of life force; allowing him to increase his strength indefinitely. Fortunately for Squee, his comrades had rescued him from this fate and Gerrard laid the monster Crovax had become to rest forever.
Squee had probably “died” a half-dozen times since then, proving that Yawgmoth’s spell had not been broken with his death. Sisay wondered if Squee would one day come to consider it a curse. He would live to see everyone he ever loved slowly age around him and then die, leaving him all alone. If the afterlife Tahngarth spoke of did exist, then Squee was forever barred from its doors. His soul would never find peace or rest.
Looking down at Sisay, Tahngarth says hopefully “Maybe the spell will wear off over time. Or, perhaps, Torahn will grant him mercy when the time comes.” He then chuckles heartily and says “In the meantime, we’ll just have to put up with the immortal nuisance.” Tahngarth had developed a grudging respect for Squee over the course of their adventures. He had proven himself to be loyal and a crack shot with a cannon, but he was still not without his “charms.”
Tahngarth had barely finished the thought when the sound of the goblin retching could be heard from the crow’s nest. Moments later, goblin vomit splashed down atop Tahngarth’s horns. Quickly letting go of Sisay, Tahngarth swore loudly and repeatedly in minotaur as he ran for the nearest swab bucket. “DAMN YOU,” Tahngarth shouted in the common tongue as he dumped the soapy water onto his head and feverishly scrubbed with a towel. “I THOUGHT YOU’D LEARNED TO AIM!”
“ORIM!” Squee’s ear-piercing voice then shouted down from above. The goblin’s green fingers clutched the edge of the wooden bucket in which he sat with one hand while the other gripped a spyglass. If there was one thing that most historians agreed on, it was that goblins made exceptionally poor sailors. This fact had been known since the fall of the Sarpadian Empires, yet Squee wasn’t about to be left behind. Besides, for all his faults, he did have keen eyes.
“Oh come on Squee, you’ll live!” Sisay joked, her mood now much improved. “Dat’s not funny!” Squee shouted back down. “I can still suffer ya know! Member I saved all yer butts from Volrath!” Squee would never let them forget how he had been the one to shoot down Volrath’s ship, Recreant, during the final battle on Mercadia - or how he had single-handedly defeated the corrupted Ertai, who had become Crovax’s archmage.
The latter Squee had achieved by complete accident. He had been killed so many times that he was in a state of delirium, unsure if he was alive or dead. Ertai had gone to recharge his spells having used them all up trying to find one that would make Squee stay dead. Squee had simply tripped into the controls of Ertai’s Rejuvenation Chamber, accidently frying him. Of course, the rest of them didn’t need to know that.
Eventually, after tending to her mortal patients, Orim climbed the rigging to deliver the reviving medicine to Squee. It was the third time she was doing so today.
“You really need to get your sea legs,” Orim said as Squee forced himself to chew the tough, foul-tasting roots. “BLEH!” Squee gagged after forcing himself to swallow. “Don’t you gots any that tastes like centipedes or maybe a nice dragon fly?” Squee complained.
“There’s plenty of bugs below deck,” said Orim. “You should get on them before they get into much more of the rations.”
“Squee is tired of maggots and weevils,” the goblin protested, crossing his arms. “Dats tha only bugs they got on dis ship. I miss Weatherlight, ya didn’t have ta wait foreva to gets from place ta place.”
“We all miss Weatherlight,” Orim began, her reply cut short as Squee suddenly started up, fixing his spyglass to his eye.
“What do you see?” Orim asked.
“Squee thinks…Squee things he see land! LAND HO!”
Squee’s cries quickly roused the rest of the sea weary crew who all rushed to the prow of the vessel to get a closer look. Sure enough, emerging through the mist and growing steadily larger in the distance was a large, grey protrusion dotted with what appeared to be a jagged mountain range.
“Is that it, is that Otaria?” asked Sisay.
The answer came swiftly when what had appeared to be a land mass suddenly heaved and rose above the waves, revealing the beaked head of a Dreamwinder serpent. A long tongue lashed the air between its great maw and long spines ran along its great length. Few sailors had ventured this far east of Jamurra, but those few who had had brought with them legends of this beast. It was able to channel the blue mana of its environment to wreath itself in illusions to lure in unwary prey. Howling aggressively, the serpent cut quickly through the water, closing in.
“NOT LAND!” Squee shouted in a panic as Sisay cursed and un-sheathed her cutlass. There was no time to avoid it or to get to the cannons. “ALL HANDS, TAKE UP ARMS!” Sisay commanded as she rushed down to stand beside Tahngarth. “Ever think trouble goes out of its way to find us?” the Minotaur snorted as he raises up his striva. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew scrambled to take up spears or whatever weapons they had carried with them.
“By now trouble should know better,” Sisay replied to Tahngarth, gritting her teeth.
Then the serpent struck. Its long neck burst from the waves with a spray of seawater as it lunged for the crow’s nest.
“Not again!” squealed Squee as the Serpent snatched him up in its jaws and crushed him beneath rows of fangs as long as a man’s arm.
“LOOSE!” yelled Tahngarth as the crew hurled a hail of spears. Most bounced harmlessly off the creature’s hard scales. A few struck true, but penetrated only shallowly into the flesh beneath. To the serpent, these were little more than irritating pinpricks. It was more pre-occupied by the fact that no matter how much it chewed, there always seemed to be bones cracking like new. This served to momentarily distract the creature, giving Tahngarth opening he needed.
Sprinting across the deck, he leapt at the beast, grabbing hold of one of its spines. Then, with his free hand, he proceeded to drive his Thran metal striva deep into the creature’s body before yanking it forth with a spray of green blood. The serpent howled in pain and spat the pulped remains of Squee back out onto the deck. Moments later, the mass of splintered bones and torn muscles re-assembled into a perfectly whole body. “DOES SQUEE LOOK LIKE A BAIT WORM TO YOU?!” The goblin shouted angrily.
At this, the enraged serpent swung its spine-covered head across the deck. Crew members dove for cover but some weren’t quick enough. Gore splashed across the decks from bodies sliced clean in half. Sisay nimbly dodged and thrust her blade into the creature’s eye. Again the beast howled in pain, whipping back its head and carrying Sisay along with it. She barely managed to grab hold of a horn protruding from the serpent’s head to avoid being thrown into the sea.
Meanwhile, Tahngarth continued to scale the beast. With one hand, he reached up to clutch a new spine and with the other he stabbed a fresh hole with his striva, using it like a climbing pick. Looking down at him, the serpent swept in with its razor-sharp beak. However, before its crushing jaws could close around him, Tahngarth was able to wedge his Striva between them. “A little help here!” the minotaur shouted to Sisay.
“Working on it!” Sisay shouted as she yanked her cutlass free and hung tightly on the horn with her other hand. With a grunt, she then swung her body up and onto the creature’s forehead. Wrapping her legs tightly around sections of armored plating, she drew up her cutlass, gripping it in both hands. Then, thrusting down with all of her strength, she drove the thran-metal blade effortlessly through the serpent’s thick skull. Cold metal pierced brain and the serpent gave one final death wail before crashing lifelessly back into the sea.
The crew watched in awe at this heroic triumph. Cheers erupted across the deck as Sisay and Tahngarth surfaced, gasping for breath and treading water. Ropes were quickly thrown over the side as the crew pulled them in.
After Orim had tended to the injured, the dead were buried at sea. While those lost would be mourned, the crew knew well that had it not been for the efforts of Sisay and Tahngarth, far more would have perished. The rest of the voyage continued without incident and a few days later, Victory reached the shores of Otaria.
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The crew was greeted at the southern shore of Otaria by a group of humans and bird-headed aven dressed in improvised armor, bound together from the grasses of their homeland, the Daru plains. They introduced themselves simply as The Order, a group of nomadic clerics and warriors which had forsaken artifice and revered their ancestors. It soon became apparent that they had little contact with the outside world since the days of the Numena. Thus, The Order was eager to hear what had transpired in the lands beyond the sea. Sisay, Squee, Tahngarth and the refugees were welcomed to enjoy a feast at one of their encampments and share stories around the fire.
From the crew, the order learned of the horrors of the Phyrexian invasion, which only served to reinforce their fear of machines. So too, did they learn the plight of those now struggling to survive in a ruined world. The heads of the order welcomed the refugees with open arms and told Sisay to spread word of Otaria. The Order would welcome any who wished to start a new life among them so long as they respected their ways. For those who could not, there were many other lands which might serve as a new home.
From the order, the crew learned of the cephalid and merfolk empires beneath the waves, of the wizards of Balshan Bay and the goblins, dwarves and human barbarians inhabiting the Pardic Mountains. They learned too of the forests of Krosa and Wirewood, which teemed with life, from centaurs to the insect-like nantuko to human druids dedicated to preserving the balance of nature. They also learned of the greedy Cabal of mages who governed the city of Aphetto and its gladiatorial arena. There would be a place for settlers from all walks of life here. While part of her wanted to remain with Tahngarth and forge a new life, Sisay did not forget her promise to Orim.
Chapter 3: Word of Command
The rampart crawler slithered through the depths of the subterranean hangar, its coils nimbly weaving themselves through piles of debris. The wreckage of Phyrexian warships and corpses had buried most passages, making them inaccessible to all but its species. Its masters has commanded it to investigate the former lower docks, looking for in-tact power stones or other pieces of technology which may still hold value. Since the defeat of Volrath and the rise of Cho-Manno and his council, the Cateran Guild had been outlawed in most civilized lands. However, there were still those who sought the illicit services and dark power they provided.
The recovery efforts were moving along slowly. The Kyren goblins had abandoned them, holding no particular loyalty to the Evincar’s cause - only power. They believed that their return to prominent status was best facilitated by working with the new regime, for the time being. However, they knew better than to outright betray the fact that the Caterans had survived – lest they find a knife plunged into in their backs. Not even the lofty tower of the magistrate was beyond their reach.
The serpentine mercenary comes to an abrupt halt as a flash of hellish red light appears at the end of the tunnel. Along with it, came the pungent odor of smoke and oil. The rampart crawler recognized this as a portal belonging to the dark overseers. They had been surprisingly absent for the past few years, but it still knew to show them the utmost loyalty. Saluting, it hisses “Glory to The Hidden One!”
This was its last thought as a gelatinous ooze suddenly surged forth, washing over and digesting it, flesh, bone and all. Moment later, Abcal-Dro rose from the ground-reconstituting himself into a slumped, vaguely humanoid form. “More…more flesh, I need more….” The praetor groans as he sets about in search of more victims to regenerate his diminished body. The battle with Croag had left him significantly weakened. He would need to become much more powerful if he were to seize control of the guild.
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Xarzhun rose from his throne, which had been fashioned from the bones of slain enemies. His four eyes, black as pitch narrowed at the sight of the enforcer running panicked into his sanctum. The creature’s four arms had been digested up to the elbows. “Master!” the previously formidable horror hissed, desperately clicking its insect-like mandibles. “It’s coming; there’s no stopping it! It has already devoured all of my forces!”
Xarzhun had once been much like the being which stood before him – until his machinations placed him at the head of the guild. Volrath had then rewarded him with numerous enhancements. His skin, formerly green and mottled had become a pallid grey and his two, beady red eyes had been replaced by four that could see in all visible energy spectrums. Several of his organs had been replaced by more efficient machines and his brain had expanded tremendously into an elongated, spine covered skull that curved down the length of his back. In addition, he was gifted wickedly engineered powerstone scythe forged in Phyrexia’s furnaces, which he now gripped tightly in two of his four claws.
“Let it come,” Xarzhun growls, gnashing rows of serrated fangs together. He did not care what came through the door. No one challenged him in his own lair and lived. This creature was walking into a trap and soon it would find itself overwhelmed. Xarzhun expected the door to fly off its hinges, bashed in by some hulking beast. Instead, something black and foul oozed out from under it.
It both looked and smelled like the liquefied muscle and organs that gushed forth from a corpse left out to rot in the sun until ruptured. The horrific substance continued to flow until it formed a small lake in the throne room. Cateran soldiers whom had been flanking the doors, polearms drawn, backed quickly away. Once he had slimed his way completely out from under the door, Abcal-Dro rose, taking the form of a towering black demon. Its dripping claws resembled those missing from the enforcer and Xarzhun recognized the shape of its horns and the fang-filled maws that had formed across his body from other horrors formerly in his employ.
“Your servants are feeble and cowardly,” Abcal-Dro bellowed from multiple mouths. “I have put their biological components to greater purpose.”
“We shall see!” Xarzhun roared as his men quickly cranked winches located behind the demon’s throne. This caused sections of what had appeared to be walls to rise up, revealing prisons wherein hulking giants with slumped foreheads and long, shaggy hair waited. These were Cateran slavers, monsters capable of producing lightning bolts that could either stun escaping slaves or fry lines of enemies. Six of the creatures lumbered forth from their enclaves, turning to face Abcal-Dro as their foreheads crackled with power. Moments later, the Praetor was encircled in multiple arcs of energy, burning and scorching his foul flesh.
However, these appeared to have little more than a superficial effect as the Praetor’s rubbery flesh acted largely as insulation against it. Any damage to his hide was quickly regenerated. Abcal-Dro continued to advance, using his claws to grab two of the giants by the throats and hoist the several-ton creatures up off their feet. As the other four rushed in, black tendrils erupted from his body and restrained them. The Cateran soldiers watched in both awe and horror as Abcal-Dro effortlessly overpowered the entire group of them.
“These beasts have their uses,” Abcal-Dro replied flatly. “I shall not destroy them.” With that, he applied enough pressure to major arteries in each of their necks, cutting off blood flow to the giants’ brains and rendering them unconscious in moments. The ground shook as each was thrown limp to the floor. While this was transpiring, Xarzhun examined his foe closely. His infrared vision revealed glowing objects throughout Abcal-Dro’s body, which had to be powerstones.
More importantly, his blood carried with it a heat signature that Xarzhun recognized as that of glistening oil. This creature was a Phyrexian – and a powerful one at that.
“Back away,” Abcal-Dro ordered his remaining men. “I shall deal with this one myself.”
With that, Xarzhun leapt from his throne and landed in a crouch before Abcal-Dro. Rising, he looked up at the praetor and asked in the Phyrexian tongue “So, have you been sent by the Inner Circle to punish me for failing to protect the fleet? For delaying the Invasion?” He knew well the consequences of failure, but he would not allow himself to be replaced so easily. If he could manage to kill an Inner Circle member, Yawgmoth would instead elevate him.
“The Inner Circle is dead and Yawgmoth along with it,” Abcal-Dro replied threateningly, sensing Xarzhun’s intentions. “I am now the Father of Machines.”
“Lies!” Xarzhun roared, lashing out with his scythe. As he did so, powerstones flashed to life within the weapon, causing the blade to emit a cloud of black plague spores. Xarzhun’s sweeping strike cleaved a great gash in Abcal-Dro’s chest and severed one of his clawed hands. Where the weapon touched, flesh rotted, causing the severed limb to dissolve before it hit the ground. Meanwhile, rivulets of decay spread from the gash in his chest.
This was a new strain of plague, one which his glistening oil blood had yet to evolve an immunity to.
That intrigued him. Xarzhun, meanwhile, leapt back away from the Praetor, watching the infection’s handiwork as more and more of Abcal-Dro’s flesh was fouled.
“The Father of Machines?” he laughed. “I think not. The Father of Machines would not be overcome so easily. You are beaten. Tell me who sent you and I will end your misery.”
At this, came Abcal-Dro’s bubbling laughter. “You presume much.” His body then swelled, gathering his infected flesh into a great pustule and isolating it from his main mass. Moments later, this glob was fired as a projectile at Xarzhun. Xarzhun was quick, but not quick enough to evade it completely. Some of the dissolving flesh splashed onto one of his backwards-bending legs.
Abcal-Dro expected the Cateran Overlord to find himself inflicted with his own infection but he seemed strangely immune.
“It is you who presume,” Xarzhun said as he then began to circle the Praetor. “You didn’t think I would wield a weapon that could be so easily turned against me, did you? This was a new strain of plague, bred in secret here on Mercadia by Volrath. It was to be a contingency in case his masters ever betrayed him. He infused his most loyal servants with mutated glistening oil that granted us immunity.”
Gears on the head of the scythe then rotated back, shifting the blade along with it and transforming it into a polearm. This re-configured weapon would allow him to keep his distance and strike while making use of his superior speed. Xarzhun then thrusted forth his two free hands, his fingers weaving dark spells. The next moment, an ear-piecing wail filled the room and the ghostly illusion of a specter appeared before the Praetor. The spell was meant to assault the senses and disorient foes and it appeared to take effect.
The Praetor’s bipedal body began to melt back into a shapeless ooze as his ability to concentrate on maintaining the form slipped. This gave Xarzhun the opening he was looking for. Gripping the polearm tightly, the Cateran Overlord lunged in, attempting to skewer one of the glowing objects inside Abcal-Dro’s body with a mighty thrust. Instead, Abcal-Dro parried the strike, lashing it aside with tendrils that then proceeded to constrict themselves around the shaft of the weapon. With a swift, wrenching motion, the scythe head which contained the plague sack was torn free.
At the same time, another tendril lashed out at Xarzhun’s head. The Praetor stuck true, sending the Cateran guild master skidding back on his clawed feet and sending up a spray of sparks. Xarzhun then crouched over and shrieked in agony as a trail of slime left behind on his face began to digest itself. The acid was eating through his lower set of eyes. Soon, it would reach his brain.
“Master!” the crippled Cateran enforcer cries out, rushing over to aid Xarzhun. In return, Xarzhun grasped his subordinate by his head and sank his claws deep into his skull. The enforcer’s struggle was brief and futile as its body shriveled into a lifeless husk. Abcal-Dro watched with amusement as tissues were assimilated into the demon’s body, regenerating his face completely. Panting, but healed, Xarzhun then tossed aside the corpse of his former servant.
“Impressive, I may have use for you after all,” Abcal-Dro concluded. “I have no desire to continue this struggle; your death would come only after you had consumed all of your subordinates, leaving me with little of value. I have come to aid you in forging a new Phyrexia. What I said was true, Yawgmoth has been killed – by the very people who destroyed your fleet.” Abcal-Dro, unlike many of his former peers believed that it was The Legacy which destroyed Yawgmoth and not some goddess of Dominaria – he refused to believe that nature could be superior to Phyresis.
At this, Xarzhun tossed aside the haft of his broken weapon. “So, The Legacy was every bit as powerful as Volrath had believed,” he replies. “In truth, Volrath had never intended to hand it over to Yawgmoth. He had hoped to steal Urza’s secret weapon for himself. Then, with its power, he could achieve the title which you now claim.”
“That explains why he chose to pursue his personal revenge and neglect his station as Evincar of Rath,” Abcal-Dro muses. “Volrath was punished severely for failing in his duties and was replaced by another, more loyal Evincar to lead the invasion.”
“So then, the invasion failed?” asked Xarzhun. “Urza has triumphed?”
“At great cost,” Abcal-Dro replied. “Although Phyrexia is lost, The Legacy was destroyed in the final battle and Urza along with it. If we could rise again, there would be no one left to stop us. Our defeat in the war has revealed to me weaknesses which Yawgmoth did not anticipate. I believe the key to correcting those weaknesses lies in your blood.”
“My blood?” the Cateran Overlord questioned skeptically.
“Yes, your blood contains the first mutation ever witnessed in the glistening oil itself,” the Praetor replied. “It shows that it can adapt to new environments and improve. This plague that Volrath concocted in your weapon, it was created from elements found on this plane, yes? I’m sure of it, for he would have known that his masters could defend against anything found on Phyrexia. Volrath, for all of his arrogance, was wise enough to know that.”
“Yes,” Xarzhun replied. “It is equal parts Deepwood ghoul fever, the white ichor of the Saprazzan seas, creeping filth of Mercadia city-”
“Diseases evolved from a multitude of mana environments, as I suspected,” finishes the Praetor. “If the glistening oil can evolve to grant a body immunity to this disease, perhaps it can also allow the body to act as a host all while remaining unharmed. Then, perhaps, the disease itself can be modified to spread not only itself but the glistening oil through the body. Yes, the resulting infection would gradually eat away the weak parts of the body and leave behind only those infused with the oil. In effect, this new organism would transform those infected into a new breed of Phyrexians, born in environments suffused with all five colors of mana.”
“You believe you can achieve this?” asked Xarzhun, now seduced by Abcal-Dro’s vision.
“It is my destiny to achieve this,” replied Abcal-Dro. “I shall be the seed from which springs a New Phyrexia. This world is ripe for the harvesting and through your resources we shall do so. We shall begin by reconstructing Volrath’s fleet; nothing on this world is capable of defending against it. We shall crawl back from the brink of oblivion and claim our revenge!”
“Hail Abcal-Dro, Father of Machines!” Xarzhun cheered in the common tongue. Initially perplexed, the Cateran soldiers, quickly raised their spears and echoed the chant. They believed that to survive they must align themselves with this new regime. However, Abcal-Dro had already deemed their biological bodies insufficient to accomplish the task of rebuilding. They hailed their destroyer.
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Those laboring in the subterranean hangar were driven harder than ever before. It was Abcal-Dro’s method of culling the weak from their ranks. Slavers, enforcers and other horrors survived the strain. However, many of the humans and crawlers were worked until their bodies broke. However, this did not grant them rest; death was no excuse to stop working.
The Praetor employed his necromantic talents to raise the dead as tireless zombies. Those who proved themselves to possess exceptional strength, will or endurance were rewarded with salvaged Phyrexian limbs and infusions of glistening oil. There was only one way to keep one’s humanity and remain alive – to provide replacement slave labor. Caterans who possessed little physical ability but strong underworld connections were spared the labor camps. Abcal-Dro would allow them this luxury, for now, but ultimately they too would become Phyrexians.
Abcal-Dro used these corrupt, bloated puppets to spread lies and propaganda throughout the plane. Whispers also spread in dark alleys and illicit meetinghouses of beings who offered power and immortality. Those who pursued the rumors met with several intermediaries before meeting any official members of the Cateran Guild. These pawns were paid to issue edicts, tests by which to assess to what lengths potential recruits would go to in pursuit of personal power. The darker the deed, the closer they came to the truth.
This was also a means of screening out those too cowardly or too filled with useless notions of morality to be of use. Any who sought to turn back disappeared – either murdered or pressed into slave labor in the hangar. By the time one was officially inducted into the guild, they were hardened mass murderers, abductors and thieves. However, only those who could commit these crimes without being caught were considered. Those careless enough to risk exposure were dealt with long before they fell into the law’s hands.
Throughout the long initiation, Phyrexian ideals were imprinted in the minds of recruits. They would ascend by conquering the weak and proving themselves superior life forms. They were stripped of all empathy and filled instead with cold ambition. Initiates themselves became intermediaries to guide others along their path, teaching them how to manage subordinates and sow corruption wherever they went. They were also taught obedience, but only until the opportunity to overthrow their betters presented itself.
One of the later missions always called for the assassinations of a higher ranking initiate. When a lower-level initiate succeeded, they assumed the deceased’s position. This taught them that they would be replaced if ever they proved too weak to be worthy of their station. It also warned them to be wary of their own subordinates and to anticipate and plan for betrayal. Only when an initiate had assassinated one of their superiors and fended off an attempt on their own lives were they inducted as full guild members.
This system weeded out all but the most skilled and ruthless assassins. By the time they learned of their Phyrexian masters, they readily accepted Abcal-Dro’s gifts. Under the leadership of the new Father of Machines, the Cateran Guild became more of a threat than ever before to Cho-Manno’s governance. The guards were powerless to stop the sudden rash of disappearances and thievery throughout the world. All trails turned up cold.
Many suspected the Cateran Guild, but could find no hard evidence that they even still existed. As a result, the public’s confidence in Cho-Manno gradually began to falter. Worse still, there were those that sought scapegoats for the crimes. Kyren goblins, the former nobility under the magistrate, were often the first blamed. Despite Cho-Manno’s best efforts to contain the violence, goblins still turned up beaten, lynched and burned alive.
These incidents sowed great fear in the goblin community. Cho-Manno assured them that the criminals would be brought to justice and that the violence would end. However, there were those that sought additional insurance. Many turned to paying the Cateran Guild for protection. Some Kyren even aligned themselves directly with the Phyrexians once more.
Chapter 4: Balance
Much had changed in Mercadia City since Cho-Manno’s revolution and the climactic duel between the god of creation, Ramos, and the god of destruction, Orhop. Or, this is at least how the people of Mercadia viewed the battle between Weatherlight and Volrath’s personal skyship, Recreant. The fall of Mercadia’s aristocracy had, at first, led to the underclass carrying out brutal vengeance in the streets. Kyren goblins and wealthy merchant lords were dragged from their homes to become victims of mob justice. It was only the word of Cho-Manno, urging the victorious rebels not to allow themselves to become the very oppression they sought to destroy, that restored the peace.
However, that peace was fragile. Representatives from each district and each faction were invited to form a council and hold talks around a grand table. Each was allowed to voice their vision for a better city and a better world. The debates raged for weeks into months into years, as those who had been historically without power demanded more and those who had possessed power did not want to relinquish it all. To prevent more bloodshed, a balance had to be found and thus Cho-Manno dedicated himself to reforms intended for the benefit of all.
The towering walls of rotting food and feces cluttering the base of the mountain were sown into fields. Cho-Arrim water magic brought new life to formerly barren dessert, creating farmlands around which sprang small villages – decluttering the city. Rather than travel by dust storm, which had been a filthy business to begin with and which had caused the destruction of the land, a network of rivers through these villages carried sailing ships that could be propelled by far gentler wind magic. Mercadia City’s streets which had been maze-like, filled with dead ends and detours to prevent the rabble from easily accessing the tower of the Magistrate, were re-designed into a simple grid. With greater access to the entire city came more competition, with businesses naturally rising and falling due to customer demand, no longer able to literally crowd out competitors.
Though many of these reforms had been hard fought, they earned Cho-Manno, by and large, the respect of Mercadia’s peoples. States whom had once distanced themselves from the capitol, such as Saprazzo and Rishada, now traded freely with their neighbors.
This had been the world Cho-Manno showed Orim during their all too brief re-union. However, it was now on the verge of unraveling once again.
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Orim knelt now with Sisay, Tahngarth and Squee in the heart of Llanowar. There was a time when outsiders suffered one bone broken for every twig snapped underfoot. However, Freyalise remembered all too well the miracle cure Orim had concocted that saved countless elves from Phyrexian plagues. She remembered too the moment when, as they stood in their ancestral treetop villages waiting for death to descend, the light of the Legacy purged Yawgmoth’s blackness from the world forever. Nor, would Freyalise forget the discovery of Otaria, which granted a chance at a new life for those whom Llanowar could no longer support.
Indeed, though Yawgmoth had been slain, his magic had infused once rich soil to transform it into mud golems. Even after the creatures had been destroyed the soil had yet to yield a harvest as fruitful as prior to its corruption. Many crops grew pale and stunted and there simply hadn’t been enough to feed everyone. Even with the magic of Freyalise and her druids, it was a slow remediation. Despite this, the grove of Freyalise remained as magnificent as ever, with abundant wildflowers, trickling brooks and air that smelled of sweet and intoxicating pollen.
