by Cory Herndon
And if not, the Living Saint would make someone pay—these monsters, the Dimir, the Simic, someone.
If the Conclave chose to be complacent, it was time to take bolder action. The wolf, at least, would support the decision, and the wolf had great influence on the relatively young collective.
All Selesnyans that accepted the song heard it for the rest of their lives. Most of the common members of the church were not able to play upon its strings and find specific people but just heard the song and knew they were a part. On the opposite end of that spectrum were the members of the Conclave, who could not only hear the song but find each and every distinct note and conduct the spiritual chorus like a bandleader. It was a method of spiritual healing and, for the Selesnya Conclave, a method of leadership that made the Conclave collective guildmasters.
As the name implied, the Living Saint was the most spiritually mature member of the Selesnya Conclave, the one who generally roved the farthest from Vitu Ghazi and represented their collective public face, the most independent yet also the most in tune with the song.
And so it was that although Saint Kel told himself he was calmly returning home to form a plan, his quite broken mind—a mind that had finally fractured to the chorus of snapping strings that ripped the song to pieces—plotted a way to do it that was just as mad as the devastated streets through which he stomped.
The titans stood lifeless. The song screamed. Wojeks and ledev died left and right, along with civilians. The city was falling in on itself and the song shrieked with thousands of tiny agonies. He had failed them too. So Saint Kel was going to make things right.
It was time for Selesnyan justice to take back what the others couldn’t.
“Virusoid,” Kos rasped as stupidly as he could manage.
“I think not,” Vig said, his weird pipe organ voice echoing in the greenhouse’s muggy confines with irritation. Then he called over his shoulder toward a corridor that led out to another section of the greenhouse. “Svogthir, come here. I think you might enjoy this.”
The wojek cursed his luck and the fact that he had not fully inspected every corner of the lab before he was discovered.
This god-zombie looked nothing like the old one but was still intimately familiar to Kos. The reanimated corpse of the dead Golgari priestess Savra shuffled into the lab to stand at Vig’s side. Her twisted neck and lopsided head could not hide the wicked smile that cut across her sagging features. Nor could a state of suspended decomposition hide the fact that Savra’s eyes blazed with supernatural energy. But when she spoke, it was not with the Devkarin priestess’s voice, a sound that was burned into Kos’s memory. No, this voice was much older, masculine, and sounded as if it emerged from the bowels of death itself.
“What is it, Vig?” the god-zombie rumbled. “I was enjoying a snack.” She—he—tore a thumb off of a bluish severed hand, swallowed it, and tossed the rest aside.
“We have a visitor,” Momir Vig said, “an Azorius servant.”
“Really?” the god-zombie said and sniffed the air. “Doesn’t smell Azorius. Smells like Boros to me. A wojek if I don’t miss my guess.” The Savra-thing chuckled. “A familiar wojek. By the depths, I do believe that this Azorius servant is that same wojek who ruined the priestess’s plan so long ago. His spirit is quite familiar. Kos, I think the name was. How … delicious.”
“Interesting,” Vig agreed as if the two were discussing the weather. “Perhaps we can learn more. Udom, tear off his arm.”
Kos released a very unvirusoidlike scream through his wide virusoid mouth, but it caught in his throat. The virusoid’s nervous system appeared to shut down once the simple message of the pain—“Hey, you just lost an arm here”—had been sent. It was efficient and alien, but Kos realized his little yelp had only made the progenitor more determined.
Obez, there’s nothing here, he thought. I’m caught. And I’m recognized, on top of that. The zombie priestess is still here, and I think she’s a—but never mind that. How long before I can come back?
He heard no response.
“Why are you here?” the Simic progenitor repeated. “You are obviously an Azorius agent, Mr. Kos. Augustin can’t keep his mind on his own business. But this is just clumsy. Answer me, please.”
“Virusoid?” Kos said.
