“These stones,” Windgrace said, lowering his hand and holding the ambulator’s power source for Venser to see, “are Phyrexian. Your machine”— he nodded back toward the spot Venser had landed—“is made from Phyrexians. And the last time you used it, just weeks ago, Phyrexians stirred within the Stronghold. They started slowly but increased as the temperature dropped. Now they come in a steady flow from that thrice-damned pool of energy that sits overhead.
The snakes squeezed tighter around his arms and legs. Windgrace stood glaring, and Venser was unable to hold his eyes.
“Child of Urborg,” Windgrace said, “did you think you were exempt? Did you think I arbitrarily decided to root out and destroy every last artifact in the swamp? That I spent the past three hundred years organizing my gladehunters on a whim?”
Venser did not reply, could not for fear of further angering the planeswalker.
Windgrace continued. “Did you consider even for a moment that your machine could call out to the other machines I’ve had dismantled and buried? Did you dream that its vitality would revive the most dangerous invaders Urborg has ever known?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not believe that my small efforts would have any impact on your realm.”
“Not my realm,” Windgrace said. “Our home. You invited these oil-blooded bastards into our home. You all but held the door for them.” He snorted angrily through his nose. “I scarcely believe what I’m hearing, tinkerer. Are you corrupt, co-opted, or simply confused?”
“Confused, my lord.”
Windgrace narrowed his eyes and flattened his ears once more. “Continue.”
Venser inhaled deeply. “I am neither powerful nor wise. I saw only the task at hand, not the larger impact it would have.”
“And that is supposed to earn you amnesty?”
“No, Lord Windgrace. I am guilty. I have repeatedly and willfully violated your laws. But I did so to achieve something, to reach a goal that I had set for myself. I only wanted to become wise and skilled, and to use my wisdom and skills on Urborg’s behalf.”
“So you did. And that is one of the only reasons you are still alive to have this conversation.” Windgrace clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing. He crossed to the far end of the hollow, then returned. He considered Venser with an appraising eye. “What are you?” he said at last. “What are you really?”
“I am a builder.” Venser spoke with the strength of certainty and with the resolve of a man who has accepted his own impending death. “A traveler. If I am not these things, then I am nothing.” Windgrace’s fur bristled. “As you may yet be, little tinkerer. But for now I think you are more than that, even more than you suspect. It is not just your machine that opens the hole above the Stronghold. It is you yourself. Why are you here? Why do you use the machine to mimic your own magic?”
“I don’t have any magic, my lord. I can’t cast spells. I am just as you see me, finite and mortal. I never thought my ambulator could pose a threat to you and our home.”
“As you say. But ‘finite’ and ‘mortal’ do not negate ‘unpredictable’ and ‘dangerous.’ I have battled finite, mortal enemies for three centuries. I spent the first hundred years scouring away the living remnants of the Invasion. I spent the next two hundred destroying their seeds, burning their roots, and cutting them down wherever they appeared. You and your machine undid my work, brought us back to full-scale conflict in a matter of weeks. Don’t speak to me of ‘mortal’ and ‘finite’ as if they are shortcomings. With all my power—my infinite, immortal power—I have barely kept the enemy from overrunning Urborg.”
Venser’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Windgrace said. “Be useful. Stand beside your fellows, stand with me and help us stop the slide you started.”
Venser looked up. “If you will allow me,” he said, “I will do whatever I can to fix the damage I’ve done.”
“I might allow it. First tell me what you know about Phyrexia, about these new metal demons that seem connected to the cold.”
“I can’t. I don’t know anything about Phyrexia or the cold.”
Windgrace nodded as if expecting Venser’s answer. “And the Weaver King?”
Venser blinked. “That name means nothing to me, my lord.”
That’s it, play dumb. Together we can get past him….
Panic raced through Venser and he squirmed against his bonds. Every muscle in Windgrace’s body tensed. He approached Venser, coming within arm’s length, and his eyes glowed lurid green. “And yet,” the planeswalker said, “you commune with him even now.”