The surviving members of Weatherlight’s crew had been granted an audience not with a cleric or avatar or the planeswalker, whose followers fancied her a goddess, but with Freyalise herself. She hovered before them, feet never quite touching the ground. Although she took a human form, it was lithe and graceful much like the elves who served her. She was clad in great robes, woven of moss and leaves, and her closely shorn brown hair was perpetually windblown. Her beautiful but stern countenance was marked by an eyepatch – a wound which she could have easily healed millennia ago but which she kept as a reminder of her mortal self.
“So, is it true then, that you wish to depart from this world?” asked Freyalise. “You are perhaps some of the few mortals who have experienced the luxury of Planeswalking. Most never know of the realms that lie beyond that of their birth. However, know that should you find a way to return, this world will always welcome you. Dominaria will always be your true home.”
With that, Freyalise offered a bow of respect. It was a rare gesture from one such as herself.
“You may rise,” said Freyalise, a slight smile of gratitude forming upon her lips.
“It is true,” Orim replied as she and her comrades took to their feet. “Our journeys have taken us to many lands beyond that of our birth. In one of those lands, the plane of Mercadia, I met a man named Cho-Manno who has become very dear to me. He showed me the beauty of the natural world and how to live at one with it. His people, the Cho-Arrim, work to heal their world just as you work to heal Llanowar and I wish to aid him in doing so.”
Love was an emotion that Freyalise had deadened her heart to long ago. It had been the betrayal of her childhood friend from her mortal life, Jason Carthalion, that prevented her from ever again opening her heart to love. The evil Planeswalker Tevesh Szat had poisoned her against him and it had been he that stabbed out her eye – activating her planeswalker spark on the brink of death. Still, Freyalise understood attachment all too well.
Perhaps the reason she associated herself with elves was due to their longevity. She loved the forest for the same reason; trees could seemingly live on and grow forever. As far as Planeswalkers were concerned, she was an oddity in that she never departed from her home plane for very long. Perhaps this was why she didn’t get along well with other of her kind. Too many of them saw mortals as trivial and their deaths as inconsequential to their grandiose plans – which was exactly how she had seen Urza and his chosen band of heroes until recently.
People like Orim didn’t have the luxury of eternity. Still, in their short lives, she had accomplished greater things than many Planeswalkers could ever dream. If she wished to spend what remained of her time in the arms of a lover, it was the least she could do to help. In many ways, Freyalise envied Orim. However, she would grant her this boon.
“Very well, then join hands with me,” Freyalise replies, maintaining her calm façade and showing nothing of the emotions swelling within. “I shall escort you.”
Then, their hands were linked. In the next moment, Orim and her companions found themselves transformed into leaves and vines making up her cloak. It was easier to transport them this way through the Blind Eternities between the worlds. In that void of chaotic, clashing energies and infinite possibility only Planeswalkers possessed the strength and the will to prevent themselves from being torn to pieces. Orim and her companions regained their consciousness and their bodies beneath the canopy of the Rushwood forest.
Freyalise was gone.
Shaking his head, Squee looked about in confusion.
“Anybody else feel like, for just a moment, they was scared to death of caterpillars but don’t know why?” the goblin asked.
It was especially perplexing to him because they were one of his favorite snacks.
Then, as if in answer, a great, bulbous creature came crashing its way through the tree line. It resembled a caterpillar, but was as large as a house, with mandibles large enough to snatch a man up by his waist. Tahngarth and Sisay were quick to draw their weapons and assume defensive postures. The giant caterpillar paused for a moment as it regarded them with four beady pink eyes. “Squee always gots ta open his big mouth,” the goblin cursed, looking for the quickest way to find cover.
However, Orim appeared to be unconcerned. Slowly, cautiously, she approached the creature and gently rubbed a hand along its fuzzy hide.
“You needn’t worry,” Orim said to the group, smiling. “Even at this size, they’re still herbivores. They’ll only attack you if you look like a threat.”
Nodding, Sisay sheathed her weapon and Tahngarth followed suit, slinging his striva back onto his back. Squee, for his part, leaned against a tree and began whistling nervously. There was no way it knew about all the times he probably ate its brothers, sisters and cousins. Bugs couldn’t read minds, no matter how big they got. Then again, there were those fireflies on Rath that breathed fire...
After letting Orim pet it for a bit longer, the caterpillar lay down onto the ground, coiling into a ball.
“Also, this one is nearly at the end of this stage of its life cycle; it’s about to enter metamorphosis,” said the Samite.
Before their eyes, the caterpillar appeared to die, growing still as its skin became translucent. However, as Cho-Manno had once explained to her, the giant caterpillars of Mercadia were very different than their diminutive cousins. They transformed their small bodies into a chrysalis quite rapidly and within mere moments hatched anew. The excess tissues that they left behind provided sustenance for a number of scavenging creatures. Sure enough, the hide of the former caterpillar soon split open to reveal a butterfly the size of a small hawk that soon fluttered up and away beyond their reach.
Squee couldn’t help but drool as the delicious looking morsel slipped away. Still the caterpillar hadn’t eaten him earlier, so just this once he would return the favor.
“Thanks for the biology lesson,” huffs Tahngarth, a little disappointed that he didn’t get to fight. “But where in Mercadia are we now? This forest does look somewhat familiar, but it has been a while.”
“This is the Rushwood, home of the Cho-Arrim,” Orim replied. “The last time I was here, Cho-Manno and his warriors had moved to the city. Now, mostly hunters, druids and herbalists remain.”
“You mean that stinking dung heap on the mountain?” Tahngarth replied. “Why would anyone want to live there by choice?”
“A lot has changed over the past few years,” Orim laughed. “I think you’ll find Mercadia city a lot less crowded and a lot less smelly.”
“That’s good,” Sisay chuckled back. “Because if it wasn’t, I was going to have you brew up some extra-strength anti-nausea potions before we set one foot inside.”
“Oh! Oh! Merciadia city?!” Squee squealed excitedly. “I’s been savin’ dat fancy coat from last time! With that, Squee hastily opened his pack and pulled forth the great red and gold regalia that had been crumpled up inside of it. “Goblinses run tha show ‘round here!” Squee says, pulling it down over his big, floppy ears. “Without dat jerko Volrath around Squee’ll finally gets ta enjoy da perks of bein royalty.”
“Don’t get too high and mighty on us,” Tahngarth replied. “Remember goblins are only in charge here because there aren’t any minotaurs around.”
“Yeah yeah always gots to pee on my parade dontcha hornhead,” Squee said, waving off Tahngarth in an attempt at an aristocratic gesture ill-befitting the accompanying language.
“So how do we get to Mercadia city from here?” asked Sisay. “You know these woods better than all of us so you can lead the way.”
“Simple,” replies Orim. “Once we find water, follow the river south. That will lead us out and onto the plains. From there we should be able to hitch a boat ride.”
“A boat?” Sisay questioned with a raised brow.
“Like I said, a lot has changed,” Orim replied. “Cho-Arrim water magic has brought the desert new life. No more travel by dust storm, at least around these parts.”
“You know, I’m beginning to like this new Mercadia,” said Sisay with a smile.
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A few hours later, Orim, Tahngarth, Sisay and Squee emerged from Rushwood forest. Sure enough, where the river widened and emptied out into the desert, a dock had been constructed. Waiting there were potion peddlers and hunters bearing dried meats and the pelts of many savage beasts to be transformed into luxurious fur coats. As they waited for their turn to board, Sisay couldn’t help but spot several people giving odd looks at Squee. Tahngarth, for his part, was able to pick up snippets of suspicious conversation.
As Squee waved off attempts to sell him fur coats directly, a few men were questioning why a Kyren goblin was out this far from the city. “Out to stick their pointy noses into our trapping business here.” “Rushwood belongs to us, not to sneaking goblin scum.” “What’s that big one they’ve got with him?” “A Cateran monster no doubt; proves he’s up to no good.” Tahngarth’s fur bristled at that last statement and he began to reach for his weapon before a look from Sisay stayed his hand.
Tahngarth nodded. They would be ready to defend Squee if this group started trouble. However, they were likely just suspicious due to the Kyren nobility’s past affiliations and abuses.
Eventually, a sailing boat arrived and those waiting at the docks boarded. The tension in the air was palpable as the group from earlier remained to one side of the ship, glaring daggers at Squee. Sisay and Tahngarth remained close by his side, making their presence known. Squee, for his part, was practicing looking regal, inspecting his dirty and cracked nails as if they were expertly groomed. He seemed oblivious to the hostile intent of his fellow passengers.
Orim eventually decided to step forth to diffuse the situation.
“You needn’t be concerned,” Orim says to the group. “The goblin, the minotaur and the swordswoman are my allies. We mean you no harm or ill will.”
The coins in her hair identified her as one of the Cho-Arrim, which gave the antagonistic group some pause. However, it wasn’t long before their leader spoke.
“Sounds like a goblin trick to me,” sneered a blonde woman wearing a cloak comprised of the pelts of many creatures. Across her back was slung a composite bow and at her side was a sheathed longsword, which one hand rested upon. “How much did they pay you to dress up like that and be their pretty little mouthpiece?”
“Listen,” Orim replied calmly and diplomatically. “I was one of those who fought by Cho-Manno’s side to liberate Mercadia City. What I speak is the truth. Remember what Cho-Manno said, we shouldn’t let ourselves become the very oppressors we opposed.”
“Cho-Manno be damned,” the woman snarled dismissively. “He asked us to show mercy on those sniveling pigs and look where it got us. They only pretended to accept his rule – but people continue to go missing. Merchants, like myself, continue to be robbed blind. He should have let us kill all of the green skinned bastards when we had the chance!”
The woman then drew her sword, as did half a dozen others that were with her. At this, Orim and Squee stepped back as Sisay and Tahngarth assumed defensive positions in front of them. They were outnumbered and there was little room to maneuver. However, they had faced worse odds than this. They weren’t about to go down without a fight.
“Your words are meaningless!” the blonde woman yelled, pointing accusingly at Orim. “That beast with you is all the proof we need. He’s one of those Cateran Guild monsters!”
With that, the huntress dashed in, attempting to drive her weapon into Tahngarth’s gut with both hands. Her blade was met with Sisay’s cutlass, which deftly turned it aside. Sisay then followed this up with a swift backhand strike to the woman’s nose, sending her crashing across the deck to lie at the feet of her fellow agitators.
“You…*****!” the huntress growled as she struggles to her feet, blood streaming from her nose.
“We do not wish to spill any more blood!” Tahngarh roared back, stomping his hoof. “I am not a Cateran, but a proud Minotaur of Talruum, from the plane of Dominaria! I fought for your world alongside the one you called Gerrard the Giant Killer!”
This elicited several concerned whispers from the mob. All, by now, had heard the legend of Gerrard who slew hundreds of Cateran Slavers in single combat. In truth, their group had simply avoided the altercation due to Squee posing as a Kyren noble. Gerrard was then rumored to have joined Cho-Manno in overthrowing the tyrant Volrath and his Phyrexians. However, after the battle between Ramos and Orhop he was never seen again – prompting questions of whether or not he even existed to begin with or had been a lie manufactured to inspire the rebels.
“Gerrard was nothing more than a legend,” the huntress laughed, wiping the blood from her face. “If you are who you claim to be, then where is he? Why isn’t he with you.”
“Gerrard gave his life to kill the one who created Volrath!” Tahngarth screamed furiously, causing fear to spread on the faces of the mob. “We have faced terrors far greater than you could ever imagine. We have seen the deaths of millions and destruction on a scale you couldn’t begin to fathom. Our world lies in ruin, yet we return here to aid you. The least you could do is to show some damned gratitude!”
Even the huntress appeared to be shaken by the minotaur’s passion.
Orim then stepped forth between him and Captain Sisay.
“Enough of this, we come as friends and allies,” the healer said. “I shall prove to you that we are who we say we are.”
With that, Orim closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath to calm and focus her mind. Suddenly, the currents of the river changed and wind filled the sails, propelling the boat at triple its previous speeds. The influence of Cho-Arrim water magic was unmistakable. For all the doubts she had of Cho-Mano’s efficacy, she did not believe any Cho-Arrim would ever betray him. Hanging their heads in shame, the agitators sheathed their weapons.
“My…apologies,” the blonde woman conceded.
“We shall speak with Cho-Manno,” Sisay concluded. “If what you say is true, then we will get to the bottom of it.”
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Cho-Manno stood at the entrance to the council hall which had formerly been the tower of the magistrate. Behind him awaited a Kyren goblin and the heads of several major mercantile guilds. Word had reached them of the return of Gerrard’s companions. The new leaders of the city were eager to meet these heroes of legend. For Cho-Manno himself it was more than that; a chance to reunite with old friends and his dear love and to pay proper respects for those lost.
In addition, Cho-Manno had known them to be the heralds of the god Ramos. Their coming had once restored balance to Mercaida and now, perhaps it would be found once again.
The former crew of Weatherlight received a hero’s welcome and a royal escort. Flowers were thrown at their feet. Children reached out for a chance to touch them. Guards had to hold back the adoring throngs to make way for them.
Sisay, Orim and Tahngarth waved eagerly to the beaming faces of the Mercadian populace. Even Squee, despite being shaken by their encounter on the river, joined in. However, there were few Kyren faces in the crowd waving back – save the few there to keep up appearances. To the Kyren, these were not heroes – but the ones responsible for their exile from power. It was they who swayed public opinion against them, transforming them from revered nobility to conniving traitors and scapegoats overnight – and for that they must pay.
Yes, the Kyren would soon have their revenge. The great one, the master of the deep, would see to that. Word of the return of Urza’s champions would soon reach Abcal-Dro and the Phyrexian remnant. Even more so than the Kyren, they thirsted for vengeance. Soon, they would strike and destroy all of their enemies in one fell swoop.
However, for now, the heroes remained ignorant of the plans set in motion against them.
As Orim and her companions ascended the steps of the tower, Cho-Manno and Orim broke from their respective ranks. They soon found themselves wrapped tightly in each others’ arms.
“It has been a long time,” Cho-Manno said, brushing a lock of Orim’s hair from her face.
“Too long,” Orim replied and then their lips met.
In their minds, both were transported back to their last meeting. They again found themselves at The Navel of the World, immersed in the cool waters of the Fountain of Cho. Their skin glistened in the moonlight as they became lost within each others’ eyes. There, in the sacred river of life, their bodies became one. However, Ramos had not blessed them with child, for it was not yet the time.
It still was not – though Cho-Manno could feel that it soon would be.
“The people of Mercadia hail your return,” Cho-Manno said to the group as their lips parted. “Come, join us at our table. There is much for us to discuss.”
Chapter 5: Terror
“The tunnels beneath the mountain collapsed years go,” said Cho-Manno. “There’s no way that the Cateran Guild could continue to operate from there. Our own engineers tried to clear them but the task was deemed too hazardous. De-stabilizing them any further could threaten to bring down the entire mountain. No, they must have relocated their guild hall elsewhere.”
“Uh-dat might not be trueful,” Squee replied, lifting a finger and doing his best to sound stately. “Goblins on Squee’s world live in da mountains. Dey knows how ta dig tha best hidey holes. Never get found by outsiders. Squee da one who found Volrath’s fleet last time ya know.”
“He has a point -” Sisay attempted to interject, only for the Kyren goblin to cut her off.
“My people have no loyalty to the Cateran Guild!” he pled, rising abruptly to his feet in an offended tone. “For you to insinuate as such amidst this climate of fear and persecution is both reckless and harmful to the lasting peace we are all striving to create!”
At this, Tahngarth rose from his seat and snorted “Do not accuse our captain of bigotry! We fought personally with Kyren who were loyal to the Caterans and the Phyrexians. Just because you are willing to support Cho-Manno doesn’t mean that there aren’t those among your people conspiring against him. You should want to stop them just as much as the rest of us. They’re the ones bringing your kind dishonor.”
Reluctantly, the Kyren sat back in his chair, glowering. “There is no evidence of Kyren involvement,” he stated in a far more subdued tone.
“All the same, Squee has a point,” Sisay continued. “There may yet be hidden passages that escape untrained eyes. There was far worse than Kyren conspirators and Cateran monsters in that cavern. There was an entire Phyrexian war fleet being constructed under your noses. Had we not destroyed it, nothing on your world could have stood against that kind of firepower – we watched countless nations on our own world fall before them.”
“If there are Phyrexian survivors, they may not know of their defeat on Dominaria,” Orim added. “They are extremely tenacious foes. They will not quit until they are destroyed completely. On our world, a small handful of them was able to entrench themselves on an island called Tolaria. The infestation grew until an army was laying siege to it.”
“You have told me in great detail the damage that these Phyrexians caused,” Cho-Manno replied, his hands folded in solemn contemplation. “So you believe that a Phyrexian remnant may be pulling the strings of the Cateran Guild?”
“The Tolarian Academy had documented several instances where Phyrexian agents had infiltrated societies and corrupted them from within,” Orim replied. “If there is even a chance that this is the case, we must investigate it..”
“Tch, I never thought I’d have to fight those wretched bastards again,” Tahngarth cursed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “But my striva will gladly drink their blood once more.”
“I hope for all of our sakes that you are wrong,” Cho-Manno concluded. “Very well, you have my permission to enter the tunnels – but take care, the way will be quite perilous.”
“What else is new?” quipped the minotaur.
Then, suddenly, one of the guards stationed outside came running into the room in a panic.
“My lords, you must -” he yelled, desperately, before the entire room went up in a great explosion
Choking dust and the scent of blood filled the air. Ears rang. Bodies ached from freshly broken bones as the survivors struggled to regain their senses. The roof of the council chamber had been blasted clean off and several of the supporting pillars had toppled. The great circular council table had been shattered by a direct hit from above.
Squee’s motionless body lay buried beneath a large slab of stone. The Kyren councilor and several of the human guild leaders were also dead. Orim crawled toward an unconscious Cho-Manno, whose leg and ribs had been shattered. One of Tahngarth’s arms hung limp at his side, a broken bone jutting from his forearm, as he ran to move aside the slab and grab Squee – now gasping in shock as he resurrected. Sisay, who had somehow been spared any serious injuries – looked up, paralyzed in horror at the Phyrexian warship looming above them.
Scabrous and jagged, it was easily the size of Volrath’s former flagship, Predator. It bristled with ray cannons, which pivoted as they found new targets, releasing searing rays to scour the city below. As her hearing returned, her ears were filled with a cacophony of screams and explosions from elsewhere in the city. They had been too late; the nightmare was starting all over again. Sisay clenched her fists in helpless rage as she thought about all the people she had lost to these monsters and tears welled in her eyes.
If only she still had Weatherlight, she could have torn through these flying carbuncles with ease. Without it, she was left to watch, helpless. “DAMN YOU!” Sisay cried out in impotent rage. Then, once again, she felt the clasp of Tahngarth’s strong hand on her shoulder. “There’s no time!” Tahngarth yelled, carrying Squee under his armpit. “We have to escape, now, while we can!”
Sisay shot a quick glance back to Orim. Her hands glowed with white mana as she mended her own injuries and those of Cho-Manno. As the Cho-Arrim leader re-gained his senses, Sisay snapped out of her despair. “Right, everyone out! Let’s move!” She knew not where they would run, but she owed it to Gerrard, Hanna and the others not to give up.
The direct exit was not an option. The winding stairs along the tower were too exposed to ray cannon fire. Fortunately, the palace of the magistrate had been constructed with an alternate escape route in mind.
“This way!” shouted Cho-Manno as he crouched to the floor and pressed down on a floor tile. As he did so, a large platform in the center of the room, beneath where the table once sat, began to descend. The Kyren who built the tower were always wary of an attack and had installed a lift to bring them down into the tunnels beneath it. It was often supposed that the thick, vase-shaped tower was designed extra wide just so there could be extra steps, thereby further discouraging the rabble from bothering the Magistrate. While this was partially true, it was also to provide thick walls to defend the escape shaft from exterior attack.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been designed with ray cannons in mind.
As Sisay and the others scrambled aboard the lift and council chamber slowly disappeared from sight, they could feel the tower shaking to its core. Who knew how many more blasts it would be able to endure?
“You know if they came from the hangar we’re headed into a trap,” grumbled Tahngarth as Orim mended his broken arm.
“Then there’s nothing left to do but spring the trap,” Sisay joked darkly. “Besides, we’ve got a better chance at fighting Phyrexians hand to hand than fighting them in their warships.”
“As Gerrard always said, we’re caught between a rock and a hard place,” sighed Orim.
“My people…what will become of them?” asked Cho-Manno as the adrenaline wore off and the weight of the situation dawned on him.
“Ya really don’t wanna know,” gulped Squee. “It’s times like this Squee’s glad to be immortal.”
“You may rethink that if we’re captured,” Tahngarth retorted, readying his striva.
“Then we won’t be captured,” Sisay said darkly, drawing her cutlass. “I’ve spent enough time in a Phyrexian prison for one life.”
A few moments later, the lift lurched to a halt. Its arrival pushed down on a pressure plate on the floor, causing a section of stone wall to slide open with an audible ding. Revealed was a passage full of dozens and dozens of Phyrexians, who quickly pivoted around to face them. Glowing golden eyes burned in sunken sockets of faces little more than leathery skin stretched tightly over bones. Jaws distended, filled with rows of metallic fangs, matched by jagged metal claws on spindly limbs.
Their armored bodies resembled the shells of insects, covered in wicked spines.
“The champions of Urza, slay them!” roared one of the horrors as the tide of black terrors charged the elevator.
“Where’s da up button?!” Squee cried out, scrambling behind Tahngarth as his eyes darted around the room in a panic. Tahgarth and Sisay moved to block the entrance. Cho-Manno stood behind them, his staff raised, next to Orim who readied protective magics.
“No going back!” yelled Sisay as she lashed out with her cutlass, cleaving the upper jaw from the first of the Phyrexians to reach them.
“Just through!” added Tahngarth, charging forward and bisecting two of the horrors at the chest with his striva and bowling over several creatures behind them. A swing of his head them rammed one of his long horns through the eye of a spider-limbed creature still standing – puncturing through one of many metallic lenses and through brain tissue beneath. With a warbling shriek, the creature collapsed in a heap.
Orim and Cho-Manno wasted no time in joining in.
Cho-Manno lunged forward, striking an artifact engine with a clang. The wooden staff could not puncture through reinforced Thran metal, but it didn’t have to. White mana traveled down the length of the weapon and then surged into the machine, disenchanting its powerstones and rendering it lifeless.
Orim, for her part, released waves of white energies from her open palms, encircling the two frontline fighters in protective barriers. These magics would serve to deflect strikes that slipped past their defenses, for a time. She would not be able to maintain the spell indefinitely.
As for Squee, he waited until one of Tahngarth’s blows sent metallic shrapnel clattering to the floor. Then, reaching into his back pocket, he pulled forth a sling and loaded the improvised projectile – cracked, dull powerstone the size of a plum. His keen eyes drew a bead on a foe moving in to Sisay’s flank and he then loosed the shot, hitting his intended target directly. The Cateran mercenary had been compleated from the waist up and the powerstone struck him directly between the legs. The half-Phyrexian warrior dropped to his knees in agony and was beheaded by Sisay moments later.
Within the first few moments of combat, ten Phyrexians had been destroyed. For those newly indoctrinated warriors, it was inconceivable that any purely biological beings could defeat them – as they were clearly the superior life forms! However, for all of their engineered lethality, it didn’t make up for the experience and skill gleaned from a lifetime of fighting.
Compared to such opponents as Greven Il-Vec or Tsabo Tavoc, these foes were nothing. They fell before Tahngarth and Sisay like wheat before the scythe.
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Xarzhun laughed with wicked delight from the bridge of the Phyrexian cruiser. Two of his four hands were clasped and folded behind his back. The others gripped the rail of a platform overlooking his bridge. Screens throughout the room displayed in detail the devastation that his fleet had wrought. While it was true that the fleet was but a mere fraction of the original which Volrath has commissioned, it was every bit as lethal as he had always dreamed.
Plumes of smoke and flame rose throughout Mercadia city, choking the skies. On one screen, streets were painted with blood and dotted with blasted limbs. On another, the Tower of the Magistrate crumbled under ray cannon fire, shuddering and collapsing to the streets below. Their victory was complete; it had come almost too easily. There was nothing that could stop them now.
“On my command, cease the bombardment and deploy the troops,” Xarzhun ordered. “Seize the survivors and prepare them for processing.”
The Father of Machines would be most pleased. He was sure to be rewarded with several unique mutilations.
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“Captain, look!” shouted the lookout in the Rishadan airship hovering just outside of Mercadia City. The pirate ship, by the name of The Knave, was shrouded in a protective illusion that bent light around it, allowing it to blend seamlessly with the sky. The magic that had produced this effect was the first of three wishes granted by a Djinn, bound to the captain’s service through a ring he wore. This allowed him to easily ambush other pirate airships, capture their wanted passengers, and rob them blind in the process. For these were no common band of brigand balloonists – but privateers in the employ of Cho-Manno’s government.
The Knave has been returning from one such mission, with their prisoner in irons in the brig below. Upon sighting the Phyrexian warships assaulting Mercadia city, that objective was all but forgotten. The crew looked on in a mixture of shock and awe as bolts of red lightning flashed from the horrible ships that circled the dying city like vultures.
“Captain, you have to summon the Djinn!” a crew member shouted, soon followed by a chorus of affirmations.
The Captain, a slender lad with shoulder-length blonde hair, dressed in a tri-cornered hat and ruffled shirt, bore a youthful face that belied his skill or experience. His shadowed gaze fell upon the golden band. He had purchased the ring at a hefty sum from a trader claiming to hail from Rabiah – a place he could find on no maps or charts. He had been told that the Djinn could grant any wish he desired, but to be careful, for it was up to the Djinn to interpret his wishes. Djinns, the merchant had explained, were notoriously unpredictable creatures.
His first wish had been granted much as he intended it. However, this could very well have been a trick to lull him into a false sense of security. The Djinn, the trader had further explained, would only be free when his master had either expended all of his wishes or died. While bound Djinns were unable to harm their masters directly, a poorly worded wish could sometimes have unintended and even fatal consequences. Thus, the captain swore that he would only use the Djinn’s great power in times of great need.
This certainly qualified.
Taking a deep breath, he whispered to the ring.
“From sleep beyond dreams, space beyond starlight, time beyond memory, I call you forth and command you, Dhabbukosh, do appear!”
With that, a cerulean wind erupted from the ring, swinging the ship about as if caught in a gale before consolidating into humanoid form. It appeared as a blue, male giant with a sculpted, hairless physique, golden bracers around its wrists, a golden, jewel encrusted belt holding up baggy trousers that trailed off into vapor. It wore a blood red turban around its head and its eyes glowed like a lightning storm. Its features were sharp and stern and its teeth were clenched in a wide grin. Folding its powerful arms across its chest, it nodded its head in a slight bow.
“What do you command of me, oh master?” Dhabbukosh inquired.
With that, the captain gestured toward the city. “Use your magic to destroy the ships attacking Mercadia city – and only the ships!”
