NEMESIS 


MASQUERADE CYCLE • BOOK II 

Paul B. Thompson 

®

Paul B.Thompson 

OVERTURE 


LENS 

The ever-gray sky of Rath darkened from pearl to slate 
before the agent moved. He'd spent a day and a night in his 
hiding place, molded into a crevice between two large 
trees. His hooded shroud took on the color and texture of 
bark, and the special unguent on his hands and face had 
the same mimetic properties. While he was hidden, elves of 
the village had passed within arm's length of him. He could 
have struck them down with impunity, but such were not 
his orders. He had a specific target, and his new masters did 
not tolerate deviation. As shadows lengthened in the 
Skyshroud Forest, the agent stirred his stiff, aching limbs. 
His legs burned with the sensation of a thousand needles 
pricking his skin, but with his altered senses he was able to 
block out the discomfort, just as he disregarded any feelings 
of hunger, fear, or remorse. 

Villagers went about their evening tasks. Greenish light 
from their foxfire lamps filtered down, and for a moment 
the agent froze, startled by his own faint shadow on the 
black water beneath the trees. He craned his hooded head 
and saw the tree dwellers pass unconcernedly over him, 
scaling their vine ladders and bridges with practiced ease. 

The large tree house in the center of the settlement was 
his target. The village had been denuded of warriors by the 
recent attack on the Stronghold, but a lone elderly elf in 

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Nemesis 

snakeskin armor leaned against the doorway of the target's 
home. 

Don't underestimate him, his master's voice whispered 
inside his head. What strength elves lose in age, they make up 
for in skill. 

He gave the old guard wide berth, circling under the 
plank porch to the far side of the tree. The enormous 
swamp elm, a living pillar twenty feet wide, ran straight 
through the center of the house. On the trunks of their tree 
houses the elves cultivated a special type of gray-green 
lichen. It looked harmless, but when pressed, it exuded an 
oil that made the tree too slippery to climb. Under ordinary 
circumstances it was meant to keep out hostile merfolk and 
large predatory snakes. 

Beneath his chameleon shroud, the agent wore two 
pairs of black cloth pads. One set had finger loops for his 
hands, the other, large bands to fit around his knees. The 
pads exuded a sticky substance developed in the evincar's 
own laboratory. His master assured him it would defeat the 
elves' lichen. 

He sprang onto the trunk and stuck there like a wasp 
on a smear of honey. He raised his right hand and knee and 
heaved them upward. The pads adhered to the tree without 
a wobble. Soon his head was brushing the underside of the 
porch. The climbing pads worked just as well on smooth 
boards, and in moments he was on the porch. 

The house was still—as it should be, for its master was 
away fighting the evincar. The target's shuttered window 
betrayed a hint of foxfire within. Was she still awake? 

He inserted a finger between the shutter slats. The 
kidney-shaped room beyond was hewn from the living tree. 
There was a bed of boughs at the far end of the room, away 
from the only door. The target lay in the bed covered by a 

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Paul B.Thompson 

dappled green animal skin. By the door, a carved image of 
an angel held an open foxfire lamp. 

The shutters were locked with a simple hook, which 
easily yielded to his knife blade. They swung out, and he 
lifted a lean leg over the sill. The figure in bed never 
stirred. Once in the room, he closed the shutters and went 
to the door. It was barred with a carved wooden beam as 
thick as his arm. Such primitive safety measures were 
useless against an agent of the evincar. He crept to the bed, 
removing the sticky pads from his hands as he went. The 
agent knelt beside the bed and studied the face of his 
target. She was the one, all right. How many days had he 
looked into her eyes and felt love? How many days did it 
take the evincar's minions to condition such feelings out of 
him? 

With a sudden motion, he yanked his knife from its 
sheath. It wavered for a moment in the lamplight as the 
deepest vestiges of his old self struggled with his new 
loyalties. He could not... resist. The blade slid quietly into 
the nest of soft boughs. He took out the vial provided by 
the overlords and used the knife tip to pierce the wax seal 
on the stopper. 

One drop is sufficient. 

He was supposed to pour a single drop in the eye or on 
the lips, but he saw something that made him change his 
method. A feather headdress hung from a peg above the 
target's bed. Silently, he plucked a single blue feather from 
the stylish array. Not so long ago he'd worn feathers like 
this. 

He dipped the feather into the vial and gently pulled it 
out. Clear liquid clung to the tip. It smelled fresh, like a 
field of newly mown grass. 

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Nemesis 

He brought the feather to the sleeping girl's mouth. For 
a reason no one will ever know, she sensed his nearness 
and awoke just as the elixir touched her lips. 

Her eyes opened wide. The agent dropped the vial and 
feather and reached for his knife. 

She must not scream. 

No sound came from her slightly parted lips. She was 
dead. At the exact moment the deadly potion touched her 
livid lips, her life was extinguished. Her eyes, still soft with 
sleep, stared sightlessly at her killer. Without a shudder, he 
closed them. 

His mission was only half done. He quickly set about 
finding something to hide the body in. An emerald snake 
hide would give him away in the dark, so he cast about for 
a more suitable wrap. He found a brown homespun blanket, 
trade goods from some Dal weaver, and flung aside the 
animal skin. The girl's linen shift might rustle, so he 
stripped it off. In death, her naked body resembled one of 
the evincar's statues, her pale skin translucent in the failing 
foxfire. The agent swallowed three times, trying to dislodge 
a strange lump in his throat. 

Noise outside—shouts and the clamor of a crowd. 
Startled, he flung the blanket over the body. A gentle 
knock on the door thundered through the small room. 

"Avila? Are you awake?" said a female voice. "Did you 
hear the cries? Your father returns! He'll be here shortly!" 

The agent hurried to the window. His knife and the 
open vial of death elixir were still in the girl's bed. There 
was no time to retrieve them; his arms were full. 

"Avila? Avila, are you all right?" 

When no one answered, the woman's tread could be 
heard rapidly retreating. She called, "Firanu! Firanu, come 
quickly! Something's amiss with Avila!" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

No time for stealth now. He burst through the shutters 
onto the porch. He ran toward the high bridge platform. 
Pursuers would expect him to descend to a boat, not climb 
higher in the trees. As he rounded the curve of the great 
tree, he came face to face with the elderly guard, no doubt 
Firanu. He was armed with a barbed snake-fang spear. 

"Stand where you are, or I'll kill you," the old elf said. 
The agent stopped so suddenly that the blanket around his 
prize slipped down, revealing his burden's lolling head. 

"Avila!" 

The agent leaped and kicked the spear from Firanu's 
hand. Before the elderly elf could go for his knife, the agent 
lowered his head and butted him squarely in the chest. The 
steel skullcap he wore under his hood connected with 
Firanu's breastbone. With a groan, the old retainer pitched 
backward over the porch rail. 

The sound of the crowd was getting louder. A woman 
appeared, a matronly elf with a strong family resemblance 
to the dead girl. She saw the shadowy agent, his face paint 
adjusted to the gray night. 

She screamed, "Kidnap, kidnap! My brother's child is 
taken!" 

She offered no resistance as he rushed by on his way to 
the bridge. He pounded up carved steps three and four at a 
time. On either side he could see the glow of lamps 
gathering. He ran to a swinging bridge of planks and vines. 
Behind him, someone shouted for help. 

Elves, some armed, gathered at both ends of the bridge. 
One pointed at him and cried out. The agent spared them 
a glance and began to run in earnest. 

Nothing matters but the completion of your mission. Not 
your life, nor the life of any who oppose you. 

A spear-wielding elf appeared at the near end of the 
bridge. The agent dropped his prize and sprang at his new 

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Nemesis 

foe. Before the elf could raise his weapon, the wraithlike 
agent was on him, bearing him down to the plank floor of 
the bridge. They grappled, and the agent used his steelclad 
head to bludgeon his enemy into submission. Blood 
streamed down the agent's face, mixing with the mimetic 
ointment. He rolled the dead elf's body off the bridge and 
let it splash in the dark waters below. He picked up the 
fallen warrior's spear. 

More torch-bearing elves filled the landings at both 
ends of the bridge. They were carrying whatever weapons 
came to hand—snake-fang maces, flails, tree-limb 
knobkerries—but luckily no bows. He slung the blanket-
wrapped body over his shoulder. Elves filed onto the bridge. 

"There he is!" 

"What is it? A demon?" 

"No demon—see, it bleeds!" 

That brought forth calls for more of the agent's blood. 
He calmly positioned himself on the bridge and raised his 
captured spear. A thrown mace hurtled past him. He faced 
his nearest pursuers and bared his teeth in a snarl. 
Torchlight gleamed off his steel fangs. A refinement, his 
masters called it, pulling his natural teeth and giving him 
these metal spikes. Now the angry elves hesitated, 
transfixed by the weird apparition between them. 

The spear was useless, so he flung it at his pursuers. He 
grabbed one of the bridge's supporting vines and clamped 
down on it with his metal teeth. The cable parted with a 
crack. The left side of the bridge sagged. Elves began to 
scramble back to the platforms. The agent turned and just 
as efficiently bit through another cable. 

The broken bridge fell. He'd judged his place perfectly. 
His portion of the bridge was just long enough to drag the 
surface of the water and stop before slamming into a tree 
trunk. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Clasping his burden, the agent plunged into the murky 
water. His shroud and body paint took on the deep color of 
night, and he was soon lost in darkness. 

He knew it wasn't over. The elves were master hunters 
and trackers. By daylight they would be after him in force, 
and his escape portal was far enough away that day would 
be well underway by the time he reached it. 

Failure is not an option. You will complete your mission 
whatever the cost. 

Clasping the dead girl's waist, he swam faster. 

* * * * * 

Light dispels darkness—a fundamental principle, a law 
of nature, on every known world. But on the plane of 
Phyrexia, nature does not exist. On Phyrexia, light serves 
the dark, it does not rule it. 

The Fourth Level of this unnatural plane was the realm 
of great furnaces. Here were forged many of the 
components of Phyrexia's living machines. Around the 
clock (for there is no night or day), gangs of slave gremlins 
fed the scrap of redundant mechanisms into the mile-high 
furnaces. Molten metal was drawn off, alloyed and 
tempered in greater automatic rolling mills, and the 
resulting mixtures poured, pressed, or stamped into parts for 
new Phyrexian machines. If the gremlins faltered, they too 
were recycled, their ranks constantly renewed with more 
expendable laborers. 

Strange, then, was the mission of the gremlin Dabir. A 
minor gremlin of trifling wits, he was best known for his 
reliability and his utter subservience to his masters. His 
immediate overseer, the vat priest Paax, had given him an 
unusual task. Dabir stood for hours before a shimmering 

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Nemesis 

portal to another plane, impatiently awaiting the arrival of 

... what was it again he was waiting for? 

"A sample," Paax said. 

"What sample?" 

The hulking Paax extended an oiled, acid-etched arm 
until his black fingers were half an inch from Dabir's 
beaked nose. A blue spark arced from the demon's hand, 
and the gremlin collapsed on the greasy metal floor of the 
Fourth Sphere in agony. 

"Ask not the will of your betters," said Paax, his voice 
punctuated by tinny clicks. He was bothered by a sticky 
breathing regulator. "Only obey." 

Dabir picked himself up, fingering his throbbing nose. 
The smell of scorched flesh made even his feculent 
stomach churn. 

"Dabir always obey great, wise Paax," he whined. 

Paax swiveled his slender undercarriage and started 
away on four delicate, articulated legs. His rear mouth 
warned, "Be at the portal at the appointed time. Receive 
the sample, and deliver it to Monitor 8391 at Processing 
Mill 44. You know the penalty if you fail." 

The vat priest maneuvered his bulky upper body around 
a steaming flue and was soon lost in the maze of heat 
exchangers and lubricant chases. 

And so Dabir waited by the open portal—a glowing 
pane twelve inches square—for the sample. He could see 
through the dimensional doorway glimpses of a world far 
removed from the inferno he'd always known. The surface 
of that distant place was soil and stone, not oily metal, and 
living plants waved in the wind. If the gremlin got too 
close, the portal would shimmer, like the air near the 
mouths of the great furnaces. Fearful of damaging the 
ethereal portal, Dabir kept his distance. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

He waited through an entire shift of work, rubbing his 
haunches when they numbed from sitting so long. He 
turned his back on the portal and laced his taloned fingers 
through his yellow-nailed toes, bored as only a vapid 
gremlin can be bored. 

Suddenly there was a flash of blue light behind him. He 
spun and saw the portal had enlarged itself four times. A 
hooded figure was running across a plain of tall, dry grass 
toward the portal, pursued by a dozen flesh beings. Their 
mouths worked, but Dabir could not make out what they 
were saying. Sound did not traverse the portal. 

Several of the tall beings, clad in painted hides and 
feathers, nocked arrows and loosed them at the fleeing 
figure. Three arrows struck and bounced off. A fourth 
found a chink in the agent's armor and buried half its 
length in his back. He staggered, and for the first time 
Dabir recognized the hooded figure bore a weighty bundle 
over his left shoulder. 

"Hurry! Come!" Dabir shouted uselessly. He cared 
nothing about the wounded agent, fearing instead his own 
punishment if the agent failed to reach the portal. More 
arrows flashed. A second broadhead found its mark, and 
the shrouded figure fell, pitching his burden to the ground. 

Dabir wet himself in terror. He thrust his long arms into 
the vibrant portal. A teasing sensation, not unpleasant, 
played over his oily skin. The precious sample was just 
beyond his grasping claws. Galvanized by visions of his own 
lengthy and painful death, Dabir shoved his head through 
the dimensional window. 

He felt cool air, free of oil or soot. Then came the 
shouts of the hunters. An indefinite light from above 
dazzled the gremlin's eyes. He reached out for the cloth-
wrapped bundle. His movements seemed slow, as if he were 
swimming through thick oil instead of fresh, open air. 

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Nemesis 

His fingers felt oddly numb, and the sensation was 
spreading up his arms. Desperately, the gremlin snagged the 
edge of the wrapping. With a tremendous heave of his long 
legs, Dabir pulled himself and the bundle back through the 
portal. Both landed with a thump on the gritty metal plates 
of the Fourth Sphere. 

The portal began to dwindle. The wounded agent raised 
a hand, either in a final plea or in final salute. Dabir 
watched six tall beings surround the fallen figure. They had 
spears. Shafts rose and fell in pitiless repetition as the 
portal shrank to a few inches, then winked out. 

Dabir bobbed up on his knees. He sat in the shadows 
cast by the eternal glare of the furnaces, biting his own 
hands to restore feeling to them. His normally glossy black 
skin had turned ash gray on those parts of his body he'd 
stuck through the portal. The numbness slowly faded, but 
his color did not return. 

A whiff of something delectable teased his formidable 
nose. Inserting it in a hole in the tattered blanket, he 
sniffed. The ugly white thing inside smelled like the air on 
the other side of the portal. No oil, no soot, no tang of acid 
aerosols ... he replaced his nose with his tongue and gave 
the sample a quick lick. Flesh, newly dead and still sweet. 
The Phyrexian agent had died to deliver a corpse. 

Dabir delivered the body to Monitor 8391 as ordered 
and departed to other tasks. Monitor 8391 ran a laboratory 
for the analysis of organic specimens. The Monitor put the 
slender corpse on his examining table. A chemical spray 
removed the creature's hair. The Phyrexian precisely 
measured every critical dimension of the body with 
calipers, then carefully laid a square of flowsheet over the 
corpse's head. At the Monitor's command, the tiny 
machines in the flowsheet crawled over the cold skin, 

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Paul B.Thompson 

conforming themselves to every contour. When they were 
done, he had a perfect mold of the dead girl's face. 

Monitor 8391 passed on the corpse to the Necrometric 
Unit 725 for further processing. Body fluids were drained. 
The blood was contaminated by poison and therefore 
useless. A substitute would have to be used. The flesh was 
carefully stripped off and sent to culture vats so the corpse's 
tissues could be preserved for eventual reuse. The sterilized, 
polished bones were sent back to the Monitor, who applied 
his meticulous skills to them once more, measuring them to 
the finest calibration of his instruments. These figures were 
forwarded to the engine controlling the mighty apparatus 
of Processing Mill 44. 

The rollers and stamping presses of the factory began to 
churn. Bars of duralumin and steel were fed into the 
machinery, which formed a hard, metal skeleton identical 
to the one measured by the Monitor. Each bone was 
copied, right down to the individual metacarpals of the 
hands and phalanges of the feet. The girl had once broken 
her right arm, and the calcified break was mirrored in the 
new duralumin humerus. 

Jointed and joined, the sparkling new skeleton was 
sealed in a sterile copper shell to shield it from the ever-
present oil rain of the Fourth Sphere. Gremlins loaded the 
shell into a pneumatic tube and sent it whistling away to 
the culture vats. Organs and tissues were re-fitted to the 
gleaming bones, along with certain mechanical 
improvements added by Phyrexian engineers. The crude 
and wasteful processes of eating and sleeping were 
eliminated by filling the body's veins with Phyrexian 
glistening oil in lieu of ordinary blood. The new body 
would have six times the speed and strength of the purely 
organic creature it was based on. It would be resistant to 
heat and cold, and its senses would surpass those of any elf 

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Nemesis 

or human. As a final touch, the mold made by Monitor 
8391 was used to restore the old face to the new creation. 

The lifeless body was placed in another copper capsule 
and routed downward to the Sixth Sphere, where it would 
await the attention of the Inner Circle member, Abcal-dro, 
servant of the Dark Lord of Phyrexia himself. 

* * * * * 

She awoke standing in a domed, circular room. It was 
cold. She looked down at her bare arms and legs, flecked 
with goose pimples. A moment's concentration dispelled 
them as heat coursed through her veins. 

How strange it was, this shell of flesh. Strange and yet 
familiar. She stood easily, testing the articulation of her 
hands, arms, and legs. Breath plumed from her nose in soft 
wisps. All parts worked. All systems were in order. 

The chill walls were blue glass, polished and seamless. 
Without effort, she calculated the height of the dome at 

16.39 feet. She walked slowly toward the only other object 
in the room, a five-foot-high chrome tripod, above which 
floated a small black sphere four inches in diameter. 
Some things she knew, others she didn't. She knew she 
was alive and on Phyrexia. She knew the periodic table of 
the elements, the expansion rate of live steam in a turbine, 
and the speed at which flowstone multiplied under 
optimum conditions. She knew where to strike a human 
body to cause the most damage, but she could also set a 
broken leg with her bare hands. She did not know her own 
name. 

"That has not been decided yet," said a calm, genderless 
voice. 
She darted away from the hovering sphere and 
crouched near the wall. It wasn't fear that made her 

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Paul B.Thompson 

crouch. Fear was not in her design. Her posture was 
defensive, a position from which to strike at the unseen 
speaker. 

"I am Abcal-dro, your master. Stand up." 

She obeyed. 

"Speak. You have the means," said the voice. 

"Who am I?" 

"You are called 'Belbe.'" The name had two syllables, 
bell-be. 

"What does it mean?" 

"It derives from the ancient Thran language, be'el-be. It 
means 'a lens.'" 

She went to the gleaming tripod in the center of the 
room. "Lens. A device that focuses to a point or spreads 
apart rays of light or other forms of energy," she recited. 

"Correct." 

Belbe looked at her hands. "Do I focus light?" 

"In your case, the name is metaphorical. As you are 
going among flesh beings, you are therefore expected to 
have a name." 

"Where am I going?" 

"The plane of Rath." 

She closed her eyes and thought. "Rath. An artificial 
world, created by our supreme master, composed of 
flowstone nanomachines, inhabiting its own plane at 
coordinates—" 

"Stop." The command was mildly expressed, but 
absolute. Belbe not only ceased speaking, she ceased 
moving at all, 

"Learn not to speak what you're thinking. By so doing, 
you give away too much and bore your listeners." 

Belbe remained immobile, like a statue of flesh and 
metal. 

"Speak," commanded Abcal-dro. 

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Nemesis 

"I do only your will, Great One." 

A strange, liquid, bubbling laughter filled the dome. It 
subsided to a sigh. "Listen well, Belbe. You are going to 
Rath soon, as our emissary to that world. Our lens, one 
might say. The time approaches when Rath will be in 
congruence with Dominaria, the prime plane of our 
ancestors. When the conjunction of planes occurs, all that 
is on Rath will be on Dominaria—" 

"And all that is on Dominaria will be on Rath." 

A pause. "True." Cold clutched at her fabricated heart. 
Even the mildest pique of the high priest raked her entrails 
like a razor blade of ice. 

"You were made to resemble the inhabitants of Rath, 
not your masters on Phyrexia. In fact, the native 
environment of Phyrexia is inimical to your existence, 
which is why you must be kept in this environmental 
chamber until your departure. You are as much like them as 
we could make you, and that is an important parameter in 
your mission. 

"The governor of Rath has abandoned his post for the 
sake of personal vengeance. His dereliction is contrary to 
our purpose, and it will not be tolerated. A new evincar 
must be found to take his place. You will choose the new 
evincar for us. Since natural selection is the best scalpel for 
dividing the weak from the strong, allow the candidates to 
struggle among themselves until one of the specimens 
establishes himself as the superior candidate. You will 
observe this struggle for us. You may choose—" more 
bubbling laughter rippled through the chamber, "—we give 
you leave to participate in the competition as you see fit. 

"Only one task must remain inviolate. Under no 
circumstance is the conjunction of Rath and Dominaria to 
be altered, delayed, or interfered with—by anyone. Do you 
understand?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Yes, Great One." 

"You may encounter certain beings who, by an accident 
of breeding, have the power to pass from plane to plane. 
These planeswalkers may attempt to thwart our plans to 
overlay Dominaria. You will not let them interfere. Your 
own life means nothing compared to the success of our 
plan. Is that clear?" 

She bowed with all the grace of her copied body. "It is, 
master." 

"Approach the sphere." 

Belbe closed within arm's length of the black orb. It 
floated a scant inch above the polished tripod. The ball's 
surface was smooth, yet did not reflect her face as she gazed 
at it. 

"Stand still." 

Belbe locked her legs in place. The sphere silently rose 
and came to her. It touched her at the base of her throat, 
and for an instant she felt nothing. The sphere melted into 
her flesh without breaking the skin or causing any 
bleeding. Pressure built inside her chest, pushing on her 
newly-placed organs. She gasped with newfound pain. 

"This is our 'lens.' It will be the connection from you to 
us." 

"What is this feeling?" she whispered. 

"It is called pain. As it is part of mortal existence, you 
must learn to recognize it. To rule creatures of flesh, you 
must make pain your ally. Use it whenever you can, Belbe. 
It is the foundation of power." 

Her mock-blood roared in her ears. She feared her heart 
would rupture, her lungs collapse. Belbe's vision filmed 
with gray, and her breath caught in her throat. She opened 
her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her knees 
buckled. 

Stand! 

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Nemesis 

The voice of Abcal-dro was no longer in her ears, but 
inside her head. Despite intense pain, Belbe kept her feet. 
She staggered against the tripod, blinking through the haze 
of her suffering. The tripod abruptly vanished, and she 
stumbled forward, blind and gasping. Something warm ran 
down her lip. 

The eye is now in place. You will soon adjust to its presence. 
She heard the words, but behind them there was something 
else. Behind the cool voice and godly demeanor of the high 
priest, Belbe sensed this: 

Sweet, sweet the hall of flesh! The song of blood, what 
ancient joy! Too long have I slept—why, in this shell I can walk 
a thousand worlds, renew the sensations of lost millennia! It is 
mine, it is mine. Who is better than I? I take them all in my 
hands, caress them or crush them. My little puppet, my lens. 
Shrink from nothing, please your maker— 

Belbe struck herself in the face with her open hand, 
twice, three times. The thin, shrieking voice submerged in 
the throb of her raging pulse. She wiped glistening oil from 
her lip. Slowly the room came back into focus. It seemed so 
empty without the orb and tripod. 

She became aware of being watched. She saw in her 
mind an image of herself, standing naked under the cold 
glass dome. The lens was working—she was seeing herself 
as Abcal-dro saw her. 

This frail creature was her? Standing erect on two thin 
legs, Belbe was the color of fresh parchment, slightly 
flushed from her exertions. A spray of pale blue freckles 
dotted her face and shoulders. Her hair, an unruly shock of 
brown, began at a peak in the center of her forehead and 
arched back over her high, pointed ears. Along her arms, 
legs, buttocks, and back were matte black lines in 
geometric patterns, like tattoos, but in fact were strips of 
reinforcing carbon fiber. Her face was angular, her chin 

16 



Paul B.Thompson 

sharp. Thin white scars remained where her flesh had been 
reattached to her metallic skeleton. 

She raised her eyes to the apex of the vault. The azure 
glass gradually became transparent, and Belbe saw her 
hidden master peering down at her from outside the dome. 

The room was 29.5 feet in diameter—she knew because 
her master knew it. Pressing against the clear shell was a 
mass of translucent tissue. Pulsing black veins, distended 
with the same glistening oil that filled her blood vessels, 
lined the shapeless body. Dozens of pseudopods as thick as 
her waist gripped the base of the dome. Drops of thick blue 
slime clung to the dome. 

Rhythmically twitching green bladders and complex 
multi-lobed organs were visible through the dirty gray 
protoplasm. At the very peak of the dome was Abcal-dro's 
true eye: a swirling green and black iris fifteen inches wide, 
a trio of red-rimmed pupils in the center, 

"Is this how you see me?" asked the high priest. She 
nodded once, slowly. "How does my appearance strike 
you?" 

"My master is beautiful," she said. "Such power and 
efficiency must be beautiful." 

The Phyrexian's liquid laughter resumed as the dome 
went opaque again. "One last warning, little one. On Rath 
you will be on your own. Though backed by the power and 
authority of the Dark Lord, you will succeed or fail by your 
own efforts." 

"I will not fail, great one." 

"See that you don't. It is time to leave." 

The seamless floor split apart, revealing dark 
descending steps. Humid, sulfurous air wafted up from the 
hole. Unhesitatingly, Belbe went down the steps to a wide, 
noisome corridor where four priests in full regalia stood 
waiting for her. Behind them was a full entourage of lesser 

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Nemesis 

constructs and functionaries, and lastly a gang of gremlins 
bearing her new wardrobe—robes of woven chrome and 
onyx brocades, headdresses of flash-formed obsidian. To 
the rear were the bearers of her arms and armor. Each piece 
had been forged in the Fourth Sphere from Monitor 8391's 
original specifications, resulting in perfectly tailored armor 
that would fit no one but Belbe. 

The suit was made of black diamond, the hardest 
substance on Phyrexia. It was so hard in fact, it had to be 
shaped and cut with fluoric acid, since no tools existed that 
could cut the plates. The acid treatment left the armor 
matte black, as dead a color as the lens now embedded in 
Belbe's chest. 

She coughed and felt the first drops of sweat form under 
her arms. The priests bowed as Belbe passed. She thought it 
odd the exalted clerics of Phyrexia should bow to her, a 
newly made creature more flesh than metal, but then she 
heard a whisper deep inside saying my lens, my eye ... 

Their obeisance made sense. It was not her they were 
bowing to, it was their master. 

* * * * * 

"Monsters." 

The room was crowded with elf warriors, stained with 
sweat, smoke, and the blood of battle. They had not 
assembled here to fight, but to mourn. Their chieftain's 
daughter was gone, her fate unknown. 

Eladamri knelt by Avila's empty bed. "Monsters," he 
said again. "I knew the evincar was vicious and unnatural, 
but I didn't think he would stoop to this!" 

"The fiend responsible will be found, we swear it," said 
Gallan, Eladamri's lieutenant. The warriors around him 
grunted in agreement. 

18 



Paul B.Thompson 

Eladamri put his hand on the boughs where his 
daughter had lain. This treachery soured his success at the 
Stronghold. His warriors had confronted Volrath and his 
warlord, Greven il-Vec, and survived—a victory as signal as 
any ever recorded on Rath. Now this. 

He withdrew his aching hand, bruised by recent 
combat. The motion stirred the soft boughs, revealing the 
soft glint of snake bone. 

"What's this?" 

The agent's knife had fallen to the bottom of the bed. 
Beside it was a small glass vial, still upright, and a single 
blue feather. 

"I know this weapon." It was plainly of elven make, the 
garnet pommel bearing the intricate engraving of 
Skyshroud artisans. 

"Gallan, whose knife is this?" Eladamri asked sharply. 

His lieutenant held the blade close. In the poor light it 
wasn't easy to see. 

"The emblem is of the clan of Carodonal." 

"Yes." Eladamri stood. "Tenesi." 

It was too awful to believe, but it was the evincar's style 
all right. Avila's own fiance. He was lost in a skirmish 
twenty nights past. 

"I'd hoped he'd found death rather than capture, but..." 
Eladamri made a fist around the tiny glass vial. 

"What's that?" asked Gallan. 

"Something for our healers to study, I think. Now, my 
brothers, don't dwell on what's happened! Volrath thinks 
he can frighten me into inaction by taking my child. This 
will never happen. 

"From this moment, I count Avila among the dead. Let 
her name be added to the roll of warriors who've died to 
make our land free." 

19 



Nemesis 

He fixed the narrow blue feather to the brow of his 
helmet. It would be his talisman during the coming fight 
for freedom. 

The next day, the hunting party returned with the 
agent's body, tied hand and foot on a pole like a trophy 
snake. Though he had been altered with many Phyrexian 
implants, including a control rod in place of his spine, 
every elf in the village recognized him as Tenesi, once the 
finest hunter in the Skyshroud Forest, and the betrothed of 
the lost Avila. 

20 



Paul B.Thompson 

CHAPTER 1 


PRISONERS 

Ertai fell screaming into a tangled mass of rigging 
suspended from the side of the pursuing vessel. In the last 
second before certain death, a giant hand of rope snatched 
him from the empty air. 

The airship Predator, reeling under accumulated battle 
damage, scarcely noticed the addition of one to her 
complement. She had an eight degree list to starboard, her 
speed had fallen to a scant four knots, and her steering gear 
was so damaged the ship could not maintain a straight 
course. Dead sailors and mogg goblins—Predator's boarding 
troops—sprawled everywhere. Smoke billowed from hull 
scuttles along the battered starboard side, filling the deck 
with choking black streamers. Into this chaos strode 
Greven il-Vec, Predator's master. 

The crew—what was left of it—dashed about in ratlike 
frenzy, each man pursuing his own task. Greven shook his 
head in disgust. Not a brain to be found in any of them! He 
spied four sailors by the starboard rail, hacking at tangled 
rigging with cutlasses. 

"Never mind that!" he roared. Leaning against the slant 
of the deck he shouted, "All free hands to the port side! 
Can't you feel the list? Do you want to capsize us?" 

"But Commander—" said one, blade poised. 

Greven seized the man by the throat. The sailor's face 
purpled; his cutlass clattered to the canted deck. 

21 



Nemesis 

"Question me, will you?" Greven said, seething. The 
choking man could not reply. "Worthless meat! Lightening 
the ship will solve two problems!" So saying, he hurled the 
sailor over the side. The remaining three scampered for 
their lives to the port side of the ship. 

Predator trembled, and a forward hatch cover blew off. 
A jet of flame erupted from the hold. The heavy hatch 
cover passed within a finger's breadth of Greven's head— 
the wind of its passing cooled his cheek—but he never 
flinched. The shrieks of men burning in the engine room 
below had as little effect. 

"Engineer, dead stop! Direct all power to lift! 
Firefighters to the forward hold, now! The rest of you, form 
a work party and clear the decks!" His voice cut through 
the terror and confusion, and Predator's crew fell to saving 
their battered ship. Thanks to Greven and the fearful 
discipline he instilled, the airship slowly righted itself and 
maintained its altitude. 

Stepping over deck wreckage, Greven reached the 
forecastle. Here the ship had taken most of its punishment. 
Bulwarks were shattered, the alloy casing peeled back like 
gray flower petals. Colliding with the closed portal had 
caused the worst damage. The ship's prow had been 
crushed backward to the fourth hull frame. The serrated 
ram had broken off and was lying at the bottom of Portal 
Canyon somewhere. The forward harpoon gun had been 
dismounted, the barrel jammed into the upper boarding 
mandible overhead. It would be days, maybe weeks, before 
such extensive structural damage could be repaired. 

Greven stood with his feet braced widely apart on the 
twisted deck and stared at the ancient portal through 
which Weatherlight had vanished. He'd lost a battle, 
something he seldom did, and he'd failed in his pursuit of 
the enemy, something that had never happened before. 

22 



Paul B.Thompson 

High atop the portal structure, the great Phyrexian control 
center, styled like a fiercely staring face, mocked Greven's 
failure. 

"Someday, Gerrard," he muttered. "Someday you'll 
bleed for Greven. I swear it." 

* * * * * 

Far below, clinging to the rigging draped over the 
starboard side of Predator, young Ertai debated his chances. 
From this height he would never survive a fall to the 
ground. He knew a flying spell, but it required calm and the 
utmost concentration—not very likely conditions at the 
moment. He briefly considered hiding in the wreckage 
until Predator landed, but the Rathi airship was still 
hovering and gave no sign of an intention to land. Ertai's 
arms ached. He couldn't hang on forever. The only sane 
choice was to climb to the ship above. Talent like his 
should not be wasted on a meaningless death. 

He'd just begun to climb the skein of lines when a body 
hurtled past. A sailor hit the rigging a few feet from Ertai, 
and the back of his shirt snagged on some wires. He hung 
helplessly for a moment, then his clothing slowly began to 
tear. Ertai and the sailor's eyes met, and for a few seconds, 
Ertai saw the approach of death in the man's eyes. The 
sailor clawed at the rigging, but he could not find a 
handhold. As he tore free, the only sound the man made 
with his mangled throat was a horribly muted gurgle. Ertai 
watched him fall. 

With renewed purpose, Ertai resumed climbing. The 
wire rigging tore his hands. What a shame, he thought. 
Such well-shaped, expressive hands he had. The old 
masters who had trained him in the nuance and gestures of 

23 



Nemesis 

spellcasting always complimented his fine hands. Now they 
were being cut to ribbons. A great—and painful—shame. 

The shouting from the hull above him abated. Predator 
climbed slowly. Ertai was a few yards below the keel when 
he heard a voice boom out, "Prepare to clear away the 
fouled rigging!" His heart contracted into a hard knot 
when he saw axes and swords glinting above the rail. They 
were going to chop his lifeline off! 

He tried to climb faster, but his feet kept tangling in the 
rat's nest of metallic rope and wire. When speed failed, he 
fell back on his greatest asset, his magic. With one arm 
wrapped around a thick bundle of lines, Ertai used his other 
hand to begin the gestures of a spell. 

The sailors at the rail awaited Greven's command to 
cut away the downed rigging. With a nod, he set them to 
work. The first sailor raised a heavy ax, but before he could 
bring it down on the mass of lines, it flew backward from 
his hand. Despite the strain of battle and their fear of 
Greven, the men laughed at their comrade's apparent 
clumsiness. The next sailor wielded a cutlass. It tore out of 
his grasp and hurtled over the side. More laughter. The 
third man had a hatchet. It left his hand and struck him 
between the eyes. Down he went, bleeding from a serious 
gash in the forehead. The laughter died. 

Greven approached. He turned his head from side to 
side as if sniffing the wind. 

"Magic? Who dares to cast spells on my ship?" he said 
aloud. Sailors stood by with blank looks. "Haul up the 
rigging," Greven commanded. 

Ertai almost fainted from fatigue. No one ever expected 
a sorcerer to cast spells one-handed while dangling a mile 
in the air, he mused—no one but Ertai could have done it! 
The last one was particularly satisfying, seeing that yokel 
get his own hatchet back on his thick skull. 

24 



Paul B.Thompson 

The rigging trembled and began to rise. They were 
drawing him up. It was about time! 

Rough hands grasped his arms and collar and hauled 
Ertai over Predator's rail. He would have liked to have 
arrived on the deck in a civilized manner, but the angry 
sailors threw him on his face. Ertai gathered his wits for a 
suitable response, but before he could do anything, a pair of 
massive booted feet appeared in front of him. 

"What's this?" Greven said. To Ertai, his voice sounded 
like the scrape of a dull knife blade on a whetstone. 

The young sorcerer got to his feet with as much dignity 
as he could muster. He drew a breath to announce himself, 
but it caught in his throat when he saw who—and what— 
he was facing. 

Greven il-Vec bore little resemblance to the man he 
once was. Head and shoulders taller than anyone else on 
Predator, he towered over Ertai. It was impossible to tell 
where his armor ended and his body began. Grafted 
muscles coiled around his limbs, shoulders, neck, and chest. 
The unnatural patterns of sinew and armor plate lent 
Greven a reptilian look, a resemblance heightened by the 
waxen gray cast of his skin. Add to that the cuts and scars 
of countless combats, and Greven was a forbidding sight to 
the newly saved young sorcerer. 

"You're from Gerrard's ship," Greven said. 

Ertai bowed. "Ertai's the name. You made the right 
decision, pulling me aboard." So saying, he stood back from 
Greven and folded his arms across his chest—mostly to 
conceal his bleeding palms. 

Greven's brow arched ever so slightly. He pointed at 
Ertai and said, "Kill him. And take your time." 

Ten crewmen, who moments before had been panic-
stricken sheep, formed a ring around Ertai. They were 
armed with whatever came to hand—cutlasses, hatchets, 

25 



Nemesis 

crowbars, lengths of chain. Inwardly Ertai's heart raced. 
Outwardly he projected utter calm. 

"Guests not welcome, eh?" he said. "You're making a 
mistake, Captain." 

Greven waved aside his warning. "Go on, kill the runt. 
If any man fails to strike a blow, I'll have his ears cropped." 

Ertai closed his eyes and summoned the deepest 
resources of his magical strength. Images of his far-off 
homeland flashed through his mind, and power flowed 
through him. Even with his eyes shut, he could see the 
auras of his attackers maneuvering to strike. Since they 
were so hot for his blood, Ertai decided to cool them off. 
He brought his battered hands up and projected a quick 
and dirty spell at the closest trio of sailors. 

The deck seemed to come out from under them. They 
rushed forward, weapons raised, and in the next instant, 
their feet were where their heads once were. It was like 
trying to run on ice— their boots could find no traction. 

Ertai half-turned and hurled three quick bursts at the 
next group of attackers. Crowbars and cutlasses flew 
backward out of their hands, some striking their comrades 
behind them. Then Ertai had to dodge a killing blow from 
a hatchet. He touched the hatchet man with a single 
finger, and at such short range the ambient force sent the 
man sprawling. 

The hilt of a cutlass connected with the back of Ertai's 
head. Stunned, he staggered forward, stray magical energy 
escaping from his body. It condensed the air, creating an 
impromptu fog bank of ice and mist on deck. Ertai dropped 
to his hands and knees and crawled to the foot of Predator's 
mainmast. If he could put a little distance between himself 
and his tormentors, he'd show them a thing or two. 

Greven leaned one arm on the ship's binnacle and 
watched his crew fumble through the fog trying to find 

26 



Paul B.Thompson 

Ertai. Normally his men were accomplished fighters, but 
they seemed unable to come to grips with a single, unarmed 
child. It was the most diverting thing he'd seen in days. 

Ertai reached the mast. He started up the iron rungs, 
then someone caught his heels and dragged him back. 
Having no time for proper concentration, Ertai flung the 
first spell he could think of—and the sailor grasping his 
feet disappeared under a sudden growth of hair. The man's 
eyebrows, mustache, beard, and the hair on his head 
exploded into a silky mat that completely covered his 
astonished face. He reeled away, unable to see or breathe 
through the hirsute mass. The man staggered blindly to the 
rail and somersaulted over it. Greven nodded and smiled in 
grim humor. The runt wasn't bad. 

Ertai was running out of strength. He had a small 
reservoir remaining, but it wasn't much. He made a fist and 
flung a last magical gasp onto the deck ahead of the 
charging sailors. The dry planking splintered as thick green 
shoots emerged from the deck. Predator's crewmen, caught 
by the sudden garden of tendrils and vines, tripped and fell, 
piling up in a heap in front of Ertai. Gamely, a few rose 
from the tangle to advance again. A sergeant in the regular 
Rathi army, Nasser, reached the exhausted Ertai first. He 
raised his sword high. 

"Hold," said Greven. Nasser froze. He looked to his 
captain, "He's spent. Chain him up. I'll take him back to 
the Stronghold." 

"Yes, Dread Lord," Nasser said. His comrades fought 
free of the rapidly withering vines and seized Ertai. They 
took out their frustrations on the helpless young man by 
raining blows on his ribs and skull. Heavy hobnailed boots 
thudded into his side, forcing Ertai to curl into a protective 
ball. 

27 



Nemesis 

"Fists only," Greven warned them. "I want a prisoner 
who can give me information." 

Fists it was, and Ertai shrank under the merciless 
pounding. How could this have happened to him, the most 
talented student of Barrin's school, the most valuable 
recruit on Weatherlight! 

Clearly something was wrong, deeply wrong, on the 
strange plane called Rath. 

"Enough," said Greven. "Take him below." Nasser 
dragged Ertai's limp body away by his heels. 

* * * * * 

Greven set the rest of the crew back to effecting 
emergency repairs. As he walked the deck observing their 
progress, Greven noticed that the battle damage in the 
deck planking was gone. The wood was like new where 
Ertai's spell had hit it, and the renewal was slowly 
spreading outward from the initial spot to the rest of the 
deck. 

Repairs by magic—now there was a useful skill. Greven 
looked back at the hatch where Nasser had disappeared 
with Ertai. The boy had talent, that was certain. 

* * * * * 

With a clap of thunder, the canyon portal closed. 

The shock wave blasted down the ravine, hurling him 
to the ground. This fall, on top of the wounds dealt him by 
the cat warrior, Mirri, were too much. He tumbled and 
rolled across the abrasive ground, brush and rock tearing at 
his already ragged flesh. Weatherlight was gone. He expected 
to follow it shortly into oblivion. He no longer cared. Since 
Selenia's death, he was more afraid of life than death. 

28 



Paul B.Thompson 

He spread his arms wide, feeling the wind tugging at his 
clothes. The warship chasing Weatherlight had been caught 
in the field of residual energy when the portal closed and 
did not look like it would be aloft much longer. Serves 
them right, he thought. Death was the proper reward for 
failure. 

He closed his eyes and drew his arms and legs in close. 
This made him roll faster. He wanted to believe, after he 
smashed to bits on the canyon floor, that his soul would 
depart for some higher, better realm. If he could not be an 
angel, he could at least dwell among them for eternity. 

Death eluded him. As the canyon widened onto the 
adjacent plain, the sound of the wind in his ears changed 
pitch. He opened his eyes. For the duration of one 
heartbeat he saw the jagged walls of the canyon in bold 
relief—boulders, gravel, the odd wire grass that was the 
predominant growth on Rath—then it was all blotted out 
by a pall of blackness that swallowed him whole. All 
sensation of movement ceased. He was adrift in an endless 
sea of ink, floating between nowhere and nothing. 

Crovax. 

"Who calls my name?" 

You are needed, Crovax. 

He twisted around, trying to see who spoke. There was 
nothing to see. 

Is this death? he wondered. Is this the end of life? 

It's the beginning of your life, Crovax. 

The mysterious voice could hear his thoughts. Very 
well, answer me: Where am I? 

You are suspended in a bi-planar field. It was necessary in 
order to save you. 

What do you want with me? 

Only to offer you a greater destiny than death. 

And if I want to die? 

29 



Nemesis 

You were born to command, Crovax. Generations of 
leadership have been bred into you. You've had some conflict, 
some personal loss. Will you abandon your destiny over these 
setbacks? Wouldn't you rather strike back at those who've hurt 
you than surrender your life as their victory? 

Yes, I would. He repeated it out loud. "Yes, I would!" 

Then fly, Crovax. Fly to your ultimate destination. 

"Speak clearly, damn you. What am I supposed to do?" 

Fly, Crovax. Will yourself to your destiny. 

He felt stupid, but he imagined himself flying through 
the air, encased in a cloud of darkness. In the weird, 
visionless void, he did feel he was moving again. Was that 
a breeze on his face? Was it possible? 

Good, Crovax. You will be there soon. I am waiting for you 
there. 

Neither mountains nor walls were a barrier to him. 
Sightless, he hurtled like a shooting star through the 
darkest of night skies. He flew on, and the despair he'd 
endured shortly before gave way to anger, hatred, and a 
deep, gnawing emptiness. 

* * * * * 

When Ertai regained consciousness, he found he was 
below deck, his hands and feet chained around one of the 
ship's masts. A strong, regular pulsation, not unlike a 
heartbeat, echoed through the airship's hull. The throbbing 
was equal parts Predator's damaged engine and the pain in 
his aching head. The crew had not been easy on him. Ertai 
licked his parched lips and grimaced. 

"Not a pleasant experience, tasting your own blood." 

His eyes adjusted to the dim light. A few feet away, 
seated on a keg, was Greven il-Vec. He sat so still it was 
hard to distinguish him from the hull frames behind him. 

30 



Paul B.Thompson 

In repose, the massive warrior was no less fearsome than he 
had been on the open deck. Even in the feeble light, a dark 
glint of violence shone in his eyes. 

"It's not been pleasant on your ship," Ertai said thickly. 

"You were not invited aboard." 

Even shrugging hurt. "I'm not here by choice." 

"Why are you here, boy?" 

There was no sense lying about it. "I was manning the 
portal, keeping it open for Weatherlight. I jumped from the 
control station onto the ship as she maneuvered to enter 
the portal. You were coming at us like you meant to board 
us, and they put the helm over to avoid you. The course 
change was so violent I missed Weatherlight completely and 
got caught by your rigging. If your ship hadn't been so hard 
on our heels, I'd've drilled my own grave in the soil of 
Rath." 

"A sorcerer as skilled as you killed by a mere fall? I find 
that hard to believe." 

Ertai said nothing but leaned his aching head against 
the mast. 

"Still, I can't imagine anyone trying to plant a spy on 
my ship in such a careless manner—not even Gerrard 
Capashen." 

Mention of his Weatherlight companion sent a spark of 
anger through Ertai. How could Gerrard have abandoned 
him, left him in the hands of this grotesque savage? Such 
ingratitude! 

"We are returning to our citadel," Greven continued. 
"Once there, your fate will be determined by my master, 
the evincar." 

Was that resentment Ertai heard in Greven's voice? 
Tired as he was, he tried to read the warrior's aura, the 
invisible halo of power surrounding every living thing. It 

31 



Nemesis 

was one of the first feats apprentice wizards learned, aura 
reading. Ertai could practically read auras in his sleep. 

He closed his eyes and let the visible image of Greven 
fade from view. In its place came a dark silhouette, a 
broken outline in black on a background the color of old 
blood. No other forces existed in Greven's aura but 
strength and destruction. Not surprising. What did interest 
Ertai was the distinct break in the brute's aura. Instead of a 
complete circle of life-energy, the lines broke at Greven's 
neck. Something was there that absorbed the life force and 
did not allow it to radiate in the usual manner. Something 
artificial. 

"—what to do with you," Greven was saying. Ertai's 
eyes popped open. Sweat beaded on his brow. 

"What?" Ertai said. 

Greven ground his teeth, a noise the crew of Predator 
knew to fear. "I said, you can't expect mercy from the 
evincar. He has no tolerance for enemies of the state. Your 
only hope is to cooperate with us. Then Volrath may find a 
use for you," he said, voice growing. 

Ertai hung his head. "I see." 

His compliant manner made Greven unclench his jaw. 
"Your friends have fled, never to return," he said, rising to 
his feet. He had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the 
deck above. "If you are as practical as you are talented, 
you'll make the correct decision." 

Alone, Ertai glared in the direction of the departed 
captain. Stupid hulk. Ertai knew his kind. Bluster and 
violence, that's all men like Greven knew. They were the 
easiest types to manipulate. Appeal to their pride, yield to 
their anger; that was how to do it. Greven hated and feared 
his master, Volrath, and that was a handy foil too. Ertai 
began to feel a little better about his chances of survival. 

32 



Paul B.Thompson 

He tried his best to open the manacles that bound him 
to the mast. Neither his physical strength nor his depleted 
magical abilities were up to the task, and after long, 
fruitless effort, he resigned himself to temporary captivity. 
His earlier fit of confidence faded when he found he 
couldn't erase the image of Greven's aura from his mind. 
That black, broken aura spoke of terrible, unnatural things, 
of a man not alive, yet not dead. He was controlled by the 
thing in his spine, yet aware of his own lack of free will. 
Such a man was like a handleless sword—no matter how 
you tried to grasp it, it was always lethal. 

He and Greven had something in common, then. In 
each their own way, they were both prisoners of war. 

33 



Nemesis 

CHAPTER 2 


BROTHERS 

Darkness was his friend. It came to him intimately, 
enfolded him in its profound embrace. No aspect of light 
could ever compare to the sensual companionship of 
darkness. It caressed him, flowed over and through him, 
squeezing out the last vestiges of light he'd known. Once 
his being was suffused by the black void, he felt himself 
stretching out to infinity. 

The gray orb of Rath was like an acorn in the palm of 
his hand. He closed his fingers around it and laughed. Near 
his left hand floated another, brighter world, but when he 
tried to grasp it, it melted between his fingers. Irritated, he 
tried again. His hand closed on nothing—it was like trying 
to grab smoke. His blood warmed, then became fever-hot. 
He released Rath and tried to seize the evasive second 
world with both hands. Forming a cage with his fingers, he 
caught the phantom inside. Now it was his! He closed his 
hands together and awaited the visceral thrill of possession. 

It never came. A brilliant stream of white fire forced its 
way through his clenched hands, pushing back the darkness 
with its hateful rays. He tried to smother the light, but it 
just got stronger. It pierced his shut eyes and speared 
through his brain. His back arched in torment. His jaw 
locked with such violence his teeth cracked under the 
pressure. 

34 



Paul B.Thompson 

Let go, let go, massed voices seemed to say. Let go of it 
before it kills you. 

"Never!" he cried. "Dominaria will be mine!" 

Crovax opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of a 
vast hall in twilight. He leaped to his feet, heart racing. 
What was this place? How did he get here? 

Suspended a few inches from his head was a black, 
spidery contraption studded with short spikes, shaped like a 
cupped hand. A silver, pearl-like object nestled within the 
"hand". At first he thought it was hard and glassy, but as he 
stared at it, the surface throbbed like a living thing. Crovax 
reached out for the strange object, but the hand whizzed 
away, retracting upward on a thin black cable with dizzying 
speed. It vanished into the cyclopean heights of the hall, 
leaving Crovax alone on the long, polished floor. 

His hands were bleeding. He'd forced his fingernails 
deeply into his own flesh. 

"Dream," he muttered, rubbing his stinging palms on 
his legs. Bright smears of blood contrasted starkly against 
the cream-colored leggings. 

A quick check proved he was standing in his 
underclothes: a light jersey, matching leggings. His feet 
were bare. The wound on his neck where Mirri had bitten 
him had mysteriously healed. A smooth, livid scar covered 
the spot. Where were his clothes, his weapons, his armor? 
Without arms or armor, he might as well have been naked. 

"What is this?" he shouted. Far above him, indistinct 
movements and soft clicking sounds responded to the 
sound of his voice. Crovax had the unpleasant feeling he 
was under observation. 

He walked along, scrutinizing his surroundings. The 
dimensions of the hall were vast. Weatherlight could have 
easily navigated above the concourse. At equal intervals 
the vaulted roof was supported by enormous pilasters, 

35 



Nemesis 

decorated in a baroque, mechanistic style. Each pilaster 
featured a grotesque face of greenish black and chrome, 
yards across, its stylized mouth open in a silent roar of rage. 
In the distant recesses of the arched ceiling, unseen 
mechanisms clicked and whirred. Crovax could not 
imagine the purpose of such a mammoth hall. 

He doubled over, shaking violently. Gerrard. Hanna. 
Mirri. Selenia ... Crovax toppled forward to the black 
marble walkway, his bloody hands sliding on the smooth, 
cold stone. A toothy demon leered at him from the 
pavement. The demon's face was his own, contorted with 
hatred, anger, and suffering. 

He smote the floor with his fist. "Why am I here?" he 
bellowed. 

Don't you know? 

The speaker was quite close, almost on top of him. 
Crovax lashed out in the direction of the voice. His fists 
met nothing. He scrambled to his feet, panting. 

"Show yourself, coward!" he said. "Stop playing these 
stupid games!" 

The air before him shimmered, and an image formed. 
Crovax shook his head and rubbed his eyes. The being 
before him was like nothing he'd ever seen. Fully seven feet 
tall, the transparent phantom resembled a grisly statue 
made of meat and metal. Its long arms were covered with 
pink skin only to the elbows; above them its limbs were 
made of metal rods and pulleys. The creature wore a beaded 
leather wrap around its waist. The head was the most 
arresting feature of all. Atop a skeletal torso perched what 
looked like a massive head in a mask of fantastic gray and 
red plumes, bone, and black fur. Crovax saw no visible eyes 
or mouth, though corrugated tubes emerged from the 
being's shoulders and chest and entered the mask at various 
points. It made audible breathing sounds, like a winded 

36 



Paul B.Thompson 

dog. A gorget of brass circled the thing's wide neck. Jewels 
gleamed all over the creature, and some glowed and 
blinked with their own inner light. 

"I am Kirril, servant of the Hidden One," said the 
creature in a papery voice. Crovax could discern no lips 
moving on the creature, yet he heard it plainly. "You are 
here because you wished to be. My master has taken an 
interest in you." 

"Who is your master? Volrath? Do you serve the 
evincar?" 

Kirril's cadaverous arm made a dismissive gesture. 
"Speak not the traitor's name! The one I serve has many 
names—The Dark 

Lord, the Hidden One, the First Master. He is our great 
lord, ruler of all Phyrexia." 

Crovax was impressed, but he didn't allow himself to 
show it. "What does your master want with me?" 

"The Hidden One has watched you, Crovax, since the 
day you were born. He has seen the seed of greatness in you 
and bided his time until you recognized it in yourself. That 
moment has arrived. Once you chose to follow the path to 
power, you became his servant. But greater things await 
you, Crovax, if you have the vision and the strength to 
accept them." 

He scowled at the Phyrexian. "I am no man's servant, 
do you hear? I am certainly not submitting myself to your 
Dark Lord! I've ruined my soul already with hatred and 
murder, but I will not bow to anyone in this world—or 
yours!" 

Kirril glided past Crovax. The hair on his arms prickled 
as the Phyrexian's projected image passed. In his wake 
Kirril left a strong odor of ozone, as if his presence singed 
the very air. 

37 



Nemesis 

"It's common for birth pangs to be painful," Kirril said, 
proceeding down the concourse. "What's important is how 
one deals with the pain. Do you let it defeat you, or do you 
return it tenfold upon those who caused it?" 

"What are you saying?" 

"The deaths of the angel Selenia and the feline Mirri 
were not accidents. Who is responsible for these acts of 
pain?" 

"I am." 

"That is the weakling's answer. You were not bred to be 
weak, Crovax. Who started you on this journey? By whose 
hand did you arrive on Rath?" 

His face burned. "Gerrard Capashen!" 

Kirril moved on. Crovax watched him go. It was 
unsettling to see the wall reliefs and pilasters through 
Kirril's image—or was it his words that were so disturbing? 

"Wait," Crovax said. 

Kirril vanished, only to reappear directly in front of 
him. 

Crovax recoiled, then recovered his nerve. "If all these 
things are Gerrard's fault, why do I feel so—so bereft?" 

For a moment the Phyrexian's only answer was his 
blinking jewels. Then he said, "Every being arrives at a 
moment of choice between avoiding their destiny or 
embracing it. The weak turn away from power and decry in 
others what they cannot accomplish themselves. The 
strong throw off the constraints of restrictive morality and 
recognize that ultimate good is that which is efficient and 
successful. You, Crovax, have not made the choice yet. 
You've acted according to your true nature as a predator, 
but you haven't accepted the truth of your superiority yet. 
Thus you are in torment, like the fools who brought you 
here." 

38 



Paul B.Thompson 

Kirril pointed to the floor between them. A conical 
vessel with a flat lid materialized. It was made of dark 
translucent stone or glass. Inside the vessel a dimly glowing 
yellow object moved about furtively. 

"Your new life can provide rewards you've never 
imagined. Do you hunger, Crovax? Is there an emptiness 
deep within you?" "Yes, damn you." "Pick up the 
container." 

Crovax hefted the jar. It was a foot high and quite 
heavy. "Remove the cap," Kirril commanded. The jar was 
sealed with a strip of lead. Crovax peeled away the seal and 
lifted off the thick cap. "Take care it doesn't escape." 

Crovax peered into the jar. A lobed ball of light the size 
of a plum floated inside. It moved in slow circles, stopped, 
and reversed direction like a caged animal. Suddenly, it 
seemed to sense the lid was off and darted for the open 
mouth. Crovax clamped his hand over the jar. The globe 
touched his raw palm and melted into it. He saw the glow 
through the back of his hand. 

A shock passed down his arm, followed by an intense 
sensation of pleasure. Crovax's dour face broke into a wide 
smile. The emptiness, the anguish inside him evaporated. 
He felt invigorated and strong. "What was that?" 

"The life-force of a living creature. Every living thing 
contains it. Most creatures replenish their supply by eating 
common food and expend it through physical and 
emotional activity. Because you deny your natural role as a 
hunter and master of flesh beings, you expend your life-
force needlessly, fueling useless emotions like pity, anguish, 
and regret. You have progressed beyond mortals, Crovax. 
You now have the ability to absorb the life-force from 
other beings. Will you use it, or perish like a miserable, 
weak human?" 

39 



Nemesis 

The cuts on his hands were gone. "How has this 
happened?" 

"The power was always within you. By your acts on 
Weatherlight you have awakened the latent instinct." 

Crovax dropped the jar. It smashed to flinders on the 
black pavement. "I want more," he said. "Give me more. I 
need more." 

The image of Kirril spread its bony hands wide. "You 
will have more—as much as you desire—if you meet the 
Hidden One's final test." With another fluid turn of his 
hand, Kirril summoned the dream catchers. Spidery claws 
descended rapidly from the ceiling, surrounding Crovax in 
a ring of spiny black "hands." 

"What are these for?" 

"Your education, Crovax. It is important you know the 
history of Rath so that you will not repeat your 
predecessor's mistakes. These appliances will allow you to 
experience the past as it actually happened. Are you 
prepared for that? You will know terrors and pleasures few 
mortal men have known." 

This time Crovax wasn't alarmed. He kicked aside the 
fragments of the broken jar and stood in the center of the 
dream machines. 

"My appetite is very large," he declared. 

"Good," Kirril answered. "It must be. Now prepare 
yourself for your lesson." 

* * * * * 

Crovax lay spread-eagled on an operating table, 
somewhere on the Fourth Level of Phyrexia. Tubes filled 
his nose, and a breathing mask covered his open mouth. 
No less than four Phyrexian birth priests were working on 
him at the same time, each with his own quadrant of 

40 



Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax's body. In the hazy recesses of his mind, Crovax 
knew this was happening. He had seen the full history of 
Rath, and he realized he was getting the same treatment 
Volrath had—he was being modified to fill the role of 
evincar. 

"What conclusion do you draw from Volrath's history?" 
Kirril asked him. 

"Volrath was a fool and a weakling," Crovax replied. 

"He was for many years a highly effective governor." 

"For suppressing some ragtag elves and whipping moggs, 
he was fine. The first time a real challenge appeared— 
Weatherlight—he bungled everything. Worse, he became so 
out of control he abandoned his post to pursue his private 
quarrel with Gerrard. Not good form for a man with his 
responsibilities." 

"You would not make such mistakes?" 

"Never," replied Crovax. 

"How would you deal with an incursion by 
Weatherlight?" 

"Weatherlight is not important. It's a vessel, a means to 
deliver an end." 

Delicate microtomes scraped at Crovax's flesh. Through 
all the detachment and anesthesia, the sensation—or his 
thoughts about the sensation—seeped in. Through Kirril's 
eyes he saw his own naked body laid open on the 
Phyrexian operating table, his ebon skin pinned back like 
supple leather, his organs still alive, quivering, his heart 
pumping.... 

A high-pitched whine distracted Crovax. He saw again 
his own transformation. This time a small whirring saw 
blade was being used to open his skull. The hulking priest 
wielding the saw had three arms, each tipped with slender 
metallic digits of excruciating delicacy. The Phyrexian 

41 



Nemesis 

touched the bright blade to Crovax's head, and the former 
member of the Weatherlight crew screamed inwardly. 

He felt he was hurtling through an abyss of total 
darkness. The plunge was all the more terrible because he 
knew it would last forever. He would never reach the 
bottom, never feel the absolving impact of death. 

Below him a dim light gleamed. It grew steadily larger 
and brighter, resolving into the form of a glowing angel. 

Selenia! 

He tore past her, twisting and grasping at her 
diaphanous, trailing robe. Her sorrowful face seemed 
blurred, indistinct. Yet when they recognized each other, 
the angel folded her beating wings and dropped after him. 
Crovax strained to reach her outstretched hands. Their 
fingertips brushed many times and failed to meet. Despair 
gave way to frustration, then to anger. Crovax knotted 
both hands into fists and hurled himself at Selenia. A dull 
red halo surrounded him as he shot upward to meet her. 
She opened her arms wide to embrace him, and he did 
likewise, flushed with triumph. 

They met in midair, and he clasped the bright angel to 
him. She was not dead, not dead, not dead ... 

Selenia writhed in his grasp. "Let me go! Let me go, 
Crovax, you're hurting me!" 

"1 would never hurt you!" 

"Let me go, I cannot bear it!" 

Crovax drew back far enough to see her agonized face. 
He knew instinctively the power he exuded was hurting 
her. The same force that allowed him to stop falling and 
reach Selenia was now killing her. 

"Let me go, Crovax! I'm burning!" 

"I won't let you go! You're all I care about!" 

Feathers from her wings fell away, scorched brown. She 
became dead weight in his arms, and they slowly turned in 

42 



Paul B.Thompson 

the air until she was hanging limply beneath him. Her robe 

smoldered, her gossamer hair was singed. 

"Crovax, you've killed me." 

He kissed her lifeless face. Where he touched her, her 
lips and cheek blistered. Rather than see her beauty 
entirely consumed by his raging heat, Crovax released her. 
She spiraled down into the darkness, wings rigid in death. 

He covered his face with his hands. If he could tear out 
his memory, expunge Selenia from his mind, he might be 
saved from the torment of her death. 

"Kirril? Kirril! Can you hear me? Grant me this boon!" 

"No," said the Phyrexian. "You must preserve memories 
of all your deeds." 

"Why? I don't want to remember the awful things I've 
done!" 

"They only seem awful because you cling to inferior 
concepts of right and wrong. You must learn to savor your 
experiences. In that way, you will be strong. You'll be 
superior to those mortals who live in fear and react to 
pain." 

"Can you give me this strength, Kirril?" 

"You have it already. All that needs to be done is to 
delete what remains of your useless moral sense." 

"Then do it." 

"Are you certain? What is taken away cannot be 
restored." 

"Do it!" 

An electrode, tipped with a miniature cauterizing iron, 
slipped into Crovax's brain. With a hiss, what remained of 
his painful conscience burned away. 

43 



Nemesis 

CHAPTER 3 


ARRIVALS 

At low speed, and with considerable cursing on the part 
of Greven il-Vec, Predator approached the airship tunnel 
high on the slope of the Stronghold. It had taken two days 
to return from Portal Canyon instead of the usual five 
hours. Negotiating the usually roomy tunnel through the 
slopes of Rath Peak appeared impossible. Predator's steering 
was a jury-rigged shambles, and none of the bone-headed 
crew could do anything to correct it. They made three 
approaches to the tunnel mouth, only to abort each one at 
the last instant to avoid piling up on the side of the crater. 

Furious and desperate, Greven stormed below to where 
Ertai was still chained to the mast. "Are we there yet?" 
Ertai asked cheerfully. Greven dearly wanted to wrench the 
boy's smirking head off, but he settled for stomping a cider 
keg to kindling. It was a full keg, and the sweet smell of 
cider filled the cramped hold. 

