by Cory Herndon
Fonn’s concentration left entirely as Rakdos poured into the tunnel in the darkness behind them. She hauled herself up the ladder with all the strength she had left. Rung after rung, well over two hundred feet up, half of which hung down into the cavernous tunnel, the other half through a narrow tube that pierced another hundred feet of undercity to emerge, she hoped, at street level. The light they had seen was already gone, but there was still a general glow at the top from the dull corona ringing the top of the passage.
The scouts took to it remarkably well, especially the centaur. It had never occurred to her to wonder what centaurs did when faced with ladders, and the answer was that centaurs had incredibly strong upper bodies and surprisingly deft control of their forward hooves. Orval moved up the ladder quickly, despite the awkward bulk of half his lower body. Al was a bit slower, but considering the conditions both scouts had been held in for the last several hours he still made good speed. Fonn herself was breathing hard by the time the clanging thumps of someone climbing onto the ladder far below rang into her palms and feet. She risked a look down and coughed as a puff of black smoke struck her in the face. After so long in the tunnel, the Rakdos torches were almost blinding, but it looked like the entire carnarium had given chase. Already a pair of enterprising goblins were scrambling up the ladder, and a couple of humans were below them.
“Move!” Fonn called. “Faster!”
“They’re following us, aren’t they?” Aklechin called.
“Yes,” Fonn said, “but I’m more worried about the strain their weight is going to put on the—”
A low creak of bending metal groaned from the ladder and efficiently made Fonn’s point.
Orval reached the top of the passage just as the first goblin took a swipe at Fonn’s boots. The goblin didn’t get another chance. Fonn planted a foot in the creature’s face and shoved. The goblin lost its grip and, flailing, caught its kinsman below with all four claws in the back of the neck. The second goblin screamed and lost its own hold on the ladder, and the pair screeched curses and tore at each other until they struck with a wet thud amid the milling, snarling crowd of cultists.
The nearest remaining cultist on the ladder was a human but one who only just qualified as such. His cheeks were sliced clean through, a mutilation that left him with a permanent skeleton’s grin. His bare, bony crown bore hundreds of overlapping scars. He held a dagger in his silver-capped teeth, and he winked at Fonn as he started to climb again, the goblins forgotten.
Fonn continued her own efforts and checked on the scouts. Orval was through the exit with a clang, shoving the lid aside, and the dusky sky that appeared overhead was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Aklechin managed to hook both hands on the edge when the ladder creaked again, more ominously this time, and Fonn felt the iron beneath her ping with the sound of snapping bolts. Just another few feet …
The iron ladder broke free and dropped.
Fonn started a shout that ended as abruptly as the fall did. If not for the strength of her artificial cytoplast hand, she might have joined the Rakdos who found the jarring stop too much and slipped from the ladder, bouncing painfully off of the now-inclined rungs before dropping into open space.
Fonn almost laughed. The ladder had dropped the last couple of feet to the ground but was still held upright by the passage in the ceiling. She was home free.
Or would have been, she added silently, if she were eight feet tall. Even from the top rung, there was no way she could reach the edge of the exit hole now, even if she jumped. The passage was too narrow to allow her to bend her knees much at all.
She started to explain this to the pair of anxious faces watching her from above.
“You’re going to have to leave me,” she began. “Orval, you’re in—”
“No sir,” Aklechin said. “Orval, grab my ankles.”
“Al, get out of here,” Fonn ordered. The ladder groaned again as more and more cultists climbed aboard.
“No sir,” Orval parroted, taking hold of Al’s ankles. Before Fonn could raise another objection, Aklechin dangled upside down, his extended arms just within reach if she stretched.
She caught hold of the young scout’s wrists on the first try, and Al shouted, “Heave!”
The scouts pulled their centuriad commander up with a collective yell, and the three of them collapsed in a heap in the middle of a street that Fonn would probably have recognized if she hadn’t been staring at the dark gray sky peppered with sparse stars.
