Through bear-trap teeth, Crovax snarled, “Kill him!”
The moggs looked up in surprise, their lips wet with maggot flesh.
Crovax roared, “Do it!”
“No!” Gerrard shouted, struggling against Ertai’s grip.
With an almost casual gesture, a mogg gripped Squee’s neck. Something popped. Squee went limp. He rolled quietly forward, his knobby head lolling against the floor.
“You monster!” Gerrard roared. “You inhuman monster!”
Instead of evoking anger, the comment pleased Crovax. “Precisely. Inhuman. Monstrous. That’s the difference between us, Gerrard. We each sacrificed our beloved, but I realized I had been a fool to do so. I’ve done everything to bring back Selenia, to win her from the grave. You have done nothing for Hanna.”
Gerrard stared incredulously into those mad eyes. “You think this will bring her back? Killing innocent creatures? Impaling bodies on stalactites? Feeding gore to vampire hounds? You think your ridiculous getup will bring her back? Crovax, you’re in this hell because when you killed Selenia, you killed the only good in you.”
Crovax’s taloned hand lashed out, gripping Gerrard’s jaw. Claws sank in. Blood snaked down his fingers.
“Don’t you understand? I’ve descended to this hell to bring her back. I’ve become the keeper of hell’s keys, so that I could have dominion over the souls of the dead. I’ve sacrificed everything—and I have succeeded.”
“What are you raving about?”
Crovax released Gerrard’s jaw and went to one knee. He bowed his head and clasped his hands together. His pate riled with exertion. His mind reached out, seeking a distant place, a distant lord.
“Great Yawgmoth, I have brought him, as you commanded. I have captured Gerrard for you and slain one of his crew. I offer them to you now. Let this complete my sacrifice. Release her soul to me—or if you will not, at least send her in solid form, that I may display your power.”
Gerrard stared in wonder at the evincar, bowed like a penitent toad.
A smile jagged across Crovax’s face. He lifted his eyes toward the vault.
Something moved among the bodies. It was a gossamer presence, like weaving souls. A misty figure coalesced. At first she was no more than a dream—white wings beneath black stalactites. Between those wings formed a body, powerful and perfectly feminine. In purple shift and turquoise skirts, she could no longer have been a vision. Her beauty was matched only by her sadness. Mournful eyes shone beneath a leather skullcap and long blonde hair. The world took hold of her solidified form, and her wings surged as she descended.
The Evincar of Rath did not rise from his knee, only extending a talon in welcome. It was as though all the horrid days fell away from Crovax, and he was once again a young man in love. His hand received her palm. Gerrard’s blood drew red ribbons on her skin.
Selenia lighted upon the ground. Her wings furled.
Crovax kissed her hand. Lips did not entirely close over his teeth. It was a pathetic kiss, leering and hopeless. Crovax shut his eyes in bliss.
“Do you see, Gerrard? I have followed her to hell, and I have reclaimed her. Soon, when I have given all of Dominaria to Yawgmoth, he will give her to me. Until then, I can call her spirit here.”
“She’s not real, Crovax. She’s an illusion,” Gerrard insisted. There was more pity than anger in his voice. “Yawgmoth has learned how to twist you. With a simple glamour, he keeps you here.”
“Touch him, Selenia,” Crovax said. “Let him feel the pulse in your fingers, the warmth of your skin. Show him you are real.”
She strode toward Gerrard. Her eyes pinned his. She ran knuckles gently over his cheek. Gerrard’s blood smeared from her fingers onto his face. There was solidity to her touch. More than solidity, there was life, even the sweet scent of flesh.
In a voice both wise and sad, Selenia said, “He is freeing me. He is ransoming my soul with a whole world. Death cannot stand before such love.”
Closing his eyes, Gerrard said, “Crovax, Yawgmoth doesn’t have dominion over the dead. He is not the lord of souls. He could not return your lost love to you.”
“Show him,” Crovax said. The evincar’s head was bowed again, his hands clasped. “Show him, Yawgmoth, that you are lord of the dead.”