Predator lurched heavily to port. Shouts of alarm 
penetrated from the deck above. Greven's scarred lips 
curled in disgust. 

"Well?" said Ertai. "I can't do much chained up down 
here." "Who says I want you to do anything?" Greven 
snarled. 

"You didn't come down here to offer me cider, did you?" 

Greven's normally sallow face darkened. He reached 
out with his massive, sinewy hands, and Ertai feared his 

44 



Paul B.Thompson 

time had come. Greven grasped the chain between Ertai's 
hands, and with little more than a shrug, snapped them in 
two. 

Ertai just stared in amazement. Greven did the same 
with his leg shackles, and the young wizard stood up for the 
first time in more than a day. 

"Many thanks, Captain. I was beginning to cramp—" 

"Shut up," Greven said. "Get on deck!" 

* * * * * 

Ertai shuffled up the gangway, chains jingling as he 
went. He emerged on the main bridge. The sailors were 
trying to steer Predator with her tattered mainsails. Even if 
they had been in top condition, such methods were too 
coarse for steering the airship into its home base. 

Ertai craned his head and gazed at the Stronghold. A 
vast rounded cone rose steeply from the surrounding plain 
to a height of over three miles. The barren slopes were 
yellow stone, streaked with red and brown mineral 
deposits. The western side was covered by a silver-gray 
cascade of newly fabricated flowstone. At the peak, the 
great Hub floated on a continuous stream of sizzling blue 
energy. This vast cylindrical object received the energy 
lancing down from indefinite space above. Though not 
bright in the sense that the Dominarian sun was bright, 
Ertai's eyes began to water from the light. 

"This is no time for tears," Greven said. 

"I'm the sensitive type," Ertai said, dabbing his eyes. 

Greven dragged Ertai to the forward rail. "We have a 
steering problem." He really loathed what he was about to 
say, and it showed clearly on his brutal face. "You will use 
magic to get us through the tunnel." 

"I'm a prisoner of war." 

45 



Nemesis 

"You're on my ship," Greven replied, his teeth 
beginning to grind. "If we crash, you go down with us." 

Ertai couldn't help but smile. "That's persuasive." He 
strolled to the port side of the bridge, then to starboard. 
Predator was making a large, slow turn that would 
eventually bring it back on course for the tunnel opening. 

"The rudder is wrecked?" Ertai asked. Greven nodded. 
"Can you steer with differential thrust from your engines?" 

"Normally, yes, but the starboard engine is off its 
mountings. Only the port engine is supplying thrust." 

Ertai shaded his eyes from the blue glow of the peak and 
studied the sailors trying to manhandle the port mainsail to 
counteract the off-center push of the engine. Even as he 
watched, the flapping sail whipped loose and swept three 
men off the boom. They plunged to their deaths, and no 
one paused to mark the fact, least of all Predator's captain. 

"Can you abandon ship?" asked Ertai. 

"That's not an option," Greven said, folding his arms 
across his chest. "What can you do? Remember, if you fail, 
you'll follow those clumsy fools over the side!" 

"As you so eloquently stated, Captain, we're all in this 
bucket together." 

Ertai closed his eyes and extended his hands. Power 
crackled from his fingertips. There was plenty of energy in 
the air here, even if it was primarily of a destructive variety. 
He drew in some of this harsh background energy. It felt 
bad and made his bruised body ache, but desperate times 
sanctioned daring actions. 

"What are you doing?" Greven demanded. 

"Making a road," Ertai murmured. He visualized a great 
rod of magical energy emanating from his hands to the 
distant tunnel entrance. That was simple enough, but then 
he drew the stream of force down his arms and pushed it 
through his body to his feet. By anchoring the power 

46 



Paul B.Thompson 

stream through the hull, he would force Predator to follow 
it. The sensation was akin to hugging a naming tree, but it 
had to be done. 

Predator shivered and turned smartly toward the 
Stronghold. 

"Prepare for a crash landing," Ertai gasped. "This will be 
rough." 

Greven gave the order, and the surviving sailors and 
moggs hunkered down behind bulwarks fore and aft. 
Disdaining danger, Greven remained on the bridge with 
Ertai. 

"Moron," Ertai whispered. 

"What?" 

"Uh, I'm more on course." His limbs began to tremble. 
Sweat soaked through the filthy rags he wore. 

The bow sank, and the airship gathered speed. Here was 
the real danger, though Ertai didn't bother explaining it to 
Greven. His spell could easily keep the airship straight, but 
he didn't know if he would have enough strength left to 
stop the ship once inside the crater. 

"Cut engines." 

Greven sounded far away. Ertai struggled to keep his 
balance. Heat was building where his body touched the 
ship. The soles of his feet blistered. Under them the 
decking began to smolder. Someone—presumably 
Greven—threw a bucket of water on Ertai's feet. 

"Thank you," he gritted. 

"We're almost there," Greven replied. "Shouldn't you 
open your eyes?" 

"I can see better this way." 

Without the hum of the engines, Predator was alive 
with seldom-heard sounds—the creak of the masts, the pop 
of the hull under stress, the odd metallic twang of cables 
automatically adjusting themselves to changes in tension. 

47 



Nemesis 

In his mind's eye, Ertai saw the yellow cone of the 
Stronghold loom before him. The magical beam pierced 
the center of the airship tunnel. Predator entered it at high 
speed. The slipstream from the interior of the crater blew 
warm on Ertai's cheek. 

With a whoosh, Predator burst into the hollow center of 
the Stronghold. Crew members cried out, and Ertai opened 
his eyes. 

They were hurtling toward the broad column of energy 
passing between the Hub above to the Citadel below. 
Greven laid a hard hand on Ertai's shoulder. 

"Steer wide of the beam," he said. "If we hit it, we're 
dead." 

Ertai closed his hands to fists and tried to will the 
invisible stream away from the energy column. The stream 
was strong, and it liked flowing into the beam. Veins stood 
out in Ertai's neck as he wrestled with the channeled 
power. 

Bend, bend, he thought furiously. Go where I will you! 

The conjured stream bent to starboard until it was just 
clear of the energy column. Predator roared past in a full 20 
degree dive. The port main boom brushed the glaring 
energy field and sizzled into instant oblivion. Ertai held the 
turn, and the airship rocketed into a downward spiral 
toward the landing dock, located at the highest point of 
the Citadel. 

"Better slow down," Greven said. 

Here was the point Ertai had contemplated, even in the 
extreme duress of his conjuration. Rath was his prison, 
Greven his jailer, and Predator was an instrument of 
oppression to thousands of free people. Why should he save 
it? Why not let it crash into the Citadel, doing as much 
damage as possible? At least then he could strike a blow for 
the oppressed. 

48 



Paul B.Thompson 

"Slow down," Greven repeated, more urgently. 

Dying is easy, his old teacher once told him. Dying is 
passive—living is active. A true mage must live in order to 
accomplish the goals of his art. What have you 
accomplished in your short life, Ertai? 

"Slow! Slow!" Greven roared. 

Predator was just one ship. Greven, just one 
commander. The coils of Phyrexian domination would 
scarcely tremble at their loss. He, on the other hand, might 
accomplish great things—if he lived long enough. 

Ertai flung his arms wide. The magical stream, visible 
only to him, spread out in front of the plunging airship. It 
piled up against the tower in waves, and each rebounding 
crest struck Predator a hammer blow, slowing her. The 
already smashed prow struck the mooring ring and 
demolished it. The great ship slammed into the platform 
and skidded sideways, shearing off its ventral landing blade. 
Greven was catapulted from the bridge to the deck below. 
Only Ertai, rooted in place by the power flowing through 
him, kept his feet. 

Predator came to a hard stop against the flowstone 
carapace. Greven leaped to his feet amid the tumbled-
down wreckage. 

"You! You wrecked my ship!" he said, pointing a thick 
finger at Ertai. 

"It was already a wreck," Ertai said weakly. He staggered 
to the slanting rail. "We're alive. What are you 
complaining about?" 

That said, he slumped to the deck. Where he'd stood, 
two blackened footprints were scorched into the planking. 

* * * * * 

49 



Nemesis 

Dorian il-Dal, chamberlain of the evincar's palace, 
awaited the arrival of Greven il-Vec with trepidation. 
Everything was in chaos—the Citadel had been breached 
for the first time in history, the garrison was in disarray, the 
mighty airship Predator was a steaming wreck, and worst of 
all, Evincar Volrath could not be found. 

Dorian paced up and down outside the evincar's private 
chambers, unsure of how to proceed. Greven would no 
doubt be in the foulest mood, given his failure to catch 
Weatherlight. The shocking debacle at the Citadel would 
not salve his conscience either. What Dorian feared most 
was what might happen when word spread that Volrath 
was missing. Would the evincar's subjects revolt? Would 
the rebel elves and their allies attack again? What of the 
moggs—would they obey their overseers without Volrath's 
authority to back them up? 

The tramp of heavy feet brought Dorian out of his 
gloomy reflections. Greven il-Vec descended the spiral 
ramp from the airship dock, followed by the remnants of 
his crew. Two crewmen carried a limp body between them, 
a young man clad in foreign clothes. 

"Dread Lord!" Dorian began, bowing hastily. "We are 
blessed you've come back to us unharmed!" 

"Save the oil for someone who needs it," Greven said. 
He directed his men to lay the unconscious man on the 
floor. "Where is His Highness? I must report." 

"His Highness Volrath is, uh—" 

"Yes?" 

"He's not here." 

Dorian thought sparks would fly from Greven's tooth 
grinding. The warrior seized Dorian by his elaborate 
sleeves, lifting him until his toes danced on the mosaic 
inlay. 

"Where is he?" Greven demanded. 

50 



Paul B.Thompson 

"I-I don't know, Dread Lord! After the intruders were 
expelled from the Stronghold, he was nowhere to be 
found!" 

Greven's anger vanished. He set Dorian on his feet. 
''Nowhere? Have you searched?" 

"Yes, Dread Lord." 

* * * * * 

Greven stared at Dorian. From the base of his skull to 
the small of his back the warrior had a Phyrexian control 
rod implanted in place of his natural spine. This rod gave 
him enormous strength, but it also obeyed the mental 
commands of the evincar of Rath. To disobey brought 
instant retaliation in the form of unendurable pain. Greven 
had been so busy saving Predator, he'd not noticed the 
empty sensation left by Volrath's lack of control. Now he 
swept all points of the compass for his hated master and felt 
nothing. If Volrath were on the plane of Rath, Greven 
should have been able to sense him. Yet Volrath could not 
be dead, for the sudden severance of the evincar's control 
would have struck his spine like a thunderbolt. 

"He's gone," Greven announced. "The evincar is not on 
this world." Having spoken the words, he made the leap of 
logic and deduced the truth. "Volrath was on Weatherlight!" 

"What?" Dorian said tremulously. 

"Gerrard might have captured the evincar. No, that's 
not right. Why would he flee if he had Volrath as hostage?" 

"Then His Highness willingly went on the enemy ship?" 

Greven fingered the control rod where it entered the 
base of his skull. "Yes, that's what he did." The fool! 
Greven raged to himself. He used his shapeshifting powers 
to stow away on Weatherlight! What did he hope to gain? 

"Ah, Dread Lord?" Dorian was whimpering now. 

51 



Nemesis 

"What is it?" 

"What are we to do?" 

"About what?" 

"Everything. Who will rule in His Highness's place?" 
His pudgy face brightened. "You're the evincar's second-incommand. 
You must take over, Dread Lord! Let the people 
know a firm hand still holds the reins of Rath!" 

The airship sailors cheered and loudly urged Greven to 
assume the governorship. He glared them into silence. 

"This is not a robber band—we don't elect our chiefs 
here," he said. "There's an order in things that must be 
observed. Evincars have died before, and new ones were 
found. Our distant masters must be notified, and their will 
obeyed. I will consult them." 

Dorian and the sailors blanched as one. 

"Do we dare?" asked Nasser, Predator's veteran sergeant. 

"You do not dare. I do," Greven said. Inwardly, he was 
not so eager. For the first time in many years he was free of 
domination. He could take the Stronghold as his own, but 
he knew he couldn't keep it. The overlords would not 
allow it, and his punishment at their hands would make 
Volrath's casual brutality toward him seem like a child's 
game. 

He strode from the evincar's antechamber to the 
nearest lift. There were four of these large square platforms, 
each supported by a flowbot arm, passing through the many 
floors of the Citadel. Dorian and the airship crew followed 
reluctantly. 

"Bring the prisoner," Greven reminded them. Ertai was 
carried along. 

The lift lowered them smoothly to the throne room. 
The oval chamber took up an entire floor. The decor was a 
mishmash of earlier evincars' tastes, from the brutal 
efficiency of Davvol to the mechanistic fetishism of 

52 



Paul B.Thompson 

Burgess. Volrath had seldom used the throne room. He had 
preferred the larger convocation hall, deeper in the 
Citadel, for his state functions. 

High above the throne of Rath hung a large, inverted, 
three-sided pyramid made of some translucent gray 
Phyrexian alloy. It was cradled by an intricate, multi-armed 
flowbot carriage. This was the "Window" to Phyrexia. A 
voice and image portal only, it could not send or receive 
artifacts or travelers. 

Word of Greven's return and Volrath's disappearance 
brought out the evincar's court. Chosen from the 
cooperative families of the Dal, the Vec, and the Kor, the 
courtiers of Rath were servants, sycophants, and spies of 
the evincar. Their stock in trade was gossip and treachery 
as they jockeyed among themselves for honors and 
privileges. During the two-pronged attack by Weatherlight 
and the army of the elven rebel Eladamri, Volrath's 
collaborators had taken refuge in their Citadel apartments. 
The danger past, they emerged in their court finery, ready 
to be seen and counted when the Window to Phyrexia was 
opened. 

Sailors deposited Ertai at the foot of the empty throne. 
Greven planted his fists on his hips and declaimed, 
"Overlords of Rath, hear me!" 

The pyramid remained dim and inert. Greven repeated 
his summons. The surface of the pyramid began to sparkle. 

Encouraged, Greven said, "I am Greven il-Vec, 
commander of the armies of Rath! Our evincar has left us, 
and we request that our overlords restore him to us or send 
another in his place." 

A slender red beam lanced out from the mechanism 
perched atop the pyramid. It raked harmlessly across 
Greven's face, tracing every contour and comparing it to 
images of the warrior stored in its memory. When it was 

53 



Nemesis 

satisfied Greven was who he claimed to be, the flowbot 
flexed its limbs and lowered the Window. The brass-yellow 
machinery whirred and squeaked until the pyramid reached 
head height over the throne. The Window came to life 
with an ominous crackle of power, sending skittish 
courtiers shrinking back in alarm. 

"Be brave," Greven sneered. "It's only a machine." 

Dark colors ricocheted through the pyramid, corner to 
corner to corner. It stabilized in the center and assumed a 
bluish tinge. Greven squared his broad shoulders and 
awaited his masters' command. 

"Greetings." The Phyrexian voice sounded slurred and 
mechanical. "Greetings, our loyal warrior, Greven il-Vec." 

He knelt on one knee. "Humblest greetings, Great 
Lords. We have a grave problem—" 

"The matter is known to us. The Hidden One is not 
pleased with the evincar's desertion or your soldiers' 
failure." 

"Shall we track down Volrath and punish him, Great 
Lords?" asked Greven. 

"That is not necessary. It is more important for you to 
strengthen your forces on Rath and crush the rebellion 
brewing among the elves." 

"Yes, Great Lords." 

"To this end, we are sending a special emissary who will 
find a new evincar, reorganize the government, and 
improve the schedule of flowstone production." 

A murmur circled the room. 

"Would it not be simpler to appoint a new governor to 
do all that?" Greven said. Fatigue made him more blunt 
than usual. 

The red beam returned, but this time it was not 
harmless. It struck Greven in the chest, and the powerful 
warrior groaned and collapsed. He twitched on the floor 

54 



Paul B.Thompson 

several seconds until the beam relented. Courtiers at the 
rear of the room quietly slipped out lest the overlords' 
displeasure spread. 

"Do not question, only obey," the pyramid intoned. 
"Expect the emissary in seven intervals. She will appear in 
the Dream Halls at that time. All will obey the emissary or 
be punished." 

Greven winced as he stood. "We'll obey without 
question, Great Lords." 

The light within the pyramid began to swirl and dart 
about again, then became inert once more. The flowbot 
retracted the device back to its former position near the 
ceiling. 

Ertai hobbled on burned feet to stand beside Greven. 
"Seems we're in the same boat again," he said. 

"How so, Runt?" the warrior rumbled. 

"There's always someone bigger around who expects 
you to bow and scrape just to get along, isn't there?" 

"Some of us are bigger than others." 

"And some of us stand to fall from a greater height," the 
young man replied. "Now, where can I get some salve for 
my feet?" 

* * * * * 

Life is sweet. 

This was Crovax's conclusion as he stood at the 
extreme end of the Dream Halls, gazing down on the royal 
laboratory and prison tower, the map tower, and the 
chaotic mogg warrens. Below, the minions of Rath scurried 
about their tasks like the residents of an anthill. Each life 
could be his, to take and savor. He smiled, and the dark 
face in the flowglass smiled back at him. Why not take 

55 



Nemesis 

them all eventually? The value of cattle was as food for the 
lion. 

With a wave of his hand, the flowglass parted. Crovax 
stepped up to the sill and stood on the edge, hundreds of 
feet above the laboratory roof. He raised one foot and was 
amused to see the flowstone sill rapidly extend to support 
him. He lifted the other foot, and the nanomachines 
swiftly advanced under that one, too. Crovax repeated the 
process until he was standing on a spindly flowstone 
platform six feet out from the ledge. He stood with his arms 
outstretched and laughed at the absurdly great power that 
was now his. 

With an ominous crack, the thin flowstone structure 
bowed under his weight. Crovax's euphoria disappeared. 
He leaped back to the Dream Halls, just as the feeble 
platform crumbled away. Crovax hit the sill square in the 
chest, driving the wind from his lungs. Gasping, he heaved 
himself over the ledge and rolled back inside the hall. The 
window flowed shut behind him. Crovax lay on the cold 
stone floor, heart hammering. Then he laughed. 

* * * * * 

At the far end of the Dream Halls, the delegation led by 
Greven had just arrived. Normally only Volrath could have 
opened the flowstone locks on the doors to his sanctum, 
but when the group arrived, the massive twin doors were 
already mysteriously apart. Greven entered boldly, as if he 
were a frequent visitor. Behind him came Dorian il-Dal and 
a select group of courtiers, an honor guard drawn from the 
palace garrison, and Ertai. Dorian had voiced a concern 
over bringing the captive wizard along. 

"He's an enemy," the chamberlain said. "Surely he 
belongs in prison?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"All in good time," Greven answered. "For now, let him 
see the power he opposes." 

Ertai slipped along quietly on bandaged feet. The honor 
guard was close behind him, so he had no chance to slip 
away. He only considered escape for a moment. The 
prospect of meeting an emissary from Phyrexia was far too 
interesting to miss. 

The Dream Halls were their widest where the structure 
joined the main part of the Citadel. None of them had ever 
seen the interior before, and the austere monochrome 
reliefs, starkly stylized images of Volrath, and weird flowbot 
machinery kept the delegation in a tight group, heads 
turning in all directions. Only Greven kept his dignity and 
strode straight on. He drew ahead of the rest until Dorian 
called to him. 

"Dread Lord, wait for us!" 

"Stop dawdling. You've lived in the Stronghold most of 
your lives, and you act like you've never seen such sights 
before." 

Ertai sat down on the polished black floor. "Might as 
well wait here," he said. 

"On your feet!" said a shocked Dorian. 

"My feet hurt. Ask Lord Greven why they do." "Leave 
him," said Greven. "When the emissary arrives, he'll stand 
like everyone else. How many intervals has it been?" 

Dorian consulted the time meter he wore around his 
neck. The dial was as big as a dinner plate but as thin as 
leather. In between ordinary numbers, intricate runes and 
sigils—Phyrexian numbers—appeared and disappeared 
irregularly. 

"Six intervals and a half," he said when the yellow 
symbols appeared on the meter's face. 

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Nemesis 

"Stand at ease," Greven said to the honor guard. The 
guardsmen, led by Sergeant Nasser, slouched in their stiff, 
conical suits of ceremonial armor. 

No one spoke for several minutes. Ertai amused himself 
by reading the auras of the courtiers. Their strongest 
components were fear and greed. The honor guard was a 
different story. They all wore haloes of violence, and their 
leader, Nasser, had a powerful aura that spoke of great 
personal ambition. Ertai looked back at Greven and 
wondered if he knew. 

Poking at the floor, Ertai discovered the marble was just 
another variety of flowstone. He concentrated as he pushed 
with his finger, and for a fleeting instant, he thought he felt 
the substance soften. Surprised, he lifted his finger. There 
was no sign of any indentation—but the sensation must 
have been genuine. He was far too practiced to mistake a 
thing like that. 

The silence was broken by a far-off whistling. Everyone 
in the delegation pricked up their ears. Ertai stood. The 
honor guard snapped to attention. 

"The emissary!" said Dorian breathlessly. 

Greven peered down the dim, cavernous hall. "Don't be 
an idiot. Do overlords whistle like steam kettles?" 

Dorian sidled up to the towering warrior. "Who—or 
what— is it then?" 

The trilling grew steadily louder. It didn't sound like a 
person whistling, more like a pipe or a tin whistle. 

"Could it be Volrath returned?" Ertai asked. 

"That sound is not Volrath," Greven replied. 

A voice filtered down, distorted and sourceless in the 
odd acoustics of the hall. As everyone strained to hear, the 
noise grew more distinct. 

Greven ordered the guards forward. They formed a 
wedge in front of Greven and leveled their spears. The 

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Paul B.Thompson 

whistling was louder and clearer, but there was still no one 

in sight. 

"Whoever you are," Greven shouted, "show yourself!" 

The whistling stopped and was replaced by quiet, eerie 
laughter. All eyes rose, and they beheld Crovax in his new 
Phyrexian finery, standing on the vertical wall of the hall, 
twenty feet above them. His position defied reason and 
gravity, for he was standing at a ninety degree angle to the 
floor with no more support than the soles of his boots. 

"By the colors," Ertai muttered. "How did he get here?" 

"You know him?" Greven said mildly. 

"His name is Crovax. He's a sullen, tormented man who 
came here with us on Weatherlight." 

Greven parted the line of soldiers. "What are you doing 
here? This is the sanctum of the Evincar of Rath— 
trespassing here means death!" 

Crovax turned to face the floor and walked effortlessly 
down the wall. A small bone-white flowstone device 
perched on his shoulder began to whistle the melancholy 
nomad song again. Crovax reached the floor and stepped 
down. 

"I am the evincar of Rath," said Crovax. 

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Nemesis 

CHAPTER 4 


MESSENGER 

Greven drew his black-bladed sword in a swift, fluid 
motion. "You're either a madman or a liar. In any case, 
your life is forfeit. Get him!" 

The guards lowered their spears and charged. Crovax, 
utterly composed, made no immediate move to evade 
them. When the soldiers were ten paces away, the smooth 
black floor suddenly turned to jelly. The soldiers' feet sank 
into the black goo and were held fast. "Dread Lord, he 
commands the flowstone!" Dorian cried. 

Greven circled wide around the mired troops. Crovax 
edged away from Greven, drawing his own sword. He 
seemed wary of engaging the hulking warrior. 

Greven leveled his weapon. "You have some influence 
over the flowstone, but you don't command it as Volrath 
did, do you?" He cut wide circles in the air with his 
wickedly curved blade. "Can you direct my control rod, 
impostor? You have this one chance before I kill you!" 

He made a terrific overhand slash at Crovax, who 
parried shakily. Ertai pushed to the front of the crowd of 
frightened courtiers. Crovax's aura was astonishingly dense 
and dark, far stronger than it had been on Weatherlight, and 
it extended to where the soldiers were stuck in the grip of 
the flowstone. He had little power left to fend off Greven, 
however. 

60 



Paul B.Thompson 

Greven came on fiercely, cutting at Crovax's head, 
thrusting at his stomach and legs. One underhand lunge 
was blocked in the last second by Crovax's lighter blade. 
Greven's great muscles bulged, and he brought his blade up 
against Crovax's full resistance. The latter's sword snapped, 
and the flowstone blade went skittering away, stopping at 
Ertai's feet. To his astonishment, the broken blade sprouted 
tiny legs, stood up, and began marching back to rejoin itself 
to Crovax's hilt. 

Taking his sword in both hands, Greven raised it high 
for a death blow. The flowstone released the soldiers, and 
the section of floor between Greven and Crovax heaved up 
to ward off the warrior's blow. Greven's blade stuck fast in 
the flowstone shield. He grunted and tugged at the 
imbedded blade. Crovax, breathing hard, searched for a 
weapon with which to strike the distracted Greven. 

Three deep, even tones echoed through the vast space 
like the tolling of a great bell. 

A shock wave blasted down the Dream Halls, silent and 
powerful. Lightly dressed courtiers went sprawling. Ertai 
dropped on his face and clawed at the hard pavement. To 
his amazement, his fingers probed shallow handholds in the 
flowstone. 

The soldiers, buffeted by the noiseless blast, struggled to 
keep formation. Crovax's flowstone shield receded. Greven 
recovered his sword but stayed his hand. The tremendous 
displacement of air could mean only one thing—the 
emissary was coming. 

Tumbling through the air down the center of the hall 
came a gray cube, turning successive faces toward them as 
it came. It grew rapidly in size. Only Greven and Crovax 
held their ground; the courtiers and soldiers, cowed by the 
enormous power confronting them, backed away. Once the 

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Nemesis 

wall of wind ceased, Ertai raised his head to see what was 
happening. 

The cube stabilized, hovering a few inches off the floor. 
It was at least 30 feet to a side, and its boiling, misty surface 
revealed no details of its purpose or composition. Behind 
the veil of gray there was movement. Bumps rippled the 
facing surface of the cube. 

The phantom gong tolled three more times, and a hand 
appeared through the cube—a lithe, slender hand, gloved 
in a black gauntlet. A knee and toe appeared, then the leg 
connecting them. In a simple, natural movement, the 
emissary stepped through the portal into the Dream Halls. 

The emissary was dwarfed by Greven. Clothed head to 
toe in attenuated sable armor plate, the emissary was only 
slightly taller than Ertai. The closed helmet turned this 
way and that, surveying the scene. The emissary raised a 
hand, but not in greeting. A small device the Phyrexian 
held made a chirping sound, and the portal began to 
shrink. As it did, it spat out four large black metal boxes. 
The cube shrank to the size of a small nut, tumbling in the 
air as it hovered. The emissary's control device chirped 
again, and the tiny cube vanished. Back went the device 
into a pouch on the emissary's belt. Air rushed in to fill the 
space of the departed portal. 

Soldiers and courtiers dragged themselves into some 
semblance of order. Ertai stood up, absently combing his 
tousled hair with his fingers. 

The emissary stood motionless, and Ertai wondered for 
a moment if the Phyrexians had sent a mechanical creature 
like Karn, his former crewmate. Slowly the stranger raised 
its hands to its helmet. The headpiece slipped off with an 
audible hiss. 

"It's a girl," Ertai said. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Be silent!" Greven said. He went down on one knee. 
"All hail the plenipotentiary of the Supreme Master of 
Phyrexia!" 

With much rustling of stiff cloth and squeaking metal, 
the delegation knelt before the emissary. Ertai was the first 
to stand. He wanted a better view of this girl from another 
plane. 

Her features were sharp, like the elves of his world. She 
had high, pointed ears and the spatulate cheekbones of a 
pure-blooded elf. Her eyes, he saw, were identically hued. 
Incongruous freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her 
armor fit as if a matte-black skin, and where it ended, her 
own pale complexion revealed strange dark crosshatching 
lines. In spite of the awesome presence of Phyrexia she bore 
with her, the emissary looked to be little more than Ertai's 
age—the human equivalent of nineteen years old. 

Crovax bowed smoothly. "Greetings, Excellency. 
Welcome to Rath." 

She looked at him blankly. "Who are you?" 

Ertai sniggered. At a nod from Greven, two soldiers 
seized the young sorcerer in an unfriendly grip. 

"I am Crovax, the new Evincar of Rath." 

"I've heard of you," the emissary answered coolly. "You 
exceed yourself. I am here to appoint a new governor, and I 
have not chosen you yet." 

Crovax visibly recoiled. Around him the flowstone 
floor rose in tiny peaks, like a tempest-tossed lake. It 
quickly subsided. 

Greven stepped forward. "Greven il-Vec, commander of 
all Citadel forces and captain of the airship Predator, at 
Your Excellency's service." 

"Commander." 

What a flat, emotionless voice she has, Ertai thought. 
The members of the court, led by Dorian il-Dal, greeted the 

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Nemesis 

emissary in turn, each swearing undying loyalty to her and 
to the power she represented. She accepted their boot 
licking and toadying with the same indifference with 
which she received Crovax's arrogance. 

"What about me?" Ertai called out. The soldier holding 
his right arm let go and gave the sorcerer a resounding rap 
on the back of the head. 

"Who is that?" asked the emissary. 

"No one, Excellency. A prisoner of war," Greven 
explained. 

"You bring prisoners to me? Why?" 

"Good question," said Crovax. 

"This one has a certain talent for magic," Greven said. 
"I brought him along to witness your arrival, Excellency, as 
an object lesson." 

"Has he been interrogated?" 

Greven steeled himself for punishment. "No, 
Excellency." 

"The first task of a captor is to extract information from 
prisoners," the girl said. "You will see to his interrogation, 
Greven il-Vec." 

"At once, Excellency." He signaled the guards to drag 
Ertai away. 

Ertai looked between the hulking soldiers and said, 
"You haven't told us your name!" 

Greven was about to order Ertai silenced, but the 
emissary stopped him. "A logical question. My name is 
Belbe." 

"My name is Ertai. I was first in my class—" 

"Take him away," Greven said irritably. "I will question 
him myself." 

* * * * * 

64 



Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax extended his arm to lead Belbe from the hall. 
She ignored his pretense of gallantry and walked briskly on. 
Greven asked about the crates sent with her. 

"Have them taken to the evincar's quarters. I will 
occupy them," she said. 

This was mogg work, but the smelly brutes were 
forbidden to enter the Dream Halls. Greven moved as if he 
was about to order the guards to remove the crates when 
Crovax made a suggestion. 

"Let the courtiers do it," he said. "The palace is their 
business, isn't it?" 

Dorian blanched at the prospective exertion. "We're 
not laborers!" 

Belbe said, "Do as Crovax says." 

"But Your Excellency!" Dorian protested. 

"This man is an intruder, as much an enemy as the wart 
Ertai," Greven said, pointing at Crovax. "By rights he 
should be in a cell, too." 

"No," Belbe said. "This one has received the attention 
of the overlords. He's not evincar yet, but he stands in 
contention for the post. So long as his orders do not 
contradict mine, he will be obeyed." 

Crovax's altered face split wide in an unpleasant grin. 
"What are you waiting for? See to the emissary's baggage." 

Dorian and the others filed past Crovax. The metal 
cases were six feet long and half as wide. The pampered, in 
some cases elderly, courtiers struggled to lift the heavy 
containers to their shoulders. Crovax could not restrain 
himself from laughing when one aged Dal collapsed, 
bringing a crate down on himself. Dorian directed the rest 
of the courtiers to hoist the box off the fallen man. Blood 
stained the old man's gold-trimmed robe, and his face had 
gone the color of cold ashes. Dorian lifted the man's wrist. 
"He's dead." His voice choked. Crovax stood over them. 

65 



Nemesis 

"Useless parasite," he said. His brow furrowed, and a 
segment of the floor detached itself and formed a stretcher. 
Walking on short flowstone legs, the stretcher bore the 
body of the elderly courtier from the hall. 

Dorian looked up at him with tears in his eyes. "If you 
command the stone, why don't you order it to carry the 
emissary's baggage?" 

Crovax grabbed Dorian's collar and effortlessly lifted 
the corpulent chamberlain to his feet. 

"Prove your devotion to the overlords by carrying Her 
Excellency's baggage! All of you!" he roared. 

Ertai and his escorts had lingered, watching this scene 
unfold. 

"This is bad," Ertai muttered. "He's gone mad, utterly 
mad." He was hustled away. Belbe, Greven, Crovax, and 
the honor guard stood by as the aged and soft-living 
members of the evincar's court struggled to carry Belbe's 
crates. 

Belbe gestured to Dorian. "What is that on that man's 
face?" "Tears," said Greven. 

"A saline solution, excreted for the purpose of removing 
irritations from the surface of the cornea—" 

"The old man who was killed was chamberlain before 
Dorian," Greven said. "He was Dorian's father." 

Belbe started for the evincar's quarters without waiting 
for her baggage. Greven excused himself to see to Ertai's 
interrogation. 

Before he left he said, "If Your Excellency needs 
assistance— or protection—you need only call. There are 
guards posted throughout the Citadel." He shot Crovax a 
warning look and departed. What remained of the honor 
guard awaited her orders. 

"What shall we do, Excellency?" asked Nasser. "Carry 
on with your duties," she said. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"And I?" Crovax asked. 

"If you're to command the forces of Rath, you should 
inspect the army and become familiar with it. They have 
performed poorly of late, have they not?" 

"It's true, Excellency," Nasser said grimly. "There was 
great confusion when we found we had to deal with both 
rebels and an enemy airship." 

"Very well, in five intervals, I expect to hear your 
military report, Crovax. Inform the chamberlain and 
Greven ii-Vec that I want them present as well." 

She walked away. Crovax watched her go. 

"Man to man, what do you make of her?" mused 
Crovax. 

"Very strange," the sergeant said. "Why would the 
overlords send a young girl on such a mission?" 

"There's a reason, Sergeant. We just don't see it yet. 
The overlords do nothing without a well-thought-out 
reason. By the way, what's your name ?" 

"Nasser, sir." 

"How long have you served Greven ii-Vec?" 

"Seven years, sir." 

"Seven years, and you only command a troop of palace 
guards? Greven does not appreciate you." 

Nasser met the other man's gaze. "No, sir, he does not." 

"We'll have to remedy that." He held out his hand. 
"Lead on." 

Nasser formed the honor guard and marched them 
away. Crovax strolled behind them, smiling at some private 
amusement. 

* * * * * 

The sound of marching feet receded in the distance. 
Belbe took a deep breath. Alone again, thankfully! Though 

67 



Nemesis 

she'd been on Rath scarcely an hour, she was feeling 
bruised by the experience. She found the company of the 
Citadel's inhabitants wearing—the great hulking presence 
of Greven, the soldiers so wrapped in armor as to seem less 
alive than the Phyrexian priests she'd encountered, the 
court officials with their washed out, anxious faces, always 
ready with a whisper and an open palm.... 

Her master, Abcal-dro, never told her that people were 
like this. The only two that interested her were the young 
one called Ertai and the dark one called Crovax. They were 
very different types. Ertai radiated brash wit and vast self-
confidence, even with shackles on his feet. Crovax was 
dangerous. She could tell he'd been to Phyrexia and 
received the special attention of Fourth Level artificers. 

She walked unerringly to the flowbot lift that could 
take her to the evincar's suite of rooms, halfway up the 
great tower. A detailed schematic of the Stronghold had 
been implanted in her mind when she was made. Every 
strut, every brace, every creeping fleshstone appliance was 
as familiar to her as her own hands. Yet everything was 
strange, too, because she knew she'd never been here 
before. 

She stepped into the flowbot lift. The conveyance 
didn't budge, so she prompted it. "To the evincar's 
quarters." 

The Citadel had existed a long time, and successive 
occupants had altered, decorated, and embellished it as 
they saw fit. Belbe passed through floors reflecting the 
tastes of six previous evincars, each new master having 
overlaid his predecessor's alterations. The basic structure 
was a shell of brassy Phyrexian alloy and ceramic, over 
which were layers of flowstone designed to resemble wood, 
marble, glass, and so forth. Its organic form survived every 

68 



Paul B.Thompson 

decorative whim, and centuries of human habitation 
afflicted it like scars on the body of a great sea beast. 

A squeaky voice announced each floor as they passed. 
"Observation deck ... courtiers' apartments ... flowbot 
repair shop ... evincar's museum ..." 

"Stop," Belbe said. The lift shuddered into place. They 
were halfway between floors. "Go down to the evincar's 
museum." 

The lift obediently climbed down several feet. Belbe 
stepped off the platform. The floor was dark, with only a 
few reflective glints showing. 

"Light," she ordered. Nothing happened. "I want light!" 

Some flowstone globes burst into full illumination. 
Other contrary appliances refused to light at all. As a 
result, the room was harshly shadowed, a condition made 
worse by the bizarre contents of the museum. 

Volrath had made it his business to catalog all forms of 
life on Rath. Specimens of every species were here, 
carefully preserved and mounted on "marble" flowstone 
pedestals. There were animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, all 
with staring glass eyes. Some of the specimens were old and 
suffered from neglect and decay. As Belbe walked slowly 
past, she touched the plumage of a stuffed bird. Pale blue 
feathers turned to dust in her hands. Belbe brushed the 
powder away, and a small two-legged machine scuttled 
from the shadows, its bell-shaped proboscis noisily sucking 
up the offending dust. 

Volrath hadn't settled for just animals. Each sentient 
race on Rath was represented by four preserved specimens: 
adult male, adult female, child male, child female—all in 
appropriate costume and with typical accouterments. She 
passed exhibits of the Kor, the Dal, and the Vec. Sleek, 
powerful merfolk were artfully displayed inside blocks of 

69 



Nemesis 

transparent green flowstone, simulating the sea in which 
they lived. 

The last race displayed were the Skyshroud elves. Only 
a single example was provided, a fully grown male. Belbe 
paused, arrested by what she saw. The face, though 
masculine, was very similar to hers. She climbed on the 
pedestal with the embalmed elf and stared curiously into 
his long dead face. 

Who were you? Some hunter, some fisher the evincar's 
soldiers caught one day? Where did you live? Why do you 
look like me? 

Belbe touched the elf's face. It was cold, dry, and hard. 
The taxidermist had given the elf blue-gray eyes. She 
touched the dusty pupil with her fingertip. It was not glass. 
It yielded to her touch. 

Belbe jumped down from the pedestal, trembling. She 
rubbed her hands repeatedly on the skirt of her armor. The 
room had suddenly grown small and oppressive. She had to 
get out, now. 

The lift was waiting for her. She leaped aboard and said, 
"Go." 

"Go where?" asked the device. 

"To the evincar's quarters. At once!" 

By the time the platform stopped at the lowest level of 
the evincar's suite, the structure had narrowed to a mere 
two hundred feet in diameter. The antechamber was cool 
and dim. 

"Give me light." 

The room gradually brightened with an intense, 
pulsating blue light. Belbe moved to the center of the room 
as the walls passed from opaque to translucent. The 
throbbing blue light was the energy beam outside. She 
could feel the energy bleeding through the walls on her 
skin. The bottom floor of the suite was one large room with 

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Paul B.Thompson 

inward curving walls, and as she stood, fascinated by the 
energy passing between the Flowstone Factory and the 
Hub, the floor began to flicker. Languorous waves of color 
circled the floor in alternating bands of red, orange, yellow, 
green, and blue. Centered in this silent vortex of color, 
Belbe stood in silence. The chromatic waves circled the 
room around her feet. She knew this was caused by 
feedback in the flowstone as it soaked up the energy 
seeping through the walls, but it was delightful, whatever 
the cause. 

She drifted a few steps toward the stairs leading to the 
next floor. As she did, the color wheel shifted to re-center 
on her new position. Amused, she backed up a few feet. 
The clockwise swirl followed her. 

Belbe trotted around the room. Her re-engineered legs 
were capable of formidable speed, but in the confines of the 
tower, she did not test her limits. The spectral bands in the 
floor chased her, no matter how fast she ran. Static charges 
built up in the air. Belbe held out her hands, laughing as 
white sparks discharged from her fingertips. 

On her twentieth circuit of the room, she noticed 
Crovax standing by the lift. She skidded to a stop. The 
floor went through noiseless paroxysms of clashing color, 
finally settling into its wheel pattern once more. 

"Light," she said. Her heart was beating rapidly, and her 
hair was damp with sweat. 

The walls became opaque as the artificial lighting came 
up. Crovax, hands clasped behind his back, looked somber 
in his black robes and acid-etched Phyrexian breastplate. 

"What do you want?" Belbe asked. 

"I came to see if you were all right, Excellency." He 
used the language of a subordinate, but he did not speak 
like one. "From below we could see colored lightning 

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Nemesis 

playing about the tower. I didn't realize you were ... 
enjoying yourself." 

"An amusing effect," she replied. "I discovered it by 
accident." 

"An interesting substance, flowstone. It can be 
controlled, if one has the will to do so. Half-controlled and 
half-influenced, it is unpredictable. Please be careful, 
Excellency." 

Without a spoken command, the sides of the lift rose to 
enclose Crovax. 

"Until later," he said as the device sank through the 
floor. 

She was tired. Being on display was wearing, and her 
sprint around the room used up what vitality she had left. 
Belbe climbed the ornate stairs to the next floor. An 
evincar could have willed the stairs to carry him, but she 
had to make her own progress. 

She wandered through chambers filled with paintings 
and statues, mostly warrior's portraits and battle scenes. 
Most of the individual images bore the face of Volrath. 
Belbe found it odd anyone would want to be surrounded by 
pictures of himself, especially such exaggerated, 
extravagant images. Volrath slaying an entire army with 
just his sword. A colossal Volrath, wreathed in cloud, 
standing astride the Stronghold. Volrath trampling nations 
and worlds beneath his feet. 

Interspersed among the statues, paintings, and tapestries 
were more useful items—cabinets, cupboards, shelves, 
chairs, settees. The furniture was uniformly hard when 
Belbe sat on it. From its dished and bulged shapes, she 
deduced it was flowstone and that it would soften for the 
evincar but no one else. 

She found a bed at last, a large circular mattress laden 
with handmade quilts and pillows. These were gifts of the 

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evincar's subjects, and thankfully were not flowstone. The 
bed was sized for a very tall occupant, so she had to boost 
herself up. As she sat there, her feet dangling, she noticed 
another statue, much different from all the others. It was 
sited so that only a person lying on the bed could see it in 
the adjoining room. Belbe hopped down for a closer look. 

The statue, executed in genuine white marble, depicted 
two figures facing each other. The taller figure was 
inescapably Volrath, though this was the only statue in 
which he wore royal robes instead of armor. His hand was 
extended, clasping the hand of the facing figure. Belbe 
circled the twelve-foot-high statue, trying to see who the 
other figure was. 

The figure facing Volrath was shorter and proportioned 
like a normal man. He had neck-length hair and the 
suggestion of a beard, and was likewise dressed in peaceful 
fashion. When Belbe finally reached a spot where she 
could see, she discovered the figure with Volrath had no 
face at all. 

* * * * * 

"Let's talk this over," Ertai said. 

Greven nodded to his two mogg warders, who tore 
Ertai's shirt from his back. He didn't regret the loss of the 
garment, as it was in tatters anyway, but he did take 
exception to the assorted irons roasting in a brazier not 
three feet away. 

"This isn't going to accomplish anything," Ertai added. 
"I have nothing to say." 

Greven took an instrument from his belt pouch: a 
slender red rod, wound in a tight, flat coil. He pinched the 
end of the coil between his fingers and it slowly unrolled 
into a rigid rod. 

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Nemesis 

"What is that?" Ertai asked, clearing his suddenly tight 
throat. 

The hulking warrior loomed over him. He gave one end 
of the rod a twist, and short spikes appeared on the 
opposite end. Ertai decided he preferred the branding irons. 
He backed away. The wall stopped him. 

Again Greven gestured to the moggs, who seized Ertai's 
ankles. They jerked his right foot up, and Greven bent over 
it, rod in hand.... Ertai shut his eyes. 

Click. The heavy shackle fell from his leg. Ertai opened 
his eyes in time to see Greven withdraw the spiky rod from 
the keyhole. He repeated the operation to the other 
shackle. 

"Keyworm," the warrior said, tucking the slowly coiling 
creature back in his pouch. 

"By all the colors," Ertai said, sighing gustily. "I 
thought—" 

The warders slammed him against the wall. Greven 
picked up an iron. The tip was pale orange, almost white 
hot. 

"Now," said Greven, "tell me about Weatherlight." 

Ertai, his hands pinned, closed his eyes and conjured a 
psychokinetic blast from his locus, his solar plexus. Such 
conjurations were not as controllable as ones channeled 
through the hands, but considering his situation, he had 
little choice. He mentally hurled it at Greven and was 
rewarded by the sound of the iron clattering to the floor. 

"I can keep this up longer than you," Greven said. He 
retrieved the fallen iron, now cooled to cherry red, and 
returned it to the fire. "This can take all day, or it can be 
over when you wish it to be. What do you say?" 

"A modicum of resistance is mandatory," Ertai said 
faintly. "After all, I am the most naturally talented sorcerer 
of the age." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Greven picked up fresh, hot irons in each hand. "Down 
here, Boy, you're just meat." 

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CHAPTER 5 


GIFTS 

Belbe relaxed in Volrath's bed for an hour and rose 
feeling stiff and a bit disoriented. A few seconds of 
concentration dispelled the cobwebs in her head. 

Some discreet servant had left a tray of soft cakes and 
wine for her refreshment in the outer chamber, but she 
didn't eat. She knew about food and drink, but the 
Phyrexians had designed out of her such weaknesses as 
hunger and thirst. Belbe sniffed the cake and nibbled off 
the corner of one. To her it had no taste. She sipped the 
amber wine, then spat it on the floor. To her inexperienced 
palate, the drink was vile. 

Her baggage had been delivered to the floor below. 
Belbe touched the flowstone seals with her index finger, 
and the crates opened like black metal lilies. The first two 
boxes held her clothing. The third held a variety of 
weapons and spare powerstones for them. The fourth box 
held three smaller cartons of thin metal, each labeled in 
Phyrexian. The largest carton was marked: Nanomachine 
Conversion Accelerator. The small one merely said Power 
Unit. These were equipment updates she was to install in 
the flowstone factory, deep in the bowels of the Citadel. 
Remote Transplanar Portal read the middle-sized box. 

Belbe shed her confining suit of armor. Once the 
lightweight ceramic plates were off, she stretched 
luxuriously and scratched her sides. What freedom! She 

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Paul B.Thompson 

never realized mere garments could make such a difference 
in comfort. 

It was dusk, near the time she'd set for the council 
meeting. To celebrate her newfound freedom, she chose a 
loose fitting pair of billowing red trousers, topped by a 
waist-length silver tunic. She went to the lift, stopped, and 
doubled back to her cast-off armor. The belt kit was still 
around her cuirass. Never be separated from your kit, 
Abcal-dro warned her. It contained her single most 
valuable piece of equipment. 

* * * * * 

Dorian il-Dal greeted her. He looked wan and worried. 
With him were two scribe machines, set to take down 
every word of the meeting. They crouched on either side of 
Dorian's chair, looking like severed gray arms. Each of the 
flowbot's four fingers was stained black with ink. The nail 
of each finger served as a nib, and all four fingers wrote at 
once, not only keeping minutes of the meeting, but making 
triplicate copies at the same time. 

Greven was there, as tidy and groomed as he ever could 
be. Both men bowed when Belbe entered the room. 

"Where is Crovax?" she asked. 

"I don't know," Dorian replied, gnawing his lip. "Shall I 
send someone to find him?" 

She considered the idea briefly and dismissed it. "No. 
He knows we're meeting at this hour. If he chooses to miss 
us, that's his choice." 

They seated themselves around the table, Belbe 
assuming the tall chair reserved for the evincar. She first 
asked for an account of the Stronghold's assets. Sweating, 
the chamberlain wedged a monocle in his right eye and 
began to read from a lengthy scroll in a sing-song voice: so 

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Nemesis 

many retainers, so many courtiers, so many men-at-arms 
resided in the Citadel. They ate so much meat per day, so 
many loaves of bread, so many gallons of water, beer, and 
spirits. Belbe listened attentively for the first half hour, but 
as Dorian drew a second scroll from a hamper that 
contained another five, her mind began to wander. 

The doors flew open, revealing Crovax at the head of a 
band of soldiers. 

"You're late," Belbe said. 

He saluted rather than bowed. "Your Excellency set me 
to a considerable task. I did not wish to arrive with it 
incomplete." 

Greven narrowed his eyes. The troops at Crovax's back 
were led by Nasser and included all the senior sergeants in 
the garrison—an unusual selection of men. 

"You're not allowed to bring armed troops into the 
Citadel. Only the evincar rates a bodyguard," Greven 
chided, glaring at the newcomers. 

Crovax strode in, a slight swagger in his step. "These 
fellows? They're not armed. Her Excellency asked me to 
inspect the state of the garrison, and who better to ask than 
the men who lead the men, the sergeants?" 

Greven leaned on the table and growled, "You men are 
dismissed." 

The doors closed behind the departing soldiers. Crovax 
took a seat opposite Greven. He sat down without waiting 
for Belbe's leave. Dorian gasped at his insolence. 

"You sound distressed, chamberlain," he remarked, 
folding his hands in his lap. "Was it something you ate?" 

"No, just something he can't swallow," Greven said. 

Dorian made to resume his monologue, but Belbe 
stopped him. "I will hear from Commander Greven." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The imposing commander spoke without notes. "The 
captive, Ertai, was questioned by me for eighty-three 
minutes," he said. 

"Is that all?" asked Crovax. 

"No more was needed." 

Belbe said, "What did you learn?" 

"Until recently, he was a student at a school of magic 
run by one Barrin. He was recruited from the school by 
Gerrard Capashen to accompany Capashen to Rath for the 
purpose of rescuing the woman Sisay, a prisoner of 
Volrath's." 

"The prisoner was freed?" she asked. Greven nodded 
curtly. 

"I could have told you all that," Crovax said, bored. 

Greven bristled. 

Belbe held up her hand. "The essence of a successful 
interrogation is not always what you're told but how 
completely the prisoner gives up what he knows. Go on, 
Commander." 

"It was Ertai's job to hold open the old valley portal, 
allowing Weatherlight to escape from Rath. His magical 
skills are considerable for one so young, as he will tell you 
given the slightest chance. During Weatherlight's escape, he 
was thrown from the deck of Gerrard's ship to Predator, 
where I captured him." 

Greven put a tightly wound scroll on the table. "This 
record contains every detail Ertai told me about 
Weatherlight and her crew—construction, specifications, 
armament, everything." His enormous hands closed into 
fists. "Soon I'll know that ship better than I know Predator. 
Next time, I will crush Weatherlight" 

"Yes, 'next time,'" Crovax said. "The refrain of the 
defeated." 

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Nemesis 

Without any warning words or grinding of teeth, 
Greven reached across the table and grabbed Crovax by 
the throat. Crovax tore at Greven's thick forearm with 
both hands. Slowly he began to unlock the commander's 
powerful grip. Surprised, Greven landed a smashing blow to 
the smaller man's nose. Crovax flew backward, skidding 
several feet on the polished floor. 

"Your Excellency, do something!" Dorian cried. 

Belbe leaned back in the evincar's chair. "I am doing 
something." 

Greven advanced, kicking Crovax's overturned chair 
out of the way. The would-be evincar was quickly on his 
feet, ignoring the blood streaming from his busted nose. His 
hand flashed to his armpit and out came a short dagger. 

At this point Belbe said firmly, "No blades, Crovax." 

He shrugged and tossed the weapon aside. Greven 
threw two heavy punches, left hand first, then right. They 
met only air. Crovax ducked under the bigger man's reach 
and kicked Greven hard in the gut. It was like kicking a 
tree trunk. Crovax, concern showing in his face for the first 
time, sprang away, avoiding his foe's massive fists. 

"A little unfair, don't you think?" Crovax panted, 
circling nearer to Belbe. 

"Why do you imagine combat has to be fair?" she 
replied. 

Snarling, Greven snatched up an empty chair and flung 
it at his evasive enemy. Crovax leaped impressively, 
dodging the flying furniture. He executed a whirling kick 
that connected solidly with Greven's jaw, snapping the 
warrior's head back. Greven shook off the blow and 
climbed on the table, forcing Crovax to give ground. 

Dorian whimpered and went to huddle behind Belbe. 
Her boredom had disappeared. She watched, fascinated, as 
the two men fought around the room—Crovax, wily and 

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Paul B.Thompson 

agile, Greven, impossibly strong and resilient. When one or 
the other connected, the impact sent a hot, fleeting pang 
through her. It wasn't like the pain she felt when Abcaldro 
inserted the Lens in her chest. The sensation left a 
warm feeling in her face and belly. She found herself 
wanting Greven to hit Crovax again. That surprised her. 
What difference did it make to her who won? 

A rake from the ring on Crovax's left hand opened 
Greven's scarred scalp, and the commander began howling 
with unconfined rage. He moved with a speed astonishing 
in so large a man, hemming his opponent into the 
doorway. Crovax stepped in, pummeling Greven's throat 
and face with blows. He paid for his temerity. Greven's 
backhand sent him crashing against the closed doors. 

"Why don't you command the flowstone to save you?" 
Greven sneered. 

Belbe was wondering the same thing. Crovax had been 
given enough psionic ability to control the nanomachines 
in a rudimentary way. He could have tripped Greven with 
the floor, or raised a shield like she'd heard he had done in 
the Dream Halls. Why didn't he? 

Greven took the stunned man by the wrist. He 
intended to wrench Crovax's arm out of its socket, but 
even as he steeled himself for the effort, a low, unnatural 
laugh filled the council chamber. 

Crovax raised his head. His eyes blazed with 
unfathomable mirth. "Do your worst, savage. This is the 
last time you'll ever lay hands on me!" 

In the time it took Greven to draw his next breath, he 
understood what Crovax meant. The control rod in his 
spine awakened and began to shriek, pouring torrents of 
pain through even' square inch of his body. Wracked with 
agony, he released Crovax. 

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Nemesis 

Belbe could see the livid implant between Greven's 
shoulder blades. To her enhanced eyes, the rod glowed 
with excess power that the Phyrexian mechanism 
converted to unendurable pain. She shivered. Her mouth 
went dry. 

Crovax wiped the blood from his lips. "Strike me down, 
Greven. I'm right here." 

Greven's knees buckled. He clawed at the rod, which 
he couldn't even reach due to the massive width of his own 
shoulders. Crovax lifted a foot and lightly pushed Greven's 
chest. The huge warrior toppled backward. Lights, scrolls, 
and chairs were upset by the force of Greven's fall. 

"This is just a taste," Crovax said. "When I am evincar, 
you'll lick my boots every morning or know my 
displeasure." 

Belbe came up behind him. Crovax's control of the 
spinal rod was not without effort. Sweat stood out on his 
face and neck, and ripped from his elbows. He trembled 
violently—from exertion or excitement? She could not 
tell. Belbe put a hand on Crovax's shoulder. His skin 
burned feverishly. 

"You've made your point," she said. 

"Have I?" 

"Commander Greven is a valued member of our forces. 
I do not want him damaged." 

Crovax went back to the council table and set his chair 
upright again. Once he was seated, he visibly relaxed. 
Greven let out a long gust of breath and ceased writhing. 

"Proclaim me evincar," Crovax said in a low voice. "I 
have command of the flowstone. I've just demonstrated my 
ability to affect control rods. What more proof do you 
need? Discharge your commission and name me governor!" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Belbe went silently to her chair. Dorian was still 
peeking out from behind it. When she stood aside waiting, 
the chamberlain sheepishly resumed his seat. 

"Well?" said Crovax. 

"You're the leading contender," Belbe said, "but there 
are others who have not yet had the opportunity to display 
their talents." 

"Others? Who? Him?" Crovax indicated the prostrate 
Greven with a thrust of his chin. "No one approaches my 
power!" 

"As I see it, your power is limited. You can influence 
flowstone in your immediate vicinity but only with great 
concentration. The shapes you create are not permanent. 
Just now you were too busy evading Commander Greven to 
think about the flowstone, were you not? And at what 
range can you affect a control rod? One yard? Ten yards? 
More is required than psionic ability—can you command 
the army? Can you execute the orders of our overlords 
faithfully and without question?" 

Crovax sullenly said nothing. 

"My decision will be deferred until I have sufficient 
evidence as to who is best qualified to be evincar," Belbe 
said. She sorted through the scramble of scrolls on the 
table. "Do I have your report on the readiness of the 
garrison?" 

He took a flattened scroll from his inner jacket pocket 
and tossed it in front of her. 

"Thank you. Briefly, what is your estimate of the 
military situation?" 

Several long seconds passed before Crovax replied. 
"The Stronghold garrison is in disarray. They're afraid the 
rebels are equipped with airships, and they know Volrath 
has left them in the lurch. The rebels think they won a 
victory because some of them penetrated the Citadel and 

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Nemesis 

escaped with their lives. They'll be full of bluster and 
confidence and will no doubt be planning new raids." 

She opened the squashed scroll Crovax tossed at her. 
"What do you recommend?" 

"Attack without delay." 

Belbe and Dorian exchanged looks. "Are you certain, 
my lord?" asked the chamberlain. 

"It's the course of action the rebels least expect." 

Belbe read Crovax's report in seven seconds flat. "How 
will you do it?" 

"I'll form a hard-hitting force, the cream of the 
garrison," he said, warming to the subject. "Nasser tells me 
Volrath had agents among the rebels who've provided 
maps of the Skyshroud Forest. I'll locate and destroy the 
village of Eladamri, the rebel leader." He tapped a finger 
against his forehead. "Take out the brains of the rebellion, 
and the rest are just carrion." 

Belbe quickly rolled Crovax's scroll closed. "How many 
troops will you need?" 

"Ten thousand should do it." 

"What support? Supplies?" 

"I'll take an equal number of moggs along as porters," he 
said. "No pack animals or clumsy machines—we'll move 
fast and strike hard." He struck the tabletop with a 
scratched and bleeding fist. 

"You have leave to try, Crovax." 

He stood and saluted. "I'll bring you Eladamri's head in 
a basket." 

Belbe blinked several times. "Why would I want his 
head in any container?" 

Crovax limped from the room, smirking. He'd taken 
some punishment and couldn't quite manage the swagger 
he'd come in with. On his way out, he deliberately stepped 
over Greven, still supine with remembered pain. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

After the doors closed behind him, Belbe called out, 
"What do you think of Crovax's plan?" 

Greven, white as death, crawled to a chair. "Eladamri 
will do what I could not," he said hoarsely. The emissary 
and the chamberlain looked blank. "He will kill Crovax. 
Unfortunately, he may also kill the best part of my army." 

* * * * * 

Half a hundred humans and elves gathered in the silent 
night. Their meeting place was a small hummocky island in 
the swamp near the edge of the Skyshroud Forest. Here, 
free-thinking Rathi rebels had come to hear the gospel of 
resistance. All the world's races were represented save the 
merfolk, who were blood enemies of the elves and would 
not seek their company even if it meant avoiding total 
extinction. Most of those present were Dal and Vec. A 
single Kor male lingered on the edge of the crowd. 

No torches were lit. Darkness was the rule for this 
gathering. 

"I don't like this," said a mature Dal man. He was richly 
dressed and wore a jeweled dagger on his belt. "Agents of 
the evincar could be here—our lives are at hazard, and for 
what?" 

"Why did you come, if you're so afraid?" This from an 
elderly Vec woman, leaning on a tall staff. 

"I'm not afraid," said the Dal. "Just cautious." 

"Caution is our enemy now, as much as Greven and his 
army," proclaimed a ringing voice. 

Into the milling circle of men and women came 
Eladamri and his lieutenants. The elves were well armed 
with captured weapons. They fanned out to the edge of the 
little island, watching the night for signs of an ambush. 

"Eladamri, hail!" said the old Vec woman. 

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Nemesis 

"Greetings, Tant Jova," said the elf leader. They clasped 
hands. "How flourishes the tribe of Jov?" 

"We are many, and there is metal in our hands, O 
Eladamri. In the past twenty days we have seen but few of 
the evincar's men. The skyship does not fly over us, and we 
have slain many moggs found wandering in our territory." 

"This is just the beginning, Tant Jova," said Eladamri. 
"As we grow stronger, you will see fewer and fewer soldiers 
on the plain and in the air." 

The rich Dal harrumphed. Eladamri turned to him. 
"Skeptical, Darsett?" 

"Yes, I'm skeptical. A raid is not a campaign." 

"All winning campaigns should start with a victory," 
said Gallan, Eladamri's friend and second in command. 

"Yes, but you have a long way to go," Darsett replied. 
The bulk of the Dal behind him murmured in agreement. 

"We have a long way to go," Eladamri said, raising his 
voice for all to hear. "The time is past when my people 
alone could resist the Stronghold with any hope but 
survival. Now is a chance for victory, for the overthrow of 
the evincar and his tyranny! We must forge an alliance of 
all free people on Rath to fight the evincar and his forces. 
Only then can we be truly free." 

"A pretty speech," Darsett said. "But speeches won't 
beat Volrath's army." 

"We'll build our own army," Gallan countered. "What 
about the airship? If we openly revolt, Greven il-Vec and 
Predator will come and destroy us," said Tant Jova. 

Mention of the terrible commander and his flying 
warship provoked a fresh round of unsettled muttering. 
Gallan tried to calm the Dal and Vec leaders, but they 
were plainly afraid of arousing the wrath of Greven. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Darsett raised his voice over the noise. "Already those 
Dal in the Stronghold who resisted the evincar have 
vanished—Lady Takara, my cousin Sterba—" 

The lone Kor had gradually circled into the crowd until 
he was close to the elves. He caught Eladamri's eye. "I 
don't know you, friend. Who are you?" "Furah," he said in 
his odd, lisping way. "Of the Fishers of Life." 

All comment ceased. The Fishers of Life were a tribe 
that lived near the summit of the Stronghold itself. No one 
knew the peak as well as they. It was rumored the Fishers of 
Life even had access to the inner crater through secret 
fissures in the flowstone. 

"Speak," said Eladamri. "Tell us your mind, Furah." The 
whiskered, catlike Kor shoved his face close to the elf 
chieftain's. "Volrath is no more," he said. 

Four full seconds went by, then the assembly burst into 
spontaneous cheers. Eladamri alone frowned. "How do you 
know this?" he asked. 

"We know. The Fishers of Life see into the Stronghold, 
as you see into the water beneath your village. Volrath left 
Rath on the other flying ship, the one pursued by Greven 
il-Vec." 

Gallan excitedly rattled his sword in its scabbard. "If 
this is so, our task is half done!" 

"There's more," said Furah. "Greven's flying ship lies in 
ruins atop the Citadel. I myself have seen it there." 

Without Predator, the evincar's troops have no long 
range reconnaissance and no ability to strike at great 
distances from their base in the Stronghold. There were 
small outposts stationed here and there on the plain, but 
without the airship, they would be easy targets for 
Eladamri's raiders. 

Everyone began talking at once. Furah's news changed 
the Dal and Vec leaders from cautious conspirators to fiery 

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Nemesis 

revolutionaries. Some actually wanted to storm the 
Stronghold at once. 

"I want Greven il-Vec's blood," Tant Jova said darkly. 
"For all the members of my clan who've perished at his 
hands!" 

"Wait! Be still!" Eladamri barked. "No offense to you, 
honorable Furah, but we must be sure of news of such 
importance. Gallan, I want confirmation of what the Kor 
says. Is Volrath gone? Is the airship out of action?" 

The young elf nodded. "It shall be done, Eladamri." He 
immediately sprinted into the night to carry out his orders. 

"This changes things," Eladamri said gravely. "We have 
an opportunity to strike a blow for freedom. In time, a new 
evincar will be chosen by the overlords—it may be 
happening even now. Before the enemy can reorganize, we 
must strike! If the leaders of the free Dal and Vec pledge 
their support and send warriors to fight with us, I'll take 
every royal outpost between the Stronghold and the 
Skyshroud Forest." 

