Planar Chaos

by Timothy Sanders

  “Of course I am, my dear. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “I believe I do. You are the Weaver King, and you’ve taken this shape from my memories. How did you get inside my head?” The figure of Karn grinned, exposing teeth that the real silver golem never had. “It wasn’t easy,” he said. His voice became more excited, more animated as he spoke. “Your mind is sealed off tighter than a monarch’s tomb. But every fortress has its weak spots. Yours are named Jodah and Venser.”

  The false Karn changed then, rippling and melting like a candle in the summer sun. He giggled as long, thick tendrils stretched out from his head like serpents. His body withered, and for a moment Jhoira stood facing a leering, emaciated human male with hip-length braids. Then the Weaver King faded away.

  I had hoped to get to know you better, Jhoira of the Ghitu. But there will be time for that later. Plenty of time. Right now I have to return to Skyshroud and finish killing the forest witch. Shouldn’t be too hard, should it? Not if your doubts about her abilities are anywhere near the mark.

  Jhoira tightened her jaw. Her fingers stabbed down into the ambulator’s controls, unhurried and deliberate.

  My, my. You are a tough nut to crack, aren’t you? Take it from me, my dear, because I should know: One doesn’t shut me out so effectively without lots and lots of practice. I wonder now…have you ever let anyone in?

  “If you were as fearsome as you like to pretend,” she said, “you’d know already.”

  Well put. But as I said, I have plenty of time to get to know you better.

  Jhoira finished with the controls and folded her hands into her sleeves.

  You’re just going to leave? You’re not even going to threaten me? You’re hardly any fun at all.

  Jhoira did not reply. Instead she listened to the awful sound of the Weaver King’s grating laughter as the ambulator’s magical field enveloped her. One day, she would make certain to hear a very different sound come out of him, one inspired by Ghitu fire.

  * * *

  —

  Venser passed the time while Jhoira was away by tossing stones into Jodah’s transport tunnel. He wasn’t sure if the thing was still active, but the thought of random Skyshroud stones splashing into the bogs of Urborg was as close to an amusement as he could manage.

  She’s a cold one, isn’t she?

  Venser dropped a handful of rocks and sprang to his feet.

  And here I thought that Shivans were hot-tempered, hot-blooded, full of hot air, at least….

  The artificer whirled around, searching for a visible sign to shout at. “You stay away from her.”

  The Weaver King laughed merrily. Can’t do that. Well, won’t, that is to say. But I am a merciful king, and I hate to see my subjects downtrodden by anyone but me.

  She’ll never be yours, Venser. She’ll never pine for anyone who isn’t a thousand-year-old archmage or a Phyrexian impostor.

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” Venser said.

  Has she told you that story? She wouldn’t tell me. Not directly. But I’m sure I picked it up somewhere—

  “I’ll kill you,” Venser said. It was the first time he had said such a thing, and he was gratified to find that he absolutely meant it.

  That’s good, that’s lovely. I can use that.

  “Then use it, you gibbering coward. I’m standing right here.”

  Yes, you are. And you’ll be there when I finish with Freyalise.

  “You should kill me now,” Venser said. He meant that, too, for if Jhoira was alive he wanted to keep the Weaver King away from her, and if she was dead he wanted to personally drag the Weaver King kicking and screaming into the afterlife.

  The Weaver King laughed. Or what? You’ll build a machine to punish me? Your machines don’t work, boy. Jhoira knows it. Teferi knows it. Hells, half the Ghitu in Shiv know it by now.

  “Shut up,” Venser said. “It does work. If it doesn’t—”

  Oh, it doesn’t. The machine doesn’t work, Venser. You work. Without you sitting in it, your ambulator is just an ugly chair that isn’t even comfortable.

  Venser regained his temper. “If it doesn’t work,” he said, “where did Jhoira go?”

  With a chuckle, the Weaver King said, To the same place you went. Remember when the ambulator “didn’t work” and you wound up stuck in the void? That’s where she is now. That’s where she’ll stay.