His plan had fallen apart the moment he’d spoken. There was no Szadek here, just this cold, analytical creature and a corpse possessed by (if his guess was correct) one of the most powerful necromancers Ravnica had ever seen, the god-zombie Svogthir, whose head had last been seen atop Savra’s staff. Turnabout revenge was grisly in the reclamation guild.
He considered his options. Obez seemed to have abandoned him, but the lawmage had said Kos might be able to get back to the anchor on his own. If his half hour had passed. If his ghost could find the lawmage again. And if Svogthir didn’t stop him somehow. Kos had heard plenty about Golgari necromancy and how its practitioners used the ghosts of the dead to reanimate their own corpses. He certainly didn’t appear to be any closer to finding Szadek. And what if Vig then just killed him outright? Would he die again? End up in that ghost city, Agyrem?
“A leg I think this time, Udom,” the progenitor said. “Azorius spy, do not be under the mistaken impression I am torturing you.” In fact, Kos only felt a twinge this time as the second limb came off. “I am dismantling you. You can stay in there as long as you wish. Eventually, you will be in pieces. Tell me why you are here.”
“I would do as he says,” the Golgari god-zombie rumbled, and it dawned on Kos that the two were playing one of the oldest interrogation games in existence: good ’jek/bad ’jek.
Obez, for Krokt’s sake, talk to me.
Silence. He tried to force himself out of the virusoid’s body by imagining it staying in place while he flew free. One, two, three. Push.
Nothing. “Another leg,” Vig said, and a few seconds later a tear, a twinge, and cool air where it shouldn’t have been told Kos that it was done.
“Krokt,” Kos swore.
“What was that?” Vig said.
“I said ‘Krokt,’ ” Kos said, “as in ‘Krokt Almighty, that hurt.’ All right, you got me. I’m an Azorius spy. I—we know everything.” The combination of his own voice and the strange and simple virusoid mouth made it sound like “Ee no e’ry’ing,” but Vig seemed to have no trouble understanding.
“I knew it!” Vig said, and he actually sounded … happy? Less irritated, at least. “So you have come to stop me, eh?”
“What?” Kos managed.
“You’ve uncovered my plans. You have learned why I wanted dragon cerebral fluid,” Vig said, the smile only slightly curling downward, but it did show concern. The god-zombie looked strangely at the progenitor when the augmented elf said ‘dragon cerebral fluid,’ but Kos didn’t understand the look. Then Vig’s smile turned back up, and the progenitor said, “Aha! I can see by your expression that I have surprised you. Your Azorius masters didn’t know it was dragon cerebral fluid, did they?”
“No,” Kos said with complete honesty. Then, he added some falsehood icing. “We knew it was some kind of cerebral fluid, but we had no idea it was dragon.” Keep the suspect talking.
“So you have uncovered Project Kraj,” Momir Vig said but didn’t seem particularly disappointed. “Dragon cerebral fluid is so hard to come by now that the dragons have been hunted nearly to extinction, and so long did I work to keep the spread of cytoplasts from becoming too obvious. Months and months of slow refinement of the process, awaiting the delivery of that precious substance, the one that courses through this neuroboretum cluster even as we speak, giving life, granting true consciousness, to my most magnificent creation. The creation that will show the puny normals of this city who their true master is.” As if to emphasize the point, Vig freed himself from the harness and stepped toward Kos, pacing as he spoke. “With the dragon cerebral fluid imbuing Project Kraj, every cytoplast on this world will return to the nest, crippling thousands and augmenting Kra
j. Kraj and its master shall be invincible!”
“I agree, you’ve thought of everything,” Kos lied as fast as he could. “But you must admit it’s dangerous to bring the Dimir into this, what with everything that happened at the Decamillennial and all.”
“Dimir?” Vig said, and all at once burst into laughter. “Oh yes. The Dimir. You Azorius are just obsessed with the Dimir, aren’t you? An unproven, impossible ‘other’ to oppose their laws. The only laws that are unopposable are the laws of nature, avatar.”
