by John Delaney
Dinne was incredibly focused during these active times, the Weaver King having strangled most of the thoughts and emotions that would hamper or distract an efficient killer. Dinne was furthermore lean, strong, and lethally expert with his sharp throwing spikes, both up close and at range. The Weaver King’s brutal tutelage also left Dinne with some control over his ephemeral shadow existence, allowing him to become solid or ghostlike nearly at will. With all these assets, Dinne had quickly established himself as an apex predator in a nation of dire and deadly monsters.
Leshrac, of course, had taken an interest in the silent warrior long before the Weaver King met his fate. The mad telepath had his uses, but the single greatest service the Weaver King performed was to create this ready-made murderer for Leshrac to employ.
As he watched Dinne sit in the gathering gloom, Leshrac reached out to inspect the potent new presence that had recently manifested on Urborg’s eastern shore. Leshrac smiled. This was the other, far more interesting acquaintance he wanted to make.
First things first, of course. Noncorporeal himself, Leshrac hovered over Dinne and the mound of bones. Carefully, almost politely, he called out to the Vec warrior with his mind.
Dinne, he said, I trust you’ve enjoyed your time off, but it’s time to go back to work. A new campaign awaits.
The armored head tilted up as Dinne scanned for signs of the speaker. His featureless, white eyes shone from within the shadowed recesses of his helmet’s visor.
Do you recognize my voice? No matter. I am your master’s master, the monarch to whom the Weaver King bowed. As you served him, now you serve me.
Dinne did not react at all, other than to lower his head and resume his former inert posture. Leshrac smiled. Though utterly subordinate to his master, Dinne had always maintained total silence and a sullen, grudging aspect to the way he followed orders. Once again Leshrac admired the Weaver King’s handiwork in creating a servant who despised the yoke but could never seek to escape it.
At the same time, Leshrac did not enjoy repeating himself. It was time to demonstrate to Dinne that a new hand held the warrior’s tether. Subtle as smoke, Leshrac quietly scanned what was left of the Vec’s mind until he found a suitable attention getter. Leshrac floated down and materialized, becoming solid and visible as he hovered inches above the swamp.
“I am Leshrac,” he said. The glowing coals began to slowly orbit his head. “I am your new master. Attend me.”
Dinne did not move, but the bones beneath him creaked as he shifted his weight. A gleefully savage grin split Leshrac’s features—the taciturn warrior was actually preparing to attack him.
With a thought the planeswalker froze Dinne in place. Two pairs of fog-blank orbs locked as Leshrac slowly raised his fingertips to his lips. He pressed them in and pulled them back with a soft smacking sound as he blew a dry, mocking kiss toward the cold-eyed warrior.
Dinne reacted violently, heaving and shuddering as though a scalding blade had skewered his vitals. He did not speak or cry out, but his convulsions broke apart the mound of bones and flattened it, spreading femurs, skulls, and rib cages into a ghastly carpet of rotting muscle and bleached, jagged white.
“This is who you were,” Leshrac said, “how the man you were would feel if he knew the creature you have become, if he had done all the things you have and somehow maintained his humanity. The pain is yours. The judgment is yours. I have merely allowed you to reclaim and comprehend it.”
Casual, almost indifferent, Leshrac strolled around the perimeter of Dinne’s scattered bone mound. He kept his hands crossed behind his back as his smoky hair trailed and twisted behind his head. “I don’t ask you to serve me for the sheer joy of it,” he said. “Do my bidding well and I will restore what was taken from you—without the pain and guilt. Day by day, hour by hour you will recover those parts of yourself that you don’t even realize you miss. You will thrill to the hunt again. You will know the exquisite uncertainty of joining combat against your equals and betters. You will be able to feel…joy, rage, satisfaction. You will be able to choose. You will be able to act.