“So be it,” Dhabbukosh replied, clapping his hands together with a sound like booming thunder. Moments later, the skies darkened. The initial thunderclap was echoed all throughout the heavens. A bolt of jagged lightning then erupted from one of the clouds, striking a medium-sized Phyrexian ship and crackling through its frame. The ship shuddered and then plummeted from the sky and into the city below, tearing through several houses on impact.
A second later, the ship exploded, spraying flaming shrapnel everywhere and setting several more buildings alight. The crew looked on in horror as the captain turned angrily to Dhabbukosh.
“My magic summoned the storm, which harmed only the ship,” the Djinn explained with a devious smirk. “The falling ship did the rest.”
“Bastard!” cursed the captain. The mysterious merchant had been right about Djinns.
“You could wish for me to protect the city, or to disperse the storm, but either way that would be your third and final wish,” Dhabbukosh added, his smirk widening.”
“You’ve helped enough!” the captain snapped. “Return now from whence you came until once more I speak your name!”
With that, Dhabbukosh once more reverted into a mighty wind, spinning in a whirlpool of magical energies back into the ring to which he was bound. His storm did not vanish with him. The hurricane he had summoned would likely rage for hours.
“Take us in!” the Captain then shouted to his men.
“But sir, the storm, we’ll be torn apart!” a sailor protested.
“The storm be damned!” the captain barked in reply. “We can still save people! Stay sharp men! Bring us in cloaked!”
“Aye sir!” came the reply in unison.
For, indeed, though the order put them in grave peril, the crew of The Knave would not turn against their captain – he who had brought them fame, glory and renown throughout the lands. If they made it through this ordeal, there would be much celebration and drinking to be had, but there was little time to think on that now. It would take every bit of effort they could muster to remain on-course while avoiding the deadly bolts of light from both the skies and Phyrexian warships
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This feeble storm – it must have been called by the Cho-Arrim. It would not be enough to destroy his fleet. He would find its summoner and eradicate them.
“Take us down!” Xarzhun hissed to his subordinates in the control room. “Release the shock troopers! Slay any water mage you encounter on sight!”
One by one, dozens of Phyrexian ships descended to the streets below, landing spines tearing gouges in cobblestone streets.
Soon, the hellish crafts vomited forth their demonic armies. Cho-Manno’s forces were powerless against them. Spears splintered upon armored carapace and metallic fangs punctured straight through steel breastplate. Within minutes they were routed. Then the slaughter began.
As their protectors fell, panicking civilians attempted to flee, but there was nowhere to run. The Phyrexians were everywhere. Some leapt from the ledge, plummeting to quick and painless deaths below, rather than facing whatever horrors their captors had in store for them – but most were not so lucky. Children were snatched from their parents’ arms as adults were forced to their knees and bound in chains. The old and infirm were gutted, torn to shreds and devoured – their parts considered too defective for re-use.
There were a select few spared from this fate. Throughout the blood soaked streets, Kyren goblins and Cateran guild initiates hailed the coming of their masters. Those who had pledged their loyalty to the Father of Machines recited verses from the Phyrexian scriptures and turned against their fellow Mercadians. Their loyalty would be rewarded with positions of power – which was all they now desired. All remorse or sympathy had long died within these traitors to the flesh.
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As the airship braved the storm above, racing to the rescue, Sisay and her crew beat, hacked and stabbed the way through Phyrexian legions below.
After clearing the first hall, they followed Squee’s goblin instincts in search of a way out of the mountain. From there, perhaps they could follow an underground river back to Rushwood to regroup. Sisay remembered the Rathi rebel Eladamri and how his people had battled against the Evincars for generations, sheltered within the protective cover of Skyshroud. Soon, she thought, she and her comrades may find themselves with no other alternative but to wage a similar guerilla war. One thing was certain, they could not allow this world to fall into Phyrexian hands.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a bubbling laughter echoing from the corpse-strewn hall behind them. The crew pivoted around to witness a great black mass rising up into a twisted, demonic form. From multiple fanged maws it called out to them:
“So, the progeny of Urza yet live? Indeed, although your legacy is lost, you still wield great power.”
“And who the hell are you?!” roared Tahngarth.
“I am Abcal-Dro, last of the Inner Circle and Yawgmoth’s successor,” the Praetor gloated. “I shall finish what he began and eradicate you once and for all!”
“Don’t count on it!” Sisay replied, stepping up next to Tahngarth.
With that, Abcal-Dro charged toward them, arms shifting to form countless killing implements.
Chapter 6: Flight
Abcal-Dro began his attack by one of his arms erupting into dozens of whip-like appendages, ending in wicked hooks. These lashed out at Tahnarth’s face and were parried just in time by a swipe from his Striva. The many thongs of the whips then curled around the double-bladed minotaur weapon as Abcal-Drop hoisted Tahngarth up off his feet. The other arm then extended, far beyond the reach of any creature with a conventional anatomy, bristling with jagged spikes like a flail. Tahngarth desperately kicked down at them, straining to push them back with his hooves.
With the minotaur’s limbs completely occupied, Abcaldro’s torso shifted, forming a spear the size of a ballista bolt. This shout out at Tahngarth’s chest, but was fortunately stopped by a glowing magical barrier summoned by Orim. Still, Abcal-Dro’s strength was causing fracture lines to form rapidly. At the same time, the tendrils constricting Tahngarth’s weapon and pressing against his hooves began to partially dissolve themselves. Thran metal hissed and hooves smoked as the acid began eating through them.
Straining his shoulder muscles, Tahngarth pushed the blade of his Striva into the tendrils, slamming them into a wall and slicing them free. His body then hit the ground hard as he struggled hastily to his feet. The great black, ooze demon loomed over him. His weapon bore striped lines of corrosion and his hooves were noticeably shorter. Backing away, he scraped his hooves against the ground to rid them of any clinging residue.
Orim took the opportunity to chant louder and pour more power into her barrier of light. Still, she knew she could not hold him for long.
“By Torahn’s horns, how does one fight that putrid thing!” Tahngarth snarled. “Are there even any vital areas to strike? It’s like no Phyrexian we’ve ever encountered.”
Squee, swallowing his fear, then piped up.
“Dere’s time ta fight an’ time ta run – and right now it time ta run hornhead,” said the goblin, gesturing to the hall behind them. “Squee go on ahead, find the way out. Da last thing ya want is ta be cornered by da big glob a crap.”
“Do that!” Sisay shouted, biting her lip nervously as Squee took off ahead of them. As she watched, repeated blows from Abcal-Dro were causing the cracks in Orim’s barrier to spread. The Samite was visibly strained, breathing hard as beads of sweat formed on her brow.
Cho-Manno then stepped forth.
“There may be a way, if not to destroy him than at least to slow him down,” he said, retrieving a waterskin from his pack. “Sisay, I need you to make as big a hole as possible in its body, something it won’t be able to immediately seal shut.”
Nodding, Sisay smirks and replies “I think I know what you have in mind. On my signal, everyone get ready to run. Orim, drop the barrier!”
One final blow from Abcal-Dro caused the protective sphere to shatter into motes of light. In the very next moment, he would strike.
But Sisay was faster.
Lunging in, ducking under a swiping tentacle, she drove her cutlass deep into Abcal-Dro’s torso before wrenching it up to gut him like a swine. As she did so, she felt her blade slice through something solid inside the Praetor. As she hopped back away, a large section of flesh sloughed free, exposing a gaping cavity within which the light of powerstones twinkled.
“Now!” Sisay commanded, swiping her cutlass to the side to toss free the slime still coating it.
Cho-Manno then uncorked his waterskin, spilling forth shimmering waters from the Fountain of Cho. As they pooled onto the cavern floor, Abcal-Dro’s body had begun to close itself shut as flesh from other parts of his body shifted into place. However, it wasn’t fast enough. The small pool of water suddenly exploded out into a raging torrent, similar to that which was once used to transport a damaged Weatherlight across Mercadia’s deserts to Rushwood. These waters surged into the open cavity in the Praetor’s body and then expanded.
“Run!” Sisay commanded as Abcal-Dro’s body swelled up like a sickening, black balloon. Moments later, once Sisay and her companions had made it safely away, Abcal-Dro popped. Black rot spattered throughout the cavern, fouling the once pure waters. Floating in this revolting tide were the powerstones that still contained Abcal-Dro’s consciousness and his vital organs. They were not destroyed, and as long as even a drop of his ooze-like body touched his heartstone he would still be able to reconstruct himself.
The heartstone pulsed with black energies as a furious howl echoed throughout the caverns. Sisay looked back over her shoulder as she ran, watching as flesh slowly congealed and separated from the water, forming sacks around the powerstones. If she ran back now, there was a chance she could destroy the Praetor before he fully recovered. She was about to give the order when Abcal-Dro’s screams registered as Phyrexian language. He was casting a spell, and whatever it was it would be too dangerous to wait around and find out.
Still, she could not help but leave one final parting taunt for the bastard who was surely behind this attack on Mercadia City.
“I watched your God die, and the next time we meet you’ll join him!” Sisay cursed.
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Oh they would pay…oh how they would pay…Abcal-Dro thought as he completed his spell.
Clouds of oily darkness manifested before him, which then took the form of summoned creatures, memories of vile things born of the vats of the Fourth Sphere made real. Their pale white eyes were positioned on each side of their head, nearly blind, as like bats they hunted by screams. Fang filled mouths split their heads down the middle and their sinewy biomechanical limbs ended in barbed talons. Their leathery wings were powerful and could carry the horrid imps at great speeds toward their prey. These skirges served many tasks, from couriers, to sentries to even familiars.
For Abcal-Dro, they would serve as bloodhounds to track and run down his prey.
Dozens and dozens of the vicious creatures furiously flapped down the tunnel, seeking the fleeing Captain Sisay and her allies. It would not be long before they caught up to their targets. Abcal-Dro could hear through their ears, see through their eyes, and taste the air against their lashing tongues.
Meanwhile, Abcal-Dro had managed to reconstitute himself into a great, blob-like form and was slithering slowly after them. All the skirges needed to do was slow his enemies down. Then, he would roll over them and devour them.
Yes, there they were, cornered against a pile a rubble. It was a dead end, there was nowhere to run now. They swung their futile swords, cleaving through wings, heads, torsos. Yet, for every blow they landed, a skirge’s claws raked across an arm or bit into a calf. These, combined with other wounds battling the Praetor and his forces would eventually tire them.
“Struggle all you like…your end has come!” the Praetor laughed.
“Nice going!” Tahngarth yelled sarcastically as he spun in place, his striva slicing through three skirges. “Now we’re trapped, and slimeball probably isn’t that far behind us!”
Squee, for his part, crouched behind Sisay and Tahngarth while Orim and Cho-Manno exhausted their remaining protective magics. However, he was not merely cowering, but rather pressing his ears and eyes to the pile of rubble, desperately searching for something.
“Pipe down hornhead!” Squee retorted. “Dere still might be…THERE! Dat rock, push ‘gainst it as hard as ya can!”
Glancing over his shoulder, Tahngarth could see the goblin frantically pointing at one of the larger boulders toward the bottom of the rubble pile. He then quickly turned back to Sisay and the imps, only to see one of the skirges swiping straight for his eyes. The creature earned a headbutt for the trouble, crumpling unconscious to the cave floor.
“I’ve got this!” Sisay growled, her leg still stinging from a fresh bite. The offending skirge in question had been promptly punted across the hall. Now, it was flying back in for another strike – flanked on either side by two more imps.
Sisay dashed toward them, moving as fast as she could muster. The imps then dove at her, practically piling atop each other in a mass of gnashing fangs and swiping claws.
It had been exactly what she was counting on.
Jumping suddenly toward a wall, Sisay kicked off of it, moving herself aboard the flapping skirges. She then fell upon them, gripping the hilt of her cutlass in both hands as she drove it down. Five simultaneous shrieks and sprays of glistening oil blood later, the final five skirges were shish-kabobed.
Landing atop the slain imps, Sisay panted as she wrenched her sword free. At the end of her vision, she caught a glimpse of the black mass that was Abcal-Dro.
Meanwhile, Tahngarth crouched and pressed his shoulder against the boulder, pushing into it with all of his might. His hooves scraped the ground as he grunted and strained with the weight. However, Orim, Cho-Manno and Squee could see the pile of rocks slowly shifting back and Tahngarth could feel some of the resistance disappearing bit by bit and could see cracks of light peeking through the rubble. The passage must have led to a ledge on the side of the great, inverted mountain. “It’s working!” the minotaur shouted as Cho-Manno, Orim, Captain Sisay and even Squee rushed in to aid him.
All the while, Abcal-Dro’s fetid figure grew steadily more visible.
“COME ON! COME ON!” grunted Sisay, fresh waves of pain shooting up her legs each second that she pushed. However, her adrenaline drove her on. If she faltered now, it could cast all of them their lives.
Finally, with one last mighty heave, the large boulder bounded free of the ledge and tumbled down off the side of the cliff. Rushing out of the tunnel, the group could see that the platform upon which they stood was roughly half-way up the side of the mountain. None of the lifts which the Mercadians used to travel from the plains below to the city above were located nearby – likely relocated after the tunnel was considered lost. They would have to make the perilous descent by hand. One false move and they would end up like the boulder, which now lay shattered into pebbles below.
“Squee so glad he immortal right now,” said the goblin as he gulped and began his descent.
The progress was slow, for despite the dread drawing ever closer, they could not afford to rush. That notion was rethought, however, as Abcal-Dro eventually emerged on the ledge himself and began sliming his way down the mountainside after them. Like a vile tree sap, he clung firmly to the rock face as he dripped ever nearer to his victory.
Eventually, panic and Sisay’s leg wound caused her to slip and lose her footing. Gasping in panic, her fingers scrambled to grab hold of the ledge. She was barely able to grasp a thin outcropping by four of her fingers.
“Captain!” Orim called down to her fearfully.
“Grab my hand!” yelled Tahngarth as he scrambled down to reach for her.
That hesitation was the moment Abcal-Dro had been waiting for. He had managed to close the gap enough where he was fairly confident that he could hit the entire group with a discharged globule.
The Praetor’s bubbling laughter was once again heard as his body swelled to form the projectile cyst.
“Die now, Urza’s swine!” he bellowed.
However, before he could strike, Abcal-Dro was suddenly smashed through the side of the mountain by a large cannon ball.
The Knave dropped its illusionary cloak as it revealed itself to be hovering just next to where Sisay and her allies clung. Ropes were then thrown to the hanging heroes, who hardly hesitated before taking them.
“Thank you,” Cho-Manno offered to the crewmen as their group was pulled aboard.
“No thanks necessary my lord,” said the Captain as he walked out onto the deck. “Though perhaps you could tell me what exactly is going on here?”
It was then that the captain noticed who exactly was accompanying Cho-Manno, and they noticed him.
He had been far younger during their last visit, but Sisay still knew the young man before her – Atalla, the farmhand who had been their guide and ally after Weatherlight crash-landed on his family’s Jhovall farm. Now the captain of an airship?
So too did Atalla recognize Orim, Squee, Tahngarth and Captain Sisay – the heroes who had restored order and justice to a corrupt world. Yet, there had been others with them as well. There was the golden haired Hanna, the brash, bearded Gerrard and the silver golem, Karn. What had become of them?
“Thank you, Atalla, for coming to our rescue,” Tahngath said, bowing his head in respect. “We had returned to aid your world, but alas, we were too late. Volrath’s fleet has rebuilt itself; the Phyrexians have survived and they have a new leader. The city…is lost. We have to escape and regroup.”
“But what about Weatherlight?!” Atalla asked, remembering how the mighty skyship had struck down Volrath’s vessel in their climactic duel above the city.
“She…gone, ‘long with Gerrard and Hanna,” Squee replied grimly, hanging his head.
“And Karn?” Atalla asked, shocked by the news.
“Gone too, but alive,” Orim replied.
“There’s no time,” Sisay cut in. “We have to leave now before the Phyrexian ships find us.”
Atalla nodded, shooting a glimpse up at the smoke rising from the city above. “Take us out of here!” he ordered his men.
The lifting gasses flashed to life and the airship began its departure from the conquered city.
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However, before The Knave had completely vanished from sight, Abcal-Dro had oozed his way back out from the crack in the side of the mountain. His horrid mass still clutched the projectile fired at him. His blob form had shielded his precious powerstone organs from being crushed. It would take more than a simple cannonball to destroy the Father of Machines. It would take more than a primitive airship to escape him.
His advanced brain made several quick calculations, estimating the Knave’s trajectory. Then, the shot was returned, drawn back with vacuum pressure and released from his body at tremendous speeds. It struck true, tearing clean through the great balloon holding the ship aloft. The lifting gasses would escape from it quickly. It was going down and losing speed quickly; a sitting duck for his warships.
Abcal-Dro reached out through one of the many powerstones that afforded him a psychic connection to his subordinates. This time, he called upon his second, Xarzhun, the Cateran Overlord. The approximate coordinates of The Knave and the image of its escaping gasses instantly appeared within the horror’s mind. So too, appeared the command of the self-proclaimed Father of Machines: “Hunt them down. Urza’s legacy dies today.”
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“We’re losing lift fast!” one of Atalla’s men yelled in a panic as the lifting gasses streamed from the balloon and out past the envelope of invisibility. The cloaking spell would do them no good now.
“We’ll crash in the desert!”
“The Phyrexians will have us!”
Atalla cursed as he clutched the rigging. There would be no way to repair the damage in time. His gaze then fell upon his ring. There was one wish left, but it would be up to Dhabbukosh. He had already shown his disregard for mortal lives back at the city.
Using the third wish would free the Djinn, and then there was no telling what he would do. He was just as likely to destroy him and his crew for daring to command him. If that was his intention, then what greater irony was there than finding a way to use the last wish to destroy his damaged ship? He could not call upon Dhabbukosh. But was there any other way to save the ship?
“Captain, we have a Phyrexian ship coming in fast!”
The crew turned fear filled eyes back to the city where, like a bolt of black lightning, the single-man ship closed in. It would be upon them in mere moments. Their cannons were useless against its Thran metal hull. Its ray cannons would tear them to pieces. The crew knew they looked upon death, descending to claim them all.
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The storm was too slow to strike down Xarzhun’s personal fighter, Ravager. Nimbly, it had weaved through bolts of lightning, driven on, like a ravening wolf, to run down its master’s enemies.
Bolts of red light screamed from the mouths of ray cannons mounted at the front of the ship. Xarzhun was quite familiar with the airships of Rishada. One of them would tear through the main balloon, the other would obliterate the ship’s engine and the third would disable the steering. He could have destroyed the entire ship with a single shot, but he wanted to prolong their terror and suffering. He would bring the ship down, then descend to disembowel the wounded survivors with his own claws and fangs.
The honor of slaying Phyrexia’s most hated enemies would be his alone to relish.
Yet, somehow, the beams not only missed their mark but seemed to vanish altogether. What trickery was this?
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It was a mad idea, but it was the only way Cho-Manno and Orim knew to save their skins. By combining their skills in Cho-Arrim water magic, they summoned a furious rainstorm around The Knave, causing it to follow the ship. The torrential rains formed a screen of moisture which dissipated the light-based ray cannon fire. The ship was caught within a cyclone of winds which propelled it at harrowing speeds away from Ravager and toward the Rushwood. The crew clung on for dear life as rain whipped their faces and the ship was thrown wildly about.
“THIS IS YOUR PLAN?!” Atalla yelled as crewmembers recited every prayer to every god they knew. “THIS STORM WILL TEAR THE SHIP APART, IF WE DON’T CRASH FIRST!”
“JUST HOLD ON!” shouted Sisay in reply. “IF THERE’S ANYTHING WE KNOW HOW TO DO, IT IS CRASH A SHIP!”
In moments, the canopy of the Rushwood rose up before them. Each tree was as thick around as a small city. A direct impact would shatter the ship into splinters. It took every ounce of Cho-Manno and Orim’s mastery to direct the careening vessel safely around. Their alternative wasn’t much safer.
The ship hit the forest floor hard, splintering the hull and hurling several crew members from the decks. Fortunately, Orim and Cho-Manno were able to maintain concentration on their storm spell long enough to catch them, suspended in the air. The ship would not fly again without extensive repairs and the enchantment that had allowed it to camouflage was broken. The tattered balloon of the airship hung deflated over the decks as crew slowly crawled out from under it. Several stumbled as they regained their senses and a few rolled over and vomited.
“All things considered…we’ve done worse,” said Tahngarth as he reached down to help up Sisay.
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Damn them! Damn them!
He had nearly had them and then they were gone, without a trace!
Xarzhun’s claws furiously gripped the controls of his skyship as his eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of the escaping gases that signified the presence of his invisible quarry. His ship tore through the air in furious loops, ray cannons firing at random until their barrels glowed hot. The airship was nowhere to be found.
Was this craft somehow able to planeshift? Abcal-Dro had told him that during the battles on Dominaria, Weatherlight evolved to develop such capabilities.
A feeling of dread then gripped Xarzhun as he heard Abcal-Dro again reach out telepathically to him, demanding to know of his results. What price would he pay for failing the Father of Machines?
Chapter 7: Animate Dead
Xarzhun knelt before Abcal-Dro, who stood triumphant upon the pile of rubble that had once been the Tower of the Magistrate. The Praetor had yet to respond to the news of the former crew of Weatherlight’s escape. The storm raging above Mercadia City had ceased after claiming a handful more ships. However, most of the fleet was still in-tact and slaves were even now working to salvage pieces from the destroyed vessels. All in all, their operation was still successful, the city was now in Phyrexian hands and soon their ranks would swell as its populace was compleated.
“Rise,” Abcal-Dro commanded the Cateran Overlord at last.
Xarzhun obliged, but still kept his eyes averted from his master in fear and shame.
“I can see now how Urza’s progeny presented such a challenge for Volrath and his successor,” Abcal-Dro mused. “They are strong, but more than that, they are resourceful, clever, able to adapt quickly. If allowed to survive, their valor would inspire others to resist us. I do not doubt that they search, even now, for a way to free this city. They must be hunted down and utterly crushed.”
“Yes master,” Xarzhun replied. “Allow me to take command of a unit of my best scouts and assassins. We will scour the Rushwood, they won’t escape me a second time.”
“No…,” Abcal-Dro replied, as though deep in thought. “More is necessary. Cho-Manno and his people know the Rushwood better than any scout. They would elude you, lead you into traps and strike when you are most vulnerable. I have dealt with similar foes on Rath.”
“There is only one thing capable of pursuing our enemies now…a soulhunter revenant,” Abcal-Dro concluded.
“A what?” inquired Xarzhun. He had never heard of such a creature.
“Their creation requires an advanced knowledge of the necromantic arts,” explained Abcal-Dro. “It also requires a soul slain in violence, consumed by hatred and with a desire for revenge so strong that its presence lingers beyond its death. They possess an innate link to those upon whom they desire revenge and can track the scent of their souls from across a world.”
Abcal-Dro was one of the few Phyrexians who had acknowledged the existence of the soul. It had not dissuaded him from carrying out any of his twisted experiments. Nor, did he contemplate long the existence of an afterlife – believing that such energies, if unharnessed, simply dissipated back into the cosmos like gas escaping a bottle. It was not the Phyrexian way to be wasteful. Thus, Abcal-Dro had developed a finesse for tortures so foul that they left the soul scarred, broken, and unable to depart.
“Where would we find such a soul, one who so greatly loathes Urza’s champions?” asked the Cateran Overlord, who had come to understand that Volrath actually met his demise on Rath.
“After hours of torture, one of the Cho-Arrim revealed to me the perfect candidate,” replied Abcal-Dro. “He was once a crew member aboard The Weatherlight. A misunderstanding led to his capture by the Cho, who amputated one of his arms that had been injured when the ship crashed here. In a rage, he escaped from his bonds and slaughtered three of his guards before being captured and executed by beheading. He died cursing the Cho-Arrim and is buried on their lands.”
A Phyrexian servitor then approached with a staff that seemed to be crafted from preserved human hearts, handing the grisly artifact to Xarzhun along with a bottle containing a glowing green fluid.
“This divining rod will lead you to his burial site,” explained the Praetor. “Find the grave of Klaars and then pour this potion upon it. He will lead your forces and all he slays shall rise as his spawn.”
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“We must get word to the surrounding villages,” said Cho-Manno. “They have no idea what evils are coming for them.”
“And just where exactly would you have them run to?” replied Atalla as he surveyed the wreckage of his prized airship.
“Ramos will protect us once again,” the leader of the Cho replied. “We must travel to Ouramos and entreat him to take flight once again, as he did to battle Orhop.”
Orim, Squee, Tahngarth and Sisay glanced to one another knowingly. What Cho-Manno had believed to be Ramos concluding his primeval battle with the dark god Orhop had actually been Weatherlight dueling with Recreant, Volrath’s flagship. The real Ramos was a Phyrexian Dragon Engine, captured by Urza during The Brother’s War and re-programmed with a conscious mind. At the conclusion of that war, he had chosen to save as many people as he could, escaping the Sylex blast through a Phyrexian portal and then flying through another portal to Mercadia. He had crash-landed in Ouramos after depositing the survivors throughout their new world.
However, Ramos had not completely escaped the Sylex blast unharmed and had shielded the peoples he had rescued with his own body. Already badly damaged, Ramos was now immobile – having granted the five great powerstones that powered his limbs to Weatherlight’s crew to help them complete The Legacy. To make matters worse, the Phyrexians had deployed armies of dragon engines during their invasion of Dominaria. There, they had provided air support to the Phyrexian warships. A lone dragon engine, even at full power, would not be enough to stop this resurrected fleet.
Still, if Ouramos was probably the closest thing to a safe place that they could bring the refugees. It was watched over by an order of dryads, capable of transforming the forest henge into weapons. Sisay had seen with her own eyes how the forest of Yavimaya on Dominaria had been animated to lash Phyrexian ships from the sky. Furthermore, the surrounding swamps were protected by an army of ghouls – those who fell and burned with Ramos as he crashed into his final resting place. The power of the magical leylines running beneath Ouramos had risen them as undying guardians, capable of endlessly regenerating so long as they remained on those lands.
There, they would be able to hold off the Phyrexians, for a time. However, if the Phyrexians were allowed to spread across the rest of the world then nothing would be able to stop them. Ever resourceful, ever adapting, they would eventually devise a way to penetrate the forest’s defenses. There, should they fail to stop the Phyrexians, they would make their final stand. The last traces of Urza’s legacy would die battling the planeswalker’s lifelong foes -all save for Squee who may find his fate to be worse.
“We don’t have much time,” Orim said, turning to Cho-Manno. “We’ll use our water magics to traverse the rivers as quickly as possible and evacuate as many as we can.”
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It was not long before the shadows of the Phyrexian fleet fell across the villages. Most had evacuated with Cho-Manno. However, there were those who had doubted him and his allies. There were those who believed that he was a weak leader and a coward for abandoning the city. There were those that chose to stand and fight, with bows and arrows and summoned creatures.
At the sight of the hideous warships, incantations failed as eyes gazed up in fear. Bows fell from hands as the hopelessness of their fight and the foolishness of their choice was realized too late. Some stood in futile defiance and watched as their arrows shattered harmlessly against reinforced Thran metal. Summoned drakes were reduced to ashes by ray cannons that then turned their sights on those below. Buildings and bodies burned and those who fled fared little better as Phyrexians fell from drop lines and ran them down.