  The artificer swallowed another retort. The monster was probably lying again, but there was nothing for it but to wait until Jhoira and the ambulator returned. Sure enough, a gold-yellow glow collected around the spot where the device had been.

  Oops, the Weaver King said, his tone mockingly concerned. It seems I’ve been caught in a fib. Such is life, full of small victories and minor setbacks. Carry on, Venser. I will come for you directly.

  Venser clenched his fists. “I’ll be ready.”

  No you won’t. But it’s funny to me that you said so.

  The malign presence rustled off into the woods. Nearby, the ambulator emerged from its characteristic hazy glow with Jhoira at the controls. Venser breathed a sigh of relief.

  Jhoira bolted from the chair and ran up to Venser. He thought she was going to embrace him, but she grabbed his shoulders tightly and kept him at arm’s length.

  “Did you really see Karn,” she said, “or just that foaming-mad beast?”

  They exchanged descriptions of their encounters with the disguised Weaver King. Jhoira made him review every detail of his experience, especially the differences between the Karn who had first approached him and the one who had scraped off the gladehunter mark.

  His tale seemed to mollify Jhoira. After he told it to her the second time she even released his shoulders. Pins and needles continued to bubble through his joints as she recounted her own tale.

  “So there’s still hope,” she said. “The first Karn you saw sounds like the real thing.”

  Venser said, “You think he’s coming?”

  “I do. I just hope he hurries. Things are more dire by the minute.” She was staring over Venser’s head, apparently lost in thought as she spoke.

  Venser cleared his throat. “While we’re waiting,” he said, “would you tell me about Karn? I only met him once, maybe, but he seems like an interesting creature.”

  “You’ll find him fascinating before I’m through,” Jhoira said. She made eye contact with Venser and smiled warmly. “He’s a living artifact, you know. As close to a real manmade man as there can be. Although technically he was made by a planeswalker—and became one himself—so I guess you could say he’s a planeswalkermade planeswalker.”

  Jhoira laughed lightly at his uncomfortable expression and said, “I’m sorry, Venser. I’m just a little rattled by some of the things that animal said to me. But rest easy, my mind is my own.”

  Venser nodded. For the first time since he escaped Urborg, he longed to see Lord Windgrace. The panther-god might have failed to excise all of the Weaver King’s presence from Venser’s mind, but he had driven him off for a short while. It was more than anyone else had been able to do. “So,” he said. “Karn?”

  Jhoira nodded. “Might as well. If he comes, he’s sure to come here first.” She found a comfortable tree to sit against and started talking, her voice as smooth and practiced as an expert teacher.

  “Urza had been at war with Phyrexia for thousands of years before they invaded Dominaria. He and the Lord of the Wastes took each other’s mettle and tested each other countless times before it came to all-out war. Early on, Urza tried to take the fight to Phyrexia, but that ended in disaster. It usually did with Urza. But this disaster had its benefits too. Urza discovered that some sentient Phyrexians contained a device he called a heartstone, an artifact that allowed them to grow and generate independent thoughts. Urza…brought a heartstone back with him.” Jhoira’s brow furrowed, but she kept talking. “The whole story is much longer, but let’s leave it at that. He brought a heartstone back, and he incorporated it into the designs for
his new silver golem….”

  * * *

  —

  The Weaver King marshaled his forces at the western edge of Skyshroud. More Phyrexians appeared with each passing hour, and each was quickly impressed into service. The sliver hives pumped out more subjects for him by the score, all born to follow a single leader. He had only taken control of the horde a short while ago, and it had already doubled in size.

  With all these fascinating followers in this strange new place, he thought, why am I so bored? The larger his army became, the less fun he had. Perhaps it was the fact that there was almost no one to send his soldiers against. Apart from his horde, the forest was almost completely deserted, elves, animals, and magical monsters alike few and far between.