“Freedom is always better than the alternative,” Leshrac said. He had completed a full circuit around Dinne and stood in front of the thrashing warrior once more. “Thousands of misguided fools give their lives in humankind’s foolish wars just for the illusion of freedom. What I offer you is genuine, whole, and without condition. I offer the freedom to do as you please, without regret, and I don’t need your whole life in exchange. I only need a few weeks of it.”
Leshrac’s crown stopped spinning, and Dinne’s agony ended. The Vec lay on his back among the bones, rigid and panting with his blank eyes fixed on the sky.
“Of course,” the planeswalker said, “this is no mean fee-for-services arrangement. You will serve me, Dinne, and serve me well. The only choice you have is whether to do so willingly and accept the reward I offer, or to remain as you are, a vicious dog that performs only when beaten, whose proper reward is another beating.”
Dinne stayed stretched out on the ground for another moment. His breathing grew quiet, and he drew his arms and legs in. Mechanically, without any signs of strain, he sat up and got to his feet.
Leshrac’s gray eyes shifted to crimson as the Vec warrior bowed before him. “Excellent.” Dinne’s acceptance of his situation was a foregone conclusion, but Leshrac was pleased to see how quickly the armored cutthroat recovered from the anguish inflicted on him. There was one final detail to underscore, however.
“Stand up straight,” Leshrac said. “And understand: I will summon you when it suits me. Be ready when I do. And warrior? When I say ‘summon you,’ I mean I will summon you.” He waved his hand, and Dinne vanished from where he stood, instantly reappearing one foot in front of the planeswalker in a crouched posture of submission. “You will not ignore me or delay your reply as you so often did with the Weaver King.”
Dinne looked up into Leshrac’s face but only so that his new master could see him nod in assent. Then the Vec lowered his head and waited.
“Rise, my friend,” Leshrac said. Dinne stood quickly, as crisp and disciplined as the soldier he had been. “I have other business, but I will return.”
The armored head bobbed. Dinne marched back to the center of the former bone pile and stood with his hands just over the throwing spikes in his belt.
“Excellent.”
Leshrac had long ago learned that grand schemes and master plans often go far astray of their original intent, so he preferred to keep his own gambits fluid and adaptable. In this case everything seemed to be falling into place exactly as he wanted it. Recruiting Dinne was especially delightful—it had been centuries since he’d had so much sport with someone else’s personal toy. He could already see a long future of amusements and diversions with the Vec marauder…provided Dinne survived.
Leshrac savored the sweet taste of deceit and the crushing despair yet to come. Freedom was indeed a powerful incentive, and to a slave, freedom withheld but ever visible was even more compelling. It would force Dinne to serve Leshrac faithfully and willingly for as long as the Vec raider lived, never quite earning or claiming his promised reward.
Careful to maintain the spells that hid his presence from planeswalkers, ex-planeswalkers, and anyone else who might interfere with his aims, Leshrac vanished into the thick, fetid fog that hung over Urborg.
* * *
—
Jhoira was not a trained orator like Teferi, but she felt she was getting the job done. Jeska glowered intently as the Ghitu spoke, and she presented a far more daunting audience than most loreweavers ever faced. Though dour, the planeswalker was clearly following every word, taking it in and digesting it behind her fixed expression.
The Pardic warrior only listened as Jhoira described sealing time rifts in Keld, Shiv, Urborg, and Tolaria. Jeska did not ask questions or make comments, silent amid the bubbling hiss of Urborg’s muck boiling away around her.
For all her experience in dea
ling with planeswalkers, Jhoira was confounded by Jeska. Such godlike beings were unique unto themselves, but to Jhoira, Jeska was singularly opaque, a cipher who displayed none of her kind’s familiar attitudes or expected behaviors. Worse, she didn’t act or even look like she was supposed to. Reputedly brass-colored like the rest of her tribe, the Pardic titan was almost as wan as Venser, her fiery red hair vivid against her pale skin. Since planeswalkers always appeared as they wanted to appear, Jhoira saw this as a kind of subconscious rejection of who she had been, but she could not yet gauge if this subtle change was good, bad, or indifferent.