Gerrard’s eye was drawn by movement among the maggots. In their midst, Squee’s body shuddered. The green tissues of his neck compacted. Beneath them, fragments of bone slid together to assemble knobby vertebrae. The spinal cord fused again. Fingers convulsed with life. Toes curled and uncurled. Knees drew up beneath an aching body. Elbows trembled as arms pushed the figure upright. Squee’s brown vest expanded with breath. He looked up, blinking.
“Gerrard?” Squee muttered absently. He picked a worm from his shoulder. “How’d Squee get down here with dese maggots?”
Gerrard couldn’t answer. He stared, unbelieving, at the risen goblin.
Crovax said, “Everyone ends up with the maggots, but not everyone rises again.”
“Is it really you, Squee?” Gerrard managed at last. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
Indignation reddened the goblin’s eyes. “You? Save? Squee? Squee no need saved! Squee save your butt a hundred gabillion times. He save your butt here too.” Yawgmoth could not have faked that reply.
Mind whirling, Gerrard shook his head. “What is the point of all this?”
“Yawgmoth is the lord of death,” Selenia said. “Yawgmoth can kill and bring life.”
Crovax rose and gestured toward Squee. “Look what Lord Yawgmoth has done for this pathetic wretch.” His other talon extended toward Selenia. “Look what he has done for me. Think of what he can do for you. Think of whom he could reunite with you.”
Gerrard understood at last. “Hanna?”
“Yes,” hissed Crovax. “Yawgmoth has her too. Yawgmoth has Hanna. He can return her to you.”
CHAPTER 32
When Gods Awaken
Seas spread beneath Rith’s scales. Clouds beamed upon Treva’s wings. Skies glowed across Dromar’s mantle. The three Primevals were beautiful in flight, a glorious arc before the dragon nations.
Rhammidarigaaz flew just behind them. His wings were weary, and his mind was worse. The Primevals emitted a blinding glory. For a time, Darigaaz had seen nothing but its dazzle. Eventually, though, divine light blinds a mortal eye. Then only darkness remains. Darigaaz could see only darkness now.
How many dragons had died to raise these three Primevals? How many more would die to raise the fourth? Once there were four, how total would their hold be on every dragon heart?
“At least there will not be five,” he murmured to himself. The red dragon’s death would forever prevent a complete circle of Primevals. A complete circle could tyrannize the whole world.
With a fierce surge of his wings, Darigaaz drove himself forward. Crimson scales hurled back the tumbling skies. Another stroke, and he pulled even with the three Primevals.
In the gleaming ocean beyond stretched a line of black islands—Urborg. There raged the battle that would decide the war. Fleets of troop ships stood at anchor around it. Fleets of airships swarmed the skies. Angels fought, and devils, Weatherlight and the Metathran. All the world fought there. Soon the dragons would join them.
In Urborg’s deepest, darkest slough rested the last Primeval.
Rith watched Darigaaz. Her eyes were slivers of jade. It is about time you came up to join us.
Ignoring her comment, Darigaaz asked, What is the name of the final Primeval?
Crosis, Rith replied easily. It was an ill-fated name, the root of the draconic word for death. Rith gauged his response. You needn’t be frightened by the name. Rith means childhood, Treva means youth, Dromar means adulthood, and Crosis means death. Together, we Primevals encompass the stages of draconic life.
And the red dragon? as
ked Darigaaz.
His name meant conception, the moment of volcanic desire that changes old death to new life. He had the power to be reborn and awaken the rest of us. That is why the Phyrexians targeted him first. Despite their labors, the circle will soon be complete.
Complete except for one, correct Darigaaz.
Of course, Rith replied, but once Crosis joins us, no one will stand before us.
Darigaaz studied her. You mean no Phyrexian will stand before us.
Of course, she repeated.
Swear an oath. We fight for Dominaria. We fight against Phyrexia.
Turning her head toward him, she drew her jowls back in a predatory grin. I swear an oath to fight for Dominaria and to fight against Phyrexia. The look faded. You mortals and your oaths. Do you realize what we are doing? We are about to awaken not just one god but a whole pantheon. Everything—even an oath—is swept away when gods awaken. Enough discussion. It is time.