Tant Jova whistled through her gapped teeth. "There 
must be thirty outposts in the territory you describe," she 
said. "How many warriors would you need to do such a 
thing?" 

"As many as I can get, my friend." 

"Where will you attack first?" asked Darsett. 

He pondered only a moment. "The block house at 
Chireef." 

"That's within sight of the Stronghold!" 

"Yes. Not a likely place for us to attack—so all the 
better a place to strike." 

Darsett and the young Dal fighting men began 
proposing various battle plans. Eladamri listened with half 
an ear, then he noticed Furah was no longer present. Damn 
him, he thought. He wanted to trust the Kor, but their 

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Paul B.Thompson 

ways were so strange, and they were so close to the 
Stronghold. Could Furah's news be a ruse to lure them into 
open battle? Gallan would find out the truth. Until then, 
they would plan for an attack. 

Tant Jova took Eladamri aside. "Your liege Gallan told 
me your daughter Avila is dead at the hands of a 
Stronghold assassin. I grieve for a father's loss." 

"Thank you. Volrath thought by such means to break 
me, but this foul murder only hardens my resolve." 

Tant Jova's copper-colored face softened. She was very, 
very old for a Vec. She'd seen many terrible things in her 
long life, all coming from the Stronghold. 

"I'll make a pact with you, O Eladamri," she said. "We 
shall never submit to the evincar, never cease to fight his 
forces, and never put down our swords until Greven il-Vec 
and all his minions have paid the price of justice." 

Eladamri grasped her ancient hand. No words were 
spoken, but even if faced with death, neither would break 
their solemn bond. 

* * * * * 

After many hours, the pain had not subsided. His mind 
flickered in and out, seeking a place to hide from the terror. 
Solace was brief because his body would not let his mind 
go. 

Tormented by thirst, Ertai crawled across the floor of 
his cell to the flowstone spigot mounted high on the wall. 
The warders had teased him, pantomiming that Ertai had 
to speak to the spigot in order to get water from it. So he 
crawled from the filthy pallet on which Greven's moggs 
had thrown him, crawled despite the burns on his legs and 
chest, and despite the fact that most of his fingers were 
broken. 

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Nemesis 

"Wa-ah," was as close to the word "water" as he could 
manage. The spigot could not, or would not, understand 
him and remained closed. Ertai hated these machines. 
They were so inelegant and inefficient. Why duplicate the 
power of magic with crude artifacts? It was an old 
argument, one he remembered having with Hanna, Barrin's 
daughter, and Weatherlight's navigator. How he wished he 
could have an argument with the stubborn, serious Hanna 
right now. 

He yearned for a cool drink. He had to focus past his 
pain. Ertai called forth memories of water—the clay jar 
that stood in the corridor, outside the bedroom of his 
boyhood home, the one with the leaping fish painted on it 
... the waterfall at Jendary, all thunder and cold mist... the 
blue ocean around Tolaria, the rich, ever-changing basin 
on which the magical isle shimmered ... 

A single cool drop hit his forehead. 

Water, water, water! he shouted with his mind. A 
trickle rewarded his effort but no more. What little liquid 
fell moistened his parched lips, and he croaked, "Wa-ter." 

The spigot opened with a gush. Eagerly, Ertai gulped at 
the silver stream. It had a hard, mineral taste, but at that 
moment it was finer than any rare vintage. 

"Enough," said a voice. The flow stopped. 

He wiped his eyes and discovered he wasn't alone. The 
green-freckled girl, the emissary, was standing inside the 
cell door, watching him. 

"You'll flood the room," she said, pointing to the 
spreading puddle on the floor. 

Licking his lips, Ertai rasped, "I have nothing to say." 

"I didn't ask you anything." 

"Oh." He tried to stand, but there was no strength in 
his limbs. "Forgive me for not standing." He straightened 
with difficulty. "What do you want?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"I observed you just now. You opened the valve using 
magic, didn't you?" 

"So?" 

"It shows considerable skill for an unaugmented person 
to have any influence, however small, over flowstone," 
Belbe said. 

"I have considerable skill," Ertai replied with futile 
dignity. 

Belbe came closer and squatted down. Ertai shrank from 
her until he realized she wasn't there to hurt him. She 
examined him with keen eyes. He felt a bit like a butterfly 
in a collector's jar. Her expression was without any feeling 
but curiosity. 

"I want to release you," she said. "Give me your word 
you won't try to escape, and I'll parole you." 

He could hardly believe it. At best he expected a quick 
execution after telling Greven everything he knew. 

"What's to become of me?" he asked. 

"I want you to work on developing your ability to 
influence flowstone." 

Ertai let out a short, high-pitched giggle. Then another. 
A moment later, he dissolved in a fit of coughing when he 
tried laughing with his broken ribs. 

"Water," said Belbe. She held her cupped hands under 
the spigot. They filled, and she said, "Enough." Kneeling 
beside the wheezing Ertai, she offered him water from her 
own hands. With trembling fingers, he guided her hands to 
his lips. 

"Thank you," he whispered. 

"If you can control the flowstone," she went on, 
unaffected, "great things await you." 

"Are you offering me a job?" asked Ertai wryly. 

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Belbe separated her hands. The last drops of water fell 
to the damp floor. "I'm offering you a chance to become 
Evincar of Rath." 

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CHAPTER 6 


ENEMIES 

With Volrath gone, the empty throne lent an air of 
uncertainty to every activity in the Stronghold. Crovax 
stepped into this maelstrom of confusion and doubt. Armed 
with Belbe's commission to strike at the rebels, he threw 
himself into the task. Troops of the Royal Army were 
marched out of the Stronghold and mustered on the plain 
by companies. Battalions of moggs, less disciplined and less 
intelligent, massed behind the soldiers and awaited their 
new commander. Crovax disdained the elaborate military 
ceremonies favored by Volrath and went on foot among his 
troops, followed by his newly formed personal guard, the 
Corps of Sergeants. 

The one thing missing from this gathering of martial 
might was Greven il-Vec. Since Crovax did not ask him to 
join the expedition against Eladamri, the erstwhile 
commander of all Rathi forces chose not to appear on the 
plain with the army. He remained in the Citadel, 
overseeing the extensive repairs being made to Predator, 

Crovax, hand on his sword hilt, approached the Corps 
of 

Sergeants. Nasser stepped out of line and saluted. 

"The army is mustered as ordered, sir." 

"Very good. Do you have the list?" asked Crovax. 

Nasser slipped a hand under his breastplate and pulled 
out a folded slip of parchment. Crovax studied it briefly, 

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Nemesis 

then walked to a spot in full view of the massed troops. He 
closed his eyes and extended his hands, fingers spread. The 
flowstone substrate humped up. A murmur went through 
the soldiery. 

The hump became a rectangular stage six feet wide and 
ten feet long. Crovax raised his hands, and the platform 
bulked higher. When the stage was a full six feet off the 
ground, he lowered his hands. Just before his boots touched 
the side of the platform, steps indented themselves, 
allowing Crovax to easily climb to the top. 

Only the front ranks had seen Crovax command the 
flowstone, but word filtered back through the assembled 
troops. They stirred restlessly, arms and armor clanking as 
they fidgeted and stretched to get a glimpse of their new 
leader. Far in the back, the moggs grunted and hooted and 
climbed on each other's backs to see Crovax. 

"Soldiers of Rath!" he exclaimed. 

One hundred companies of 200 soldiers each snapped 
to attention in unison. The moggs quieted. 

"I am Crovax of Urborg. The emissary of the overlords 
has appointed me to command an expedition against the 
enemy, the rebel Skyshroud elves. We will shortly 
undertake this expedition, but first I have some things to 
tell you. 

"An aerial vehicle came to Rath from a far-off place 
and lent support to an attack by the rebel leader Eladamri." 
He did not mention he came to Rath aboard that same 
vehicle. "The enemy airship has been dealt with and will 
not be a factor in our fight." 

More muttering rippled through the ranks. Crovax let 
them talk for a few moments, then held up his hands for 
silence. 

"Our own ship, Predator, is under repair and will soon 
be flying again. The rebels believe we don't dare move 

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Paul B.Thompson 

against them without our airship. They're wrong. Starting 
today, I will lead this force against the home village of 
Eladamri, whose location our spies have made known to 
us." 

He paused, expecting cheers. When none came, Crovax 
glowered. Nasser and the sergeants raised a shout, and the 
soldiers half-heartedly joined in. Crovax waved for quiet. 

"We will exact revenge for the defeat the elves dealt 
Greven il-Vec. But first I have another task, a solemn and 
sacred warrior's duty." He unfolded the parchment Nasser 
had given him. "When I read the following names, I want 
the officers named to come to me." 

He cleared his throat. "From the First Company, 
Captain Thayer il-Vec; from the Third Company, Captain 
Ulan il-Dal; from the Seventh Company, Lieutenant 
Shirzod il-Vec ..." The list grew until eighteen officers, all 
company commanders, stood nervously at Crovax's feet. 

"You commanded companies during the recent fight 
with the elf rebels," Crovax said. "All of you were either 
outfought or out-thought by your foes. Because of your 
dereliction of duty, cowardice, and incompetence in the 
face of the enemy, for your abject failure as commanders 
and as soldiers, you are hereby condemned to death." 

The officers milled around in shock. They had no place 
to run; on the right they were hemmed in by the Corps of 
Sergeants, and on the left by a band of moggs who'd been 
summoned by Crovax for just such an eventuality. Several 
of the officers fell to their knees and raised open hands to 
Crovax, who stood above them glowering. 

"Mercy, mercy, Great Lord! The fault was not ours!" 
they cried. 

With a nod, Crovax set the moggs on the pleading 
men. The shambling creatures dragged six screaming 
officers from the crowd and dispatched them with their 

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heavy clubs. It was considered a great disgrace to be killed 
by a mogg, and the surviving twelve officers closed ranks 
and drew their swords, ready to slay any mogg that 
approached them. 

"Hold," said Crovax. The moggs lowered their bloody 
clubs. Crovax turned to the surviving officers. "For your 
last soldierly action, I've decided to suspend your 
sentences. You are reduced in rank to common soldiers and 
assigned to the scout battalion. You will lead our column 
into the Skyshroud Forest. If you distinguish yourselves in 
combat, you may yet be restored in rank." 

Again Crovax wanted hurrahs, but the troops were 
uniformly silent. The spectacle of six Rathi officers 
bludgeoned to death by moggs did not encourage anyone to 
cheer. 

Irritated, Crovax dismissed the men. "The designated 
companies will muster on the plain for the expedition in 
six intervals!" he shouted. 

The stage sank back into the ground. Nasser and the 
sergeants assembled in front of him. 

"Worthless rabble," Crovax said. "Did you see their 
faces? They were sickened by those cowards' deaths! No 
wonder they lost their last fight. What can be done with 
such weaklings?" 

"They will recover once they taste victory," Nasser said. 

"They'll win if I have to whip them all the way to the 
Skyshroud!" 

"About the route, sir. Have you given any thought to 
what part—?" 

The smell of freshly spilt blood teased Crovax's nostrils. 
His attention kept wandering to the slain officers. Finally 
the lure proved too strong, and he walked away, losing 
Nasser's question in mid-sentence. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The six men lay in a heap, their skulls crushed. Not one 
man drew so much as a dagger to defend himself. Crovax 
could not understand it. He announced their deaths, and 
still they didn't fight. Spineless worms. 

There was one among the slain officers who hadn't 
quite surrendered his life. Crovax could sense it. His hands 
and face tingled, and the strange hunger awoke inside him. 
He kicked aside two corpses to uncover the one who was 
still alive. The soldier's face was white, and his chest barely 
moved to draw breath. Crovax knelt in the gore and gently 
turned the man's face to him. A faint current of life-force 
played over Crovax's fingers. Just a feather touch, but it 
was there. 

The jar Kirril had given him in the Dream Halls had 
contained a primitive life taken from some animal. The 
remembered thrill of absorbing the glowing orb made 
Crovax shudder. By the time he'd mastered himself again, 
the officer was about to expire. Crovax pressed his hand to 
the dying man's face, ignoring the crushed bone and 
purplish blood clotted there. Yes, he had it. Invisible by 
daylight, the escaping life-force of the soldier was snared by 
the tidal pull of Crovax's appetite. Though it was but the 
last gasp of a dying man, it was far sweeter than the crude 
sample he'd taken from Kirril's jar. What delight, what 
ecstasy he endured. He felt uplifted, ennobled, enriched. 
Here indeed must be the food of the gods ... 

He heard his name being called, distantly, over and 
over. Gradually he became aware of a hand on his 
shoulder. In a sudden burst of action, Crovax leaped up, 
scattering Nasser and two other sergeants who'd been 
standing over him. 

"My lord, you were in a trance," Nasser said. 

"So? If it was my trance, why do you presume to 
interrupt it?" 

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Nemesis 

"Uh, my lord, it's been a full hour since you dismissed 
the army. There are preparations to be made." 

Crovax looked wildly at the sky. Time had passed. The 
pile of gray clouds, which earlier had been stationary in the 
sky, were now billowing on a brisk northern wind. 

"It was only a moment," Crovax whispered. 

"My lord?" 

"Never mind. Carry on with the preparations. Send a 
squad of moggs to clear the bodies away—" 

"—and burn them?" Nasser finished. Cremation was the 
custom on Rath. 

"No," Crovax said. "Have the moggs set up a gibbet by 
the causeway and hang the bodies from it. I want the whole 
expedition to march past them. It will motivate them, 
don't you agree?" 

"As you say, my lord." 

* * * * * 

Supported by two somber guards and accompanied by 
Belbe, Ertai was ushered into a small chamber within a 
large tower outside the main Citadel. It was an unsettling 
place, filled to the ceiling with vats, vessels, and urns of 
unknown purpose. Some tanks held rank solutions that 
bubbled and seethed, even though no fire burned beneath 
them. Here and there flowbots continued in tasks Volrath 
had set for them. One rotated an hourglass-shaped flask at 
precise two-minute intervals. A muddy brown solution 
drained endlessly from one half of the flask to the other. 
Another long, insectlike arm switched bowls of red and 
yellow gelatin from under a device emitting colored rays. 

Ertai could feel the air was alive with power. Most of it 
was destructive energy, the forces of corruption and decay. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

It was so strong, he reasoned there must be a powerstone 
somewhere in the laboratory—a very large powerstone. 

"What is this place?" he asked, thinking he'd been 
better off in his cell. 

"Volrath's laboratory," Belbe said. "He did considerable 
work with animals here. I understand his collection of 
artificial creatures is quite fascinating. Would you like to 
see them?" 

"No, thank you!" 

She shrugged. "Perhaps later. Here's what we came for." 

In the center of the room, almost obscured by other 
apparatus, was a large circular slab of crystal. The flat top 
was grooved with five concentric rings, the sides were lined 
with narrow vertical flutes. Made of some smoky, 
transparent mineral, the slab was sited under an elaborate 
metal tripod fifteen feet high. Rendered in the skeletal, 
organic style of the fortress itself, the tripod supported a 
second faceted crystal, about half the diameter of the slab 
below it. Wires were attached to the smaller crystal, 
running off to all parts of the laboratory. 

Here was the source of the power Ertai had sensed since 
entering the room. Both crystals were saturated with it. 

"Help him onto the device," Belbe told the guards. 

"Wait a minute," Ertai protested. "You're not putting 
me on that thing! Do you know what it is?" 

Belbe crossed her arms. "You want to be well, don't 
you? This machine can alleviate all your injuries in a few 
minutes. Otherwise, you'll have to be confined to bed for 
days, maybe weeks. Even then, your hands may not heal 
properly." 

Ertai tried not to look at his ruined hands. Greven had 
allowed his moggs to crush his fingers with thumbscrews 
after he'd outlasted the branding irons. 

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Nemesis 

"Crovax is leaving this day with a force to destroy the 
rebels," Belbe went on. "If he succeeds, I must name him 
evincar. Once that happens, I can do nothing else for you." 

"He'll have me killed," Ertai said. He looked up at the 
tall soldier holding his left arm. "Wouldn't you think so?" 
The guard nodded. 

Why was he hesitating? So he got an infusion of 
negative energy—so what? He'd handled amounts of such 
power before, on an experimental basis. It was distasteful, 
but he'd suffered no ill effects from it. Power was power. 
Only stumpwater witches and country bumpkins still 
believed types of power were "good" or "bad." 

He had no illusions about becoming Evincar of Rath. 
So absurd was the whole idea, his first response after Belbe 
proposed it was to laugh in her face. The laughter quickly 
died, smothered by the fire in his tormented flesh and the 
look of disappointment on Belbe's face. When she offered 
the option of rapid healing and a far more comfortable 
existence than either a barren cell or a headsman's ax, he 
chose to play along for a while. Once he regained his 
strength, he might be able to escape to Portal Canyon, 
open a gateway to Dominaria, and get back home. At least 
there was a chance ... the loss of such a talented wizard 
would be an infamous crime, a terrible loss to civilization. 

"What do you say?" Belbe asked, breaking in on his 
reverie. "The choice is yours." 

"I suppose I can handle a little," he said. 

"Good." Belbe smiled. Ertai found himself feeling glad 
he'd pleased her. 

The soldiers hoisted the young wizard onto the crystal 
slab. Belbe ordered them back. She fiddled with the 
alignment of the upper focusing crystal, centering the 
stream of power on Ertai's chest. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Don't overdo it," Ertai said, trying to sound 
nonchalant. 

She didn't answer but went to the shielded control 
station to make a few adjustments. "Volrath used this 
infuser to heal experimental animals after he'd surgically 
altered them. On higher settings, it can mutate living 
creatures into drastically different forms." 

Belbe clicked over several switches. "I'm using a lower 
setting in this case," she announced. "Beginning now—" 

With a loud crack, sparks flew from the array of wires 
above the focal crystal. Ertai, helpless because of his 
injuries, could do nothing but watch the fireworks 
overhead. 

"Stand by," Belbe shouted over the throb of the 
machinery. "I'm diverting power from the laboratory 
flowbots." 

One by one, the automatic mechanisms in the lab shut 
down. Jars fell to the floor and smashed, spilling their 
unnatural contents. Horrible odors wafted through the 
room. 

Ertai noticed the focal crystal had begun to glow darkly. 
It was an odd concept, a dark glow, but there was no better 
way to describe the presence of negative energy. He 
expected to see a beam emerge from the stone and touch 
him, but it never did. Instead, the glow got wider and 
darker, gradually blotting out everything else in sight. 

Unlike the power he'd tapped to bring Predator in for a 
crash landing, Ertai discovered this dark energy, in its pure 
form, felt cold. His body felt flooded by ice, and the cold 
spread rapidly through his chest and down his legs. It did 
blot out the pain of his injuries, and for that he was 
grateful. 

With a snap, the surge of power ceased. Ertai pushed up 
on one elbow and saw the laboratory was hip deep in mist. 

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Nemesis 

Each breath he exhaled made sparkling ice crystals in the 
air. 

Belbe appeared, swimming out of the fog. She looked 
disheveled, her hair awry. 

"How do you feel?" she asked. 

"Wonderful." Ertai flexed his hands, formerly crumpled 
like a bundle of broken reeds. "I feel like new—no, better 
than new." 

He hopped off the slab and patted himself all over. His 
burns were gone. His ribs were healed. Even the bruises 
from the beating Predator's sailors had given him were 
gone. 

What about his mind? 

He held up a finger on his right hand, and a tiny flame 
appeared at the tip. Ertai extended the next finger and 
made the little flame leap to it, and then the next finger, 
and so on. It was an elementary magical exercise, one he 
could do since he was a small child. 

By the time the flame had jumped to his fourth finger, 
it flickered and turned orange, then red. It dropped down 
to his pinkie and became purple. When Ertai transferred 
the violet flicker to the thumb of his left hand, the tiny 
flame went jet black. 

He stared at the black flame. 

Belbe watched him. "Are you all right?" 

Ertai snuffed the flame with his other hand. "It's 
nothing," he said. He'd never seen the finger flame change 
color before. He was suffused with dark energy, true, but 
he'd created a yellow flame and not willed it to change. 
That it did so by itself was disturbing. 

Belbe gently pulled his hands apart. "Come, it's time 
you had a proper bath, clean clothes, and food." 

She led him by the hand through the misty lab. On his 
way out, he saw two empty suits of armor standing near the 

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Paul B.Thompson 

door. The men inside, the two guards who'd brought him 

there, were gone. 

"Where are the soldiers?" he said. 

In answer to his own question, Ertai's foot snagged 
something soft. Behind the shelves was a five-foot-long 
gray slug, oozing a trail of iridescent slime across the floor. 
Another monster slug nudged at the base of one of the suits 
of armor. 

"Perhaps I used too high a setting after all," Belbe said 
mildly. 

* * * * * 

The Skyshroud Expeditionary Force tramped down the 
long causeway from the Stronghold, their faces wrapped in 
scarves to keep out the swirling dust. The wind had picked 
up in the past few hours. A Hub reversal was nigh, and that 
always unsettled Rath's weather. The massive device atop 
the Stronghold periodically rotated itself to equalize the 
wear on its energy-focusing apparatus. When the Hub 
turned, rapidly changing winds scoured the surface of Rath. 

Crovax raised another flowstone reviewing stand from 
which to watch his troops march out. He had a total of fifty 
companies, ten thousand men, and ten thousand moggs 
acting as porters, carrying supplies for a sixteen-day 
campaign. Two-thirds of his force was infantry, while the 
other thirty-five hundred men were Rathi cavalry. They 
rode mutant two-legged beasts called kerls, created by 
Volrath as cavalry mounts. It was a powerful force, far 
larger than any sent out by any previous evincar. 

Soldiers marched down the causeway to the plain, 
passing the six corpses twirling in the Hub wind. Moggs 
had stripped the bodies of anything of value, leaving the 
dishonored officers clad only in rags. Confronted by this 

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Nemesis 

sobering display, the Skyshroud Expeditionary Force 
marched out in total silence. 

Crovax fumed as the long column of men and moggs 
slogged by. The troops had no spirit. On Dominaria, an 
army left home singing, with pipes and drums playing 
martial tunes. The army of Rath was a dull, sullen force 
compared to the warriors Crovax remembered. 

When half the column was past his reviewing stand, 
Crovax dissolved the platform and mounted his kerl. He 
took the reins from a mogg who'd held them patiently. 
Crovax spurred his mount, bowling over the mogg and 
sending him rolling in the dust. 

In the vanguard of the army were the twelve 
condemned officers acting as scouts. Behind them rode 
Crovax's orderlies from the Corps of Sergeants. Each 
orderly had a percher on his shoulder. These were another 
of Volrath's creations—pigeon-sized flying creatures with 
leathery blue wings and flaring, trumpet-shaped mouths. 
Perchers understood simple commands and could repeat 
short messages verbatim. They flew back and forth over the 
army, relaying orders. 

Before nightfall the scouts had reached the outpost of 
Chireef. This was a two-story blockhouse situated on the 
edge of a flowstone "sea", a basin consisting of miles and 
miles of flowstone frozen in motionless waves like the 
surface of an ocean. The garrison of Chireef stood ready to 
receive Crovax and his force. 

Crovax and his aides galloped up to the blockhouse in a 
flurry of jingling arms and flapping banners. The 
commander of Chireef, Gunder il-Dal, was plainly stunned 
by the size of the army Crovax brought with him. 

"My lord," he said. "Where are you going with so vast a 
force?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Where I will," Crovax replied curtly. "How are 
conditions between here and the Skyshroud Forest?" 

"Quiet as the grave, my lord." Gunder il-Dal mopped his 
brow, pushing his helmet back to get to his generous 
forehead. "No rebel would dare get so close to the 
Stronghold." 

"Yes, yes. The cavalry needs water for their mounts. 
After they've had their fill, let the moggs drink what they 
can." He reined his black-spotted beast around. 

"Will you be staying the night, gracious lord? I can offer 
what accommodation our humble outpost affords." 

"The column marches all night," Crovax replied. "If in 
two days' time any rebels come your way, I want you to stop 
them. They'll be fleeing their defeat, and I don't want any 
to escape." 

Gunder looked puzzled. "Defeat, my lord?" 

"Yes, the defeat I shall inflict on them." 

The first company of cavalry lined up by a row of spouts 
set high on the walls of the blockhouse. Crovax rode by 
and mentally commanded the valves to open. Out gushed 
fresh water from the blockhouse cisterns. Kerls pushed their 
fleshy faces into stone troughs and lapped the cascading 
water with their flat black tongues. Only yards away, thirsty 
moggs, weighed down by almost two hundred pounds of 
supplies each, licked dry lips and anxiously awaited their 
turn at the troughs. 

* * * * * 

Gunder slowly walked down the line of his troops, 
eyeing them carefully. Chireef had only a normal garrison 
of forty-eight soldiers. Fifty-five were mustered on the 
plain, and that made Gunder nervous. Suppose someone 
noticed? 

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Nemesis 

Crovax and his leading elements swept on, and Gunder 
ordered his men back inside. Once the metal door was 
closed and barred, he pulled off his helmet and poured a 
pitcher of cold water over his profusely sweating head. 

"Wine!" he shouted. "Can someone find me wine?" 

"What's the matter?" asked Eladamri, emerging from 
the shadows. "You should be pleased, Darsett. You've met 
this new warlord Crovax face to face, and he didn't see 
through you or your men." 

Darsett and his Dal followers shed their helmets and 
heaved a collective sigh of relief. Eladamri's raiders had 
taken Chireef by stealth only hours before. They were 
about to set fire to the place when they spotted the huge 
dust cloud raised by Crovax's oncoming army. Rather than 
be caught in the open by a vastly superior force, Eladamri 
kept his warriors inside and sent Darsett out disguised as 
the late commander of the outpost. 

"What do we do now?" Darsett said, peeking through an 
arrow slit to spy on the troops passing by outside. 

"Wait until they're gone," said Eladamri. "Then we'll 
proceed as planned." 

Gallan, who had wrapped his elven hair and ears with a 
scarf to pose as a Dal soldier, said anxiously, "We know 
where they're going, Eladamri!" 

The elf leader nodded. His snakehide armor was 
freckled with blood. He dipped a rag in an open barrel of 
water and dabbed at the stains. 

"Crovax is heading for the forest. He thinks he can 
destroy us by destroying our homes," he said calmly. 

"Are we going to let him?" Gallan demanded. 

"He's welcome to try. Evincars as far back as my 
grandfather's day have tried to impose their rule on us. This 
Crovax seems no wiser than they. In fact, so far he shows 
less wit than the departed Volrath. Our late evincar used 

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Paul B.Thompson 

infiltrators and the airship to hunt us down. His tactics 
were very dangerous, as our losses in the past year show." 
He paused in his scrubbing. "Even my daughter wasn't safe 
in my own house, but we have little to fear from a big, 
blundering mass like that. Where they go, we'll fade away, 
and when they're tired and low on food and water, we'll 
strike." 

He stooped to pick up Gunder il-Dal's helmet, tossed on 
the floor by the nervous Darsett. Upon seeing the grim 
visage of Volrath on the brow of the helmet, Eladamri's 
face darkened with implacable hatred. 

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CHAPTER 7 


BAPTISM 

The army marched all night around the edge of the 
flowstone sea. By daybreak, the men were dragging spears 
and shields in the dust behind them. Moggs, normally 
hardier than humans, were staggering under the burdens 
Crovax had imposed on them. Disciplined formations 
broke down. Gaps appeared in the long column, and still 
Crovax led them on. 

Crovax's hand-picked aides galloped the length of the 
column, cajoling and threatening the men to close ranks 
and move forward. Soon they were faltering too, reeling in 
their saddles like the exhausted cavalry screening the 
army's flanks. Perchers took over their job, relaying 
Crovax's increasingly shrill orders to the rearmost elements 
of the force. 

Crovax's outriders spotted a band of elves on the open 
plain some miles from the forest. They weren't rebels, just a 
hunting party, but the Rathi cavalry rounded them up and 
herded them back to Crovax. 

Tired, his sable armor coated with gray dust, Crovax 
was in a foul mood when the elf prisoners were brought 
before him. They did not cower or beg for mercy from him. 
That annoyed Crovax. Without even asking any questions, 
he ordered five of the eight elves beheaded on the spot. 

The remaining three hunters, ashen-faced, huddled 
together in a circle of Rathi lancers. Crovax willed the 

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flowstone up around their ankles, both to restrain them 
and to demonstrate his mastery of the nanomachines. 

He dismounted and walked over to the eldest elf. 
"Where is Eladamri?" 

The elf, whose white hair was turning amber with age, 
shook his head. "I do not know Eladamri." 

Crovax clasped the elf around his waist and thrust a 
long dagger through his ribs. He held his blade there, 
staring into the eyes of his victim as the elf's blood coursed 
over his feet. 

Crovax withdrew his dagger with a swift jerk, releasing 
at the same time the elder elf's feet from the flowstone. 
The hunter folded like a candle held too near a flame. 

Crovax wiped the blood from his blade with two 
fingers. He stood close to the next prisoner and flung the 
dead elf's blood in his face. 

"Where is Eladamri?" he asked again. 

The second elf held his chin up and shook his head, 
unwilling to answer. Crovax, dagger in hand, crossed in 
front of him. The elf shut his eyes, dreading the thrust he 
thought was coming. Crovax circled behind him while his 
eyes were closed. He put the dagger in his teeth and leaped 
into the air, kicking the elf in the small of his back. 
Because his ankles were held by the flowstone, he couldn't 
fall naturally, and when Crovax bore down on his back 
with all his weight, the elf's legs snapped at the knee. He 
screamed as Crovax stood on his back, unmoved by his 
agony. 

"My lord—" began one of the troopers. 

"The next man who speaks will be given to the moggs," 
Crovax said quietly. 

He squatted on top of the moaning prisoner and asked 
his question again. The elf could only choke in the dust. 

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Nemesis 

Crovax took the prisoner's head in his hands and, in one 
powerful wrench, broke the elf's neck. 

The third prisoner was the youngest, and he openly 
trembled when Crovax approached. 

"Eladamri lives in the village of Sweetwater!" he said, 
unconsciously tugging at his captive feet. "He left there five 
days ago to meet Dal, Kor, and Vec chiefs, to convince 
them to join the rebellion!" 

Crovax's face shone with pleasure. Everyone around 
him assumed he was pleased to finally be getting 
information, but in fact he was in the throes of ecstasy after 
imbibing the life-forces of the two elves he'd killed. He 
smiled at the third elf in a dreamy, languorous way. 

"Where did this meeting take place?" 

"I don't know. I don't know, great lord! Spare me, 
please spare me!" 

Crovax, still smiling, laid a hand on the young elf's 
cheek. "What's your name, boy?" 

"Valin, merciful lord." 

Crovax nodded. He drew back his hand and struck the 
prisoner hard on the jaw. With a crunch of bone, the youth 
fell to the ground unconscious. 

Crovax released the elf from the flowstone. "Chain 
him, and put him in with my personal baggage. He may 
have more information to tell us." 

* * * * * 

Hidden among the "waves" in the flowstone sea, the 
rebels watched the gradual disintegration of Crovax's army 
with satisfaction. Years of soft living inside the Stronghold 
had taken the iron out of the soldiers' legs. Eladamri's 
ardent young followers urged him to make a spoiling attack 
on the column before it reached the Skyshroud Forest. 

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"Not yet," the elf leader said. "It's a long march to the 
forest, and a lot of useful obstacles lie in between." 

"But our homes—our families!" Gallan and the others 
protested. 

"Send word for them to retreat to the tree tops, deeper 
in the forest." 

Word was sent, but the hotheads around Eladamri 
continued to seethe with pent-up frustration. Their anger 
was fanned when they heard about the capture of the 
hunting party. Eladamri's scouts saw the whole episode and 
reported it to their chief. Eladamri received the news 
impassively. 

"We must save the survivor," Gallan urged. 

"He's lost," said Eladamri. "He was lost the instant the 
riders took him." 

"But he lives!" said Cardamel, another of his youthful 
followers. 

"What would you have me do, lose ten to save one? 
That's what our enemy wants us to do." 

"Our people are dying, and we're doing nothing!" 
Gallan said. 

Eladamri swept the remains of their meager lunch from 
the stone around which they sat. "1 shall destroy their 
army. Isn't that enough?" 

"But when?" 

"In less than a day the enemy will reach Skyshroud. By 
then the column will be stretched out halfway back to 
Chireef. We'll hit them before dawn, when most of them 
will be asleep." He threw down a snakeskin scroll and 
added, "Two thousand warriors from Skyshroud, the Dal 
and the Vec, will combine for the attack. If the gods favor 
us, Crovax and his men will be snake food by this time 
tomorrow!" 

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The elves cheered fiercely and clasped each other's 
arms, pledging their lives to victory. Eladamri did not join 
in, but silently left the rock crevice where they'd been 
eating. When he was gone, Cardamel took Gallan aside. 

"Some of the lads want to do something about the 
hunter held by Crovax," he said, his voice low. "His name's 
Valin. He's Firanu's grandson, did you know that?" Gallan 
shook his head. "There's four of us ready to take Valin away 
if you give us leave." 

"I won't go against Eladamri's orders," Gallan replied. 
Car-darnel's face fell. "But if you four should happen to slip 
away tonight, I may not be able to remember where you've 
gone." 

The elves clasped hands. "May the gods bless your 
faulty memory," Cardamel said, grinning. 

* * * * * 

On the underside of the Citadel, near the lava inlet to 
the great flowstone works, Greven il-Vec was supervising 
the repair of his airship. Workmen, mogg labor gangs, and 
flowbot machinery swarmed over the broken hull, slaving 
around the clock to rebuild the ship. 

Greven applied himself to the task at hand. He tried to 
forget his humiliation at the hands of Crovax, tried not to 
think about the fact that the insolent usurper was leading 
the army—his army—against the rebels even now. Greven 
had hunted Eladamri for years, and he respected the elf's 
cunning. He sensed, deep in his much-altered chest, that 
Crovax was courting disaster. Ruthlessness was no 
substitute for experience, and in his own brooding way, 
Greven welcomed the day when Crovax would meet 
defeat. 

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Overhead, a hull frame slipped from the grasp of a 
flowbot crane and crashed to the floor, crushing a pair of 
moggs loitering there. Greven threw down the blueprints 
he was holding and stormed out onto the dock. 

"Dung for brains!" he bellowed. "Don't you know you 
can't hoist a hull frame with just one crane? Use two, you 
worthless worms!" A second flowbot arm lowered and 
grasped the fallen frame. "Now you see, you've bent it!" 
Greven raged. He ordered the damaged frame to be 
returned to the foundry and pounded straight again. 

Greven retrieved the fallen plans. When he 
straightened, he found a slender, ethereal Kor standing not 
two feet in front of him. 

"How did you get in here? What do you want?" 

The Kor pressed a hand to his chest, a gesture of respect 
Kor performed instead of bowing. "Greetings, Dread Lord. 
My name is Furah, of the Fishers of Life." 

Greven knew the tribe; they lived outside the 
Stronghold crater. They were harmless, almost invisible 
people who never troubled the authorities. 

"What is it?" Greven asked impatiently. "I'm quite busy, 
as you can see." 

"Certain information has come to me, information of 
value to you, I believe." 

"About what?" 

"The activities of a certain resident of the outer lands— 
the Skyshroud Forest, perhaps." 

Greven's teeth began to grind. Talking to a Kor was 
like trying to swat flies with a broadsword—things never 
seemed to connect. 

"Speak plainly before 1 have your legs broken!" 

"I speak of the elf Eladamri, Dread Lord." 

"You have news of Eladamri?" Greven tried to take the 
Kor by the arm, but he missed somehow—his hand swept 

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through empty air. Furah stepped back just beyond his 
reach. 

"Forgive me, Dread Lord, but I dislike being touched—a 
quirk common to my people." 

"Get to the point!" 

Furah pressed a hand to his chest again. "Eladamri has 
been trying to enlist the cooperation of the Dal, the Vec, 
and the Kor in his war against you," Furah said. "I myself 
went to a conclave in the forest on behalf of my people." 

"And how was Eladamri's message received?" 

"With great enthusiasm, Dread Lord." 

"But not by you? Why are you informing on them, 
Furah?" 

Behind Greven, a trio of moggs overturned a crucible of 
molten flowstone on their way up a ramp into the airship. 
The liquid stone, immune to commands or programming, 
formed into legions of tiny silver spheres and skittered in 
all directions. Workers who stepped on the flowstone 
slipped and fell, all over the dock. With a snarl, Greven 
left the Kor man and roared for all work to cease. The 
tumultuous airship dock fell silent, save for the hiss of the 
waiting flowbots. 

"Everyone stand still!" Greven shouted, and he was 
heard throughout the dock. "When the stone solidifies, it 
will be safe to move again." 

A tiny silver bead whirled in place at Greven's feet. As 
it cooled, the flowstone slowly flattened into an egg, then a 
disk, and finally spread itself as thin as paper. It lost its 
silver color and took on the patina of whatever substance it 
was lying on. 

"Resume work!" Greven called. The dock exploded 
with activity all over again. 

He turned around, expecting to find the Kor waiting for 
him, but there was no sign of Furah. What should he make 

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Paul B.Thompson 

of this information? If Eladamri had forged an alliance with 
restive elements among the outland Dal and Vec, then the 
simple, annoying elf rebellion could turn into a full-blown 
civil war. 

Crovax ... Crovax had taken half the army on a mogg's 
errand into the worst swamp on Rath. He was expecting to 
trample over a few hundred elves, when in fact he was 
facing an unknown force of much greater size. 

He shouted for his Vec foreman and ordered him to 
keep the repairs going no matter what. 

"Where are you going, Dread Lord?" asked the foreman. 

"To see the emissary." 

He found Belbe in the evincar's suite. She was sitting in 
one of Volrath's grand chairs, watching Ertai wash himself 
in the evincar's ornate bath. 

"Hello, Greven," Ertai said breezily. He sat in steaming 
water up to his hips while a jointed fleshstone appliance 
scrubbed his back with a sodden rag. 

"What in the overlords' name—?" Greven spotted 
Belbe in Volrath's chair, observing Ertai's ablutions. 

"It's called a 'bath,'" Belbe said. "Evidently a custom 
among humans. The ritual serves both as relaxation and 
hygiene." 

"I know what a bath is, Excellency." Greven's molars 
were ready to pulverize iron at that moment. "Why is this 
enemy of Rath, this prisoner, in the royal bath?" 

"Because I was dirty," Ertai replied. "It's hardly fitting 
for a sorcerer of my skills and a candidate for evincar to go 
around smelling like one of your moggs." 

Words failed Greven completely. He spread his 
powerful hands and looked to Belbe for enlightenment. 

"It's true," she said. "Crovax, while presenting excellent 
qualifications, cannot be the sole candidate. It wouldn't be 
efficient to award the position to him without competition. 

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Nemesis 

Since Ertai has demonstrated outstanding magical ability, 
including some untutored influence over flowstone, it's 
efficient to offer him a chance to try for the job as well." 

Belbe descended from the high chair. She was clad in a 
large, belted scarlet tabard that flowed from her shoulders 
like a cape and swept to the floor. Against the 
monochrome decor, she blazed like a flame. 

"Which reminds me, Lord Greven. Would you like to 
be considered for evincar as well? You have many years of 
effective service on your side and manifest talents for the 
job." 

There it was, plainly stated at last. Greven had 
pondered this possibility since Volrath's departure, and he 
knew what his answer must be. 

"Thank you, Excellency, but I must decline," he said. 

"As you choose, but why?" 

"I'm content to remain a loyal servant of the throne." 

"It would mean the end of the control rod." 

"I've considered that. I served Volrath for many years, 
and I've seen firsthand the effect unfettered power had on 
him. I would rather be the blade than the hand that wields 
it." 

Ertai plucked the washcloth from the fleshstone 
scrubber's soft claw. He wiped his face with it and said, 
"Why is that?" 

He could not explain his past to these—children. 
Greven had once been en-Vec, a leader of a great warrior 
nation. Treachery and jealousy cost him his position, his 
clan, and his life. With no other recourse but ignominious 
death, he fell into the hands of Volrath and became il-Vec, 
the hated outcast. 

He said simply, "Because the victim curses his killer, 
not the blade that cuts him." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Blades have no choice who they cut. Men do," Ertai 
replied. 

"I have given my answer!" Greven thundered. He 
struggled for calm in the presence of the emissary. 
"Excellency, I have news of grave import." Greven 
recounted his odd conversation with Furah. Belbe listened 
while walking around the edge of the tiled bathing pool. 

"You believe Crovax has led his army into a trap?" she 
asked after some contemplation. 

"I do, Excellency." 

"How would you remedy this situation?" 

"I doubt I could reach Crovax with a relief force before 
the rebels strike," Greven said. "Worse, Crovax would 
probably commandeer any companies I brought, enlarging 
Eladamri's bag of killed or captured." 

"That sounds like him," Ertai said, digging at his ear 
with the washcloth. 

Greven ignored him. "I can, if Your Excellency desires, 
puttogether a force and go to Crovax's aid," he said. "I can 
have a scratch force prepared in two hours." 

"No," said Belbe. 

"No?" Greven and Ertai asked together. 

"This expedition is Crovax's audition, his way of 
proving he is strong enough to be evincar. Very well, let 
him prove it. If your informant is correct, Crovax faces a 
more skillful enemy than he imagines. This is his chance to 
prove his mettle." 

"Cold," muttered Ertai. When Belbe asked him to 
repeat himself, he said, "The water's gone cold." 

"Then get out," snapped Greven. 

Ertai looked from the hulking warrior to the gamine 
emissary and shook his head. "I can wait." 

Greven gritted his teeth, then he continued. "We may 
lose many soldiers, Excellency." 

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Nemesis 

"Yes." 

"And valuable arms, and a host of moggs." 

"Quite possibly." 

"Does any of this concern Your Excellency?" 

"What matters in a test of strength is who wins," Belbe 
said. She paused, looking into the pool where Ertai sat. Her 
crimson-draped reflection wavered with every ripple of the 
water. "Victory belongs to the strong." 

"Don't forget luck and brains," Ertai added. "The 
strongest wrestler may fall if he slips up—and a smart 
fighter provides his own bar of soap." So saying, he 
squeezed the cake of soap in his fist. It squirted free, 
landing at Greven's feet. He kicked the perfumed bar back 
into the tub. 

"So, I am to do nothing?" Greven asked once the 
metaphors had settled down. 

"Put the garrison on alert," Belbe said. "And try to trace 
this Furah—if he spies on his friends, he may be spying on 
us as well." 

"I fear insurrection should Crovax be defeated," Greven 
said gravely. "There are thousands of Dal in the crater city, 
and thousands more Vec and Kor below the Citadel. I 
don't think the shorthanded garrison could defend the 
Citadel in the face of a general uprising." 

"Hostages," said Ertai. 

"What?" Belbe and Greven questioned in unison. 

"Take hostages from the leading families of the Vec, 
Dal, and Kor," Ertai said. "That way they'll not be inclined 
to act up, should the worst happen." 

Greven was inwardly surprised. This cocky boy, not 
long ago his helpless victim, had hit upon a real stratagem. 
Was he a serious contender for evincar after all? 

"A useful idea. Dorian il-Dal knows the people in the 
Stronghold. Have him work out who will be taken and how 

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Paul B.Thompson 

many from each race," Belbe looked up from the tub. "Lord 
Greven, you will round up hostages as Ertai has suggested. 
Be firm, but don't rough them up. Hold them in a secure 
place until Crovax's fate is known." 

"It shall be done, Your Excellency." With that, the 
stalwart warrior departed. 

* * * * * 

Once Greven was gone, Belbe sat down on the edge of 
the bath and dipped her bare feet in the water. She smiled 
with delight at the sensation, swishing her feet back and 
forth in the suds. 

Suddenly she stopped. "This water's still warm." 

Ertai slipped carefully through the shallow pool until he 
could lean on the edge beside her. 

"Belbe," he said confidentially. "Whatever happens, 
don't let anyone hurt the hostages." 

"Why? If no threat is perceived, taking hostages has no 
strategic value." 

He laid a damp hand on her knee. She froze, shocked 
by the sudden, intimate contact. "If you hurt the hostages, 
you really will have a civil war on your hands." 

"Then why did you suggest it?" 

He looked around furtively. "May I speak freely?" She 
nodded. "It's part of my plan to become evincar." 

"I don't understand." 

Ertai lowered his voice further. "Past evincars ruled by 
fear, yes? Fear of death, fear of soldiers, fear of the overlords 
and their machines? I won't rule that way, Belbe. Should I 
become evincar, it will be with the support and acclaim of 
the people, not through terror. If Crovax wins his battle, I 
want to present the hostages their freedom. If he loses, I 
want to save them from Greven's revenge." 

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Nemesis 

There was no sound but the drip, drip of water from the 
flowstone spigot. The humidity was such that Belbe's hair 
relaxed, and dew formed on her cool skin. 

"Rulership is imposed, not granted," she recited, as if 
reading a text. 

"Tyranny is imposed," Ertai countered. "Freedom is the 
will of the people." 

"Freedom—a lack of political or social control. Also 
known as anarchy, democracy, or mob rule." 

Ertai pushed away. He waded to the opposite end of the 
pool where a heap of towels and a dressing gown lay. He 
glanced back once out of self-consciousness, then climbed 
out of the bath. Belbe did not look at him. She stared 
blankly at the lapping water. 

"I forget who you are, where you come from," he said, 
even though she wasn't listening. "You don't understand 
anything but brute force, do you?" 

On a hunch, he read her aura. To his surprise, she was 
not so dark as Crovax or Greven. Belbe had a streak of 
violence in her makeup, but radiating outward from her 
physical self were the bright coronas of other attributes— 
passion, intelligence, reason. The strongest force at work in 
Belbe was curiosity—an interesting discovery. 

Ertai tied the sash of the gown tightly around his waist. 
His fingers twinged from the effort, as if from rheumatism. 
Not fully healed, he mused. Perhaps he should visit 
Volrath's laboratory later for another infusion. That would 
make his studies in magical flowstone manipulation go 
much easier. 

"Good night, Belbe," he said. 

Still pondering, she didn't answer. 

* * * * * 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Night fell, and Crovax allowed the army to halt its 
headlong advance. The Hub had completed a half-
revolution that night, and wind from its motion whipped 
through the camp in heavy, humid gusts. On the horizon, 
the dark profile of the Skyshroud forest beckoned. 
Tomorrow the army would penetrate the forest. 

In his tent, Crovax received the reports of his scouts. Of 
the twelve condemned officers, only eight had returned 
from the forest to relate what they found. The other four 
entered and were never seen again. 

"Large sections of the forest are impassable, my lord," 
said one scout. He was coated head to toe in sticky gray 
mud. "The ground below the forest canopy is very swampy 
and entirely unpredictable in depth. I walked for a mile in 
knee-deep water, then without warning, stepped in a hole 
deeper than my head." 

"So the swamp is a swamp," Crovax said dryly. "Thank 
you for that valuable information! How do the elves 
traverse the Skyshroud? The hunting party we captured 
hadn't a speck of mud on them." 

Another scout saluted. "They use the trees, my lord. I 
saw bridges made of vines connecting tree to tree." 

"They may use trees for small groups, but I can't believe 
they use them exclusively," Crovax said. "There must be 
dry paths built up above the level of the swamp. I want 
them found." A jingling sound from the next compartment 
distracted him. He glanced that way and added, "Find me a 
way into the forest. I don't care if it takes all night, you 
hear? Find it!" 

The filthy, fatigued soldiers saluted and filed out. When 
they were gone, Crovax dismissed the guards from the door 
and sent his aides to inspect the camp. Once alone, he 
went to the large brass-bound hamper in the corner of the 

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Nemesis 

tent and threw back the lid. A thin scrap of tapestry inside 

squirmed. Crovax slowly lifted the cloth. 

"Hello," he said. 

He reached in and dragged out the elf prisoner, Valin. 
The youth's hands and feet were chained, and a strip of rag 
gagged his mouth. Crovax sat down on a pile of carpets and 
regarded his prisoner. 

"Do you believe in curses, boy?" he said. Valin could 
only grunt in reply. "You should believe—they're real. 
Somewhere in the distant past, my family was cursed by the 
gift of an amulet. My ancestors thought it was just an 
heirloom, but it held a captive angel inside, who served our 
family for generations." 

His tone was so measured, so reasonable, Valin regained 
his composure. He sat up with his back against the hamper, 
cradling his shackles in his lap. 

"Her name was—well, it doesn't matter. Suffice to say, I 
destroyed the amulet out of anger, and the angel was freed 
because of me. She fell under Volrath's spell and fought for 
his cause until I was able to find her again. We fought. I 
killed her.... As my family's heir, my soul was bound to 
hers, though I didn't know it. When she died, part of me 
died with her. That was the curse, you see—that my life 
should continue only by the death of others," 

Crovax poured wine into a heavy silver goblet. "At first 
I was devastated by her loss, but I know now that Selenia's 
death was a necessary part of my evolution. The overlords 
instructed me. They changed what seemed like a foolish 
tragedy into the source of my strength. I know now the 
path of greatness is strewn with corpses. I'll pave my way 
with as many dead bodies as it takes." 

He downed the wine in a gulp and let the cup fall to 
the carpet. The flowstone lanterns in the room dimmed. 
Crovax stood, his eyes glowing pale red. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"They blotted out my feelings to cure me of my 
weakness," Crovax said flatly. "Funny, the changes carry 
over to so many small things ... wine has no taste anymore. 
Eating is just exercise for my jaws. The only food I crave 
now is the life inside other living things. So far, I've only 
tasted life from the dying. Tonight I'll dine on the living." 

Valin's eyed widened in terror. He struggled to stand 
and run, even though he was hobbled by thick chains. 
Crovax watched him thrash toward the door. In two steps 
he caught the elf and seized him by the back of the neck. 

"It's an honor, really," Crovax whispered in his ear. "At 
least I know your name, Valin. The thousands who follow 
you will be as anonymous as cattle." 

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Nemesis 

CHAPTER 8 


FAILURE 

Four shadows slipped through the wire grass. Wrapped 
head to toe in dark gray cloth, they were armed with short-
shafted spears, cut down to allow for fast handling in tight 
places. The four elves were going to a tight place indeed: 
the camp of the Skyshroud Expeditionary Force. 

Cardamel and his comrades Kameko, Darian, and 
Sanyu, dropped to the ground side-by-side a dozen yards 
from the picket line. Every few minutes a pair of kerlmounted 
men rode by. In between the mounted patrols, 
two foot soldiers marched past in the opposite direction. 
Barely thirty seconds passed between the concentric rings 
of sentries. Not much time to run twenty yards and stop 
somewhere out of sight. "Let's take out the men on foot," 
Kameko suggested. Even close together, it was hard to hear 
each other. The wind was up and would stay up until the 
Hub ceased rotating. 

"The first riders to miss them will sound the alarm," 
Cardamel said. 

"So what do we do?" asked Sanyu. 

Cardamel eyed the long rows of tents. If they could 
reach them, there were plenty of dark places to skulk there. 

"We'll have to do it one at a time," he said. "Run 
straight for the tent line and hide until the last one crosses 
over." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

No one had any better idea, so Cardamel's approach 
was adopted. After the next pair of kerls clopped by, he 
sprinted for the tents. Massed campfires inside the camp 
robbed the night of its cloak of black, and Cardamel knew 
he was highlighted against the sky. He ran for all he was 
worth and slid to a stop between two tents, just as the 
paired foot soldiers appeared around the curve. 

"He made it," said Kameko. "I'm next!" 

Kameko sprinted into Cardamel's arms, and they 
hugged the dirt as the next patrol came by. 

Darian rubbed dust on his hands and crouched in the 
tall grass, ready to run. The cavalrymen passed, and Sanyu 
slapped him on the back. 

"Go!" 

Darian wasn't much of a runner, but he was a leaper. 
He was six feet from the tents when the foot guards 
appeared, so he gathered himself and jumped headlong into 
the shadows with his friends. 

One of the Rathi soldiers unslung his crossbow. "What 
was that?" 

"What? I didn't see anything," said his partner. 

"You didn't see something hurtle across, right there?" 

"No. What was it?" 

"I don't know. Kind of big—a bird, maybe." The soldier 
licked his lips. "Fresh meat would be great! We could roast 
it when we got off duty." 

He left the path and probed cautiously into the 
shadows, bow leveled. His partner waited at the perimeter. 

"Hurry up," he said. "We'll be punished for leaving the 
path!" 

"Here, birdie," chirped the Dal soldier. 

Kameko rose up and snatched the crossbow from the 
astonished man's hands. Cardamel clamped a hand over his 
mouth and dragged him into the darkness. Darian shoved a 

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Nemesis 

knife under the hungry soldier's breastplate, and he stopped 
struggling. 

"Come on," called the waiting sentry. "We'll get in 
trouble." 

Kameko raised the crossbow and put an iron-tipped 
quarrel through the second sentry's throat. Sanyu burst out 
of hiding, grabbed the dead soldier's feet, and dragged his 
body to the tents just as the next mounted patrol appeared. 

Cardamel thought fast. He donned the bird hunter's 
helmet and cloak, took the crossbow from Kameko, and 
stepped out into the open. 

One of the oncoming riders called, "Sentry! What are 
you doing?" 

"I had to answer nature," Cardamel replied. 

The riders snorted derisively. "Where's your partner?" 

Sanyu was ready for this question. He donned the other 
guard's helmet and cloak and stepped out beside Cardamel, 
shaking a leg as he went. 

"Ah!" he said broadly. "I needed that!" 

The riders spurred on. The two elves kept their faces 
averted under the helmet brims. 

"Peasants," said one rider as they trotted by. "Stick to 
your assigned route! You've seen what Lord Crovax does to 
those who fail in their duty!" 

"We know," Sanyu muttered. 

Before the next patrol came, the elves conferred. They 
had no choice. Cardamel and Sanyu would have to walk 
post for the dead sentries, or the game was up. 

"It'll work," Cardamel said. "Once you find Valin, come 
back here and wait until you see us march by—then you'll 
know it's safe." 

"How will we know which sentries are you?" asked 
Darian. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Wait at this exact spot," Cardamel explained. "Each 
time I march by here, I'll tap the bow against my helmet 
like this." He tapped out a ping-ping, ping-ping sound against 
his helm. "Then you'll know it's us." 

They ran to catch up to where the sentries were 
supposed to be, leaving Darian and Kameko to rescue 
Valin. 

The camp was very large, and the elves had to make 
certain assumptions if they hoped to find their brother elf. 
A prisoner held for interrogation would likely be near the 
commander of the army—Crovax, in other words. Crovax's 
quarters would be the largest in camp, probably in the 
center of the sea of tents. 

The elves made for the heart of the enemy camp, 
skirting bright campfires and small groups of moggs. The 
soldiers were dead tired from marching all night and all 
day, so most of the tents were full of snoring men. 

Kameko crouched between two tents and pointed 
ahead. The center of the camp was an open square, dotted 
with posts newly sunk in the ground. Several Rathi soldiers 
were tied to posts. Their bare, bloody backs were mute 
evidence of the floggings they'd received, no doubt for 
some petty violation of army rules. A tall Vec soldier with 
sergeant's insignia on his helmet was directing the 
distribution of water to the punished soldiers. 

"A provost! If we grab him, he'll know where Valin is," 
Kameko said. Darian nodded. 

They watched the sergeant tick off that each flogged 
soldier had received a dipper of water, then he rolled up his 
scroll and made to leave. The elves flitted between tents 
ahead of him, and when he turned off the main path to 
reach his bedroll for the night, they tackled him high and 
low. 

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Nemesis 

The sergeant fought, but Darian pressed a snakebone 
dirk against his windpipe. 

Kameko hissed, "Be still or die!" The Vec soldier 
stopped fighting but remained tense, ready to spring. 
"Where's the elf prisoner? Where is Valin?" "Elf prisoner?" 
repeated the sergeant loudly. Kameko nicked him with the 
dirk for being noisy. 

"Do that again and you'll have a second mouth in your 
neck! Where's the elf prisoner?" 

The sergeant smiled. "In Lord Crovax's quarters." His 
smirk infuriated Darian, who punched the sergeant hard in 
the gut. "Take us there! If you give us away, you'll be the 
first to die!" 

The two elves followed the sergeant to a complex of 
conjoined tents in the northeast corner of the square. 
There were no guards at the entrance. The sergeant ducked 
inside. Kameko and Darian followed, and Kameko pulled 
the sergeant back. 

"If this is your commander's tent, why are there no 
guards?" he said. 

"Lord Crovax doesn't require them." The elves 
exchanged looks. "Do you want to find him or not?" 

Darian shoved the sergeant forward. "Go on." The tent 
was a maze of flaps and canvas rooms. It seemed deserted 
until Kameko heard a sigh emanating from an adjoining 
room. Using the Vec soldier as a shield, he pushed into the 
room. The sergeant promptly stumbled over a body on the 
floor. 

"Kameko, look!" 

Stretched out on the carpet was the young hunter 
Valin, empty eyes staring at the ceiling. The sergeant had 
fallen to his knees, but in the center of the room, sitting 
slumped on a heap of carpets, was Crovax himself. He 
looked passed-out drunk. 

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Kameko knelt by the dead elf. There were no signs of 
violence on him, no blood, no bruises. 

Crovax did not react at all to the intruders. Darian 
rushed forward, ready to kill the enemy commander where 
he sat. His blade went up but froze there. 

"Kameko ..." 

The elves looked into Crovax's face. A strange, rosy 
light shone in his open eyes, even though they were rolled 
back in his head. Thin vapor, like breath on a cold 
morning, trickled from his open mouth. His teeth appeared 
sharp, like those of a wolf or a shark, and his body was 
larger and stronger than it had looked when the elves had 
seen him for the first time back at Chireef. Worst of all, 
something was moving under Crovax's skin—small bumps 
in the flesh of his face moved about of their own volition. 

The forgotten sergeant threw himself on Darian. Down 
they went in a heap, grappling for the elf's bare knife. 
Kameko was about to help his friend when the seemingly 
inert Crovax grabbed him by the wrist. 

"Darian! Help!" 

Darian had his own problems. The Vec sergeant was 
strong and outweighed him by thirty pounds. Darian raked 
the Vec's cheek with his knife tip, drawing blood. The 
sergeant responded with several pounding blows to the 
face, and Darian saw the room swimming away in a black 
haze. 

Crovax lifted his head. He pursed his lips and 
whistled—a slow, eerie tune. Kameko drew his knife with 
his left hand, but before he could thrust it through a joint 
in Crovax's armor, the enemy commander effortlessly 
crushed his wrist. Bones snapped and ground together, a 
sickening sound. Kameko screamed and fell to his knees, 
dropping his knife. 

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* * * * * 


Marching side by side in their stolen helmets and 
cloaks, Cardamel and Sanyu heard shouting inside the 
camp. All the cavalry on the perimeter turned and galloped 
down paths between the tents, toward the center of the 
camp. 

"What do we do?" Sanyu asked. 

"Keep walking. We're sentries—we can't leave our 
post," Cardamel replied. 

After much shouting and dashing about, a percher 
appeared, flapping its narrow wings and blaring the message 
given to it. 

"Assassins! Assassins have tried to kill the commander! 
Two elves are caught! More may be around! Stand your 
ground! Assassins! Assassins ..." 

"We've got to get out of here," Cardamel said, throwing 
down the crossbow. 

"But our comrades—" 

"Our comrades are dead, and we will be too if we don't 
leave now!" 

They bolted for the wire grass. Twenty-five yards away, 
four kerl riders spotted them and gave chase. The elves 
split up, Cardamel running to the right and Sanyu to the 
left. Two riders followed each fugitive. Cardamel knew he 
couldn't outrun the tireless kerls, so after topping a slight 
rise, he whirled and drew the short spear off his back. He 
knelt on one knee and braced the spear with his foot. 

The first rider came tearing over the hill and plowed 
right into Cardamel's spear. The kerl made a flat, bleating 
sound and heeled over, greasy green blood gushing from its 
chest. The rider hit the ground heavily and lay stunned. 
Cardamel planted a foot on the thrashing kerl's chest and 
yanked out his spear. The second rider hauled on his reins, 

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twisting his beast away from the fallen kerl. Cardamel 
leaned back and cast his spear. It caught the cavalryman in 
the chest. His armor saved him, but the impact knocked 
him backward off the kerl's abbreviated rump. Before he 
could rise and call for help, Cardamel cut his throat. 

Running for all he was worth, Cardamel despaired. 
Kameko and Darian lost—Valin was as good as lost. He 
prayed Sanyu would evade pursuit and make it back to 
Eladamri. 

He ran more than a mile before he felt safe enough to 
check behind him. Wire grass whipped in the Hub wind, 
but there were no signs of further pursuit. Weary, Cardamel 
slumped to his knees. His bold plan was in ruins, and his 
brave comrades sacrificed. What a terrible farce! 

"Get up." 

He looked up into the grim face of Eladamri. Cardamel 
opened his mouth to speak, but the rebel leader cut him off 
with a curt wave of his hand. 

"Save your entreaties! You disobeyed me, Cardamel! 
How many warriors did you lose on your mogg's errand?" 

Mutely Cardamel held up three fingers. 

"So. That's the price we've paid for your night of 
foolishness." 

Just then a courier ran up. "Eladamri! Eladamri, a 
message from Tant Jova!" He handed the elf leader a square 
of cloth on which the Vec matriarch had penned a note. 
Eladamri read it and hurled the scrap into Cardamel's face. 

"Worse news! Your bungling has raised a general alarm 
in the enemy camp, and their cavalry have found the Vec 
warriors hiding at the edge of the swamp! All our 
preparations are in jeopardy!" 

Miserable, Cardamel drew his knife. He sat there, 
despondently fingering the blade. Eladamri took it away 
from him. 

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"There's no point in dying now," he said evenly. 
"There's fighting to be done." 

Cardamel looked at his leader. "May I go in the 
vanguard?" Eladamri nodded, and gave him back his knife. 

The clamor of distant combat grew until it overcame 
the constant wind. It was not yet midnight, hours before 
the planned attack, but all of a sudden the elves had a 
major battle on their hands. 

* * * * * 

Ertai slid off the crystal base of the power infuser. His 
formerly aching body felt supple and fit after a few minutes 
of exposure to the power stream. Cracking his knuckles, he 
tried the passing fire exercise again. This time the tiny 
flame was black from the start, even though he willed a 
yellow flame. He snuffed the ebon flicker and for a moment 
had the frightening thought that the treatments would 
alter him permanently, like the unfortunate guards who 
first brought him there. 

Scrounging around the laboratory, he found a metal 
tray among Volrath's equipment and anxiously studied his 
reflection in it. It was still Ertai who gazed back at him— 
wasn't it? Same shock of blond hair, same flat nose, same 
weak chin. He thrust his jaw forward as he often had when 
he was a boy, trying to correct the receding line of his chin. 
It sank back into place when he relaxed. Same old Ertai. 

He was glad to be healed. His talent was too valuable to 
waste on a meaningless death, but he wondered what sort 
of bargain he'd made. Could he really become ruler of an 
entire world? Ruling Rath could not be a comfortable 
position. Mysterious overlords above and seething 
revolution below—no, being evincar was no job for a sane 

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man. Let Crovax have it. Sanity was not a handicap 
Crovax enjoyed. 

His stomach growled. Meals were a problem in the 
Citadel. Belbe never ate, and neither did Greven. Of 
course, he was sure he didn't want to see what—or who— 
Greven il-Vec ate. But hungry he was, so he returned to 
Volrath's study deep in the laboratory. Amidst the bizarre 
apparatus and dripping, vile-smelling beakers was an island 
of cabinets, chairs, and a monumental desk. A dark, 
polished wood cabinet looked promising, and the lock 
broke easily when he applied a psychokinetic spell. It 
contained a number of obvious wine bottles and some 
paper-wrapped bundles that Ertai assumed were food. The 
bundles contained hard yellow biscuits. He sat down in one 
of Volrath's many oversized chairs and nibbled a biscuit 
experimentally. It was dry and slightly salty but better than 
nothing. 