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Xarzhun marched through a burning village surrounded by a legion of Phyrexian warriors. His scythe dripped with fresh blood as did his fangs and talons. Still, the villages were far more sparsely populated than he had expected. There should have been enough people to create an entire Phyrexian army from. Yet those villages closest to the Rushwood had contained only a few warriors.
They had evacuated quicker than he had expected.
“Advance into the Rushwood,” the Cateran Overlord ordered his troops. “Remain in close formation and fire upon ambushers but do not pursue them.”
Xarzhun’s true objective was to follow the divining rod to the Cho-Arrim village. The sooner he did so the better, for he understood well that within these woods he was at a disadvantage. A lone guerilla fighter might attack to draw off a handful of troops, get them lost, then surround them or lead them into pit traps or the dens of large, predatory beasts. Left to his own devices, he would have firebombed the wretched forest from their ships until only ashes remained. However, Abcal-Dro had desired to harvest its animal and plant life for his experiments with the glistening oil and thus he would need his revenant to hunt down their quarry.
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With the aid of Cho-Arrim water magic, the river escape routes crisscrossing the Rushwood transported the boats full of refugees expediently toward Ouramos. Still, it would take several days to reach their destination. They had long lost sight of their Phyrexian pursuers. Perhaps, some suspected, they had given up and directed their attention to Saprazzo and other targets. Or, as other suspected, an ambush could be waiting for them around the very next river bend.
The mood was somber but hopeful. What little hushed conversation was held was devoted to one subject: Ramos. The refugees prayed frequently to their god to return and save them from the Phyrexian invaders. Sisay, Orim, Tahngarth and Squee were questioned frequently about their meeting with the divine being. They were, after all, his heralds – the chosen ones.
“Is it true that his wings fill the sky?” a small child asked Orim. She was too young to have seen the fateful battle above Mercadia city. Her face was stained with tears and her eyes were full of fear and wonder. The former crew of Weatherlight had silently agreed not to rob these people of their hope. It was all they had left, all that kept them going in the face of utter despair.
Orim fought back tears and her voice trembled as she forced herself to smile. Petting the girl’s head, she nodded and replied “and his scales gleam like the sun and his breath creates the clouds.”
The girl smiled weakly back and her stomach growled in protest. There had been little room for food to take with them, so all were hungry.
“And when we get to Ouramos, there is a beautiful garden with trees that grow the best tasting fruit in all the world,” said the Samite Healer.
That much was not a lie. The magical leyline running beneath Ouramos caused the fruit growing in the grove to be imbued with healing properties. During their last audience with Ramos, the fruit had healed them completely of injuries and sickness that had resulted from battling the guardian ghouls. Hopefully, the ghouls would recognize them this time and conflict could be avoided. Following their past meeting with Ouramos, the undead had allowed them to pass through in peace.
“So tell me,” Sisay asked Atalla. “How did you come to be the captain of that ship? Where are your parents, Tavoot and Sesharral?”
“You aren’t the only ones who have lost,” the young former captain said, turning away from Sisay to hide his emotions. “A while after you left, there was an attack on the farm. Mercenaries set fire to it in the middle of the night. Somehow, I managed to escape. My parents…didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry,” Sisay replied, taking his hands in her own.
“After that, I traveled to Rishada,” Atalla continued. “I thought, a place like that, with its reputation, there had to be someone who knew who was responsible. I dedicated my life to revenge, but all trails turned up cold. I ended up running with some unscrupulous crowds, doing whatever I had to in order to get by. It turned out I was a pretty good pirate, ‘till one day I got caught.”
Cho-Manno then smiled and added “I remembered him from the last time you were here. I pardoned him and put his skills to use hunting down other criminals.”
“You gave me a second chance and I didn’t forget that,” Atalla replied, turning to Cho-Manno. “That’s why we came back and came to your rescue. I only wish we could have done more.”
“You acted honorably,” Tahngarth chimed in, bowing his head and respect. “One cannot win every battle, but thanks to you we survived and may yet win the war.”
“Youse a good kid,” said Squee, before being cut off by the boat suddenly striking something and coming to a stop, halting the rest of the convoy along with it.
“What’s that?” the goblin asked.
“A fallen log?” questioned Orim.
“I’ll get it,” grumbled Tahngarth as he scooted over to the side of the boat.
He stopped as suddenly, all around them, slime covered skulls began to rise up from the water.
Bony fingers reached for the sides of the boat as the horde of ghouls attempted to pull themselves aboard. Screams rang out among the refugees as the warriors among them hastily drew their weapons to batter them back. Some weren’t quite quick enough and their cries transformed into gurgling spurts as rotten teeth sank deep into their throats. There were hundreds of the undead, no doubt lying dormant underwater until their prey arrived. But where had they all come from?
“Torahn’s horns!” shouted Tahngarth as his Striva slashed sent moldy skulls flying from spines. “Are these the same ghouls? What are they doing this far from Ouramos?!”
“I doubt it,” said Orim as she, Cho-Manno and the other Cho-Arrim mages summoned walls of light to protect the boats, blinding the ghouls and causing them to hiss, shriek and step back. “Those were guardians – and they regenerated. These ones stay dead.”
Sure enough, once their brittle bodies were broken apart the pieces lay motionless, not flying back into place. Atalla and Sisay stood back to back, cutlasses severing reaching arms and boots crashing into brittle ribs. Squee kicked one ghoul in the shin, causing its foot to clatter loose and resulting in the undead falling off the side. Another zombie saw its one remaining eye poked out by goblin fingers, rolling back into its hollow head. Then, before running back away from the flailing corpse, he quickly snagged a juicy looking worm wriggling inside the undead’s cheek.
Soon, the remaining dead were driven from the boats. However, they were still clogging up the river. They were trapped and surrounded.
“Now what?” huffed a panting Tahngarth as they looked out at the seemingly endless rows of ghouls standing motionless, staring at them.
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The divining rod had led him straight to his goal. The Cho-Arrim burial ground contained many mounds and crude headstones from the massacre some years ago. At that time, one of Xarzhun’s commanders, the Cateran Enforcer Xcric, had tricked Gerrard Capashen into leading the assault. Shortly after its crash landing, the ship and Orim had been abducted by the Cho-Arrim, who viewed the vessel as Ramos, returned to them but injured. Thus, they took it into their protective custody.
Volrath, then disguised as the crew’s companion, Takara, had convinced Gerrard that the Cho were bloodthirstly, cannibalistic savages. Thus, Gerrard persuaded the former Magistrate to recruit a Cateran Guild army to rescue both Weatherlight and Orim. By the time Gerrard realized the truth, many had lost their lives. When Gerrard had tried to stop Xcric and force his men to stand down, it was all the excuse they needed to arrest him as a traitor too. Volrath should have had them all killed when he had the chance, thought Xarzhun.
Then, like now, Cho-Manno and his people had managed to escape the Cateran Guild’s grasp. However, they would not escape for long.
Abcal-Dro’s grissly artifact pulsated stronger and stronger as Xarzhun strolled between the rows of graves, escorted by his Phyrexian army. Finally, he stopped at an unmarked stone upon which no plant life grew. It was as though a
malign presence still lingered there and snuffed all life from the soil. The air itself was strangely colder here. This was the one.
The Cateran Overlord produces the flask of glowing green liquid and uncorks it, slowly emptying its contents onto the grave of Klaars.
For a moment, there was silence. Xarzhun leaned in examine closer and then suddenly recoiled as the entire grave caved in and an unnatural green light erupted from below. Wisps of green mist smoked from the grave as an ear-splitting shriek pierced the air. Moments later, a black horse, wreathed in smoke and flame galloped out from the grave and into the night sky. It was a Nightmare, an evil spirit born from concentrated darkness.
Looking up, the Cateran Overlord caught sight of a figure riding the devil steed’s back as it passed in front of the moon. It was dressed in old, cracked armor and gripped the Nightmare’s reins with a single skeletal hand. There was no head resting upon its shoulders, but the same eerie green light smoked up from its neck stump. Within those vapors, a pair of glowing eyes burned. The Revenant then turned its gaze upon Xarzhun standing below.
“Klaars!” Xarzhun shouts up to the revenant. “I am Xarzhun your master! I have given you new life and a chance to avenge your death. Your crewmates have betrayed you and they dishonor your memory by joining with the same peoples who took your life. Slay them and the Cho-Arrim, make them suffer for what they did to you!”
Klaars’ voice echoed like a whisper carried upon the wind. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
“Cho…..Die…”
The revenant then rode off, drawn inexorably toward his prey. Abcal-Dro’s divining rod would allow Xarzhun to track it. There would be no escaping him now.
“All forces, move out!” Xarzhun commanded.
Abcal-Dro’s potion had torn from Klaars’ spirit all compassion, all memories of his former life saved those which suited his ends. Klaars recalled not the Weatherlight crew’s mission to destroy the Phyrexians. Nor, did he recall his former friendship with Orim and the others. He had died fighting to free himself and Orim from their captors. Now, that noble, albeit misguided sacrifice, had been twisted and corrupted to serve the ends of the very evil Klaars had once sworn to destroy.
Such was the nature of Phyrexia. It spread like a cancer, corrupting and consuming all that it touched and in the end all would come to serve it. Not even in death could one escape.
Chapter 8: Living Artifact
Atalla looked to the ring containing his Djinn servant. Were they left with no further options but to call upon him?
“Squee knows wat you thinking and nuh uh!” the goblin cut in. “No way! Not gonna do it! Squee not gonna go out there an get eated over an’ over ‘till them zombies too full ta fight. Nope!”
“Wouldn’t work anyway,” Tahngarth cut in. “These kinds of mindless ghouls feed out of instinct not hunger. They’d eat until they burst and then keep eating. Look, some of them don’t even have any stomachs left. Disgusting things.”
“Orim,?” asked Cho-Manno. “Have you mastered the water magic? It may be our only way out of this. Combine it with your white mana, transform it into purifying holy water!”
Orim grit her teeth. She was already exhausted from maintaining the barrier and the moment that it dropped the ghouls would fall upon them. If she failed to maintain her concentration while combining the two spells then all of them were lost. Still, he didn’t see any other way.
“Alright, do it!” Orim shouted to the other Cho-Arrim mages. “Drop the barrier!”
No sooner had the glow faded than a chorus of hideous moans and shrieks erupted from the ghouls. Their rotten bodies again sloshed toward the boats, skeletal fingers reaching and bony jaws chomping.
Chanting quickly, using up every ounce of her remaining strength, Orim uncorked her waterskin and casts herbs from her medicine bag into the falling stream of water. Upon uttering the last syllable, she fainted from the exertion, falling into Cho-Manno’s arms. The stream then erupted into a torrent that glowed with white mana as it spilled into the brackish waters surrounding the boats. Cheers went up among the survivors as the army of ghouls shrieked and crumbled into ashes. The rushing waters flooded onto the nearby shores, pushing with it the log that had blocked their path.
Once again the boats were free to push on toward Ouramos.
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Ta-Spon, the Cho-Arrim executioner and one of their greatest warriors, had elected to remain behind and cover the retreat of the boats. Along with a unit of highly skilled trackers and scouts, he had launched a series of hit-and-run attacks on the advancing Phyrexians. Oddly, he had been unable to get any of them to break ranks. Each attack brought a handful more Phyrexian deaths and still the black tide surged on through Rushwood. The Phyrexians cared little for the lives of their comrades and their deaths did not enrage them enough to disobey orders.
The guerilla fighters were currently a few miles outside of the main village, preparing for their next strike. If the Phyrexians would not stray from their path, then they would make it as hazardous as possible. Pit traps had been dug throughout the trail, with venom-coated spikes waiting below for those unfortunate enough to fall in. The Cho-Arrim warriors were in the process of camouflaging one such trap when an unearthly wail pierced the air. The warriors rose, drawing their weapons – the Phyrexians should still be several minutes away.
Then they caught sight of him.
Flying out from behind a cloud was Klaars, atop his nightmare steed. The headless ghost gripped the reins in a spectral hand. His skeletal hand carried the headsman’s axe from the camp. Far too heavy and unwieldy to carry into battle, it was intended for the sole purpose of severing a head with a single blow and granting the executed a merciful death. It had been this very weapon that had ended Klaars’ mortal life and he had been drawn to it.
“A specter!” one of the Cho-Arrim shouted. “Take it down!”
A hail of arrows were then loosed toward Klaars -only to burn to cinders upon nearing the Nightmare’s flaming body. Those that struck Klaars lodged themselves in cracked armor and bones but seemed to have little affect.
“Cho….DIE!” the Revenant cried out as he drove his steed down upon them.
The first warriors to perish were crushed beneath the Nightmare’s flaming hooves. The next fell beneath the headsman’s axe. Klaars wielded it with a supernatural strength and skill, swinging the heavy weapon in a perfect arc as if it were a lightly balanced scimitar. Three warriors’ heads leapt from their shoulders with a fountain of gore. Within the first moments of combat, Ta-Spon’s forces had been decimated.
The remaining men drew their swords and attempted to close in around Klaars and box him in. Then, out of the corners of their eyes, they saw bursts of green flame engulf the bodies of those slain by the revenant. As the headless corpses burnt away to the bone, they rose from where they lay. Glowing eyes appeared amid balls of flame where heads once rested and skeletal hands again raised up their weapons. The spawn of Klaars then turned upon their former comrades.
Ta-Spon watched in horror as Klaars’ nightmare reared up to trample him, narrowly rolling away. As he returned to his feet, the nightmare charged headlong toward him. Although few of Klaars’ memories remained, the face of the man who killed him was forever burned into his mind. He would claim his revenge with the very weapon that ended his life.
Drawing a spear from where it was strapped against his back, Ta-Spon waited until the nightmare had closed in just enough so that it was within reach but outside of the reach of Klaars’ axe. With a mighty lunge, the Cho-Arrim warrior speared the spirit horse through the chest, piercing what should have been its heart. His weapon pierced only smoke. The nightmare was as ephemeral as smoke billowing from a funeral pyre. No normal weapons could harm it.
Klaars then closed in, swinging his axe down with enough strength to split a man clean in two. Instead, the side of the axe was impacted by Ta-Spon’s spear as he pushed it to the side. Spinning in place, Ta-Spon then slammed the butt of the spear into Klaars’ chestplate. The revenant was flung from his mount to clatter to the ground. The fall was enough to break Klaars’ spine, but this did not hinder him.
The revenant rose, even as a section of spine hung cracked from the back of his breastplate. His bones were puppeteered by Abcal-Dro’s dark magic and he would not be laid to rest so easily.
Ta-Spon raised up his weapon in a defensive stance as the revenant closed in upon him.
“I will defeat you, spirit, even if I have to break all of your bones to dust to do it!” he shouted.
“You took my head…” Klaars replied “Now I’ll take yours!”
Ta-Spon shot a quick glance to where his fellow warriors were engaged in battle with Klaars’ spawn. Once more to his horror it seemed as if those slain by his spawn also rose as revenants. Where once there had been three, the undead ranks had grown to equal his own.
Ta-Spon knew that this would be his last battle. However, he was determined to take this abomination down with him.
With a mighty throw, Ta-Spon hurled his spear into Klaars’ chest, causing it to puncture clean through his armor. Klaars did not so much as pause.
Ta-Spon then drew his longsword as Klars fell upon him. His axe swung with incredible speed and accuracy, which should have been impossible for such a weapon. Ta-Spon was left with time only to dodge and no gap with which to strike back. His undead foe, meanwhile, showed no signs of tiring. He would not be able to keep this up forever.
With Klaars’ next swing, Ta-Spon elected instead to parry. Although he was large and well-muscled, Klaars’ bones possessed a supernatural strength. With their weapons locked, Klaars continued to advance, slowly pushing Ta-Spon back and overpowering him.
Breaking away, Ta-Spon attempted a desperate swing, hoping to sever Klaars’ sword-arm. He was met with a blow to the face from Klaars’ invisible, spectral hand. The Cho-Arrim warrior’s nose was crushed and his vision blurred as blood ran from his nose. Still, his sight was good enough to see the last of his men meet their deaths at the hands of Klaars’ spawn. His former comrades now advanced to aid Klaars in finishing him off.
Klaars did not hesitate to take advantage of his opening, stepping in and bringing the axe down on Ta-Spon’s wrist. The Cho-Arrim warrior cried out in pain as blood gushed from his severed limb. A kick from Klaars’ armored boot then brought Ta-Spon to the ground, his ribs shattered.
A sadistic laughter emanated from Klaars’ hollow neck. The flames billowing from his body then danced and swayed until they formed a blurred image of Klaars’ face.
“Y-you!” Ta-Spon coughed as his throat filled with blood.
Klaars raised the axe high and with a single blow removed his executioner’s head. However, just before his final breath left his lips, the Cho-Arrim completed one final spell – a spell intended to ease the passing of the dying and grant their souls peace. As his body burned away, his spirit did not rise as one of the undead. Instead, Ta-Spon’s luminous form rose from out of his broken corpse. His spirit would soon join the river of souls in the heavens, but first he would warn Cho-Manno.
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When at last the boats ran aground at the haunted crossroads near Ouramos, they found them to be strangely deserted. There was no sign of the ghouls that had previously been its guardian.
Cho-Manno had remained behind with the boats to care for Orim while Sisay, Tahngarth, Squee and Atalla, at his insistence, went on ahead.
“If you run into any trouble you’ll need another strong arm at your sides,” the lad had insisted.
The group had nearly crossed the barren lands and forest that marked the henge of Ramos was within sight when the spirit of Ta-Spon rose up before them.
Atalla and Tahngarth reflexively raised their weapons but Sisay recognized the spirit.
“Wait,” she commanded, waving them down. “Ta-Spon, is that you?”
“Indeed,” the fallen warrior said, dejected. “I fell in battle against our enemies and I have come to warn you.”
“Where are the ghouls that once defended these lands?” Tahngarth interrupted. “We took the refugees here because of their protection.”
“The power of Ramos is fading from this world, even as I am,” the spirit explained. “The magics which once bound them to these lands has weakened and they wandered free, bereft of purpose.”
“So they were the same ghouls,” the minotaur muttered at the grim news.
“Yes,” answered the spirit of Ta-Spon. “And matters have grown worse still. I didn’t perish against the Phyrexians. They have raised one of your former comrades, Klaars, as a powerful undead spirit that even now hunts you. I used the afterlife spell to escape becoming his thrall, but all he slays rise to become creatures like him – as do all they slay.”
Sisay’s fists clenched with rage. First Ertai and Crovax, now Klaars too?
“Dats just great!” cursed Squee as he kicked a mound of dirt. “So what we supposed ta do now?!”
“Meet with Ramos,” replied the spirit, whose form had begun to fade. “In his last moments, he will impart to you his remaining wisdom. Perhaps it will be enough to save our world. Farewell…”
“Farewell noble warrior,” said Tahngarth as the minotaur and his comrades bowed their heads in respect.
The moment of silence was broken by Squee as he tugged on Atalla’s trousers.
“I gots an idea, how ‘bout you just have the genie wish hisself and all the Phyrexians and dere ghost buddies offa dis world?” inquired the goblin. “Solve all our problems right dere.”
Atalla shook his head.
“The wishes granted can’t exceed the Djinn’s power,” the young pirate explained.
“Then we have no choice,” said Sisay. “We will meet with Ramos. Our only hopes lie with him.”
With that, the group trudged through the last of the blackened ground until they at last reached the edge for the forest. Atalla’s eyes were immediately drawn to the numerous powerstones dotting the forest floor and glittering like diamonds. His mouth hung open in awe. There were enough here to live a lifetime of luxury – multiple lifetimes! On instinct, he reached for one only for Sisay to catch him by the wrist.
“The trees have eyes,” she explained. “They don’t take kindly to thieves.”
“Come out!” bellowed Tahngarth. “I know you dryads are there. You granted us passage once before and we seek an urgent audience with Ramos!”
After an uneasy silence, several lithe, green skinned women with hair like moss appeared, seemingly from nowhere. In their native woodlands, dryads could only be seen if they wished to be seen.
“Ramos will see you,” they spoke in a chorus. “Come, the time is short.”
The group the followed the dryads through the grove surrounding Ramos’ resting place. Despite Ramos’ apparent weakening strength, the plump fruits whose healing properties Orim had described earlier still hung in abundance from its branches.
Finally, they emerged through the line of trees to a great, sandy pit. Once, the powerstones known as The Bones of Ramos lay on a pedestal at the center of the pit, bathing the area in the light of all five colors of mana. Now, the pedestal lay barren. The stones had been incorporated into Weatherlight’s engine and had allowed her crew to complete The Legacy and defeat Yawgmoth. However, their power had also sustained Ramos’ life force.
“Heroes…” bellowed the dragon’s mechanical voice, sounding weary. “I remember you well. Why is it that you come again before me? Was your quest successful? Have you come to bid me farewell?”
With that, the ground trembled as, with what remaining strength he possessed, the great Dragon Engine pulled himself free from the sands. Not some clumsy machine like Mishra’s attempts to replicate them during The Brother’s War, a true Dragon Engine appeared as lifelike in their movements any flesh and blood dragon, despite being entirely mechanical.
Atalla’s mouth hung open in awe of the living machine, the likes of which he had never witnessed.
“Great Ramos,” Sisay said, falling to one knee. “Thanks to the powerstones you provided us, we were indeed successful in thwarting the Phyrexian invasion of Dominaria and destroying their dark god. However, Urza and his legacy were sacrificed during the final battle.”
“One of Yawgmoth’s praetors survived,” Tahngarth continued. “He has come to this world to recreate Phyrexia’s armies and declare himself Yawgmoth’s successor.”
“Mercadia City has already fallen,” said Sisay. “We have evacuated all that we could from the Rushwood. We ask that you protect them and aid us in defeating this evil once and for all.”
Ramos appeared visibly saddened by the news of Weatherlight and Urza’s deaths. So too did he notice that neither Hanna, Gerrard or Karn were among them. However, he also understood well the severity of their plight. There was no time to grieve.
“I possess not the strength to defeat a Phyrexian praetor,” said Ramos, much to Atalla’s shock. “However, the druids here will use their magics to defend the survivors. I will use the last of my strength to create a steam barrier around Ouramos to protect it from ray cannons. I’m afraid that is the best that I can offer you.”
“But that-that’s not good enough!” Atalla shouted, stepping forth. “You are the most ancient being on this world, revered as God by all it peoples, and the best you can offer us is a place to forestall our deaths?!”
Ramos turned his huge head toward the boy and regarded him somberly. The young were always the least willing to accept the inevitability of death. However, just then, something that the boy spoke of activated one of his dormant memory banks. Information which he had not accessed in thousands of years suddenly filled his mechanized mind. Perhaps there was a way after all.
“Wait,” Ramos replied. “You are wrong, there was a being more ancient than myself. When I first arrived in Ouramos, it had another guardian – a Maro nature spirit like Titania of Argoth. It was a very old being, even then, and after seeing how I had saved the peoples of Dominaria it asked that I watch over the world while it slumbered. It was called Rushwood and it was how the forest got its name.”
“I can tell you where Rushwood sleeps, though I know not how to wake him,” the Dragon Engine explained. “If there is any with the power or knowledge to help you, it is he.”
Atalla’s eyes suddenly filled with hope.
“Oh, but I have a way,” he said, raising up his hand and showing off the ring containing Dhabbukosh. “I’ll use the last with to awaken Rushwood and then I dare Dhabbukosh to try anything to harm us!”
Atalla’s hope seemed to spread to Sisay and her companions. Sisay, Tahngarth, and Squee remembered their own dealings with a Maro spirit on Doiminaria. Multani, the guardian of Yavimaya, had been Gerrard and Mirri’s tutor. He possessed the ability to inhabit any plant matter and construct from it a body. During the Invasion, he had joined briefly with Weatherlight to regenerate her hull in battle and then went dormant after using all of his strength to create a land bridge between Yavimaya and Uborg for the Coalition armies to march their forces against Crovax.
Perhaps Rushwood had himself gone dormant after a similarly strenuous use of power.
Sisay remembered the trees of Rushwood forest and how each was as wide around as a small city. A Maro spirit formed from such mighty trees would be a powerful ally indeed. A malicious Djinn, mighty as he may be, would stand no chance against such a force of nature.
Chapter 9: Force of Nature
The dryads of Ouramos led Sisay and her allies into the hidden heart of Rushwood. There, the trees grew wild and tangled. Tree limbs were as large as sailing ships, trees themselves were the size of large cities. The root systems were as great underground roads. Their path was winding and fraught with dangers; were it not for the dryads in their company their party may have fallen prey to any number of predatory beasts, carnivorous plants, giant spiders or venomous serpents.
Then, at last, they reached their destination. After emerging through a line of trees the group stood on the edge of a waterfall leading down into a great valley. Below appeared to be yet another forest, drawing nourishment from the crystalline waters that surrounded it.
“Behold, Rushwood, the guardian of antiquity,” said the chorus of dryads.
It was then that Sisay and her companions realized that it was not another forest that lay before them, but a single, colossal being. It was larger than the greatest of Yavimaya’s Magnigoth treefolk, whose limbs has reached into the heavens and whose limbs had swatted Phyrexian ships from the skies during the Invasion. The being before them would be large enough to grapple with the hugest of Phyrexian plagueships and probably strong enough to crush it like a tin can. Entire ecosystems likely dwelt within its slumbering body.
As awestruck as they were, they did not forget their reason for coming to this sacred place.
Atalla stepped forth and spoke once more to his ring.
“From sleep beyond dreams, space beyond starlight, time beyond memory, I call you forth and command you, Dhabbukosh, do appear!”
Once more, the great Blue Djinn swirled forth like a tornado from his confinement before manifesting again into physical form.
“Are you ready to make your final wish?” asked the Djinn in a subtly threatening tone.
Sisay and Tahngarth’s hands rested upon the hilts of their weapons, ready to spring into action. Cho-Manno and the Dryads were also prepared, ready to swiftly summon forth their magics should the need arise. Squee hid nervously behind them.
“I command you to awaken the slumbering Maro nature spirit before you,” replied Atalla. “After that, do what you will.”
Turning to face the dormant guardian, Dhabbukosh begins chanting in a long-forgotten tongue. His voice slowly built in volume until it echoed through the valley, louder than thunder. Squee fell to his knees and plugged his sensitive ears as the others grit their teeth and watched with squinted eyes through the din. The Djinn’s voice grew louder still until the world itself seemed to quake. Blood trickled from the ears of Sisay and her companions until at last, with one last screamed syllable, there was again silence.
Their ears rang but they had not been rendered deaf. They could hear the sounds of the water below them.
Then the world quaked once more, more violently than before. The cliffside upon which they stood began to crack and crumble apart. The dryads’ magic summoned forth vines to help them to quickly descend to the valley below, for what safety that would provide. Mere moments after they reached the ground, the cliff crumbled and tumbled down the mountainside. Without the dryads’ aid, they would surely have been buried.
Then the ground rose up before them, blotting out the light of the sun as Rushwood rose to his full height, more than a mile tall. Sisay and her companions were less than specks before him.