Words and wings brought them rapidly to Urborg. Small blots of land swelled into large islands. Dragons soared over an encircling reef, above briny shallows, and past the shoreline. Beyond rose forests drowned in saltwater.
There was not a living Phyrexian to be seen. The few patches of high ground were marked with fire circles where weird bones lay—remains of the vanquished. The victors meanwhile manned lookout posts of wood and reed. Sentries lifted their eyes to see the great flock of dragons descend on Urborg. Metathran rarely smiled, but these watchmen, each one, waved a glad greeting.
Ahead, Rith sent, do you feel it?
Yes, replied Darigaaz. Yes, I feel it.
Past the salt marshes, past a wide stretch of quicksand, there lay a deep, black place. It was a tar pit. Nowhere else in nature was there a place as black as that. It seemed a tear in the world, giving view to the nothingness beneath. Any living thing that wandered into it died. Meat and brain and bone all disappeared. Oblivion.
Here, Rith said. We circle here.
Rhammidarigaaz and the three Primevals bent their wings. They banked above the tar pit. The dragon nations followed smoothly in their wake. They formed a whirling, multicolored vortex.
The creature in that pit drew Darigaaz. It completed the music in his soul. Open fifths became major chords. Dull drones gave way to symphonies. Music aligned his jangled spirit.
It was more than just music. It was raw power. It magnetized him, aligning the particles of Darigaaz’s being. His heart pounded in synchrony with the Primevals’ hearts. His muscles ached with energy. This was what it was to awaken a god.
What sacrifice must we make? Rhammidarigaaz asked Rith. Immersed in the soul symphony, he would have sacrificed anything to raise the final Primeval. How many must die? How must they die?
Rith’s smile glinted like a dagger. You’re beginning to think like us. But no—no mortal dragon must be sacrificed now. Only we four. Only we Primevals.”
Darigaaz stared at her. We four?
All this while, you did not sense it? Even knowing your name?
My name?
What is the Old Draconic meaning of Rhammidarigaaz?
In dread realization, he whispered, “Conception.”
You are the first Primeval. The Phyrexians only destroyed your corpse. They did not know you were already reborn. For a thousand years, you have lived, Rhammidarigaaz. For a thousand years, you could have awakened us. Why didn’t you?
Her words pinched the sinews of his heart. I didn’t know—
Yes, you could not have known. You were hatched as mortal dragons are hatched. You had to learn to eat, to fight, to believe. You could not have known your destiny and should not have known it until the fullness of time. The invasion cut time short. Szat became your teacher. He showed you your grave and taught you the stories you had forgotten. He sent you out to awaken us, and you have.
I am one of you?
Yes. One of us four, who must die to raise the fifth.
Only a moment ago, Rhammidarigaaz had learned he was god. Now, his life—his eternal life—would be required of him. Hollowly, he repeated the thought, We must die to raise the fifth…?
In dying, we will awaken our final brother. He is death and has dominion over death. He will raise us all as new creations. As new gods.
Even had he been in his right mind, Darigaaz could not have resisted, but he was nowhere near his right mind. He would sacrifice his life, yes. He would shuck his old flesh and don a new, immortal body. Rhammidarigaaz would become one of the gods.
Yes, Rith, he said. Let us complete the circle.
Rhammidarigaaz tucked his wings to his sides, leading the dive. It was only right. He was the first Primeval, the red dragon whose name meant conception. He would lead the four down to death. Wind whipped across his horns and down his red-tasseled back. Rith fell in line behind him, and after her Treva, and Dromar. They dipped downward, away from the cyclone of serpents.
Black tar loomed up. Aloft, it had seemed placid. Now Rhammidarigaaz could see the steamy bubbles that burst upon its surface. They belched heat into the air. This would be no simple suffocation but a burning death. Darigaaz did not close his eyes. He wanted to face death head-on.
His face struck. The tar burned. He plunged into it. Goo encased his wings, his shoulders, his arms. It swallowed his belly and his legs. Darigaaz thrashed. He roared. Sound could not escape his mouth. Tar sucked down his throat. The symphony in his head ceased. There was only the mallet of his heart.