Ertai propped his feet up on a misshapen mogg skull 
lying on the floor. Marks on the bony cranium revealed the 
former master of Rath once had the same habit. 

What was his best course of action? Crovax would 
likely murder him given the slightest provocation, likewise 
Greven. Belbe was friendly enough but cold as ice. If it 
served her mission for him to die, he wasn't sure she would 
object. 

The cracker gone, he began on another. There was still 
the Phyrexian transplanar device in Portal Canyon. If he 
could get there, Ertai knew he could operate it. Trouble 
was, Portal 

Canyon was a long way from the Stronghold. Getting 
there was a problem, and getting there without being 
stopped was an even bigger conundrum. 

The only course, as he saw it, was to continue to play 
along with Belbe. That way he had the freedom of the 

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Nemesis 

Citadel and could improve his magical knowledge and his 
control of flowstone. Then, when the time was right, he'd 
get to Portal Canyon. 

"There you are." 

Ertai saw Belbe standing nearby. Lost in thought, he 
hadn't noticed her arrival. 

"What are you doing?" she said. 

"Contemplating my options." 

She pointed. "What's that?" 

"Food. Do you want some?" He handed her the package, 
now half empty. 

"I don't eat," Belbe said, sniffing a biscuit. "Where did 
you find these?" 

"In there. Volrath must have kept them on hand for 
snacks." 

"Volrath was energy sufficient, like me. He didn't need 
to eat." She read the Phyrexian script on the biscuit 
wrapper. "I'm sure he never ate this." 

"Why?" asked Ertai. "What is it?" 

" 'Mogg wafers,' it says." 

Ertai grimaced. "This is mogg food?" 

"No, it's made of moggs. I imagine Volrath fed these 
wafers to his experimental animals." 

* * * * * 

Crovax emerged from his stupor to find three dead elves 
in his tent, Sergeant Tharvello wounded, and his entire 
staff ranting about a night attack by the rebels. He shouted 
for silence. 

"Send the First Cavalry Company to fend off the 
rebels," Crovax said. "Hold the Third and Fourth Cavalry 
in reserve, north of camp. Get the infantry and moggs 
moving. I want a standard echelon formation with no more 

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Paul B.Thompson 

than ten yards between each company. String the moggs 
out in front as skirmishers. What is the strength of the 
enemy?" 

"Unknown," said Nasser. "The scouts estimate more 
than a hundred, all on foot." 

"It may be a diversion," Crovax said. "Maintain a sharp 
watch on other fronts. To your posts!" 

He stepped over the corpses without a second look. 
Tharvello, his face bleeding, went to his company without 
any questions or thanks from his commander. 

Crovax emerged from camp and stalked quickly 
through the wire grass. The night was tinged cobalt by the 
distant glow of the Stronghold's energy column. Overhead 
the clouds swirled in a wide spiral pattern, flashes of green 
lightning arcing from one band of clouds to another. 

A cavalry officer galloped in, his lance bloody. "My 
lord! The enemy is retreating to the swamp!" 

"Who are they? What were they doing?" Crovax 
demanded. 

"They're Vec, my lord. Our riders first spotted them 
crawling through the grass toward the camp." 

"Vec? So Eladamri has allies. No matter. Harry them to 
the forest edge, Captain, but don't enter the swamp. There 
may be more of them lying in wait for just such a move." 

The captain saluted and galloped away. 

Crovax called for his kerl. Behind him, the 
Expeditionary Force was drawing up on the plain in a 
checkerboard formation. Each block represented a troop of 
fifty men, and four blocks made a company. Moggs formed 
a ragged line ahead of the regular troops. The Rathi battle 
formation was a mile long from west to east, with the camp 
nestled behind the center of the line. The balance of 
Crovax's cavalry was positioned north of the tents, in 
reserve. 

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Nemesis 

Crovax rode out to see the actual fighting. In the eerie 
half-darkness, the Rathi cavalry was circling small groups of 
Vec warriors, who popped up now and then to throw 
hatchets or stone-tipped spears at the kerls and riders. 
Crovax saw a stone spearhead shatter on a cavalryman's 
shield and laughed. 

"Move in on them!" Crovax cried. "They're just 
savages! They're using stone spears! What are you, a gang 
of moggs?" Stung by his taunts, the cavalry overran the 
Vec, lancing nomad warriors right and left. Groups of Vec 
not yet engaged began to run for the swamp, half a mile 
away. 

Crovax slumped in his saddle. This was no contest. 
"Recall the troopers," he said. Perchers took to the air, 
screeching his orders. 

Nasser approached and Crovax called to him. "Any 
movement on other fronts?" 

"No, my lord. I've sent scouts out in all directions. They 
report no rebels in sight." 

They rode together back to the battle line. To Crovax's 
surprise, the soldiers in the front ranks raised a ragged 
cheer. 

"They've changed their tune," he said. 

"All soldiers want is victory," Nasser replied. 

The wind died for the first time in many hours. A 
fragile stillness ensued. The night grew darker as the clouds 
spread apart, filling the whole sky. A series of wavering 
orange lights appeared on the plain north of the Rathi 
camp. Far away, the Hub reversed its rotation, sending a 
fresh wind rushing from the north. It arrived on the 
battlefield heavy with the odor of smoke. 

"Campfires?" Nasser wondered. Crovax stood in his 
stirrups. A smear of white smoke rolled down the plain. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

With his enhanced eyes he could plainly see his reserve 

cavalry silhouetted against the wind-driven cloud. 

"Something's wrong." 

Flames leaped skyward from the dry prairie. The plain 
north of the camp was on fire, and the wind's change of 
direction was propelling the flames toward Crovax's army. 

"Face about!" Crovax shouted. "The enemy's behind 
us!" 

Elves, whirling torches around their heads, ran through 
the high grass, applying brands to the thickly growing 
weeds. Now a wall of flame a mile long came sweeping 
toward Crovax. Behind it were more than a thousand elf 
warriors. 

The cavalry kerls were dumb beasts, bred for endurance 
and passivity, but they would not stand in the way of fire. 
Two cavalry companies milled about in confusion as their 
mounts bleated in growing terror. Reluctantly, Crovax 
ordered them out of the way and sent the infantry 
marching back through the camp to meet the enemy. 
Tents and stacks of equipment disrupted the tight battle 
formation. The formal checkerboard broke down into 
streams of soldiers, leaning forward into the wind and 
smoke. 

The gap between the Rathi soldiers and the elves closed 
to a few yards. Tents were burning all along the north side 
of the camp. Behind the smoke and flames, the elves 
hurled salvoes of spears. Their snakefang tips were keen, 
and though they didn't always pierce Rathi armor, they did 
find enough chinks to inflict casualties on the advancing 
infantry. When the soldiers slowed under the hail of spears, 
the fire caught up to them. The lead ranks wavered and 
began to fall back. Moggs were already scampering through 
the camp, hooting in alarm. 

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Nemesis 

"Why are they retreating? I ordered no withdrawal!" 
Crovax shouted. 

"Men can't fight in a fire," Nasser said. "We must 
abandon the camp!" 

"Give up the camp to rebels? Never!" 

He spurred forward, trampling men and moggs who got 
in his way. A wave of fire was inundating the tents and had 
almost reached the center of camp. Soldiers staked in the 
square for punishment screamed for help as the flames 
advanced. Some of their comrades tried to reach them, but 
the conflagration rapidly engulfed the area, turning the 
square into an enormous funeral pyre. 

Crovax held his shield over his head to ward off the 
rain of elven spears. His kerl blubbered and pranced, 
anxious to escape the flames. Crovax ignored the 
protesting beast, standing in his stirrups and staring 
through the fire for a glimpse of Eladamri and his rebels. 

Commander or not, the kerl had had enough. It lay 
down, rubbed Crovax off, bounded to its feet and galloped 
away, bleating. He didn't have time to curse the stupid 
beast before flames washed over him. He threw an arm over 
his face and waited for the searing pain. 

It never came. Crovax felt the heat, but it never crossed 
his threshold of pain. Pleased, he jumped to his feet. The 
fire had passed him, still propelled by the Hub wind. 

In the flickering light, hundreds of lightly armed elves 
darted in and out, lofting their spears over the advancing 
fire. Roaring, Crovax charged into the nearest group, 
slashing at them with his sword. Every elf evaded his blade, 
melting back into the darkness beyond the firelight. 

"I am Crovax! Crovax of Urborg!" he bellowed. "Come 
out, Eladamri, and fight me face to face!" 

* * * * * 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Less than thirty yards away, Eladamri saw Crovax 
striding about, shouting and waving his sword. The rebel 
leader simply watched Crovax rave. 

"Will you fight him?" Gallan asked. 

"Look at him," Eladamri said. "He's utterly mad." 

"He's the enemy commander. Why don't you kill him?" 

Eladamri leaned on his spear shaft. "Did you see what 
he did? He fell from his animal, wallowed in the fire and 
got up, unhurt. He's not flesh and blood—he's been 
altered, like Volrath. He's not going to fall to a snakefang 
spear." He laid his spear on his shoulder. "It's time we put 
an end to this battle. Lord Crovax will have to wait 
another day to die." 

Eladamri put a hand to his mouth and uttered a loud, 
trilling cry. It was echoed by the throats of a thousand elves 
along the battle line. The sound halted Crovax's futile 
ranting, and he turned his back on the elves, walking 
swiftly back to his singed and shaken troops. 

Elves circled wide around the western flank of the 
burning camp. There Darsett waited with over four 
hundred Dal in full battle gear. Beside him was Tant Jova 
and the main Vec force, three hundred strong, most armed 
with Rathi weapons scrounged from Crovax's fallen 
soldiers. Eladamri whacked Darsett on the back and clasped 
hands with Tant Jova. 

"Time to wash our spears in enemy blood," he said. 

The three rebel elements swept forward, shouting, 
screaming, banging their weapons on their shields. To the 
Rathi infantry, it seemed as if an entirely new enemy force 
sprang out of the darkness and hurled itself on them. The 
flustered Stronghold troops formed a hollow square and 
fended off waves of rebel attacks, the dead and wounded 
piling up deeper each time a fresh attack broke over them. 
Moggs outside the infantry squares were slaughtered in 

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Nemesis 

great numbers. Gradually, the exhausted Rathi line was 
pushed backward, changing from a square to a narrow 
triangle. Eladamri kept the pressure on all through the 
night while segments of his force were sent away to safety 
in the forest. The Hub wind died before daybreak, and the 
fire went out. The camp was a heap of cinders. Of the ten 
thousand soldiers who arrived on the edge of the Skyshroud 
the night before, two thousand were dead or dying, and 
another three thousand were wounded. Only a few hundred 
moggs could be found. Crovax had lost over half his army 
in a single battle. 

Eladamri was not in a celebratory mood. With far 
slenderer resources, his loses numbered just over one 
hundred elves, three dozen Dal, and nearly two hundred of 
Tant Jova's Vec nomads killed. No rich haul of captured 
weapons could be expected following the all-consuming 
fire. 

He blamed himself, and he blamed Cardamel for 
ruining his trap. "Another six hours and we could've had 
them all," he stormed at the post-battle council deep in the 
forest. "Not just their lives but all their weapons and 
supplies too! That's what your little adventure cost us, 
Cardamel." 

The young elf, who lost a hand in the fight, said 
nothing. Tant Jova tried to calm Eladamri. "We have 
beaten them in open battle for the first time, my brother," 
she said. "Their new commander, Crovax, is disgraced. 
There's no one to lead them now. We've gained time as 
well as a victory—time we can parley into a bigger and 
better army." 

The aged Vec matriarch shuffled to the center of the 
tree house. "Another thing, perhaps most important of 
all—I have this morning received a summons from the 
Oracle en-Vec. She has tidings, she says, of the Korvecdal." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The Korvecdal was the fabled deliverer of Vec prophecy, 
a hero who would overthrow the Stronghold and lead the 
peoples of Rath to freedom. When Weatherlight came to 
Rath there was talk that her captain, Gerrard Capashen, 
was the Korvecdal. No one thought so now, as he'd left in 
his flying ship, and the Stronghold was unbowed. 

Every eye in the room turned to Eladamri. Eladamri 
sighed deeply. He'd won an expensive victory, and his first 
thought was the preservation of his army. Holy prophets 
were not his concern. 

"We'll withdraw to Korai," he said, rubbing the smoke 
from his eyes. "There we can take stock of our losses and 
maybe gain a glimpse of the future." 

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Nemesis 

CHAPTER 9 


VICTIMS 

The operation began at sunrise. It was not going well. It 
should have taken a few hours to cull hostages from the 
leading families of the Dal, the Vec, and the Kor, but as 
Dorian il-Dal stood on a broken wall in the ruined city 
quarter, studying his timepiece, he saw the roundup was 
entering its eighth hour. It would take longer still to get 
things recorded properly. 

Greven descended on the crater with two thousand 
soldiers and as many moggs. He had a list of names drawn 
up by Dorian and his fellow courtiers, and he had to go 
house to house to find the people he wanted. Quotas called 
for no less than two thousand hostages from each group. 
Word quickly spread about the roundup, and finding the 
listed hostages got harder and harder. There were scuffles 
but no real fighting. Most of the hostages were quietly 
anxious or stubbornly sullen, but few offered open 
resistance. 

Lines of captives, sorted by family and race, marched 
four abreast out of the City of Traitors under the 
Stronghold to the ruins beyond. Soldiers lined the way 
with arms ported. 

"If I put whips in the hands of my moggs, the lines 
would move faster," Greven mused. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Dorian was horrified. "You can't do that! Moggs 
whipping the evincar's subjects! They'll riot—they'll 
rebel." 

"Easy, old man," Greven said. "This job's about 
stopping a rebellion, not starting one. I was just thinking 
like a soldier." Thinking like a savage, Dorian thought. So 
the chamberlain stood on a tumbled-down wall with a trio 
of scribes below him, totting up the people as they trudged 
by. Each list was checked against Greven's master list to 
make certain the exact number from each group was 
represented. In an operation like this, Dorian stressed, no 
one race should be seen as being favored by the authorities. 
The resentment thus caused would undo the salutary lesson 
of taking hostages in the first place. 

Greven turned away from surveying the operation. 
"What's the count?" 

Dorian slapped his secretaries on the shoulder in turn. 
"One thousand, three hundred and forty-four of the Dal," 
said the first. 

"One thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine of the 
Vec," said the second. 

"Eight hundred and seventy-five of the Kor," added the 
third. 

"Why so few Kor?" 

"They're more elusive," Dorian said. "I've had reports 
that Kor from outside the Stronghold have not been taken 
at all." "The Fishers of Life?" 

The chamberlain consulted a scroll. "Yes, that's the 
clan. How did you know?" 

Greven didn't answer. Instead he asked, "Have the 
holding areas been prepared ?" 

"Such as they are. If we have to hold these people more 
than a few days, they'll not stand for the conditions here." 

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Nemesis 

"They'll stand for what they're told to stand for," 
Greven snapped. He signaled his escort to form up. He 
wanted to see the holding area himself. 

At the far edge of the ruins, near the city moat, three 
large squares had been cleared by mogg laborers. Rough 
walls made from the debris of fallen houses were piled up to 
create crude stockades. Each stockade had a single 
entrance. Hostages were marched into the stockades 
according to their race. 

Some hours passed, and the lines began to thin. 
Eventually 

Dorian and his secretaries appeared with the soldiers 
who'd been driving the lines forward. The chamberlain 
looked happy. 

Greven turned his eyes to Dorian. "What's the final 
count?" 

"We made up the Kor tally. A whole band of them 
arrived at the last minute," Dorian said under his breath. 
"The quota is within 20 persons of being prefect." 

"Where are the Kor?" 

"There, at the end of the line. They turned themselves 
in." 

"What!" 

Dorian shrugged. "They appeared on their own behind 
the escort detachment. One of them spoke to me and asked 
to be added to the tally." 

Greven grasped Dorian's soft arm in a painful grip. "The 
Kor you spoke to—was his name Furah?" 

The chamberlain grunted in pain. "Dread Lord, you're 
hurting me." 

"What was the Kor leader's name?" 

"Furah sounds right, or Furdah—some such uncouth 
name." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Greven released Dorian with a shove and waded 
through the ranks of guards. In front of them were the last 
hostages, in this case over a hundred Kor in identical gray 
leather outfits. Though Greven had lived his entire life on 
Rath with both Dal and Kor as neighbors, he'd never seen 
an entire clan look so identical. 

Startled, Greven called out, "Furah! Furah, I want to 
speak to you!" 

In one motion, a hundred-plus Kor turned and looked 
back at Greven. They were all Furah. The warrior shook his 
head. 

"Did you see that?" Greven asked a nearby soldier. 

"See what, Dread Lord?" 

"Nothing. Never mind." 

* * * * * 

The night of the Hub wind, Belbe made her first 
inspection of the flowstone factory. She did this alone, or 
rather, with six moggs to carry the new machinery sent 
with her from Phyrexia. The court advisors she quickly 
dismissed as useless sycophants. Greven and Dorian were 
busy rounding up thousands of hostages, and Ertai was 
nowhere to be found. This last fact annoyed her in some 
ill-defined way. Belbe found herself wanting Ertai's 
company, and not having what she wanted made her feel 
thwarted. 

She soon forgot about Ertai, Greven, hostages, and 
everything else once she was deep in the flowstone works. 
Unlike those parts of the Citadel adapted for habitation, 
the factory was the most Phyrexian part of the Stronghold, 
and in Belbe's short life, Phyrexia meant home. 

The structure of the factory was purely organismic—the 
adamantine frames of the building were like bones, and the 

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Nemesis 

cladding was applied like muscle and skin over the factory's 
skeleton. The entire fortress cantilevered out from the side 
of the Stronghold cone and was studded with flues, exhaust 
ports, and enormous conduits channeling liquid flowstone 
outside the crater. Over the years, residue from the great 
works accreted outside like scar tissue, blunting the lines of 
the severe architecture. By the time Belbe arrived, the 
Citadel was like a vast wasp's nest, growing organically and 
infested with thousands of poisonous inhabitants. 

In the domed control center atop the factory, Belbe 
stood in rapt fascination of the great cauldron at the heart 
of the Citadel. Here lava, the raw material of flowstone, 
met the energy beam sizzling down from the Hub. Atoms 
disintegrated in the energy stream were whirled about at 
extreme velocities and reformed into programmable 
nanomachines—flowstone. It was all so wonderful, 
magnificent, and efficient. 

Moggs lolled on the floor behind her, taking a breather 
while Belbe was lost in admiration of the factory. She 
recovered her sense of purpose and ordered them to bring 
up the Nanomachine Conversion Accelerator. This was a 
globe eighteen inches in diameter, whose outer skin was 
encrusted with extruded tubing, wires, and output jacks. It 
was a self-aware device, capable of accepting verbal orders 
and implementing them throughout the factory. Phyrexian 
technicians had designed the Conversion Accelerator to 
optimize production of flowstone. As things stood, the 
factory ran at one speed all the time. Actual output varied, 
however, according to the amount of energy from the Hub, 
the quality and amount of lava, and the purity of the raw 
materials used. The Conversion Accelerator would 
harmonize these elements so as to produce more flowstone 
when conditions warranted, and expend less energy when 

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conditions were unfavorable. Overall production efficiency 
was expected to increase by almost twenty-seven percent. 

The moggs maneuvered the heavy module into place. 
Belbe made the master power connections, and the 
Accelerator came to life. 

"Implement final installation," she commanded. 

"Understood." The device extended sharp-edged feelers 
to the control console. The tubes punched through the 
flowstone skin. Thin yellow oil wept from the incisions, but 
they quickly healed. 

"Connection complete," said the Accelerator. "Input 
flow nominal. Output flow at 117 percent." 

"Reduce output to 100 percent." 

"That is not maximum," countered the machine. 

"This is a test of your verbal command structure. 
Reduce to 100 percent." 

The Accelerator vibrated slightly on its new mountings. 
Lights all over the factory dimmed, brightened, then 
settled down. The constant drone of the molecular 
whirlpool in the factory core declined half an octave. 

"Output flow 100 percent," the Accelerator announced. 

Belbe adjusted some of the external controls on the 
module. One of them was the voice command recognition 
circuit. 

"Who am I?" 

"Emissary from Central Control, unit number 
338551732—" 

"Stop, you are correct. Do you acknowledge my 
authority?" 

"Command authority is authentic." 

"Are there any default authorities?" she asked, curious. 

"The Evincar of Rath." 

"Any others?" 

"No others." 

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Nemesis 

"Very good. Seal command authority to my voice and 
the evincar's." 

The unit clicked loudly and said, "Sealed." 

One task done, another major task remained. The 
moggs had a second carton to deliver. In her belt pouch she 
had the control unit for a transplanar portal, the only 
portable device of its kind on Rath. The second carton in 
her baggage was a Portal Generator, a special device that 
could open a portal to any plane in the multiverse. 

The portal, if opened, would need space. It also needed 
to be out of the way. Where to install it? Belbe ran through 
the complex floor plan of the Citadel in her head. There 
was a place ... she called the moggs. Installation of the 
Accelerator had taken so long, the moggs had fallen asleep 
leaning on the second carton. She shouted at them, and 
they twitched awake. 

She took the catwalk that circled the mighty central 
crucible. This close to the factory, static from the 
tremendous energy input could be felt through the walls of 
the furnace. The moggs didn't like it one bit and slunk 
along, scratching their tingling skin on every available 
protrusion. Belbe found the prickling sensation stimulating, 
not unlike her experience with Volrath's bath. 

When she reached the place she'd chosen, she checked 
carefully to be sure she was not observed. Location of her 
portal equipment had to be secret. There were people in 
the palace who would kill for a chance to leave Rath, and 
Belbe had explicit orders from her masters not to allow 
anyone access to the portal. 

An hour later, the portal device was deposited in a 
seldom-visited part of the Citadel. Belbe made a mental 
note to ask Greven to execute the moggs who helped her 
install the machinery as a standard security precaution. 

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Belbe had minimal need for sleep. The glistening oil in 
her veins kept her active long after ordinary beings craved 
rest. At daybreak, she descended to the lower airship dock 
to see what progress was being made on Predator. She 
found the hull had been reassembled and new deck fittings 
were being installed. All that remained after that was the 
tricky job of installing the engines and rigging. 

She spotted Greven's Vec foreman and asked him 
where his master was. 

"I haven't seen him since yesterday, Excellency," said 
the Vec. "He left with Lord Dorian, and I haven't seen 
either of them since." 

"Thank you—" 

"Excellency, when you find Lord Greven, ask him 
please to come back as soon as he can. We don't dare set 
the engines in place without him." 

Belbe promised to pass the word to Greven. On her way 
out of the ship dock, a guard stopped her. 

"If you're looking for Lord Greven, Excellency, you'll 
find him in the ruins beyond the City of Traitors." 

She searched her implanted memory and found she 
didn't know this place. "Where is that?" Belbe asked. 

The guard stepped to the edge of the docking platform 
and pointed to the floor of the crater. 

"See the lights down there, Excellency? That's the City 
of Traitors. If you head that way," he pointed to the far side 
of the crater, in the direction of the mogg warrens, "there's 
a lot of fallen-down buildings. That's where you'll find 
Commander Greven." 

Belbe leaned on the railing. A warm updraft, smelling 
of molten rock and ozone, ruffled her hair and the tight 
sleeves of her teal gown. 

"What's Greven doing down there?" 

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"Haven't you heard, Excellency? That's where he's 
taken the hostages—the hostages from the City of 
Traitors." 

Belbe had a sudden urge to descend to the ruins and 
observe the operation for herself. Without the airship, it 
was a long journey to the crater floor. Belbe dismissed the 
guard and stood by the rail, gazing down at the haze-
shrouded area, pondering how best to get there. 

"Your Excellency?" 

The second word was enunciated with ironic precision. 
There was Ertai, leaning casually on one of the inverted 
buttresses supporting the airship dock. Something was 
different. It wasn't just his appearance, though he had 
finally given up his tattered robes and donned Rathi garb— 
high collared doublet, knee breeches, and ankle-high 
fleshstone boots, all in different shades of gray. It was 
something else about him, less tangible than a change of 
wardrobe. Ertai's presence was different. 

"Someone needs to speak to the tailors in this place," 
he said. "They have no sense of color at all. But I did want 
to be presentable, since you called me." 

"I didn't call you." 

"You were thinking about me. I came to find you." 

"I had work to do," she said, pretending not to care. "In 
the factory." 

"Then I'm glad I missed it. There's nothing as boring as 
machinery." He came to the rail and looked down on the 
city. "Awful place," he remarked. He glanced upward at the 
vast overhanging bulk of the Citadel. "It's like living in a 
well with a boulder balanced over your head." 

"I want to go down there," she said, pointing to the 
distant ruins. Ertai asked why. She reminded him of his 
hostage idea. "Greven and Dorian are down there now, 
gathering them." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Ertai's face darkened. "I'm sorry I suggested it. I don't 
know how such an idea came into my head." He shrugged. 
"Of course, it's a very good idea, from a certain point of 
view—like all my ideas. But no good will come of it." 

"I want to go there," Belbe repeated. 

Ertai took hold of her hand. She made a mild attempt 
to free herself, but he held on. 

"Let me take you there, Excellency." 

She stopped struggling. "You don't have to call me 
that." 

"Don't I?" 

"No." 

"Very well, Belbe. I can get you down there faster than 
an airship or any silly flowbot crane." 

"How?" 

He let go of her hand, turned, and walked about six feet 
away. He sat down on the gritty floor, folding his legs in 
front of him. Ertai pressed his palms together and closed his 
eyes. 

"Visualization," he said softly, "is the most important 
part of spellcasting." 

Belbe watched him closely. Ertai trembled. His fingers 
went white from the pressure, and most of the color 
drained from his face. The collar of his new doublet wilted 
from perspiration. 

Something disturbed the air behind her. Belbe turned 
and saw a large, vague shape with flapping wings hovering 
a few yards from the platform. Ertai's expression grew more 
strained, and the outline of the flapping object grew more 
distinct. Air itself seemed to be congealing to form the 
creature, which gradually assumed the form of a great 
predatory bird. 

"What is it?" she asked, impressed. 

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Nemesis 

Ertai did not answer. He opened his eyes and stiffly 
unbent his legs. His brow was etched with deep furrows as 
he fiercely maintained his concentration even with the 
distractions of open eyes and movement. 

He extended a hand toward the phantom bird, drew it 
back, and closed his outstretched fingers into a fist. The 
giant bird flew into the dock, its wings and head passing 
through the solid structure of the platform without 
resistance. Yet when it reached Ertai, it extended a taloned 
claw and grasped him around the waist. He repeated the 
clasping gesture and the spectral falcon took hold of Belbe's 
waist as well. 

"What's this?" she protested, trying to open the bird's 
talons. Though solidly in the creature's grip, her efforts to 
repel the bird met no solid flesh at all. It was most 
disturbing, being lifted by visible, yet untouchable claws. 

"Stop it," she said. "I'll use the Citadel egress. It'll only 
take a few hours to go down there—" 

Before she could finish the sentence, the spirit falcon 
rocketed away from the airship dock. Belbe, to her 
consternation, saw she was dangling beneath the 
translucent creation, hundreds of feet in the air. Some 
primitive part of her was thrilled with terror—an emotion 
she was learning on Rath—but her good sense told her 
interrupting Ertai's mental focus would be disastrous for 
them both. 

The falcon descended in a rapid spiral through the hot, 
lava-scented air. They circled quite close to the upward 
flowing column of lava. Between the giant falcon claw 
clamped around Belbe's waist and the stifling heat of the 
lava, it was hard to breathe. Fortunately, the falcon's next 
loop took them away from the lava flow, well out over the 
City of Traitors. 

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As they coursed through the thin clouds, Belbe started 
to enjoy the experience. The sweep, the feeling of speed 
and power flying conferred was intoxicating. She looked 
down on the city below, marveling at the gridwork of 
streets and houses. It was some minutes before she realized 
the streets and squares were devoid of activity. Not a single 
Vec or Kor could be seen. Ertai started to choke loudly. His 
face had gone ghastly white, and blood was dripping from 
both nostrils. He let out a wracking cough, and to her 
horror, Belbe felt the falcon's claws thin and slip. They 
were two hundred feet above the city. If she fell from this 
height, not even her metal skeleton would save her, and 
Ertai would surely die. 

They descended too rapidly as the falcon's wings faded 
in and out of existence. At fifty feet, rooftops rushed by, 
and chimneys became serious hazards. Ertai was hanging 
limply in the falcon's evanescent grip, blood staining the 
front of his new clothes. 

Thirty feet. Belbe looked up. The body and wings of the 
falcon were almost gone, just the faintest outline was left. 
Abruptly, the magical creature vanished. Belbe lunged for 
Ertai. She caught him, twisted in mid-air until her feet 
were down, and braced for impact. 

They hit the roof of an empty house, broke through, hit 
the floor of the second story, and went through that as 
well. When Belbe hit the ground, her legs jackknifed hard, 
but the Phyrexian alloys took the stress. Her augmented 
nerves signaled massive pain, then shut down. Over and 
over they rolled in the dust and debris of the abandoned 
dwelling, coming to a stop against an outside wall. 

Belbe rose from the rubbish. Her ill-used legs quivered 
from the strain. Already her implanted healing systems 
were kicking in, repairing torn muscles and ligaments, and 
liberally dosing her nervous system with pain suppressants. 

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She turned Ertai over. His color was already coming back, 
and his nose had stopped bleeding. Belbe had taken the full 
force of the fall for him. 

"Ow," he said, clasping his head. "What a headache. 
What happened?" 

"Your magical bird failed." 

"My spell, fail? Impossible!" His conviction, strongly 
spoken, made his head throb unmercifully. 

"It dropped us. If I hadn't caught you, you'd be dead 
now." 

The dim interior of the ruined house, the drying blood 
on his face and neck, and Belbe's unflinching manner must 
have convinced Ertai that she was telling the truth. 

"The Spirit Falcon is a taxing spell to perform, but I've 
never heard of it failing like this," he said, genuinely 
puzzled. 

"It began to fade after just a few minutes." 

He scratched his rusty blond head. "There must be 
something interfering with the flow of magical energy." 

"Perhaps it's your healing treatment. The native 
energies of Rath must be very different from those of your 
home world." 

Belbe helped him stand. 

"Good thing we fell on an empty house," he said 
quietly. 

For reasons she did not entirely understand, Belbe 
leaned forward and pressed her lips to Ertai's. He was so 
startled by this unexpected action he failed to respond in 
kind. Belbe drew back, expressionless. 

"Did I do it incorrectly?" 

"I don't know," he said. "I wasn't prepared—" 

"Prepare yourself then," she said. "It may happen again." 
In awkward silence they made their way out of the ruined 
house. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The unpaved street was covered with sickly yellow moss 
and gray lichen, and clogged with blocks, fallen pediments, 
bricks, and shards of pottery. Belbe and Ertai picked their 
way through the ruins to the next street. This wide path 
was clear of debris, and the thick dust had been stirred 
recently by a large crowd of people. 

"The hostages came this way," Belbe said. 

"Must be hundreds of them." 

"Thousands. Lord Greven is not one for half measures." 

They walked down the broad, empty road. Ruddy light 
from the rising column of lava painted the ruins in shades 
of pink. 

Ertai looked at Belbe. "May I ask you a question?" 

She put her arms behind her head and stretched her 
healing limbs. "Of course." 

"Do you ever ask yourself if you're on the right side or 
not?" 

She looked at her feet. "Of the road?" 

"No, in this struggle." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"The right side is the side that succeeds," she said 
simply. "This is the basic truth my masters taught me." 

"They could be wrong." 

"It is possible but not likely. Time will tell." 

"I used to think I knew right from wrong," Ertai said. 
"That was before I began my advanced studies in magic. 
Then I learned that power is power, regardless of its origin. 
Any species can be used to kill or cure, and if that's so, how 
can any of it be good or evil? It simply is. I think people are 
like that, too. We simply are." 

"I will ask you a question," she said. He agreed. "Do you 
regret coming here? Do you miss your comrades on 
Weatherlight?" 

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Nemesis 

He stopped, feet stirring little gouts of fine dust. "They 
left me here," Ertai said. "I was angry at them for that. 
Now, in an odd way, I think they did me a favor." 

Amid the ruins, the sanguinary light of the lava 
column, the still, humid air at the bottom of the crater, 
Belbe had a strange, new experience. A more worldly 
woman could have told her she was feeling affection for the 
first time. As it was, she had to figure it out herself. 

* * * * * 

The hostages filled the stockades with resignation. Each 
family staked out a place in the dusty enclosures and waited 
for word they could go home again. Soldiers stood atop the 
low rubble walls, eyeing their quiescent charges. 

Belbe and Ertai arrived to find Greven seated on a 
broken monolith. Dorian il-Dal was with him, a picnic 
lunch spread out on a cloth between them. When they saw 
Belbe approaching, both men rose and bowed. 

"Greetings, Excellency! You are looking well today. 
Why didn't you let us know you were coming? I would have 
prepared a repast for you as well." Dorian said effusively. 

"It's of no matter," she replied. "I do not eat." 

"Are the hostages here?" Ertai asked impatiently. 

"Six thousand of them," confirmed Greven. 

"Five thousand, nine hundred eighty-eight, to be 
exact," said Dorian. He held up several loose scrolls. "I 
have the tallies here if Your Excellency would care to see." 

She ignored the proffered scrolls and walked to the 
mouth of the Dal stockade. Moggs grunted and sidled away 
from Belbe. Guards on the wall snapped to attention. 

Dorian, Ertai, and Greven came up behind her. 

"What does Your Excellency require?" asked the 
chamberlain. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"A better view, first." She looked left and right, judged 
the far wall to be straighter, and sprang from a flat-footed 
stance to the top of the seven-foot-high structure. 

Belbe looked out over the dusty arena, jammed with 
almost two thousand Dal. With designed thoroughness she 
catalogued the crowd: one thousand, five hundred and 
thirty-three adults, four hundred and sixty-one children. 
Most of the adults were elderly or female. She started 
counting crutches in the crowd and stopped when she 
passed one hundred and fifty. Distaste rose in her throat. 
She turned to the trio of men waiting below her. 

"Who chose these people?" she shouted. 

"Why, I did, Excellency, with Lord Greven's help," 
Dorian replied. 

"Why take these particular people—women, children, 
the aged?" 

"Come down, Excellency. I'd rather not have this 
conversation yelled from the stockade wall," Greven said, 
his face hardening. 

She did come down, landing inches in front of the 
towering warrior. "Explain your choices, Chamberlain." 

Dorian's lip trembled. "The—the Dread Lord and I 
discussed it. We agreed these would make the most 
effective hostages." 

"Go on." 

Greven stepped up. "Our goal is to keep peace inside 
the Stronghold. We chose people who have strong bonds 
with those not chosen. Dal men will think twice about 
rising against us if they know we have their mothers, 
fathers, wives, and children in our power." 

"I think you've erred, Commander," Belbe said. "Now 
we're as much hostages as those people beyond the wall!" 

Ertai spoke up. "What do you mean?" 

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Nemesis 

"If any harm comes to these people, it will foment 
rebellion rather than quell it." She was angry, and she 
didn't know how to handle the emotions stirred up by the 
plight of the hostages. "Why didn't you round up young 
males instead? They're the potential allies of Eladamri, not 
these helpless folk." 

"In matters of civil unrest, there are no innocent 
bystanders," Greven said. 

"Be at ease, Excellency!" Dorian pleaded. "No one 
wishes harm to these people. When Lord Crovax returns 
triumphant, all will be well." 

"And if Crovax loses?" asked Ertai. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. 

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CHAPTER 10 


RIVALS 

The Skyshroud Expeditionary Force remained on the 
field for two days, burning its dead and building temporary 
defenses out of turf, rocks, and the wreckage of the army's 
equipment. Everyone expected the rebels to attack and 
wipe them out, but they didn't. Cavalry patrols were sent 
out to locate Eladamri's band, but they returned in a few 
hours and reported finding no sign of the enemy. 

The rebels didn't leave behind a single scrap; every 
thrown spear, every bent sword, every broken helmet was 
scavenged from the field of battle. Nor were any rebel dead 
left behind. The plain around the burned Rathi camp had 
been trampled flat by men, elves, moggs, and kerls, but no 
other evidence of Eladamri's force remained. 

Crovax withdrew to his makeshift quarters—a pile of 
scorched sod with a square of canvas for a roof—and 
brooded over his defeat. Organization and defense of the 
Rathi position fell to Nasser. Aside from grunting approvals 
to Nasser's suggestions, Crovax did not speak for two whole 
days. Late in the afternoon on the second day after the 
battle, he emerged from his hut. Nasser had been lingering 
outside, waiting for his commander to appear. 

"My lord," said Nasser when Crovax stood unblinking 
in the late day sun. "What are your orders?" 

"Any sign of the enemy?" asked Crovax quietly. 

"None, my lord." 

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Nemesis 

"Break camp. We will march." Crovax turned to go 
back inside. 

"Very good, my lord. Where to?" 

"The Stronghold." 

The army had been waiting for just such an order, and 
in less than an hour they were ready to march. The cavalry 
fanned out to watch for rebels, and the infantry column, 
much reduced in length, shouldered their weapons and 
started off. 

The Corps of Sergeants waited patiently for Crovax to 
join them. The commander's kerl was tethered to the 
stump of a lance outside his quarters. More than half the 
army was on the path back to the Stronghold, and there 
was no sign of Crovax. 

"Someone should rouse him," Tharvello said. The other 
sergeants shook their heads. No one wanted to incur his 
wrath. 

"Nasser, you're his favorite. You do it," said Tharvello. 

"I can wait." 

"Ha! You're afraid of him too!" 

Eyes narrowed to slits, Nasser dismounted his soot-
smudged kerl and tossed the reins to the nearest mogg. He 
squared his shoulders and walked to the door of the little 
sod hut—just a flap of tattered canvas, waving slowly in the 
light breeze. 

Five feet from the hut, Nasser halted and called out, 
"My lord! The army is underway. Will you take your place 
with us?" 

A muffled thud, and a cloud of dirt whirled away from 
Crovax's hut. Shafts of blinding white light burst from 
every crack and crevice in the sod walls. Nasser threw an 
arm over his face, and the hut collapsed with a spurt of gray 
dust and ash. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Sergeants, to me!" Nasser cried. A dozen seasoned 
warriors ran to the destroyed shack and tore through the 
poles and clods of earth looking for their commander. 
When they found themselves scraping at virgin soil 
beneath the hut, the sergeants realized Crovax was gone. 
Everyone spoke at once. 

"What happened?" 

"Eladamri—" 

"—elven magic!" 

"Some new weapon—?" 

"—Eladamri—" 

Nasser squatted in the remains of the hut, toying in the 
debris with his fingers. His careful contemplation of the 
situation gradually calmed his fellow sergeants. 

At last someone said, "Where did he go?" 

"Maybe back to where he came from," Tharvello said. 
"What do we do now?" 

The senior sergeant dusted the drab soil of Rath from 
his hands. "I will take command." 

They were more than happy to let him shoulder the 
burden. Tharvello said, "What are your orders, Nasser?" 

"Without a body, I can't assume Lord Crovax is dead. 
The commander's last order stands," he decided. "We go 
home." 

* * * * * 

Predator was airborne again, thanks to Greven's tireless 
efforts. After the hostages were secured, Greven returned 
to the airship dock, where he oversaw the replacement of 
Predator's powerful engines. The hull was floated out the 
lower dock and carefully steered to the upper landing 
pylon. There the final refit would take place, and Greven 

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would take on new crew to replace those lost in the costly 
battle with Weatherlight. 

Ertai disappeared into the libraries of the Citadel, beset 
by the conundrums of his place in the scheme of things. 
Days passed, and Belbe saw little of him. When she finally 
did, she was amazed by the changes slowly transforming 
him. Early one morning she found him perched on a table 
in one of the old scroll depositories, surrounded by heaps of 
discarded documents. It was stifling in the narrow room, 
and Ertai had stripped to the waist to better bear the heat. 

Never a muscular fellow formerly, Ertai now displayed a 
formidable breadth of shoulder as he sat hunched over a 
scroll. That, and the fact his hair had become copper-
brown made Belbe doubt she was seeing him at all. 

"Hello," she said uncertainly. "I see you're making use 
of the libraries." 

"These scrolls are all wrong," Ertai said, pushing the 
heavy scroll aside. "Their description of energy crossover— 
" 

"What's happening to you, Ertai?" 

He looked at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. "What 
are you talking about?" 

"You're changing. Your hair, your physique—" 

"It's to be expected," he said, stretching his bare arms, 
now covered with thin, ropy muscles. "The energy 
infusions you started me on are doing it. Every time I go 
back to Volrath's laboratory, I change a little more." 

She drew back. "You're still using the infuser? Why?" 

"Imagine my chagrin when I discovered the effects of 
the device were only temporary. When my injuries return, I 
have to go back to the infuser for another treatment. I 
should've known it wouldn't actually heal me. If I hadn't 
been so hurt, I'm sure I would have thought of it." 

"Thought of what?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Ertai leaned his cheek against his knee. "Only natural 
life-energy can heal human flesh. Other varieties can mask 
damage by transforming it into something else. In my case, 
Volrath's device seems to be making me into a lesser 
version of our friend Greven." 

"No!" 

"It doesn't matter. I can't stop now, anyway. If 1 miss a 
day at the infuser, the misery of the torture session comes 
back. I can't bear it.... a little muscle won't hurt me, and 
my mind is still my own. Maybe even better, if that's 
possible. I'm reading eight books a day, did you know that? 
I'll be through this library soon, then I'll move on to the 
next." 

"Be careful, Ertai." 

He smiled in his own wry way. Ertai held up his hand, 
palm out, to the closest scroll-laden shelf. The flowstone 
rippled like a reefing sail. He sustained the motion for 
several seconds before it faded. 

"Your influence is improving," she said, pleased. 

"Yes. I may give Crovax a surprise before long." 

She wanted to speak to him about his growing power, 
but Ertai lowered his head to his reading again and quickly 
forgot Belbe was present. She backed out of the close little 
room. Her heart was beating fast, and she didn't know why. 
It took several minutes to slow it to a normal rhythm. 

Belbe continued her rounds of the Citadel, stopping by 
the factory control room to check on the Accelerator unit 
she'd installed. The stubborn device kept trying to raise 
production to inefficient levels above 100 percent, which 
forced Belbe to improvise a method to hamper the 
machine's excessive enthusiasm for production. She settled 
for tampering with the output meter, resetting it by hand to 
fool the Accelerator into thinking the factory was 
producing more flowstone than it actually was. However, 

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Nemesis 

there was a problem with her makeshift solution. Like 
every other mechanism in the factory, the output meter 
was self' correcting. In the course of several days' 
production, it would discover its readings were inaccurate 
and correct itself. Thus Belbe would have to return to the 
control dome every other day to reset the output meter to 
maintain maximum efficiency. 

While she was adjusting the output meter for the first 
time, she spotted a ball of white light, about two feet wide, 
circling and descending the energy column. The ball darted 
first in one direction, then another. Belbe lost it for a 
second against the glare of the beam, then adjusted her 
vision to see past the column's corona. High above, the 
white ball of light hovered over the upper airship dock. It 
dipped behind the pylon and was lost from sight. 

Curious, she left the control station and made her way 
back to the residential wing of the Citadel. Everything 
seemed normal. Servants and courtiers bowed as she 
passed. Guards stood at their stations, unalarmed. 

She reached the main intersection in the heart of the 
palace. From here, stairs and flowbot lifts branched out all 
over the structure—up to the evincar's quarters, down to 
the laboratories, libraries, map room, armories, and prison. 
Belbe strained every nerve in her being, searching for the 
fiery intruder. The strongest trace (which was very weak 
indeed) came from a window in the outside wall. From 
there she looked down on the mogg warrens, map tower, 
Volrath's laboratory, and the roof of the Dream Halls. The 
arched roof of the hall bore ghostly heat trails, crisscrossing 
back and forth. The phantom visitor was there. 

For the first time in her short life, Belbe ran. Her legs 
were quite healed after her fall in the ruins a few days ago, 
and she ran to the physical limits of her alloy frame. 
Flashing down the dark corridors of the palace, she passed 

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unsuspecting courtiers and soldiers in a blur. Within 
seconds, Belbe was at the doors of the Dream Halls. Her 
hands were just about on the handles when the tall double 
doors swung silently inward. Belbe rushed into the vast, 
silent hall. 

"Ah, my young mistress." 

"Crovax!" 

He was still in his dusty armor. She could smell blood 
and smoke, and saw bits of wire grass snagged in his boots. 

"Was that you?" she said, incredulous. 

"You saw me? Oh yes, you're the emissary, you see 
everything." He seemed dizzy and shuffled his feet to keep 
his balance. "A bonus from our masters," he said. "I can 
will myself from point to point." 

"Teleportation." 

"Is that what it's called? Hard on the head, if you ask 
me." He called up a flowstone stool out of the floor and sat 
down. 

"What about the army? Why did you leave them?" 

"My army?" he exploded. "Worthless, cowardly cattle! I 
would have killed them all if I were Eladamri!" 

"You lost your entire army?" 

Crovax's face contorted. "I lost little of value." 

"How many survived? Where are they now?" 

He leaped to his feet. "Who are you to question me?" 

"I am the emissary of the overlords," Belbe said calmly. 
"I ask you again, where is your army?" 

"Out there." He flung a hand. "We fought a night 
battle. The rebels started a fire upwind of our position, and 
many of the soldiers were trapped by the flames." 

"And Eladamri?" 

Crovax's voice was almost inaudible. "He escaped." 

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The distant dream machinery near the ceiling clicked 
and whirred. For some seconds, it was the only thing 
moving or making noise in the Dream Halls. 

Then Belbe spoke. "You failed." 

The cold, hard edge returned to his voice. "This is only 
the first round. There are many acts yet to play." 

"A new evincar must be named soon." 

"Then name me! Who else can you choose? Greven? 
He's been a slave too long to know how to rule." 

"There is another candidate." The flowstone around 
Belbe heaved like a sea swell. She ignored it, and when it 
was calm again she said, "I refer to Ertai." 

"That boy? Do the overlords know you're considering 
that arrogant little cur?" 

"The overlords know everything I do," she said stiffly. 
"Ertai has magical gifts far in excess of anyone else on Rath. 
His influence over flowstone grows daily." 

"Can he command an army? Can he govern? Can he 
rule?" 

"Those are questions still unanswered about you, 
Crovax. As for Ertai, he's intelligent, clever, and has many 
insights. It was Ertai, for example, who devised the 
stratagem of taking hostages from the local population to 
insure they wouldn't lend support to Eladamri's rebels." 

Crovax broke into an awful, face splitting grin. 
"Hostages? What a delightful idea. I give the pup credit." 
He walked a slow circle around Belbe, close enough for her 
to feel his cold breath on her face. "How many hostages?" 

"A thousand." Why she gave him the wrong figure, she 
didn't know. 

"Where are they?" 

"The ruins outside of the City of Traitors." 

He stopped his perambulation directly behind her. "I 
see. Thank you, Excellency." 

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"For what?" 

"For restoring my faith in the wisdom of our masters," 
he said. Cool fingertips brushed the back of her neck. "But 
hear me, girl. I will be Evincar of Rath." 

"Are you threatening me, Crovax?" 

The fingers were withdrawn. "Certainly not, 
Excellency. I merely pledge to do my utmost for the cause. 
You do your best for the overlords, don't you?" 

"I do the task I was made for." 

He suddenly enfolded her from behind in his powerful 
arms, one around her waist, the other around her neck. In a 
split-second decision, Belbe decided not to struggle but 
remained as relaxed as possible. 

"We're allies after all," he said softly in her ear. 
"Cooperation can be as satisfying as competition—with the 
right company." 

"I'm here to choose the best person for the job, whoever 
that is." Belbe still didn't move. 

"No emotion involved?" Crovax asked. 

"Emotion is not efficient." 

Crovax tightened his grip. 

"You can't overpower me, Crovax." 

"I wouldn't dream of trying, Excellency." He dropped 
his arms, and Belbe stepped away. Adrenaline coursed 
through her. She felt like a coiled spring, all wound up. 
Crovax appeared quite calm. 

"I want a full report on the battle in writing, detailing 
your losses, Eladamri's tactics, and the state of the army," 
Belbe said, inwardly shaking with excitement. She kept 
thinking about what it would be like to break Crovax's 
arms and legs. She knew just how to do it, even through his 
armor. 

"As you wish. When shall I present my report?" 

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"You will wait upon my pleasure." Belbe imagined his 
face exploding in a shower of blood and bone fragments, 
his teeth falling like hailstones to the polished floor. 
"Where are the survivors of your force?" 

"A few days' march from here." 

"Will they make it back on their own?" With one kick 
she could crush his windpipe, and he would slowly strangle 
to death.... 

He shrugged. "That has more to do with Eladamri than 
my soldiers." 

"Predator is flying again. I'll send Greven to find your 
men and escort them home. The ship has no weapons on 
board yet, but the rebels won't know that." With one blow 
she could drive the cartilage in his nose back into his brain. 

He saluted. "Your Excellency is wise and frugal." 

Crovax departed, and the Dream Halls doors closed 
silently behind him. Belbe leaped into the air, kicking her 
feet and pounding the air furiously with her fists. When 
this failed to satisfy her, she ran to the wall and punched an 
elaborate bas-relief depicting one of Volrath's dreams of 
glory. The flowstone walls, made to imitate marble, 
splintered under Belbe's blows. No sooner had the 
fragments fallen to the floor than they began climbing back 
up to rejoin the broken structure. She pounded on the wall 
until her knuckles were scored and weeping glistening oil. 
Panting with excitement, she stood back to catch her 
breath. 

Her violence triggered the dream device overhead. 
With a hiss of servos and uncoiling wire, three dream 
catchers dropped to Belbe's eye level. In each was a dirty 
white "pearl", representing some dream experience the 
device thought appropriate to Belbe's current state of mind. 
She stared at the trio of machines and with a howl of pure 

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fury, seized one in each hand and ripped them loose. The 
third dream catcher hastily retracted. 

Belbe enjoyed crushing Volrath's dreams under her 
heel. 

* * * * * 

The army reached Chireef, the last outpost before the 
Stronghold, three days after the battle. A march that had 
taken Crovax a day and a half Nasser was content to do in 
twice the time. His men were tired, many were wounded, 
and no one was in a hurry to return home from a defeat. 

Riders came back with the news that the blockhouse at 
Chireef seemed abandoned. The doors were closed and 
barred, and none of the garrison responded to the scouts' 
hails. Alarmed, Nasser and the Corps of Sergeants rode 
ahead of the main body with all the remaining cavalry to 
investigate what happened at Chireef. 

The blockhouse looked deserted. Arrow slits were 
vacant. No sentries walked the roof. Some unknown 
banner hung limply from the flagpole—the air was too still 
to stir it. Despite repeated calls, no one inside the 
blockhouse responded. 

The door was a massive bronze affair, and the Rathi 
soldiers were not equipped to batter it down. A team of 
four men was ordered to scale the blockhouse walls with 
ropes and grappling hooks. The outside of the blockhouse 
was as smooth as glass (to prevent just such attempts at 
climbing by the enemy), so it took some time before the 
soldiers were able to reach the roof. Three men were 
detailed to enter the blockhouse and open the outer door 
while the fourth hauled down the mysterious flag and 
tossed it to Nasser. 

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It was a triangle of rough green cloth with a simplified 
image of a red snake's head, fangs bared, in the center. 

With a loud clank, the doors of Chireef rolled back. 
The cavalrymen who'd entered the blockhouse emerged 
looking puzzled. No one was inside, alive or dead. The 
place had been stripped clean—not even garbage was left. 

"What about the cisterns?" Nasser asked. The army was 
thirsty. 

"Empty," the scouts reported. Someone had broken off 
the flowstone valves, allowing all the water to drain from 
the storage tanks. 

This was plainly the work of Eladamri and his rebels, 
but the mysterious state of the blockhouse was unsettling. 
Why were there no signs of a fight? Where were the dead 
or the wounded? They couldn't even find any bloodstains. 
How could a band of rebels, armed only with hand 
weapons, capture a well-defended blockhouse the army had 
visited only a few days earlier? 

A smudge of dust on the horizon warned Nasser the 
foot column was on its way. Tharvello and some of the 
sergeants wanted to keep the troops away from Chireef, 
hide the strange fate of the garrison from the rank and file. 
Nasser would not allow it. 

"Let everyone know," he said grimly. "This is what they 
can expect at rebel hands! Let them contemplate Chireef 
and fight harder to avoid their comrades' fate." 

Each company marched past the empty blockhouse. 
Smashed valves and puddles at the foot of the wall made it 
clear there was no water for them. Word filtered through 
the ranks about the disappearance of the entire garrison, 
and a chill enveloped the already dispirited army. 

Nasser ordered the march to continue until dusk. 
Though they were within a night's march of the 
Stronghold, the senior sergeant didn't want his dejected 

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troops to arrive home in the middle of the night. He 
decided to camp one more night and march into the city by 
the full light of day. Nasser sent a percher ahead with this 
news. Not knowing where Crovax was, he addressed his 
message to Greven il-Vec. 

He halted the army astride the main road from the 
Stronghold to Chireef, The tired men filed out of 
formation and dropped their packs in the dirt. Details were 
sent to gather tinder for campfires, and the communal pots 
were unpacked for dinner. 

These mundane tasks occupied the army in the last 
hour of daylight. Nasser and his comrades were about to sit 
down when sentries reported an unknown light in the sky. 

Nasser overturned his bowl in his haste to stand. He 
didn't have to go far before he spied what the sentries had 
seen: a bright golden light, low in the air and moving with 
considerable speed. It was approaching from the southwest, 
directly away from the Stronghold. 

"Airship?" suggested Tharvello. "An enemy airship?" "I 
don't know. Alert the troops. If we're going to be attacked, 
the men must disperse." 

Trumpets and perchers blared, and the soldiers gave up 
their meager meals to stand to arms. The aerial beacon was 
easily visible to all now as it maneuvered below the 
sluggish clouds. Anxious murmurs passed through the 
ranks. 

The hum of aerial engines reached the soldiers. The 
first dim outline of the ship behind the light could just be 
made out. "It's a big one," Tharvello said. "Shut up," Nasser 
replied. 

The gilded searchlight raked the grassy plain, right, left, 
ahead, and back. Some cavalry were caught in the beam, 
and the kerls pranced nervously when the light hit their 

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weak eyes. Nasser raised his hand to alert the troops. At his 
signal they would scatter to avoid the airborne attack. 

No missiles or bombs erupted from the airship. Instead, 
it slowed and began to descend. The searchlight swung 
down, highlighting the patch of ground where the ship 
would alight. In the reverse glow, Nasser recognized the 
long prow, the jutting boarding mandible. "It's Predator!" 

The Rathi troops let out a concerted shout of relief, and 
hundreds rushed forward to greet the landing vessel. 
Predator dropped to within a few feet of the ground and 
hovered. Lamps blazed fore and aft, and against the light 
Nasser could see crew members scurrying about on deck. 

A rope ladder unrolled to the ground, but the first man 
off the ship didn't use it. Greven il-Vec jumped from the 
deck, landing lightly. He stooped to clear the overhanging 
bulk of the airship, standing erect once he saw the Corps of 
Sergeants drawn up to greet him. 

"Dread Lord!" Nasser said, over the throb of the 
hovering ship's engines. "It's good to see you!" 

"Is this all that remains of the force?" Greven said 
sternly, surveying the men clustered around Predator. 

Taken aback, Nasser recovered his professional 
demeanor and replied, "It is, Dread Lord." 

"Where's Crovax?" 

Nasser looked Greven in the eye. "He's not here, sir. 
We haven't seen him since this morning." 

"What?" Greven thundered. Every man present, 
veteran or recruit, flinched. "Where is your commanding 
officer?" 

Nasser explained how Crovax vanished when the 
strange explosion demolished his hut. He expected a 
further display of temper, but instead the giant warrior 
seemed pleased to hear of Crovax's unexpected departure. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Gone, is he? His chance to be evincar is gone, too." 
Greven noticed the press of soldiers around him and 
snarled. "Do you men have nothing better to do than stand 
here, gawking like a bunch of hungry moggs?" 

The relieved soldiers returned to their campfires. 
Greven ordered Predator aloft to watch for trouble while he 
remained on the ground. He wanted to hear a full account 
of the battle with the rebels. Then he announced he would 
personally lead the remnants of the Skyshroud Expedition 
into the Stronghold. 

Greven got the whole story from Nasser and the 
sergeants. They blamed the wind and fire for their debacle 
and confirmed that Eladamri had Vec and Dal allies in the 
fight. 

Greven listened to every word. His inhumanly hard 
features were a mask to the assembled sergeants. As Greven 
sat there, thinking yet saying nothing, one by one the 
sergeants slipped away to catch a bit of sleep. Nasser was 
the last to go. 

"If there's nothing else, Dread Lord, I'll say good night." 
Greven gazed at the dying campfire. Nasser saluted curtly 
and disappeared into the outer darkness. 

He hadn't gone ten yards before Tharvello grabbed him 
from behind. 

"What is it?" said Nasser. 

"You heard Greven back there. This means the end of 
Crovax, doesn't it?" 

"Such decisions occur far above my head." 

"Come now, you and I took up Crovax's mantle gladly, 
thinking it would advance us in the army and get us out 
from under that bastard Greven's thumb. Well, Crovax 
botched it! We should make amends to Greven." 

"You talk like a soft-handed courtier," Nasser said. "I'll 
not sell my loyalty at the first sign of adversity." 

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Tharvello grinned. "So you're staying with Crovax?" 

"I serve Rath, not any one man. If you think Crovax is 
finished, you're badly mistaken. Defeat or no defeat, he'll 
be back stronger than ever. Mark what I say." 

Nasser left him. 

* * * * * 

Tharvello opened his hauberk and pulled out the 
percher he'd hidden underneath. Perchers remembered the 
last words spoken in their presence. 

Your words are marked, Tharvello thought, stroking the 
winged creature. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

CHAPTER 11 


BANQUET 

Ertai strolled down a vacant corridor, a long scroll in 
one hand, a hunk of soft bread in the other. The end of the 
scroll dragged on the floor as he went, munching his snack. 
He stepped out into the main corridor just as Dorian il-Dal 
came barreling along. They went down in a tangle, the 
scroll entwining around them both as they struggled to free 
themselves. 

"Be still, will you?" Ertai said. "You'll tear the scroll!" 

"Help! I've no time for this foolishness! Ugh! Where is 
the emissary, young man?" Ertai slid out of the tangle. "I 
haven't seen her." "I must find her! She must be told about 
this terrible thing!" "What terrible thing?" 

Dorian tried to shuck the coils of parchment and 
untangle his legs from Ertai's. "The hostages! The hostages 
have disappeared!" 

Ertai shoved Dorian backward. The chamberlain's head 
thumped on the floor, and when it did, the flowstone 
gripped his balding head and held it there. 

Eyes wide with shock, Dorian babbled, "You control the 
stone!" 

"In small ways," Ertai replied, rising and dusting himself 
off. "Now, what's got you in such a panic? Six thousand 
people don't just disappear. Greven must have moved 
them." 

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"Greven flew out in Predator this morning—and not a 
single hostage remains in the holding area!" 

His words speared Ertai through the heart. With his 
concentration rattled, his control of the flowstone 
evaporated. Freed, Dorian sat up and clutched Ertai's leg. 

"I received a report from the commissary officer not two 
hours ago. He went to the stockades to distribute food and 
water and discovered everyone was gone." 

"What about the guards?" 

"Gone, too." Dorian began to weep. "There were large 
numbers of footprints leading out of the city into the 
caverns, but there's no way out of the crater there." 

"Did you send anyone out to search?" 

Dorian nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Of 
course I did! Some came back saying the tracks lead right 
up the crater wall—but there's no tunnel or cave at the 
spot, just a blind wall! Four men were lost during the 
search. I fear the Death Pits—" 

"What's that?" 

Dorian squirmed with reluctance. "A fable, mostly. The 
residue of the flowstone creation process is pumped into 
remote caverns and crevices. It looks like tar, but it's very 
poisonous. The credulous believe the Death Pits are 
sentient. It's just a myth." 

"You said you feared it," Ertai objected. 

"It is poisonous!" Dorian began to tear up again. "If a 
single hostage dies, it will be very bad for us!" 

"Come," said Ertai, hoisting the rotund chamberlain to 
his feet. "We'll find Belbe." 

"I've looked and looked. No one knows where she is." 

Ertai closed his eyes and held his hands six inches apart, 
right in front of his chest. Magical energy crackled between 
his palms, quickly solidifying into a spinning star-shaped 
object. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"What's that?" asked Dorian, drying his eyes. 

"A ferret." Ertai imparted a single mental command to 
his magical creation: Find Belbe. The star spun away. He 
grabbed the front of Dorian's robe and said, "This way! 
Don't lose sight of it!" 

They followed the flying ferret through dark halls and 
light, and before long it became obvious where it was 
going. 

"She's in the great hall," Ertai said. "Where she 
arrived." 

One of the huge doors was ajar. The spinning star 
hovered outside, unable to pass the powerful wards placed 
around the Dream Halls. Ertai dispelled the ferret with a 
wave of his hand. With Dorian in tow, they entered the 
vast hall. 

Ertai's foot crunched something. The floor was littered 
with shiny gray shards. It wasn't flowstone but some kind of 
crystal. As far as the eye could see, the concourse was 
peppered with the stuff. 

Several yards away there was a crash, followed by the 
tinkle of broken bits. Ertai raced ahead and found 
fragments of a newly smashed globe still spinning on the 
mirror-black floor. 

"Belbe?" 

He heard a low voice muttering, and another gray globe 
came crashing down a few feet away. Ertai looked up and 
saw a figure moving in the dim heights overhead. 

"Belbe?" he called more loudly. 

"Go away, I'm busy." 

He frowned. What had gotten into her? "It's about the 
hostages! They're missing!" 

She was silent for a moment, then said, "Come up." 

He cast about for a ladder, stairs, any way up. "How?" 

"You're the magician." 

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Angrily, he went to one of the monumental pilasters 
that supported the glass roof. He placed his hands against 
the hard flowstone surface, and scooped handholds formed 
for him. He climbed steadily, noting the handholds 
smoothed out after he passed them. The ceiling was very 
high, and it took him several minutes of climbing before he 
reached a sort of mezzanine made of a black metal lattice, 
invisible from below. Here were stored all the strange 
devices Volrath used to explore and preserve his dreams. 
Belbe had been going along the platform prying out all the 
dream storage globes and hurling them to the floor. 

She sat astride the mesh ledge, her feet dangling in the 
open air. Ertai cautiously slipped onto the platform and 
tried not to look down. 

"What are you doing?" he demanded. 

"It's called 'cleaning house,'" she said. "I've been getting 
tid of Volrath's collection of terrors and pleasures." She 
held up a broken shell. "In his case, there wasn't much 
difference." 

"Belbe, the Dal, Vec, and Kor hostages are missing!" 

She tossed the shell into the void. "Did they escape?" 

"I don't know! Dorian says even the guards have 
vanished." 

"Ah. I wonder ..." 

"You know something?" He leaned over and grabbed 
her hand. "Belbe, what's going on? The safety of thousands 
is at stake!" 

She looked away. "It's probably Crovax's doing." 

"Crovax? Is he here?" 

"Crovax has returned, and his powers have greatly 
increased. He could open a tunnel through the crater wall 
with a wave of his hand." 

"By all the colors—if he hurts those people, every 
member of their families will join Eladamri's rebellion!" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Crovax ..." She gripped the mesh platform on either 
side, each finger in a different perforation. When she said 
Crovax's name, she closed her hand, tearing the 
enormously strong metal lattice like rotten cloth. 

"Let's get down from here," she announced. 

"I can make handholds, if you want to go down with 
me." 

"Too slow." She grabbed an empty dream catcher and 
hugged it close. "Come here, Ertai." He crept to her. She 
scooped him in with her free arm. "Hold on." 