Dhabbukosh’s grin widened as he watched the golden bracers around his wrists shatter. Crafted by a Planeswalker’s magic, they had been the only force capable of keeping him from returning to his native Rabiah until he granted his supposed master’s three wishes. Now, he was free to do with his power as he saw fit. Still, he could not help but be awed as well by the being which towered above him. There wasn’t a force on this world, or even his native Rabiah, that could best it in battle…but he wouldn’t need to.
“Thank you, oh master, for releasing me,” the Djinn said as he levitated up toward the face of the towering treefolk. “It has been such a pleasure serving you that now, you and all the peoples of this world will have the honor…of serving me!”
“What?!” Tahngarth snarled.
Dhabbukosh then tuned toward Rushwood and thrust out both of his arms before him. Chanting quickly, he weaved wisps of blue magic through the hollows of the nature spirit’s massive head. In a matter of moments, his control magic spell was complete. Rushwood would have no choice but to obey his will!
“Your God is now mine to command!” the Djinn bellowed triumphantly down to those below. “All will serve at my pleasure or be crushed beneath his feet!”
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The hooves of Klaars’ nightmare steed splashed through the muck of the crossroads leading to Ouramos. The headless rider gripped the reins with his spectral hand and the executioner’s axe, freshly stained with Ta-Spon’s blood, in his skeletal appendage. Ta-Spon’s severed head bounced against his waist, his coiffed locks now woven into Klaars’ belt. Behind him marched a squadron of headless dead, ghostly blue fire billowing from their necks just like their creator. All of those Cho-Arrim whom had remained behind to cover Cho-Manno’s retreat now aided those intent on hunting him.
Behind this unholy force marched Xarzhun and his Phyrexian army. The Cateran leader knew of the legends of Ramos, but had always suspected them to be false or an exaggeration. He did not fear entering this sacred place, for he served the true god – the father of machines. All false creeds shall be expunged to usher in a new age of Phyresis upon Mercadia. What better means was there to crush the hopes of the Mercadians than to conquer their most holy site?
It did not surprise him that the revenant lead them here. The forest rising above the swamp would provide its defenders with a high ground and cover from which to strike. Against a conventional army they might have actually stood a chance. However, with Klaars on their side, there would be no hope of victory. No matter what injuries he sustained, the vengeful undead would not fall.
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Sisay and her allies looked up in stunned horror as Dhabbukosh hovered next to the awakened Rushwood – now held within his thrall.
“Kneel before your Sultan!” the Djinn commanded them.
In answer came the chorus of dryads. Their collective voice rose above that of the triumphant Djinn as though the wind willingly aided it. Their song was beautiful, haunting and tranquil. The chirping of birds and the buzzing of insects ceased – even the waterfall seemed to flow more quietly as all of nature paused to listen. Green mana was woven with their words, dispelling the Djinn’s enchantment.
As the last note faded, Rushwood turned toward Dhabbukosh and swatted him from the sky with a massive backhand slap. The Djinn’s body was reduced to vapor as his magical essence dispersed. Atalla was awed by such a display of power. He had seen Dhabbukosh wrestle and defeat a two-headed dragon with his bare hands. Still, he was no more than a fly before the mighty Maro spirit.
“Why have you awakened me from my slumber?” questioned Rushwood, his voice rumbling like an earthquake through the valley. “What is this foul corruption that I smell upon the wind?”
Squee coughed nervously.
“Uh…dat…mighta been me,” Squee answered, prompting an elbow from Tahngarth.
Sisay then stepped forward, falling to one knee.
“Great Rushwood, we have awakened you because a great evil now threatens your lands,” she said. “A force known as Phyrexia has invaded your world. They are unnatural beings, half-machine and half-flesh, and they wish to destroy all that they encounter.”
For a moment, Rushwood fell silent. He then recalled a memory from thousands of years ago.
“Yes, I was warned of their coming,” replied the Maro. “Ages ago, there came a group of refugees from another world. A Planeswalker, Dyfed, brought humans and goblins from the Thran Empire on the plane of Dominaria. The humans were elderly statesmen, fleeing from a mad tyrant they called Yawgmoth. He had imprisoned them upon a world of machines, Phyrexia, and would have transformed them into the very horrors you describe were it not for Dyfed’s intervention.”
“So the Thran survived on Mercadia?” asked Tahngarth. “They didn’t all perish?”
“They were too old to bear children of their own,” replied Rushwood. “Thus, they dedicated the remainder of their years to constructing weapons that could aid in the fight against Yawgmoth. They told me that Yawgmoth intended to become a God and that his ambitions did not end with the conquest of Dominaria. They knew that one day he would find Mercadia as well. When at last age did claim them, the goblins were instructed to carry on their work.”
“However, as generations passed, the goblins became too preoccupied with ruling over this world and their origins as well as the threat of Yawgmoth were forgotten,” continued Rushwood. “The Thran temple was abandoned in favor of a new home high on Mercadia’s greatest peak, beyond even my reach. They had little desire to live at harmony with nature so I turned my attentions away from them and back to the forest. There, I created many great beasts –wumpus, satyrs, gahrs, megatheriums and more – hoping that they could repel Yawgmoth and his armies when at last they came. Then came Ramos.”
“When I first saw the great machine dragon, I thought him to be Yawgmoth,” Rushwood further explained. “I thought at first those that he carried upon his back were his chosen warriors. I assembled an army of beasts to meet him when he landed. However, he landed in ruin, and rather than immediately destroy him I questioned him about the purpose of his coming. I then learned that as great as he was, he had fled from a war that was far greater and yet all of its warring forces combined paled to the power of Yawgmoth.”
“I passed the mantle of Mercadia’s guardian onto Ramos, allowing him to watch over the peoples whom he had brought with him,” concluded Rushwood. “Meanwhile, I slept – dedicating my power to strengthening Mercadia’s magical leylines and accelerating my own growth. I wanted to be prepared for when Yawgmoth truly returned. Now, you tell me, that day has come?”
Sisay shook her head.
“Not Yawgmoth himself, but his successor,” she replied.
“I am part of a group of heroes from Dominaria,” Sisay explained. “We piloted a ship - a weapon created by another Planeswalker, Urza, which was able to destroy Yawgmoth when his armies attacked our world. However, in the final battle, it was lost itself. What we now face is a survivor of that war – a powerful demon who seeks to recreate Phyrexia on this world. Our power alone is not enough to stop him.”
“The time for sleep is over,” Tahngarth cut in. “If you do not act now, not even your great power will be enough. Had Yawgmoth attacked Mercadia with his full strength, your world would have been doomed. You have to stop them now, before they grow any stronger. Even now, their forces march on Ramos.”
“Very well,” replied Rushwood as he took his first, lumbering step from the pool in which had lain dormant for aeons. “Then together we march to battle!”
“Wait, what about the weapons that the Thran were building?” asked Atalla.
Rushwood’s great boughs creaked as he turned his head to the boy.
“What if, even with your great strength, it isn’t enough?” Atalla argued. “The Phyrexians have a fleet; they took over Mercadia city in hours. If these weapons can help us, we should use them!”
“I know not of what the Thran elders built, but it would represent the culmination of their knowledge – knowledge which is beyond me,” Rushwood replied. “Perhaps the boy is right. You warriors of Dominaria may be the only ones capable of wielding these weapons. If indeed they are required, you must find them before it is too late. I shall defend Ramos; you must travel to the place where the sun comes to rest upon the land – there you shall find the Thran temple, built to harness its light.”
“The sun comes to rest – the Deeplands!” Atalla said, turning to face the group. “They are the westernmost lands of Mercadia. It is a vast, rocky desert that has never been fully explored. It is home to crag saurians, manticores, lithophages and dragons – very dangerous. Still, the eggs of any of those beasts is worth a high price on the black market.”
“Wonderful,” grumbled Tahngarth. “What are we waiting for?”
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The forest of Ouramos was shrouded in a thick fog. However, a mere fog would not be enough to stop the armies of Phyrexia and their revenant forces. Xarzhun stood among his fellow Phyrexians, a mass of spines, claws, fangs and sagittal crests. They watched as the first wave of headless dead made their advance. Klaars led the charge atop his nightmare steed.
Arrows loosed from the tree line burned to ash before impacting the flame-wreathed mount, whose incendiary breath burned away swaths of protective vapors. Meanwhile, the spawn of Klaars trudged up the slopes of the mound, tireless, unfettered by mortal fatigue. Their bones rattled in their broken armor and the flames blazing where their heads once were made them appear as a swarm of fireflies to Ouramos’ defenders.
Dryad magic transformed tree limbs into lashing whips, but Klaars’ axe severed them with ease. Other limbs carried with them dozens of Cho-Arrim warriors. These fighters were armed with spears, allowing them to stab out as the branches unwound before the tree limbs pulled them back to safety. It was an ingenious, albeit futile, tactic. Although spears pierced their armor, there were no vital areas to strike their skeletal bodies. Though they lacked eyes or ears, the undead could sense the life force of the living. They leapt with supernatural strength onto the branches and embers leapt from their necks, setting trees ablaze. Cho-Arrim water mages struggled to douse the flames, but they burned hotter than any natural fire.
Some of the spawn of Klaars willingly impaled themselves through their ribcages on Cho-Arrim spears, leaving the spear-wielders helpless. A swing of their blades and the humans’ heads leapt from their shoulders. The corpses immediately ignited with unholy flames, charring away flesh and setting alight the trees beneath them. Those slain by Klaars and his spawn joined their ranks. The ranks of the undead vanguard swelled.
For every spawn crushed beneath lashing boughs it seemed two more rose. The defenders were in chaos.
Then, suddenly, one of the burning trees was doused with a torrent of water, glowing with white mana energies. As these holy waters washed over the spawn of Klaars, the fires blazing in their hollow necks were doused. Their lifeless skeletons clattered to the ground. Klaars turned his attention to the source of the waters, where stood Orim and Cho-Manno. Thanks to fruits of the grove of Ouramos, Orim’s magic and strength and been completely restored.
Orim held her Samite staff in one hand, touching a now emptied waterskin held by Cho-Manno. In each of their free hands, they clutched another fruit of Ouramos. Raising them to their lips, the two heroes took a bite while Cho-Arrim refugees ran up behind them with replacement waterskins. The next blast of holy water was directed at Klaars himself, who pulled back on the reins, causing his nightmare to fly back away in retreat. This caused cheers to erupt from the grove’s defenders as they fought on with renewed fervor.
As Orim and Cho-Manno continued to unleash torrents of white mana infused waters, more and more of Klaars’ spawn were swept from the trees and destroyed. The flames that had once threatened to spread throughout the grove were contained. The Cho-Arrim defenders shifted their tactics from stabbing the remaining undead to bashing and shoving them down into the purifying rivers that now raged below. The tide had literally turned in their favor. Klaars watched from above with bewilderment as the rest of his vanguard was destroyed.
His spectral sight recognized Orim as one of his former allies, they who had betrayed him by allying themselves with his killers. The truth of the Cateran Overlord’s words was proven as she stood there, fighting side by side with the Cho-Arrim leader. It was then that memories which had previously been suppressed awakened within him. Images flashed within his mind of standing on Weatherlight’s decks, battling against hordes of winged slivers within Volrath’s stronghold. He was able to cut down one of the creatures, but another sliver’s talon raked across his chest, slicing a deep gash and causing him to black out from the pain.
Klaars then remembered awakening – still dazed within Weatherlight’s infirmary. His chest had been wrapped in gauze, his wounds closed and treated with healing herbs. By the light of the lantern which hung above his cot in that darkened room, he could just make out Orim’s face. She had been so beautiful to him then. She was like his guardian angel, rescuing him from death.
Next, his mind flashed with another image, Cho-Arrim warriors holding him down as he struggled in desperate fear. His arm, broken from the ship’s crash-landing on Mercadia, was amputated with a swing of Ta-Spon’s axe. Klaars did not know that they were merely hoping to prevent gangrene and infection. In his mind they were butchers, savages, who had abducted him and Orim along with the ship and had now maimed him for life when a simple healing spell would have fixed him. He remembered screaming in pain as a torch charred shut the wound – to torture him all the more.
The vision then showed him and other members of Weatherlight’s crew, locked in a wooden cage – awaiting whatever fate the Cho-Arrim had in store for them. He would kill them all and save Orim and his friends! In a righteous rage, Klaars snapped the bars of the cage with his one remaining arm. He then beat down his guards and slaughtered them with their own weapons. However, eventually, despite his best efforts, the prisoners were re-captured.
Klaars remembered the cold look in Cho-Manno’s eyes as his head was placed on the chopping block. With his last breath, he cursed the Cho-Arrim and then Ta-Spon’s axe, the very same which he now gripped, sliced through his neck and ended his life.
“She loves him now,” a new voice echoed in Klaars’ mind, the voice of Abcal-Dro. “She has forgotten all about you, you who died trying to save her. She never cared about you. Make her suffer. Make her pay by killing her friends.”
Klaars could sense the presence of others on the plane – Sisay and the rest of her crew. They had become separated from Cho-Manno, Orim and the rest of Ouramos’ defenders. He would hunt them down first and exact his revenge upon them. The next time he saw Orim and Cho-Manno, he would throw their friends’ heads at their feet. Curse them, curse them all!
With that, Klaars kicked the sides of his steed, driving the nightmare to gallop off on another murderous course.
Xarzhun watched with utter contempt as his undead forces were destroyed and Klaars seemingly retreated. Worthless spectre; his master Abcal-Dro had clearly placed far too much faith in his necromantic talents. No matter, they had still managed to soften up the forest’s defenders. His Phyrexian armies would finish the job. His biomechanical horrors would succeed where those pathetic bags of bone could not.
The Phyrexian army charged forth, shrieking a hideous battle-cry. However, they came to a sudden halt as the ground quaked beneath them. This quake was followed by another and then another. Xarzhun’s compound eyes widened in terror as he caught sight of the source of this shaking. Rushwood had come, the mile high Maro bounding across the land with tremendous strides.
The Phyrexians looked up in awe as Rushwood fell upon them. His first footfall crushed dozens of Phyrexians beneath him while the others scurried desperately away – appearing like ants before him. His fist then swung down, crushing dozens more as it fell like a meteor upon their ranks. Those that survived did not surrender, however, leaping onto Rushwood’s massive body and clutching hold with metal claws. Stingers injected corrupting pathogens into his bark and mechanical limbs tore chunks of wooden flesh.
Still, to Rushwood, they were no more than stinging flies. From crevasses and hollows throughout his body emerged giant spiders who had made their nests within him. Webs snared climbing Phyrexians and powerful mandibles crushed through armored carapace. Rushwood was an army unto his own. The Phyrexians were hopelessly overwhelmed.
Still, Xarzhun fought on. His scythe swung furiously, each slash blackening bark beneath him and splitting giant spiders in two. The glory of Phyrexia could not be defeated by mere nature! Such was his last thought before the crushing hand of Rushwood reduced him and the remainder of his forces into an oily smear on Rushwood’s leg. The Maro then stripped off those corrupted layers of bark like a human scratching off a thin layer of dead skin.
Abcal-Dro watched his commander’s death through a scrying lens with genuine shock. If such a creature as Rushwood existed, then it would take all of his resources to fight it. Through the powerstones linking him psychically to his forces, Abcal-Dro ordered them all to fall back to Mount Mercadia. His ships would defend the city until he could find a way to destroy the Maro. Klaars would slay Urza’s champions and in the end he would still prevail.
Chapter 10: Badlands
The dryads could commune with every plant and animal in the forest and word soon reached them of the defeat of the Phyrexian forces. They led Sisay and her companions back to Ouramos where they would re-join their victorious comrades and travel to the Deep Lands. However, while on their way, the natural ambience of the forest suddenly grew silent as though frozen with fear. Standing in their path, still far enough away that his features couldn’t quite be made out – was a lone, hooded rider on a black steed. Few beings could track a group of Dryads, much less ambush them.
“Be wary,” one of the dryads said to the group. “That is not a natural creature – it reeks of death and black magic.”
Tahngarth then stepped forward, drawing his striva from where it was sheathed on his back.
“Stand aside!” the minotaur bellowed. “Mortal or spirit my blade will cut you!”
In answer, a gloved hand reached up from under the figure’s cloak and lowered his hood. There was no head atop its shoulders. Glowing green flames then erupted from the hollow neck as a pair of glowing eyes appeared. At the same time, fire and smoke rose hissing from the nightmare it rode. An axe then appeared to levitate up at its side, gripped in Klaars’ spectral hand.
“What are you spirit?!” growled Tahngarth. “And what do you want from us?!”
“You do not know me, but I know you,” replied Klaars. “You are all traitors and you will pay dearly for your betrayal!”
Klaars then kicked the sides of his steed, driving the flaming nightmare in a galloping charge toward the Minotaur and his allies.
Sisay and Atalla drew their weapons as Squee dove for the nearest cover. However, the dryads were first to attack.
Roots which ran beneath their dirt path rose up, attempting to snare the legs of the nightmare. However, the spirit horse bounded over them, flying through the air as it closed in.
Down swung Klaars’ axe, which was parried by Tahngarth’s striva. The minotaur held his ground, though his hooves dug rivets into the ground as the nightmare attempted to push him over. Sisay and Atalla leapt off to the sides of the nightmare, both sending their blades in sweeping strikes at its neck. Their weapons passed only through smoke.
“You’re Klaars, aren’t you?” Tahngarth angrily demanded. “I don’t know what you’ve become, but we never betrayed you! We were allies, brothers in arms! The Phyrexians have lied to you!”
“LIARS!” the spirit wailed as the nightmare reared up, attempting to trample Tahngarth beneath its hooves. Tahngarth spun in place, sending an arcing slash into the spirit horse’s legs. In the moment that it had moved to strike, the nightmare had become partially corporeal. Thus, Tahngarth’s blade was able to strike true. Whinnying in pain, the horse fell backward onto Klaars, pinning him beneath it as it flailed and struggled.
Seeing his opportunity, Squee ran forward with his waterskin. Uncorking it, he dumped the contents of the container onto the flames emitting from Klaars’ hollow neck – only for the water to evaporate harmlessly.
“Take that!” shouted Squee, the look of heroic confidence on his face quickly replaced with an expression of horror.
“I-It worked for Orim!” he whined.
Turning to Squee, Klaars shoved the wounded nightmare off him with his corporeal arm. As the spirit horse retreated, flying off into the night, Klaars’ spectral arm, still holding the axe, swung down and sliced the offending goblin clean in half vertically. The bisected goblin flopped lifelessly to the ground without even having time to react.
Klaars then rose to face Tahngarth, Atalla, Sisay and the dryads.
“Not even a tear shed for the warty toad?” questioned Klaars. “You truly do care nothing for your companions do you? I doubt you even remember my face.”
With that, the flames where Klaars’ head once rested shifted to form a blurred image of his living self. He could only maintain the image for a few moments before his face again vanished into flame. At the same time, severed muscles from Squee’s split body extended and began to knit and pull themselves back together. In a matter of seconds, he was alive once again, scurrying off to hide again. Squee doubted he’d be of much help in this battle.
“You’re wrong,” Sisay replied. “I remember all of those who gave their lives for us – and our mission to destroy the Phyrexians! It is you who have betrayed that quest and who have become a mockery of the noble man you once were!”
At this, Klaars stepped forth, raising up the executioner’s axe in a fighting stance. Sisay, Tahngarth and Atalla took defensive postures, waiting for the undead warrior to make his move.
“You have allied yourselves with the Cho-Arrim – the very people who took my head!” Klaars shouted in reply. “For that, I can never forgive you! I don’t care what Phyrexia does with this miserable world; none of that matters to me now. The only reason I exist is to claim my vengeance upon you!”
Klaars then charged toward the three warriors, swinging at all three of them in a wide cleave. The moments that followed were an elaborate dance of blades. Klaars was mighty, but his foes were skilled and nimble. Still, one false move would be the death of them, so they were hesitant to over-commit to any perceived opening. Klaars swung his axe like no living opponent and lacked any clear vulnerable points.
Abcal-Dro watched the battle through his scrying lens from within his lair on Mount Mercadia. While the conflict had certainly interested him, something else had revealed itself that was even more valuable. He had witnessed the death and resurrection of Squee, and it was like nothing he had ever seen. This was no green mana regeneration enchantment – Squee had died, all of his vital functions had ceased. White mana could resurrect someone very recently killed, but only if their body was mostly intact, a sort of magical defibrillator.
Typically, the only magics that could have restored him from such a state would have been black. However, necromantic magic would have raised him as some form of zombie or spirit. This was something far more powerful. Just what manner of power dwelt within this goblin? Abcal-Dro then recalled hearing of how the goblin had been given to the Evincar Crovax as a plaything after his capture during the Phyrexian invasion.
It was Yawgmoth’s power! A seed of Yawgmoth’s power still dwelt within Squee! That changed everything! He had to acquire that goblin, no matter what the cost. He would absorb Yawgmoth’s boon for himself and then he would be truly invincible!
While Klaars appeared to be holding his own in the battle, it would be foolish to risk him being destroyed here. He was the best way of tracking this group and he could not afford to allow Squee to slip through his grasp.
“Klaars,” Abcal-Dro commanded the spirit. “Retreat for now, you will have your vengeance in due time.”
With that, crackling arcs of black energy traveled from Abcal-Dro’s body and into the scrying lens.
Arcing webs of Abcal-Dro’s power lashed the ground between the three warriors and Klaars, causing the heroes to leap for cover. Where it touched, all plant matter was instantly putrefied. Stray arcs of the blast tore through the sky and struck Klaars’ nightmare, empowering it and regenerating its severed hooves. As Sisay and her allies struggled back to their feet, the nightmare had swept back down and Klaars had mounted it once more. Before they could stop him, Klaars had rode off into the night and out of sight.
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It was nearly dawn as Sisay and her companions returned to Ouramos, weary from their battle. The survivors were celebrating their victory, but they knew it was not the end of the war. Abcal-Dro still controlled Mount Mercadia and Klaars was still out there somewhere, waiting for his next opportunity to strike. The quest to reach the Thran Temple, somewhere in the treacherous Deep Lands lay now before them. How to reach it, without leaving themselves exposed to Phyrexian attack, was the question.
“The way I see it there is only one way,” Cho-Manno explained to the assembled heroes, who sat in a circle around him. “It will require an advanced water magic technique that I had yet to teach you last time and which unfortunately you will have little time to master now. When last the Cho-Arrim attacked Mercadia City, our warriors transformed themselves into water vapor form and rode within a storm cloud. As the storm broke, they fell to the streets as raindrops and then returned to their normal forms. Rushwood has informed me that such a cloud will be traveling over these lands and to the Deeplands within a day’s time.”
“Your minds must be clear and unburdened in order to succeed,” he continued. “Your senses must be sharp, able to sense the wind currents that you may follow them. Maintaining your focus is key, lest you return to your true forms several thousand feet off the ground and plummet to your doom.”
“No pressure,” grumbled Tahngarth.
“The Phyrexians will not expect you to travel using this method,” Cho-Manno continued. “It should allow you to cover the great distance far faster than on foot or even on Jhovalls. We will begin with meditation – you must breathe in concert with Orim and your emotions must be linked with hers.”
Sisay took a deep breath and clenched her fists. Her thoughts often wandered to dark places; how could they not? All of the things they had been through, all that they had seen, all those whom they had lost? She was plagued by constant nightmares and even with Tahngarth’s company she was lucky to have a truly restful sleep. It seemed an impossible task.
“I’ll try,” she said. “We don’t have a choice.”
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“Think happy thoughts,” Squee said with a smile as he closed his eyes, the group now several hours into their attempts. “Nice breeze, smell good food, a plate a nice juicy grubs squirmin’ ‘bout…”
“Keep the bug eating to yourself,” Atalla cut in. “You’re gonna make me lose my lunch.”
The boy then tried to think about what things brought him peace. His childhood, growing up on the Jhovall farm. Petting one of the young felines when they were still just affectionate kittens. Home cooked meals. His bed.
Tears then began to well up in his eyes. It hurt to think of such things; all of that was gone now. Was there a way to remember the good times without dwelling on that? Or was it better to go numb?
No, he may have lost one family – but he had a new one now. Sisay and her companions had always been there for him. They had fought for his world even though it was not their own. He owed it to them to step up and become heroes like they were. Their bravery would inspire his own.
For Tahngarth, there was one thing that brought him peace. He remembered his nights aboard Victory, the rocking of the waves. Sisay’s warm embrace. They had lost many friends, that much was true. However, she remained by his side and he swore that he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.
It was not long before Sisay’s mind wandered to a similar place of comfort. She and Tahngarth may have been different races, but they were kindred spirits; brave warriors, leaders, heroes. Their hearts beat as one.
As for Orim, her place of comfort was neither past nor present but future. She longed to settle down with Cho-Manno and raise a family together. However, her duties, her battles always led to them parting. She imagined a future in which Phyrexia had at last been defeated, in which their struggles were at an end and they at last found peace. They were so close to making that dream a reality – one last fight and it was within their grasp.
Slowly, a sense of calm overtook the group. Their eyes were closed and their hearing was heightened. In the quiet clearing, the loudest sound was their own breathing and slowly it fell into synch. Silently, Orim mouthed the syllables of her spell. This time, it was a success, their bodies appeared to painlessly evaporate as they transformed into water vapors and rose on the wind.
It was a strange sensation - like dreaming. They did not see, not truly, and were guided solely by their unified unconscious minds. They were weightless, bodiless, voiceless. All sense of time was lost. Orim’s magic had taken over.
As Cho-Manno watched them depart, he prayed for their success. Once more, they carried the hopes of the world on their backs. However, he would not simply wait around for their return. There was still much work to be done to prepare for the battle to come. The dryads would use their magics to send animal messengers to alert the peoples of Mercadia to the Phyrexian threat and Rushwood would call the mightiest beasts of the world to him along the plane’s magical leylines.
Cho-Manno would train the survivors for war, make them masters of both magic and steel. Only then could they have any hope of victory.
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While Cho-Manno prepared for battle in Ouramos, Abcal-Dro’s slaves, living and undead, toiled to transform the destroyed Mercadia City into a Phyrexian fortress, death camp and laboratory all in one. Ray cannons were mounted along the walls of the city along the wide top of the inverted mounted and others were positioned along the underside of the great disc to blast those who attempted to scale the mountain. Those ships destroyed by the lightning storm were salvaged or replaced. The growth of the fleet was slow-going, but the city’s captive populace was compleated at a rapid rate. Phyrexian horrors paced along blood-stained corridors as captives waited, packed like cattle into dirty cages, to be harvested.
Some specimens were taken whole. Others had choice limbs sawn off without anesthesia. Those Kyren who had sided with the Phyrexians had become prison wardens, coldly keeping tally of their human chattel. The most prominent of the once lithe race, had now become monstrous. Their legs has been replaced with quadrupedal artifact engines, ending in serrated talons and their forelimbs were similarly replaced with elongated arms ending in claws that scraped along the ground.
Most among the goblins who had not yet been completed longed to earn their masters’ favor and join the ranks of these fearsome beings. However there were some, even among those who had supported the Phyrexians, that were horrified by these mutilations. They had supported the Phyrexians’ rise to power out of fear that the new order was inevitable and had wanted to secure a place in it. However, now that they had experienced Phyrexian rule, despised its cold, regimented existence. What point was there in ruling if the world were transformed into this hideous, mechanized hell and they lost everything that made them goblins?