“What? No.” Venser struggled hard against the snakes holding him, but they hissed and squeezed even tighter. The voice in my head has a name, he thought. A name known to the panther-god, a name that Windgrace speaks with hatred.
“He keeps his thoughts hidden from me,” Windgrace said. “But I can feel him here, within you. What is he telling you?”
Play dumb. Say nothing. Together we can fool him….
“I hear a voice,” Venser said slowly. “It tells me to avoid your questions.”
The panther-man’s eyes glowed brighter. “What else?”
Venser’s voice gained strength. “He tells me to rest. To stop struggling. To lie down and do nothing.”
“As the spider tells the fly trapped in its web,” Windgrace said. “How strong is the voice? Have you heard it often?”
“Not strong,” Venser said. “Barely a whisper. And I have only heard it three or four times.”
“Starting when?”
Venser considered. “Weeks ago,” he said. “In Shiv.”
This confused the planeswalker. Windgrace’s tail swished through the frigid air, and his claws slid out of their sheathes.
“Call out to him,” Windgrace said. “Respond to his commands.”
“But I—”
“Do it now.”
Venser’s eyes snapped shut, and he concentrated. I’m here, he thought. I need your help. What must I do?
A full minute ticked by before the disembodied voice replied.
Naughty, naughty, it said. It giggled. Whose side are you on?
Windgrace pounced, hurling himself at Venser with his jaws open wide and his claws extended. Venser yelped, and he heard the mad-harlequin voice echo his own. The planeswalker’s shadow engulfed him, but before the massive panther-man tore him to shreds Windgrace’s body transformed into an ethereal image of sparkling fog.
The ghostly image of Windgrace disappeared into Venser’s skull. Pain shot through Venser’s body, and he involuntarily thrashed so hard that he actually pulled his right hand a clear foot away from the tree, drawing the serpent’s body with it.
The Weaver King was screaming now, his high-pitched shriek as delirious and disturbing as his laughter had been. Venser felt something pull free from him, like peeling a tight, woolen cap from his head after a long, sweaty trek. As the giddy voice withdrew, Venser heard it speak to him one last time.
Rest now, it said. Don’t struggle. We’ll be together soon. Then it dissolved into manic giggles that slowly faded into silence.
Panting heavily, Venser tried to recover his wits and his wind. Lord Windgrace did not return, but the snakes holding Venser retracted, drawing his arms and legs out straight once more. His muscles were cramped and his joints were starting to ache, but at least he was alive.
He cracked open his eyelids and scanned the small army that had followed them to Windgrace’s hollow. Alive for now, Venser thought, but for how much longer?
The gladehunter beasts and warriors of Urborg made no move toward him, however. They only sat and watched, either unable to enter the area without Windgrace’s leave or unwilling to risk the panther-god’s ire.
Something familiar flickered in the corner of Venser’s eye. He turned his head and saw the same ragged figure he had seen earlier, the scarecrow with the gray metal helmet. This time the thin, gangly man did not vanish from view but stared
at Venser with mute curiosity. Venser took the opportunity to stare back and memorize as many details as he could.
The reedy figure stood perfectly still in the distance, his white eyes gleaming from the shadows of his helm. He was dressed in rags and tatters that seemed to flow around him like smoke. The conical metal shell on his head reached down to cover his entire face but for a darkened gap around the eyes, and even that gap was split by a thick, metal nose guard. A curved blade sprouted from the top of the helm, jutting forward with its pointed tip preceding the warrior like a lance tip. His nose and chin were muffled under a loosely tied rag and, he carried a dull-gray scabbard and blade on his hip.
Venser glanced back to his fellow denizens of Urborg, who made no move toward the new arrival. Then Venser called out, “Who are you?”
The scarecrowlike man cocked his head slightly. Venser heard a sinister rustling pass by him, a whisper of wind and malice. The helmed warrior pulled a round throwing spike from the back of his belt, twirled it expertly in his hand, and drew back his arm.