Time to go for broke. “We know he was here, just yesterday, when you accepted the delivery. Like I said, risky and dangerous. You can’t trust him.”
“Of course,” the Simic said. “The Dimir. You’ve said too much, my foolish spy. Tell your master he’ll have to try harder next time. If he survives. Throw him out, Udom. Unless you have any objection, Svogthir?”
“None at all,” the god-zombie said through Savra’s withered lips. “Good bye, Kos. It was amusing to see you one last time.”
“Wait!” Kos said. “He’ll betray you too. It’s what he does. Ask the god-zombie there how much you can trust Szadek.” He did the best he could to struggle in the grip of the Simic’s augmented henchmen, without much luck, as they hauled him up a spiral ramp to the large membrane-door Kos had seen open to admit the swarm earlier. Cool air rushed into the greenhouse against his bare, virusoid back. “Just tell me where he went and you can do whatever you want with the cytoplasts! We didn’t even know about the cytoplasts! I’m just supposed to find this damned vampire and kill him!”
“Just tell you where he went?” Vig snarled. “Szadek? You mean that Augustin did not—” The progenitor’s mirth overcame him, and he broke into terrifying alien laughter. He may have still been an elf on the outside, but whatever was inside made some very unusual sounds.
“Please,” Kos said, playing his last card. “You’re a guildmaster. The Guildpact is dying. Can’t you help me save it?”
“Oh yes,” the god-zombie hissed. “We must protect the Guildpact, Vig. Why, imagine the chaos that might result. You are a fool, Kos. An old, dead fool.”
“But noble,” the Simic replied with venom, “In his way. In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Kos, I don’t give two zibs for the Guildpact. It’s high time the Simic Combine ruled this world as it should be ruled.”
“Whenever that may take place,” Svogthir said, warning lacing his voice.
“Of course,” Vig said, nodding, but it was clear to Kos these two “allies” were both up to something that didn’t involve the survival of the other.
The seed of a really bad idea took root in Kos’s mind. If his anchor wasn’t available, he would have to jump somewhere. …
“So, no then?” Kos said. Obez, he tried one last time. Obez, if you’re ever going to respond …
“Toss him,” Vig said.
Kos closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could. Again he pictured himself stepping out of this body, leaping through the humid air, and landing. …
To the wojek’s surprise, it worked. He opened a new albeit long-dead set of eyes and watched with detached fascination as Udom the virusoid tossed Kos’s former host through the hatch.
Kos! came Obez’s inner voice at last. Are you—
I’m fine, Kos thought. Isn’t that right, Svogthir?
This is a revolting development, the god-zombie thought. You will not last long in here, wojek.
Maybe not, Kos thought, but as long as I am here, let’s talk about your deal with Momir Vig.
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Jarad’s eyes were closed, but he saw much more than two eyes could ever have shown him. He split his attention between two groups of insects, the greenbite cloud and a few dozen assorted beetles, as they plumbed the depths of Rix Maadi. Through their tiny minds he sought Izolda.
He had stretched the truth with Fonn, again. And Jarad was sorry he had to do it. But if he had told her what his bugs had shown him and that he planned to deal with the blood witch personally, she might have stayed behind. The ledev scouts and Myc needed to get home, and he had complete faith that Fonn could save the boy, if only Jarad could figure out how the witch had latched his son to the demon in the first place.
Jarad had seen her batted aside by the demon, but then she disappeared. A being that was the Rakdos guildmaster in everything but name, running the day-to-day operations of the cult, would not give up so easily. Izolda marched down the tunnel toward him, just around the corner. The Rakdos cultists behind him were wrapping up with their fallen comrades by ripping their bodies to shreds. The cultists consumed them while they still screamed, screams that didn’t last long and soon died out entirely. Soon, the atonal musical chant kicked up again, and the mob set out toward the last of their prey, Jarad.