Another loud groan of twisting metal and Fonn heard the ladder finally give way and fold up. The shouts of the plummeting cultists disappeared among the shouts of their fellow deathmongers enjoying an unexpected feast. The ledev crawled to the edge of the hole and looked down.
An unhinged smile greeted her, and she blinked. The Rakdos cultist’s fist connected with her jaw and knocked her over onto her side. The man was through in a heartbeat, hauling himself up with both arms. He dropped into a crouch and snarled, drawing a jagged, rusty blade.
Had Fonn, or any of the other scouts, been just a few feet one way or the other, they too would have been flattened by the nephilim’s step.
The foot lifted slowly and came down again a few feet behind them. Another one was on its way down to replace it, but by then they were scrambling for cover.
“Are they following us, sir?” Orval asked as they watched the giant, rocky thing rumble past down the broad street.
“I don’t know, Scout,” Fonn said. “If they are, they missed us. But it looks like they’re headed in the same direction as that demon, the demon that just kept getting bigger and bigger. …” She lapsed into thought. Whatever had gotten to the nephilim, was it the cult’s doing? And what had the stuff done to Myc?
“Change of plan,” Fonn said. “You two are not going with me.”
“Sir?” Aklechin said, confused.
“I’ve already gotten you almost killed on three separate occasions,” Fonn said. “I’m going to get my son or I’m going to die trying, and I don’t need to be worried about you two as well.”
“Sir, we are ledev scouts, sir!” Orval said. “Unless you are dismissing us from the ledev guard, sir, we will stand at our commander’s side.”
“Sir,” Al added. “We want to get Myc back too. And Lily. Wherever she is.”
Fonn was unable to muster a good counterargument. Besides, where could Orval or Aklechin go that was safe? The nephilim were between them and Vitu Ghazi. In fact, the thought occurred to her that the nephilim might not be headed for Rakdos at all. They might be going for the tree, or anywhere in the Center of Ravnica, for that matter.
The problem with arguing with yourself, Fonn mused, was that you sometimes won. She nodded and tapped a knuckle over her heart. The scouts returned the salute.
“All right, Scouts,” Fonn said, “Follow that monster.”
* * * * *
Myc’s original mind was fairly sure it had won control of his actions but still kept itself hidden. As the demon drew closer and closer to the top of Rix Maadi and the point where it made contact with the surface, Myc began to wonder how he could get the demon-god to stop before Rakdos reached the top and punched right on through the central pavilion. Worse, if Myc’s judgment was correct, the improvised exit would see Rakdos enter the city very near the base of Vitu Ghazi, the Unity Tree that Myc, raw scout though he might be, had sworn an oath to defend.
The young ledev was still going over the possibilities when he felt and heard the first jarring thud of the demon’s huge fist as it made contact with the stone.
“They thought they had uprisings before.” The demon laughed.
That gave Myc pause. Rakdos was right. There had been uprisings before. For ten thousand years, the demon-god had vanished for long spells of whatever sadistic pleasures took his fancy, returned, whipped the cultists into a murderous frenzy, and watched them cavort into the City of Ravnica to stir up chaos. Unpredictable in the specifics, over the long haul th
e uprisings were spaced over roughly similar intervals corresponding to the demon’s attention span.
But in all those ten thousand years, there was no record of something like this, the demon, grown to titanic stature through some spell or another, attacking the city personally. Myc winced at the thunderous sound of another punch and a corresponding shower of rubble that plummeted past his perch. Perhaps it had just never occurred to the demon-god to just drive up through the streets and attack the city himself.
Something was wrong. Perhaps the song was not faint because of interference from Rakdos’s mind. Perhaps it was weakening. Perhaps Rakdos’s very proximity to Vitu Ghazi was causing the change.
Despite the furnacelike heat the demon gave off, the young scout felt an unearthly chill.
Three cheers for the Simic Progenitor. Momir Vig has only been in place as guildmaster for a few weeks, and already more than a dozen new clinics with free medical treatment have sprung up where they’re needed most. We say those who object to signing a simple waiver in exchange for good health are rude, ungrateful, and untrusting. Three cheers for Momir Vig.