"What are you—?" 

Before he could finish his question, Belbe slid off the 
platform. They plunged down, Ertai yelling all the way. 
Halfway to the floor the dream catcher's wire spool 
tightened, slowing them. It adjusted for their extra weight 
and lowered them gently to the concourse. 

His feet on solid ground again, Ertai said, "You could 
have warned me!" 

"Candidates for evincar should be bold," she said. She 
opened her arms, releasing Ertai and the dream catcher. 
The empty mechanism whirred, and with a snap, flew back 
to the rafters. 

With Dorian in tow, Belbe and Ertai rushed out of the 
hall. She detoured through the garrison to turn out the 
palace guard. 

Seal the Citadel, she ordered the guards; no one was to 
get in or out without her approval. Then she, Ertai, and 
Dorian piled into one of Volrath's fleshstone walking 
machines. Even with extreme haste, it would still take a 
couple of hours to circumnavigate the crater to the point 
outside the Stronghold where the hostages' tracks had led. 

* * * * * 


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Deep within the Skyshroud Forest lay the Eye of Korai, 
a flat-topped mound created over the course of several 
centuries by the elves of the forest. Baskets of dirt and 
stone were brought from outside the Skyshroud and 
deposited in a spot located within the densest part of the 
swamp. Over the years, an artificial island was created, 
rising some twenty-two feet above the stagnant black 
waters. The flat top covered an acre and a half and was 
paved with thousands of carefully fitted stones, brought in 
by hand by generations of elves. The mound was called the 
Eye of Korai after the great elf chieftain who began it. 

Early in the rebellion, Greven il-Vec found the Eye 
from the air, and the site was badly damaged by bombs. 
The Eye was repaired, and a giant camouflage net was 
fabricated to cover the mound. Woven of living vines, the 
net blended in with the natural tree canopy, hiding the 
elves' sacred assembly site. 

It was at the Eye of Korai that the elf tribes gathered to 
celebrate their most solemn ceremonies, to honor their 
dead (who were buried in tomb chambers deep in the 
mound), and to consult each other on important issues. It 
was only natural the Eye was chosen as the place Eladamri 
and his allies were to meet the most revered holy figure on 
Rath, the Oracle en-Vec. 

No one knew her real name. She was incredibly old, far 
older than matriarch Tant Jova or any of her sisters. It was 
rumored the Oracle dwelt on other planes and could see 
not only the future of this world but the future of other 
worlds as well. 

No one saw her arrive. Eladamri and his people went to 
bed one night after their arrival and awoke the next day to 
find a strange pavilion had appeared in the exact center of 
the Eye. The pavilion resembled a Vec nomad's tent— 
conical roof, sloping walls—but was larger and changed 

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color constantly as light and shadow played over it. There 
was no obvious entrance. Eladamri was amused when 
Darsett walked around and around the pavilion, looking for 
a door and finding none. "It's a blasted trick," Darsett 
growled. 

"Of course," Eladamri said. "What better way to 
preserve your privacy than to live in a house without a 
door?" 

Tant Jova and her young female bodyguards joined the 
Dal and elf. She leaned on the arm of one of her proud 
granddaughters, the warrior Liin Sivi. 

"Lady, how do we speak to this oracle of yours?" Darsett 
finally asked. 

Tant Jova answered, "You can't, O Darsett. When the 
Oracle has something to say, she will call you." 

They lingered by the mysterious pavilion for some time, 
half-hoping to be summoned into the presence of the 
famed oracle. When minutes turned into hours, Darsett 
grew irritated and left. Eladamri likewise had pressing 
matters to attend to and took his leave. Only Tant Jova 
remained. Sivi found a folding stool for her grandmother to 
sit on and stayed with her. 

After his defeat of Crovax, Eladamri sent runners to 
every district bearing the news. As he hoped, new recruits 
trickled in, wanting to fight the disarrayed government 
forces. He established a number of recruiting camps on the 
fringes of the forest. There, trusted lieutenants weeded out 
the treacherous and the lazy from the stream of volunteers. 
Those who showed commitment and staying power would 
be taken deeper into the Skyshroud and begin training for 
war. 

Daylight was failing when Eladamri and Darsett were 
alerted by Tant Jova that a door to the oracle's tent had 
appeared. The three allied leaders stood side by side outside 

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the pavilion, gazing at the fluttering canvas opening. The 
oracle's tent was haloed by a faint greenish glow. This 
troubled the Vec matriarch. 

"It's a bad sign," said Tant Jova. 

"How so?" asked Darsett. 

"To my people, green is a color of ill-omen." 

"Among mine, it's a good sign," Eladamri said 
cheerfully. "Green is the color of our ancient trees. Perhaps 
she wears this aura to honor me." Tant Jova did not look 
convinced. 

"I suppose we should go in," Darsett murmured. 
Eladamri nodded and took the lead. Darsett followed, and a 
worried looking Tant Jova brought up the rear. 

Entering the tent was like walking into a fogbank. 
Every visible feature, including the entrance, disappeared 
once they were inside. The faintly greenish mist smelled 
strongly of incense and rare spices. The odors were strong 
enough to make Eladamri's head swim. He kept going 
straight ahead—at least he assumed he was—for several 
yards, which didn't make sense. The pavilion was no more 
than fifteen feet across as seen from the outside. Was he 
walking in some kind of dazed circle? 

"Seeker, come. You are welcome," said a sourceless 
voice. 

"Where are you?" said Eladamri. 

"Here, all around you." 

He fumed a little. Why were these mystical types always 
so obscure? "I want to speak to you face to face," he called 
out. 

No sooner had he said so than a dark outline appeared 
in the mist. Eladamri approached cautiously. The 
silhouette resolved into a seated Vec woman, dressed in 
nomadic robes densely patterned with green and brown 
embroidered swirls. She sat at a tall, bowl-shaped table 

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filled with a silver liquid. Her face was averted, her arms 

gripped the bowl on either side. 

"Are you the Oracle en-Vec?" asked Eladamri. 

"I'd hoped your first question would be more 
intelligent." 

Startled by her impudence, the elf leader replied, 
"What is this? Did you admit me to snipe at my wits?" 

"Peace, O Eladamri. Take no offense at my free tongue. 
When past, present and future exist in your mind at the 
same time, it's difficult to spare enough thought for 
manners." 

She raised her head. Eladamri had heard the oracle was 
an aged crone, but the face he saw was as fresh as an open 
lily. He took her to be no more than fifteen years old. 

"I'm much older than that," said the oracle. "What you 
see is an illusion I will you to see." 

"You read minds?" 

"When they're simple enough, I peer behind the 
thinker's eyes and read his words before they form on his 
lips." 

"More insults! Why am I here, O Oracle?" 

She blew on the surface of the bowl, and the silver 
liquid rippled to the edge and back. "Your cause is just, O 
Eladamri, and your triumphs genuine, but final victory is 
beyond your grasp." 

"All things are possible with the gods' help," he said. 
"Are you telling me the rebellion is doomed?" "It will never 
succeed on Rath." 

He didn't want to believe it. For all his invocation of 
the gods, Eladamri was a realist, believing first and foremost 
in Eladamri. It rankled him for this ancient oracle, this 
freak, to tell him flatly his cause was hopeless. 

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"Not hopeless," she said. "You will defeat your enemies 
one day, elf lord, and be hailed as the savior of a world not 
your own." 

"Enough vagaries," he said. "Tell me something useful. 
What is Crovax doing at this moment?" 

She pursed her brown lips and blew again over the 
silver pool. Though Eladamri could see nothing in it, the 
oracle peered closely at the bowl. She shuddered violently 
and struck the fluid mirror with the palm of her hand. 

"Oh! Oh!" was all the Oracle could say. "What is it?" 
"Horrible! I cannot—" "What?" 

"Blood and more blood ... he feasts on their lives! 
Abomination!" 

Eladamri leaned forward, resting his hand on the edge 
of the bowl. He thrust his face close to the oracle's and for 
a instant caught a glimpse of her true visage—deeply 
wrinkled skin the color of mud, sunken eyes, a nose little 
more than two holes in her face. He blinked and the 
impression was gone. The dewy eyed girl was back. 

"Speak plainly," he urged. "I must know Crovax's 
doings." "I cannot speak it...." she whispered. He turned 
away in disgust. "This is useless! Can you tell me nothing of 
value?" 

"Two things, O Eladamri. Your destiny lies in the 
Stronghold, not in the forest or on the plain. A door will 
be offered to you, and you must enter. To do otherwise is to 
doom all you cherish!" 

"The Stronghold! Should I attack there before a new 
evincar is chosen? Is that what you're telling me?" 

The oracle sagged in her chair, covering her face with 
her hands. "No ... no attack on the Stronghold will 
succeed. It will fall to the quietest of all, no man, no elf. 
You must go there in chains, O Eladamri. Go in chains, go 

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in chains. The Dead One will open a door for you, and you 
must go." 

"I don't understand! Will I be captured? Is that what 
you mean?" 

The mist thickened between them. He tried to reach 
through it and take hold of the oracle, but it was like 
seizing a shadow. 

"Where will this door take me?" he cried. 

Her reply was a fast fading whisper. "To a land of light 
and color. Go there. Go there and be the Korvecdal ..." 

The mist disappeared, and Eladamri found himself 
standing in the open atop the Eye of Korai. The oracle's 
tent was gone. Darsett and Tant Jova were a few feet away, 
their eyes closed. Eladamri shook off the aftereffects of the 
oracle's intense illusions and called to his friends. 

Both awoke at the same time. 

"She's gone!" said Darsett. 

"Was she ever here?" Eladamri asked, even though he 
knew the answer. 

"I heard everything," Tant Jova said. "Her prophecies 
and her proclaiming you the Korvecdal!" 

"I heard it too, but I couldn't see or speak," Darsett said, 
puzzled. 

"Yes, yes," Tant Jova said. "The word must be shouted 
in every village and every tent—Eladamri is the Promised 
One. Eladamri is the Korvecdal!" 

Rebels on the mound gathered quickly when they heard 
the Vec matriarch shout. They took up the refrain, "The 
Promised One! The Korvecdal!" and shouted it as loudly as 
they could, over and over. Liin Sivi and Gallan raised 
Eladamri on their shoulders. Despite his misgivings about 
the oracle's murky predictions, Eladamri was vastly 
relieved. All his life he had dreamt of this moment. So 
much had been sacrificed, not least by him—his wife, his 

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only child, a safe and normal life—all lost to the dark 
forces of the Stronghold. Now the final fight could begin. 
He would be the Korvecdal, no matter what gloomy and 
ambiguous prophecies the Oracle en-Vec made. 

They carried Eladamri around the perimeter of the Eye, 
shouting and singing war songs. They were about to start a 
second circuit when four weary, bleeding elves appeared at 
the edge of the mound. The triumphant parade abruptly 
ceased, and Eladamri was set back on his feet. 

He greeted the harried new arrivals. "I know you, 
Brother," he said to the eldest elf in the group. "You're 
Raydon, of Moss-bridge village?" 

"I am. Health to you, Brother." Raydon had a number 
of sizable sword cuts on his arms and visible blade marks on 
his breastplate. "My nephews and I are all that's left of a 
band forty strong. We were on our way here to join you, 
Eladamri, when we were attacked by the evincar's flying 
ship." 

Alarm ricocheted through the crowd. 

"What?" said Darsett. "Predator flies again?" 

"It does, or its twin," said the weary Raydon. "We took 
a shortcut across the plain from Mossbridge, and the devils 
fell upon us without warning." 

"You have hand weapon injuries," Eladamri said. "How 
did that happen?" 

"It was their method, Brother," said the elf. "They did 
not rain fire and arrows on us, as in the past. The flying 
ship alighted, and a hundred soldiers came out. Greven ii-
Vec led them." 

Mention of the Rathi warlord provoked fresh outcries 
for vengeance. Eladamri quieted his friends and allies. 

"This changes much," he said. "I had hoped to forge an 
army to meet the Stronghold's soldiers in open combat, but 
we dare not expose ourselves to destruction from the air." 

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"What can we do?" asked Gallan. 

Eladamri pondered for a moment. "We must go on," he 
said. "We'll go back to the old ways—ambush, hit the 
enemy, and run. We'll steal their weapons and bide our 
time as our strength grows." 

"We can't win by ambushing outposts," said Darsett. 

"It's that flying ship," Tant Jova said, striking the 
ground with her staff. "Without it, the Stronghold would 
collapse like a rotten cask!" 

The allies fell to arguing strategy. Voices rose as they 
disagreed on how to fight under the threat of aerial attack. 

Gallan turned to Eladamri. "What is our best course of 
action, Brother?" 

"Destroy the flying ship." 

"You make it sound easy," Darsett said sourly. 

"It won't be easy," Eladamri answered, "but it must be 
done." 

"But how? Predator roosts inside the Stronghold," 
Gallan objected. 

"Yes." 

Darsett snorted, "Are you proposing we storm the 
Stronghold just to destroy the flying ship?" 

"Not 'storm,' Darsett. Just pay a little visit, a few friends 
and I." 

Tant Jova looked stunned. "You're not going to raid the 
Stronghold, O Eladamri!" 

"No," he said. "I'm going to give myself up." 

* * * * * 

It would have been faster to seek Crovax by air, but 
Greven had taken Predator to find the Skyshroud 
Expeditionary Force, so they were forced to rely on one of 
Volrath's old two-legged walkers. The Headless Turkey, as 

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Nemesis 

Ertai called it, lumbered across the undulating landscape 
below the crater. The walker made slow progress over this 
uneven terrain. 

Opposite the Stronghold's main causeway, the plain 
was level and covered with knee-high yellow grass. As the 
Turkey climbed out of a shallow gully, Belbe's acute eyes 
spotted a smudge on the horizon—a crowd of people. 

"Faster," she said. 

Volrath's old machine covered the flat ground at an 
admirable clip, each sweep of the metal-toed feet tearing 
up a dusty divot. Ertai was at the controls, which consisted 
of two levers, one each for the right and left leg. He had 
them shoved forward as far as they would go, maximum 
speed. Belbe stood at the front of the car, hand to her brow, 
scanning ahead for obstacles. Bouncing in the back was 
Dorian, gripping the sides of the walker with white-
knuckled hands. 

When they were still a mile away from the evident 
crowd, Belbe stiffened and signaled for Ertai to slow down. 
He hauled back on the levers, bringing the Turkey from a 
gallop to a lazy lope. 

"What do you see?" asked Dorian. 

"People," she replied, puzzled. "They seem to be floating 
above the ground." 

A far-off shriek reached out to them, a thin wail of pure 
terror and utmost anguish. Ertai dropped his hands, and the 
walker stopped. 

"He's not—!" 

"He is." Belbe vaulted over the side. It was eight feet to 
the ground, but she landed lightly on her toes and took off 
running. Ertai shoved the controls forward, sending the 
walker pounding after the fleet emissary. 

Belbe covered the last eight hundred yards in seconds. 
What she thought were people "floating" was not that at 

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all. Ahead the plain was thickly studded with sharp poles, 
formed from the flowstone substrate under the thin layer of 
topsoil. Impaled on the poles were the hostages— 
thousands of them. 

Belbe stopped, frozen in her tracks by the scene before 
her. Crovax had commanded the spikes to thrust out of the 
ground, impaling the victims where they stood. Some died 
immediately. Others took time to find death, and a few still 
clung to life. Their moans were like a swirling wind, 
coming from every direction at once. 

She didn't hear the walker thump to a halt behind her. 
It squatted, and Ertai got out. Dorian couldn't. He buried 
his face in his hands and sobbed. 

Next thing Belbe knew, Ertai's hand was on her 
shoulder. She shrugged it off. 

"How could he do this?" Ertai whispered. 

"His power over flowstone is developing exponentially," 
Belbe said. "He's learned to fix the forms into permanent 
shapes. Impressive." 

"Impressive? How can you say this savage is impressive?" 
Ertai took a step back, a horrified look on his face. 

Slowly, Belbe walked into the forest of death. Most of 
the poles were eight to ten feet high, tall enough that the 
victim's feet couldn't reach the ground. The gray metal 
spikes were black with gore, and the air was heavy with the 
smell of blood. Ertai tried to follow Belbe, but within a few 
yards he broke down, nauseated. 

Dazed, Belbe wound her way through the maze of 
spikes. 

Since they'd sprung up wherever a person had been 
standing, there was no order, no pattern to their 
placement. Where a family huddled together for safety, a 
spike for each of them had erupted. Standing alone was no 
safer. Many victims looked as though they were caught in 

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Nemesis 

mid-stride. Age and gender made no difference—all had 
fallen to Crovax's insatiable vengeance. 

A scream came from close by. Numbly, Belbe turned 
toward the sound. She saw a band of moggs manhandling a 
Dal man. Without thinking, she hurled herself at them, 
lashing out at the loathsome gremlins with her fists and 
feet. Bewildered, the moggs let their prey go and fled, 
whooping. 

Belbe tried to help the man stand, but he was crazed 
with fear and kept trying to crawl away on all fours. 

"It's all right, it's all right," Belbe said over and over. 
The man, mired in gore, looked up at her and started to 
speak. 

His words were cut short by a spike bursting from the 
ground beneath him. It thrust up so powerfully that the 
man was carried four feet in the air before Belbe could even 
react. She grasped the still growing post and tried to break 
it, but even her considerable strength could not affect a 
metal pole eight feet tall and now almost seven inches 
thick. Blood cascaded down the pole over Belbe's hands. 
Trembling, she backed away and screamed. 

Ertai heard her cry. Sick and shaken, he ran to her, 
calling her name. He dodged around a cluster of thick 
spikes, and they fell into each other's arms. Belbe was 
bathed in gore up to her elbows, and a thick spray of blood 
had at some point struck her in the face. 

"Belbe! Belbe!" he shouted, shaking her by the 
shoulders. He raised a hand to strike her, but with her 
lightning reflexes she caught his hand long before it could 
connect. 

"Hit me and I'll kill you!" she cried. To emphasize her 
point she squeezed his hand. Ertai bent his legs to relieve 
the pressure on his hand, and Belbe forced him to his 
knees. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Don't hurt me," he said. "Haven't enough people been 
hurt today?" 

Suddenly shamed, she released him. "Crovax. I must 
find Crovax." 

Blood and dust made a dense brown mud that clung to 
Ertai's knees. "I'll go with you." 

They wandered through what seemed like an endless 
field of carnage. Ertai kept his eyes on the ground, but 
Belbe gazed wide-eyed at every horror. The sights and 
smells of death assaulted her at every turn, and the 
relentlessly analytical mind given to her by her Phyrexian 
masters made her catalog each victim as she passed: 

Male, Dal, estimated age, 60. Impaled through the 
chest. 

Male, Vec, estimated age, 72. Impaled through thigh, 
abdomen, armpit. 

Female, Vec, estimated age, 11. Impaled through foot, 
thigh, and head. 

Female, Dal, estimated age, 44. Impaled through 
abdomen. 

Female, Dal, 28. Impaled. 

Male, Vec, 6. 

Female, Kor. 

Female. 

Female. 

Male ... 

Ertai was clutching her hand. She ceased her macabre 
catalog and said, "Do you still want the job?" 

"How can I defeat a man who does things like this?" he 
said. "How can you allow a monster like him to rule this 
entire world?" 

"I must choose the best candidate for evincar," Belbe 
said faintly. "I exist to make this choice." 

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Nemesis 

Belbe heard voices ahead. Ertai dropped her hand and 
went on. Belbe followed, methodically counting the dead. 

At the epicenter of the death field was a clear space 
twenty yards wide. In the midst of the clearing sat Crovax 
at a long rectangular table covered in a spotless white 
tablecloth. His back was to them. Assorted moggs armed 
with axes and clubs stood idle around the edge of the 
clearing. Others in weirdly comic livery—fancy velvet 
uniforms and wigs—bore silver trenchers laden with food 
to the table. 

"Welcome, Excellency," Crovax said, keeping his back 
turned. "Is my rival, young Ertai, with you?" 

"Bastard," Ertai spat, starting forward. Belbe restrained 
him. 

"Are we having lunch?" she said. Some coolness had 
returned to her voice. The sight of Crovax gave needed 
focus to her outraged senses. 

"A light repast. It's been a busy morning. Please join 
me." 

Ertai's face purpled, but Belbe cautioned him with a 
glance. "I do not eat, but thank you," she said. She 
motioned Ertai to follow her. 

They circled the end of the table Crovax had raised 
from the ground. Two high-backed chairs bubbled up and 
solidified across from Crovax. Belbe slid gracefully into one 
chair. Ertai fell heavily into the other. 

It was an extraordinary scene. Crovax had discarded his 
customary black garb and was clad instead all in white— 
bloodless, sterile white, without a speck of gore or dirt on 
him. A white mantle, edged in gold, draped across his 
shoulders, and on his head he wore a plain circlet wrought 
in gold and white enamel. He'd cut off his long pigtail at 
neck length and let his hair hang loosely. Had he not been 

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Paul B.Thompson 

backed by a panorama of violent death, Crovax would have 
been the epitome of a peaceful, civilized monarch. 

"Wine?" he said. A mogg, in an ill-fitting white cravat, 
hopped to Belbe's elbow and held out a silver urn. "It's one 
of Volrath's vintages. He drank it for pleasure, I'm told." 
Belbe said nothing, so the mogg filled the heavy crystal 
goblet by her plate. The wine was brilliantly scarlet and 
smelled faintly of flowers. 

"Give some to the boy, too. I assume he can drink," 
Crovax said. The mogg waddled to Ertai. 

"Why have you done this?" Belbe said. "Why slaughter 
these innocent people?" 

"You surprise me, Excellency. Didn't the overlords 
teach you that the most valuable tool of rulership is fear? 
This small exercise will insure the loyalty—or at least, the 
compliance—of the civil population during the coming 
campaign against Eladamri." 

"Small exercise?" Ertai shouted. His goblet overturned, 
spilling bright red wine over the snowy tablecloth. Before it 
lapped the undersides of the heavy silver dishes, the scarlet 
liquid vanished, as did Ertai's cup. 

"No more wine for you," Crovax said. 

"Five thousand, eight hundred sixty-eight killed hardly 
qualifies as a 'small exercise,'" Belbe said. 

"It's more than a thousand," he said, tweaking her for 
her lie. "But they were expendable. Dorian chose only the 
old and the weak." 

"You're a monster," Ertai said flatly. 

Crovax sawed off a bit of rare cutlet and forked it into 
his mouth. "This from the boy who would be evincar! I'm 
told the hostage idea was yours." 

"No one was supposed to get hurt." 

"You're sentimental, Ertai," Crovax said. "There's no 
room for sentiment on Rath." 

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Nemesis 

"What you call sentiment, I call prudence," Belbe said. 
She could see her reflection in the empty silver plate before 
her. The wild, blood-smeared face could hardly be hers. 
"Your actions are precipitate, Crovax. There's no evidence 
the people of the Stronghold intended to rise in rebellion 
against us. It is you who've given them common cause with 
Eladamri by murdering their families." 

"With all respect, Excellency, you don't know what 
you're talking about. I was with the army when we were 
ambushed by the rebels. There were Dal and Vec warriors 
with the Skyshroud elves." 

"So you avenge your defeat on helpless old people and 
children?" said Ertai. 

"Yes." He sipped wine. "As evincar, I will brook no 
resistance to my rule. The only law of the realm shall be— 
obey, or die." 

"You're not evincar yet," Belbe said. 

Crovax slammed down his goblet, snapping the stem. 
"Then declare me so! Now!" 

"There are other factors to consider." 

"What? Him?" Crovax whipped a knife off the table and 
thrust it at Ertai. "I can kill him without leaving my chair!" 

"We've seen what you've learned to do," Belbe replied. 
"Your mastery of the flowstone increases daily, but you lost 
a battle and a sizable part of your army with it. You show 
little understanding of how people should be governed, 
relying on naked force instead of statesmanship. In short, 
Crovax, your methods are inefficient, and as far as I'm 
concerned, the issue of who will succeed Volrath is still 
unresolved!" 

He sat back. "You constantly amaze me, Excellency. Of 
course, you're right. We'll see in the coming days who the 
best man is, won't we?" 

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CHAPTER 12 


GHOST 

Beneath the main causeway leading into the 
Stronghold, the remnants of the Skyshroud Expeditionary 
Force marshaled, awaiting the orders of Greven il-Vec. 
Predator droned overhead, searching the wide plains for the 
enemy. The airship had attacked several bands of rebels the 
previous day, landing troops beside (and sometimes among) 
the startled foe. These small actions had done much to 
restore the army's morale, and Crovax or no Crovax, they 
were marching into the Stronghold as an army, not a 
defeated rabble. 

A percher landed on Greven's shoulder. "Urgent from 
Predator! Urgent from Predator!" it squawked. 

He hated the raucous, leathery creatures. "What now?" 

"Unknown intruder! Unknown intruder—" Greven 
grasped the irritating creature by the neck. The percher's 
heart fluttered wildly. 

"Land in the hollow below Three-Toe Hill," he said to 
the messenger. "I will meet you there." 

He flung the percher into the air. It circled once, then 
flapped away to find the airship. 

Greven hollered orders at Nasser. "Take the men to 
their barracks. Send the wounded to the healers, then 
confine everyone to quarters until I return." 

"Trouble?" asked Nasser. 

He had no idea but answered, "No." 

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Nemesis 

Three-Toe Hill was a forty-foot high promontory half a 
mile east of the causeway. There was a wide but shallow 
hollow below the hill where the airship could land and not 
be seen while on the ground. By the time Greven walked 
there as no kerl existed big enough to carry him, Predator 
was waiting. 

The airship's boatswain, Narmer by name, was on the 
ground waiting for Greven. He ran up the slope when the 
commander's huge silhouette appeared on the hilltop. 

"Dread Lord!" 

"What's this about an intruder? Can't you handle a lone 
man on foot?" said Greven. 

"There's more to it than that, Dread Lord." Narmer 
looked quite disturbed. He wrung his hands and scuffed his 
feet continuously in the dry turf. "I thought this should be 
brought to your attention immediately." 

"All right." Greven unlocked his jaw. "Let's find this 
intruder of yours." 

Narmer put a hand to the warrior's massive chest. 
Greven was frankly surprised the boatswain dared touch 
him. 

"There's no need, Dread Lord." 

"What? Why not?" 

"We picked him up," Narmer said. He pointed to 
Predator, hovering a few feet off the ground. A figure 
appeared at the rail, deeply clothed in the shadow of the 
hill behind them. "He wishes to speak to you." 

Greven went slowly to the dangling rope ladder. For 
one of the few times in his life, he actually experienced a 
feeling of dread. The shadowed figure leaned on the rail. 
As Greven's eyes accustomed to the shade, he saw the 
intruder's face. 

* * * * * 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Eladamri, you're insane." 

Darsett en-Dal and the inner circle of the rebellion 
were seated in the great room of Eladamri's home. Their 
host sat on the floor by the door, casually whittling a block 
of wood. The garnet on the pommel of his carving knife 
gleamed in the cool light of four foxfire lamps. 

"I mean that with all due respect," Darsett added when 
no one seconded his opinion. "What I mean is, this scheme 
of yours seems far more desperate than circumstances 
require." 

"I've been hunted by the airship for years," Eladamri 
replied. He scored a hole in the end of the stick and blew 
away loose wood chips. "My wife died in an airship attack. 
There's no way the rebellion can proceed with that 
machine flying over us, spying on everything we do and 
raining death on us from above." 

"Granted, O Eladamri, but why must you go on this 
raid? How do you know Greven il-Vec won't have you 
killed on the spot?" said Tant Jova. 

"I know him," said the elf. "If he thinks he can lay 
hands on me, killing me is the last thing he'll want to do. 
Greven will want to know all the details of the rebellion, 
including the names of my allies." He smiled at his Dal and 
Vec friends. "In either case he'll want me alive, for a time. 
That's all I need." 

In the past few weeks, Eladamri had aged noticeably. 
The hard, determined elf he'd always been had given way 
to a contemplative, almost wistful one. He'd not worn a 
helmet since meeting the Oracle en-Vec, going bare 
headed with his long hair tied back in a rough ponytail. 
Deep lines etched his face, and his eyes betrayed a 
weariness never present before. 

"I wish you'd let some of us go with you," Gallan said. 

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Nemesis 

"That would only increase the danger," Eladamri 
replied. "There are no elves in the evincar's army, and my 
escort must pass close inspection as Rathi soldiers." 

"There are no women in Volrath's army, either," Gallan 
protested. "Yet Liin Sivi is going with you!" 

"Sivi is the best fighter in my clan," Tant Jova 
protested. "She's an adept of the toten-vec." This was the 
unique whip-knife combination weapon used only by 
female warrior societies of the Vec. "I'm not happy 
Eladamri has chosen this course, but I feel better in my 
heart if Sivi is with him in the Stronghold." 

"It's settled," Eladamri said. He slipped together the two 
halves of the fetish he'd carved. A little glue and the joint 
would be invisible. "We'll leave tomorrow at sunset. Do we 
have enough captured uniforms and equipment?" 

"Enough for a regiment," Darsett said, grinning. 
"There's a surfeit of officer's outfits. We can all be Rathi 
officers if we want. They died especially often." 

"If I show up at the Stronghold the prisoner of ten 
officers, I think they'll be a little suspicious," Eladamri said. 
"It would be best if you went as the lowliest of privates." 

Eladamri's plan called for a hand-picked force of ten 
warriors drawn from his Dal and Vec allies to don Rathi 
uniforms. They would walk to the Stronghold with 
Eladamri as their "prisoner" and present him to the 
authorities there. Once inside the Stronghold, they would 
find where Predator was moored and destroy the airship. 
Gallan and Tant Jova would assemble the rebel army, now 
almost eleven thousand strong, and when Eladamri and his 
team returned, a full scale war on the Stronghold would 
commence. 

"What if you don't find the Predator conveniently 
docked, waiting for destruction?" asked Gallan. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Then we'll wait until it returns," replied the elf leader. 
"And if Greven murders you before the airship comes 
back?" Eladamri was momentarily silent while he bored a 
hole in the top half of the image he was making. He licked 
the end of a length of string and threaded it through the 
hole. 

"This war is not about me, Gallan. Understand that 
now. Whether I live or die, this is not Eladamri's rebellion. 
It belongs to every free person on Rath, not to me. If I die 
on this operation or any other, you must fight on, do you 
hear? Otherwise everything we've fought for becomes just 
vanity, an empty struggle for glory. Will you swear to carry 
on the fight no matter what happens to me?" 

"It is sworn, O Eladamri," said Tant Jova. "I swear," Liin 
Sivi added. 

"You're a fool," Darsett said, scratching his bearded 
cheek. "A gallant, dedicated fool I'm proud to know. I 
swear, too." 

Gallan was alone. Everyone in the room watched him 
struggle for the words. 

"I will fight on," he said at last. "But if you die, I further 
swear to show no mercy to Crovax, Greven il-Vec, or any 
other Stronghold leader. They will all die—by my hand, if 
necessary." 

Eladamri continued to carve. The pile of white shavings 
at his feet grew larger. 

"Thank you, Gallan," he said. 

* * * * * 

"Crovax's army has returned," Ertai said. 

He was standing by one of the odd, protruding egg-
shaped windows in the evincar's quarters. Far below, he 
could see the soldiers fanning out from the causeway to the 

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Nemesis 

Dal city located on the lip of the crater wall. Overnight 
word had spread about the massacre, and there'd been 
trouble in all the settlements. Nothing major—no attacks 
were made on the Citadel—but small bands of outraged 
city dwellers had roamed the streets all night. Some moggs 
had been killed and small groups of soldiers set upon, but 
when the Citadel garrison turned out, the troublemakers 
went home. The knowledge that both Crovax and Greven 
were present in the crater deterred the common folk from 
taking matters too far. 

Inside the Citadel, however, a siege mentality took 
over. Patrols constantly circled inside the fortress, making 
sure all entrances were secure. Dorian il-Dal was prostrate 
after witnessing the aftermath of Crovax's revenge, and he 
had abandoned his regular duties. Fearing assassination, 
courtiers locked themselves in their rooms. Belbe withdrew 
to the evincar's suite. Before long, Ertai joined her, his 
clothes stuffed with scrolls borrowed from the Citadel's 
libraries. They spoke little. Ertai dragged a chaise to the 
window and read there, occasionally glancing outside to see 
what was happening. Belbe huddled in one of Volrath's 
oversized chairs, her knees drawn up to her chin. She 
stayed there for a complete night and half of the following 
day. 

"I'm afraid," she finally said. 

Ertai looked up from his scroll. "Why are you afraid? 
You're the emissary of Phyrexia. Of the people here, you're 
probably the safest one of all. No one dares harm you." 

"Perhaps I misuse the word. I've never felt this way 
before. I think it's fear." 

"What are you afraid of?" 

"Hurting someone." 

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Ertai left the chaise and leaned on the arm of Belbe's 
chair. "You're afraid of hurting someone else, not being 
hurt yourself?" 

"Yes." 

"Who're you afraid of hurting?" 

"Crovax." 

The young sorcerer did a double take. "By all the 
colors," he said. "Why should you be afraid of that?" 

"Because I want to hurt him. I think about it all the 
time. I want to break his limbs, put out his eyes, dismember 
him, castrate him—" 

"I get the idea," Ertai said hastily. "No one would weep 
if you did kill Crovax." 

She seized his hand in a powerful grip. "Listen to what I 
say! I want to hurt him, and when I'm done, I want to hurt 
him all over again. Killing him would be mercy. I don't 
want him to find any mercy!" 

"Belbe, my hand—" 

"At first the images were just fleeting. I could distract 
myself with other things. In the Dream Halls I broke 
Volrath's dream records because I really wanted to break 
Crovax's skull." 

Her fingers were digging into his flesh. Ertai tried to pry 
her fingers loose, but even his newly grown muscles were 
no match for Belbe's enhanced strength. 

"I'm not supposed to care what Crovax does so long as 
it serves the purposes of my masters. His methods are 
coarse, but he is the strongest candidate for evincar. Why 
don't I name him to the post and depart? I have the means. 
I'm not responsible for the people here. Is it because I know 
in time Crovax will kill every living thing on this world to 
feed his appetite for destruction?" 

Ertai made a fist and hit Belbe as hard as he could on 
the jaw. Her head snapped back, and for a brief instant he 

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saw the light of rage in her eyes. His heart shrank to a hard 
ball, and a hollow place opened in the pit of his stomach. 
Belbe must have seen the expression of fear on Ertai's face, 
and she abruptly released him. He backed away quickly, 
rubbing his sorely bruised hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to 
hurt you, Ertai." 

"I hope I'm not around when you do mean to hurt 
someone," he said ruefully. His mood quickly changed. "Do 
you really have a way to leave Rath?" 

"Of course. I cannot allow you to go," she said, lowering 
her feet to the floor. 

"Even if it means Crovax kills me?" 

"Yes." 

Ertai paced up and down. "You know I can't compete 
with him for the evincar post. Although my knowledge and 
talent far exceed his, I can't match him in sheer power." 

"No one can. Crovax feeds on death. Every time 
something near him dies, he absorbs the life-force from it, 
increasing his own power. Combined with his innate lust 
for destruction, no one will be able to stop him." 

"How long have you known this?" 

She lowered her head to her knees. "It became clear to 
me yesterday. I kept trying to determine why his power 
keeps increasing, despite the mistakes he makes. Then I 
realized his modifications on Phyrexia were largely 
neurological, not mechanical. Though he was obviously 
given muscular and size enhancements, the important 
changes must have been made on the inside. He still eats 
food like a normal being of flesh, but it's just a habit he 
hasn't given up yet. His command of the flowstone is 
growing exponentially. It doesn't come from rare cutlets 
and sour wine. Obviously, he has another source of power. 

"Then I realized what was happening—the deaths of so 
many soldiers in battle fed Crovax enough energy for him 

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to teleport for the first time from the battlefield to the 
Citadel. Slaughter of the hostages has boosted his power a 
thousandfold more. Soon he'll be unstoppable. That's why 
I want to hurt him. I want him to know what it feels like to 
suffer at another's hands." 

For a moment, Ertai forgot about escape. "Why don't 
you kill him? He'll kill us both if we get in his way." 

"I must put the best possible candidate on the throne of 
Rath." 

"Why?" he shouted. The flowstone around him rose in a 
hundred tiny peaks. 

"It's my purpose," she replied hotly. "It's the reason I 
exist." 

"I have a notion for you, Belbe. Exist to be yourself! 
Loyalty is an admirable trait, but you can't cling to it in the 
face of certain destruction!" 

She stalked across the floor, flattening the flowstone 
waves with her feet. An inch from his face she stopped. 

"This is why you and your kind will fail—you think 
only of yourselves, your own petty individual concerns 
above the welfare of your race! My masters will destroy you 
and anyone else who stands in their way. It's the law of 
nature that the efficient shall displace the inefficient ..." 

Ertai carefully lifted her hand and clasped it with his 
own. "You're the same race as I," he said. "You've no 
common cause with beings whose sole purpose is to force 
people like us into slavery." 

His touch was firm and warm. Belbe stared at him, at 
their hands. She dropped Ertai's hand and turned away. 

He put his arms around her. Unlike Crovax, his touch 
was gentle. "Why do you always turn away at the last 
moment?" he said. 

"I cannot do what I imagine." 

"Why not? What stops you?" 

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Belbe shuddered. "I am not alone and never have been. 
There is a ... device in my body which transmits everything 
I see and do to my masters on Phyrexia." 

He turned Belbe to face him. "Where is this device?" 
She took his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers to her 
breastbone. He felt the curved surface of the Lens 
imbedded there. 

"Can it be removed?" 

"Perhaps on Phyrexia. Not here." 

He closed his eyes and probed the Lens with his mind. 
Touching it, even psychically, was like entering a vast 
empty well, black and bottomless. There seemed no end to 
it, as it stretched all the way from Rath to the secret plane 
of her overlords. 

Belbe lowered her head to his shoulder. 

Ertai sighed in awe. "That thing could swallow me 
whole." 

"Could you break it, or block it?" she murmured. "At 
least for a little while?" 

"Hmm, maybe. Your masters can't bear the natural life-
force, right? Perhaps if I send a charge of such energy into 
this device it will blind them." 

He cupped his palms together over the imbedded orb 
and summoned all the natural magic he could reach on this 
unnatural world. Belbe felt a buildup of heat in her chest. It 
didn't burn, but slowly diffused outward through her neck, 
arms, and abdomen. Ertai removed his hands. 

"Did it work?" she asked. 

"There's no way to know for certain." 

She draped her arms around his neck. "I don't care 
anymore. I'm tired of being a lens. I want to be alone with 
you, if only for a while." 

* * * * * 

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After some hours in each other's arms, Ertai was spent 
and Belbe drained of her stormy emotions. He fell asleep 
on the chaise. She watched him a while, breathing deeply, 
his lips just apart. His hair was russet brown now, and next 
to her pale skin the increasing grayness of his flesh was 
quite noticeable. He was indeed beginning to resemble a 
lesser version of Greven il-Vec. 

Belbe got up, careful not to disturb her sleeping lover. 
She was cold, and though she tried to dispel the goose 
pimples on her arms and legs, she found she couldn't. This 
puzzled her until she decided it must be due to Ertai's spell. 
Her Phyrexian systems weren't meant to handle natural 
magic, and her loss of metabolic control was probably due 
to the presence of his magical charge in her system. She 
glanced back at the naked, sleeping Ertai. It was worth it. 

She wandered through the empty suite, letting her 
fingers drift across Volrath's strange artwork. She hadn't 
touched them before, and she discovered some of the 
statues had latent flowstone responses to being touched. 
Though they looked like stone, when caressed the statues 
became soft as velvet, supple as leather, and warm to the 
touch. What a strange person the evin-car must have been, 
wasting his intimacy on inanimate, though responsive, 
objects. 

In Volrath's bedroom, she paused by the mirror. Her 
hair was disheveled, her face flushed, and her lips bruised. 
These were superficial things. Belbe stood closer to the 
mirror. She traced the line of her face and throat as she had 
on Volrath's statues. Her skin was cool to the touch, and it 
didn't change texture as her fingertip passed over it. Why 
was that? Was she less responsive than flowstone? No one 
would have said so two hours ago. Now that her passion 
was spent, was she the same as she was before? 

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* * * * * 


Ertai rolled over, empty arms seeking Belbe. Not 
finding her, he opened his eyes. Across the chamber, in the 
shadowed recesses of the ceiling, he saw what looked like a 
suit of black armor hanging by its feet from the ceiling. The 
armor moved. 

Ertai bolted from the chaise. 

"Who is it?" he demanded. He raised his hand. "Come 
down, or I'll knock you down!" 

Lilting laughter was his answer. The intruder dropped 
from the ceiling, somersaulted, and landed on his feet. 

"Crovax!" 

"Congratulations, Boy," Crovax said. "Met the emissary 
on equal terms, have you?" 

"How long have you been there?" 

"Long enough. Who would've thought the overlords 
would send us such a spirited representative?" He sauntered 
over and picked up a piece of Belbe's discarded clothing. 
Ertai snatched it from his hand. 

Crovax laughed. "Now you're going to defend her, as 
any rustic swain would." 

"You're a filthy animal," Ertai said. He was terrified to 
be found like this by Crovax, his fear compounded by not 
knowing what Crovax would do to him or Belbe. 

"And you're a stupid boy, today's performance not 
withstanding." Crovax sat down on the same chaise where 
Ertai and Belbe had made love. "It's a good trick, though, 
I'll give you that. Seducing the emissary is bound to be 
good for your candidacy." 

"That's not what happened!" 

Crovax's dark eyes shone. "Are you going to tell me it's 
love?" 

"I-I don't know." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

There was a sharp intake of breath. Both men saw 
Belbe standing in the doorway. Ertai snatched up the first 
available garment—his doublet—and hurriedly draped it 
around her. 

"The proper answer was 'yes,'" Crovax said, stretching. 

"Shut up!" Ertai said. 

Crovax stood, hands falling slowly to his sides. "You're 
welcome to try and make me, Boy." 

"What passed between us was not about human love," 
Belbe said archly. "I had some curiosity about the practice 
of copulation, and Ertai was obliging me." 

"So I saw. If all you wanted was experience, you could 
have done better," Crovax said. "I'm always available for 
Your Excellency's enlightenment." 

Ertai started forward, but Belbe stopped him. 

"Don't," she said. "He's trying to provoke you. I've seen 
it before." 

Crovax shrugged and sat down again. "Better listen to 
her, Boy. I can kill you any time I want." He flung out his 
hand suddenly. Ertai flinched, affording Crovax a hearty 
laugh. "You're not a total fool. You're smart enough to be 
afraid of me." 

"What do you want, Crovax?" said Belbe. 

"I came to tell Your Excellency that order has been 
restored in the Stronghold cities," he said. "When the army 
returned, I posted soldiers in every square, tavern, inn, and 
gathering place in the crater. There'll be no more trouble." 

"Good. You may go." 

"One thing, Excellency. Since Master Ertai has 'obliged' 
you, don't you think it prejudices you in the matter of his 
candidacy?" 

"I will choose the new evincar based on total ability, 
not by military or magical skill—or biological prowess." 

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Crovax chuckled and made to leave. He'd gone a few 
steps when Belbe, moving with blinding speed, rushed up 
behind him. She uttered a short, sharp cry. Crovax whirled, 
but his fists met only air. Belbe lashed out with her bare 
foot. It caught him under the right breast and he flew 
backwards, his cuirass deeply dented from the blow. 

"Belbe, don't!" Ertai shouted. 

Crovax sprang to his feet, and the flowstone furniture 
between them coalesced into a solid wall seven feet high 
and four inches thick. Belbe could not stop her rush in 
time to avoid slamming into the barrier. Crovax grinned, 
and the wall slammed Belbe twice more. He was about to 
smash her against the wall of the Citadel when she leaped 
over the ponderous bludgeon and landed a kick squarely on 
Crovax's forehead. Down he went, but the floor boosted 
him back to his feet. Crovax had a sword, but he didn't 
draw it. Instead he willed the floor to hold Belbe by the 
ankles—but he was too slow. She leaped to a nearby pillar 
made of natural iron—outside Crovax's influence—and 
clung there by her fingertips and toes, panting. 

Crovax shucked off his breastplate, wincing from the 
blows he'd taken. 

"You've made your point, Excellency," he said. "I 
shouldn't try to bully you. But in the interests of—shall we 
say, efficiency?—will you set a date at which time you will 
name the new Evincar of Rath?" 

Belbe remained on the pillar, her hair awry, looking 
like one of Volrath's exotic statues. She drew a deep 
breath, swallowed, and said, "I will set a date." 

"When?" 

She glanced at a timepiece on the wall. The Phyrexian 
numerals dissolved into simplified Rathi ones. 

"Two days from now. At midday exactly." 

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Crovax slung his dented armor over one shoulder and 
bowed slightly. "I await Your Excellency's wise decision." 

When he was gone, Belbe dropped to the floor. Ertai 
hurried to her, thinking to comfort her. He found her 
shaking from head to foot. 

"It's all right," he said. "He won't hurt you. He dares 
not, at least until you choose the next evincar." 

Belbe wasn't shaking from fear. "That was wonderful!" 
she declared. "I want to demolish him with my bare 
hands!" 

Ertai dropped his comforting arms. Without another 
word, he retrieved his discarded clothes and hurriedly 
dressed. Belbe was so overcome with excitement she didn't 
even notice him until, half-dressed, he started to leave. 

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

"To the library," he replied coldly. "I've a lot of reading 
to do. My final examination is in two days, is it not?" 

He slammed the ornate flowstone door behind him. 

* * * * * 

Sergeant Nasser, bathed and attired in a fresh uniform, 
waited on Crovax's pleasure in the evincar's council room. 

"I have my account of the army's march back to the 
Stronghold, my lord," Nasser said, holding up a slim scroll. 
When Crovax did not reply, he laid it on the star-shaped 
table before him. 

"Where is Greven il-Vec?" asked Crovax. 

"Called away to the airship. Something about an 
intruder on the east plain." 

"I see. Let him chase as many wanderers as he likes. In 
two days, the overlords' emissary will convene a special 
assembly. Her purpose is to name the new Evincar of 
Rath." 

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Nemesis 

"The choice is clear, my lord." 

"So you say, but our esteemed emissary is under all sorts 
of pressures and influences. In such circumstances, she may 
not make the correct decision. We can't let that happen." 

"No, my lord." 

"Tomorrow, I want the Corps of Sergeants to return to 
the Citadel—all of them. Every man is to bring his sword, 
shield, helmet, and dagger." 

"The palace guards won't allow armed troops inside," 
Nasser protested. 

"Then smuggle the arms in! Use your imagination." 
Crovax glowered. "The ceremony will be at midday two 
days from now. At midday less two hours I want the Corps 
of Sergeants to gather in the evincar's antechamber. Arrive 
in twos and threes—don't come in a body. Be fully armed." 

Nasser nodded. He knew what Crovax intended, but 
part of the price of his complicity was making his new lord 
and master admit it out loud. 

"What do you intend, lord?" 

"The succession cannot be left to the whims of a hot-
blooded girl," Crovax said. He drew his dagger, held it 
point up for a second, then drove it into the table to the 
hilt. "Before you and all the sergeants, the emissary will 
name me evincar or die on the spot. Her paramour, the boy 
Ertai, will die regardless." 

Nasser folded his arms. "It shall be done, my lord." 

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CHAPTER 13 


TRAITOR 

Beset and bewildered, Belbe escaped the intrigues of the 
palace by retreating to the factory. No one else could stand 
the noise and crackling atmosphere of the flowstone works 
for long, so it was an ideal place to hide—no, sequester 
herself. Amid the intake jets, centrifugal distributors, and 
flow regulators she found a measure of serenity. 

Or so she thought. Even under the faceted dome of the 
control center Belbe was haunted by memories and choices 
she didn't want. Her life, her total existence she owed to 
Abcal-dro and Phyrexia. There was no disputing that. But 
did she have the right, as Ertai suggested, to exist for her 
own sake? She had never considered what would happen to 
her once her task on Rath was done. Would she be recalled 
to Phyrexia? Life there would be severely circumscribed by 
her need for an unpolluted environment. Could she live 
under Abcal-dro's dome like one of Volrath's experimental 
animals, always under the eye of her polymorphous master? 

Clearly no, if it was up to her. 

Could she remain on Rath? This option had positive 
and negative aspects. Once an evincar was chosen, she'd 
no longer have any role to play. Belbe might stay on as 
advisor to the new governor, but tolerance for her position 
seemed doubtful. Perhaps she could find some minor role in 
the Citadel—maintaining the flowstone production 
facility, for example. 

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Nemesis 

No, even that job was destined to be short-lived. The 
conjunction of Rath and Dominaria was not far off. The 
final invasion would begin then, and she'd be lost in the 
tidal wave of the Phyrexian onslaught. 

Belbe gazed through the many-paned dome at the 
energy beam pouring through the heart of the artificial 
crater. Beyond it, like an azure-tinged ghost, was the 
pinnacle of the palace, topped by Predator's high landing 
dock. 

The Accelerator broke into her daydreaming. "Output 
flow is sub-maximum," it bleated. "Increasing output to 114 
percent." 

Absently, Belbe dialed the output meter down to 86 
percent and recalibrated it to read 100. The entire factory 
shifted with the fluctuation in production. 

The Accelerator accepted the doctored information 
with a flat, "Increasing output to 114 percent." 

Her hand was on the dial. What did that suggest? 

She had only a moderate knowledge of planar 
mechanics, but she knew enough to know Rath and 
Dominaria were slowly coming into the same planar 
coordinates. When they matched, the worlds would 
interlock and become one. Rath would overlay on top of 
Dominaria and be the bridgehead for invading Phyrexian 
forces. 

She looked over the mosaic of dials and switches, and 
the image of the massacred hostages filled her sight. All 
those people, those innocent, loyal subjects, killed to 
gratify the vengeful hunger of one man. How is it different, 
her remorselessly logical mind went on, to allow the 
Hidden One to slake his hunger for power with the lives of 
innocent Dominarians? 

How is it different? How? 

"There is no difference," she declared out loud. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The critical factor in the congruence of Rath and 
Dominaria was mass. The two worlds actually occupied the 
same interspatial niche, but Rath had insufficient mass to 
affect a hold on the older, naturally created world. The 
greater Rath's mass, the slower its vibrational rate became, 
until at last it resonated at the same rate as Dominaria. 
That's why the flowstone factory had the highest priority 
for resources on Rath—each layer of nanomachines, no 
matter how thin they appeared to be, increased the mass of 
Rath and hastened the day when the two worlds would be 
joined. 

What if it didn't happen? What if Rath lacked 
sufficient mass to permanently overlay Dominaria? 

Belbe's hand still rested on the output meter. She could 
make a choice—the choice—for Rath. If the final 
conjunction failed to take place, Rath could be changed. 
The absolute rule of the evincar could be dispelled. 
Negotiations with the rebels could put an end to the 
guerrilla war. Law and reason could take the place of rule 
by fiat. The overlords would surely strike back, but before 
that could happen, the energy imbalance on Rath could be 
reversed, resulting in a toxic environment for any potential 
Phyrexian invaders. Ertai knew enough about magic to 
help make this possible. 

Unfortunately, for all his talents, Ertai was no match for 
Crovax. She could not depend on him alone to alter the 
course of Rath's destiny. Greven was more capable, but his 
control rod prevented him from openly opposing Crovax. 
Dorian and the court were useless. The real subversive 
power to change things lay in her hands alone. 

Belbe touched the Lens lightly. Ertai claimed he had 
blinded the implant. Did she dare believe it? 

She had to. Belbe could not face the balance of her life, 
no matter how short it might be, knowing she was 

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Nemesis 

responsible for the destruction of two worlds and the deaths 
of millions. 

She adjusted the output meter to 50 percent. Warning 
lights flashed throughout the factory until she curtly 
ordered them stopped. Belbe quickly recalibrated the meter 
to read 100. If she could maintain the sub-normal flow 
until the predicted time of conjunction, the mass of Rath 
would be too low to overlay on Dominaria. 

She was confident no one in the Citadel would notice 
her tampering. The meter would have to be adjusted daily 
if the reduced output was to be maintained, otherwise the 
self-regulating factory would compare flowstone production 
to past rates and correct its output. Belbe regularly visited 
the factory anyway, so no one would suspect her if she 
made daily trips to the control center. 

As she was permanently disabling the alarm system, 
Predator entered the crater, passing several thousand yards 
over the control center. The dome vibrated as the powerful 
airship circled around the energy beam. Belbe watched the 
vessel glide smoothly to the upper dock and moor there, 
wings folding back against the hull. She finished her 
alterations and left the dome. 

She'd just reached the central corridor of the palace 
when Greven il-Vec and the airship crew arrived on their 
way down from the dock. Belbe noticed among the usual 
crew a tall figure, wrapped in a floor-length brown cape and 
hood. No one else in the crew was so attired. She used her 
infrared vision to peer through the disguise, but discovered 
she couldn't penetrate the apparently simple cloth wrap. 
What was going on here? Curious, she changed her path to 
intersect Greven's. They met at the foot of the staircase 
that led to the grand convocation room. 

"Excellency," said Greven, bowing. 

"Greetings. How do you find your repaired vessel?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Sound enough, though I'll be glad when the armament 
is back aboard. Scouting is weak tea for a fighting ship like 
Predator." 

The crew waited patiently in Greven's shadow—all 
except the hooded one. He sidled to one side, as if to slip 
away unnoticed. Belbe stepped directly in front of him. 

"I don't know you, do I?" 

The hood snapped sharply in Greven's direction. 

"Excellency," explained the warrior. "This is a delicate 
matter. I'd be glad to explain it to you in a less public 
place." 

She gestured up the steps. "The room is empty, I 
believe." 

Belbe mounted the steps, followed by Greven and the 
hooded figure. The doors to the convocation room—once 
the throne room of evincar Burgess—consisted of a series of 
giant disks rolled together to form an irislike barrier. At 
Belbe's command, the enormous door dilated to admit 
them. With a scrape like glass on glass, the disks rolled 
back together. 

"Well?" said Belbe. Her voice echoed in the vast empty 
hall. 

"Your Excellency knows we have a network of spies and 
assassins operating outside the Citadel?" Greven said. "This 
is one of our agents." 

The hooded figure kept his distance, standing aloof 
with his hands crossed. Belbe tried once again to see 
through the heavy cloak but with no more success. She had 
a fleeting impression the person beneath the cloth was 
evading her, changing even as she tried to identify him. It 
was an unsettling experience. 

"Is there anything else you require?" asked Greven 
impatiently. 

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Nemesis 

"Let me see your face," she said directly to the hooded 
one. 

"Excellency—" 

"Let me see your face." 

Gloved hands rose and folded back the deep rim of the 
hood. A lean, feline head emerged with a wispy goatee and 
bifurcated upper lip. Greven's mysterious companion was a 
Kor. 

He pressed his hand to his chest in formal fashion and 
said, "I am Furah, chief of the Fishers of Life." 

"Furah must not be recognized inside the Citadel," 
Greven said. "It would compromise his safety as our agent." 

"Of course," Belbe said. "Thank you for indulging my 
curiosity." 

* * * * * 

Belbe departed and Furah raised his hood again. 

"Simple enough," said the Kor. "She won't be a 
problem." 

"Don't underestimate her," Greven replied. "She may 
look like a child, but she was made by the overlords and 
has many talents." 

"You've grown cautious, Greven. You didn't used to 
be." 

"We're playing a very dangerous game. I value my life, 
wretched though it is." 

Furah folded his hands into his voluminous sleeves. 
"Don't betray me, Greven." 

The bitter warrior held his chin up and replied, "I 
betray no one! Just understand, this is your gamble, your 
fight. I will not hinder you—but I can't help you much, 
either." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Greven stalked away. The doors opened for him. Furah 
remained in the convocation room for a time, 
contemplating the tapestries and bas-reliefs 
commemorating the deeds of the previous evincar. 

* * * * * 

Ten rebels, clad in captured Rathi uniforms, walked 
single file across the dry plateau. The six Dal were lead by 
Teynel en-Dal, Darsett's nephew, wearing the helmet of a 
Rathi corporal. The four Vec followed Liin Sivi, now 
disguised as a Vec male. She'd cut off her long black hair 
close to her scalp and disguised the break between her hips 
and waist with a bloodstained bandage. The blood was 
real—Sivi had taken the wrapping from a dead Rathi 
soldier. Her ancestral weapon, the toten-vec, she coiled 
around her waist under the bandage. The toten-vec 
consisted of a bone handle, six feet of braided snakeskin 
leather fashioned like links of chain, and a double-ended, 
double-edged knife blade eight inches long. The snakeskin 
whip was threaded through a hole at the base of the knife. 
Because Vec nomads had so little access to good metal, 
they developed weapons like the toten-vec in lieu of 
traditional swords. A skilled user could cut an enemy's 
throat from six feet away or take out an eye with a flick of 
the wrist. Sivi was an acknowledged master of the whip-
knife, hence her title "Liin," which literally meant "striking 
viper." 

Eladamri, suitably clothed in rags, sat on the back of a 
plodding kerl, his hands shackled together. The kerl's reins 
were carried by Medd, one of the Dal impostors. The elf 
had a copy of the shackle key hidden in his sash, so he 
could free himself if necessary. He was unarmed and 
bareheaded. He squinted against the steady stream of dust 

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Nemesis 

blown in his eyes. The tall cone of the Stronghold broke 
the silver horizon ahead. They were still a day's walk away. 

The rebels were bored. They sang for a while, the Dal 
teaching the Vec their songs, and the Vec returning the 
favor with their own ululating repertory. After a few hours 
the songs ran out, and their throats grew dry. Eladamri 
refused to let them bring adequate water rations. They were 
supposed to be stragglers, survivors, not well-equipped 
commandos. If they arrived footsore and dried out, so much 
the better for verisimilitude. 

Teynel shaded his eyes. "No sign of the airship," he 
said. "I kind of hoped they'd spot us and pick us up." 

"Are you mad?" Sivi responded. "You couldn't get me 
into that flying machine!" 

"It's better than walking," offered Khalil, one of the Vec 
warriors. 

Sivi shook her head vigorously. "That machine is an 
unnatural creation. Some day the gods will strike it from 
the skies!" 

"Strike away, but until then, I'd rather ride than walk," 
said Teynel. 

"Want the beast?" said Eladamri, holding up the reins 
in his manacled hands. 

Shamed, the young Dal declined. "I wouldn't ask Your 
Lordship to walk." 

"I'm not a lord," the elf said sharply. "I don't carry any 
rank, either. Call me Eladamri, or brother, and nothing 
else." 

"I thought only elves called each other 'Brother,'" said 
Sivi. 

"Anyone who fights at my side can call me brother." 

This put new spring in the rebels' step. They had 
covered a lot of ground by midday when they paused for a 
scant meal of Rathi army rations. 

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What little breeze there was died. Shamus, the Dal on 
lookout, spotted a rising column of dust in the distance. 

"Someone comes," he announced. 

"Keep your places," Eladamri advised. "You're not 
supposed to be alarmed by the sight of your fellow Rathi 
soldiers." 

The origin of the dust proved to be a band of Kor a 
hundred strong, males, females, and children, marching in 
loose formation and bearing everything they owned on 
their backs. The sight was so unusual even Eladamri got to 
his feet. He whispered a few words to Teynel, who hailed 
the Kor band. 

"Hold!" Teynel shouted. "Who are you people?" 

Four male Kor bearing a stretcher on their shoulders 
promptly lowered their burden to the ground. The women 
squatted in the grass with the children, fanning themselves 
in the heat. A Kor elder approached Teynel with arms 
folded. 

"Greetings, soldier of Rath!" he said. "I am Theeno, and 
these are my people, the Fishers of Life." 

"Where are you going?" 

"To the mountains far to the south, brave soldier. Our 
chief is dead, and we must leave our homes on Bluefire 
Mountain." 

Now Teynel understood. Many people living outside 
the Stronghold referred to it as Bluefire Mountain. 

"Why must you leave?" 

"It was the dying wish of our chief. He was well known 
to your commander, Lord Greven." 

Teynel stepped past Theeno. The body of a middle-
aged Kor lay on the stretcher, draped in a diaphanous 
shroud. Midway between the collar and the hips, a dark 
brown stain was soaking through the shroud. 

"This man died violently!" Teynel said. 

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"It is too true, soldier of Rath," Theeno said. "Our chief 
went to meet the lords of the crater, as was his wont, only 
this time he returned with his death wound." 

Eladamri stood over the body. Ruse or no ruse, he had 
to know who lay dead on the carrier. 

"Forgive me. I mean no disrespect..." The elf lord knelt 
and turned down the drape. 

The dead Kor was Furah. 

Eladamri covered the body again and stood up. He 
frowned at Teynel. 

"Be on your way," Teynel commanded. "We have to 
deliver this prisoner to Lord Greven." 

The Kor stared at Eladamri with slitted eyes. "This is 
Eladamri? He is an enemy," said Theeno. "Give him to 
Lord Crovax. He will dispatch him as he did the others." 

Sivi stepped forward. "What others?" 

Theeno smiled, showing prominent eye teeth. "Lord 
Greven gathered six thousand from the peoples of the 
crater to hold as hostage against those who would aid the 
vile rebels of the forest. When Lord Crovax returned from 
battle, he spared us, the Fishers of Life. He knew we were 
his loyal servants. The rest—" Theeno held two clawed 
fingers in front of his eyes and made a stabbing motion. 
"They burn even now." 

"Crovax killed them all?" asked Sivi, voice rising. 

"All but the Fishers of Life. Our chief was friend to Lord 
Greven, and so we were spared the great lord's wrath." 

Teynel again ordered the Kor to move along. The 
women and children stood, and the bearers hoisted the 
body of Furah to their shoulders. With much churning of 
dust and no speaking, the Fishers of Life moved on. 

When they were far enough away not to hear, Sivi 
exploded. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"The butcher! Six thousand people—his people, from 
his own cities—killed at once! What kind of devil are we 
fighting, Eladamri?" 

"Apparently one with great bloodlust," the elf replied. 
He divided his gaze between the retreating Kor and the 
distant cone of the Stronghold. "I thought Volrath ruthless 
and cruel, but this Crovax can only be pure evil. My 
overtures to the people of the crater have been roundly 
ignored, you know. I thought them too afraid or too 
comfortable to fight their oppressors. Now Crovax and 
Greven have slain six thousand. The Oracle en-Vec saw it 
happen, but she couldn't describe it to me, it was so 
horrible. It's a monstrous crime, but it may yet rebound in 
our favor. If I send agents to the crater again, this time the 
response should be favorable to our cause." He folded his 
chained arms. "Do I sound callous?" 

"A little," Teynel said. "Finding advantage in a 
catastrophe seems cold." 

Eladamri remounted his sleepy kerl. "A revolution is 
not a country dance. We can't save those already dead, but 
we can pay back their murderers for their crimes. 

"See clearly what we're doing, all of you. This isn't a 
game or a contest of honor. It's bloody, vicious business. 
The difference between us and Crovax or Greven is that 
we do what we do to put an end to oppression and 
bloodshed. For them, violence is a way of life and always 
will be." 

He directed the team to follow the Fishers' track back 
to the Stronghold. It gave them a clearly trodden path and 
helped obscure their own footprints should Predator or a 
Rathi patrol discover them. News of the massacre put new 
strength in their step. When Teynel proposed they walk all 
night to reach the Stronghold by the next morning, no one 
objected. 

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* * * * * 


Dorian il-Dal left his chambers for the first time three 
days after the hostage massacre. He'd not slept in all that 
time. Hunger finally drove him out, and he roamed the 
halls of the Citadel in his dressing gown, trying to 
remember where the kitchens were. 

He found no one but guards in the corridors. The first 
dozen he asked gave him directions to the dining hall, but 
each time he moved on a few yards, he forgot what he was 
told. One soldier took pity on him and gave him two salty 
biscuits from his ration bag. Mumbling profuse thanks, 
Dorian wandered on, nibbling the hard bread and leaving a 
trail of white crumbs on the polished black floor. 