The goblins did not dare act on these feelings. They were terrified of the Phyrexians’ power and saw no way of defeating them. They were as much prisoners as the humans only they walked free of their cages. They had realized the true nature of their new masters too late. Each day they waited, paralyzed with fear, any chance of revolting grew even more slim.
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Sisay and her companions regained consciousness crouched in a rocky desert. The wasteland stretched as far as the eyes could see, dotted by small peaks resembling the spine of some half-buried beast. All around them, warm rain fell in torrents and thunder clapped above. The spell had worked – they had arrived safely in the Deeplands. Hastily, they opened their waterskins and any other container they could fill.
Rain here, Atalla had informed them, was rare. Water in general was scarce and most of the animals that lived here had evolved to require very little to survive. Humans, minotaurs and goblins weren’t so lucky. Whatever they were able to collect now would likely have to last them the duration of their quest here. Hopefully it would be enough.
“Enjoy the rain while you can,” said Atalla. “Soon the only thing keeping us cool will be our own sweat. This desert is as dry as bone. During the day it scorches you and at night it freezes you. If we’re lucky, that will be the least of our troubles.”
The group then began to survey the landscape before them. There was a great deal of open terrain, from which an enemy could easily be seen coming but in which there would be little cover. There were also the mountains, which would make travel more treacherous and whose caves could both provide shelter and contain hidden predators. Neither option was exactly safe. However, when one of them involved being potentially caught in the open by a two-headed dragon, the choice was clear.
“We’ll take the mountain route,” Sisay said, pointing to the nearest peak. “If they’re anything like the mountains of Dominaria, Squee will make an excellent guide. Besides, we’re probably looking for something like a powerstone forge. In Shiv, the mana rig was built into a cliffside. Orim, you studied archeology with Hanna at Argive, keep an eye out for any Thran runes or anything else which might point us in the right direction.”
Sisay then turned to Atalla.
“You mentioned that poachers sometimes came here in search of monster eggs,” she said. “You’ll be in charge of steering us clear of those areas.”
“Right,” Atalla replied. “Some of the hunters I spoke to made mention of certain signs to tell the lair of one beast from another. If you smell anything like sulfur or rotten eggs, that’s a dragon’s nest. If you see any giant quills lying around or scratches along the mountainside, that’s manticore territory. If you see any rocks that look like they’ve been melted by acid, that’s from a lithophage feeding. Saurians don’t leave as many markings, but they’re cowardly things as long as you can convince them you’re stronger.”
Leave that to me,” replied Tahngarth with a snort.
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The travel was arduous, but nothing to which Sisay was unaccustomed. During her search for The Legacy, her journeys had taken her across many treacherous landscapes on Dominaria. As long as they made good progress each day and kept water rationed carefully they would make it through this. The band of heroes traveled west, following the path of the sun which beat down on them from overhead. The cool rains that had dampened their clothes had dried all too quickly.
Fortunately, they were well-rationed. The dryads of Ouramos had permitted them to carry several of the fruits of the henge of Ramos. While these wouldn’t keep long in the sun, they provided the group with a great deal of nourishment and energy during their first few days of travel. From there, they switched to more standard traveling foods – dried meats and fruits and a handful of sweet candies from Mercadia City which gave them little bursts of energy when the going got tough. As much as possible, the group found shade where they could during high noon – taking that time to rest and recover their strength.
However, by the end of the seventh day, there was still no sign of the Thran civilization. Water and rations were beginning to run low. Soon, they would have to hunt the dangerous beasts of the desert and seek out signs of water. More so even than this, the thoughts of their Phyrexian enemies spreading and growing ever more powerful hung over them like a suffocating haze. They could not afford to turn back, the Thran temple had to be out here – somewhere.
Freezing winds whipped through the mountains. The group was huddled around their campfire, their cloaks pulled tightly around them as they fought to keep the fire alive. They could not help but think of the flame as allegorical to their quest. Darkness surrounded them on all sides and threatened to snuff out the light. All that stood between it was the determination of a few brave fools.
Still, after several hours, the winds eventually died down. The fire burned steadily now. They could sleep at last. Members of the group would take turns keeping watch, ready to rouse their comrades at the first sign of trouble. Most of the night would pass without incident.
However, in the hours just before light, on Squee’s watch, an intruder crept stealthily toward the camp. Abcal-Dro’s agents were everywhere, scouring the globe for signs of Urza’s champions. However, the Deeplands had been last on their list of priorities. It was by sheer coincidence that one of his few agents in the region stumbled upon the group. He had been tasked with acquiring blood samples from the region’s savage predators for use in Abcal-Dro’s experiments.
Clad in a cloak that bent the light to render the user invisible, the Cateran Hunter’s eyes widened in shock as he realized the identity of the group. Abcal-Dro would reward him handsomely for this; perhaps even by making him his new second in command. Moving ever so slowly, not making a single sound, he raised a blow-gun to his lips and breathed into the tube. A poison-tipped dart flew with tremendous speed and accuracy into Squee’s neck. The hunter watched with amusement as the goblin swatted the wound and then picked out the dart, assuming it to be an insect and trying to eat it.
His senses had already begun to abandon him. He would make easy prey. The hunter watched as Squee stood up, stretched, and began staggering away from his sleeping comrades – wandering off into the night. First, he would slay the sleeping heroes and then deliver Abcal-Dro his prize.
Chapter 11: Mind Twist
The Cateran hunter crept slowly, soundlessly toward the sleeping heroes as he drew a long dagger out from underneath his robes. He would kill the healer first. Soon he stood over Orim and turned his dagger’s blade down, placing his hand upon the pommel. He would drive it through her eye with one blow and kill her without giving her a chance to scream. Then he would make short work of the rest of them.
His blade was about to descend when suddenly a warbling shriek pierced the still of the camp. A crag saurian, standing well over twice the height of most men, stomped into view. The giant lizard’s mouth hung open hungrily as drool dripped from its massive fangs. The creature’s cry was quick to rouse the camp and the hunter had little time to flee. Although his body was still clad in the light-bending cloak, Orim woke with a scream at the sight of the dagger raised above her head. Tahngarth, Sisay and Atalla were fast to their feet, grabbing their weapons as they noticed both the floating dagger and the approaching lizard.
The would-be assassin tucked his weapon away, rendering him once more invisible as rolled off to the side of Orim. However, Tahngarth was quickly upon him, rushing in and tackling him to the ground. Sisay and Atalla, meanwhile, squared off against the giant lizard.
“Where’s that good-for-nothing immortal goblin when you need him?!” yelled Tahngarth as he fought to restrain the Cateran. Although Tahngarth was far stronger, the Cateran had been trained as an escape artist.
As the saurian stomped closer, Atalla raised up his sword high above his head and shouted at the top of his lungs as he began swinging it around wildly. Sisay, seeing this, remembered what Atalla had said about the lizards being a cowardly species and followed suit. The saurian roared back at them, but did not continue to advance. The creature saw those afraid of it as prey and those who presented a challenge as potential predators. After a brief standoff, it began backing away and out of sight.
Tahngarth, losing patience with grappling the slippery warrior, decided to end his struggles by bashing him with his crested forehead. The cateran’s eyes rolled back and he lost unconscious. Orim then stepped forth to check his pulse.
“He’s still alive,” said the Samite. “Comatose, but I should be able to revive him.”
“Good, I’m going to have plenty of questions for him,” huffed the minotaur as he rose to his feet. Sisay then took out some of the climbing rope from her pack and began to restrain him.
“Wait a minute,” said Atalla after looking around. “Where IS Squee? Do you think that lizard got him? Maybe he revived inside of it and is stuck!”
“No,” Tahngarth replied, sniffing the air. “his scent is still close-by.”
The bull-headed warrior then placed his nostrils to the ground trying to pick up Squee’s…unique odor.
“Atalla, you and Orim stay here and watch him,” said Sisay. “Tahngarth, you’re with me. Squee may not be the bravest person I know, but he’s still loyal. It’s not like him to wander off on guard duty. Something is wrong here.”
“You’re probably right,” replied the minotaur as he nodded and jogged off after the captain.
Atalla then looked to Orim as she began fishing for smelling salts in her healer’s kit.
“Do you suppose the Phyrexians sent him?” he asked.
“No,” Orim replied. “If they knew we were here they’d send a lot worse.”
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“Stupid mosquito, too crunchy,” said Squee as he spat out the poisoned dart along with some broken chunks of his own teeth, which healed within moments. “No good bugs fer days out here. Need ta find some watah, like Tolaria. Lots a big bugs dere. Zephid larvae the best dere is.”
Squee had already wandered close to a mile away without even realizing it. In his state of stupor, he felt as though his feet were gliding across the land. Any fatigue he might have previously felt was gone. The only thing on his addled mind now was finding his next meal. However, in thinking about Tolaria, he couldn’t help but remember the time one of the isle’s students tried to pull a prank on him.
What were they again? Bubbles? Boggles? They had been created by the Tolarian students to annoy their professors and classmates, but for the ever youthfully minded Squee, they had been a source of much amusement. What did they look like again?
Blurred images began to appear around him before taking on the form of diminutive little blue and pink bears – or were they more like mice? Beebles, that’s what they were!
Suddenly there were hundreds of the little things, giggling and scurrying about before him, bouncing, dancing and cartwheeling about. Squee laughed and tripped over himself as he tried to dive and grab for one – landing a few inches short of a cliff’s edge. However, the illusion slipped through his grip and proceeded to taunt him with a high pitched “can’t catch me!”
“Yes I can!” replied the goblin.
“No you can’t!” taunted the beeble as it stuck out its tongue and blew a raspberry.
Squee then continued to half stumble half spring after the beebles as they bounced up a narrow, winding mountain path.
In his disoriented state, Squee was somehow able to navigate it perfectly while running at full speed. He balanced on his toes as he reached for the creatures that were somehow always just beyond his reach. Eventually, one of the Beebles stopped at the top of a mountain peak, bent over and began slapping its rear-end and making kissy faces at Squee. This prompted the goblin to charge headlong up the mountain, dive for and tackle the beeble, which released a squeaking sound like a child’s toy. As Squee landed, he began rolling down the other slope of the mountain, still cradling the captured beeble in his arms.
“I got ya! Ouch! I got ya! OUCH!” yelled Squee as his body crashed into several large rocks on the way down. He didn’t care. He was immortal.
As he neared the bottom, the beeble winked and vanished in a puff of smoke. Landing in a heap, Squee’s head was now spinning even more than usual. Struggling to his feet, Squee’s blurred vision began to focus in on the biggest bug he ever saw. It was like a half-cockroach and half-centipede and bigger than a house! The Lithophage, for its part, turned toward the goblin but was unconcerned, not seeing him as a threat as it continued to melt a man-sized boulder with its acidic saliva.
However, the creature underestimated Squee’s appetite as well as his lack of reasoning.
Sharp pain suddenly shot through its body as it turned around to see Squee clinging onto one of its back legs, biting away furiously. The creature hissed loudly and bucked, but Squee’s grip was vicelike. In a panic, the Lithophage took off at a run, dragging Squee along with it.
*“WHEEE!” yelled the goblin. “I’m gonna eat you all up! You can’t gets away from me!”
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Tahngarth and Sisay huffed as they sprinted up the mountain ridge. The goblin’s tracks were totally erratic. Something was definitely wrong with him – and not just the usual things. Upon reaching the top, they beheld the ridiculous sight of Squee swinging from the legs of the huge mountain predator and laughing all the way. Running down the slope as carefully as they could, they watched as the creature put more and more distance between them.
Even if they caught up to the thing, their ability to battle it at full strength – much less when winded, was questionable.
“Any ideas?” Sisay questioned the minotaur, inwardly thanking her duelist’s training for providing her with skilled footwork.
“Just one,” replied Tahngarth as he snorted and grit his teeth, sprinting ahead faster with all of his power. Mid-stride, he drew the striva from where it was sheathed on his back and hurled it like a discus at the Lithophage’s back legs where Squee clung. The heavy, Thran-metal weapon was not intended to be thrown – but the mutations he was subjected to provided him with far greater strength than most minotaurs. Fortunately, the weapon’s curved shape did lend it to arcing through the air like a boomerang. The weapon hit its mark, cutting the legs free and embedding itself into the Lithophage’s underbelly.
The creature shrieked in pain and angrily turned to face Tahngarth, who now found himself unarmed. Sisay skidded to a stop at his side as the creature’s proboscis sniffed the air.
Squee, for his part, rolled back and forth on the ground clutching the severed insect leg with his full body and laughing in victory. It would be enough to feed him for weeks!
“Here it comes!” yelled Sisay, gritting her teeth as the Lithophage let loose another hissing shriek and charged the two warriors.
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Back at the camp, the Cateran hunter stirred awake after smelling Orim’s reviving vapors. His hood had been pulled back to reveal a pale, middle-aged man with a strong jaw covered in stubble. His first sight was Atalla’s cutlass pressed against his throat, which caused his eyes to widen in fear.
“Talk,” ordered Atalla. “Tell us who sent you.”
“No one,” the Cateran replied. “I just happened to be in the area – and I remembered that a bounty had been placed on your heads. The new guild leader promised immortality to anyone who could capture you – dead or alive.”
“Cateran scum,” Atalla replied angrily. “You sold out the whole world to those Phyrexian bastards!”
“I don’t even know what a Phyrexian is, truthfully!” the hooded man replied, laughing nervously. “Please, let me go and I’ll forgot I found you. My greatest loyalty is to myself and that means staying alive. I’ll tell you what, I’ll show you where I spotted a nice clutch of dragon’s eggs earlier. They fetch quite a handsome price – enough to let you live like kings!”
“You’re just telling us what we want to hear,” Atalla snapped back. “None of you can be trusted.”
Atalla would never forgive the mercenary guild for the deaths of his parents and the destruction of their ancestral farm. Every impulse within him screamed to end the bastard’s life.
The Cateran then turned to Orim.
“Please, you’re a holy woman, tell him to show mercy and spare me!” the Cateran begged, more desperately now. “You wouldn’t murder an unarmed man would you?”
Orim vividly remembered awakening earlier to the sight of that man standing over her with his long dagger. Were the roles reversed, she knew she would have received no mercy from him.
“How can we know that you won’t just run back to your superiors and tell them that we’re here?” Orim questioned.
“There’s one way,” Atalla cut in. “We can blind him but leave him with his life. He may find his way out of the desert, he may not. Even if he does, it won’t be any time soon. What do you say Cateran, do you want to live or not?”
“F-Fine…do what you must,” the prisoner replied, wincing at the pain he knew would come soon. However, as soon as Atalla’s blade left his throat, his eyes squinted open and his lips curled into a nefarious smirk. Flexing his elbows, the prisoner revealed that he had somehow managed to undo his ropes. Twin daggers slid out from where they had been expertly concealed up his sleeves and lashed out at Atalla’s waist. The boy was barely able to leap back in time, receiving two long, shallow cuts along his abdomen.
“Idiots!” the Cateran shouted as he took to his feet and assumed an aggressive stance.
Atalla, meanwhile, staggered back, clutching his injury with one hand as the other raised up his cutlass defensively. Orim ran back to stand behind Atalla, quickly chanting as she touched his back, sending healing white mana into him to close his wounds.
“You should have finished me when you had the chance,” the Cateran replied. “Mercy is for the weak! That is one of the first lessons one learns when inducted into the Cateran guild. You should also know that all initiates in our guild are implanted with powerstones which allow our master to connect psychically to us. Abcal-Dro, Father of Machines, I, the dreaded Dakath have located your quarry!”
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From within his lair on Mount Mercadia, Abcal-Dro heard a voice call his name and turned one of his numerous eyes upon a scrying lens attuned to Dakath – a low level boss within the guild. He had yet to earn the blessings of Phyrexia, but he seemed intent on advancing himself. As the lens swirled to depict the battle in the Deeplands, it became apparent to the self-declared Father of Machines that Dakath had merely been lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time. He would not trust such skilled opponents to Dakath alone. Thus, he reached out with his mind to all other agents in the area.
“We have discovered the location of Urza’s champions,” Abcal-Dro communicated, relaying the coordinates mentally. “Eliminate them by any means necessary, but bring the Goblin to me.”
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The soulhunter revenant, Klaars, was among those to receive Abcal-Dro’s orders. However, the undead warrior upon his nightmare steed was still several thousand miles away from where he sensed his quarry. How had they managed to put such distance between them? Was his revenge going to be usurped by some mortal bastard? No, he would not allow it!
Klaars shrieked with rage as he kicked the sides of the spirit horse, driving it in a mad gallop on toward the horizon, hoping to catch up with his prey before it was too late.
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As it closed in, the lithophage fired off three large gobs of acidic juices from its proboscis at Sisay and Tahngarth. The two warriors jumped quickly away, but the house-sized monster was almost upon them.
“Tahngarth, I need a distraction,” Sisay yelled, to which the minotaur charged headlong at the giant insect.
The beast spat another gob of acid at Tahngarth who pushed off the ground with great force and landed square on its face. Grabbing hold of its two antennae, he stomped his hooves into the creature’s compound eyes. The lithophage wailed and flailed its head madly from side to side trying to shake Tahngarth free. However, he was able to hold on, albeit barely. Nonetheless, Sisay saw her opening.
Gripping her cutlass in both hands, Sisay ran beneath the lithofage and thrust her Thran metal weapon deep into its underside. She then ran along its length, slicing it open and leaving a shower of insect guts raining behind her before rolling out behind it and yanking free Tahngarth’s striva from where it had been embedded.
Stumbling, blinded and badly wounded, the lithophage charged forward, slamming Tahngarth’s back into the mountain wall. The minotaur yelled out in pain and blood streamed between his clenched teeth, but he wasn’t beaten yet. Wrapping his arms completely around the beast’s antennae, he pulled with all of his might until they were torn free, showering him in gore. Now deprived of all of its senses, the Lithophage tripped over its own legs and collapsed to the ground. The great beast gave a few more twitches before finally lying still.
Panting, Tahngarth looked to Sisay as he pulled himself free.
“Well, how was that?” he boasted.
However, as the adrenaline of battle began to wear off, a sharp pain shot through his back. It was definitely sprained, possibly fractured. Tahngarth fell to his kees before shakily pushing himself back up, trying to fight through the pain.
“Are you alright?” Sisay asked as she scooped up a now passed out Squee under one arm. “Can you make it back on your own?”
She then offered her free arm to him as a support.
His people would have found accepting such help from a woman dishonorable. However, Sisay was no ordinary woman, she was one of the fiercest warriors he knew. This had been apparent from their first meeting at his village so many years ago. Swallowing his pride, he accepted her help and the two began slowly limping their way back to camp. There, Orim could treat their injuries and figure out whatever was wrong with Squee.
Little did they know that Orim and Atalla currently had their hands full with a fight of their own.
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“There’s no escape now,” Dakath said with a manic grin on his face as he began to circle Atalla and Orim. “My allies will he here soon to help me hunt down your friends, but first I’ll kill you nice and slow brat! I think I’ll begin by cutting out your eyes, just like you planned for me!”
“If you’re trying to scare me then give up,” Atalla replied, a serious expression on his face. “I’m not just some common boy. I was the captain of the Knave, and I’ve taken down more than my fair share of lowlife bastards like you. Make your move.”
With that, Dakath kicked his boot into the campfire, sending a shower of embers and smoke up to blind Atalla. Although his eyes stung from the smoke, he did not allow them to close nor did he flinch from the embers. Dakath charged him head on, believing he had his opening. However, Atalla was swift and his cutlass blade was longer than the Cateran’s knives. He lunged forward himself, spinning in a half-circle as he swung his blade around in a crescent arc.
The cutlass sliced clean through the Cateran’s neck. Dakath’s eyes widened in disbelief a moment before his head rolled off its shoulders. As his body collapsed in a heap, Atalla sheathed his weapon and turned to face him. He knew that a decapitated foe did not die immediately, but remained completely aware for at least a few seconds.
“You should have accepted my offer,” he said, darkly. “Now, go to hell.”
Orim watched the brief battle with a look of deep sympathy. She had caught only a brief glimpse of the cold-hearted person that Atalla had become following the death of his parents. While it was true that he acted in her defense and fought for a noble cause, she could plainly see that the wide-eyed boy from their first visit to the plane was gone. He had become hard to survive in a hard world.
“Come on,” Atalla said, turning to her as he wiped tears from his eyes. “We have to find the others and warn them. If that bastard got word to his boss, we’re going to have company soon.”
Orim could not help but wonder if his tears were merely his eyes irritated from the smoke, or did fighting the Cateran remind Atalla once more of the deaths of his parents?
“Right,” Orim replied, following after him as they began to follow Tahngarth and Sisay’s tracks.
It would be several minutes before they re-united, but in the end all returned to the camp safely. Orim applied her healing touch to Tahngarth’s back and made Squee drink an antidote to negate the poison. As tired as they were, however, there was no time to rest. They had to find a new place to hide before more of Abcal-Dro’s minions arrived.
Chapter 12: Mana Flare
The following morning, after taking shelter in the lithophage’s former lair, the group retraced their steps to where the dead creature lay. Squee would take as much of the beast with him as they could carry, which would extend their rations by having to divvy it among one less person. There were no signs of additional Caterans or Phyrexians yet, but they still could not afford to linger long. While Squee was digging through the giant insect’s spilled guts, however, he noticed something shiny glittering among its innards. Upon pulling it free, Squee was astounded to see a flawless powerstone.
“Lookit what Squee found!” the goblin cried, holding the fist-sized stone up high above his head.
The group gathered around him, awed by the ways in which it scintillated in the sunlight.
“That’s an original Thran powerstone alright,” said Orim as she looked it over. “The ones they made in Shiv were somewhat flawed compared to the originals. Most that we found in Argive that looked anything like this had become somewhat faded though – having lost their stored energies with the passage of centuries. This..this looks like it has been kept fully charged until very recently. What’s more, it seems to contain all five colors of mana – which is even rarer still!”
“Could it be that this is what made the insect grow so big?” asked Sisay. “Didn’t Hanna mention something about powerstone radiation to us once?”
“Yes,” replied Orim. “Archeologists found evidence of it in Shiv, near the mana rig. Goblin and Viashino bodies that were buried near the mana rig were somewhat preserved by its energies. Some of the older generations showed signs of harmful mutations or cancerous growths caused by prolonged exposure to large concentrations of powerstones. However, successive generations eventually evolved an immunity. Furthermore, some bloodlines even began to show signs of being strengthened by the powerstones – growing larger and with tougher hides.”
“So this stone is what made that bug so big?” questioned Tahngarth.
“Some large source of powerstones could have caused its species to grow tremendously over time,” nodded Orim in affirmation. “Maybe that’s why they evolved to eat the rocks as well. This has got to be a sign that we’re on the right track.”
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After several more days of travel, their rations thin, but spurred on by the belief that they were drawing ever nearer to their objective, Sisay and her allies finally reached their destination.
Standing atop a great mountain peak, they were awestruck by the verdant vista before them. Twin waterfalls flowed from an ice-capped mountain that stretched up into the clouds into a mist filled valley below. The flowing waters caused rainbows to form in the moisture-rich air as the sun passed overhead. Brightly plumed birds of paradise called to one another as they swooped above dense rainforests. At the center of the rainforest, almost entirely concealed by the trees, was a golden dome and spire – the Thran temple.
“If only Hanna were here to see this,” said Sisay.
Orim and Hanna had spent much of their lives digging around in crumbling Thran ruins, many of which had already been pillaged. To find a Thran City that appeared, even from a distance, to be so much more in-tact was an astounding sight indeed. One of the most ancient of human civilizations on their home world of Dominaria, the Thran Empire had at last come to its end here on Mercadia. While many of its people had been seduced by the evil of Yawgmoth, this was the legacy of those who chose to resist. Here, they would see the true beauty of the once vibrant culture.
“We may be the first intelligent beings to set foot onto these lands for thousands of years,” said Orim.
“Everything we have fought for, everything we have fought against, it all comes back to The Thran,” Sisay mused. “They gave birth to Phyrexia and now they will help us to end it once and for all.”
Slowly, cautiously, they descended into the valley and into another world untouched by time.
Upon reaching the bottom, they were quick to locate one of the many shimmering, crystalline rivers flowing through the land. Their thirsts were quenched. Their bodies were washed clean of the dust and grime of the desert. Soon, they had caught several large fish which they cleaned and cooked over a warm fire. Their bellies were filled and their spirits restored.
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“How long must we wait for these chosen ones?!” demanded the Cho-Arrim warrior Ta-Kolad. “It has been 10 days and each day that we wait the Phyrexians grow stronger. We must strike at them before they grow too powerful to defeat. We have waited long enough. We must be the ones to make the first move.”
A chorus of voices joined Ta-Kolad in affirmation.
The deposed ruler of Mercadia city’s expression was grim. Cho-Manno’s assurances to have faith in Orim and her companions would only satiate his warriors for so long.
“Give them just a little more time,” Cho-Manno pleased. “While they gather our strength, so do we. We do not want to attack them before we are ready or we would be marching off to a slaughter. Already Rushwood has gathered the great beasts of the land, but we have yet to hear back from Saprazzo and Rishada. We will need their warriors and their spellshapers if we are to prevail.”
“The merfolk aren’t coming, nor are the pirates,” Ta-Kolad replied. “Both of them care only for themselves. They didn’t help us in the last attack on Mercadia city either. They haven’t seen what the Phyrexians are capable first hand. They don’t understand that this fight is about more than just Mercadia city, but the survival of the whole world!”
“We cannot prevail with our current forces alone,” argued Cho-Manno.
Ta-Kolad then rose from where he sat and approached Cho-Manno, placing his hand on the leader’s shoulder.
“I know that you don’t want to see any more of us die than is necessary,” said the warrior. “However, there are people still alive within that city. If we continue to wait, they will continue to die- harvested to build more Phyrexians. We can free them, arm them, and we will have our reinforcements. We have to do something before it is too late.”
Cho-Manno looked the warrior in the eye. He did not think his challenger to be a fool. Indeed, his arguments were quite valid. It was difficult to hold on to hope in the face of such terrible foes. However, Cho-Manno had seen Orim and her companions bring miracles before and he knew that they could do it again.
“Please, just a little longer,” Cho-Manno repeated.
“Three days,” Ta-Kolad relented with a sigh. “Then, we march.”
“Very well,” Cho-Manno relented. “Then if that is the case, I will make the best use of those days that I can. I will travel to Rishada and Saprazzo personally to ensure that they come to aid our cause. What good am I as a leader if I cannot negotiate on behalf of our cause? Any here are welcome to join me, but I will go alone if I must.”
With that, Cho-Manno closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his body melting into water vapor and traveling up into a nearby cloud. Clouds passed frequently over the coastal city of Rishada, unlike The Deeplands where his companions now quested. He would arrive at the port soon and perhaps there could still be time to gather allies to aid his cause. Time, he knew, was running short either way. Still, he would not lose faith.