She did know Jeska had led a traumatic life. She had been altered, fractured, and reassembled by powerful magic several times before she ever ascended to the godlike status of planeswalker. After that, Jeska stayed close to Karn, learning from him and following his strong example. Now she was on her own for the first time, a powerful engine without a rudder.
Even with Jeska’s past put aside, the planeswalker was rife with contrasts and self-contradictions. She was small in stature but bore a fierce and commanding presence. She was direct, forceful, and confident, but she also hesitated before using her transcendent powers or perceptions. For a godlike being, Jeska was remarkably uncomfortable in godlike action. Jhoira was not sure if it was the nerves of a novice that gave Jeska pause or if it was a justifiable real fear of losing control. Both options made Jhoira’s blood cool.
As she reached the end of her tale and returned to their present situation, Jhoira’s voice trailed awkwardly. There was no end, not really. None of them truly knew what happened to Karn after he sealed the Tolarian rift. For her own sake and for Jeska’s, Jhoira chose not to speculate.
“And then you found us here,” Jhoira said. She had been with Teferi long enough to know that every lecture needs a conclusion, or at least a call for questions from the audience. She shrugged. “Is that sufficient?”
Jeska’s brow furrowed, the cold muck of Urborg still sizzling beneath her. She glanced up at Jhoira and turned to Teferi. “It’s enough for me to understand,” she said. She stood up. “You’ve never had a clear course of action.”
Jhoira saw Venser glance nervously at Teferi. She was at a momentary loss herself, but she knew that sometimes saying something is much worse than saying nothing. Teferi, for example, was especially gifted at saying precisely the wrong thing. In the stifling silence, Jhoira prayed her friends would keep their heads.
“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” Jeska said. “But your plan so far has been to run back and forth across the globe. You keep running to where things are at their worst and hoping that you’ll find what you need when the time comes. Where I come from that’s not a plan. It’s a panic.”
“I strongly disagree.” Teferi flushed, and Jhoira stepped back to let him continue face-to-face with Jeska. This was an old habit of theirs, Teferi’s engaging while Jhoira held back and observed. They would have to tread carefully. The Pardic enigma was a potential threat as well as a potential ally, and both possibilities needed to be evaluated. She was too powerful to have as an enemy or lose as a friend.
Teferi continued. “We may not have a specific methodology, but we have successfully sealed half of the major rifts so far.”
Jeska tossed her head, impatient. “At enormous cost. And you said they are connected, right? So each one you fix changes the ones that remain.”
“Essentially true. But to be more specific—”
“Don’t bother.” Jeska continued to gesture, emphasizing her words. “How do you know they’re connected in the first place?”
“Because I am aware of the rifts,” Teferi said. “I’ve been connected ever since I donated my spark to seal the one at Shiv.”
“Well, there’s the missing piece of your half plan. You should have been using that awareness to guide your actions all along.”
“We have been.”
“No.” Jeska shook her head. “Your priorities keep shifting. You do things piecemeal. Every most-urgent rift you seal creates a new most-urgent rift.”
Teferi shook his head and smiled a strained smile. “I think you’ve misinterpreted—”
The red-haired planeswalker angrily ticked off points on her fingers. “Fixing the one in Shiv turned the ones in Keld and Urborg into doorways that brought monsters in from another place and time. Right? And sealing those two didn’t stop the time distortion, so you had to send Karn to Tolaria. You may have considered where you’re going next, but have you even considered what fixing it will do?”
“I have indeed,” Teferi said. “I’ve thought of nothing else for quite some time.”
“Good. So what’s your next step? What is your newest top priority?”
Jhoira tried to keep her own interest from showing, but she was watching Teferi as closely as she was Jeska. She didn’t relish seeing her old friend so defensive, but she also knew that sometimes that was the only way to get a meaningful reply out of him.