—“Three Cheers,” Ravnican Guildpact-Journal
(11 Tevnember, 9211 Z.C.)
31 CIZARM 10012 Z.C.
Kos was a virus. A six-foot, green, lightly armored, fully ambulatory virus armed with a peculiar pike. The blade was some kind of polished, sharpened, metallic bracket fungus, and the haft of the weapon appeared to be one long, narrow femur from some thin-boned giant. The virus was barefoot, but Kos couldn’t imagine those stumplike feet fitting into any traditional footwear he had seen. As Kos stared at his new stumps, he noticed the floor was also disturbingly organic. It glowed faintly from within, and hazy networks of something like blood vessels pulsed under a leathery surface.
The Kos virus stood alone in an empty hall, but he heard squishy footsteps not far away. On this floor, he couldn’t imagine footsteps that would not be squishy, so the peculiar sound gave no clue as to who might be approaching.
So I’m a virus, he thought at Obez.
Virusoid, said an alien voice that was as unlike Obez’s as Kos could imagine.
Of course, he was no longer with Obez. Or was he?
Yes. A virusoid, Obez’s familiar ring came in but obscured by something Kos could only describe as mental static.
I can hear you.
Of course you can, I’m your anchor.
Right. Why am I a virus?
Virusoid, the virusoid repeated.
I mean, why am I a virusoid?
Tough, very hard to eradicate, and liable to be ignored by the progenitor, Obez’s replied. It also had the right frequency. So long as there’s just a piece of your virusoid friend there still alive, you will also be intact. Not much in the way of a mind, so Vig uses them as muscle. You’ll be able to get into his main lab, find clues, and do your wojek thing.
Almost immediately the unfamiliar, alien virusoid body grew more familiar and comfortable. It appeared that occupying a weak-minded person—virus—being—made acclimation take less time. He wasn’t sure that was something he wanted, but since when did Agrus Kos get what he really wanted? Peace and quiet in a well-deserved retirement? Sorry Kos, need to hatch a few dragon eggs. The silent embrace of death? Shouldn’t have signed those papers, old man. A second chance? Forget that, you’re an avatar and will follow orders.
At least following orders was something he understood. And on the bright side, his memories, though not all happy ones and indeed occasionally quite unhappy, were his again.
If you’re quite through, Obez said.
Sorry, Kos replied. Got to thinking. So which way to the laboratory?
Follow your nose.
My what? Kos said.
Follow its nose, Obez said. The virusoid knows which way to go.
Virusoid, the virusoid interjected.
Virusoid, Kos agreed.
* * * * *
Teysa could hardly believe her ears.
“You’re calling the Senate to order?” she said incredulously.
“You object?” Augustin IV said, and dull amusement tinged his rumbling voice.
“A building just crashed into Prahv,” Teysa said.
“As—as guildmaster,” Feather said, seeming to have a little trouble getting her mouth around the word, “I must say, your honor, that this seems imprudent. Surely our first concern should be for the safety of the city. I would be surprised if you could even round up enough members to do much of anything. Do not two thirds of the upper and lower houses need to be present?”
“I am calling the Senate to order,” the Grand Arbiter repeated. “Under emergency powers granted to me by the Guildpact.”
“Well you can call whatever you wish to order,” Saint Kel said. “I am returning to Vitu Ghazi, if it’s still standing.”
“That is your right,” the Grand Arbiter said. “Do be careful.”
“Your honor,” Feather said, “I believe the Living Saint—”
“What you believe, Guildmaster,” the Grand Arbiter said, “is immaterial here. By Hesperia’s wings, I will call my Senate to order. We have business to discuss.”
“ ‘Your Senate’?” Teysa said. “You’re in a ruin, your honor, and with all due respect now is not the time. Feather—Guildmaster Pierakor is right. I implore you.”
“Without due process, we fall into chaos,” Augustin said distantly. He didn’t seem to speak to anyone in the room. “The senators, ministers, and others will join us.”
“Join us,” the soulsworn ghosts repeated, their voices soft and unearthly but ringing with agreement. “Join us. They will join us.”