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Sisay and her companions were awestruck by the beauty of the valley. If there were such a thing as powerstone pthisis there was no sign of it here. The forest seemed to be strengthened by the strong presence of mana. There didn’t appear to be a dead or withered leaf or branch in sight and all was brightly, vibrantly colored as though it glowed with an inner energy. All around them were the sounds of life – chirping birds, buzzing insects – a primordial symphony of life.
It was then that they caught sight of something even more astounding. A unicorn, a rare enough sight already even in the deepest woodlands, bounced into a clearing ahead of the group. The reclusive creatures were often hunted for their horns, which possessed healing properties, but here they were able to thrive unmolested. What made this equine creature particularly fascinating though was that its horn appeared to be itself a powerstone. Was this the result of thousands of years of evolution within such an environment?
The atmosphere around the unicorn appeared to sparkle with motes of light. Its mane seemed to glow with the five colors of mana. Upon a closer look, these motes were actually several smaller powerstones that hovered around it, orbiting the larger stone that was its horn. As the unicorn’s hooves touched the edge of the woods on the other side of the clearing, the vegetation parted to allow for its easy passage. Was it able to control them through the powerstones?
After a moment of stunned silence, Sisay spoke.
“Let’s follow it,” she said, turning to Tahngarth, the best tracker among them. “With any luck, it will clear the way for us. With that many powerstones around it, maybe it makes its home near to the temple.”
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After several hours, the southern sea winds carried Cho-Manno to Rishada. Warm rains fell on a desert hillside overlooking the multicolored rooftops of the port city as the Cho-Arrim leader once more took corporeal form. Clad in an unassuming grey, hooded cloak, he descended the slope and made his way to the notoriously rowdy town. The smell of the sea air was overpowering, but it was mixed with the strong odor of alcohol. The sound of lively voices and accordion music carried toward him on the wind.
Could it be that despite his dire warning of Phyrexian invasion, the city was celebrating some sort of festival? Perhaps his message had been intercepted. He would have to find some sort of leader among this gathering of thieves, pirates and drunkards. Thus, he made his way into the boisterous crowd. Unfortunately, despite his efforts to appear unassuming, it soon became apparent that his choice of plain attire stood out like a sore thumb amid the revelers.
The men and women of Rishada were dressed in long, ruffled coats with popped collars and tri-cornered hats decorated with the plumes of exotic birds. Their faces were concealed beneath equally gaudy party masks, some ending in exaggerated beaks, others with the snouts of pigs. They stumbled through the twisting streets, hanging off the shoulders of flirtatious lovers or raising great, frothy mugs to their lips. Dancers and jesters wove their way dexterously through the crowd, twirling ribbons, shaking tambourines, and juggling handfuls of fruits. There were sword swallowers, fire eaters and minor illusionists of all strides.
As he sought to locate the ringleader of the carnival, suddenly his hood was pulled back from his head. Cho-Manno pivoted around to face the one responsible, raising up his staff aggressively. He was greeted by the sight of a stumbling, drunken woman with red, flushed cheeks.
“Get ridda that ratty old thing,” she slurred. “This is a party not a m-monastary.”
The woman than raised up a stylized, laughing theater mask and placed it on Cho-Manno’s face.
“Thas better,” she said. “Wanna buy me a drink?”
“I think you’ve had enough Cho-Manno replied as he slinked back away into the crowd.
He was fortunate that she did not recognize him. He only hoped that others had not caught a glimpse of him before he chose to reveal himself. Still, she had the right idea. He needed new attire if he was going to blend in. A few minutes in Rishada and he was already becoming a thief.
It wasn’t long before he spotted a man slumped over, passed out in an alleyway. He had likely already been relieved of his valuables, knowing this city. Hastily, stealthily, Cho-Manno crept over to him and exchanged his cloak for the trappings of one of the gaudy revelers. However, he made sure to unweave some of the gold coins from his hair and leave them in the man’s pockets. If he woke up before he was robbed again, it would be more than enough to replace what he stole.
Creeping back out of the alley, he assumed the stumbling gait of the other festivalgoers. Like this, he would be all but invisible.
Little did Cho-Manno know that he had already been spotted.
It was unmistakable: the Cho-Arrim leader had come here, alone. The fool.
His pursuer followed closely behind him, keeping to the shadows, using passing people as unwitting cover. He was dressed in a dark crimson – like arterial blood. His masque was a stylized skull. This was not mere theatrics – he was one of Rishada’s most high-priced assassins. Although not officially associated with the Cateran Guild, he aimed to collect on their bounty.
Drawing forth a hand crossbow concealed in his cloak, he silently fires a bolt at Cho-Manno’s back. No words. No grandiose boasts. No risky confrontations. Cho-Manno was wanted dead or alive and so he intended to achieve his task with the lowest chance of personal danger. He wouldn’t even see his end coming.
But he did hear it.
As part of his training to master the rain form spell, Cho-Manno had trained his ears to pick up the slightest variation in wind current. He could hear the crossbow bolt coming from a mile away.
A swift backwards swipe from his staff deflected the missile effortlessly. Cho-Manno then turned to face his would-be assassin. The crowds parted as most of the bystanders made themselves scarce. However, some of the more curious remained on the sidelines to see how this battle would play out. Some of them would cheer for either contender while others whispered wagers.
“I see you,” Cho-Manno said as he raised up his staff in a defensive stance. “Do you dare to attack me again now that my back isn’t turned? Or are you just a pathetic coward?”
At this, the assassin quickly re-loaded his weapon and fired another shot, this time aimed between Cho-Manno’s eyes. A quick flick of his wrist and the bolt was again deflected.
Wasting no time, Cho-Manno slammed his staff into the ground and used it to vault through the air toward his foe. Before he had a chance to re-load again, Cho-Manno’s foot was planted squarely in his face.
As the assassin crumped to the ground, Cho-Manno placed one end of his staff on the man’s chest to hold him down.
“You should have run while you had the chance,” Cho-Manno said to him. “In truth, I couldn’t see you, but your shot revealed your exact position to me. Now, tell me who sent you!”
The assassin’s head spun as he looked up at Cho-Manno. The staff was pressed hard enough against his chest to pin him but he had no doubt that Cho-Manno possessed the strength to crush his ribcage and pierce his lungs.
Still, he could not help but find the situation humorous.
“Who sent me?” he asks with a laugh. “My own love of gold! There’s a king’s ransom on your head, Cho Manno!”
At this, the crowd momentarily fell silent. Then, three more warriors came dashing forth to attack from behind. The red cloaked man was hardly the only scoundrel out to claim the bounty.
“So much for subtlety,” cursed Cho Manno as he rendered the first assassin unconscious with another swift blow to the head and turned to face his new attackers.
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The unicorn’s trail led Sisay and her companions, at last, to reach the lost Thran temple. It was even more awe-inspiring up close. Its architecture included numerous tiers of columns spiraling up from the ground before culminating in a golden dome and a needle-like spire reaching up into the clouds. The thran architects who built it modeled it after Rebbec’s design principles: grandiose, beautiful and symbolic of the desire to strive toward the ideal. It was the opposite of Phyrexian architecture: hideous, mathematical and soulless.
The group could not help but crane their necks up to admire it as they approached. However, as they at last stood before it, they were faced with a great, golden hued, thran metal door. It was not split down the middle, nor was there any handle or any other obvious means of entrance. Even when Tahngarth pushed against it with all of his might, it showed no sign of budging. The group then pushed as one, still to no avail.
“It’s like they didn’t want this place to be found,” huffed Tahngarth the group panted for breath. “So what do we do, break our way in?”
A feral roar than rang out from the tree-line.
The group turned toward it and were confronted by the sight of a towering white Jhovall. The six-legged cat was as big as a house – larger even than the “Jhovall queens” often found leading packs of the ferocious felines in the wild. While most of the giant cats resembled tigers, this one possessed a flowing white mane, like that of a lion, that trailed off behind it. Its eyes glowed with the power of white mana and great spikes – like antlers, erupted from its shoulder blades. These spikes, like the horn of the unicorn they spotted earlier, were made of powerstone crystals themselves and motes of white mana energies danced around them.
The Jhovall sniffed the air and let out a low growl as it began stalking toward them.
“It seems it doesn’t like what it smells,” Sisay said, drawing her cutlass. Battling such a creature was not going to be easy.
“It not Squee dis time,” protested the goblin. “We just had da bath ‘n everythin!”
“That’s not it,” said Orim. “It smells our blood.”
During the Phyrexian Invasion of Dominaria, Orim had been the one to discover the cure for the Phyrexian plague. However, to do so, they had to inoculate themselves with a diluted amount of glistening oil blood. To sensitive noses, there would always be a trace of Phyrexia’s scent on them.
If this creature had been left to guard the Thran temple, then perhaps it had been trained to smell their Phyrexian enemies. Unfortunately, there would be little they could do to explain the situation to the animal.
Left with no choice, the rest of the heroes drew their weapons as the majestic creature pounced at them.
Chapter 13: Righteousness
Cho-Manno sidestepped the first assassin who lunged at him with twin daggers, slamming his staff into the back of his head. He then raised it up to parry the longswords of the other two, which cut deeply into the wooden weapon. Whispering a quick spell, Cho-Manno sent white mana coursing into the two blades, causing them to crumble into motes of light as they were disenchanted. The two aggressors were stunned by this turn of events and Cho-Manno took the opportunity to slam his staff into their lower jaws, sending them both crashing back to the ground. All three of his foes had been rendered unconscious in a matter of seconds.
Several faces in the crowd watched him nervously. They were hesitant to attack such a skilled warrior but the price on his head was too tempting not to try to collect.
Seeing a handful more fighters inching closer, Cho-Manno held up his right hand in a halting motion.
“STOP!” he commanded. “Enough of this, I have not come to fight you, I have come to warn you! The new Magistrate whose bounty you aim to collect will not deliver on his promise. He is not a man, but a monster beyond your darkest nightmares! If you do not help me to defeat him now, while we still can, all of this – your humanity, your way of life, will be destroyed!”
At this, the crowd momentarily fell silent. Cho-Manno was not a hated figure in Rishada; Since he had assumed power trade had only improved. However, since he had been ousted, there were many that had hoped to get in the good graces of the new power rumored to control Mercadia city. For many of the city’s less savory elements, the lure of gold outweighed any sentiment toward ousted rulers. Still, none of them enjoyed the idea of collecting a reward only to be cheated.
“How can we know that what yer sayin is true and tha’ yer not just out ta’ save yer own hide?” a voice called out from the throng.
The crowd then parted as a tall man strode through them to confront Cho-Manno. This had to be the leader, or the closest thing to it, that Cho-Manno had been seeking.
The man’s coat was trimmed with gold and he wore several jewels on his weather-worn fingers, which he surmised could easily double as brass knuckles. He stood at least three inches taller than most men, with a finely trimmed grey beard and eyes like a storm at sea. A thick cigar glowed, clenched, in the corner of his chapped lips. One of his legs appeared to have been replaced with a brass artifact facsimile which clanged as he walked. Upon his shoulder was perched an exotic bird, which rattled off intermittent curses and death threats.
At the man’s side was sheathed a gilded falchion and a powder pistol hung from his belt. This loud Kyren weapon was not as popular as its quieter and more reliable counterpart in the crossbow, but it was faster and known for its ability to penetrate even plate armor with ease. For someone whose prosthetic leg and feathered companion negated any potential for stealth, it was a logical choice of sidearm. More importantly, he wouldn’t be able to deflect it with his staff. One well-placed shot could end him.
Still, the man had yet to draw either of his weapons, which indicated that he was open to negotiation.
“Tell me, have any that have traveled recently to Mercadia City returned alive?” questioned Cho-Manno. “By airship or by dunestrider lizard, surely, some would have?”
“Perhaps they decided ta see the sights, enjoy themselves a bit ‘fore making the return journey,” the older man replied. “Thas not unusual.”
Cho-Manno then pondered for a moment and said “I can show you, exactly what it is I speak of.” He then reached slowly for his waterskin.
At this, the older man quickly drew his pistol and leveled it at Cho-Manno’s chest.
“I’m warnin’ ye, no funny business water mage,” he threatened.
“Keelhaul the swine!” cawed the bird perched on his shoulder.
“I will not harm you, but you will not like what you see,” Cho-Manno replied, slowly uncorking and emptying to contents of the waterskin into a puddle between the two of them.
It occurred to the pistol wielder that more water had pooled forth than could have possibly been contained within. Finally, the waters formed into a perfectly circular, still pool, resembling a mirror.
“What sorta magic is this?” questioned the pirate lord.
“It’s a scrying pool,” Cho-Manno explained, waving one hand over the water and causing ripples to form from the center. “It will show you any land with which you are attuned. In this case, it will be showing us Mercadia City.”
“Stinking dung heap!” cawed the bird.
Meanwhile, the pistol wielding pirate took several clanging steps closer. Other members of the crowd strained their necks to get a better look at the waters as well as shadows began to form among the ripples, slowly shifting into shapes and then images.
What they would see would haunt their lives forever.
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The Jhovall’s paw raked toward Sisay and then send up a cloud of dust as she leapt away and it stuck the ground where she stood. She could tell that the power behind that claw would have been enough to rip her to shreds.
Tahngarth then lunged in and sliced with his Striva at the extended limb. However, where it struck, it was blocked by a shimmering barrier of light. The powerstones on the creature’s shoulders glowed as they absorbed the motes of white mana dancing around them and conducted it through the Jhovall’s body. It was the same type of barrier that Orim had used to protect them from Abcal-Dro during their battle beneath Mercadia city. Was this animal able to wield such magic by instinct or did it possess an intelligence far beyond others of its kind?
Atalla then lunged in with a thrust at the Jhovall’s side, only for his weapon to be similarly blocked. The Jhovall then swatted out at Atalla with its other paw, sending the boy crumpling to the ground with deep slashes across his torso. The Jhovall sniffed the air. Something was wrong. This one did not smell of glistening oil.
Glancing to the boy, the large cat saw quite clearly that he bled red blood, not the golden chemical found within Phyrexians.
“Atalla!” shouted Orim as she ran to aid the youth, putting herself in danger as she crouched over him and channeled white mana into his body to help seal closed the cuts.
Phyrexians did not channel white mana, nor did they care for their fallen. This was wrong.
As Orim ran to aid Atalla, Sisay dashed back into the fray and sent a sweeping slash toward the Jhovall’s face with her cutlass, hoping to blind the beast. If it had attacked, that meant that it had dropped the defensive barrier, she thought.
Her blade was met by the Jhovall’s other raised forepaw. Its claws were as strong as Thran metal and its strength was more than enough to cancel her momentum. Sisay could not help but think that such a parry was far too skilled for a normal animal to perform.
As Tahngarth prepared for another strike, Sisay called out to the creature.
“Wait!” she said. “We are not Phyrexians, can you understand us?”
Phyrexians did not seek to avoid conflict.
The Jhovall looked between Tahngarth and Sisay and sized them up with eyes that seemed far too intelligent for a mere beast. Sisay’s suspicions were confirmed as the giant cat backed away and sat, as if expecting something from her.
“You do understand us, don’t you?” Sisay replied.
She then lightly ran the edge of her blade against her fingertip to create a shallow cut. Holding it up for the cat creature to see, she pinched her fingertip to reveal droplets of red blood.
Tahngarth and Squee, looking to Sisay, each bit the tips of one of their fingers and then held it up for the creature to see as well.
Red blood. All of them had red blood.
Atalla’s cuts were nearly mended. His eyes struggled back open and gazed upon the cat creature now sitting non-threateningly on its haunches.
“What is it doing?” he asked.
The Jhovall then released a low, remorseful sounding meow. He remembered hearing that noise on his family’s farm whenever his parents scolded one of the beasts, usually after they had stolen food from one their fellow cats’ dinner troughs.
“I think its sorry that it attacked us,” said Atalla, answering his own question.
“It should be!” yelled Squee, pointing angrily at the creature. “Bad kitty! Bad!”
Orim then rose from the boy’s side and slowly approached the Jhovall, trying to appear non-threatening.
“We smell like Phyrexians to you because we have been fighting them,” Orim explained. “They made people sick and the cure came from their blood.”
Sick.
That was a word that it had not heard for thousands of years. However, it awoke long buried memories. Sad memories.
Once, it had had human and goblin companions, who had trained it to protect the temple from Phyrexians. Then, the humans became sick and weak. They spoke of trying to find a cure but it never came. Then they died and the goblins left it alone. The temple kept it alive and it had waited ever since for the enemy that never came until this day, or so it thought.
But these were not the enemy. They were humans…and a short goblin…and a bull man? They wanted to fight the enemy too, said the pretty lady with the shiny hair. It would help.
The majestic Jhovall then released a long, mournful sounding cry. The powerstones on its shoulders began to once again glow, resonating with the sound. As it did so, Thran runes suddenly manifested themselves on the door, which began to rise, receding into the archway. A multicolored light, like an aurora, shone forth from the entranceway. A low hum of some distant machinery filled the air.
The guardian had unbarred the gate.
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The Rishadans watched with silent terror as images of Mercadia City’s fate flashed before them. They watched as humans were dissected alive, their entrails cranked out of their bodies on winches, their skin flayed and pithed as their muscles were carefully removed, layer by layer, and stitched onto the frame of some hulking monstrosity. Once the harvested specimens were reduced to nothing more than a skeleton, Phyrexian necromancers re-animated them into undead servitors, gathering up their own discarded flesh and tossing them into chemical vats to be reprocessed. They then watched more skilled laborers, whose limbs had been replaced by spidery limbs ending in a variety of tools, as they welded carapace-like hulls onto the metal ribs of Phyrexian warships. The hideous craft circled above the city, spewing toxic clouds of soot into the air.
“That is the enemy we face,” Cho-Manno said to the horror-struck crowd. “Do you think these creatures can be bargained with? They care not for gold or trinkets. All they want is to do to you what they have already done to the city’s populace. Unless we stand together and fight them, all of us will be broken down into parts and used to build more monsters!”
The crowd wanted to fly into a panic, but they were too fearful even for that. For several long moments there was nothing but a dread silence.
“How do ye even begin ta fight something like that?” asked the pirate lord. “Their ships are like armored cities, I don’t know how they even keep them in the air.”
“We have one defense,” Cho-Manno replied as he rose from where he crouched over the pool, which once more showed their reflections. “The Phyrexian ships are armed with ray cannons, weapons based on concentrated light. Our water mages have the ability to shroud your airships in screens of water vapor, which can disperse those beams.”
“Fat lot a good that’ll do,” replied the pirate lord. “Those ships are faster than ours and their ramming prows would still tear us to ribbons.”
“Which is exactly what they’ll do,” answered Cho-Manno. “We can’t match their speed and we can’t outmaneuver them, so we’ll bait them to charge at us.”
“And then what?” demanded the skeptical pirate.
“Then, we’ll have groups of spellshapers aboard each ship,” Cho Manno began, waving his hand across the pool.
Several large bubbles formed, representing the large Phyrexian ships. Before them were several smaller bubbles, representing the Rishadan Airships.
“Our devout witnesses will release a combined burst of white mana to try to disenchant the powerstones keeping them aloft,” Cho-Manno continued. “Then, you’ll have hammer mages blast their stabilizers with red mana and cause them to melt down. This will cause the ships to plummet to the city below. If we do this right, we can position ourselves above their gun towers and cause the falling ships to hit them, destroying both in one fell swoop. That will allow our ground forces to move in.”
Ripples formed in the pool, spreading from the smaller bubbles to the larger ones and causing them to pop.
“That’s a good plan, but a dangerous one,” the pirate captain replied. “If we get in close enough for the spellshapers to hit them, we’ll have very little time to get out own ships out of the way.”
“This is going to be a dangerous battle no matter how we approach it,” answered Cho-Manno. “But I trust that your men have the skill to pull it off. There are no better sailors in all of Mercadia than the Rishadans.”
“Aye, that be true,” the captain said with a grim smile and a nod. “But if we do manage to pull this off, you owe us big time.”
“If we survive this, you’ll all be heroes, your names will live on forever in song and-” Cho-Manno began, only for his heroic speech to be cut short by the squacking parrot.
“Give us ‘yer gold! Give us ‘yer gold!” cawed the bird.
“-and you may have any treasure you claim,” Cho-Manno concluded.
“Aye, I like the sound of that!” replied the pirate lord as he turned toward the assembled crowds.
“These Phyrexian bastards think they can take this world from us?!,” he bellowed. “Are we going to let them out-steal the city of thieves?!”
The crowd raised their weapons high and answered in a resounding “NO!”
“They think they’re bad, but we’re the most ruthless scum on this rock aren’t we!” yelled the captain.
The crowd cheered as Cho-Manno looked on, confused by their strange brand of righteousness.
“We’ll sink those flying barnacles and then keel-haul the lot of ‘em!” the captain yelled, raising up his pistol and then firing into the air. “Give ‘em no quarter lads!”
Again the crowd went up in cheers as the city swelled with pride that drowned out their fears. Bloodlust quickly sobered those who had only moments earlier been lost in revelry. The city then set to work preparing for war. Cho-Manno would have his army. Now he needed only get word to the merfolk and return to Ta-Kolad before he launched his attack.
Cho-Manno was about to ask the captain about procuring transport when suddenly the sound of a large horn blowing rang out above the crowd. Then it rang out a second time.
“What’s that?” Cho-Manno asked as the Rishadans stopped in their tracks to listen.
The horn then blew for a third time.
“Saprazzan Breakers,” the pirate lord answered. “Sea ogres. The city is under attack!”
“Damn!” cursed Cho-Manno as he ran off to join the pirates in the defense. This was the last thing he needed.
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Just a few miles from shore, hundreds of fins like those of giant sharks broke the surf. Among them were the metallic spines of spinal centipedes. These weapons had been deployed on Dominaria, killing their hosts and replacing their spines, re-animating them as zombies under Phyrexian control. The Caterans had already been moving to seize Rishada, releasing the centipedes into the sea. The once solitary predators had now been transformed into the armies of Phyrexia.
Chapter 14: Ancestral Recall
As Sisay and her allies entered the Temple, they beheld walls lined with Thran runes and pictograms illuminated by the strange, multicolored light. Orim, who had studied this language along with Hanna at the Argivian University on Dominaria acted as translator.
“The runes speak of a civil war between an imperial faction and those who desired a Republic,” Orim said as her fingers traced the ancient markings. “It would seem that, at one time…Yawgmoth was a human and a member of the latter faction.”
Sisay, Tahngarth, Squee and Orim recalled their final battle with the dark deity aboard the Weatherlight in its final configuration as The Legacy Weapon. Then, Yawgmoth had been a being of utter darkness, clutching the globe and choking the life from it. To think that such a thing had ever once been human was terrifying.
Atalla, who never knew Yawgmoth, still knew that the horrors which now plagued his world somehow originated from the twisted mind of this one man. How, he wondered, could anyone have been so utterly wicked?
“He was exiled for his heretical ideas that the body was a machine and could be repaired and enhanced without the use of magic,” Orim continued. “However, eventually, the empire became affected by a great plague of powerstone phtisis. Magic only worsened the disease and so out of desperation they called upon Yawgmoth to return. From there, he made himself out to be a savior, curing those loyal to him and allowing his enemies to succumb. Still, the empire remained blind to his evil until delegations of minotaurs and catfolk and elves arrived at the capitol.”
“Yawgmoth apparently viewed these races as inferior and, during his exile, had deliberately affected them with plagues just to study the effects,” Orim read, seeming more and more sickened as she read.
Tahngarth clutched his striva, remembering how it had cut into the tentacles of darkness that were Yawgmoth’s body. His ancestors had suffered greatly at the bastard’s hands, but he had avenged them.
The minotaur snorted and then spat upon the pictogram depicting Yawgmoth – seen as a strikingly handsome man with a long shadow.
“Half of the empire remained loyal to Yawgmoth, while the other revolted,” Orim continued. “A Planeswalker named Dyfed had been deceived by him as well and showed him an empty world to use as a great hospital for the sick. He instead transformed this world into Phyrexia and those sent there to be cured into Phyrexians. When Dyfed discovered his true nature, she rescued Thran council members and their goblin servants whom Yawgmoth had taken hostage. She brought them here, to Mercadia, so that they would be safe from Yawgmoth while she went off to confront him.”
“And he must have destroyed her,” Sisay muttered. “How could a mortal man have defeated a Planeswalker?”
“By then he was likely no longer mortal,” reasoned Tahngarth. “If he had learned to transform people into Phyrexians then he had likely already begun transforming himself into that form we battled. Not even Urza would have been able to defeat him alone.”
“We know da rest of tha story,” Squee cut in. “Tree man tell it to us. Yawgie’s dead. We gotta find somethin’ here ta beat da Phyrexians now, today.”
Orim skimmed over several more passages as they continued to travel down the tunnel. These spoke of how the Thran elders had sought out food and shelter while waiting for Dyfed. Then, when it was determined that she was not going to return, how they began the long, seemingly hopeless task of recreating Thran technology on Mercadia. Rushwood had come to them and questioned them of their purpose. When he learned of Yawgmoth’s evil he gladly helped them to mine minerals, divert rivers and whatever else was needed to create successively more advanced factories which eventually culminated in the temple in which they now stood.
“The elders created a powerstone forge which they used to build a mighty weapon, equal parts magic and technology,” Orim continued as the group reached the last section of runes. “They then sought to create a planar gate with which to send it back to Dominaria and liberate the empire from Yawgmoth. The experiments took decades and it was clear that they would not be completed within the council members’ lifetimes. So the task was left to the goblins to complete. That’s where the records end.”
“Little did they know that the Thran empire had already fallen,” Sisay said, folding her arms across her chest. “That explains where the powerstones on this plane came from. I’d be willing to bet that the powerstone forge is the light we’re seeing is as well. It could very well still be operational. But what about that weapon; just what was it that they were making?”
The group descended deeper into the ruin, intent on answering that question.
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Powder cannons boomed along the coastline of Rishada. They had been put into this place to defend against this very creature, but the invaders were not as they seemed. Canon balls tore off arms and blasted through stomachs and still the zombified sea ogres clawed their way to shore. Only then did the pirates comprehend the true terror of what they faced. Fang filled maws had been outright replaced by crushing metal jaws, the heads of the spinal centipedes.
The sea ogres’ naturally superior strength allowed them to barrel through cutlass wielding warriors. Powder pistols aimed at hearts hardly caused the ogres to flinch. When these weapons were instead aimed at the zombies’ heads, the bullets tore through flesh and bone but bounced harmlessly of off thran-metal legs and coils that were clutched around the ogres’ brains. Meanwhile, probing needles along the centipedes’ underbellies stimulated dead neurons and drove the host bodies on. It seemed as if the beachhead would soon be overrun.
That was where Cho-Manno came in.
The water mage charged into the fray with a group of hammer mages at his back. These red-mana wielding spellshapers’ primary purpose in Rishada was melting down stolen treasure into gold. However, their ability to destroy artifice and machinery en-masse would this day be the city’s greatest weapon.
“Target the centipedes!” Cho-Manno ordered the spellshapers, knowing that such vile devices had to be the work of the Phyrexians.
The task mages then muttered quick, well-practiced incantations and struck the ground with their hammers. Red mana rippled forth in waves, causing destroying all metals that they struck. Pirate warriors quickly scrambled aside lest their pistols and cutlasses melt in their hands. The zombified sea ogres weren’t so quick. Their metal spines turned molten and dead eyes burst as tears of molten metal and liquefied brains flowed out.
