Ertai held him. It was none other than Ertai, onetime spell-caster aboard Weatherlight. He had been left behind in Rath. This was his revenge.

The eyes were all that remained of the old Ertai. He now had a mimetic spine. It had twisted his body, bulging every muscle, cinching his waist in a slave corset, turning flesh an angry red. From his elbows sprouted two new sets of arms. All four grasped Gerrard implacably.

Ertai's teleport spell took hold. The stern castle of Weatherlight disappeared, taking with it the bright skies over Urborg. In their place, a hot darkness formed. Gerrard blinked, wondering where they had gone. The brimstone air told him-Crovax's throne room. It was large, grandiose, and mad. Twisted columns rose up the curved walls, giving the impression that the room was melting. The vault dripped stalact.i.tes that held impaled bodies. Huge dogs with vampiric teeth trotted around the floor, cleaning up the steady drizzle of blood. Beyond them, watching in mute disinterest, stood il-Vec guards.

The centerpiece of the room was an enormous throne of black basalt, carved with a riot of tortured figures. Ensconced in their midst was the tormentor himself- Crovax.

Crovax was another lost member of Weatherlight's crew. In his defense of the ship, he had slain the only creature he had ever loved-his angel, Selenia.

That single desperate act had begun his transformation. Now Crovax was a monster. Talons clutched the throne. Huge forearms and biceps rose to a barrel body in steel. A wide head was crowded with shark's teeth. Even Crovax's eyes were changed, irredeemably mad.

"I knew you would return," Crovax said simply.

Gerrard fought against Ertai's arms, but he could not escape. "Of course you knew. You sent your lackey after me."

Crovax laughed, a sound like teeth on slate. "You have brought your own lackey, I see." He gestured to one side.

Gerrard glanced down, only then remembering Squee. The courageous goblin had hurled himself onto Ertai the moment before the teleport.

"Hiya, Crovax," the goblin said, stepping away from Ertai. "Nice teeth."

There was no humor in the evincar's reply. "Nice everything." He stood, a black cape sweeping out around him. He was stoutly muscled, seeming a spring wound overtight. "I have become the lord of all you see and of much else. I brought this overlay to Dominaria. You might even say, I have become the lord of all the world.

"What about you? Are you still flying your little ship, Gerrard? Are you still cooking grub for the crew, Squee? Or should I say grubs? I always wondered why you made a bug-eater into the ship's cook."

Gerrard ignored the taunting and smiled. "Didn't you receive our calling card?"

"Calling card?" Crovax asked, eyebrows lifted.

Gerrard dipped his head. "Wait for it."

A huge crashing sound came above. The Stronghold rocked. Bodies jiggled loose from stalact.i.tes and spattered on the floor. Cracks raced down one wall. A pillar tumbled in sections. Guards looked up in suspicion but feared to move from their posts.

For his part, Crovax stood rock solid in the midst of the a.s.sault. The rumbling stopped. Final shards of rock smacked the floor. Like a man checking for rain, Crovax spread an eloquent claw. "Oh ... that. Yes, I knew Predator would fail against Weatherlight-now that your ship bears Phyrexian arms and a woodland G.o.d. Still, Predator did what she was meant to do- she delivered Ertai to you, and Ertai delivered you to me."

Gerrard growled, "You're fixated on me, aren't you. Me and Weatherlight-"

"And Squee too," piped the goblin from where he had wandered. One of the fallen corpses had spilled hundreds of maggots, and the white worms were irresistible. Three moggs followed Squee's every move.

Ignoring the goblins, Crovax strode up before Gerrard. The evincar's breath reeked of unwholesome things.

"Fixation is too casual a word for what I feel for you. Obsession even falls short. Don't you see, we are bonded, Gerrard. We are brothers."

"What are you talking about?" Gerrard hissed. He turned his face away from the putrid breath. "Volrath was my brother."

"By adoption only. You and I have the same true parents- Urza and Yawgmoth." Crovax stared into Gerrard's eyes. "Urza always doted on you, Brother, and Yawgmoth on me, but they both made us. They are Daddy and Mummy." He smiled at his joke, but his gaze was lethally serious. "Ah, yes. You know it. You know of Urza's eugenics programs, how he bred and crossbred to create the Metathran. He did the same with human stock. He wanted the perfect hero to fly his perfect machine. You came from his experiments, and I came from Yawgmoth's-"

"Yes, and look how each of us turned out," Gerrard interrupted.

"About the same, as far as I can tell," Crovax said. "Both of us fought for our creators. Both of us sacrificed our one love-"

"I didn't sacrifice Hanna," hissed Gerrard.

"You did, Gerrard, and you know it. We each killed our beloved."

"Yeah," put in Squee around a mouthful of maggots. He'd made a feast of them and idly flipped a few stragglers into the mouths of the moggs. "But least Gerrard didn't stab her through the gut. Aieeee!" He pantomimed an eviscerating thrust then flapped his arms like Selenia in her death throes.

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 k.n.o.bby 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 stalact.i.tes? Feeding gore to vampire hounds? You think your ridiculous getup will bring her back? Crovax, you're in this h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l to bring her back. I've become the keeper of h.e.l.l'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 stalact.i.tes. 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 h.e.l.l, 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 a.s.semble k.n.o.bby 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 b.u.t.t a hundred gabillion times. He save your b.u.t.t 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 G.o.ds 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 encompa.s.s the stages of draconic life.

And the red dragon? asked 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 G.o.d but a whole pantheon. Everything- even an oath-is swept away when G.o.ds 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 sh.o.r.eline. Beyond rose forests drowned in salt.w.a.ter.

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 G.o.d.