  The place itself was a bit of a disappointment as well, dismal, dry, and without compelling flavor. Windgrace dominated Urborg and united its dangerous, disagreeable denizens through overwhelming force of personality, suffusing the rocks and mud and forcing the natives to toe his line. Fear of the panther-god generated a strong feeling of resentment and suppressed the locals’ selfish tendencies. The Weaver King knew better than anyone that such tendencies were not easily dismissed, and keeping them in check only served to heighten and clarify them as they waited for release. Urborg was a violent place, a greedy, sullen place that offered fertile ground for his amusements. Here in Skyshroud, Freyalise’s followers worshipped her. Many of them wouldn’t take a single step if they thought their patron would object, and that servile obedience permeated Skyshroud like a sickly, noisome fog.

  He decided that ultimately, conquering Skyshroud was too easy and too hard. The near-mindless marauders in his army were no challenge at all, yet Freyalise was beyond his reach and a real danger to him. A being of his considerable talents should not be wasting his time here but should be striving for something truly epic.

  He turned his attention to his legions halfway across the forest, who had been sent to scour the area for new recruits and fresh meat. Freyalise was there, turning back his foragers like dust before the broom. Jodah was at the scene, but between the archmage’s strong, focused mind and the presence of a planeswalker, the Weaver King could not access Jodah’s thoughts without drawing attention to himself.

  Even more irritating was Dinne’s disappearance. The Vec raider could not disobey the Weaver King’s orders, but he had grown quite obstinate and less pliable recently. Commanded to locate Phyrexians in Urborg, Dinne would have to follow through, but the Weaver King had not specified when. Like a truculent child, Dinne did what he was told at his own pace and in his own way, skirting the very edge of disobedience without actually opening himself up to rebuke. He might take days to find the metal monsters and days more to report that he’d found them, and he could justify it all by claiming to have followed his orders to the best of his abilities.

  A dark thread of anger wove its way through the Weaver King’s thoughts. Dinne required correction, and if he didn’t recover his former alacrity and reliability it would be a most violent and memorable correction.

  A massive explosion rocked the forest. Through his web of silver mind-threads, the Weaver King felt most of his foraging horde vanish, shredded or incinerated out of existence. The remainder were hurled high into the air toward the west, apparently intended to rejoin the main mass of his army here.

  He sighed in his mind. These almighty planeswalkers thwarted him at every turn. If not for Windgrace, he’d have Venser dancing on a string by now. If not for Freyalise, he’d have free run of Skyshroud and have Jodah and Jhoira battling to the death for his amusement. It seemed that he’d never have the free hand he craved as long as these godlike squelchers kept stifling his fun. But how could he, a mere king, contend with gods?

  You don’t need to contend with them directly. The voice was quite like his own, giddy with a touch of real menace. It was older somehow, richer and more confident, and it came not from within his own mind but from everywhere, from the rocks, trees, and air around him.

  The Weaver King’s wild ardor cooled, and he became afraid. Who’s there? Who are you?

  I am here. I am everywhere. I am he who called you out of the shadows and into Urborg. It suited my purposes to turn you loose in the swamps, little mind spider. It does not suit them to have you brooding here, weighted down by ennui.

  The Weaver King thought back to the voice he had heard just before he escaped the void. He knew better than to take such claims at face value, for he himself had swayed too many beings over the years by pretending to be something that was personally awesome to them. This voice was no sham, however, the speaker no charlatan. The being who addressed him now was pure power, perhaps even more so than Windgrace, and the blackness behind it made the Weaver King tremble. Are you a planeswalker? he said.

  Oh yes. I ’walk. I traverse the multiverse at my leisure. But the fact is I prefer to walk the night. Famous for it, really.

  The Weaver King hesitated, and when he did reply his tone was that of a confused child. Am I your subject, then?

  By no means. You are my trusted retainer, free to do as you wish. But you must do something, little spider. Your progress in Urborg was satisfactory, but you have stumbled badly here in Skyshroud. Any petty warlord can assemble an army. I want you to infect Dominaria.

  The Weaver King discovered he did not like being criticized, but he was neither mad nor foolish enough to make an issue of it now. As do I, he said. But Windgrace and Freyalise—

  Are more powerful than you, yes. But I sought you out precisely because you attack the mind, which is a planeswalker’s greatest weakness. We can be distracted, enraged, or grief-stricken as easily as a lesser being if you have the skill. If you have the spine. If you are ready to strike when the right time comes. That is all I require.