One by one, the de-animated ogres fell with a thud to the sandy shore. However, there were still hundreds more coming.
It would be up to the water mage to literally turn the tide.
Cho-Manno chanted loudly over the sounds of battle in his native Cho-Arrim tongue.
The waters began to rapidly recede, carrying with them the ogre reinforcements. Their powerful limbs struggled forth against the tide but their advance had been significantly slowed. So long as Cho-Manno maintained concentration, he would give the hammer mages time to do their work. Then, with any luck, they would be able to clear the beachhead and mount a stronger defense for when the next wave rolled in. They had to hold until the airships could get aloft, then they could drop large powder bombs directly into the ogre horde and blow them to pieces.
Cho-Manno grit his teeth as beads of sweat formed on his brow, using the full force of his will to push back against the undead army.
Everything hinged on him. He could not fail.
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Meanwhile, the heroes entered a new section of the Thran Temple. Here, row upon row of transparent glass and metal coffins lined the halls. Within, the bodies of the Thran elders themselves lay in repose. Perhaps due to advanced technology or perhaps due to the magics permeating the temple, neither their bodies nor their clothes showed much sign of decomposition over the thousands of years. It was as though they were merely resting and could any moment open their eyes and rise again.
“It is as though they wanted the temple to be found,” said Tahngarth. “They wanted someone to carry on the fight they could not finish.”
“That is correct,” a mechanical sounding voice answered from further down the hall.
Heavy, clanging footsteps were then heard drawing steadily closer.
“Who are you?” Sisay demanded.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” the voice replied. “After all, you’re the ones in my temple.”
With that, a golem stepped into sight from the far end of the hall. He bore a striking resemblance to Karn, but his body has been sculpted from brass or bronze and had greened with age.
“I was created by The Thran to watch over this temple after they died,” the golem explained. “I was to instruct the goblins and guide them as they completed their masters’ work. However, they abandoned this place ages ago. They decided to rule this world rather than return to their home and face the evil that drove them here. You are the first life forms I have encountered in millennia.”
Squee then stepped forward and proudly beat his chest.
“Not all goblins ‘fraid of old Yawgie,” he said puffing himself up with all the bravado he could muster. “We kilt him deader than dead. The dummie made me immortal instead of hisself.”
The golem paused for a moment to process the information.
“So then the war has at last ended?” the golem inquired. “You were able to receive the weapon? We sent it to Dominaria before this place was abandoned, but the portal malfunctioned and was destroyed soon after.”
“No,” Tahngarth answered. “We used another weapon created by Urza Planeswalker. And the war has not ended. Though Yawgmoth was indeed destroyed one of his servants survived and has come here to Mercadia. Now, he threatens to conquer this world and rebuild Phyrexia from its ashes.”
“We have come here to see that does not happen,” Orim interjected.
“It doesn’t matter!” Atalla shouted angrily, interjecting. “The weapon, whatever it is, is gone! Didn’t you hear him? He sent it to Dominaria and we don’t even know where it is or if it even got there! Even if it wasn’t lost we have no way of going to get it!”
The others turned toward Atalla and saw that his teeth were gnashed in despair-filled rage. His whole body trembled and his eyes fought to hold back tears.
“You were brought here…on a Planeswalker’s whim,” Atalla continued. “Without Weatherlight or a portal there is no way to go back. The Phyrexians will destroy the world. We won’t be able to save anyone. We’re all going to die and all of our struggles, all of our fighting, all of our friends’ sacrifices it will all be meaningless!”
Squee’s bravado drained from him and the goblin’s ears drooped. Tahngarth lowered his head and clenched his fist. Orim looked, pleadingly to Sisay who then turned to the golem.
“There has to be something we can do,” Sisay said, fighting to keep hope alive in her heart. “You said the portal was destroyed, but the technology that built it, that’s still here?”
“Yes,” the golem answered simply. Unlike Karn, it seemed incapable of emotion.
“Are you saying we build another portal?” Orim asked. “Without Hanna-”
“Well all saw the schematics from Volrath’s laboratory,” Sisay said, gesturing dramatically. “We saw the plans for the Phyrexian portal ships and we figured out how to destroy them.”
She then turned back to the golem.
“With our new data and your mechanical mind to calculate, maybe we can reverse engineer one,” Sisay continued. “I’m not willing to give up just yet. If there’s a chance, any chance at all, I say we take it. We owe it to Gerrard, to Hanna and Mirri and all of the others. They fought until their last breaths and I’ll be damned if we quit before giving the same effort!”
Sisay’s words seemed to restore the hope of the heroes as they forced the despair from their hearts.
“Right,” Orim replied.
“I’m with you,” said Tahngarth.
“Squee too,” squeaked the goblin.
Atalla then wipes the tears from his face and swallowed hard.
“All right,” he said with a hoarse voice. “I’m in.”
“Take us to the forge,” Sisay commanded the golem. “Tell us everything about this weapon.”
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“Where are those damn airships!” yelled Cho-Manno as he and the surviving pirates and hammer mages formed a tight circle. His water magic was spent and the hope that he had hinged his plan upon had yet to arrive.
Little did the Cho-Arrim know that, even now, another battle waged in Rishada’s hangar bays. Cateran mercenaries had sabotaged many of the ships and were now clashing with those sent to retrieve them.
Meanwhile, the centipede-controlled ogres continued to climb ashore, gnashing their metal jaws eager to crush through soft flesh and bone. Although their corpses continued to pile up, the spellshapers were beginning to exhaust their reserves. The blasts of unforging red mana were growing smaller with each casting. The undead were massing around them, trampling over the corpses of the slain. It seemed as though this could very well be their last stand.
Cho-Manno looked to his side where the pirate lord he had spoken with earlier stood, cutlass in one hand and Kyren pistol in the other.
“We’ve been outflanked,” the Rishadan rogue cursed. “Our weapons are useless. Once their magic runs out it’s over. But I’ll still go down fighting, kicking, screaming, slashing and shooting until my lungs no longer draw breath! Ya hear me ya stinkin’ bags of rot!? ”
Cho-Manno, for his part, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to Ramos.
Then, as if in mockery of his hopes, the hammer mages collapsed. The last burst of power had required every ounce of their remaining energy.
The final wave of undead ogres slithered up the wall of dead to claim their victory.
A hail of pistol fire ran out ineffectually from the pirates, clanging off the protected skulls of the zombies. Then, tossing their guns aside, the Rishadans let forth one last defiant cry as they charged forth with swords in hand.
That cry was answered by shrieks from above and a deep bellow from the sea. Saprazzan Legates, merfolk drake riders, fell from the clouds like angels to deliver them salvation. Enchanted tridents speared through flesh and muscle to skewer mechanical control spines. Meanwhile, an enormous wave rolled toward the shore and the colossal head of a tidal kraken broke the surf. The four-armed monster was the undisputed king of Saprazzo’s seas and regularly devoured sea ogres who strayed too close to its depths.
It had taken powerful magic to summon forth such a beast, thought Cho-Manno, not seen in Saprazzo since the death of the Vizer. It seemed that the reclusive merfolk had at last appointed her successor.
Cheers went up from the Rishadans as the Kraken crushed and hurled the undead ogres about.
The pirates then charged into the fray, using the distraction caused by the drake riders to get behind their foes. There, they could plainly see where metallic spines protruded from their backs. They slashed between these segments, sliding their blades between the jointed segments of Thran metal to cut into vulnerable wire. The Saprazzan breakers were themselves broken. Their bodies soon littered the beach.
Finally, it was done. The Caterans in the hangar bay fell soon after, their attempts to sabotage Cho-Manno’s liberation fleet thwarted. Victorious pistol fire echoed along the shoreline as pirates reveled in their triumph. The Kraken returned to the depths with a full stomach as merfolk and pirate leaders met to plan their next move.
The battle of Rishada was over but the battle for Mercadia would soon begin.
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Abcal-Dro watched his undead army fall with disgust.
“Let them have their meaningless victory,” the self-declared Father of Machines bubbled as he turned his attention from the shores of Rishada to another scrying lens.
Hordes of hideous, deformed monsters crawled, slithered, scuttled and flapped their way through the mountains of The Deeplands in search of their quarry. Not even the native dragons dared to challenge such a massive infernal force.
Leading the vile legion was Klaars atop his nightmare steed. The headless rider’s flaming eyes soon honed in on the lush valley where lay the Thran Temple. Soon, this paradise would burn and he would at last have his revenge.
Chapter 15: Sacrifice
“The weapon was the culmination of Thran aspirations,” explained the golem as the light of the powerstone forge drew ever closer. “The empire’s chief architect, Rebbec, believed that one should ascend to become ideal. Thus, the machine drew upon the collective thoughts of its occupants to manifest them in physical form. If it did indeed reach your world, it would have been venerated if found. It would appear as a holy relic or some other object of great importance in history or mythology – have you heard of another matching that description?”
Just then, the group arrived at their destination and before they could reply to the golem they were awe-stuck at the sight they beheld. It was a crystal array as large as a skyship, with flawless powerstones that in some cases were larger and glowed brighter than even the bones of Ramos. The five colors of mana reflected in beautiful, scintillating patterns off Thran mechanisms. It was like standing in the heart of an aurora. There were enough powerstones here to power an army of Ramoses…or in the hands of Abcal-Dro, a full sized Phyrexian war fleet.
As their eyes slowly adjusted to the radiance, the group spotted what must have been the remains of the ancient Thran portal. The circular gate still stood, but it appeared charred and corroded, with wires hanging loosely from blasted compartments. Before it was a smaller crystal array which lay dormant. Perhaps it was the portal controls, Orim thought, like they saw with the permanent Phyrexian portal in the caves of Koilos. Upon closer examination, all of the crystals in this array appeared to have cracked, likely releasing their stored power to lethal effect.
Sisay then spotted human shadows seemingly burned into the ground surrounding the portal. It would seem that the last of the Thran elders did not join their predecessors in repose.
“The goblins were fearful that they would share their former masters’ fate,” explained the golem. “However, as much as they attempted to refine purer and purer crystals, they could not guarantee the success of the experiment. That is why the project was abandoned. However, they were able to devise a beacon – a means of locking on to the weapon’s unique powerstone radiation signature. If you are able to reconstruct the portal and if you visualize the weapon, the beacon should be able to lock on to it and call it back to us.”
“How do we visualize something we have never seen?” questioned Tahngarth.
“Maybe we have seen it, somewhere,” Sisay cut in. “We just didn’t know of its true power of purpose. We, and Urza, would have dismissed it as just another legend or prophecy.”
“Prophecy…” Orim thought aloud as the group turned toward her.
“Whatcha thinkin?” Squee asked. “Does ya knows of somethin’?”
Orim then recalled a tale she had heard from a master of her order. Prior to the Phyrexian invasion, the Keldons were among the most warlike races on Dominaria. Pain and ruin followed in their wake and so the wandering order of healers often found themselves tending to the few survivors of such attacks. The survivors described the Keldons as fearsome, demon-like men though their warrior ways had made then invaluable allies during the Invasion. Still, the Keldons once sung of another Apocalypse in which they would ride across the world on the five Winds of Ascension and trample all beneath them.
“The first Wind of Ascension is the Forger, burning away impurity
The second Wind of Ascension is the Reaver, slaying the unworthy
The third Wind of Ascension is the Eliminator, clearing Keld’s path to victory
The fourth Wind of Ascension is the Anointer, deifying the worthy.
The fifth Wind of Ascension is the Exalter, fulfilling Keld’s destiny.”
“Uh…is you ok there Orim?” Squee questioned as Orim finished orating the Keldon prophecy.
“What’s a Keld?” asked Atalla, unfamiliar with the Dominarian race of grey-skinned barbarians.
“While we fought our way into Crovax’s stronghold from above, the generals of the Coalition armies, Grizzlegom, Astor, Eladamri and Lin Sivvi, were brought to Urborg from Keld aboard the Keldons’ mythical flying longship, The Golden Argosy,” Orim explained. “According to the prophecy, it was what their greatest warriors, would ride upon the Winds of Ascension in order to fight the final battle. It took them there faster than any skyship. Then, after the generals arrived, the ship flew off into the skies, the prophecy seemingly fulfilled. The Golden Argosy…must be the Thran weapon.”
Squee, Tahngarth and Sisay could easily visualize a Keldon longship. That was the form that it had taken for the Keldons. With Sisay at the wheel, it would take on another form. They all knew what must be done. To finish the fight against the Phyrexians, Weatherlight would take flight once more.
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Cho-Manno stood upon the decks of a Saprazzan outrigger surrounded by several merfolk. In water, their legs transformed into the tail of a fish. On land, they appeared mostly human save for their skin, which was blue, green and grey like the sea, and in some cases vestigial fins around their faces. On either side, the seafaring vessel was escorted by drake riders. It had not taken long, following the battle of Rishada, to convince the merfolk of the gravity of the Phyrexian threat.
They had agreed to join the pirates in liberating Mercadia city, but first Cho-Manno demanded an audience with the new Grand Vizer. If the heir was anything like her predecessor, she would possess the ability to glimpse into an individual’s future. Cho-Manno believed that any information that could aid in the assault would be useful. If she could reveal that they would, in fact, be victorious, then it would be a huge boon to morale. If the attack was doomed to fail, then perhaps they could come up with a new plan to avoid that disastrous fate.
The water mage could not help but feel a sense of calm while out on the waves. The sea winds whipping through his coin coiffed hair, the sea breeze, the cool mist on his skin. He knew that it was the calm before the great storm. His eyes focused on the horizon as the ship drew ever closer to a glowing pink reef rising from the sea. It was the stinging barrier, Saprazzo’s first line of defense.
Most of the city was underwater, with land entrances guarded by the magical reef. Ships attempting to enter without the blessings of the merfolk would find their hulls breached by the supernaturally sharp coral. It didn’t matter what course one charted, as the living wall could stretch and shift as it was directed. Fortunately, Cho-Manno had come as a welcomed guest. Upon his arrival, the coral actually parted to admit the outrigger.
As they stepped ashore, their feet found ground atop a structure built from giant brain corals. Vibrant sea sponges, partially submerged, lined the path to the Vizer’s chamber. As they approached, a sense of apprehension began to grow within the Cho-Arrim. He had always believed in prophecy and destiny. Why, then, was knowing it and dispelling of uncertainty such an uncomfortable prospect to him?
Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had only one future in mind for once this battle was through and that was to spend the rest of his life with Orim.
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Thran welding tools remained in remarkable condition despite the fact that they had last been used thousands of years ago. Atalla, Sisay and Orim were the most mechanically inclined among them, with the former having worked on his airship for many years and the latter two having picked up many odds and ends from Hanna during their time aboard Weatherlight. Tahngarth, for his part, put his great strength to use in assisting the golem in hauling the giant pieces of machinery into place. Squee did his best to dictate to the workers what pieces went where, mispronouncing everything, as he followed a schematic of an old Phyrexian portal ship that the crew had drawn up as a guide. They had remembered most of the ship’s inner workings from the plans stolen from Rath and the Thran golem ran mathematical calculations to fill in the gaps.
Slowly but surely the portal took shape. It was just completed when an alarm suddenly blared through the temple.
“The doorway has been opened,” said the golem as he hurried over toward a scrying lens. “It shut automatically after you were admitted. It should not have opened again without the Guardian or my doing.”
The crew ceased in their labors as looks of dread formed on their faces. The Phyrexians had found them. As the scrying lens glowed to life, the group could clearly see hordes of half-compleated Caterans forcing their way through a charred breach in the door. Leading the group was none other than Klaars.
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Outside of the temple, the majestic Jhovall lay on its side, breathing its last breaths. Its body was covered in blood from a thousand wounds. Piles of dead Caterans lay surrounding it, torn to pieces by his claws and fangs or annihilated by holy fire breathed from his maw. However, in the end, there were simply too many of them. His barriers had eventually fallen and then cruel pikes and blades found their way through to stain his flawless fur with his lifeblood.
The great cat had lived countless lifetimes, chosen by the temple to be its protector. However, in the face of this terrible enemy, it had failed. As its vision faded, its mind was filled with images from bygone days. It remembered being found, as a kitten, by the Thran elders. It remembered their withered hands caressing its fur and their kindness in sharing their food.
Perhaps it would be reunited with them now.
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“Torahn gore them,” Tahngarth cursed. “We’re trapped and outnumbered! Our best bet is to meet them in the hall where we can’t be surrounded and fight wave after wave…”
“Do not lose hope just yet,” the golem replied as he ran to the control system before the powerstone array. “This temple still has one more line of defense.”
Moments later, the black mana stones were activated. Arcs of crackling dark energies shot down the hallways of the temple and into the chambers where the bodies of the Thran elders lay in repose.
“The Thran ordered their bodies preserved in case this temple were ever found by the Phyrexians,” the golem explained. “For thousands of years they have been absorbing ambient magical energies, just like the Jhovall that guarded the gate. Now, they will rise to claim their revenge.”
The sound of shattering glass echoed throughout the temple as the no longer frail bodies of the mummified elders broke forth from their tombs. Klaars and his forces paused in their advance as the ancient undead appeared, charging forth to meet them. Their eyes were ablaze with magical might and talons of energy had emerged from the tips of their dead fingers. They moved with an animal ferocity and speed that seemed impossible for their withered husks. Then, with magically augmented strength, they tore leapt upon their foes, tearing through black armor carapace and spraying glistening oil against the temple walls.
Klaars’ nightmare bucked in its saddle as the new foes swarmed around him. He then swung his executioner’s axe down to cleave a leaping mummy clean in half. However, as soon as its body hit the ground, animated muscle fibers elongated and snatched hold of one another, pulling the mummy back together as his wounds closed. With their regenerative abilities, one mummy could count for dozens of his warriors. He would have to break them into dozens of tiny pieces and then burn them before they could regenerate again.
Klaars’ attention was then drawn to another ferocious battlecry from further down the hall. Tahngarth, Sisay, Orim and Atalla charged, weapons drawn, to aid the Thran in defending their temple. The living and the dead fought as a small phalanx, two lines to hold back the Cateran tide. With the heroes’ skill and the mummies’ superior strength, augmented mercenaries fell fast. However, no sooner had one warrior fallen than another ran forth to take his place – slowly pushing the line back further and further toward the Powerstone forge.
Once they were forced out of the hall, it was over. Still, they kicked and scraped and slashed furiously as they clung to every inch of ground.
Klaars’ axe burst into flame as he hacked down a mummy standing between him and his former crewmates. As the mummy struggled to re-assemble its burning body, Klaars’ axe was parried by Sisay’s cutlass on the backswing.
“You’re only delaying the inevitable,” threatened the soulhunter revenant as flames leapt from the weapon onto Sisay’s body. The dark-skinned woman cried out in pain as Orim quickly held out her hands, releasing a spray of water infused with healing energies to douse her captain and the mummy.
“Maybe so,” replied Orim. “But we’re not going down without a fight!”
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The chamber of the Grand Vizer was dimly lit from an oculus in the ceiling from which held long, drape-like curtains of seaweed. Pearls were set into the roof to give the chamber the appearance of a starry sky. The Vizer herself sat around a shimmering pool of water, her legs in their fish-tail form as the tip of her tail hung over the tip of the pool. Her body was a pale blue hue and her long green hair seemed perpetually windblown. She was dressed in loose-fitting indigo robes and her grey eyes did not leave the rippling waters even as Cho-Manno entered the room.
“Farewell Cho-Manno,” the Vizer stated before he even had a chance to greet her.
The Cho leader paused in confusion but his questions were answered before he could form them.
“I know of the enemy of whom you’ve come to speak,” she continued. “Our people will aid your cause, but for you there is another battle.”
The Vizer then touched the tip of her tail to the pool, sending waves rippling through it as an image took shape. Before them flashed images of the battle within the Thran temple. Orim, Sisay, Atalla,Tahgarth and Squee, fighting at the mouth of a tunnel, unable to give another inch of ground, while they battled with Klaars and an army of half-Phyrexian Cateran mercenaries.
“Go to them,” said the Vizer. “You will find a hollow gate located at the back of this chamber. It is a one-way portal and it will take you to meet your destiny.”
At the sight of the heroes in danger, Cho-Manno wasted no time as he sprinted for the gate. The battlefield took form before him in the archway and a moment later he leapt through.
Once he had departed, tears pooled in the eyes of the Vizer. She had foreseen many things, including the outcome of this battle. Still, she knew that it must occur.
“Guards!” she then shouted. “Prepare our forces, we fly to Mount Mercadia!”
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For every injury Klaars inflicted, Orim sealed them shut. Still, despite suffering many casualties, his forces had pushed the temple’s defenders to the threshold of their defeat. It was time to break the line. Still, some part of Klaars wanted to hold back - he had loved Orim once, though he never told her. It was for her that he fought to free them from the Cho-Arrim but now she had joined forces with their leader, the very man who had ordered his death.
No, those feelings were gone. They died with his flesh. Now, nothing but hatred burned within him. He would make her pay for dishonoring his sacrifice. With her death, they would all fall.
Klaars’ nightmare suddenly reared up as Klaars focused every bit of his hatred into his spectral arm. A javelin of green fire hissed to life and then was launched with all of his might at Orim. The Javelin flew over Tahngarth’s shoulder, expertly aimed to fly past her protectors and seek out the object of his greatest hate. The samite healer’s eyes went wide as she stared her impending death in the face. There was no time to dodge and soon her pretty face would be reduced to ash and bone.
But it was not to be. Appearing suddenly between Orim and the flaming missile was Cho-Manno. Uncorking his waterskin, Cho-Manno unleashed a wall of purified water, hoping to douse the infernal javelin. However, Klaars’ hate burned too hotly. The water barrier evaporated into steam as the spear continued, unhindered through it.
However, instead of striking Orim, the weapon instead burst through the back of Cho-Manno. The screeching, hissing cries of the Caterans ceased as the Cho-Arrim leader collapsed to the ground, a charred hole slowly burning its way through his torso. He did not bleed, but in mere moments his vital organs would disintegrate. Squee, Sisay, Atalla and Tahngarth stood in stunned shock as their comrade fell. Orim’s cries of despair then echoed throughout the temple.
The Samite rushed to his side, desperately trying to infuse his body with healing energies. It was too late, his wounds were to great to heal.
“No, please, no!” Orim cried as she cradled his body against her, blinded by her grief.
“O-rim…” Cho-Manno managed, weakly. “Fight on…save this world….then one day…our souls will join in the river.”
Cho-Manno’s eyes then closed for the last time as the holy warrior breathed his last. Dying within the arms of his love, his body crumbled into ashes. However, his inner light appeared to linger after his death. This orb of light, containing the last of his mana, hovered near Orim and then touched her breast, seeping into it. Suddenly, her whole body was suffused with a brilliant aura of light.
Tahngarth then released a roar of pure, maniacal rage, taking up his striva as he turned toward Klaars and the Caterans with bloodshot eyes. Sisay, Atalla and Squee released their own battle cries as they abandoned their defensive formation and charged into the Cateran forces. The Thran mummies followed behind them. However, those who clawed and slashed through Klaars’ nightmare passed through it like smoke. The spirit horse strode through the charging warriors toward Orim’s light.
“So ends Cho-Manno,” the headless rider stated coldly. “His fading light cannot protect you. Now, my revenge will at last be complete.”
Klaars then kicked the side of his steed, driving the now physical spirit horse in a barreling charge toward Orim. He raised his executioner’s axe up high, ready to bring it down to cleave her in twain. Orim waited until the last possible moment, when the Nightmare’s flames were almost close enough to burn her. She then unleashed every last once of her remaining power along with Cho-Manno’s. The light left her body and filled the chamber with an explosion of celestial power.
Klaars cried out in pain as he and his steed vanished like a shadow before the light of dawn. His axe and empty armor clattered to the ground as his spirit was finally laid to rest. For indeed Orim’s power did more than just destroy the revenant. It purged Klaars’ soul of Abcal-Dro’s darkness, allowing him one final moment of clarity. He recalled fighting at Orim’s side against the Phyrexians and he saw how her alliance with the Cho-Arrim had brought prosperity to this world.
“Forgive me…” Klaars voice begged in repentance before fading into silence.
Orim then fell to her knees, in a daze, as consciousness slowly slipped from her. She imagined herself holding Cho-Manno’s hand one last time, her lover’s spirit kissing her brow, and then floating away from her into the night sky.
Meanwhile, without Klaars, the Cateran advance was broken before the avenging fury of the heroes and the Thran mummies. Glistening oil sprayed the walls of empty tombs. Undead claws tore mechanical limbs from their mutilated bodies. Tahngarth’s striva and Sisay’s cutlass cleaved through armored carapace, severing horrible heads from spiny shoulders. Atalla fought furiously at their side and even Squee lashed out with every ounce of rage his tiny body could muster.
The immortal goblin ignored his wounds as he leapt onto monsters’ faces, clawed out eyes and bit off noses. He was unstoppable.
Abcal-Dro once again watched as his forces fell. However, their deaths were the furthest things from his mind. Even the powerstone forge was a trivial prize next to the power within his grasp. His tendrils feverishly tapped the controls of the scrying array before him, opening a portal through one of the lenses. A mass of writhing black tentacles then surged forth into the hall.
The embattled warriors did not notice until it was far too late. As Squee stood over a fallen Phyrexian, kicking its lifeless head, dozens of slimy tendrils wrapped themselves around his body, choking off his screams.
“Squee!” Orim cried, snapping out of her daze.
Squee’s pleas for help were choked off as Abcal-Dro’s black flesh seeped into his lungs.
Tahngarth broke away from the fighting and sprinted at full speed after the retracting limbs, but he was too late. The goblin was pulled through the gate and it closed behind him.
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Squee lost consciousness as his body was pulled into Abcal-Dro’s foul form, encased in a sack of tissue much like his powerstone organs. He was overwhelmed by constant, excruciating pain as his flesh melted away in layers only to regrow. Countless minute tendrils flowed into his veins, siphoning his blood only for it too to replenish. Abcal-Dro’s hideous mass swelled with a now unending supply of goblin flesh to feed his growth. Meanwhile, arcs of black mana surged throughout the Praetor’s body as he tapped into the full strength hidden within Squee.
“YES!” the Phyrexian Praetor bubbled triumphantly. “I’ve trapped him inside me and there’s nothing he can do! I can feel Yawgmoth’s power within you. Such an unworthy vessel, but now all of Yawgmoth’s overwhelming strength is mine! Come, fools, come and face oblivion! There isn’t a force in the multiverse that can stand against me now!”
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12234267/4/The-Golden-Voyage-a-Magic-the-Gathering-Fan-Novel-In-Progress
. The first chapter deals with the fall of Old Phyrexia, which was only alluded to happening "off-screen" while Scars of Mirrodin's lore was being fleshed out.
. The second chapter deals with Captain Sisay and the others sailing refugees to Otaria and explains how it survived the Phyrexian Invasion so much better than the rest of Dominaria.
. The third chapter deals with the final surviving praetor from Old Phyrexia taking over the Cateran Guild on Mercadia.
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12234267/1/The-Golden-Voyage-a-Magic-the-Gathering-Fan-Novel-In-Progress