No, Dinne. I have special plans for this one. The Weaver King’s voice was quiet, almost unnoticeable, but Venser heard it. So did Dinne the helmed scarecrow, apparently, for he smoothly sheathed his spike, bobbed his head toward Venser, and flickered out of sight.
Venser waited for the Weaver King’s taunting laughter to return, but it never came. Instead, the same sparkling fog that had preceded Windgrace’s departure appeared, heralding his return.
Lord Windgrace’s body collected itself from the mist, growing darker and more solid as Venser watched. The planeswalker’s body froze in place for a moment before converting fully to flesh and blood, his luxurious fur glistening in the moonlight as the cold wind touched it.
Windgrace materialized with his eyes on Venser. He stood staring until a dark-skinned man in leather armor emerged from the nearby throng. He was a native of Urborg, and his ceremonial war paint marked him as warrior-chief. He wore his thick hair bound tightly behind his head and a necklace of sharp, triangular teeth. The chief carried a polished wooden club with a sharp, metal blade embedded in its heavy end.
Windgrace nodded. The man came forward, bowed, and spoke to the panther-god in hushed tones.
“You’ve done well,” Windgrace said. He extended his huge hand and placed it on the chief’s shoulder. The man stood up straighter. His shoulders broadened. His hair burst out of its metal rings and fluttered around his head as if he were standing in a high wind.
“Go now,” Windgrace said. The chief bowed again. He turned and, spotting Venser’s wide-eyed interest, bared an enormous grin full of sharp, serrated sharks’ teeth. With a feral growl, the chief winked hungrily at Venser and bounded back into the assembly.
Windgrace stood silently for a few seconds as he stared at Venser. “I like this new machine of yours much better,” he said. “There’s hardly any Phyrexia in it.”
He considered the artificer for a few more seconds, then grunted and turned away. The serpents holding Venser’s limbs released him, dropping him clumsily into the half-frozen mud and frosty grass.
Venser’s arms and legs would not respond, so he had to lie there, helpless and ignoble, as Windgrace padded over. Venser felt the planeswalker’s shadow like a solid thing, and it weighed on him until the artificer tilted his face up.
The panther-god stood with his massive paw extended. “Rise, Child of Urborg,” he said. “We have much to do.”
Numbly, Venser raised his hand. Windgrace engulfed it in his own, and Venser felt a surge of healing magic flow through him. Suddenly spry and limber as if he’d just awakened from a good night’s sleep, Venser got to his feet.
As soon as he was upright, Venser dropped to one knee before Windgrace. “My lord,” he said, “I am at your service.”
“Rise,” Windgrace said again, a touch of irritation in his throaty growl. He reached down and caught Venser by the scruff of the neck. He stretched the artificer out to his full height and deposited Venser on his own two feet.
“You are neither my friend nor my enemy,” Windgrace said, “nor servant, nor victim. I don’t know what you are, but I do know you are not Phyrexian. And now I know you are not the Weaver King’s creature.”
He turned toward the other natives of Urborg still waiting patiently at the hollow’s edge. “Guard his machine,” Windgrace said. “No one is to touch it for any reason.” He held his hand open for Venser to see, closed it, and opened it again to reveal the twin powerstones.
“You are with me now, tinkerer,” Windgrace said. He tossed the stones to Venser. “You are in this up to your neck. You and your machine work for me.” He growled softly, deep in his chest. “Or you don’t work at all.”
Venser nodded, his breath hot against his teeth. “Thank you, my lord.”
Windgrace scowled. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “I may ask you to give more than you care to before this is over.”
“Yes, my lord.” As he spoke, Venser was thinking of Jhoira and how she would have shared his reaction. “You wouldn’t be the first, my lord.”
The Weaver King darted across the Stronghold’s interior, skating on thin, silver lines of magical force. Each gossamer thread in the complicated web connected the Weaver King to one of his subjects, a direct link between his mind and theirs. His skein was very large these days, a tangled network that he skittered across like a mad, dancing spider.
Many of his vassals were scarcely aware he existed, as his mind was a flighty thing that never lingered long in one place. His thoughts frequented the strange and wild places most thoughts never went and dwelled where most minds never visit. In truth he had more subjects than he could keep track of at one time, and there were many he had never visited personally.