Once he'd eaten his biscuits, Dorian was thirsty. He 
drifted aimlessly into one of the less used areas of the 
palace, the storerooms clustered outside the bridge to 
Volrath's laboratory and the map tower. Dorian knocked 
on faceless doors, saying, "Water? Has anyone a cup of 
water for Dorian?" The storerooms were sealed, and he 
encountered no helpful soldiers in the hall. 

He started to cry. Tears wore tracks through the flour 
on his lips and chin. Sniffing, he shuffled along, shaking 
door handles and muttering hoarsely for water. After trying 
more than thirty sealed rooms, his hand fell on a door 
handle that turned. Dorian brushed the tears from his eyes. 
Someone in here would give him a drink. 

The room beyond was short and wide, with a low, 
ribbed ceiling. Dorian went in, and he was roughly grabbed 
by the front of his robe and jerked into the room. He 
stumbled and fell to his knees. The door slammed shut 
behind him, and a light flared on. 

He was surrounded by burly men in rough clothes. 
Arms were piled on the floor—swords, scabbards, 

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Paul B.Thompson 

breastplates, helmets. As he lifted his head, he saw who 

held the lamp. 

Crovax. 

"Ah! Help! Help!" Dorian shrieked. Lips curled in 
disgust, Crovax indicated he wanted Dorian silenced. A 
callused hand clamped over the chamberlain's mouth, and 
fists pounded his back and belly. Gasping, Dorian sank to 
the floor and whimpered. 

"Be quiet, and no one will hit you," Crovax said. "What 
are you doing here?" 

"I want a drink of water." 

The sergeants exchanged puzzled looks. Nasser and 
Tharvello lifted the rotund Dorian to a kneeling position 
and shoved a stool under his rump. The chamberlain's face 
was streaked with fresh tears. 

"What's the matter with him?" Tharvello wondered 
aloud. "The old fool's never been a hale warrior, but I've 
never seen him wander about the place weeping." 

"He seems distressed," Crovax said, rising. Dorian 
shrank from Crovax's slight movement. The latter smiled, 
sharp highlights growing on his face from the lamp in his 
hand. 

"It's me, isn't it?" he said. "Do I frighten you, Dorian?" 

He shut his eyes and shook his head furiously. "May I 
have a cup of water?" 

Nasser looked to Crovax, who shrugged. A sergeant 
handed Dorian a bottle. The chamberlain drank greedily, 
water flowing down his chin. 

"Enough," said Crovax. "He's revolting." The bottle was 
taken away. Dorian grasped at it and cried when it was 
taken beyond his reach. 

"Be quiet!" Crovax snapped. 

"I'm sorry," sniffed Dorian. "Why are you hiding in 
here?" 

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Nemesis 

"Who says we're hiding?" asked Nasser. 

Dorian pointed to the heap of arms. "You're not 
supposed to have those in the palace." 

"Your mind hasn't completely left you, I see," Crovax 
said, setting the lamp on the table. "Too bad. As an idiot, 
you were harmless. As a witness with his wits, you're a 
danger." 

Whatever else was wrong with Dorian, he knew when 
he was in peril. He struggled to rise, but six strong sergeants 
forced him back on his stool. He tried to scream, but 
someone shoved a rag in his mouth. Gagging, Dorian lost 
his recent meal of biscuits and water. 

"Hold him," said Crovax. He drew a double-edged dirk 
from his belt. 

Dorian's eyes widened in terror. He fought feebly to 
stand. 

Crovax pressed the needle-sharp point of the dirk into 
the fleshy underside of Dorian's chin. The chamberlain lost 
all his color and ceased struggling. Crovax looked down at 
the helpless man and stayed his hand. 

He turned to Tharvello and then tossed the dirk to the 
young sergeant. "You do it." 

"Why me?" 

"Because I told you to." 

Tharvello put the edge of the dirk to Dorian's flabby 
throat. Just as the blade was about to cut the chamberlain's 
skin, Crovax shouted. 

"Stop!" 

All eyes were on him. Crovax held out his hand for the 
weapon. Tharvello laid the dirk pommel first in Crovax's 
hand. 

In one swift motion, Crovax closed his hands around 
the handle and slashed horizontally with the dirk. He cut a 
throat in one clean stroke, but it wasn't Dorian's. Tharvello 

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Paul B.Thompson 

reeled back against his fellow sergeants, blood pouring 
down his chest. 

"Traitor!" Crovax snarled. "You meant to sell me out to 
Greven and that worm Ertai!" 

"What?" said Nasser. His question was echoed by every 
man in the room. 

Crovax shoved his hand into the crumpling Tharvello's 
tunic. Out came a percher, its legs and wings tied with 
strips of ribbon. Crovax held it up and bade it speak. 

" 'I serve Rath, not any one man,'" the creature 
repeated. 

"Your words?" Crovax asked Nasser. 

"Mine, but I said more than that," the senior sergeant 
said calmly. 

"You're right." Crovax gave the percher a little shake, 
and it spoke again. 

"'If you think Crovax is finished, you're badly mistaken. 
Defeat or no defeat, he'll be back stronger than ever. Mark 
what I say.'" 

Crovax crushed the percher to a bloody pulp in his 
hand and threw the remains on the dying Tharvello. 

"Very prescient of you, Nasser. Our friend Tharvello 
recorded what you said and went to see Greven il-Vec with 
it. When Greven wouldn't act on what he heard and 
appoint Tharvello chief of the Corps of Sergeants—over 
your "retired" corpse, Nasser—Tharvello swore he would 
take his percher to Ertai and the emissary. As it turns out, I 
have a certain amount of influence with Greven, and he 
revealed the whole sordid story to me." 

Tharvello's eyes rolled back. His flesh had taken on the 
color of new parchment. From his stool, Dorian lifted his 
slippered feet and tried not to let the blood touch him. 

"You'll find me tolerant of many things," Crovax said, 
wiping the dirk on the terrified chamberlain's gown. 

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Nemesis 

"Drunkenness, dueling, gambling—these are normal 
recreations of fighting men. As long as they don't 
compromise your duties, I don't care what you do on your 
own. I can even tolerate failure. We all fail, now and then." 
He laughed, though no one else in the narrow room joined 
him. 

"What I won't tolerate is treachery. This is the fate of 
traitors." He kicked Tharvello's still-warm corpse. "Do you 
know why I gave him the knife first?" The sergeants 
nodded or grunted ignorance. "To give him a chance to kill 
me. If he'd tried to strike me down with a quick thrust, I 
would've spared him. Assassins I can use. Traitors are just 
carrion. 

"You know your places for tomorrow's operation. You're 
the best men on Rath, the best fighters and true leaders. 
When I am evincar, you will all share in the bounty of my 
victory." 

Nasser raised a fist in salute. "Crovax! Victory!" The 
sergeants took up the cry. "Crovax! Victory!" 

Dorian swallowed the bile in his throat and croaked, 
"Crovax, victory." 

"Oh, yes, the chamberlain. I almost forgot you." 

He grabbed Dorian by his thick throat and hoisted him 
into the air. The portly chamberlain weighed easily as 
much as two normal-sized men, but Crovax lifted him with 
one hand. Dorian's eyes bulged, and froth formed on his 
red lips. 

"I can't trust you any longer," Crovax gritted. "You've 
always been a fool, but at one time you had enough sense 
to keep your mouth shut. Losing your wits has cost you 
your life." 

He threw Dorian against the flowstone door and it held 
him fast. The door panels flowed outward, gripping 
Dorian's head, arms, waist, and legs. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax twirled the dirk between his fingers. "Observe," 
he said. "I'll show you the stroke I used on Tharvello was 
no fluke." 

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Nemesis 

CHAPTER 14 


PRIZE 

The pile of discarded scrolls spilled off the table and 
covered the floor. A good third of the bookshelves were 
empty. Ertai slumped over the latest treatise, head propped 
on one hand. He couldn't read anymore. For sixteen hours 
straight he'd labored in this obscure annex where some past 
chamberlain had stored all the books he found too old or 
too esoteric for the palace's main collection. The technical 
information he gleaned from the scrolls was straightforward 
enough. The tiny machines were highly resistant to normal 
magical influence because it was artificial. Flowstone 
existed on the molecular level. In order to survive 
programming and recombination, flowstone molecules 
were extremely well balanced harmonically and therefore 
resistant to any sort of energy input. In a natural 
substance—wood, for example—matter was balanced 
statically. At rest, under normal conditions, wood was 
wood. Add heat to it, and its balance broke down— 
burning resulted. No fire in the world could burn flowstone 
because adding heat to the harmonically stable substance 
had no effect. Trying to ignite flowstone was like trying to 
boil an ocean by adding a teakettle full of hot water. 

The secret of flowstone manipulation lay in focusing 
magic or mental energy on individual molecules of the 
stuff. Ertai imagined it this way: start with a tall brick 
tower, solid and level. A man could not topple the tower 

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Paul B.Thompson 

simply by shoving against it or even by battering it with a 
sledge hammer. But with a chisel and mallet, he could 
loosen bricks around the base of the tower. When the 
foundation became unstable, the tower could be toppled 
with a single finger. The real skill was in trying to make the 
resulting rubble into something useful. 

Evincars were given this psionic ability by the 
Phyrexians during their physical metamorphosis. Unaltered 
minds could influence flowstone only through absolute 
concentration or conversely by a massive outpouring of 
directed magic. Ertai's effects came from the latter method. 
His magical skills got him started, and the infusion therapy 
he'd been taking boosted the available power for him to 
tap. Now, however, his method was at a dead end. All the 
natural magical power present on Rath wasn't enough to 
enable him to raise up a table or turn the floor to putty as 
Crovax did. 

Ertai's candidacy was, in a word, doomed. The trick was 
to make certain he himself wasn't doomed along with it. 

He considered going to Crovax and abdicating his 
chance to become evincar. Surely the relieved Crovax 
would spare him, maybe even allow him to depart Rath via 
the old Phyrexian portal in Portal Canyon? 

Of course. Crovax was such a kindly, forgiving fellow. 

Ertai shoved the remaining scrolls off the table. The 
small flowstone lamp overturned, and for a moment he 
feared it would start a fire among all the loose manuscripts. 
The yellowish wick kept glowing inside the glass shield. 
There was no fuel as such in the lamp. Commanded to 
glow, it glowed. In time the nanomachines in the lamp 
would break down, disintegrate, and the light would go out. 
It would take several hundred years at least. 

Ertai put his head on the table and stared at the light. It 
reminded him of Belbe. Bright, purposeful, untiring, and 

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Nemesis 

single-minded. What did she think of their solitary 
encounter? He tried to understand what it meant to him. 
Since he was a small boy, Ertai's life had been centered on 
the practice of magic. For nineteen years it was the first 
thing he thought of in the morning, and the thing he 
dreamt of at night. At Barrin's Academy he'd been too 
busy for romance—if something didn't advance his 
knowledge of magic, what use was it? He could laugh now 
at his own arrogance, except he didn't feel like laughing. 

With thumb and forefinger, he tried to pluck the 
glowing wick from the lamp. It winked out, throwing the 
cluttered room into darkness. He took his fingers away, and 
the element resumed glowing. No flame, no heat. More 
than ever it reminded him of Belbe. 

She had her own portal, she said. If so, she must go and 
take him with her. As Ertai saw it, they had common cause 
to leave Rath together. Once Crovax was in power, no one 
on Rath was safe. Everyone would be fodder for his 
appetite, his own private herd of two-legged cattle. As a 
defeated rival, Ertai's life was obviously in danger, and he 
could see Belbe's would be, too. 

Yes, Belbe would be number two on Crovax's "to do" 
list. 

Where to go? Dominaria? It was home, but very soon it 
would be the scene of a horrible war. Gerrard and the 
others had told him this, and Belbe confirmed it. In their 
private moments, Belbe explained how Rath and 
Dominaria would intermingle, the landscape of one 
becoming part of the landscape of the other. Once the 
Rathi overlay was in place, the legions of Phyrexia would 
pour forth in all their awful, technological efficiency, and 
life on Dominaria would be either enslaved or 
extinguished. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Ertai considered himself a realist. Gerrard, Hanna, and 
company couldn't prevail against the hosts of the Hidden 
One. He'd thought it possible once but no longer. They 
would be faced with an army of a hundred thousand 
Crovaxes, utterly ruthless and totally without mercy. His 
homeworld was doomed. 

Belbe's portal could take them anywhere. There must 
be a million worlds or more out there populating the void. 
Even the Phyrexians couldn't reach them all. Perhaps he 
could find some peaceful world of magic to inhabit, where 
machines were made of wood and didn't think, where 
floors existed only to be walked on, and a man and woman 
of talent could live a good life together until time mingled 
their souls into the great firmament forever. 

Go out, he willed, and the lamp obeyed. 

* * * * * 

Clouds were piling up in high black drifts over the 
Stronghold as Eladamri and his team approached the foot 
of the main causeway. Teynel had gotten on their lone 
kerl, as befitted his senior rank among the "Rathi" troops. 
Eladamri walked behind, his manacles tied to a long rope. 
Teynel looped the other end around his saddle ring. 

The causeway rose from the plain, a massive raised 
bridge of solid masonry. Usually busy, traffic up and down 
the road was today only a trickle. It soon became clear why: 
a heavy cordon of soldiers patrolled the end of the road, 
and guard posts along the bridge were fully manned. 

Teynel waved Sivi and the others forward. They lined 
up and stood at attention. Eladamri came alongside the Dal 
corporal and got down on both knees, trying to look 
downtrodden. 

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Nemesis 

"Why all the soldiers?" Teynel asked. "Do they know 
what's up?" 

"No," said Eladamri, his head hanging low. "If they 
suspected us, they would have swooped down on us long 
ago. There's something else amiss." 

"It can't hurt to ask," said Sivi. "We're all one army, 
aren't we? We've been lost more than a week, so it won't 
be strange if we don't know what's going on." 

"True enough," said Eladamri. He raised his head. 
"Look out—we've been seen." 

The buff stone barbican at the end of the causeway was 
a small fortress in itself. A sentry, standing in the open 
arched doorway, spotted the rebels and hurriedly called his 
superior. A Rathi captain appeared, eating a bright blue 
pear. He shouted an order, inaudible from where Eladamri 
sat, and 40 soldiers poured out of the barbican, fully armed. 
In ragged order they ran at the waiting rebels. 

"Now is the time for cool heads," Eladamri said. 
"Remember, you're all Rathi soldiers. Those men coming 
are your comrades." 

The soldiers fanned out and encircled the little band. 
Teynel leaned nonchalantly across the neck of his kerl. 
Liin Sivi stuck the stem of a long blade of grass in her 
teeth. 

The captain arrived, still clutching his half-eaten snack. 
"Who are you?" he said sharply. 

Teynel saluted. "Corporal Elcaxi of the Fourth 
Company. It's good to be home!" 

The captain squinted at him. "Fourth Company, eh?" 

Teynel smiled. "That's right, the Fearsome Fourth." 

"Not many of you fellows made it back." The captain 
extended a hand. "Welcome home." 

Teynel shook the man's hand with genuine relief. "We 
have a prisoner to turn in." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The captain stood over Eladamri, hands on his hips. 
"Why'd you bother? I'd've cut his throat and left him on 
the plain." 

Sivi stepped forward. "Oh, no," she said. "We caught us 
an important rebel. This is Eladamri!" 

The fruit fell from the captain's hand. "Stuff me with 
stone! The rebel leader himself? Are you sure?" 

"That's who he says he is. Can't think why anyone 
would claim to be Eladamri unless he was. I mean, knowing 
what's gonna happen to him, yes?" Teynel said. 

"On your feet!" The captain signaled his men to come 
forward and take the prisoner. Sivi and the rebels closed 
around the elf, blocking the soldiers. 

"He's our prize," she said. "We caught him, we'll take 
him in." 

The captain burst out laughing. "You're the Fourth 
Company all right! Nobody else has such brass!" He waved 
his men back. "Come to the guardhouse. I'll give you a 
token that'll get you through the other stations, and I'll 
send a percher to Lord Greven with the news." 

"Lord Greven hates perchers," Teynel said boldly. 
"Send a runner instead. We're not in a hurry, and this elf 
ain't going anywhere without us!" 

Flushed with excitement, the captain readily agreed. A 
runner was dispatched with the startling news of Eladamri's 
capture. The rebels strolled to the guardhouse amid the 
admiring looks of the Rathi soldiers. Eladamri dragged his 
feet and did his best to look dejected. 

The captain gave Teynel a pass, an engraved metal disk 
four inches wide with the Citadel seal on it. Teynel hung 
the cord around his neck and let the token fall across his 
chest. 

"This is wonderful," said the captain. "Tell me, how did 
you capture him?" 

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Nemesis 

"It was tough," Sivi said. "Our battalion charged 
through the burning camp when we saw this band of elves 
cross in front of us. We chased 'em into the swamp, losing 
half our number on the way. We killed twenty or thirty 
rebels and caught this one about to skewer himself. We 
tried to find our way out of the Skyshroud, but we got 
turned around in all the trees. The rest of the battalion was 
lost to potholes, snakes, and fever. We got out eventually, 
but the army had moved on. We made our way back as best 
we could." 

The soldiers hung on Sivi's every word. When she 
finished, they cheered lustily. Sivi couldn't help but grin. 

"This is the best news we've had since Predator was 
repaired!" said the captain. "With their leader gone, the 
rebels won't have the stomach to face us again!" 

Surrounded by waving, cheering troops, the team 
herded Eladamri forward. When the barbican had fallen 
behind them, the elf spoke. 

"Nice work, Teynel." 

Teynel grinned and nodded. "I was doing my best to 
sound like an insolent soldier." 

"What about my performance?" Sivi asked. 

"Splendid," said Eladamri. "You have the gifts of a 
bard." He trudged on, his arms weighed down by the heavy 
shackles. "It's one thing to fool common soldiers at the 
gate, but Greven ii-Vec will turn up soon and so will 
Crovax, for all we know. So keep your heads." 

"I'm not worried," Teynel said. "Once word gets around 
we're bringing in Eladamri, no one will look twice at us." 

And so it proved. At each guardhouse they passed, 
soldiers turned out to hail them and to stare at the captured 
rebel chief. Not all their looks were baleful, however. Many 
were simply curious to see the famed Eladamri, the elusive 
guerrilla leader who'd evaded them for so long. Popular 

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Paul B.Thompson 

rumor made Eladamri a wizard of elven magic, which 
accounted for his many miraculous escapes. It was 
disappointing for the legend lovers to see the fabled elf turn 
out to be a slight, middle-aged fellow wearing rags. 

The runner must have had a busy tongue, because 
everyone they encountered along the causeway knew 
Eladamri was coming. Soldiers and civilians alike lined the 
bridge, and more arrived every minute. Civilians from the 
crater settlements came out to see the procession. The 
disguised rebels were almost overwhelmed by the hordes of 
curious Dal and Vec who wanted to see Eladamri. 

Suddenly, the crowd in front of them melted away. 
Kerl-mounted cavalry were cantering down the bridge with 
lances leveled. People scrambled to avoid the troopers. 
Behind them came a battalion of heavy infantry in tall, 
conical suits of armor. In their midst was Greven il-Vec, 
decked out in fearsome battle gear. Eladamri checked the 
faces of his young comrades. More than one rebel's face lost 
color at the sight of the towering warlord. Of all the rebels, 
Liin Sivi was the calmest. Hip outthrust, she casually rested 
her hand on the handle of her toten-vec. 

"Dread Lord," Teynel said, his voice cracking. 
"Corporal Elcaxi and men, reporting for duty. We have a 
prisoner." 

The heavy infantry parted ranks, and Greven stepped 
out front of them. "So you do." He was a good two feet 
taller than the manacled elf, yet as they sized each other 
up, a kind of equality existed between them. Not respect, 
but recognition that each was a formidable warrior. 

"If you're not Eladamri, you should be," Greven said. 

"Do you doubt it, Dread Lord?" said Sivi. 

He eyed her as if she were an insect crawling across his 
dinner plate. "Doubt keeps a soldier alive," he said. "You 
should cherish it as closely as your sword." 

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Nemesis 

He said, "I am Eladamri, son of Kelimenar. Are you 
going to leave me standing here?" For a moment, a fleeting 
fragment of a second, he saw indecision on the other 
warrior's face. 

Then it was gone, and Greven gave his orders. "Deliver 
him to the Citadel guards on the factory concourse." 

"But Dread Lord," Teynel said. "What will happen to 
him?" 

"Is it any concern of yours, Soldier?" 

"Yes, Dread Lord," Sivi interjected. "As his captors, we 
want a reward for taking him." 

Some of the civilians in the crowd gasped at her 
impertinence. The genuine Rathi soldiers listened for the 
telltale grinding of teeth, but none came. 

"Everything you've earned will be yours. This is the 
word of Greven il-Vec." 

He stood aside and let Teynel lead his team through. 
The dark, brooding bulk of the Stronghold lay ahead. 
Eladamri lifted his face to the sky and took what he hoped 
was not his last look at the turbulent gray clouds of Rath. 

* * * * * 

The tense atmosphere in the Citadel had reached an 
unbearable level. Every minute was like the hour before a 
storm, when all is still, but the threat of an upheaval is 
clearly in the air. 

Belbe sensed things were about to break. She donned 
her close-fitting armor for the first time since the day of her 
arrival. To her logical mind, the danger came from the 
thousands of Dal and Vec people living in the crater. These 
were the people Crovax had wronged by murdering their 
loved ones, and despite the relative calm of the past two 

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days, Belbe felt certain a revolution was bubbling just 
beneath the veneer of normality. 

Armored, with her helmet tucked under one arm and a 
slim Phyrexian sword on her hip, Belbe went forth to find 
the other residents of the Citadel. She had little luck. Ertai 
was missing, probably buried in some forgotten library. 
Dorian il-Dal was nowhere to be found. She went to his 
private chambers and found the door open. Dorian's rooms 
were a shambles. Bedclothes were torn off the bed. Broken 
pottery littered the floor. His chamberpots were full and 
reeking. 

When she emerged from Dorian's rooms, the hall was 
full of people—courtiers, some of whom she hadn't seen in 
a week, and members of the palace guard. Even off-duty 
guards in their padded jerkins were milling around in the 
corridor. Belbe stopped an elderly Dal. 

"What's happened?" she said. 

"Tremendous news, Excellency!" said the courtier. 
"They say the elf lord Eladamri has been taken! He'll be 
here in minutes!" 

"Eladamri? Taken?" If the man had told her Greven had 
changed sex, she could not have been more surprised. 
"How did it happen?" 

"I know not how the rascal was caught, only that he is 
coming here in chains." 

He hurried away after bowing numerous times. Belbe, a 
bit dazed, stood motionless in a river of moving, chattering 
people. Eladamri captured? 

The ordered tread of guards in formation awakened her. 
Turning, she ordered them to stop. The twelve guards 
halted, and their leader saluted. 

"We have orders to convey the rebel Eladamri to the 
palace prison," the senior guard said. "We're to meet Lord 

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Greven on the factory concourse and take custody of the 
prisoner." 

"I'm changing your orders," she said. "You will bring the 
prisoner to the convocation chamber. I want to see him." 
The captain of the guard saluted again and continued on 
his way. 

Belbe ascended the stairs to the convocation 
antechamber. At midday she was scheduled to announce 
her choice for the next evincar. In preparation for the 
ceremony, the antechamber had been polished and 
decorated with banners and martial flags. Guards in black-
enameled dress armor already stood by the iris doors. They 
presented arms when they saw her. 

"At ease," she said. "A state prisoner will be brought 
here shortly. You will admit him, his escort, and anyone 
that follows, is that clear?" 

"It shall be done, Excellency." 

She stepped between them. The circular panels hissed 
apart. "Until then, admit no one," Belbe added. 

"Yes, Excellency." 

The hall was decked out with a wide semi-circle of 
crimson and gold banners, each one bearing the heraldic 
arms of a past evincar. Each company of the Rathi army 
was represented by a battle flag. The governor's throne, 
stripped of Volrath's insignia, had been brought down from 
the upper throne room just for this occasion. Flanking the 
tall chair were two flaming braziers. 

She walked slowly down the aisle, surrounded by 
symbols of Rath's past and present might. From the odor, 
she realized the flames she saw were real, not flowstone 
simulations. The braziers were the size of warrior's shields, 
mounted on black metal tripods. 

Her footsteps were loud in the stillness. She felt 
strangely numb. 

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Belbe mounted the shallow steps to the dais and sat 
down on the throne. Her back had just touched the rear of 
the seat when she heard a voice say, "How does it feel?" 

Crovax walked out of the shadows directly above her. 

"Don't you get tired of walking around upside down?" 

"An amusing trick of the flowstone, sometimes useful," 
he replied, walking down the wall. "But you didn't answer 
the question." 

"It's a chair, like any other." 

Crovax stepped down to the floor. "Not so. That's the 
seat of the Evincar of Rath, the sole arbiter of the lives of 
millions." 

"I thought the power resided in the ruler, not the 
furniture." 

"You have so little appreciation of the trappings of 
power. Anyone who sits there, no matter how base, gets a 
taste of ruler-ship. That doesn't happen with ordinary bar 
stools or kitchen chairs." 

"On Phyrexia, such trappings are unnecessary. Power 
comes from knowledge and control, not flags and furniture. 
My own master ..." her voice trailed off as she remembered 
the formless mass of Abcal-dro. "He has no need for 
chairs." 

Crovax descended the dais. "You're here early. Have 
you come to a decision?" 

"Yes." 

"Care to share it with me?" 

"Not yet." 

"Then why are you here, Excellency?" 

"Haven't you heard? Eladamri's been captured. Greven's 
bringing him here even as we speak." 

Crovax was electrified. "You jest! No, you never do— 
Eladamri captured!" He clapped his hands and smiled 
broadly. "A fitting prize to begin my new era on Rath!" 

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Nemesis 

Noise swelled in the antechamber, and the iris doors 
scissored apart. Leading an enormous crowd was Greven il-
Vec, still clad in his battle armor. At his heels came ten 
nondescript soldiers with muddy feet in battered, rusty 
armor. Next were the palace guards in a box formation, 
four abreast. In the center of the box walked a lone figure 
in gray rags, his hands bound by heavy chains. Courtiers in 
their baroque finery filled the hall behind the guards, and a 
motley collection of off-duty soldiers, servants, and the odd 
mogg or two filled out the crowd. 

Belbe craned to see the famous rebel leader, but with 
Greven and a wall of guards in the way, she couldn't get a 
clear view of him. 

Greven halted the procession. A few onlookers coughed 
nervously. 

"Your Excellency!" Greven boomed. "The soldiers of 
the army of Rath bring you tribute!" He stepped to one 
side. 

Crovax stood at the foot of the throne, arms folded. He 
opened his mouth to speak, but his words were stillborn 
when Belbe rose from the evincar's throne and descended 
the steps. 

The hall grew deathly quiet. Her boots clicked on the 
mock-marble floor. She felt as though she was confronting 
a great mystery, a lost wonder of nature. 

* * * * * 

Teynel, Sivi, and the rebel raiders held their breath. 
They never imagined they would get so close to the seat of 
the enemy's power. The vast Stronghold impressed them. 
The flowstone factory puzzled and frightened them. Rank 
upon rank of tough, professional soldiers worried them. 
Now, in the very heart of the Citadel, they were face to 

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Paul B.Thompson 

face not only with Greven il-Vec and Crovax, but the 

personal emissary of the dreaded Phyrexian overlords. 

She was a girl. A young elf girl. 

"These are the soldiers who brought in Eladamri," 
Greven explained. 

Teynel saluted with such force he almost knocked his 
own helmet off. "C-Corporal Elcaxi of the Fourth 
Company, Your Excellency." 

"Corporal." 

"This is my second, Private Vertino." Sivi returned 
Belbe's vacant look with an icy appraisal of her own. 

* * * * * 

The rebels parted ranks to let Belbe pass. When they 
were clear, she got a better glimpse of Eladamri. He was of 
moderate height, and the color of his hair meant he was 
past the prime of life for his race. The lofty palace guards, 
chosen from the ranks of the regular army for their size and 
strength, still prevented her from seeing him clearly. 

Greven nodded, and a door of armored warriors drew 
back. 

Eladamri looked upon her face, and she on his. 

His eyes widened, and a rush of blood flamed in his 
cheeks. Eladamri let out a roar of perfect rage, and though 
weighed down with thirty pounds of shackles and chains, 
he threw himself on Belbe and bore her to the floor. 

She thought time had stopped. Everyone was fixed, like 
the statues in Volrath's suite—the guards, hampered by 
their ceremonial garb; the ragged soldiers who'd captured 
Eladamri gaped; Crovax, hovering on the periphery of the 
scene, watched and smiled. Greven, who always seemed on 
the knife's edge of violence, just looked on with curious 
passivity. 

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Nemesis 

They're going to let me die, she thought. They're going 
to let this madman kill me. 

Eladamri had both hands around her neck. Because of 
her gorget he couldn't throttle her, so he raised her head 
and slammed it against the floor. It hurt, but only 
superficially. Her alloy skull could turn an ax blow. As it 
was, each time her head struck the floor there was a dull 
metallic thud. 

"Assassin! Murderer!" the elf cried. "Avila! Avila—!" 

The footsore soldiers of the Fourth Company moved 
first. They grabbed Eladamri by the arms and shoulders and 
tore him off Belbe. Once they acted, the spell was broken, 
and the palace guards quickly pinned the rebel leader to 
the floor with their polearms. Elcaxi and his comrades 
pushed away the guards' bills and axheads, relying on their 
bodies to hold the raging Eladamri. 

Someone lifted Belbe to her feet. Her vision cleared, 
and she saw her benefactor was Crovax. 

"I knew he was crafty, but I never thought Eladamri was 
insane," Crovax said mildly. "Are you all right, 
Excellency?" 

Belbe rubbed the back of her head. "No permanent 
damage." 

"Damned murderers! They did it on purpose! Devils! 
Monsters! Dear Avila, sweet child, how could they do 
this—?" 

Belbe was still holding the back of her head. "What is 
he raving about?" Crovax and Greven were clueless. "You 
men, let him go," Belbe commanded. 

Sivi and Teynel hesitated but followed orders. "Up," 
said Teynel, and the rebels scrambled to their feet. 
Eladamri arched his back and sprang to a crouching 
position with one flex. Tears streamed down his cheeks. 
With a second heave, he regained his feet. The palace 

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Paul B.Thompson 

guards interposed a wall of polearms between him and 
Belbe. 

"Hold," she said to the troops. "Don't harm him." She 
turned to Eladamri. "Why do you risk death to lay hands on 
me? Who is Avila?" 

He advanced a step, breathing heavily. "Does my face 
mean nothing to you?" 

"I've never seen you before." 

He gripped the polearm shafts barring his path. "Where 
do you come from, Girl?" 

Greven backhanded Eladamri, sending him sprawling. 
The crowd let out a collective "Oh!" 

"You do not question the emissary!" Greven barked. 
Belbe held up a hand to the hulking warrior. "Be still," she 
said. She pushed through the hedge of polearms and knelt 
beside the elf. Eladamri pushed himself up on one arm and 
dabbed the blood from his freshly split lip. 

"Do you attack me because I'm the emissary of your 
enemy?" said Belbe. 

"I attacked because you're an abomination, a horrible 
lie," Eladamri said in a low voice. "You should be 
exterminated, as all unnatural creatures should be." 

"I wouldn't speak too lightly of extermination," Crovax 
said, shouldering through the press. "From where I stand, 
the best candidate for extermination is you." 

Eladamri stood. He was weighed down by his chains, 
but when Belbe tried to assist him, he pulled away from 
her, glaring hatefully. 

"Remove his shackles," Belbe said. When no one 
complied with her order she shouted, "Do as I say!" 

Teynel shoved the key in his leader's bonds. He tried to 
urge Eladamri to be calm with a meaningful glance. The elf 
did not meet his eyes. He burned holes in Belbe and kept 
doing so even after his chains fell loudly to the floor. 

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Nemesis 

"What are your orders, Excellency?" Greven asked. 

"What is the first task of a captor?" 

He bowed. "As you command, Excellency." At 
Greven's order, the box of guards was reformed. Teynel and 
the rebels kept discreetly to the rear. 

"Don't kill him," Belbe added as the prisoner faced 
about. "Find out what he knows, but preserve his life. Do 
you understand?" 

Greven avowed he did. 

Crovax sighed. "So much trouble. I doubt he'll tell us 
anything. Better to strike off his head now and be done 
with it. I can have the airship drop it on the rebels in 
Skyshroud Forest—" 

"Shut up," Belbe commanded. 

Crovax shrugged. 

The massive crowd tried to get out of the way of 
Eladamri's escort, but there were so many packed in the 
rear of the hall that it took a few minutes to clear the 
doorway. Just as everyone's attention was focused on the 
departing rebel leader, the floor of the hall turned to soft 
clay, and the dilating doors melded into a solid mass. 
Everyone was lifting their feet, losing shoes and slippers in 
the sticky stuff. 

Belbe's frustration was written on her face. "What are 
you doing, Crovax? Restore the door and floor." 

Crovax was seated on the throne. He looked very 
natural and comfortable in the tall black chair. Leaning 
back, he propped his chin on his hands and waited until 
everyone was looking at him to respond. 

"The noon hour is not far off, Excellency. Why not take 
advantage of these splendid witnesses and announce your 
choice for the next Evincar of Rath?" 

She looked around. "Ertai is not here." 

"Should he be?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"He is under consideration for the post." 

Crovax flexed his fingers. Four flowstone rods, like the 
ones he had used to slaughter the hostages, erupted from 
the floor around Belbe. Secondary spikes jutted from the 
foot-thick shafts, isolating her in a ring of artificial thorns. 

Belbe glared. "I tire of your displays." 

His right eyelid twitched. A fifth rod formed between 
her feet. It rose slowly to knee level and held there, the tip 
bending backward to caress her leg like some inquisitive 
tentacle. 

"Name your choice," Crovax said quietly. 

"Not yet." 

The fifth rod leaped up to her chin. Limp pseudopodia 
emerged from it and delicately probed the joints of her 
armor. She knew that with a single thought he could 
convert them to steel-hard spikes. 

"If you kill me, you'll never be named evincar," Belbe 
said. "Knowing that, do you think you can frighten me into 
a decision?" 

Crovax burst out laughing. It was hard, unfriendly 
mirth, but the cage of spikes sank into the floor. The rest of 
the crowd found their footing had firmed up. Their exodus 
accelerated now that many of them had seen Crovax's 
talents for the first time. 

"I defer my decision until tomorrow morning. By then I 
will know more about the rebels' plans and can act 
accordingly." 

With that, Belbe strode from the hall. Eladamri's eyes 
hatefully followed her out of the room. 

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CHAPTER 15 


PAWN 

Ertai awoke slowly. The room was pitch black and so 
hot that sweat from his brow had pooled on the tabletop, 
matting together several old manuscripts. There was a vile 
taste in his mouth. Coughing, he sat up and realized he'd 
chewed on a scroll in his sleep. That explained the awful 
flavor of ink. 

He thought the lamp into working. It flashed to life, 
first red, then orange, gradually brightening to a soft yellow 
glow. He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd 
been in the dusty, arid annex. 

Trampling through piles of open scrolls, he reached the 
door and threw back the bolt. Air poured in like a cool 
waterfall. He held out his arms and drank it in gratefully. 
These Citadel rooms were all but airtight with their doors 
closed. It was a wonder he hadn't suffocated in this book-
lined tomb. 

Sweaty and with sleep-swollen features, Ertai sauntered 
down the corridor. From the amount of light coming from 
outside, it seemed like late morning or early afternoon. 
Rath had no proper day or night, but diurnal variations in 
the great energy beam approximated two halves of a day. 
He wanted a cool drink, some decent food, and a bath. 
Thoughts of bathing made him smile. He'd use the fancy 
tub in the evincar's quarters again. Maybe this time Belbe 

246 



Paul B.Thompson 

would join him. It would be a good place to spring his plan 
about the two of them leaving Rath forever. 

The side hall connected to a major corridor that was 
surprisingly full of people. The Citadel hadn't been this 
lively since he'd arrived. Now the place bustled with 
servants and elaborately dressed courtiers, some hastening 
from point to point, others lingering in handy alcoves, 
conversing in loud, theatrical whispers. "Pardon me, but 
what's the stir?" he asked a trio of gaudy loafers. 

"Have you not heard? We've captured Eladamri!" The 
fat courtier, who bowed under a headdress loaded with 
gems, didn't look like he'd ever captured anything but a 
free meal. "Are you certain? When did this happen?" "I saw 
him myself in the convocation hall, not half an hour ago," 
said the fellow haughtily. "He's a savage, no doubt about it. 
He tried to kill the emissary in front of the whole court!" 

He tugged on the courtier's copious sleeve. "Is Belbe all 
right?" 

Lord Widewaist removed his gold embroidered sleeve 
from Ertai's ink-stained fingers. "No harm came to Her 
Excellency," he sniffed. 

Ertai made a slight alteration to the flowstone around 
the courtier's feet, uttered a brief thanks, and hurried on. A 
few moments later he was rewarded by the sound of the 
bloated courtier falling flat on his face. Ertai had locked his 
slippers to the floor. 

The hall leading to the convocation antechamber 
widened. Ertai broke into a trot. He dodged around slow 
moving loiterers then bumped into the broad back of a 
man who wasn't moving at all. 

"Out of the way," he said. "This is a public hall, not a 
public house." 

The big man turned around. 

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Nemesis 

"I know you," Ertai said. "You're a soldier—Sergeant 
Some-body-or-other." 

"Nasser's my name." Another sinewy fellow moved in 
behind Ertai. "This is Sergeant Valmoral." 

The sweat turned cold on Ertai's neck. "How d'you do?" 
They were both in cloth jerkins and trews, so he said, "Is 
this your day off, Boys?" 

"A sergeant's work is never done," Nasser replied. The 
one called Valmoral poked the tip of a short but very sharp 
knife in the small of Ertai's back. "We know you're a tricky 
fellow, so chose your next act carefully." 

"You have my full attention." 

"You'll come with us," Valmoral said. 

"You really think you can abduct me, here, in front of 
all these people?" 

"You'll come," said Nasser. "The life of the emissary is 
at stake." 

"Belbe?" Ertai's eyes narrowed. He could, with a little 
effort, send simultaneous psychokinetic bursts from each 
hand and repel these two roughnecks. But then what? For 
all he knew, Belbe was already in their hands. He relaxed, 
letting his shoulders sag. 

"Good thinking," Nasser said. "This way." 

They moved slowly against the general flow of the 
crowd. The soldiers stood on either side, steering him with 
nudges from their broad shoulders. He thought fast and 
hard. 

"At least tell me where we're going," he said out of the 
side of his mouth. 

"To a place of calm reflection," Nasser replied. 

"I could use some calm reflection ... ah!" Valmoral 
pricked him with the point of his knife. 

"You chatter like a percher. Be silent." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

They turned off the main corridor to a small side hall, 
losing most of the foot traffic as they did. They went on 
quite a ways and turned off again, this time into a passage 
just wide enough for two men to walk abreast. 

"Fourth door on the right," Nasser said. 

He slowed his pace until Valmoral reached out to shove 
him forward. As soon as Ertai shuffled forward out of arm's 
reach, he commanded the flowstone walls to narrow. Two 
bulges formed in front of the sergeants, blocking their way. 
Ertai ran. 

"Hold, You!" 

He skidded to a stop at the fourth door and glanced 
back at the trapped men. One was shouting dire threats, 
the other was trying to worm past the obstruction. Ertai put 
a hand on the door handle. It swung inward. 

He looked into the smiling face of Crovax. 

"Having fun, Boy?" he said. "Good. I'm in the mood for 
some fun, too." 

* * * * * 

Teynel, Sivi, and the rebels cautiously trailed behind 
Eladamri and his escort of palace guards. It was easy to 
follow them, even through the crowds because Greven il-
Vec overtopped everyone in sight. As long as they kept the 
warrior's towering frame in view, they knew where their 
leader was. 

Except for Sivi's toten-vec, they were unarmed. Even as 
Rathi soldiers, they had to surrender their weapons when 
they entered the palace. Eladamri had been preternaturally 
calm through all the danger until he laid eyes on the 
emissary. His subsequent murderous, implacable rage was 
something none of them had ever seen in him before. 

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Nemesis 

"The emissary looks like an elf," Sivi noted as they 
shadowed their captive leader. "Is that what angered him?" 

"I don't know," said Teynel, "but I have a bad feeling 
about it. I wasn't expecting her, and I don't think Eladamri 
was either. I didn't think they would act so quickly to 
interrogate him." 

"We can't let them torture him!" Sivi said. 

Teynel turned back abruptly, coming nose to nose with 
Liin Sivi, "We have a mission to perform. If you aren't 
happy with the way I'm leading it, you're free to leave!" 
Her hostile glare softened, so he added, "I don't intend to 
lose Eladamri, but he may have to endure some hardship 
before we can retrieve him. He understood that before we 
left Skyshroud—didn't you?" 

Eladamri and his captors halted near the mouth of a 
gilded bridge that led out into the open crater. A short way 
down, a large conical building extended well below the line 
of the bridge. 

They heard Greven speak. "Take a last look," he said, 
his inflection oddly respectful. "You may not see daylight 
again." 

Eladamri inhaled deeply. "I will know the light far 
longer than you, Butcher." 

Any trace of compassion left Greven's voice. 
"Forward!" he barked. The guards locked their shields 
together. Eladamri was now closed inside a living cage. 
Head held high, he strode in perfect step with the escort. 

The rebels were pressed into individual niches in the 
wall just behind the bridge landing. They saw and heard 
the exchange between Greven and Eladamri. 

"What is that place?" asked Sivi. 

"A prison, I assume," Teynel said. "It's isolated from the 
rest of the fortress." 

"How do we get in?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"We don't. We're following Eladamri's original plan. 
Sivi, you take half the men and look for Predator. I'll lead 
the rest and search where you don't. Take no action when 
you do find it— we need to make sure of the one attack 
we'll get. We'll tendezvous in four intervals at the entrance 
to the big hall we saw. Then we all go back to the airship 
and finish it once and for all." 

Sivi stepped out of her niche and tapped the shoulders 
of four of the rebels. Wordlessly they peeled off and 
followed her. Teynel watched her take her squad up a spiral 
staircase. Teynel signaled the remaining rebels to follow 
him. Since Sivi chose to go higher in the Citadel, they 
would search low. 

* * * * * 

She could still feel the pressure of his hand around her 
throat. 

What was it that drove this total stranger to attack her 
in full view of the assembled court? Belbe sat sideways in 
the throne of Rath and tried to answer the question 
logically. He called her an abomination, a lie. Both implied 
representations of truth that were actually false. How was 
she false? She was who she was, made on the Fourth Sphere 
of Phyrexia for this exact mission. Did she resemble 
someone known to Eladamri? She rejected the idea as too 
absurd. 

If that was true, who was Avila? 

Belbe shook her head. It throbbed a little where 
Eladamri had dashed it against the floor. She didn't have 
enough information to answer her questions. The only 
place she could get more was from Eladamri. 

The convocation room was empty. All that remained 
were the flags, Eladamri's manacles, and Belbe. She picked 

251 



Nemesis 

up the heavy chains. By now the rebel leader was 
beginning his interrogation. She remembered what Ertai 
looked like after Greven was done with him. A sour taste 
spread up her throat. No doubt Eladamri was tougher than 
Ertai, but the thought of him being burned and beaten by 
Greven's moggs made her ill. It was easy enough to send 
him there when he'd just tried to throttle her. She 
regretted it now. There'd been enough violence in this 
place—too much. She was sick of it. If she had authority to 
stop it, it was high time she exercised it. 

Belbe hurried from the hall, still gripping the manacles. 
She'd had enough of Crovax's bullying, too. He'd 
humiliated her in the past, but this last time was in public, 
and she wouldn't stand for any more. If Greven would back 
her up, she was willing to name Ertai as the next Evincar of 
Rath. 

Crovax wouldn't take it lying down, but she had a few 
surprises for him. Among the equipment sent with her from 
Phyrexia was a case of special weapons. She was supposed 
to supply these weapons to the new evincar, but she had a 
better use for them. Her masters might not approve, but 
she had already gone too far down the road of resistance to 
feel fainthearted. With Ertai at her side, she'd free Greven 
from his control rod, and together the three of them would 
destroy Crovax and establish Rath as a sovereign world, no 
longer the puppet of Phyrexia or a threat to Dominaria. 
And possibly, if Eladamri were amenable, he could have a 
post in her new order, too. 

The flowbot lift carried her swiftly to the evincar's 
quarters. When she arrived in the outer chamber, the room 
was dark. Belbe asked for light, but nothing happened. 
Annoyed, she climbed the stairs and entered the statuary 
room. There, lamps blazed brightly. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

She stopped short. Something was amiss. Nothing in 
the room was disturbed, but she avoided the usual path 
through the statues, preferring to hug the wall instead. The 
Phyrexian crates were where she'd left them, seals intact. 
She pressed her thumb into the shallow depression on the 
back of the seal, and it opened with a click. 

Nestled in the crate were two identical weapons— 
plasma energy dischargers. They were shoulder arms, like 
crossbows, but instead of a steel bow at a right angle to the 
stock, there was a long metal casing ending with two sharp 
metal points pointing forward. Dischargers used a single 
powerstone. Six were stored in the crate. These stones were 
so strongly charged they couldn't be loaded bare-handed. 
She picked up an L-shaped loading tool, pressed it against 
one of the powerstones, and inserted it into the slot on the 
underside of the weapon. A row of green and red jewels on 
top of the discharger began to glow. The weapon was 
armed. 

Cradling the Phyrexian weapon under her arm, Belbe 
hurried to the lift. She was halfway across the statuary 
room when she heard a tinny whistling. 

Belbe swung the discharger around, aiming the double 
points in the direction of the sound. The little tune 
repeated. 

"Come out, or I'll use this!" she said. The whistler's 
reply was mockingly the same. 

Her thumb pressed against a smooth pad on the rear of 
the metal housing. There was a flash like lightning, an earsplitting 
crack, and one of Volrath's statues was blasted in 
two. The tune ceased. 

"Our masters make impressive weapons, don't they?" 

Crovax was close behind her—too close. She tried to 
bring the heavy discharger to bear, but he tore it from her 
hands before she could get it leveled, Belbe leaped at him, 

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Nemesis 

trying to snatch the weapon back. Crovax casually 
punched her on the jaw. She flew backward against a statue 
of a crouching youth. By the time Belbe shook off the blow, 
the tips of the discharger were an inch from her face. 

"You have an extraordinarily hard head, but I suspect 
this device can deal with that," said Crovax. 

"At this range you'll vaporize my skull," Belbe said. 

"Really?" Crovax caressed the weapon admiringly. 

Belbe waited for the flash and the oblivion to follow. 
Crovax raised the tips to the ceiling. "Get up." 

He went to the door. Men filed in from the darkened 
staircase. She recognized them as the Corps of Sergeants. 
Two of them bore a third man between them, hands tied 
and mouth gagged: Ertai. 

Their eyes met. Belbe made a half step in his direction 
but froze when Sergeant Valmoral pressed the edge of his 
knife to Ertai's jugular. 

She forced herself to be calm. "Now what?" 

"This is a coup," Crovax replied matter-of-factly. "As of 
this moment, I am taking over the rule of Rath. You will 
name me evincar in front of these witnesses. Now." 

"And if I don't?" 

"Sergeant Valmoral will bleed the boy dry." 

Belbe folded her arms. "So do it. I'll not be coerced." 

Crovax shrugged and nodded. Valmoral drew his knife 
back to add force to the cut. Ertai's eyes widened, then he 
squeezed them shut. Down came the stroke of the blade. 

Under her arm, Belbe had secreted a broken piece of 
the statue she'd fallen against. It was a young man's hand— 
a slender, elegant hand, fingers gathered in, touching the 
finely carved thumb. Made of flowstone, it weight about a 
pound. She whipped this at Valmoral with all the speed 
and power she possessed. It hit him on the forehead just 
before the stroke of his knife laid open Ertai's throat. 

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The room erupted. Ertai swung his bound hands at the 
nearest man, catching him in the gut. Belbe whirled and 
sprang at Crovax. He pointed the Phyrexian weapon at 
her, but nothing happened. Alarmed, he dropped it, and 
the flowstone statue of an androgynous nude between him 
and Belbe came to life at his command. Belbe tried to 
dodge it, but the statue caught her around the waist and 
flung her back. Two sergeants moved in. They wore 
helmets and breastplates but were armed only with knives. 
Belbe got a foot against the moving statue and heaved it 
away. The first man slashed at her. She caught his arm and 
broke it like a twig. He howled and dropped his blade. She 
twisted his arm behind him, spinning him around, and 
shoved him against his oncoming comrades. 

The floor crept up around her ankles and hardened. 
Belbe dodged one soldier, knelt, and hammered the 
flowstone with her fist. The material around her right foot 
splintered, freeing it. She promptly used it to kick one of 
her attackers in the chest. His cuirass indented three 
inches from the blow. She felt the ribs behind the armor 
crack, and the man went down. 

A knife point raked across the bridge of her nose. This 
one was going for her eyes! Enraged, Belbe brought her 
hand across to ward off another attack. The sergeant drove 
his knife right through the palm of her hand. She blocked 
the pain and closed her fingers around his knife, crushing 
every bone in his hand. He groaned and fell to his knees. 
Belbe slid her impaled hand off the knife blade and 
delivered a reverse kick to the back of the man's skull. 
There was a crunch of bone, and he pitched forward. The 
man was dead before his head hit the floor. 

All of a sudden the fight was over. Belbe had disposed 
of four attackers. Her left foot was trapped in a thick block 
of flowstone, and glistening oil was leaking from the hole 

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in her hand. Crovax and the rest of the sergeants withdrew 
beyond her reach. 

Ertai, arms and legs stretched wide, was being held by 
two of Volrath's statues, animated for the task by Crovax. 
His shirt was torn open, and a bright red slash crossed his 
chest. Valmoral, an ugly gash on his head, had cut Ertai 
once and was poised to do so again. 

"Finish him," Crovax ordered. 

"No!" said Belbe. "Don't hurt him." 

"You see," Crovax said to his surviving men. "Love 
conquers after all." 

Two statues seized Belbe by the hands and feet, spreadeagling 
her off the floor like Ertai. Crovax found the 
discharger and picked his way over the fallen men and 
toppled statues to Belbe. 

"You're quite formidable. The overlords built you well," 
he said. 

"I'll be sure to relay your compliments," she replied, 
panting. 

He held up the discharger. "Why wouldn't this work for 
me?" 

"The mechanism is protected. It will function only if I 
use it," she lied. 

Crovax tossed the exotic weapon aside. "Too bad. A 
splendidly destructive device." 

He closely examined her wounded hand. "Not blood?" 

Belbe shook her head. 

"Interesting." Crovax sniffed the glistening oil and 
without warning licked the thin black liquid oozing from 
the wound. Belbe strained against the statues' grip. The 
one holding her wounded hand softened its hold, just for a 
second. It was enough. Belbe's open palm connected with 
Crovax's cheek and sent him sprawling. 

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Nasser and some of his men started toward him. Crovax 
got to his knees and stopped them with a blood-chilling 
glare. 

"No one moves!" he hissed. 

"Why not release me and make it a fair fight?" Belbe 
taunted, waving her free hand. 

Crovax caught her hand in his, and they wrestled for a 
few seconds. 

"Why do you imagine combat has to be fair?" he gasped. 

He backhanded her across the face twice. Belbe's eyes 
filmed with gray until she shut out that pain as well. 
Crovax was plainly surprised when she took his blows and 
grimly smiled at him. 

"You are the strongest," Belbe said. "There's no point 
resisting the inevitable. I will name you evincar." 

All fell silent. 

Ertai chewed through his gag and spat out the wad of 
cloth, croaking, "Belbe, no!" 

"You heard her!" Crovax cried, pointing a finger at the 
assembled sergeants. "She said it!" 

"I said it, and I mean it," Belbe said. "But it's not official 
until I proclaim you governor before the overlords on 
Phyrexia." 

"How can you do that? Do I have to travel to 
Phyrexia?" 

"No, I must declare you evincar before the open 
Window." She meant the voice-only message portal in the 
convocation hall. 

Crovax stood back. The statues released Belbe and 
Ertai. "I give you this much grace, as you are the emissary 
and a redoubtable fighter," he said. "Summon the court to 
the Window and proclaim me evincar to everyone." 

Belbe rubbed her battered hand. "I will. Tomorrow." 

"Why not now?" 

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Nemesis 

"It's late," she said. "We can do this in haste, or we can 
install you with all grave and proper ceremony. It's up to 
you. There's also the matter of Eladamri." 

"What's he got to do with it?" 

"Wouldn't you like to have him at your feet, in chains, 
when I name you to the throne? Everything in the hall will 
be seen on 

Phyrexia, you know. Wouldn't you like to impress the 
overlords by presenting them with the defeated leader of 
the rebels?" She saw the glimmer of vanity in his eyes. 

Crovax nodded with satisfaction. "I still don't see why 
we can't do it sooner," he said. 

"Give Greven the night to break him," Belbe said 
coolly. "You wouldn't have him shout rebel slogans while 
the overlords are watching, would you?" 

"Hardly." Crovax smiled. "You're much too clever for 
someone whose life is measured in weeks. Why don't you 
remain on Rath? When I am evincar, I will need clever 
servants to carry out my will." 

She didn't say anything. She cradled her injured hand 
in her good one and regarded it thoughtfully. "The idea 
intrigues you?" said Crovax. "It's an interesting proposal. I 
shall consider it." The sergeants picked up their dead 
comrade, and the injured men hobbled away to the 
dispensary. Four of them, including Nasser, remained 
behind, surrounding Ertai. 

"I'll keep the light of your life until tomorrow," Crovax 
said. "His life is my guarantee you'll not renege on your 
promise." 

"You will be evincar," Belbe said. "You have my word as 
emissary of the overlords. Let Ertai go." 

Crovax laughed. "Shall we say tomorrow, an hour past 
midday? I'd hate to become governor until after the 
courtiers have been fed." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Choose the hour you want. I will be there." Crovax 
herded Ertai and the sergeants out. He paused by the door. 
"I'll have to do something about this clutter," he said. "My 
predecessor had appalling taste—such a weakness for the 
human form. Good night, Excellency. I enjoyed the fight." 

She picked up the cast-off Phyrexian discharger. The 
jewels on the top were dark. Belbe turned the weapon over 
and discovered the powerstone was gone. Someone— 
presumably Crovax—had removed it during the melee. An 
impressive feat, considering he'd never handled such a 
device before. He'd also removed the powerstone without 
the special tool, bare-handed. An ordinary man would 
have been struck dead by the potent energy stored in the 
stone. 

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CHAPTER 16 


DECISION 

At the very pinnacle of the Citadel, Sivi and her 
comrades crouched behind a crane on the airship dock. A 
few yards away, Predator floated gently, tethered to the 
platform by a half-dozen thick cables. The airship's massive 
deck gun, which fired a huge barbed harpoon against 
enemy airships, had just been lowered to the deck by 
another crane. Gangs of moggs tugged on lines, rocking the 
gun carriage back and forth until it slipped onto the 
prepared barbette. Sivi counted at least thirty moggs and 
their Dal and Vec overseers around Predator. Maybe a 
hundred more were close by in various workshops. 

"What do we do, Sivi?" asked Khalil, one of the Vec 
volunteers. 

"If we could get on board, we could do some damage," 
she muttered. 

"Teynel told us not to act alone," said Langwin, a Dal 
kinsmen of Darsett's. "We should meet up with him as 
planned and tell him we found the airship." 

"Yes, and by the time we get back the damned thing 
may have flown away," Sivi said. "All the while Eladamri is 
in the hands of Greven! I tell you, we have to do what we 
can, now." She loosened the fake bandages and uncoiled 
the toten-vec from around her waist. "Are you with me?" 

Her Vec clansmen quickly agreed. The Dal were less 
enthused. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Listen," she said. "If we can destroy Predator, it will 
create confusion throughout the Stronghold. It'll be easier 
for us to rescue Eladamri and get out of here." 

The two Dal rebels mopped sweat from their faces. 

"All right," said Medd, the elder of the two. "How do 
we get on board?" 

Sivi looked all around. There was too much open floor 
between them and the floating airship. Though still dressed 
in Rathi uniforms, they were in a restricted area and were 
bound to be stopped long before they reached their target. 

Sivi raised her eyes. The flowbot crane they were hiding 
behind was the largest on the dock. The gantry rose forty 
feet, and the gooseneck section reached out well over the 
moored airship. 

"Feel like climbing?" she said. 

She looped the toten-vec around her shoulder and 
started up the skeletal framework of the crane. One by one 
the others followed. The gantry was big enough to allow 
them to climb three abreast, but Liin Sivi took the lead. 

She soon reached the end of the vertical section. Sivi 
paused and looked down. Her hands tightened on the 
framework. Not only was she forty feet above the platform, 
she could see over the edge of the dock to the Citadel far 
below. The ever-present energy beam was on the other side 
of Predator, and the sizzling blue stream almost drowned 
out construction noises from the dock. 

The workers slacked off the lines on the deck gun once 
it was in place. Moggs with heavy iron mauls circled the 
gun and pounded red-hot rivets into the weapon's pedestal. 
Sparks flew, and when other moggs threw cold water on 
the rivets to harden them in place, gouts of steam clouded 
the deck. 

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It was opportunity sent by the gods. Sivi frantically 
waved her men forward, and one by one they dropped from 
the crane to the vacant quarterdeck. 

They crouched along the port bulwark and worked their 
way aft to some open hatches. They heard voices and 
sounds of work below. 

Medd looked to their leader. "What now?" 

"There must be flammables on a ship like this," she 
said. "Oil, niter, liquor, something. We'll search below 
decks until we find some, then phutt!" She tossed a hand in 
the air. The rebels nodded solemnly. 

They were about to ease down the first open hatch 
when a dock worker popped out unexpectedly. He stared at 
the five Rathi soldiers huddled there. 

"What?" was all he managed to say before the rebels 
dragged him out and pounded him unconscious. They 
shoved him in a scupper, out of sight. 

Sivi unslung the toten-vec. With gestures she indicated 
she'd go first. 

Step by step, she descended the wide ladder into the 
ship. The air was heavy with the smell of hot metal and 
freshly cut wood. Sivi let the knife head of her weapon 
dangle by a few inches of cord. A mogg came out of a side 
cabin, a bundle of reinforcing rods on his shoulder. He 
didn't see Sivi frozen like a statue a few feet behind him, so 
he kept going. She flattened against the bulkhead and 
peered around the open door. Two more moggs were 
working inside, bolting rods to the outer hull plating. Sivi 
waved for her companions to slip past. When they were 
clear, she boldly walked by the open door, whip hanging 
loosely from her hand. 

They descended two decks and reached an open 
ventilator shaft above the engine compartment. The 
ventilator was four feet square, and the metal grating 

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Paul B.Thompson 

normally covering it was dismounted and leaning against 
the aft bulkhead. Hot, humid air rose from the quiescent 
motor. Sivi risked discovery to gaze down into the engine 
room. She counted five Dal workmen wiping down the 
powerstone accumulators with rags, polishing the brass 
fittings until they gleamed like gold. Sivi sniffed. Mineral 
spirits ... that would burn nicely. 

Where were they getting it from? She leaned out 
farther. The workmen were passing a tin bucket around, 
dipping their rags in and wringing out the excess. When 
the bucket was empty, they refilled it from a cask standing 
nearby. "This is it," she whispered. "Get ready." 

They poised themselves around the hole. When four 
workmen were in sight, Sivi nodded, and they dropped one 
after the other on the unsuspecting men. 

The unarmed rebels surprised the workmen and quickly 
pummeled them into submission. Sivi was hurling one man 
headfirst against the bulkhead when the fifth Dal returned 
with a bucketful of mineral spirits. He dropped the 
container and shouted for help. Engine noise drowned him 
out. He turned, but before he ran two steps Sivi unleashed 
the toten-vec. She made a single underhand cast. With a 
snap, the knife blade spun through the air at the end of its 
chain and took the fleeing man in the back. He froze, arms 
outstretched, as if turned to stone. Sivi yanked the totenvec, 
and the return impetus spun the man back to fall dead 
at her feet. 

The other rebels looked on in awe. "Did you think it 
was a toy? Get that barrel over here," she said. 

The group wrestled the heavy cask to the starboard side 
of the engine. Sivi leaned in, and the three of them toppled 
the barrel over. Brownish mineral spirits washed down the 
deck, filling the air with a pungent aroma. 

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Nemesis 

Medd turned his head to avoid the fumes. "Someone 
will notice the smell," 

Someone did. The second after his sentence, a heavy 
wrench hurtled from above, catching one of the Dal in the 
forehead. He fell like a poleaxed kerl. The rebels looked up 
and saw the ventilator opening was lined with moggs, 
growling, gibbering, and waving hand tools. 

A barrage of wrenches and mauls banged off the 
bulkhead and engine housing. Sivi and Medd leaped one 
way, Khalil and Langwin the other. A couple of moggs got 
carried away and jumped into the compartment. The floor 
was slick with spirits, and they slipped and fell heavily. 
This didn't prevent other moggs from leaping down on top 
of their friends. Two of them fell on the helpless Dal who 
had been hit by the wrench and clubbed him to death. The 
remaining rebels were divided by the massive engine and a 
growing swarm of moggs. 

A mogg, covered in spirits, got up waving his maul. Sivi 
flicked the toten-vec blade into his warty chest. It hardly 
seemed to mind. She and Medd exchanged worried looks. 

"They're tougher than they look," Medd observed. 

Sivi frowned. "I just have to find a soft spot." 

She did, burying the eight-inch iron blade in the mogg's 
left eye. It shrieked and fell, kicking the deck with its 
stumpy legs. 

"Let's get out of here!" Medd shouted. "Khalil! 
Langwin! Try to make it to the main deck!" 

Langwin dodged a blow and waved that he understood. 

"We need a torch!" Sivi cried. 

A wrench caromed off the bulkhead beside his head. 
The tool scraped against his borrowed helmet. 

"Flint? Steel?" 

"I thought this was a raid, not a camping trip!" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

They backed out the forward hatch. Medd slammed 
shut the door. A thrown maul proved useful in jamming 
the latch. 

Footsteps pounded on the deck above. Sivi and Medd 
ran forward, eyeing the ceiling. 

"Sounds like a hundred," the Dal rebel said. 

Sivi looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "No more than 
sixty, I'd say." The passage ahead was still clear. "Watch 
that way!" she said. Medd hovered by the next door, 
dividing his attention between the corridor and what Liin 
Sivi was doing. 

She spotted a lamp on the wall. It was on a pivot, to 
freely adjust to whatever attitude the airship assumed. 
Putting aside the toten-vec, she grabbed the lamp in both 
hands and succeeded in breaking it off. She adjusted the 
wick control and the lamp began to glow. 

Volatile spirit was leaking under the engine room 
hatch. Predator was trimmed heavy at the bow because the 
deck gun had just been mounted, so the spill was slowly 
flowing forward. Sivi stood back and hurled the glowing 
lamp at the darkening pool seeping under the door. The 
lamp shattered. The light went out. "Damn! Their lamps 
don't use flame." Two workmen appeared in the passage. 
They ducked when the toten-vec came whistling their way 
and quickly fled. "What now?" asked Medd. "We've got to 
do some damage," said Sivi. "Could we use the big crane 
outside? Batter the ship with it?" "That works for me. Let's 
go!" They ran down the long passage, crossing the hold on 
a narrow catwalk. The interior of the airship had the same 
zoological quality as the Citadel, and running through it 
was like traversing the belly of a great beast. The deck was 
planked with wood, but the bulkheads and ribs of the vessel 
were some sort of reddish alloy, between metal and bone. 