  The Weaver King felt calm wash over him. He recognized this dynamic even if he was not accustomed to being on the this end of it. What would you have me do?

  Do as you will.

  When?

  Now.

  But—

  You control one army here, the voice said. And you can quickly build another in Urborg, where the slivers are less abundant but the Phyrexians come in ever-increasing waves. If you are truly a king, send them against both your planeswalker enemies at the same time. Give them a real enemy to fight, a physical threat to satisfy their heroic tendencies.

  And this is how I should serve you?

  Everyone serves me at this point. No matter what they do, whether they know it or not. Like you, I am a subtle creature, and the uncertainty of chaos intrigues me. Teferi and his ilk seek to close the time rifts plaguing this world. It is one to me if they succeed or fail. I simply want the experience to be as detrimental to them as possible. And I want to observe.

  A notion occurred to the Weaver King, a way to obey the darkling voice and establish a means to escape it. The Weaver King dampened his innermost thoughts to keep them hidden even from the exalted mind that now confronted him.

  Observe, then, the Weaver King said. He delighted in the boldness of his tone, in the crackling edge of delirious joy that crept in as he went on. I will bedevil the planeswalkers and create such a spectacle that you will be unable to turn away.

  Superb. This is the Weaver King I cherish. Carry on.

  The ominous presence fluttered away. The Weaver King waited, then he summoned all of his Skyshroud horde to him. It would take some time for them all to assemble, so he turned his thoughts toward Dinne and sent a stinging jolt of pain along the threads that connected them.

  Dart tosser, the Weaver King said, I am waiting.

  Moments passed without reply. Then images came back up the threads between the Weaver King and Dinne, a clear view through the silent raider’s eyes. Dinne was standing on the edge of a frozen-solid swamp that bordered the Stronghold. The marsh stretched out over several acres, but none of its natural features were visible.

  Instead, the entire area was packed tight with Phyrexians. Metal monsters of every
size and shape huddled together, their limbs scraping sparks against each other. Dinne did not use words, but his mind and memories spoke of Windgrace’s terrible counteroffensives that had destroyed hundreds of the artifact invaders and driven the rest into this isolated spot.

  The Weaver King giggled. The panther-god had done Dinne’s work for him, herding the Phyrexians together for one final, all-out encounter. But it was hopeless. As he watched through his servant, the Weaver King saw more Phyrexians march out of the hollow mountain and drop from the crackling purple circle in the sky, and these new arrivals went straight to the already crowded swamp.

  Windgrace was a fool fighting a fool’s war. So long as the rift remained open there would be no end to the steady flow of Phyrexians, no end to the cold weather that accompanied them.

  Good soldier, the Weaver King said. Carefully, almost tenderly, he stretched a thin, sharp line out to the Phyrexian nearest Dinne, bending the machine brute to his will as easily as toppling a child’s tower of wooden blocks. His influence flitted from mind to mechanical mind, darting and hovering like a hummingbird around the perimeter of the frozen swamp. Once he had completely encircled them all in a ring of converts, the Weaver King’s dread power surged in toward the center of the assembly, spreading like contagion until the entire invading force was his to command. As each Phyrexian was subsumed, they fell silent and still. Soon the swamp was filled with a gallery of terrifying statues that glowed at the seams and vented oil-scented smoke.

  Here in Skyshroud, the slivers and Phyrexians moved as one, rearing up on their hind legs or raising their servo-powered arms high. In far-off Urborg, the gallery of statues broke its paralysis and turned outward, each facing whatever attack Windgrace chose to launch.

  Seek the rift, he told them all. Seek out the planeswalker who protects it. Give no quarter. Hold nothing in reserve. This is your final battle, and the only options are victory or death.

  As one, both armies let out a terrifying shriek that was part war cry and part madman’s laughter. The hordes rushed out into the woods and into the marsh. The Weaver King smiled.