“No thanks,” the loxodon said and stomped down the steps to follow the path the thief Capobar had taken. “Lost your mind,” the Living Saint grumbled under his breath as he went.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence when the loxodon had gone. Finally, Feather said, “Your honor, you must do what you must do. But I must as well.” The angel indicated the hulking wreck that occupied half of the ruined Senate chamber. “I intend to board the Parhelion and recover Razia’s body.”
Teysa was probably more surprised than Feather when she said, “And I’m going with her.” She wasn’t sure what motivated her to say that—the unease she now felt coming from the Grand Arbiter and his ghostly coterie or the intense curiosity she felt about what might be on board the Parhelion. The third possibility, that she was growing frightened and didn’t want to stand there alone without the angel at her side, was the most likely, she decided.
“Yes,” the angel said, and Teysa released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That will help.”
As advokist and angel found a path through the rubble to the only open landing deck that was visible—its surface tilted precariously to the side—the Grand Arbiter said nothing. Once the unlikely pair cleared the lip of the deck, he spoke, but not to them.
“All of you, come home,” he said. “The Senate is called to order. The senators shall attend, immediately.”
Feather helped Teysa up onto the deck, and with the help of her cane—still in her hand, against all odds—she stood leaning on the tilted surface.
It wasn’t until the sound of thunder erupted behind them and she saw a new mountain of rubble pile up outside the deck that it sunk in. Another section of the Senate dome had collapsed, whether by accident or design it was impossible to say.
Either way, she and Feather had just been sealed inside a ghost ship. Minus the ghosts, with any luck.
It didn’t take Kos long to learn that something stunk inside the greenhouse. The virusoid’s mind was simple, but it could take direction very well. And the virusoid had standing orders to “Stop intruders” and “Prepare for the next step.” Kos had more trouble retrieving any idea of what the “next step” was from the slow-witted creature’s consciousness.
No doubt I’ll find out, he told himself. There wasn’t anyone else in his mind worth telling.
The squis
hy steps had, it turned out, been just another virusoid. The encounter gave Kos a good chance to see what he looked like these days. If his own borrowed guard looked anything like this fellow, he had only the merest suggestion of a face—a mouth like a wide slit, no nose, bright patches of shinier green where the eyes should have been. No, they were true eyes, Kos realized, or I wouldn’t be able to see the other virusoid. Just simple ones.
Kos wasn’t sure if he should nod when the other virusoid walked by, but he did it anyway, automatically. This brought the second guard to a halt, for a moment, but Kos kept moving, hoping the creature’s basic thought processes would soon take over.
For a few seconds, he thought he was going to get away with it, but then the wet footsteps behind him stopped, then turned and started to follow, not hurrying, but definitely not getting any more distant.
I think I’m being followed, Kos thought.
Stay calm, Obez thought back. And try not to acknowledge anything unless someone’s giving you an order. Whatever you do, do not speak. The virusoid has the tools for it, but they are not given the ability to do so. Your nature would be revealed instantly.
Fine, no talking. What do I do when I get to the lab? Kos asked.
You’ll have to improvise, came the reply. If you see the vampire, I would say kill him. If you don’t, get back here as soon as the half hour is up.
How much time do I have?
You’ve only been there three minutes. So stop nodding at people like you’re a ’jek on the stretch, all right?
Right.
The steps that followed kept pace with him but did not draw any closer after the first few seconds. Kos wasn’t even sure the other guard was really following him after a while. It might just have been a coincidence. And if he meant to learn anything in here, he’d have to assume it was a coincidence. He was gratified to hear the steps peel off as they passed an asymmetrical, membranous door that resembled the entrance to a giant intestine—and smelled like one too.
Kos knew he was headed in the direction of the lab because his borrowed body told him so. It was a strange feeling, your consciousness not just in your head but distributed throughout your entire form. He could not be sure, but it felt like he didn’t even have a skeleton, let alone any of the usual organs like brain, heart, and so on. But the strange body knew right where it was going when he nudged it with a simple mental command: Find the progenitor. So Kos followed his feet.