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Nemesis 

At last the passage ended, and they found a metal 
ladder leading up. Sivi climbed. When she poked her head 
out, a crossbow bolt plunked into the deck. The fletching 
creased her cheek. She ducked so fast she knocked Medd 
off the ladder below her. 

"Are we trapped?" asked Medd, rubbing his hip. 

"Not yet." 

She let the toten-vec dangle down the steps. With a 
quick flick, she tossed the knife head out the hatch and 
whipped it in the direction the arrow came from. It stuck 
in something. Sivi tugged; it resisted. She raised her head 
enough to see she'd killed the bowman, but the toten-vec's 
cord was entangled in the dead man's crossbow. 

The deck was clear. They scrambled out and slammed 
the hatch. Khalil and Langwin were ahead on the main 
bridge, besieged by swarms of angry moggs. 

"We've got to help them!" Medd cried. 

Sivi frantically untangled her weapon from the dead 
man's bow. "We'll need more than one toten-vec to stop 
that mob." 

More than a toten-vec? Medd looked over his shoulder 
at the biggest weapon he'd ever seen. He took Sivi by the 
hand and dragged her along. 

"Do you know how to operate that thing?" she asked, 
sizing up the weapon on the run. 

"How hard can it be?" 

The deck gun was loaded with a barbed harpoon, with a 
shaft as thick as Medd's thigh. The breech end of the gun 
was a hedge of levers, none of which were labeled. 

Men and moggs were gathering on the dock. 

Sivi saw the glint of sword blades among them. 
"Hurry!" 

Medd pulled a lever. The deck gun swung left. Making 
a note of that, he tried the lever on the opposite side. The 

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Paul B.Thompson 

gun obligingly swung right. A lever between those two 
made the gun elevate or depress. 

He hauled back on the left side control. The gun mount 
rotated rapidly until it was pointed dead astern. Medd let 
off the lever. He depressed the muzzle until the raked tip of 
the harpoon was pointing not at the mob of moggs 
menacing their friends, but at the deck below them. A bolt 
whizzed by his head. 

"Hurry!" 

Medd yanked a short lever below the three main 
controls and was rewarded with a spurt of vapor from the 
gun mount. Sivi twitched her toten-vec back and forth 
nervously. 

"Try again!" she yelled. 

On the elevation control knob was a black button. 
Medd pressed it. 

There was a deafening blast, and the deck gun fired 
point blank into the rear of the ship. Sivi was thrown to 
the deck. The enormous harpoon barely cleared the barrel 
before imbedding itself below the bridge. Planking on the 
bridge peeled back as far as the harpoon penetrated. The 
impact hurled moggs through the air end over end. 

Sivi sat up, holding her head. A loud clanging filled her 
ears, and it took her a few seconds to realize the noise was 
real and not coming from inside her battered brain. Medd 
dragged her to her feet. 

He shouted something. She couldn't hear him. He put 
his lips close to her ear and shouted. 

"They've raised an alarm! This place'll be swarming 
with soldiers soon!" 

The breech of the gun opened automatically after 
firing. A brown, drum-shaped object popped out of a shute 
alongside the gun, and a pile of harpoons were stacked 
conveniently on deck. Medd staggered to the scattered pile 

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Nemesis 

of harpoons and manhandled one back to the gun. It 
wouldn't feed through the breech, so he loaded it down the 
muzzle. The brown drum was exactly the size of the cavity 
at the rear of the gun, so he inserted it and closed the 
breech. 

Smoke from the first firing drifted across the deck to the 
airship dock. Dock workers had taken cover after the gun 
was fired, and in their place came heavily armed palace 
guards. Sivi used the smoke to reach the quarterdeck. 
Stunned, bleeding moggs lay everywhere. She had to dig 
under them to find her missing comrades. Khalil was dead, 
killed by the moggs before the gun fired. Langwin was 
senseless. She dragged him out and boosted him to his feet. 

"You on Predator! Stand away from that gun!" shouted a 
voice from the dock. Medd pulled the right lever, and the 
harpoon thrower swung smoothly toward the voice. 

"Stand away, or we'll storm the deck!" 

Medd leveled the gun in the speaker's direction. He 
waited until Sivi appeared through the smoke with 
Langwin leaning on her shoulder. 

"Loose!" 

A wave of arrows swept the deck. Shielded by the 
massive gun, Medd was safe enough, but the volley caught 
Sivi and Langwin in the open. Langwin was hit twice. Sivi 
let the dead man fall and threw herself on the deck. 

"What are you waiting for?" she yelled. "Let fly!" 

Twenty-odd soldiers came running through the smoke, 
swords bared. They were in skirmishing order, so Medd 
depressed the gun at them and pressed the firing button. 

There was a double explosion. The harpoon shaft 
snapped, and the barbed head plowed sideways through the 
attacking guards. The butt end of the harpoon shot crazily 
into the air, ricocheting off the dock and flying into the 

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Paul B.Thompson 

energy stream. It vaporized in a burst of white light and 
smoke. 

Medd had failed to close the gun fully, firing it with the 
breech plug unlocked. The resulting explosion completely 
wrecked the gun. 

Bleeding from minor shrapnel cuts to his face and 
hands, Medd staggered to his feet. Sivi was lying face down 
on the deck a few yards away. Heedless of the danger, he 
moved across the smoky deck to reach her. There were no 
obvious holes in her, but she wasn't moving. He knelt and 
prodded her with a bleeding finger. 

"Sivi? Sivi, are you alive?" 

She raised her head. "Of course I am." She stood up and 
dusted herself off. She coiled the toten-vec in her hand. 
"You're pretty dangerous with that thing." 

"I ruined it." 

"Good. That's why we're here." 

The dock was still, though the alarm bell still pealed. 
The surviving rebels ran to the edge of the foredeck and 
rattled down the gangplank. No one on the dock was alive. 
The sideways spinning harpoon head had slain the entire 
squad. 

Sivi paused long enough to salvage a pair of daggers. 
Medd found a sword that hadn't been bent too much by 
the blast and shoved it in his empty scabbard. 

"Come," he said. "We must find Teynel and the 
others!" They reached the side stairs just as another 
detachment of palace guards arrived on the main lift. The 
rebels slipped away in the smoke, leaving a damaged but 
intact Predator floating easily on its moorings. 

* * * * * 

He never cried out. Greven admired him for that. 

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Nemesis 

The questioning went on for hours without result. 
Greven and the mogg warders went through their standard 
repertory of branding irons, thumbscrews, and pincers. 
Eladamri never screamed, never begged for mercy. He 
cursed for a while, then fell silent. His resistance spooked 
the moggs, and they began to slip away from the session. By 
midnight no one was left in the cell but Greven and the 
stubborn rebel leader. 

The Vec warrior poured himself a cup of tepid water. 
He sat down on a low stool and studied the enemy who had 
so long eluded him. Unlike the common soldiers of Rath, 
Greven never believed Eladamri had magical powers. He 
understood—or thought he understood—the mind of a 
dedicated fighter. But when Eladamri exhausted his 
interrogators and revealed nothing of his plans, his 
organization, or himself, Greven felt bereft of 
understanding. He was just a middle-aged elf, of no great 
size or physical strength. He didn't preach about freedom 
and liberty the way some rebel prisoners did. He said 
nothing. He endured. 

"What's your secret?" Greven asked. 

Hanging by his wrists, Eladamri twisted slowly with the 
torsion of the rope. He'd escaped into unconsciousness, but 
he was still visibly breathing. 

The cell door swung open. Greven jumped up, 
snatching his bare sword from the table beside him. A 
shadowy figure stood in the entrance. 

"Who's there?" 

The intruder stepped forward, and Greven saw the 
hooded figure clearly. 

"It's you," he said. "There's nothing to tell. He won't 
talk." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The hooded one glided into the room. Pale hands 
emerged from the wide sleeves and gently folded back the 
cowl. Greven saw the face of Furah. 

"Why are you here?" he asked the Kor. 

"I've been interested in this one a long time," said the 
visitor. "Your usual methods failed, didn't they?" Greven 
admitted they had. "You can't break a warrior like Eladamri 
by abusing his body. Someone like you, Greven, whose 
entire being is wrapped up in his physical form, you would 
have broken by now." 

Greven bristled. "I am no stranger to pain." 

"Pain isn't the author of submission—fear is. They're 
quite different. Ordinary men come to this room filled with 
terror because they know they will suffer great pain. 
Eladamri was not afraid. His spirit preserves him from mere 
physical suffering. To reach him, we will have to find out 
what he fears." 

"Do you have time for this? The emissary has been 
holding out against Crovax, but she can't withstand him 
much longer. Will you act soon?" 

"There's time. I have certain elixirs with me that will 
open windows into Eladamri's mind. I'll use them." 

Greven set his face like stone. He hated drugs. Under 
normal circumstances, there was a kind of bond between 
prisoner and interrogator—strength vs. strength, it was. 
Though he would never admit it to the visitor, he felt 
Eladamri had qualified for an honorable death. He was 
tortured, he held out, and the next step ought to be a 
dignified execution. Elixirs were a cheat. No one could 
resist them. Eladamri would tell everything now, and his 
honor would be lost. 

He ordered Greven to bring the elf down. Greven 
untied the rope and lowered Eladamri to the floor. A heavy 
chair was dragged over, and the unconscious rebel leader 

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was strapped to it. All the while, the visitor busied himself 
at the table, mixing powders from various vials into a cup. 
His stirring rod tinkled in the gloomy cell. 

He held out the cup. "Hold his nose," he said. "I don't 
want to be bitten." 

Greven tilted back Eladamri's slack head. He held the 
elf's nose and pulled his chin down. In came the cup, 
delivered by a slender Kor hand. Greven got a whiff of the 
potion. It had a sharp odor, like vinegar. 

Suddenly a metallic bell began to clang loudly in the 
corridor. 

Greven released Eladamri's nose. "Intruders!" 

"The guards can handle it," said Furah, putting the cup 
to Eladamri's lips. 

"I must see to any disturbance," Greven insisted, 
pushing the cup away. "You should come too." 

"Why me?" 

"Things are very unsettled. It's a dangerous time for all 
of us. If you want to keep up with what's going on, you'd 
better come along." 

"You don't want me to administer my elixir. Are you 
afraid I'll succeed where you failed?" 

"The prisoner's not going anywhere. If the alarm is 
false, or the situation easily resolved, we can return— 
nothing will be lost," said Greven. 

The visitor raised his hood. "Time will be lost, but I 
take your meaning. Order must be restored to Rath if my 
plan is to succeed." 

Greven quickly buckled on his sword belt. "What do 
you intend?" 

"To take what's mine. Nothing less." 

* * * * * 

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Teynel and his team descended into the bowels of the 
Citadel in search of an airship docking station. None of 
them knew their way around, and the deeper they 
penetrated the labyrinthine recesses of the flowstone 
works, the more lost they became. 

"Don't these people believe in signs?" Teynel asked in 
exasperation. He'd thought as long as they kept going 
down, they would eventually find evidence of the airship 
dock. No such luck occurred. Before long the rebels found 
themselves negotiating tunnels too low for them to stand 
in. The air was oppressively hot and humid, and the lower 
they went, the hotter it got. 

They'd not encountered any people for quite some 
time. This did not mean the tunnels were unoccupied. As 
Teynel and his men crept along, stepping over ridges in the 
ribbed floor, they saw strange creatures moving about in 
the semi-darkness. 

One numerous creature had an egg-shaped body, about 
the size of a water pail. It walked on two long legs bent 
backward at the knee. Covered in bare, spotty skin, it had 
no discernible head. The creature smelled like rotten meat. 
It paid no attention to the rebels, who pressed themselves 
against the wall and let the headless thing hop by. 

Moving on, they reached a narrow vertical shaft. The 
top was lost in profound darkness; the bottom glowed 
brightly with a pulsating red light. A rushing sound, like 
deep waters pouring over a precipice, boomed up the shaft. 

"There's light down there," Teynel said. "It may be a 
way to the dock." 

His clansman Garnan offered to scout the situation. 
The walls of the shaft were deeply ribbed, so he had no 
problem climbing down. The other rebels lay on the tunnel 
floor and watched their comrade descend toward the 
throbbing red light. 

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After a few long minutes, Garnan called up, "Teynel! 
You must see this!" 

"What is it?" 

"Teynel, come see! It's fantastic!" 

They all wanted to go, but Teynel ordered the 
remaining rebels to stay put. He spit on his hands and 
began his climb down. The ribbing was coated with some 
kind of resilient skin, yielding to his grip. It looked oily, but 
in fact was dry to the touch, and Teynel was able to 
descend with confidence. Ten feet or so below the tunnel, 
the glare all but shut out the dark shaft above. Air in the 
shaft was broiling, yet the walls remained surprisingly cool. 
Teynel could not see any bottom to the shaft, but he kept 
going. Garnan was a sound fellow, and wouldn't call him if 
there wasn't something worth seeing. 

He lowered his right foot, but instead of another rib 
found only air. Teynel held on, waving his foot around, 
trying to find a place for his toe. Something grabbed his 
heel. 

"Over here. It's me." 

With Garnan's aid, Teynel climbed out. There was a 
platform made of polished tubing at the bottom of the 
shaft. Teynel's feet began sliding as soon as they touched 
the slippery ledge. 

"Careful," Garnan said. "This stuff's like glass!" 

Teynel gripped the rail circling the platform. They were 
suspended hundreds of feet in the air at the very lowest 
point of the whole Citadel. The entire structure was above 
them, and below, clearly visible through the slatted tubing, 
was the crater floor and lava well. 

"By all the gods," Teynel gasped. 

A column of molten rock thirty yards wide rose from 
the funnel-shaped aperture below the Citadel. It was drawn 
up to a large cluster of nozzles in the center of the Citadel's 

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belly. The stream of red-hot liquid rock thundered into the 
tubes with a sound like a hundred waterfalls. The heat was 
intense, and Teynel had to cover his face with his arm just 
to glance at the flow. 

"Look there!" Garnan said, tugging at his arm. Teynel 
tore his eyes from the awesome spectacle and followed 
Garnan's pointing hand. Perhaps forty yards away was a 
massive pylon, jutting down from the main body of the 
Citadel. A wide platform served by cranes was built on the 
end of the pylon. 

"The airship dock!" Teynel shouted over the roar. 

"Yes, and it's not there!" 

"Either Sivi's found it, or Predator has left the crater," 
Teynel said, pushing his comrade to the shaft opening. 
"Let's go back! We must keep our rendezvous with the 
others!" 

Garnan leaped and caught hold of the ribbed inner 
lining of the shaft. He pulled himself by his arms alone 
until he could get his feet on the bottom lip. Teynel 
watched him climb, then poised himself to repeat Garnan's 
leap. 

The platform quivered beneath him. As the polished 
surface was almost frictionless, Teynel skidded in a small 
circle. He grabbed at the rail and realized to his horror that 
the platform was circling toward the thundering lava 
stream. 

"Garnan! Garnan, hurry!" 

The round opening his comrade had entered had 
become crescent-shaped. This was no mere observation 
platform—it was part of the huge flowstone works! The 
shaft was used to convey molten lava to the factory far 
above! 

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Teynel leaped. He caught the ribbing with one hand. It 
wasn't enough. One by one his fingers tore free, and he fell 
heavily on the bright floor of tubing. 

"Teynel!' 

Garnan, hanging by his feet and one hand, waved for 
his kinsman to try again. The inexorable progress of the 
rotating platform would soon immerse Teynel in molten 
rock. The Dal rebel threw himself at Garnan's outstretched 
hand. Their fingers met, but their sweaty palms slipped 
over each other. Garnan shoved his shoulder down and 
wrapped his fingers around Teynel's sleeve. For an 
agonizing second Teynel dangled at the end of his friend's 
arm. The shaft opening was still waning. Teynel took hold 
of Gaman's arm with both hands. Face purpling, the young 
Dal hauled his friend up. Teynel just got his feet through 
and the opening closed to just a few inches. 

"Cousin or no, as of today, you are my brother," Teynel 
vowed. 

"Does this mean I can't marry your sister?" quipped 
Garnan. 

Teynel and Garnan struggled for breath in the 
relatively cool shaft. When they were able, they climbed to 
the intersecting tunnel. Kireno, Vellian, and Shamus were 
not at the end of the tunnel where they'd left them. 

They retraced their steps through the tunnel. After 
calling quietly to their comrades and receiving no answer, 
Teynel paused to listen. 

"Hear that?" 

A soft tearing sound was coming from down the 
corridor. 

Garnan nodded. "I hear." 

They crept on, senses straining to detect any danger. 
The tunnel curved to the left and rose. Rounding the 

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curve, Teynel spotted something lying on the floor some 
yards ahead. 

Part of the object was moving. As they slowly closed, 
Teynel made out a pair of booted feet lying motionless on 
the floor. The remnant of a dirty Rathi army mantle was 
draped over the rest. 

It was a corpse—one of their men. He couldn't tell 
which one. Standing on the corpse's back was one of those 
spotty two-legged creatures. It didn't have a head, but it 
had a mouth full of crooked, needlelike teeth. It pivoted its 
jaws down and took another bite of the body. 

Garnan saw it too and drew in breath with a sharp hiss. 
Teynel ran forward and kicked the hideous scavenger with 
all his might. It squealed and went flying. Ominously, there 
were answering squeals from the darkness. Lots of them. 

"Filthy little monsters," Teynel said. "I wonder how 
many more of them are out there?" 

"I don't care to find out," Garnan replied. 

The mysterious death of their comrade and the 
disappearance of the other two men put haste in their 
stride. When Garnan and Teynel emerged in a normal-
sized, well-lit corridor in the lower palace, they paused 
again to catch their breath. 

"Do you reckon they were captured or eaten?" asked 
Garnan. 

"Neither, I pray. I hope Kireno got impatient and went 
to meet Liin Sivi at the rendezvous." 

The pair moved on. 

They were within sight of the convocation chamber 
steps when the alarm erupted. Teynel knew instantly it 
meant some part of their team had been found out. He 
resisted an urge to run. He and Garnan stood to one side as 
palace guards massed in the hall. Crovax appeared, sword 
in hand, and demanded a report. 

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"There's been a disturbance," said one of the guards. 

"What a revelation! Speak plainly!" Crovax snapped. 

"Some soldiers attacked the workers on Predator—" 

Teynel gripped his partner's arm. Sivi! Damn her! He 
told her not to act on her own! 

"Soldiers? What soldiers?" Crovax was pacing and 
swinging his sword. "Sounds like rebel infiltrators to me, 
probably trying to liberate their leader." 

He swiftly ordered army troops into the Citadel. When 
the captain of the guard protested the use of regular troops 
in the palace environs, Crovax raised a flowstone tentacle 
and strangled the man where he stood. 

"Any other objections?" he asked. "Good. You men 
follow me." 

Fifty guards formed ranks and marched away to the 
stairs and lifts. Teynel and Garnan were about to slip away. 

"You there! Where do you think you're going?" Crovax 
was looking right at them. 

Teynel saluted. "Returning to our company, my lord." 

"Never mind that. I need you now." 

Teynel spread his hands. "I've no sword, my lord, nor 
has my friend." 

Crovax raised an eyebrow slightly. Two spires of 
flowstone rose from the floor. The formed into identical 
short swords, complete with cross hilt and moon pommel. 
Teynel and Garnan stared in amazement. 

"Take them, you idiots," Crovax said. When the rebels 
did, the supporting rod of flowstone detached and retracted 
into the floor. The swords took on the color and weight of 
standard steel weapons. 

"Come." Crovax swept away, mantle billowing. Teynel 
and Garnan sheathed their new swords and ran to catch 
up. One way or another, they would find their comrades, 
even if it meant joining the troops sent to catch them. 

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CHAPTER 17 


FORSAKEN 

He was no stranger to pain. He knew it in many forms, 
from the bite of a Skyshroud snake to the ragged kiss of a 
merfolk blade. His had been an active life, and he had 
endured many injuries. There were worse forms of suffering 
than the physical kind: The vision of a wife in the burned 
and shattered remains of the home they'd built together. 
An empty bed where a gentle daughter had slept and died. 

He learned to kill his enemies as revenge for these 
hurts. It didn't help, but he was never troubled by their 
blood on his hands. What did weigh on his conscience 
were all the dead friends and allies, people he led to war 
who died for his cause. Each of their lost lives was one 
more scar to bear, a burden he knew would grow larger 
before life was done with him. 

Since he was alone, Eladamri let the tears flow down 
his lined face. He'd always been awake, even through the 
worst of Greven's torment. At times his mind departed on 
its own, leaving him unsure of what he was seeing or 
feeling. He remembered—thought he remembered— 
Greven il-Vec sitting across the table from him, watching 
him with something like puzzlement on his evil face. He'd 
been joined by another, someone 

Eladamri hadn't known. His erratic eyes showed him 
the face of Furah, the Kor tribal chief, but Furah was dead. 
His daughter was dead too, yet someone was walking 

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around with her face. Was this unholy fortress full of 
ghosts? 

Tears softened the crust of dried blood that glued his 
right eye shut. He opened both eyes and stretched them 
wide. Coals glowed feebly in the iron brazier by his feet. 
Thumbscrews, branding irons, and other horrible 
instruments lay scattered about. He could smell water in 
the pot on the table. Licking his parched lips, Eladamri 
yearned for a sip. 

Thinking him unconscious, Greven had tied Eladamri 
to the chair by the wrists and ankles—a mistake. Eladamri 
relaxed his hands, folding his fingers inward to make his 
wrists as small as possible. He worked his left hand 
backward against the cords. The black rope was made of 
the same mimetic cable used on Predator and was thus a 
form of nanomachine like flowstone. When he pulled 
against it, it shrank tighter around his wrist. He stopped, 
and the cord ceased shrinking. Eladamri realized Greven's 
mistake was not so grievous. If he continued to fight the 
mimetic cord, it would eventually cut his hands off. 

He leaned forward and managed to lift the rear legs of 
the chair off the floor. The chair weighed a good forty-five 
pounds, but once he got it rocking, it was easy enough to 
tip it over. It crashed to the floor hard on his left side. The 
brazier overturned, scattering embers. 

How did magic rope like heat? Eladamri scraped a 
glowing coal closer with his ruined fingers. What did a 
blister or two matter when your fingers were already 
broken? 

He pressed the cord against the coal. A stab of heat 
passed through the binding to his wrist. Nothing else 
happened. So much for burning off the cords. He heaved 
the heavy chair forward to a pile of now-cold branding 

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irons. He couldn't quite wrestle the heavy irons into his 
grasp with just his fingertips. Now what? 

He could see the pottery pitcher on the table above 
him. What he wanted most, perhaps even more than his 
freedom, was a cool drink of water. Since he couldn't get to 
the pitcher so long as he was tied to the chair, it was a 
moot point. Eladamri butted his head against the table leg. 
He did this again and again until his vision dissolved in a 
haze of red. This couldn't go on. 

With the lightest touch, he let his battered head rest 
against the table leg and sighed. The jug, shaken to the 
edge of the table, promptly toppled to the floor. It smashed 
to pieces in a spray of water. None splashed his face. 

Not my best day, he decided. 

The pitcher was boneware, a hard, glassy pottery 
suitable for his purpose. He picked a nicely jagged shard 
and sawed against the cords. For a moment the mimetic 
strands tightened, then began to fray. His heart leaped 
when the cord sprang free of his wrists and wriggled on the 
floor like a headless lizard. A few cuts more, and his right 
hand was loose, then his feet. 

Eladamri tried to stand, but found his abused knees 
wouldn't let him. He sat on the floor, free but too hurt to 
walk. 

He tied pieces of cord together and used it to bind an 
iron to his left leg as a splint. Using the table for support, 
he managed to stand. He grabbed the cup on the table and 
prepared to down the contents, but when it neared his lips 
his nose detected an acrid odor. Poison. Meant for him, no 
doubt, and here he almost did Greven's job for him! 

His meager possessions lay strewn on the table. The 
only thing he took back was the small wooden fetish he'd 
carved his last night in the forest. He examined it carefully. 
It was intact, so he hung it around his neck. 

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Eladamri found another branding iron with a blunt 
hook on the end to serve as a weapon. He went to the cell 
door and found it unlocked. That worried him. Why wasn't 
he locked in? Was this some kind of elaborate trap so 
Greven could claim Eladamri was killed "trying to escape?" 

A muffled mechanical clangor filtered through the 
stout walls. Some sort of alarm. That's why Greven had 
gone. He swiftly made the connection to his young warriors 
and their mission to destroy the airship. Eladamri did not 
pray, but he fervently wished his comrades success. The 
odds were long against them. 

He hobbled into the corridor. No one in sight. The 
conical tower's shape meant the passage ran outboard of 
the cells, which were arranged around the axis of the tower 
like slices of pie. As he looked both ways down the vacant 
corridor, his guerrilla instinct gave him an idea. Never 
overlook a chance to cause maximum trouble for the 
enemy! 

He went to the next door. It was locked, and the 
mechanism was protected by a nasty looking flowbot whose 
jagged jaws encircled the lock. Use the wrong key, or try to 
fiddle with the device, and your hand could be bitten off. 

Eladamri rapped softly on the door. He pressed his ear 
to the panel and heard shuffling of feet inside. There was a 
low wicket through which the prisoner was given meals. 

He opened the sliding gate and whispered, "Hello? 
Who's in there? I'm a friend!" 

Instead of a voice or a face, a fleshy red tentacle 
appeared and wrapped itself around Eladamri's leg. A 
burning sensation started where the thing touched him, 
and its grip tightened and tightened. He was sorry for 
whatever beast or freak Volrath had imprisoned, but he 
wasn't about to lose his leg in a show of sympathy. A few 

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well aimed blows of his iron discouraged the creature, and 
the tentacle was withdrawn. 

The next three doors either were closed on empty cells, 
or else the occupants didn't feel like responding to 
Eladamri's summons. At the fifth door he distinctly heard a 
thin voice talking or singing. 

Bending low to the wicket he hissed, "Are you human 
in there?" 

"Are you human out there?" was the sarcastic response. 

"I'm a Skyshroud elf, a prisoner as you are. I'll let you 
out." 

No answer. He gingerly inserted the iron into the lock 
mechanism. Sure enough, the flowbot's jaws snapped shut, 
deeply indenting the hard iron bar. Eladamri leaned all his 
weight on the trapped tool, and with a crack, broke the 
lock without dislodging the flowbot protecting it. 

The door opened into the corridor. The smell of filth 
from inside was overwhelming. Something gray stirred 
within, and for a second Eladamri thought he'd been 
tricked by another one of Volrath's monsters. The gray 
shape became a human form—a gaunt, red-haired young 
woman of modest height, clad in filthy rags. 

She blinked at the light. "You are an elf," she said. "I 
thought my time had come, and Volrath was playing a 
little game with me." 

"Who are you?" 

"My name is Takara, daughter of Starke." 

He knew the name from Darsett en-Dal. Takara had 
been part of the early Dal resistance movement. Why was 
she still alive? 

Takara slumped against the door. "Has there been a 
revolution? Or are you the new chief warder?" 

"Neither. I'm escaping, if I can. If you would be free, 
come along." 

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Though limping himself, he gave his arm to the 
stranger. Takara didn't look like she'd been Greven's guest 
in the interrogation cell. Her skin was unmarked, but she 
was terribly thin and weak, probably starved for weeks. 

She looked down at his makeshift splint and battered 
hands. "You're not in any shape for this, are you?" 

"I'm not alone," he advised. "Some of my people are in 
the Citadel, but we have to find them." 

Takara lowered her head to his shoulder. "Oh well, this 
has broken the tedium ..." 

The alarm bell ceased. It had been part of the 
background so long, its sudden cessation seemed louder 
than the noise had been. In its place they heard footfalls 
echoing along the curving corridor. 

Takara lifted her head. "The world's shortest escape," 
she said, sighing. 

Eladamri held a finger to his lips. He pulled the iron 
splint from his tortured leg. Without the brace, he almost 
collapsed. Takara held him up, though her frail arms 
trembled from the effort. 

He nodded thanks. 

They huddled in the shallow recess of a shut cell door, 
waiting for the runners to appear. Eladamri caught a 
glimpse of Rathi boot and breastplate and swung his iron. It 
whistled by Kireno's nose, missing him by a hair. 

"Brother!" the Vec rebel cried. "It's us!" 

The momentum of the swing carried Eladamri to the 
floor. Takara couldn't disentangle herself and fell on top of 
him. The two were gently separated by Kireno and one of 
Teynel's many cousins, Shamus. 

They propped the elf against the wall. 

"Be easy, brother," Kireno said. He took the water 
bottle from his hip and gave it to Eladamri. He drank 

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Paul B.Thompson 

greedily until he saw Takara watching him with parted lips. 
He wiped the mouth of the bottle and offered it to her. 

Takara seized the bottle with both hands and raised it 
high. Water spurted from the corners of her mouth and ran 
down her chin, cutting white tracks in the gray grime on 
her face. 

Eladamri smiled. "What news of Teynel, Liin Sivi, and 
the rest?" 

"We fear Teynel and cousin Garnan are dead," Shamus 
put in. "We were trying to find the lower airship dock we'd 
heard about and got lost in some tunnels deep in the 
fortress. Teynel and Garnan went ahead to scout, but we 
were attacked!" 

"Greven? Crovax?" 

"Creatures, monsters!" Kireno said. "Poor Vellian put 
his hand in a nest of them. These two-legged ratballs 
devoured him ... we had to run, we had no weapons to fight 
them with. We were supposed to meet Liin Sivi and her 
men at the hall where we saw Greven and Crovax, but the 
bell started ringing and there were guards all over the 
place—" 

"—so we came to find you instead." Shamus finished 
Kireno's sentence for him. 

"What's it like in the Citadel?" asked Eladamri. 

"Chaos," Kireno replied. "They're bringing troops in 
from the city garrison, I heard them say. The whole place 
will be overrun with soldiers." 

"Sivi must have drawn their attention. Very well, we 
need to get out of sight for a while and wait for things to 
calm a bit before we try to get out," the elf said. 

"Where can we go?" said Shamus. 

"Greven's bound to return here to finish with me," said 
Eladamri. "I can't decide whether to ambush him here or 
clear out to fight another day." 

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"Begging your pardon, O Eladamri, but you're in no 
shape to fight," Kireno said. "Let's find a quiet corner to 
hide in, as you said." 

Takara interjected. "The map room," she said. "It's the 
next building over, before you get to the mogg warrens. It's 
for the evincar's use only, so no one goes there much." 

"You know your way around this maze?" 

She looped dirty copper hair behind her ears. "My 
father was Volrath's mentor and later his servant. I know 
something about the Stronghold." She handed the empty 
water bottle to Eladamri. 

"The map room it is," he said. 

He and Takara had to be helped to stand. They braced 
each other. 

Takara smiled wryly. "You never know what you'll find 
behind a closed door, do you?" 

* * * * * 

When the alarm went off, Belbe was in the control 
room of the flowstone factory making the third of her 
subversive adjustments to the output meter. As she 
suspected, the monitoring units built into the factory 
machinery had detected the reduced output by comparing 
current production figures to those of the past. All through 
the day the production of flowstone steadily increased. By 
the time she arrived late that night, the works were 
churning out flowstone at 90 percent of capacity. The 
speed at which the factory corrected itself troubled her. It 
meant she would have to be more vigilant in her sabotage 
if her goal of preventing the conjunction with Dominaria 
was to be met. 

When the alarm sounded, she covered all traces of her 
tampering and started back to the palace to find out what 

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was going on. She found the corridors clogged with guards. 
Though the palace garrison numbered over two thousand 
men, she found hundreds of troops of the regular army 
mustering on the factory concourse. She accosted a captain 
of the Tenth Company and asked him what he knew about 
the situation. 

"Forgive me, Excellency, I don't know much more than 
you do," the officer said. "I heard something about 
Predator—a riot between the moggs and the workers, 
maybe. I don't know." 

"Why would they need so many troops to quell a 
brawl?" 

"There's thousands of moggs in the warrens, Excellency. 
If they get out of hand, it would take the entire army to put 
them down." 

"Who's commanding this operation?" 

The captain frowned and pointed. Belbe followed his 
gesture and saw a sergeant standing on a flowbot armature, 
shouting orders. If the Corps of Sergeants was involved, it 
meant Crovax was in charge. 

Belbe was seized by a sense of foreboding. She smelled a 
plot. If Crovax had engineered an emergency in order to 
flood the Citadel with army troops, it gave him an 
unbeatable advantage in the struggle for power. True, she 
had offered him the evincar's crown, but that was just a 
ploy to save Ertai's life. She'd still held out hope that with 
Greven's help she could suppress Crovax and lead Rath in 
an entirely new direction. Now things looked very bad, if 
not hopeless. 

Once in the palace, she learned there had been a 
disturbance at the upper airship dock. She went there 
immediately and found the pinnacle heavily occupied. The 
docking platform was littered with slain guards, and the air 
was spiced with the smell of burnt gunpowder. Predator 

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floated evenly on its tether, but there was obvious damage 
to the deckhouse and main bridge. 

She easily picked out Greven and Crovax among the 
mass of troops. Greven bowed when he saw her. Crovax 
did not. 

She approached Greven. "What's the matter?" 

"Things are unclear at the moment, Excellency," he 
replied. "We're questioning the workers and moggs who 
were on board when this happened, but we're not getting a 
coherent story from any of them. The guards who 
responded to the first call for help are all dead, killed by 
that." He indicated the twelve-foot-long harpoon head, 
now imbedded in the far wall of the platform. "Someone 
fired the deck gun without closing the breech. The gun's 
mangled, and the harpoon cut down more than twenty 
men at once." 

"What do the workers say?" asked Belbe. 

"They say the moggs went berserk and attacked them." 

"And what do the moggs say?" 

"Moggs are moggs," Greven said. "I've learned not to 
put much stock in what they say." 

"Tell her," Crovax said. He seemed half-angry, half-
excited. "Tell her what they said." 

"It's not proven," Greven said evenly. 

Even this mild contradiction brought swift retaliation 
from 

Crovax. Greven's face contorted as his spinal rod sizzled 
into action. 

"Enough," Belbe said. "You tell me, Crovax." 

Crovax made his hulking victim suffer for a few 
seconds, then released him. "The moggs claim they were 
attacked by soldiers—men of the army." 

"Why would our own soldiers attack Predator?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax leaned closer, and in a mocking whisper said, 
"When is a rabbit not a rabbit?" 

"What?" 

"When it's a fox." 

Sergeant Nasser, on the foredeck of the airship, hailed 
his master. Crovax excused himself politely and went to see 
what Nasser had to tell him. 

Belbe turned to Greven. The warlord still had his eyes 
tightly shut. 

"Greven," she said. "Are you all right?" 

"He's learned to inflict lingering pain," Greven said 
through clenched teeth. "He's done this to me several 
times in the past few days. He punishes me, or amuses 
himself with my suffering. I think it's over, but he leaves 
me a surprise. Lately it's been acute pain when light hits 
my eyes." 

Belbe lowered her voice. "I'm sorry to hear that. Would 
you walk with me a moment? I have a proposal I want you 
to hear." 

"As you command, Excellency. First—" Greven's eyes 
sprang open. They were shot with blood, and when the 
normal light of the Stronghold hit them, he grimaced and 
uttered a short cry of agony. 

"Does it hurt so much?" 

"I'm getting used to it," Greven grunted. "However, if I 
don't gratify Lord Crovax's sense of humor by screaming, 
he will redouble the effect next time." 

Belbe shuddered. "Come. I have something important 
and secret to tell you." 

She led him into the shadow of the flowstone carapace, 
dismissing the guards who were already there. When they 
were alone, Belbe began. 

"The time has come for plain speaking. Crovax has 
been pressuring me to name him evincar. After many 

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threats and some violence, I've agreed to do so tomorrow 
afternoon in the convocation hall." 

"I've wondered why you've delayed this long," said 
Greven. She was taken aback. "At first, I wanted him to 
prove himself worthy. Later I became afraid of what he 
would do when total power was his. I saw what he did to 
the hostages. I was there. It troubled him no more than you 
or I swatting a fly. I discovered he gains power when life is 
extinguished—he absorbs the life-force of dying beings into 
himself. Don't you see? This guarantees people will 
continue to die!" "We will all die sometime, Excellency." 
Belbe's hands closed into fists. "What's the matter with 
you? Of all people, I expected you to understand. He 
torments you. He mocks you. It will only get worse, can't 
you see that? Have you no ambition for yourself, Greven? If 
we could forge an alliance against Crovax, we could change 
things on Rath." "Crovax is too powerful. He controls the 
flowstone." "Ertai has influence over the stone, too. Not as 
great as Crovax's but sufficient to even the odds if you and 
I attack him together!" 

Greven made a pretense of looking around. "Where is 
Ertai?" "I don't know. Crovax's men are holding him 
prisoner." "Then he's a dead man." 

"No!" she said forcefully. "Give me your word—promise 
you'll join with us against Crovax, and I'll find Ertai this 
night and free him!" 

"I cannot." Belbe was visibly deflated by Greven's flat 
rejection. "There is more at stake here than you know, 
Excellency. I cannot act as you ask. My loyalties are ... 
committed." 

"I don't believe it," she said. "I know you hate him. Can 
it be you're afraid of him as well?" 

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She thought this taunt, which always enraged Greven 
in the past, would arouse him again, but the hulking 
warlord turned away without a word. 

"I'm not free to act, Excellency," Greven said. "I never 
have been. Though I command armies and the flag on 
Predator's bridge is mine, I do not have command of myself. 
I'm sorry." 

Speechless, Belbe watched him return to the hubbub 
surrounding the damaged airship. On the way, he was 
intercepted by an officer of the palace guard in a crimson 
mantle. Though Greven outranked anyone else in the 
guards or regular army, she distinctly saw him salute this 
minor officer. 

Crovax really has him rattled, she decided. Her options 
were shrinking hour by hour. Ertai captive, Greven 
immobilized, even the rebel leader Eladamri was no longer 
a threat. Crovax stood alone on the field, waiting for Belbe 
to place a crown upon his head. 

She must find Ertai. Once she knew he was safe, she 
would go to her last resource. If he didn't help her, then 
every living being on Rath was doomed. 

* * * * * 

Kireno and Shamus, still attired like soldiers of the 
Fourth Company, boldly walked out on the open causeway 
connecting the prison to the map tower. Two sentries were 
posted on the bridge between the buildings, one on each 
side, facing each other. Kireno and Shamus approached in 
measured step. 

"Halt!" the Vec rebel shouted, hoping to sound 
military. 

"What's this?" asked the sentry on the right, nearest 
Kireno. 

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"We're your relief." 

The rebels waited tensely. The guards relaxed their 
stance. 

"About bloody time," one guard groused. "We should've 
been relieved two hours ago!" 

"There's trouble in the Citadel," Shamus said. "That's 
why they sent for the Fourth Company." 

"Oh yeah? You guys talk a lot, but what makes you so 
great?" 

"We captured Eladamri," Kireno said. 

The sentries couldn't top that, and they didn't try. 
They shouldered their polearms and prepared to march 
back to the Citadel. 

Then one of the guards stopped. "Hey, how do you plan 
to stand guard without any weapons?" 

Shamus and Kireno exchanged quick glances. "Uh, they 
wouldn't let us through the palace armed," said the Dal 
rebel. 

"What? In a general alarm?" 

Kireno dodged the sweep of a poleax and charged in 
before the guard could recover. He hit the man high, 
carrying him along until the reached the edge of the bridge. 
The Vec gave an extra shove, and the guard toppled 
backward over the rail. His scream faded as he fell, and it 
was soon drowned out by the constant background rumble 
of the factory energy beam. 

Shamus had more trouble with his man. He avoided the 
guard's spearhead, but the back swipe of the shaft caught 
him behind the knees, and down he went. That would 
have been the end of him if Kireno hadn't jumped on the 
guard's back, knocking the Rathi soldier's helmet off in the 
process. They fell in a tangle on top of Shamus and rolled 
over and over in a flurry of fists and kicking feet. 

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Eladamri and Takara came out of hiding at the prison 
tower gate. By the time they reached the scuffle, the 
unfortunate guard was hanging by his hands over the side 
of the bridge. Shamus was out cold, and Kireno was 
bleeding from a busted lip. "Help! Help me!" yelled the 
guard. 

Eladamri and Takara stood over him. The Rathi soldier 
stopped shouting. 

"Please help me," he said. 

The elf held out his hands. "Thanks to Greven il-Vec, 
there's not much I can do," he said. "Lady, please help!" 

Takara looked around. She spotted the guard's poleax. 
In her weakened condition, she couldn't fully pick it up, so 
she dragged it by the butt end to the edge of the causeway. 

"That's it," said the guard. "Hand me the shaft, and I'll 
climb up." 

Takara said nothing, but held the poleax shaft over the 
guard's head. He regarded her quizzically until she let go. 
The stout shaft connected solidly with the soldier's bare 
head, and he disappeared with a screech. The poleax tipped 
up and followed him into oblivion. 

"A waste of a good arm," Kireno said. He knelt by 
Shamus and patted his face roughly to revive him. 

Eladamri leaned on the rail, looking intently at Takara. 
"That was cold." 

"I learned from an early age, if someone gets in your 
way, put them aside," said Takara. 

They cleaned up the bridge of all traces of trouble and 
hurried to the map tower. The door was locked, but Takara 
claimed she knew how to circumvent the mechanism. She 
fearlessly thrust her hand into the flowbot jaws and 
manipulated the lock inside. Eladamri and the rebels 
waited to see if the jaws would bite off her slender arm. 

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"My father taught me this," she said. "Good for 
sneaking in where you're not allowed ... I hope Volrath 
hasn't changed the locks since he threw me in prison." 

With a loud clank, the doors spread apart. Takara 
carefully withdrew her arm from the lock. 

"After you," said Eladamri. 

The interior of the map tower was suffused with 
wavering green light, which fostered the odd sensation of 
being underwater. It came from the tower cone, glazed 
entirely with heavy, irregular panes of jade-green glass. The 
upper half of the map tower was taken up by some kind of 
complex machinery, all gears and cams and glowing 
powerstones. Takara led Eladamri and the rebels into an 
amphitheater, which filled the bottom quarter of the 
structure. This single room was over three hundred feet 
wide and featured two concentric seating platforms, 
focused on a central column of intricate design. A set of 
wide steps descended to this column, and overhead, a 
segmented gantry curled above the central pillar like the 
tail of a huge metallic scorpion. As they entered the vast, 
empty chamber, their footsteps rang hollowly off the green 
glass walls. 

"Welcome to the Map Room," Takara said. Her voice 
was still weak from privation, yet the acoustics of the map 
room enabled her voice to be heard easily. 

"I don't see any maps," said Shamus, still groggy from 
his fight on the bridge. 

"I'll show you." 

She descended a staircase to the inner ring of seats. At 
the foot of the steps was a panel, covered with strange 
glyphs and symbols. Takara stood before this arcane altar, 
hands poised. Then, as if playing a musical instrument, her 
fingers flew over the controls, touching the symbols in a 
complex sequence. 

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With a deep hum, the enormous machine awoke. The 
broad descending column, covered with brazen cog wheels 
and bundles of tubing, retracted ponderously into the 
ceiling. It left behind a thick stump, serrated with large 
angular flaps. These flaps folded outward and stopped. 
When the column was about thirty feet up, it locked in 
place. 

"Now what?" Eladamri asked in a hushed voice. "Here." 
She stroked a single glyph. 

The air between the column and the serrated base 
shimmered. A swirl of gray and green fog formed, whirling 
on both axes. It darkened, became opaque, and assumed 
the shape of an oval spinning globe. More definition 
developed, and the rapid rotation slowed. In seconds, the 
globe settled into a mottled gray egg, turning slowly on its 
vertical axis. "Rath," Takara said. 

Eladamri looked on, fascinated. "This is Rath?" Takara 
nodded. "For years I've heard philosophers debate priests 
about the shape of the world. Most of the holy ones taught 
the world is flat, surrounded by a void, like a stone lying in 
a stream. Some philosophers claimed it was round, like an 
egg." "Which did you believe?" 

"I always considered it unimportant. Since no one can 
see the whole world at once, what difference does it make 
what shape it is?" 

"It's with knowledge like this that the evincar can 
locate and strike his enemies." 

"Show me the Skyshroud Forest," he said. Takara toyed 
with the controls, and the gray globe was instantly replaced 
by a flattened half-sphere. Centered in the portion facing 
Eladamri was a broad, irregular patch of dark green. 

"This is Skyshroud as seen from a height of 100,000 
feet," she said. Punching a button made the green patch 
treble in size. "From 20,000 feet." Takara touched the panel 

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once more, and the image swelled to cover the entire 
hemisphere. 

"From 10,000 feet," she said. "This is how it looks from 
Predator." 

Eladamri looked for the Eye of Korai, his village, and 
other features he knew. None were discernible. There was 
texture to the image, made up of taller and shorter trees, 
but the canopy was as featureless as the sea. 

"Now I know why Volrath and Greven have had such 
trouble catching us," the elf said. "Even with this great 
artifact, the Skyshroud is still our shield and sanctuary." 

Intrigued by the maps, Kireno and Shamus came down 
and joined them. For several minutes, the rebels were lost 
in the bird's eye view of Rath. 

"Here's something none of you have ever seen." Takara 
played the panel expertly, and the hemispherical view of 
Rath was replaced by a brilliantly colored globe. 

Compared to Rath, which was made up of shades of 
gray, green, and brown, this world was a blinding array of 
colors— bright blue oceans, yellow and red deserts, smoky 
purple mountains. Feathery clouds filled the atmosphere, 
softening the contrasts between the sharper colors. The 
whole thing was like a jewel, a bauble fit for an empress's 
brow. 

Something about the colorful world moved Eladamri 
deeply. "What is that, Takara?" 

"Dominaria." 

He knew the name. Weatherlight had come from there, 
with its motley crew of heroes—and so had Crovax. 
Dominaria. The name tripped from his tongue as pleasingly 
as the rainbow sphere delighted his eye. 

"Tell me about Dominaria," he said. 

"It's the original home of our kind, yours and mine," 
Takara replied. "The ancestors of every soul on Rath came 

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from there. Some ancient sages say even the overlords 
came from there, long ago. There's a prophecy that says the 
demon world will one day tear apart the clouds and rain 
destruction on the Bright World. I think the seers knew 
what we're only beginning to realize—the purpose of Rath 
is to destroy Dominaria." 

"How can that be? They're separate worlds. I know 
people and machines fly between them, but how can Rath 
destroy another world?" 

Weary, Takara braced herself against the control panel. 
"I was never educated about such high things. What I can 
tell you is, Rath is a shadow, created by the overlords of 
Phyrexia as a gateway to Dominaria. Just as sleeping 
mortals serve as bridges to the terrors of the night, so is 
Rath the nightmare bridge to Dominaria. For hundreds of 
years, Rath has been growing, coming closer to the old 
home world. The Stronghold is the key point, the focus of 
the overlords' grand design. This dark fortress is where 
nightmares are made flesh, the sword-point against 
Dominaria's throat." 

"Gods preserve us!" Shamus muttered. 

"You said your father served Volrath—where is he 
now?" the elf asked. 

"Gone. Away." She shuffled backward from the panel. 
"I don't know where." 

"Why didn't Volrath kill you? Does he know of your 
work with the rebellion?" 

She laughed dryly. "Volrath cared nothing about my 
work with the Dal resistance. He locked me up to make 
certain my father wouldn't betray him—" 

Takara's eyes rolled back in her head. Kireno sprang to 
her side and caught her in his arms. Without her hands on 
the controls, the map apparatus shut down. The double 

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sphere of Rath-Dominaria rapidly lost color and definition, 
finally winking out like a vanishing soap bubble. 

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CHAPTER 18 


CORONATION 

Ertai had to give Crovax credit. The man was a 
remorseless killer, but he did have a certain amount of 
cold-blooded style. Ertai was feeling generous as he waited 
to die. 

He was imbedded up to his neck in a cube of flowstone 
eight feet wide. At the rear of the cube a thin pipe 
stretched back to one of the main flowstone conduits. 
Little by little, the cube was growing larger, and therein lay 
Crovax's wicked genius: the cube was balanced atop the 
flowstone furnace. An endless blue torrent of energy 
plunged into the crucible, meeting the raw lava rock 
brought up from below the Citadel. When Crovax and his 
minions placed him here, Ertai had been at least twelve 
inches from the edge of the furnace cone. In the past four 
hours the cube had grown at least eight inches per side. In 
another six or seven hours the cube would be so large the 
narrow ledge could not support it. He would topple forward 
into the works and be disintegrated by the furious energy 
beam. 

It took Crovax only minutes to create the cube. He 
mentally programmed the nanomachines to retain their 
shape as the cube grew, and thoughtfully provided Ertai 
with a cavity in the cube sized exactly to his body. Once 
the sergeants shifted the cube in place atop the crucible, 
Crovax stood back and watched for several minutes. 

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The flowstone also absorbed radiant heat from the 
energy beam and got hotter all the time. 

"Isn't this all a bit too elaborate?" Ertai said. 

"Would you tell an artist his painting was too 
elaborate?" replied Crovax. 

"If need be." 

"You have no sensitivity, Boy. The beauty of this 
arrangement is its slowness. You have half a day to 
contemplate your end. I hope you use it wisely." 

"Why kill me at all? I'm no threat to you. I can't even 
get out of this cube, much less challenge your command of 
Rath." 

"You really do miss the point. You've been an 
annoyance to me and therefore deserve to die. Also, 
because of your close ties to the emissary, killing you should 
be very painful for her." 

Ertai called Crovax all the dirty names he had in his 
considerable vocabulary. Crovax responded by tightening 
the flowstone around Ertai's throat until his tongue 
protruded and his face turned blue. Then, just as suddenly, 
he relented. 

"I'd love to stay and play, but I'm being crowned today," 
he said. "Duty before pleasure, as they say." 

He descended the steps to where his private guard was 
waiting and never looked back. 

Ertai tried to influence the flowstone enough to allow 
him to escape. He expanded the space around his body 
slightly, at the expense of enlarging the cube prematurely. 
It was like wrestling inside a block of cheese. When he 
concentrated, the stone closest to him softened, but he 
couldn't influence the outer bulk of the cube. The effort 
left him gasping, and the growing heat wrung sweat from 
his every pore. 

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What a fool he was to agree to this sham. He was a 
wizard, not a politician or a warlord. All his grandiose plans 
to escape or become evincar of Rath were the 
consequences of overweening pride. Now he was paying 
the price of his folly. 

His eyes started to swell shut. He guessed this was from 
being so close to the blazing energy beam. Such promise, 
such talent he had. All wasted on this ugly, colorless world, 
ruled by ugly, colorless people. Was this the ultimate fate of 
Dominaria, should the Phyrexian invasion succeed? If so, 
he was glad he would not be alive to see it. 

There was Belbe. Why did he care about her? He tried 
to tell himself he'd seduced her, that his motives were only 
self-serving. Looking back on it, those hours he spent with 
her were not just the best ones he'd had on Rath but maybe 
the best he'd known in his entire short life. He didn't 
seduce her—he was the one seduced. For the first time 
Ertai found a woman who didn't ignore him or reject him 
for his thundering arrogance. 

The hole at his neck was just large enough for Ertai to 
poke a few fingers out. Despite his best efforts, he found he 
couldn't enlarge the hole. Conjuration was always more 
sure when the sorcerer could use his hands to gesture, but 
in this situation he'd have to do without. 

Once before he'd searched for Belbe with a magical 
ferret. Now he summoned up a similar creation, this time a 
retriever. It was hard evoking anything to appear in the 
glare of the energy beam, but he managed to create his 
retriever in the air above his head. It resembled a ghostly 
ball studded with spikes, like a translucent sea urchin. 

"Bring Belbe here," was all he told it. The retriever 
spun away. Ertai couldn't tell if it survived passing so close 
to the beam, but it was his last and only chance. 

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* * * * * 


It took a long time for Sivi and Medd to work their way 
down from the airship dock. They were helped by the flood 
of soldiers entering the palace. They were able to mix with 
the new men and gradually put some distance between 
themselves and Predator. By the time the alarm was 
quelled, the two rebels were within sight of the 
convocation hall doors. 

The antechamber was curiously devoid of troops. As 
Sivi and Medd entered from the central corridor, they 
paused to survey the room—nothing. No courtiers, no 
soldiers, no palace guards. 

"When we get out of here, you know what I'm going to 
do?" Medd said as they proceeded. 

"What?" 

"I'm going to drink myself into a stupor the likes of 
which has not been seen before." 

Sivi smiled. "Sounds like a good idea. What's your 
drink?" 

"Black Eye." This was a Dal drink made from fermented 
lichen. 

"Never had any," she said. "Why do they call it 'Black 
Eye?'" 

"Oh, it has something to do with the effect. You drink 
enough, you fall down and wake up the next morning with 
a black eye." 

"That's an old man's tale." 

Sivi and Medd whirled. Out of a shadowed alcove in 
the rear wall came Teynel and Garnan. 

"Cousin!" Medd burst out, but Teynel's somber face 
stilled any further display of joy by the young Dal rebel. 

"What have you been doing, Liin Sivi?" said Teynel 
coldly. 

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"My duty," she replied. 

"You attacked the airship, didn't you?" 

She folded her arms. "Isn't that why we came?" 

"Did you destroy Predator?" 

Sivi chewed her lip. "No." 

"Where's the rest of your group?" 

"Dead. Where are yours?" 

Teynel flipped the mantle back from his shoulders. 
"Lost or slain, I don't know. By now there must be four 
companies guarding the airship. We'll never get through to 
it. All we can do now is find Eladamri and get out of here." 

She said nothing. Garnan and Medd walked ahead a 
few paces while Teynel fell into step beside the Vec 
woman. 

"You disobeyed my orders," he said in a voice for her 
ears only. 

"I had an opportunity and chose to take it." 

"And failed." Their boots clacked loudly on the faux 
marble. "If Eladamri is dead, I'll see you die as well." 

She raised a single eyebrow. "I'll make my case to any 
council or court you can raise." 

"I'm not talking about a trial," Teynel explained. "I 
mean just this—if Eladamri is dead, I'll kill you." 

Sivi nodded. "You can try." 

Thirty yards outside the prison tower they ran into their 
first checkpoint. A mix of palace guards and regular 
soldiers had blocked off the passage with a wall of spears 
and shields. Teynel stepped in front of Garnan and Medd. 
Piled against the wall were three dead moggs. Their sword 
wounds were still oozing blood. 

"Halt," said the guardsman at the shield line. "Stand 
and be recognized!" 

Teynel saluted. "Corporal Elcaxi of the Fourth 
Company. This is my squad. We're supposed to patrol out 

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to the prison and back." He rolled his eyes. "Trouble is, 
nobody's told us what we're patrolling for." 

"Don't I know it," said another guard. "The alarm 
sounds, we turn out, and what happens? Nothing." 

Sivi pointed to the dead moggs. "What's that?" 

"Bunch of moggs. Tried to force their way through 
here." The first guardsman grinned. "They didn't make it." 
The guards pulled two sets of propped-up shields aside and 
let the rebels pass. 

"These fellows aren't very smart," Garnan observed. 

"Don't underestimate them," said Teynel. "There's 
thousands of troops in the Stronghold, so no one can know 
them all. This little charade of ours can't succeed much 
longer. As soon as somebody recognizes you two from 
Predator, or figures out there is no Corporal Elcaxi, we'll be 
in the soup." 

They passed through another roadblock before reaching 
the bridge to the prison tower. The bridge itself was empty. 
Teynel had the others follow him single file to hide their 
numbers from any oncoming foe. They entered the lower 
doors of the prison without encountering anyone. 

"This is too easy," Sivi said. "Someone should be on 
guard here." 

"It smells bad, I agree." Teynel looked both ways down 
the curving passage. "I wonder where they're keeping 
Eladamri?" 

"Should we split up and search?" asked Medd. 

"Not this time. Stick with me. We may be in for a 
fight." 

Teynel chose to go right. They moved slowly down the 
hall, checking the doors they passed for noises. Except for 
some soft shuffling and scraping sounds, they heard 
nothing. 

"I guess prisoners don't last long here," said Sivi. 

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The farther they went, the darker the hall became. 
Flowstone lamps provided anemic, orange light. Sivi sniffed 
at them, recalling her failure to ignite Predator with such a 
lamp. Teynel tried to adjust one for more light. Instead of 
getting brighter, it went out. 

"Let's get out of here," Garnan said suddenly. 

"We can't abandon Eladamri," said Teynel. 

"You're getting spooked," Medd suggested. "So a light 
burns out. So what? There's no real danger yet. Let's go 
on." 

Teynel and Sivi were going on regardless. An open door 
partly blocked the passage in front of them. Teynel waved 
for everyone to stop. A low, steady light shone from the 
open door. With hand signals he indicated he wanted 
Garnan and Medd to stay in the corridor. He and Sivi 
would investigate the room. 

Teynel peered around the heavy door. The cell was set 
up as a torture chamber—manacles on the wall, pans of hot 
coals, and all kinds of hideous tools were laid out on a table 
in the center of the room. A stout chair sat with its back to 
the open door. Someone was in the chair. 

Teynel drew his sword. He slipped in, and Sivi ghosted 
in behind him, toten-vec in her hand. He carefully circled 
to the left around the chair while Sivi circled right. More 
and more of the sitter's face came into view. 

"Eladamri!" 

Teynel rushed to the chair. The elf was tied hand and 
foot to the massive chair. His head hung down. Teynel put 
a hand to his chest and felt a strong heartbeat. 

"He lives!" he announced joyfully. Sivi knelt and began 
cutting the bonds on his legs with the blade of her totenvec. 
Teynel used his sword to free Eladamri's hands. 

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"Water," Teynel said. Sivi brought the clay pitcher 
from the table. Teynel gently splashed some on the elf's 
face. Eladamri stirred. 

"You came," he said weakly. 

"I'm sorry, brother. There's been trouble," Teynel said. 

"The airship?" 

"I tried to destroy it, O Eladamri," Sivi said. "I failed." 

Teynel poured water into the elf's cupped hands. 
Eladamri drank. "Can you stand?" Teynel asked. "We 
should get out of here as soon as possible." 

"Give me a moment." 

Sivi leaned her hip on the table. When she did, 
something cracked under her feet. Flecks of broken pottery 
... she picked one up. The shard was yellow boneware with 
a red glaze on it, just like the water pitcher Teynel held. 
Someone must have broken an identical jug. 

There were sounds of movement in the hall, the scrape 
of metal on stone. 

Medd cried out, "Soldiers coming! Teynel, hurry!" 

In a flash Sivi was at the door. She looked past the two 
Dal fighters and saw at least fifteen palace guards coming 
down the passage. 

"Time to go!" 

"Time indeed." Eladamri rose swiftly from the chair, 
without a trace of pain or injury. Teynel, still kneeling 
beside the chair, stared in amazement. 

"I was beginning to think they'd never get here," the elf 
said. 

"What are you talking about, brother?" said Teynel. 

"Your doom, rebel fool." 

Teynel stood up, sword in hand. He'd spent many days 
with Eladamri, and they'd always been of similar height— 
Teynel was about a hair taller, in fact. The Eladamri with 
him now was more than six inches taller. Even as he gazed 

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in horror at the familiar face, the bruises and burns were 

fading from view. 

"By the gods," he said. "It can't be!" 

"What is it?" Sivi said. To her horror, she saw Teynel 
raise his sword to strike Eladamri. The surprisingly strong 
elf caught Teynel's wrist, and with a brutal motion he 
broke the Dal fighter's arm. Teynel's sword fell to the floor. 

Already the two rebels in the corridor were hotly 
engaged with Citadel guards. The too narrow hall didn't 
allow the Rathi troops to exploit their superior numbers, 
giving the rebels a small chance. 

The impostor Eladamri, still holding Teynel by the arm, 
stooped to retrieve the rebel's sword. He examined the hilt 
briefly, nodded, then with his left hand thrust the blade 
through Teynel's chest. The Dal rebel gasped. 

"Bastard!" Sivi yelled. She flung the toten-vec at the 
impostor. He tried to dodge, but he was hampered by the 
dying Teynel. The iron blade caught him on the side of the 
neck. He snarled with rage and hurled Teynel's lifeless 
body at the Vec warrior woman. Tearing the blade from his 
neck, the impostor seemed to swell even larger, distorting 
his false elven features grotesquely. 

Sivi recovered the toten-vec and lunged for the door. 

Medd and Garnan were holding off the guards, who 
seemed strangely reluctant to press their attack. Sivi stood 
back to back with Medd, watching the door of the 
interrogation cell. She expected the misshapen Eladamri to 
emerge, but instead, Greven il-Vec stepped into the hall. 
She knew it was the same man by the neck wound she'd 
given him. 

"Dread Lord," called the captain of the guards. "Are you 
all right?" 

"Quite all right. Watch out for the pretty one. Her little 
toy can sting." 

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"What's happening back there?" Garnan said, 
desperately parrying concerted sword thrusts. 

"Never mind! Keep your eyes front and fight!" Sivi 
cried. 

The Greven impostor did not attack either. He backed 
away, always keeping his eyes on Sivi. At the first door 
beyond the open cell, he stopped and put a key in the 
flowbot lock. Greven stepped farther back, opening the 
door as he went. 

"I'd love to remain and watch the fight, but I have an 
appointment with Lord Crovax," he said. "In my place I 
leave you a gellerac." 

From the black cell door a single red tentacle writhed 
out, seeking something to grab. It found its liberator's leg 
and tried to coil around it, but Greven brought his heel 
down sharply on the leathery appendage. It retracted a foot 
or two and changed direction. Two more tentacles 
appeared, followed by a fat, wallowing torso covered in the 
same dark red leathery hide. 

"Friends," said Sivi. "We're in trouble." 

The rebels and the guards stopped fighting to gaze at 
the monster. More and more of the gellerac oozed out the 
door. A bulbous upper appendage reached the light. The 
top was covered with a mass of white miniature tentacles 
that wriggled and flexed in faster imitation of the lower 
tentacles. Midway between the thing's neck and animate 
"hair" was what might be a mouth—an obscene star-shaped 
orifice rimmed with oily gray skin and drooling pink saliva. 
The palace guards muttered among themselves and fell 
back. 

"You have only to keep the rebels from escaping," 
Greven told his troops. "Otherwise you can leave them to 
the gellerac." 

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The beast filled the width of the passage, and there was 
no sign it had fully emerged from its cell. The tentacles 
gripped the door of the interrogation room, pushing it shut. 
Liin Sivi wondered if the monster would simply crush them 
with its disgusting, ponderous bulk. As if in answer, the vile 
mouth erupted outward, inverting the wet skin to reveal 
row upon row of conical teeth. 

She lashed at the creature four times in quick 
succession. The blade of her weapon scored deep gashes in 
the monster's blubbery flesh, but it hardly seemed to 
notice. A blood-red limb as thick as her arm wrapped 
around her ankle and jerked her to the floor. The gellerac, 
moving with astonishing speed, hurled its toothy lips at 
her. 

Medd stepped in and drove his sword through the 
creature's mouth. Blackish blood poured from the wound, 
and the gellerac vibrated with pain. It heaved Medd off his 
feet and threw him against the wall. The respite gave Sivi 
time to slash the tentacle gripping her leg. It loosened, and 
she scrambled out of reach with help from Garnan. 

The Rathi troops had withdrawn more than six yards. 

Sivi got to her feet. "I don't think this monster knows 
friend from foe—let's see if it likes fighting them as well as 
us!" 

They retreated to the point where the guards had 
stopped. 

Sivi called out, "O Captain! Hear me!" 

"What do you want, Rebel?" 

"That beast has no eyes—I wonder if your men taste as 
good to it as mine do?" 

"What's your point?" 

"I'm just wondering what happens after we're dead? 
How're you going to stop it?" 

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More mutterings from the Rathi soldiers, made all the 
more urgent as the gellerac rolled rapidly down the passage 
after them. Sivi and comrades ran right at the guards, who 
lowered their sword points. The gellerac hit the line of 
guards and caught two in its tentacles. They yelled and 
hacked at the creature with their swords. Some of their 
comrades joined in. A few at the rear turned and fled. 