Venser was one of his newest favorites. The mangy cat-god had severed his link with the artificer and driven the Weaver King off, but that was no worry. He had plenty of other amusements for the short term. He also had several more connections to Venser already in place, so it would be a small thing to breeze by for a visit at a later time of his choosing.
He had been Oleg il-Dal when the Phyrexians brought their Stronghold to Urborg. In the years before the Invasion he had been a leader of prominence in the wilds of Rath. Oleg was a born warrior, tall and strong with a wild mass of orange-red braids that hung down to his waist. His beard was likewise braided and long, giving him a fearsome appearance on the battlefield. More than a few of the evincar’s dog soldiers had last seen Oleg’s wild mane before falling to his sharp blade and strong arm.
But Rath had been created as a testing ground, and Oleg’s followers were tested beyond their endurance. His band of Dal nomads was slowly whittled down to just over a dozen by the myriad dangers that preyed on those who lived outside of the Stronghold’s protection. Between hostile tribes, swarms of slivers, lava-spewing laccoliths, and the endless flood of flowstone, each moment of each day was potentially lethal. After his people began to sicken and die from some unknown malady, Oleg led them to the Stronghold. He negotiated their entry and saw to their care, choosing to accept a life of servitude to the Evincar Volrath over no life at all. If his tribemates disagreed with his choice, they had every chance to say so or strike out on their own. None of them did.
Instead, they were installed in the Stronghold’s City of Traitors, a permanent village constructed in the lowest regions of the hollow mountain’s belly, and put to work. The Dal were nomadic, but they were good at construction and strong enough to work all day. Oleg and the others gave up the ways of hunter-gatherers and became carpenters, masons, and machinists.
That is, some of the Dal found work in the City of Traitors. Oleg and most of the rest were called upon to serve in other ways, in the evincar’s notorious laboratories. Volrath, himself a shape-shifter, was fascinated by the changes that could be wrought on the human form. He started by twisting and combining existing bodies, improving them, making them larger, stronger, more monstrous. He soon mastered this art to the p
oint of boredom and moved on to greater challenges—namely, breeding his own creatures from recycled flesh and bone and imbuing them with dark, magical power.
Volrath first placed Oleg in an oubliette for several months. No jailers, no physical torture, just an endless series of stone corridors. He survived by eating lichen and vermin, and by drinking the foul water that collected in the maze’s corners.
Then the true experiment began. His body continued to starve, but his mind was aggressively destroyed, shredded, sifted through, and reassembled by the evincar’s sustained mental abuse. Oleg was shown images from his past, memories more real than the nightmare around him, only to have them whisked away as he staggered close. Volrath played loud, discordant sounds for days without respite. He released strange animals into the maze that Oleg never saw but could always hear as they slavered and snarled ever closer. The evincar projected colorful lights onto Oleg’s face, penetrating his private thoughts and dreams no matter how hard he closed his eyes or how hard he slammed his head into the wall. The lights burned his face at first, singeing the tips of his long hair and beard, but he soon developed a tolerance. With the resistance came the realization that he needed the lights now, that he was weak and wretched without them. He sought them out to bathe in, to soak them up like a thirsty plant in spring’s first rain.
After two more months of this Volrath threw a new twist into the game. The evincar placed a Dal woman and her child in the maze, two innocents who had come begging to the City of Traitors for asylum. They could have been members of his own tribe, so similar were their situations. Instinctively Oleg reached out to them with his hands, called to them with his voice, and for the first time sent a thin, silver filament directly from his psyche to theirs.
The child died instantly, weeping tears of blood. The woman survived, albeit as a mindless husk, and Oleg realized that while she could no longer control her thoughts or actions, he could. She did what he said, only what he said, when he said it. His newfound skill quickly grew stronger with practice, and she began to act on his every whim even if he didn’t issue a direct command. She would sing, or dance, or stand on her head, and all he had to do was think.
Planar Chaos Page 8