He was dying. He was alone, and he was dying.
They tricked me, he thought. His consciousness poured out like a wineskin. They tricked me into sacrificing myself. I am no god. I’m no longer anything at all.
He tried to drive toward the surface. It was useless, but life always fights, even when the battle is lost. Darigaaz fought.
There was no more time. Rhammidarigaaz was dead. He was suddenly, surprisingly dead.
* * *
—
At first, the notes were scattered and uncertain, as if the players were warming up. A tone here, a trill there, but nothing that amounted to music. Soon, there came a quickening, the pulse of a drum, insistent and irresistible. A drone joined it, the long strident breath of a bagpipe. The basal rhythm invited melody. Strings added their voices, then winds, reeds, and brass. They converged. They crescendoed. They sang.
In all its loud cacophony, life reentered Darigaaz.
He fought again toward the surface. The tar grew watery—slack and tepid. It could not grip him. His flesh was new and slick. He surged upward. Wings hurled back the muck as if it were air.
Rhammidarigaaz’s head broke the surface. Tar peeled from his jowls and eyes and horns. It sloughed from shoulders and arms, wings and waist, legs and tail. With a mighty stroke, he shot from the blackness. It closed beneath him.
Darigaaz’s roar was a volcano. It spewed straight up into the eye of the dragon cyclone. He followed the fire skyward. Life had returned and brought rage with it. He was done being subordinate. He was done being tricked, done suffering fools.
Darigaaz’s body was new—scaled in rubies, youthful and lithe, quick and powerful. His mind was new too, bursting with the sorceries that are a god’s inheritance. Even his soul was new, not the suffering spirit of a mortal creature but the unrepentant heart of a god. Darigaaz’s time had come to rule—he and his sibling gods.
Rith burst from the black well of death. Her flesh was solid emerald. Voracious clouds of spores fountained from her roaring jowls as she took to the sky. Angelic Treva followed, a creature of white light. Radiance poured up past her teeth. Then came Dromar, who breathed a shaft of distortion that shook matter apart. And, last of all—Crosis.
The black dragon god had bat wings and a cobra’s body. His legs were powerful, his talons were tipped in razor claws, and the whole of his being gleamed like onyx. From his mouth came a black column that sl
ew anything in its path.
This was Crosis, the one the other four had died to raise. He had nullified death and raised them all again as gods.
The five Primevals vaulted up through the vortex of dragons, rising faster than mortal wings could have borne them. They owned the heavens.
Except that there, beyond the coiling serpents, a ship dared to fly. She had a massive prow ram and a sleek hull and shimmering wings of metal.
“The skies are ours!” shrieked Crosis.
“Who dares contest them?” hissed Dromar.
“It is Weatherlight,” said Treva.
“We must drive them to ground,” Rith determined.
Rhammidarigaaz was last to speak, but he spoke with the same fury as the rest. “We must destroy them.”
Firstborn of the Primevals, Rhammidarigaaz led the dragon gods and their nations across the sky to destroy Weatherlight.
CHAPTER 33
Where All the World Fought
“Dragons, dead ahead!” called Tahngarth into the speaking tube. “They’re flying an intercept course.”
At Weatherlight’s helm, Sisay lifted her captain’s glass. “One of them is Rhammidarigaaz! They’re allies!” A cheer went up across the deck. The crew had needed some good news. They had fought in a shaken delirium since Gerrard and Squee had disappeared. No one knew where they had gone. It was good to see allies in the sky.
Five beasts led up the dragon nations. Red, green, white, blue, and black, the serpents vaulted into the heavens. They climbed with an impossible speed. Their eyes blazed angrily.
“They don’t look like a welcoming party,” Tahngarth said.
Sisay stayed the course, one hand clutching the helm and the other the captain’s glass. Through it, she could see the glint of fangs and claws, the spark of fury in draconic eyes.
“I think you’re right.”
Tahngarth pivoted his gun forward, drawing a bead on the black dragon. His hands sweat on the fire controls.
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