They didn’t move fast. Most had twisted legs that had been broken at least once and left to heal without being set. They also fought among themselves for position, each wanting to be the first to sample fresh Devkarin. Jarad could afford to keep them to his back for a few moments. He had to. The two groups of insects let him triangulate Izolda’s location. She would soon round the corner and be on top of him.
Jarad cut himself off from the insects as the blood witch rounded the corner and the Golgari guildmaster could see her with his own two eyes. She had not brought an army, but she was not alone. Trailing behind the blood witch were two thugs, shuffling and snapping their bony knuckles against the stones. The Rakdos witch was a ghostly, white shape robed in black, backlit by torches her simian zombie thugs carried. A flash of flame illuminated Izolda’s white-eyed face when the lackeys took near-simultaneous swings at each other.
It was the smallest of the four—a girl three or four years older than Myc from the look of it, but obscured by a ragged cloak and hood—who made even Jarad’s blood run cold. Hair the color of moldy straw hung wet and matted from the figure’s skull and both her eyes and lips were crudely sewn shut. The wounds the crude black thread left were fresh, but did not bleed. The girl was dead but hadn’t been for long. Dead or not, the blood witch had not allowed her to rest.
Jarad did not look forward to telling Fonn what had happened to her missing scout. But he planned to soften the blow with swift revenge on the scout’s tormentor.
“Guildmaster,” Izolda hissed, drawing out the “s” in “guildmaster” long enough to sound like one of the gorgon sisters, “how nice of you to stay behind.”
“You tried to kill my son,” Jarad said. “Nice is not what I had in mind.” He drew his kindjal even as he heard the mob of cultists closing in. He risked opening a line to a few beetles, just to watch his back.
“Yes, your son,” Izolda said. “I have already spoken of him with his old friend. I enjoyed the sound of her voice so much—her terrified wailing was especially savory, you only had to look at her to set her going—that I wanted to be the last one to hear it. She is now mine. You child will be mine. I would say it’s nothing personal, Guildmaster, but it really is.”
Jarad was running out of time. He had to try something. He had far too few greenbites at hand to do anything more than annoy the blood witch, and the beetles on hand were a relatively harmless variety that would not be much help either. So he stalled. At the very least, if Izolda was preoccupied with him, she would not be above, threatening his son’s or Fonn’s life.
“I’m sure I did something to you,” Jarad said, “but I can’t for the life of me imagine what.”
“Oh, it’s not at all what you did. It’s what you are,” Izolda said. “Do you have any idea how long it
has been since a guildmaster had offspring?”
Three of the beetles died as the cultists walked over the Devkarin’s line of no return.
Jarad sent in the greenbites. The small swarm descended on the mob, which had gotten smaller as more and more cultists turned on each other to engage in sacramental and deadly violence. At first the mob bat at the glittering bugs, irritated. Then there were slaps and yelps as the greenbites settled onto any exposed patch of skin or, if it was available, open wounds. Upon landing, the greenbites bit. The bites carried a mild poison that would cause a small patch of skin to rot away within a day, sometimes two. More importantly, this particular swarm carried a necrobiotic infection Jarad had discovered in the deep canyon cliffsides. Greenbite rot consumed the victim from the inside out, starting in the bloodstream and quickly moving on to organs and bone. Upon the victim’s inevitable death, the deceased returned as semi-intelligent deadwalkers. Here, it was especially useful to Jarad, since the disease also affected intelligent zombies, and there were a few within the cultist mob. Zombies infected with the rot literally fell apart. In the living, the disease killed without fail within two hours. Zombies rotted within minutes.
One by one, the cultists slapped and snarled as the bugs set upon them. The thugs, too. Jarad kept them from the girl, though he had little hope of her recovery. The zombies would be down soon, but the rest would be a threat for half an hour or so, when the symptoms kicked in hard. While the body was still living, the spread of undead bone and tissue caused excruciating pain. Whatever the ultimate result, the greenbites had for now given him the only other thing he’d asked for—a sudden diversion.