“None of the remaining fissures will be simple affairs,” Teferi said. “Zhalfir was the least of the major rifts, and with its Shivan counterpart sealed it is even less disruptive. The tricky part there will be the timing. There are entire nations that need to be phased back into this plane, and we have to seal that rift before those nations return.
“Yavimaya will be more challenging, but I expect to have help once we get there. The rifts in Madara and Otaria still defy my understanding,” he admitted. “Madara’s is a single sharp gash, very deep, perhaps infinitely so. Otaria’s is more diffuse, broad and shallow, without clearly defined edges. I would not presume upon you, Jeska, but given your history you are probably in the best position to assess and ultimately seal the Otarian rift.” He bowed. “If you so choose.”
“How very generous of you.” A dark flash of anger crossed Jeska’s face. “But the only choice I’m making right now is to not let you dictate my options.”
“I intended no offense.”
“I don’t care what you intended.”
“It’s just that Karn was uniquely qualified to seal the Tolarian rift, as I believe you are to seal—”
“We’re done talking about that,” Jeska tossed her head so that her heavy iron hair clip bounced between her shoulder blades. “Tell me this. Of the four remaining rifts, which is your next target?”
Jhoira spoke up before Teferi could answer. “Yavimaya.”
Jeska shook her head. “It should be Madara,” she said. “Or Otaria. Those are the ones you know the least about.”
“True,” Teferi said. His eyes lingered on Jhoira before he continued. “But I prefer to work my way up to the most difficult challenges. Also, as you said, each success changes this game for us. I want things to be as stable as possible when we try to crack the tougher nuts in Madara and Otaria.”
Jeska rolled her eyes. “Then we disagree.” She looked around at the three, perhaps searching for something to inspire her, but they only offered looks of concern and regret. She focused on Jhoira and said, “Have you tried anything other than feeding each rift a planeswalker?”
Jhoira flushed. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Urgency,” Jhoira said. “Circumstances at each of the rift phenomena—”
“Stop there. You see my concern? Even the words you use trouble me. ‘Phenomena?’ That’s a term for a classroom project or a lab experiment. You all need to stop being so fascinated by this situation and start treating it like what it is: a campaign. Campaigns are organized, focused. Campaigns require strategy as well as tactics.”
“You judge us too harshly.” Jhoira spoke quietly but forcefully. “Though not unfairly. So far we have been reactive rather than active, but that’s not for lack of trying. Sealing the rifts demands knowledge and power that we don’t always have, and so we’ve been obliged to make do. With your help we might be able to change that.”
Jeska shook her head. “I want to help. I’m just not convinced I should help you.”
“You already
have,” Jhoira said. “And you can do more even if you don’t come with us.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want action instead of reaction? Tell us what action you would take. You are a planeswalker, and your perceptions are unique, and it’s very likely you will see something we do not.”
Jhoira saw the same twinge of frustration cross Jeska’s face. She was sharp and confident while assessing their actions, but being deferred to made her visibly uncomfortable.
“What about him?” Jeska pointed at Venser. “His connection to the rift should be useful.”
“It should,” Jhoira said. She didn’t like the stern, appraising look in Jeska’s eye. “But the rifts don’t react to Venser like they did to Teferi or Freyalise. He has stood on the edge of several without discernable effect.”
“I have little magic,” Venser said. “I think that makes me inert as far as the rifts are concerned.”
Jeska’s entire body tensed, but then she sighed and her shoulders slumped. “I’m going now,” she said. She tinkered with the handle of her sword, and her voice grew melancholy. “I really do hate it here. The smell is getting to me.”
Jhoira said, “Where will you go?”
“I’m still deciding.”
Teferi spoke up. “We need your help.”
Jeska’s fiery red brows arched. “I’m still deciding about you too.”
“Jeska,” Jhoira said, “whether you join us or not, whether you help or not, please understand: The rifts are incredibly volatile. Planeswalkers stir them up just by being nearby. For you, even looking at them up close could be dangerous.”