"This is no warrior's fight," Sivi said. "Your master cares 
nothing about your lives!" 

The Rathi captain watched, a loathsome look on his 
face. One of his men vanished underneath the gellerac, his 
screams muffled by flabby flesh. 

"Fall back!" shouted the captain. "Fall back to the 
bridge!" 

The Stronghold troops broke and ran. The captain tried 
to corral the rebels, but Sivi warned him off with lightning 
cracks of the toten-vec. The gellerac had slowed its 
advance while digesting its first catch. 

Sivi, Medd, and Garnan backed down the left hand 
passage. 

"You can't escape," the Rathi captain said. "Surrender 
to me, and I'll protect you from the monster!" 

"You'd better worry about your own hide, O Captain," 
Sivi said. "We'll take our chances elsewhere!" She slapped 
Medd on the back and they ran down the open passage. 

Halfway around the tower, they waited and listened. 
The heavy sliding noise of the gellerac wasn't evident. 

"Liin, what happened to Teynel?" Garnan asked. In few 
words, she described the bizarre trap they'd fallen into, and 
Teynel's death. Garnan covered his face and wept quietly. 

Medd looked to Sivi. "When did Greven il-Vec become 
a shapeshifter?" 

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"Why ask me? Anything seems possible in this mad 
fortress!" Soft scraping sounds filtered down the dim 
corridor. "Time to move on." 

They arrived at the opposite side of the tower and 
noticed another gate. It was standing open, so they 
reconnoitered carefully before going through. There was no 
sign of Greven or anyone else. 

Medd examined the gate. "This lock's been forced." 

"Why would the Rathi force their own lock?" said 
Garnan. 

Sivi narrowed her eyes. "They wouldn't. Come." 

They burst onto the bridge. Two Rathi soldiers stood 
guard halfway along to the next tower. When Sivi, 
Garnan, and Medd appeared, the sentries drew swords and 
blocked the path. 

"Wait," muttered Sivi under her breath. "We're still 
friendly soldiers until somebody tells them otherwise." 

They approached slowly. The sentries had the visors 
down on their helmets. 

At a distance of six paces, one of them shouted, "Halt!" 

Sivi saluted sloppily. "Greetings." 

"What's the watchword?" said the sentry. 

"Eh?" 

The sentry flung out his arm, pointing his sword at Sivi. 
"What is the watchword?" 

Sivi glanced helplessly at Medd and Garnan. They 
dropped their hands to their sword hilts. 

"Tell this stupid soldier the watchword!" the sentry 
barked. 

The second sentry replied, "Tant Jova!" 

Tant Jova? "Who are you?" Sivi demanded. Up went 
the visors. "Kireno! Shamus!" 

There was much back slapping as the rebels were 
reunited at last. Sivi cut short the celebration, 

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"Teynel and the rest are dead, and our presence is 
known." 

"We heard the alarm," Shamus said. 

"We came to find Eladamri, but we didn't." 

"He's with us," Kireno said. "He got himself out, and 
rescued another prisoner from the cells. They're hiding in 
the map room, yonder." 

"Take me there," Sivi said. "I have much to tell him." 

* * * * * 

The hall filled with dignitaries, court functionaries, and 
idlers. The array of banners was still in place, but so great 
was the demand for space, the flags were pushed back to 
the walls by the steadily growing crowd. 

Belbe stood on the dais beside the empty throne, 
watching people arrive. Still in her Phyrexian armor, she 
fixed the rococo emblem of the Hidden One in the plume 
holder of her helmet. She'd been unable to find Ertai all 
morning, and a cold clutch of fear gripped her inside. She 
could think of nothing else to do but hide the plasma 
discharger behind the vacant throne. A fresh powerstone 
glowed within it. 

It was an hour past midday. The incoming crowd 
thinned. From beyond the open doors came the tramp of 
men marching in parade step. Onlookers scampered out of 
the way as a column of men in bright steel armor and white 
mantles, four abreast, marched straight into the 
convocation hall. It was the Corps of 

Sergeants, two hundred strong. In accordance with 
tradition, their scabbards were empty, but Belbe knew the 
two hundred toughest men in the army of Rath didn't need 
swords to intimidate their opposition. 

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The leading sergeants, led by Nasser, halted the column 
at the foot of the throne. No orders were shouted, but the 
outer two files of men made quarter turns to the right and 
left respectively. The assembly shrank from the line of 
sergeants, who thus formed a glittering lane through the 
crowd. 

Nasser bowed to Belbe. "Excellency, my lord Crovax is 
coming," he said. Belbe did not reply. She nudged the 
Phyrexian weapon with her toe and felt its reassuring 
weight. 

A tall figure came walking across the antechamber. 
Belbe's pulse throbbed hard until she recognized the broad 
shoulders and towering height of Greven il-Vec. He bowed 
to her from the doorway, then tried to find a way outside 
the human aisle. In the end, he pushed his way through the 
crowd and took a place at the wall, on Belbe's right. 

Someone else approached, a smaller person this time— 
too small to be Crovax. Belbe made out his face at a long 
distance. It was the Kor, Furah, garbed in gray leather. He 
moved with sinuous grace between the stern, unmoving 
sergeants. He took his place beside Greven and never took 
his eyes off the young emissary. 

The timepiece behind Belbe silently flickered through 
some abstruse Phyrexian equation, then displayed Rathi 
time: one hour, one minute past midday. 

She saw him a hundred yards away, striding confidently 
down the central corridor toward the antechamber. He was 
wearing his white ensemble again, the one Belbe would 
forever associate with the hostage massacre. Her 
recognition must have shown on her face, for the entire 
hall fell hushed long before Crovax reached the outer 
chamber. 

His footsteps were loud against the hard walls. Belbe 
licked her lips and tried to swallow. 

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When Crovax reached the top of the steps, Nasser 
raised his right foot and stamped down hard. 

Steel and stone rang together as he cried, "Lord 
Crovax!" 

"Crovax!" shouted the sergeants. 

With the skill of an actor, Crovax waited at the door 
until his men stopped cheering. Then, in utter silence, he 
ascended the aisle, his gold-trimmed mantle rippling with 
the wind of his passage. Greven switched his gaze to 
Crovax, but Belbe noticed Furah was still watching her. 
Crovax halted at the foot of the throne. 

"Your Excellency sent for me?" 

She nodded, slowly. Crovax turned and faced the hall. 

"People of Rath," she began. "I, the emissary of the 
overlords, the Lens of Abcal-dro, the chosen representative 
of the Hidden One, greet you." 

"All power to the Hidden One!" Crovax exclaimed. 

"All power to the Hidden One," answered the crowd. 

"Since arriving here, it has been my mission to find a 
new governor of Rath. I was charged by our masters to put 
the crown on the head of the strongest candidate, to insure 
the rule of Rath was given to the most powerful, most 
intelligent, and most loyal servant of the Hidden One." 

Belbe lowered her hand behind the throne, feeling for 
the tip of the plasma discharger. She found the smooth 
prongs, but before she could finish her ritual declaration or 
pick up the weapon, a small disturbance broke out at the 
rear of the hall. 

She stepped away from the throne. A small, bright 
object, about the size of an apple, flew into the room. 
People at the back shrank from it or swiped at it with their 
hats. In neither case did anyone touch it. 

Crovax was livid. Without moving, he tried to snare 
the flying object with flowstone pincers called up from the 

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floor or nearby columns. The spiny sphere easily dodged 
the clumsy claws, and the only ones caught by them were 
unfortunate courtiers near the center of the crowd. 

The object danced down the aisle. The sergeants 
watched it, but they were unsure whether to break ranks 
and seize it or not. The ball flew past Crovax's head and 
hovered in front of Belbe. 

"A friend of yours?" asked Crovax icily. 

She held out her hand, charmed by the playful sphere. 
It ran its soft spikes gently over her palm, and she was 
seized with a desire to have this object and keep it with her 
always. 

It darted away, and Belbe ran after it. The crowd 
dissolved in frantic gossip. Crovax grabbed Belbe's arm as 
she passed. 

"Where do you think you're going?" 

"I must have it..." 

"What about the ceremony?" 

"I'll come back—I will—as soon as I catch this thing." 

He shook her, none too gently, saying, "You can't leave 
until you discharge your duty! Say the words, you stupid 
little—" 

Greven interrupted. "She cannot say anything now, my 
lord. She's under a magical compulsion." 

"What! Who dares—?" He must have answered his own 
question, and he shut his mouth. Releasing Belbe, he spoke 
in Nasser's ear. Crovax went to the steps leading up to the 
throne and sat down, casually crossing his legs. 

Nasser shouted for quiet. "People of Rath!" he said. 
"There will be a minor delay in the ceremony. Lord Crovax 
has asked that no one leave the hall until the emissary 
returns." 

To make sure of it, the sergeants locked arms to keep 
people away from the doors. Belbe ran out, chasing the 

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glowing ball. Nasser spoke hastily to the seated Crovax, 
then hurried after her. 

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CHAPTER 19 


SURVIVAL 

The cavernous Map Room was the scene of a somber 
reunion. Sivi broke the melancholy news to Eladamri that 
they had failed to destroy Predator, and half their force, 
including Teynel, was lost. This was countered by 
Eladamri's survival and the addition of Takara to their 
group. 

They shared their simple rations with Takara. She 
recovered her strength rapidly after eating and drinking, 
and willingly lent her knowledge of the Stronghold and its 
workings to the rebels' cause. Medd, who knew something 
of the healing arts, tended Eladamri's injuries. The rebel 
leader's left arm was broken at the wrist, so Medd made 
splints from seats in the Map Room, bound Eladamri's arm 
with them, and fitted him with a sling. His knee, though 
badly bruised, did not seem broken. 

Sivi described Teynel's death to Eladamri. "The man in 
the torture chamber looked exactly like you, O Eladamri," 
she said. "It was only when he began to change that we 
suspected the truth." 

"You say he turned into Greven?" asked Takara 
thoughtfully. 

"Yes. I saw Greven il-Vec when we first arrived, and it 
was definitely him." 

Eladamri studied Takara closely. "What does it mean? Is 
Greven a shapeshifter?" 

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"Not unless he's acquired the gift since I've been 
imprisoned." 

"Then who killed Teynel?" 

Takara traced a line on her face with a single finger, 
down her nose, across her lip to her chin. "There is a 
possibility ..." 

"Never mind that!" Garnan said. "We must get out of 
here!" 

"Agreed," said Eladamri. "Takara, what's the best way? 
Takara?" 

She looked up from her frowning daydream. "What? 
Out? Why, we have to go through the Citadel." 

The young rebels groaned. "Can't we keep going in this 
direction?" said Shamus, pointing away from the fortress. 

"That direction is the mogg warrens," Takara said. "A 
maze of tunnels, shafts, and mogg nests, infested with 
thousands of ugly, bad-tempered creatures. We wouldn't 
get a hundred yards inside before we were attacked, lost, or 
eaten." 

The map room fell quiet. 

At length Eladamri said, "We got in by stealth and 
disguise, so it's only natural we leave the same way." 

"Our disguises are wearing a bit thin," Sivi said. 

"We'll change them. If they're looking for an elf and 
five soldiers, we'll become something else." 

"My face is known," said Takara. 

"You could become a man," Sivi suggested. 

Takara smiled thinly. "I don't think I could carry it off 
as well as you, My Dear." 

Sivi reddened and was about to utter a sharp reply, but 
Eladamri cut her off. 

"Our strength lies in staying together and going as 
quietly as we can. I've never run from a fight in my life, but 
there are some odds a wise warrior doesn't test. Seven of us 

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against the entire Stronghold is not a battle, it's a 
prolonged execution." 

They did what they could to change their appearance. 
Those in Rathi uniforms discarded their mantles and tore 
them into rags to polish their helmets and breastplates. 
Kireno, slimmest of the rebels, took off his breastplate and 
gave it to Eladamri, turning his backplate around to wear 
on his chest. Medd wrapped Eladamri's head in makeshift 
bandages to obscure his elven features. 

Takara watched this with considerable amusement. 
"You should've been actors," she said. "You look like a 
touring company of bards." 

Sivi reached across Garnan's waist and drew his knife. 
She advanced on Takara, holding the blade in a 
threatening manner. 

"Call her off, Eladamri. I'm your valued guide, 
remember?" 

"Liin Sivi—" 

Sivi swung the knife in a wide arc. Takara tried to block 
by grabbing Sivi's knife hand. The Vec woman was far 
stronger, and Takara had to use both hands to hold off the 
knife. Sivi's free hand darted in. She snatched hold of 
Takara's long red ponytail and spun her around by tugging 
on it sharply. With her comrades shouting "No! No, Sivi!" 
she slashed Takara's hair off right where it was tied. 

Sivi tossed the heavy hunk of hair on the floor and 
returned Gaman's knife. 

Takara knelt by her shorn locks. "Why did you do 
that?" 

"You need to change your appearance too, O Takara," 
Sivi said. "Without that hair and with a little dirt on your 
face, you can be a charwoman." 

"Enough," said Eladamri sharply. "I won't have this 
bickering." 

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Medd was nearest Takara. She went to him and 
wordlessly demanded his knife. Sivi stood back and let the 
toten-vec drop from her hand. Medd wouldn't give the 
woman his knife, so she took it herself. Sivi flipped the 
lethal end of her weapon back and prepared to cast it. 

Staring at the Vec woman with hollow eyes, Takara 
used Medd's knife to saw off even more of her hair. When 
he saw she didn't mean to attack Sivi, Medd gently took 
the knife away from Takara and offered to even up the 
horrid haircut. 

"Your problem," Takara said to Sivi, "is that you don't 
go far enough." 

Laughing, Sivi recoiled the toten-vec. "I'll try to 
remember that." 

From being five soldiers, an elf, and an emaciated 
woman, they were now six reasonably tidy soldiers and a 
crop-haired, emaciated woman. They cleaned up the map 
room to hide the fact that they'd been there and left the 
tower by the upper bridge to avoid the gellerac still loose in 
the prison. 

There were no new sentries on the bridge, so they 
hurried across. 

"Don't like it," Sivi declared. 

Takara pushed past her to take the lead. "They don't 
expect intruders between the Citadel and the mogg 
warrens," she said. "No one's that crazy." 

"No one but us," Kireno said. 

Medd and Shamus shrugged at each other and followed 
her. Kireno and Garnan went next, leaving Eladamri to 
shoo Sivi along. 

"1 don't know if I like that woman or hate her," Sivi 
muttered. 

"Make up your own mind," replied Eladamri. "But until 
we're free of this place, don't turn your back on her." 

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* * * * * 

Just inches to go. 

Ertai could hardly see, his eyelids were so swollen, but 
with his mind's magical eye he could see the cube now 
extended over the edge of the furnace cone. In another 
twenty minutes, it would be over. His last hope, the 
retriever, apparently failed. Belbe had not come. 

Facing death, he had the odd thought that he would be 
contributing to the composition of Rath in a very literal 
way. All bodies returned to the soil, but his would 
disintegrate in the furnace and be whirled into the 
flowstone matrix. His component atoms would mingle with 
the substance of Rath, pass through the factory, and be 
pumped onto the surface along with billions of pounds of 
flowstone. Would there be a little patch of Rath that was 
Ertai? He wondered if his consciousness would survive. If 
so, he hoped Crovax would walk over him someday. He'd 
be sure to trip him. 

Ertai. 

He recalled a book he'd read in one of the royal 
libraries about the death pits of Rath. Past evincars had 
used the black tarry residue left over from the making of 
flowstone to fill in gaps in the Stronghold cavern. As it was 
poisonous and corrosive, some evincars had taken to 
tossing unwanted prisoners into this muck. As a result, the 
book claimed, the death pits had achieved a kind of 
collective sentience, melded from the souls of the people 
who died in it. 

"Ertai!" 

It was a real voice calling his name. He managed to 
open his right eye to a tiny slit. 

"Belbe!" 

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Nemesis 

The retriever worked after all! She looked splendid in 
her black diamond armor and Phyrexian headdress. She 
was tearing at the cube with her hands, but the surface was 
too hard and smooth. She could make no impression on it. 

"Tube," he said. "Break the tube." 

* * * * * 

She jumped down and found the feeder tube on the 
back. No thicker than her little finger, she easily snapped 
it. Semi-liquid flowstone spilled across the platform until 
she crimped the tube shut. Tiny silver spheres danced 
around her feet. 

She heard feet pounding on the ladder coming up the 
furnace cone. A man in bright armor appeared—Nasser. 
The narrow ledge between her and the ladder was speckled 
with spinning globules of flowstone, still not solidified. She 
guessed the radiance of the energy stream was keeping 
them liquid longer than normal. 

"Excellency! Stay where you are! I am to bring you back 
to the coronation!" Nasser shouted above the crackling 
beam. 

"I'll come back once Ertai is safe!" 

"My orders are to bring you back immediately. Let the 
boy go!" 

"No!" 

He drew his sword. "You must. It is the will of Crovax." 

Belbe slid her feet along to avoid stepping on the 
flowstone globules. She struck a fighting pose. 

"You cannot compel me!" 

Nasser saw the flowstone droplets and plainly 
understood the danger. He imitated Belbe's foot-sliding 
and inched close. The Rathi sergeant jabbed tentatively 

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with his sword tip. Belbe swatted the flat of the blade away 
with her bare hands. 

"This is senseless!" Nasser declared. "Come back with 
me and complete the ceremony. You can save the boy 
afterward!" 

"I do not jump to Crovax's bidding! Go back and tell 
him I'll return when I choose!" 

Belbe slid closer and unleashed a kick that caught 
Nasser at the waist. He was a strong man, and though the 
blow drove the wind from his chest, he kept his feet. He 
sheathed his sword and swung a mailed fist. Belbe blocked 
one punch, but the other hit her solidly on the cheek. She 
staggered back, slipping on bright silver pellets of 
flowstone. Only the weight of the cube behind her kept her 
from falling backward into the furnace. 

"Had enough?" Nasser asked, lowering his hands. 

From a sitting position she sprang three feet in the air, 
driven upward by the power of her fingers and toes alone. 
She spun, using the centrifugal force of her turn to make 
her feet into lethal weapons. Her left foot clipped the tip of 
Nasser's nose. Her right met his jaw, which shattered under 
the impact. His hands flew up, and he reeled away. 
Flowstone greased his tread, and he fell face down on the 
platform, on top of more silver globules. With a single deep 
scream, he slid feet first into the furnace. 

Belbe wasn't much better off. Completely out of 
control, she too landed face down, but because she was 
astride the platform, she was able to grip the edges with her 
hands and feet, avoiding Nasser's fate. Even so, her right 
hand, forearm, leg, and calf were singed by the energy 
beam. 

Pain was nothing. She carefully got up, brushing away 
the deadly droplets beneath her. 

"Ertai!" 

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"You won," he said, vastly relieved. "Can you get me 
out of here?" 

"I'll try." 

She crouched beside the cube and blew on the scattered 
silver pellets. One by one the frictionless spheres skittered 
into the furnace. When the platform was clean, she put her 
shoulder against the cube and pushed it back from the 
edge. It was enormously heavy, but she shifted it back far 
enough that it wouldn't easily topple over the ledge. 

Belbe rattled down the steps to the control dome. 
There were all sorts of implements there, and she found a 
cabinet of heavy tools meant for dealing with accidental 
spills or accretion problems. Belbe grabbed an ax, a wedge, 
and a sledgehammer with special flowstone cutting heads. 
She tucked these under her arm and ran back up the steps 
to Ertai. 

Belbe put down the hammer and wedge and attacked 
the cube with the ax. Using both hands, she swung the 
heavy ax in a wide arc from behind her head. It struck the 
cube with a loud clang, cutting an inch deep gouge in the 
surface. Belbe swung again, and without realizing it, let out 
a hoarse, angry yell. The cube shifted slightly from the 
blow. She hit it again, and again. After eight terrific hits, 
the ax fell from her hands. 

Her shoulders were dislocated. Wincing from the 
unsuppressed pain, Belbe climbed atop the cube. She 
crawled to Ertai, now resting his chin on the metal. 

"I can't do it," she gasped. "Not with these tools. I'm 
sorry, Ertai." 

"It's all right. I'm about gone anyway," he whispered. 

"Don't you dare leave me," she said, grasping his cheeks 
in her hands. "You're my friend—my only friend! I won't 
let you go." 

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When he didn't answer, Belbe tried clawing the stone 
around his neck. He'd loosened it a bit with his own magic 
before fatigue had claimed him, so there was just enough 
room for her to hook her fingers inside and pull. Her 
shoulders burned, and her nervous system sent out insistent 
warnings for her to stop. 

"Need help?" 

She jerked around and spied Crovax on the furnace 
cone. A halo of residual energy was fading around him. 
He'd teleported from the coronation ceremony. The 
intense blue glare of the energy beam made his dark skin 
look gray, and his white garments glowed with reflected 
radiation. 

"Don't taunt me, Crovax!" Belbe said. "I disposed of 
your man, and I can dispose of you!" 

"Threats, Excellency? And here I came to offer my 
help." 

She slid off the cube. Her arms were almost useless, 
hanging at her sides like dead weights. 

"Release Ertai," she demanded. 

"I will, on one condition." 

"No conditions! Release him!" 

Crovax folded his arms. "You know I can command the 
cube to squeeze him to jelly from where I stand," he said. 
"Or I can have it throw itself into the furnace." 

Breathing hard, fighting the pain, Belbe glared hatefully 
at Crovax. She was beaten. As long as she cared what 
happened to Ertai, he had her. 

"All right. Name your condition." 

"I'll dissolve the cube and leave the boy here, if you 
return with me to the ceremony directly and do what you 
promised to do." 

It was too simple. 

"Is that all?" asked Belbe. 

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Nemesis 

"That's all. Of course, whether or not the boy survives 
his close exposure to the energy beam is a matter out of my 
hands." 

Belbe made two fists. The effort made her shiver. "I'll 
bring him with us!" 

"No," said Crovax. "You must leave him here. That's 
my condition. Say yes now, or the offer will be withdrawn." 

She lurched toward him and was gratified to see him 
step back. 

"Why do you need me so much?" she said. "You have 
the power to rule Rath. Why are you so set on me 
proclaiming you evincar?" 

"Stupid question. You're the emissary of the overlords. 
What I am, I owe to them, and I need their stamp of 
approval. I can rule Rath as I am now, but there are 
factions within the Stronghold that will not recognize me 
as evincar without your declaration. 

"Time is short, Excellency. Our conjunction with 
Dominaria is just days away. I don't have time to suppress 
rebels, woo support from the local population, and prepare 
for the invasion of Dominaria all at the same time. Your 
announcement that I am the true evincar will save me 
much effort. Now come. There's no more time for banter. 
My crown awaits." "Free Ertai." 

Crovax nodded. The cube promptly began to melt, like 
a pat of butter on a hot griddle. Silver rivulets of flowstone 
spilled off the edge into the furnace. In seconds, Ertai's 
shoulders were visible. Belbe held onto him as the liquefied 
flowstone sluiced away. 

She kissed him lightly on the forehead. He cracked his 
swollen eyes. 

Ertai's voice was a hoarse whisper. "I heard what he 
said. Go. I'll be all right." 

"I'll come back for you." 

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His head lolled to her shoulder. Ertai whispered in her 
ear, "Let's use your portal and escape." 

Belbe lowered him carefully to the platform. "That may 
not be possible," she said. 

"We must." 

Strong arms pulled her away. Crovax put an arm around 
her waist and held her close. With her injured arms Belbe 
did not fight. 

"I hate you, Crovax." 

He smiled quite pleasantly. "Good. A strong ruler 
should be hated and feared. Now that I've achieved the 
one, I'll see what I can do about the other." 

Before Belbe could respond, he teleported. Everything 
was blanked out in a fierce white flash—vision, hearing, all 
her senses. Even Belbe's hatred was extinguished for the 
duration of the trip. 

* * * * * 

The rebels reentered the Citadel easily enough, but fifty 
yards inside the palace they ran smack into a cordon 
manned by a large contingent of Rathi soldiers. Takara 
dropped back from her lead position to walk beside 
Eladamri. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked. 

"Bluff. What else can we do?" He whispered to the 
others. "I'm your captain—say nothing, but follow my 
lead." 

A breastwork of boxes had been erected across the 
circular junction, and at least a hundred soldiers milled 
around behind the barrier. At the rebels' approach, the 
commander of the cordon came out and ordered them to 
stop. 

"Identify yourselves!" 

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Eladamri stepped out from the ranks of his band. 

"We were called to the prison a few hours ago," he said. 
"Something about a breakout. We caught this one walking 
around loose." He took Takara roughly by the arm and 
shoved her forward. "Some of Lord Volrath's creatures are 
free in there, too, so we had to clear out." 

"There are rebels at large, disguised as royal army 
soldiers," said the commander. "See anyone suspicious?" 

"Not a soul. There was some kind of trouble in the 
mogg warrens, though. We got as far as the Map Tower, 
and we heard a commotion from there." 

The commander laughed harshly. "Ha! If the damned 
rebels went to Mogg Town, that's the end of them!" He 
braced a scrap of parchment against his knee and made 
some notes using a charcoal stick. 

"What's your name, soldier?" he asked. 

"Drannik. Captain Drannik," said Eladamri. 

The commander, who was only a lieutenant, stiffened 
and threw a salute. "Sorry, sir! I didn't recognize your 
rank!" 

"That's understandable. If you're through, Lieutenant, 
we have to take this wandering prisoner to Lord Greven." 

"Let 'em through!" the officer shouted, and the 
barricade was opened for the rebels. 

Takara regarded Eladamri sourly, but she allowed 
herself to be guided through the cordon. The rebels crossed 
the junction to the main corridor. Crates used to create the 
bulwark on the other side were pulled apart for them. 

"Just a moment," called the lieutenant. "For my report, 
Captain Drannik—what company are you with?" 

Gaman flashed the elf four fingers. Eladamri shook his 
head. They'd been claiming to be from the Fourth 
Company all along, and the Rathi troops were on to that 
ruse. 

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"We're from the Tenth Company." 

The soldiers taking down the barrier for them suddenly 
stopped. The lieutenant's charcoal stick snapped and fell to 
the floor. His smudged hand went to his sword hilt. 

"We are the Tenth Company ... I've never seen you 
before. They're the rebels! Take them!" 

Sivi and the men tore at their weapons. Eladamri 
pushed the bandage back from his eyes and snatched the 
Rathi sword from his hip. The way was open, but a hundred 
Rathi soldiers surrounded them. 

Sivi parried a sword thrust with her stolen blade. The 
toten-vec was hidden behind her breastplate, and she 
needed a few free seconds to get it out. Medd dashed in 
font of her to ward off any fresh attacks. 

Garnan, Shamus, and Kireno formed a triangle in front 
of Eladamri. With his injured hands, the elf was in no 
shape to fence with the enemy. The rebels held their own 
for several seconds, then Sivi got her toten-vec unleashed. 
In short order she struck down three Rathi soldiers, 
clearing a way to escape. Takara, unarmed and not 
fighting, took Eladamri's arm and drew him to the 
unguarded opening in the wall of crates. Once he was 
through, the other rebels slowly retreated. Sivi whipped her 
weapon back and forth, forcing the soldiers to maintain 
their distance. When they got too bold, the whistling blade 
of the toten-vec caught them in the face, throat, or leg. 
Sivi was the last rebel to leave the cordon. Medd shouted 
for her to hurry. 

"I'll be there," she replied. 

One of the crates used to block the way was poised atop 
another. Sivi retreated through the gap and buried the tip 
of her blade in the top of the crate. With a two handed 
pull, she toppled the box from its place, blocking the way. 

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"Yes!" Sivi flicked her wrist to recover the toten-vec. 
She tugged in vain. The iron blade was hopelessly pinned 
underneath the heavy crate. 

Soldiers were scrambling over the barricade. Sivi 
glanced over her shoulder. Her friends were almost out of 
sight. She threw down the handle of the toten-vec and 
drew the less familiar sword. Four soldiers dropped to the 
floor and came at her. She parried the first, dodged the 
second man's attack, ran through the third man as he 
lowered his guard prematurely, and received the fourth 
soldier's sword point directly in the chest. It slid off her 
cuirass but got snagged in her belt, piercing her side just 
above her left hipbone. Sivi backhanded the man who'd 
wounded her, turned, and tried to run. 

More men poured over the barricade. Bleeding 
profusely and limping, Sivi managed to make it only a few 
feet before she was overtaken. She cut savagely at her 
attackers, but the sword was wrenched from her hand. The 
iron hilt of another connected solidly with her head, and 
she went down. 

Takara and Kireno hastened Eladamri along. They'd 
changed direction twice to throw off pursuit, doubling back 
to a corridor running upward through the Citadel into the 
palace area. As they huddled beneath an archway shaped 
like a monstrous animal's ribcage, it became plain Liin Sivi 
was not going to catch up with them. 

"We should go back," Medd said, moving away from the 
others. 

"Stop!" Eladamri said. "You'll be taken as well." 

"But Sivi—" 

"He's right," said Takara. "She's already dead." 

Silence ensued. Medd slammed a fist against the 
skeletal arch. "She stayed behind so we could escape!" 

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"It was her choice," Garnan said, putting a hand on his 
comrade's shoulder. "We should honor her sacrifice by 
staying together." 

"It's my fault," said Eladamri. "I thought I was being 
clever by changing what regiment we came from. I didn't 
know we were in the midst of the Tenth Company." 

"If you're all through taking blame, I suggest we move 
on," Takara scolded. "There are a lot of passages to cover, 
and now that we've been discovered, they'll flood the 
corridors with troops hunting for us." 

Eladamri agreed. The direct route—around the factory 
and out the grand causeway—was likely to be thick with 
alert enemy soldiers. Takara suggested they ascend into the 
palace and go around the factory at a higher level. 

"There are flowstone pipes and braces branching out 
from the factory to the crater wall," Takara said. "We can 
follow those." 

"Are there openings to the outside?" asked Shamus. 

"Oh, yes," she said. "There's all sorts of vents, 
blowholes, and exhaust channels perforating the crater." 

With heavy hearts, the four rebels went on, climbing 
the circular ramp into the palace quarter. 

Taking up the rear, Eladamri turned to Takara. "What 
do you think our chances are?" 

She avoided his eyes. "Few or none. Frankly, it's 
astonishing we've gotten this far. There must be something 
else going on here, something vital and diverting." 

Eladamri explained what he knew about Crovax and his 
claim to the throne. Takara actually smiled when she heard 
this. 

"What's amusing?" he said. 

"You speak of this Crovax as if his elevation were a 
foregone conclusion," she replied. "Nothing is certain, 
especially in the Stronghold." 

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Nemesis 

Above and ahead, a clash of steel meant the rebels had 
encountered another hostile patrol. 

Eladamri hurried as hard as his battered legs would take 
him. One whole turn of the ramp revealed the rebels hotly 
engaged with six palace guards. Takara hung back, 
flattening herself against the wall. Eladamri drew his sword 
and entered the fray. 

Slipping in beside Shamus and Garnan, he awkwardly 
traded cuts with a heavily armored guardsmen. Shamus 
landed a telling blow to the man's shoulder, who dropped 
his spear. While stooping to retrieve it, Eladamri rapped 
him smartly on the face with his sword hilt. The guard 
rolled down the ramp, out cold. He slid to a stop near 
Takara. She tugged the ornate dagger from the guard's belt 
and with both hands shoved it through the unconscious 
man's throat. Eladamri saw her do it, and when she stood 
up, their eyes met. Takara shrugged. 

Another guard fell, the victim of a stop thrust by 
Kireno. The remaining four began to withdraw, but the 
rebels kept the pressure on them. One man tried to run. 
Garnan sprang after him, but in his haste he forgot the 
guard's nearest compatriot. The Rathi guard swung his 
heavy spear sideways, the shaft taking Garnan in the gut. 
The Dal warrior doubled over, shocked by his sudden 
reverse, and the fleeing guard turned and speared him 
through the back. His triumph was as short lived as he was, 
for in the next instant Medd drove his sword through the 
guard's chin. The other guards were boxed in against the 
wall and cut down by the hard-fighting rebels. 

Sweat pouring down his face, Eladamri knelt with 
Medd beside Garnan. Medd tried to find a pulse, and 
failing to find one, shook his head. Eladamri gently pulled 
his hand away. 

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"He was a gallant comrade," said the elf. "Now we must 
hide his body." 

"Why?" said the anguished Medd. 

"We can't let the Rathi know we're losing numbers. We 
couldn't help them taking Sivi, but we must disguise our 
losses so they don't know how few we are." 

They dragged Garnan to the top of the ramp and 
pushed him into a small oval opening Takara identified as 
a warm-air duct from the flowstone factory. Kireno and 
Shamus carefully wiped away all traces of blood between 
the duct and the place where Garnan had fallen. 

"Where are we?" Eladamri asked. 

"Below the courtiers' apartments," Takara said. "Over 
there are the Dream Halls." 

Reduced to just four, the rebels hurried on. The 
passages already echoed with the sound of massed soldiers. 
The sweat on Eladamri's neck began to go cold. This was 
the sort of end he feared most—hunted, dying by inches, 
like a beast at bay. Compared to this, even the torture 
chamber was preferable. He'd resigned himself to death the 
moment Greven and his moggs had chained him to the 
wall. That he survived was a great victory, and for a while 
he allowed himself to hope they might escape. Now the 
coils of Rathi power were slowly enveloping them. His 
brave fighters were dying one by one, and the end seemed 
inevitable. 

Like an animate hedge of spears, a wall of guards 
blocked the passage in front of them. Refusing several calls 
to surrender, the rebels retraced their steps to the top of the 
spiral ramp. Even as they reached the landing, they could 
see a stream of armed men surging up the ramp from below. 

"Not good, not good," Medd kept repeating. 

"We need another place to go—now," said Kireno. 

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Takara pointed. "The only place left is the Dream 
Halls, but the doors are sealed, and only the evincar can 
open them!" 

Eladamri urged his friends to follow. "If I'm to die, I'd 
rather do so in a place called the Dream Halls than in a 
common, crowded corridor like this." 

Shamus, the fastest of the group, overtook the elf 
chieftain and reached the enormous double doors first. He 
slammed his shoulder against the right panel, and to his 
surprise, the door yielded. 

Two hundred soldiers and guards pursued the rebels to 
the very doors of the Dream Halls. Some paused to cast 
spears at the fleeing party, but all missed. Kireno, Medd, 
Takara, and Eladamri slipped through the open door. 
When their leader was through, the warriors threw 
themselves against the door. When it was shut, Medd 
slammed the massive foot bolt into the floor, locking it. 
Shamus and Takara slid a huge horizontal bolt into place as 
well. 

Kireno and Medd laughed at their near escape. Shamus 
paced back and forth in front of the doors. Takara slumped 
to the floor. 

Eladamri alone walked deeper into the Dream Halls. 
The vast dimensions, the frowning pilasters decorated with 
busts of Volrath—it all somehow reminded him of a 
strange forest clearing lined with lofty black trees. 

He fingered the wooden fetish hanging from his neck. 
His instincts were right again. This would be a good place 
to die. 

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CHAPTER 20 


TRIAL 

She vanished in the wink of an eye. Even against the 
constant stabbing brightness of the energy stream, the flash 
of Crovax's departure with Belbe was intense. Ertai felt the 
displaced air and excess power lap over him, a whisper 
against a roar. 

He rolled onto his hands and knees and began to crawl. 
It was a long way from the edge of death to the theater of 
the living. 

* * * * * 

The crowd did not dare leave the convocation hall. 
Restless but also afraid of what might happen to them if 
they didn't bear witness to the ascension of Crovax, they 
remained in the hall, sweating and itching in their 
uncomfortable finery. An hour passed, then another, and a 
third was underway when a silent stroke of lightning 
blinded everyone, and a hot wind stirred the robes and 
gowns of the assembled court. Crovax had returned with 
Belbe in his arms. 

The Corps of Sergeants, who had been at ease, snapped 
to attention. Courtiers old and young struggled to their feet 
or smoothed their heavy ceremonial robes. Without a word 
of explanation, Crovax sat down on the throne. The 

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Nemesis 

emissary of the overlords leaned on the arm of the great 
chair, a hand over her tightly shut eyes. 

"Excellency, we're here," said Crovax. "Do your duty," 
he insisted. 

She inhaled. "People of Rath," she began in a small 
voice. "I ask you all to forgive my weakness. The overlords 
set me the task of finding a new ruler for Rath, and with 
due diligence I tried to find the best candidate. I didn't 
realize until this moment the search was a sham, that the 
choice had already been made by the overlords even as I 
was being dispatched on my mission to Rath." 

"Say what you came to say," said Crovax, growing 
impatient. 

Belbe faced the audience. "I regret what I am compelled 
to say now. I give you the new evincar—" 

"Stop!" 

Crovax leaped to his feet. "Who dares interrupt?" 

Two figures cleaved through the crowd—Greven il-Vec 
and the Kor chief, Furah. 

"Greven, I'll have your head in an iron cage for this. I'll 
roast your brains over a slow fire, and even then I won't let 
you die—" 

"Save your threats, my lord," said Greven. "There are 
more important matters to deal with." 

The sergeants tried to bar his way, but Greven easily 
broke their linked arms apart. More of the Corps broke 
formation to box the hulking warrior in, but Crovax 
ordered them to let Greven and the Kor through. 

"Why aren't you writhing on the floor?" Crovax 
demanded. "Your spine should be smoking by now." 

"You're not the only one who commands the control 
rod," Greven said. "What you order, another can 
countermand." 

"Nonsense! No one dares interfere with my will!" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Furah stepped forward. He bowed slightly and smiled, 
showing long, feline teeth. 

"I've long looked forward to meeting you," he said. 
"Greven has told me of your activities." 

"Who are you?" demanded Crovax. 

"I am the one that chair belongs to. You, Crovax of 
Urborg, are a usurper." 

Crovax lowered his head. The flowstone around Furah's 
feet rippled in a series of tiny points, but none grew more 
than an inch, and none came close to harming him. The 
Kor chief, in his turn, spread his hands wide. A stream of 
flowstone balls, the size of Greven's head, burst from the 
walls and pounded Crovax. The last and largest ball struck 
him hard in the chest and drove Crovax backward over the 
arms of the throne. Belbe leaped aside, staring at Furah in 
utter disbelief. 

The crowd jostled and elbowed each other for a better 
look at this unexpected challenge to Crovax. Those in 
front regretted their eagerness when the pavement beneath 
their feet erupted in a hedge of spikes. Dozens were impaled 
where they stood, and the ring of spikes completely walled 
off Furah and Greven from the rest of the room. Crovax 
appeared from behind the throne. Blood from a cut lip 
flecked his once spotless white tunic. 

"You command flowstone well," Crovax said, 
descending the shallow steps. "Who are you?" 

"I thought you would've guessed by now. Greven said 
you lacked imagination for anything but killing, but I'd 
hoped he was mistaken." He glanced at his giant 
companion. "Greven's a stout fighter, but he sometimes 
lacks discernment. Not in this case, it seems." 

"Enough chatter. Explain yourself!" Crovax stared 
hatefully at the Kor man. 

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Nemesis 

Rather than a spoken reply, Furah began to change. His 
shoulders expanded; his legs and arms lengthened. His skull 
widened, and his features swelled and disappeared. 

In place of the pale, slender Kor now stood a man with 
a sculpted body of impossibly perfect proportions. Taller by 
a head than Crovax, he exuded grace and power. His face 
was carved in such a way as to suggest wisdom and 
strength. The crowd spoke his name. "Volrath!" Belbe was 
impressed. To simpler folk, Volrath might appear to be a 
god. Even as she thought this, many of the court went 
down on their knees and bowed their faces to the floor in 
abject reverence of their evincar. 

"So, you've come back," Crovax said. "Why?" "To 
reclaim what is mine," said Volrath. "You forfeited the 
throne when you abandoned it. I am the new evincar." He 
turned to Belbe. "Tell him, Excellency." 

Belbe lowered her eyes and said, "I am the emissary of 
the overlords of Phyrexia. I was sent here to appoint your 
successor." 

"That is no longer necessary. I have returned," said 
Volrath. 

"You've returned to your own death!" Crovax shouted. 

The crowd cheered. "Volrath! Hail Volrath!" 

Crovax spat out at the crowd. "The next mouth to hail 
this pretender will breathe its last!" 

"You can slaughter them all, and it won't change the 
truth. I am Volrath. I am evincar." 

"You're just a corpse that hasn't lain down yet!" 

Crovax drew sword and dagger and advanced. Volrath, 
unarmed, reached out and drew Greven's oversized sword. 
As Belbe watched, Volrath enlarged himself to Greven's 
size. 

"Stop it! Stop this at once!" she cried, charging 
between the would-be combatants. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax tried to reach around her and cut at Volrath 
with his black-bladed sword. Belbe caught the blade with 
her hand. The sharp edge bit to her duralumin bone. 
Crovax tried to tug his sword free, but she held on. 

Volrath whirled Greven's broadsword around his head 
as if it were a light stave. With Crovax encumbered by 
Belbe, he stepped sideways and thrust at the usurper. The 
emissary blocked his attack with her other hand. The blunt 
point of Greven's weapon bit deeply into her palm, but her 
metal hand closed tightly and would not let the sword go. 

Volrath relaxed, letting go of his borrowed blade. Belbe 
tossed Greven's sword away. Crovax tried to wrench his 
weapon free, but Belbe turned and broke his sword blade in 
two with a single blow of her bleeding right hand. 

"You're a formidable construction, but this intervention 
is ill-timed," said Volrath. "There can't be two evincars." 

"I don't propose there be any more than one," Belbe 
said, throwing the end of Crovax's blade to the floor. The 
crowd pressed against the fence of flowstone spikes, trying 
to see what was happening. 

Belbe, her hands bleeding copiously, mounted the steps 
and seated herself on the throne. 

"This is my last act as emissary," she announced. "I will 
sit in judgment of a contest between Crovax and Volrath, 
and the winner shall be the sole, rightful governor of 
Rath." 

Crovax hurled his sword hilt to the floor with a clang. 

"Outrageous!" he roared. "I had your word I would be 
named evincar!" 

"I also object," said Volrath more mildly. "I have been 
evincar for more years than this usurper has lived. Why 
should I submit to anyone's judgment or to some ridiculous 
contest?" 

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Nemesis 

She addressed Volrath first. "It is true you were 
governor of this world, and during your reign the overlords 
were pleased with your rulership. However, when you 
abandoned your post to pursue a personal revenge against 
Weatherlight and her crew, you forfeited all credit with our 
Phyrexian masters. The Hidden One himself directed me 
to come here and find a replacement. 

"Frankly, I am interpreting my orders liberally to even 
allow this contest, but I am sure our masters would 
approve," she said. Her head swam, and she tucked her 
bleeding, oil-streaked hands into her armpits. "Consider— 
consider it recognition of your past service that I allow you 
to clear your record of the stain of desertion." 

It was impossible to read Volrath. His face was a living 
mask, alive, yet no more expressive than the statues in his 
private quarters. 

Volrath pondered her words, then bowed. "Your 
Excellency is most generous. I accept your proposal." 

Crovax was boiling with barely contained rage. The 
floor, the walls, the ceiling closest to him rippled and 
writhed under the force of his frustration. He turned his 
fearsome gaze from Belbe to Volrath, and his outward anger 
subsided. 

"I see no problem," he said to Belbe. "This pathetic 
weakling presents no challenge to me. I will kill him, then 
I will kill you." 

Greven, having already picked up his sword, stood at 
Belbe's right hand. 

"For the duration of the contest, I will defend the 
emissary, so that no unfair advantage will be gained by 
threatening her," he said. So saying, he offered her a scrap 
of homespun bandanna. She regarded Greven's gift blankly 
until he tore the cloth in two and indicated she should use 
it to bind the wounds on her hands. 

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The doors of the convocation hall were opened, and 
the rearmost spectators were pushed out of the room by the 
Corps of 

Sergeants. An open oval space was cleared of carpet, 
flags, and bystanders. Crovax's sergeants withdrew in a 
body to the right wall. The fence of flowstone spikes was 
dissolved, and those unlucky people slain by Crovax's 
initial fury were quickly removed. 

Steel swords and shields of identical size and length 
were taken from two palace guards and provided to the 
combatants. Volrath pulled on a pair of scale-mail 
gauntlets. Seeing this, Crovax did the same. He dropped 
the gold-edged mantle from his shoulders. Neither man 
wore any other armor. 

Volrath walked off a pace or two and started stretching 
and flexing his artfully carved muscles. Crovax called for 
wine and drank a goblet dry watching his opponent preen 
before the crowd. 

Crovax dropped his goblet. "Time is short. Let's begin." 

"I agree. What are the rules?" said Volrath. 

Belbe folded her bandaged hands in her lap. "There's 
only one rule—win." 

Crovax promptly lashed out with a wide sideways cut. 
Volrath threw himself back and brought up his shield. 
Sparks flew as the blade met the polished buckler. Crovax 
bored in, slashing and thrusting and using his shield to slam 
against Volrath's. 

Volrath grew visibly taller even as Belbe watched. He 
moved so fast most people in the hall couldn't see his true 
motion, but Belbe's enhanced eyes followed every move. 
Volrath's arm elongated as he thrust it forward. The tip slid 
off the top of Crovax's shield and kept going. An ordinary 
fighter would have run out of arm by then, but Volrath's 
reach was preternatural. Crovax realized his danger and 

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Nemesis 

turned away just as the leading edge of Volrath's thrust 
clipped his left ear. He called on the floor to trip Volrath, 
but the flowstone waves broke over the former evincar's 
ankles like water and didn't impede him. In turn Volrath 
summoned another barrage of flowstone balls. Crovax was 
expecting them. Instead of liquefying them like his 
opponent, he batted them away with forceful commands. 
The skull-sized projectiles mowed down five onlookers. 

Volrath retracted his arm to more normal proportions 
and advanced. He feigned an overhand attack, but again 
with amazing swiftness switched the line of his cut to an 
underhand thrust. Crovax blocked with his shield and 
struck out with his booted right foot. The hobnails 
connected with Volrath's leg below the knee. 

"You're fast," Crovax said, grinning. "But you don't 
have a true killer's instinct." 

"I've killed more people in one year as evincar than you 
have in your entire life, barbarian," Volrath retorted. 
"What you call 'killer instinct' is merely a lust for death. I 
am above such feelings." 

They traded four hard cuts that left both their blades 
deeply nicked. For the first time, Belbe felt Volrath was 
concerned. He hadn't expected Crovax to last this long. 

Emboldened, Crovax lowered his head and shouted 
sharply. He jabbed at his opponent's legs and stomach. 
Volrath gave ground grudgingly, backing up two steps, 
advancing one with a counter-thrust, then backing up two 
more. 

Behind Crovax the floor humped up in a series of 
rounded semicircles. Crovax apparently didn't notice. 
Greven nodded approvingly. 

Crovax's sword tip bounced off Volrath's shield. The 
latter executed a blinding pirouette, his blade coming edge-
on at the side of Crovax's neck. He ducked, and his heel 

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caught on the nearest hump. With an expression of utter 
surprise, Crovax fell. Volrath let out a triumphant laugh 
and leaped. He landed astride the fallen Crovax. Up went 
the bright sword— 

Crovax vanished in a flare of white light. Volrath's 
blade went three inches into the floor. The flowstone 
softened, allowing him to recover, and his partisans in the 
crowd shouted warnings. He turned his head and saw 
Crovax materialize four feet in the air, directly behind him. 
There was no time to parry or dodge. Instead, Volrath 
shrank. He contracted his body by a fifth. Crovax's sword 
raked down Volrath's back, laying open his skin. 
Glistening oil spattered across the front of Crovax's white 
tunic. 

Shrinking saved Volrath's life, but he had a painful 
wound from his left shoulder blade to his right hip. His 
dropped his hands to the floor and staggered forward on 
them. Grinning widely, Crovax tried trampling his foe into 
the floor. Flowstone splashed and flew as the men fought 
for control. Volrath rolled on his back. Crovax tried to 
overrun him and got a foot planted on his chest. The finely 
proportioned muscles in Volrath's leg uncoiled, hurling 
Crovax into the air. His feet didn't touch the ground for 
five yards, then he slammed into the tightly packed crowd. 

He was up in a flash, hacking and slashing at anyone 
within reach of his blade. Courtiers and soldiers alike 
climbed over each other to get out of his way, but he slew 
at least ten before it became inconvenient to chase the 
others. Belbe knew this wasn't just pointless homicide; 
Crovax derived new strength from the death of others. He 
was refreshing himself in the midst of a duel by 
slaughtering innocent onlookers. 

His back wet with glistening oil, Volrath went to the 
foot of the throne. Belbe could smell the crisp, electric 

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odor of the fluid. Volrath's broad shoulders heaved. He 
looked to Greven il-Vec, standing with sword drawn at 
Belbe's side. 

"How am I doing?" he asked wryly. 

* * * * * 

Ertai crawled all the way from the furnace mouth to the 
flow-hot lifts in the outer environs of the palace. Except for 
occasional patrols, he saw no one. Guards marched past 
him without stopping, the men idly watching his painful 
progress. 

He reached the lifts and fell heavily into the closest 
one. It had been far too long since his last infusion. 
Without the dark energy to suppress them, his old injuries 
were slowly emerging again. The laboratory was a long way 
away. Despite his wounds old and new, his first thought 
was to find Belbe. Her life hung in the balance—he was 
certain Crovax would kill her once he'd been proclaimed 
evincar. 

"Convocation hall," he said to the lift. The fleshstone 
flaps closed, and the flowbot sank through the floor. 

The lift jerked to a stop. When the flaps lowered, he 
saw the antechamber was jammed with people. Everyone 
was craning their heads toward the open doors of the hall. 
Distantly he heard the sounds of combat, punctuated by 
shouts. Ertai grasped the leathery hide of the lift and 
dragged himself to his feet. If this was to be his last act, he 
wanted to enter standing and not on his knees. 

He wormed his way through the mass of gawkers. Some 
shrank from his fearful, swollen visage and let him pass. 
Others regarded him with pity and stepped aside. When 
Ertai reached the inner edge of the crowd, the closely 
packed ranks of guards and courtiers parted to reveal a wan 

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Paul B.Thompson 

and worried Belbe, seated on the throne and guarded by 
the imposing Greven il-Vec. She was talking to another 
tall muscular fellow with an improbably handsome face— 
Volrath. Ertai recognized him from the statues around the 
Stronghold. He had an awful wound across his back. The 
flesh exposed was gray, not red. Ertai raised a hand in 
greeting. 

Heedless of the danger, Belbe pushed past the tall, 
wounded swordsman and met the young sorcerer at the 
edge of the crowd. "Have I missed much?" he whispered. 
She lowered him to the floor. "You shouldn't have come. It 
isn't safe here." 

"Where is one safe on Rath?" 

Distracted, Volrath didn't see pinchers form out of the 
flowstone steps behind him. One pierced his right calf. He 
immediately banished them and, enraged, raised a wall of 
flowstone six feet high and one inch thick. He shouted so 
loudly the floor trembled, and the wall broke into a dense 
cloud of small pellets. Volrath flung his hands wide, and 
the mass of pellets hurled themselves at Crovax. 

Up came the shield. With a sound like a thousand nails 
punching through a hundred tin plates, the pellets reduced 
Crovax's shield to a sieve. His tunic was shredded, and a 
score of pea-sized pellets buried themselves in his face. 

Scored and blasted, Crovax threw down his ruined 
shield. He crossed his forearms, fists tightly clenched. A 
growl rose from his throat. It began low and guttural but 
grew louder and stronger as he focused his rage and pain. 
One by one, the flowstone pellets worked themselves out of 
his body, falling at his feet at a steady rate. Soon the floor 
around him was covered with hundreds of pellets. 

Ertai tried to size up the situation. Volrath was an 
unknown quantity to him. He'd seen the ex-evincar's 
quarters, heard commentary from people in the Citadel 

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who knew him. He was cruel, ruthless, shrewd, and a man 
of unusual appetites. Compared to him, Crovax was a 
machine—soulless, utterly devoid of guilt or feelings of 
humanity. Volrath would expect to win because of his 
superior skills; Crovax thought he could prevail through 
brute force and a willingness to do anything to win. 

The battle would go on and on until sheer survival 
determined a winner. With his ability to renew himself 
with the lives of others, Crovax would ultimately win. 
Nothing Ertai could do would help Volrath. Once the 
former evincar was out of the way, retribution would 
inevitably fall on everyone else. 

Crovax's two-handed stroke tore the shield from 
Volrath's grasp. The dented buckler caromed off the wall. 
Both fighters were reduced to swords alone. 

Volrath assumed a sideways stance, the pose of a fencer 
rather than an infantry soldier. Crovax circled warily, 
trading occasional cuts and jabs. As he orbited outside of 
Volrath's reach, he glanced at Ertai and betrayed surprise as 
seeing the young sorcerer alive. 

Volrath sidled forward a step when Crovax's attention 
strayed. His arm lengthened by two inches, and he carefully 
bent his elbow to hide the new growth. Volrath started his 
lunge. His arm straightened, and with the velocity of a 
striking viper, he drove his blade at the junction of 
Crovax's right arm and chest. 

Crovax's eyes widened in alarm. He tried to backpedal 
out of danger, but his response was too slow. The nicked, 
dented blade flew at him. He brought his own sword up in 
a desperation parry, but the impetus of Volrath's lunge bore 
his hilt back against his own face. Thirty inches of 
tempered steel slid along Crovax's arm. Volrath's lunge had 
succeeded, and the startled usurper seemed paralyzed by the 
realization of his imminent defeat. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Time stretched out. The normal yellow gleam of the 
hall lanterns on the bright steel blade became purplish. 
Volrath's triumphant face fell. An unknown force was 
playing down the length of his onrushing blade. Someone 
was tampering with the fight, using old-fashioned magic to 
deflect his weapon. A horrified look on his face, Volrath 
watched the tip of his sword fall an inch, two inches, until 
it passed under Crovax's arm. 

Everything came together with a crash. Volrath and 
Crovax collided chest to chest, Volrath's sword swinging 
uselessly behind Crovax's back. Crovax's own blade was 
bent backward over his shoulder by the force of Volrath's 
attack. He twisted, dumping the over-balanced Volrath 
and at the same time punching him hard in the face with 
his free hand. Volrath hit the floor. His sword bounced free 
and skittered away into the crowd. 

Crovax threw himself on Volrath's back. He hooked his 
left arm around the man's chin and drew his head back, 
arching Volrath's back as if it were a longbow. The ragged 
edge of his sword came down to slice Volrath's taut throat. 
Volrath blocked the blade with his mailed hand. 

The wall of courtiers and soldiers dissolved to reveal a 
captain of the palace guard, backed by a phalanx of his 
men. The captain's face was streaked with blood. 

"My lords! The rebels!" he cried. "They've barricaded 
themselves in the Dream Halls!" 

Belbe was on her feet. She flung a hand at the straining 
pair of fighters. "Hold!" 

They continued to struggle. She appealed to Greven. 
The Vec warrior did not move. 

"Declare a winner, or stand aside, Excellency," he said. 
"You heard the captain," she said. "We must defend the 
Citadel!" 

"That is the job of the evincar." 

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Nemesis 

It all came down to this moment. Belbe looked from 
face to face, searching for an answer. Greven was 
impassive. Ertai smiled weakly, then sagged to the black 
pavement. Courtiers avoided her, soldiers pretended to be 
busy readying themselves to fight the rebels. 

Finally, she looked down at Crovax. He had Volrath 
down, his head locked and his throat vulnerable. Only four 
mailed fingers prevented him from cutting Volrath's 
jugular. "Do ... your ... duty!" Crovax gasped. "Behold!" 
Belbe cried. "Behold, the Evincar of Rath! Crovax!" 

The sergeants broke ranks and shouted their master's 
name. Most of the assembled notables joined in, though a 
good number quietly fled. 

"Let him up," Belbe said above the roar of the crowd. 
"He must die!" Crovax replied. 

"He's lost. His life is forfeit, but your first duty is to 
quell the rebels in your own fortress." 

Crovax agreed. He ordered his men to secure the former 
evincar and place him under close guard. 

"Wrap him in chains of good steel," Crovax said. "Hang 
him by his feet so that no part of his body touches the 
structure of the Citadel. Seat ten men with bare swords 
around him. If the floor so much as trembles, strike off his 
head!" 

Volrath was buried under a pile of sergeants. He didn't 
resist, but they pressed him hard to the floor and wound 
chains around his legs. His hands were wrenched behind 
his back and chained together. A hood was cinched over 
his head. 

By the time Volrath was securely bound, the hall was 
almost empty. Guards and soldiers under Greven's 
command had already marched off. The sergeants bore 
Volrath away. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax turned to Belbe. "Excellency! This is a great 
day!" 

He dropped his sword and enfolded her roughly in his 
arms. Though she resisted, Crovax kissed her hard, 
smearing his sweat on her face as she stained him with 
glistening oil still oozing from her injured hands. 

Alone, lying on the floor a few feet away, Ertai smiled. 

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Nemesis 

CHAPTER 21 


REUNION 

Garnan pressed his ear to the door. "It's quiet out 
there," he whispered. 

Shamus listened too. "They didn't just go away!" 

"They're there," Takara said flatly. "A company was left 
to watch the door while the rest retrieve a battering ram." 

Shamus blinked. "Battering ram?" 

"Do you think they'll try to starve us out?" 

Medd filled the relatively quiet moment by inspecting 
Eladamri's injuries. He dabbed salve on his burns and 
rewrapped them in strips of cloth torn from their army 
cloaks. Eladamri was sitting on the cold black floor, leaning 
against one of Volrath's monumental pilasters. "Are you in 
much pain, Brother?" asked Medd. "No." 

"The burns are superficial. I fear some of your nails are 
lost and won't grow back." Eladamri nodded. Medd tied off 
the last bandage and set the elf's arm gently into a sling. 
"Do you think we'll leave here alive?" 

Eladamri opened his eyes. "I don't know. Are you 
frightened?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm not. Live or die, I've made up my mind not to fall 
into their hands again. I do have regrets, though. So many 
unfinished tasks ..." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Kireno returned from reconnoitering the Dream Halls. 
Everyone but Shamus gathered around Eladamri to hear 
the Vec warrior's scouting report. 

"This place is huge, but it's basically one big room," 
Kireno said. "At the far end is a transom, all glass. There 
don't seem to be any other doors." 

"What can you see from the transom?" 

"The windows look down upon the prison and map 
tower, O Eladamri." 

"Could we climb down?" 

Kireno demolished his idea. "The Citadel is cut away 
under the Dream Halls, so there's no way to climb down. It 
would require hundreds of feet of rope just to reach the 
bridge to the prison tower we just left. To reach the floor of 
the crater would take thousands of feet." 

"What about up?" asked Medd. 

Takara snorted. "Climb hundreds of feet up the outside 
of the Citadel? Are you mad?" She shook her cropped head 
at the rebels' leader. "How is he going to climb any 
distance up or down with those ruined hands?" 

"You've made your point," Eladamri said. "Do you have 
any useful suggestions, Takara?" 

Her eyes glistened. "Write your wills." 

From the doors Shamus called, "People coming—lots of 
them!" 

The rebels rushed to the doors, weapons drawn. Takara 
slumped to the floor in the corner and covered her face 
with her hands. 

The tramp of many feet was plain even through the 
massive panels. Muffled shouts were heard, and the floor 
vibrated under their feet. 

"Stand back," Eladamri advised his men. He had hardly 
said so when a tremendous boom reverberated through the 

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Nemesis 

hall. The doors shook but remained solidly closed. The 

impact was repeated again and again. 

The noise was punishing. 

"If the doors don't break, the noise will break us!" Medd 
shouted. 

After many hits, the battering ceased. More muffled 
voices, and the rebels could hear men scurrying away from 
the door. 

"Take cover!" 

Fire sprayed through the narrow space under the door 
panels and through the gaps at the top and sides. For a few 
terrifying seconds, the rebels waited to see if the tall doors 
would topple from their hinges, admitting a horde of Rathi 
soldiers. The doors stood firm. 

"Ha!" Kireno said, slapping a thick black panel. "That's 
workmanship for you!" 

"I guess Volrath didn't want anyone to disturb him in 
his sanctum," said Eladamri. 

Buoyed by the doors' resistance, the rebels prepared for 
a siege. Medd got out his whetstone and sharpened their 
swords and knives. Kireno departed on another 
reconnaissance, this time searching for hidden doors or 
secret passages. Shamus continued his watch. 

Eladamri rummaged through his garments. He found a 
slip of ragged paper and a blunt charcoal stick, once the 
property of the Rathi soldier whose uniform this had been. 
He sat down on the floor and began to write in slow, 
carefully formed letters. Shamus asked him what he was 
doing. 

"Following Takara's advice," he said. "I'm writing my 
will." 

* * * * * 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Crovax left to lead the attack on the cornered rebels, 
but Belbe had to see to Ertai before she could join the 
Rathi forces outside the Dream Halls. 

She managed to round up four terrified servants and 
ordered them to carry Ertai to Volrath's laboratory. The 
men were frightened to be abroad on their own. The whole 
Citadel was in an uproar, and the air was rife with tales of 
cut throats and stabs in the back. It was only by 
considerable bullying that Belbe was able to get them to 
carry Ertai to the infuser. 

She left him on his makeshift stretcher. "These men 
will get you to the laboratory," she told him. "They know 
what will happen to them if they fail." The bearers shifted 
nervously until Belbe frowned them into stillness. "I will go 
to the rebels. I must speak to Eladamri again." 

He took her hand. "And how are you?" he said, 
fingering her bandaged palm. 

"I feel no pain." 

"You're a liar." 

Belbe slipped her hand free. "When your treatment is 
done, find someplace quiet to rest. Crovax will come 
looking for you." 

"Speaking of that..." Ertai urged her to come closer. 
Belbe knelt beside the stretcher. "We must both escape! 
You have the means—" 

"Shh." She covered his mouth with her hand. "When 
the time comes, the door will open. But there is a part I 
must play here." 

She dismissed the servants and hurried to the Dream 
Halls. As she neared the entrance, she found the corridors 
clogged with tense, eager troops. What seemed like the 
entire garrison was crowded into the outlying passages, and 
it took some time for her to work her way through the mass 
of heavily-armed soldiers. By the time Belbe reached the 

353 



Nemesis 

foyer, she found Greven supervising the palace guards in 
setting up a battering ram. An iron double A-frame had 
been brought in, and a massive bronze-headed ram hung by 
chains from the frame. 

Kneeling beside Greven was a captured rebel soldier, a 
young Vec with his arms pinioned behind his back, 
bleeding from untended side and scalp wounds. Crovax, 
still in his battle-soiled white outfit, stood nearby with a 
contingent of fifty guards, ready to storm the Dream Halls 
once the doors were breached. 

At the count of three, the guards swung the battering 
ram back, then slammed it against the black doors. The 
ram bounced off, and the rebound threw the battering crew 
to the floor. Greven ground his teeth in disgust. 

"Again!" he bellowed. 

Twenty stout men grasped the handles on the ram and 
drew it back. Prepared for the shock this time, none of 
them fell down, but the ram made just as little impression 
on the door as last time. 

"Keep going!" 

While the guards vainly pounded, Belbe made her way 
to Greven's side. 

In between the dull booming of the ram, she asked him, 
"What are the doors made of?" 

"Some metal of Volrath's making." 

"Flowstone?" 

"No, Excellency. The lock mechanism is made of 
flowstone, but the rebels have barred the doors from the 
inside. Crovax tried to will the doors open, but they are 
impervious to his commands." 

Twenty-six fruitless blows were struck, then Greven 
ordered the winded guardsmen to stand down. A fresh 
team formed to take their place, but Crovax had a different 
idea. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Would Your Excellency have a go?" he said. 

"I'm not strong enough to batter down those doors." 

"No," he said, "but you're strong enough to use this." 

A soldier passed him the Phyrexian plasma discharger 
she'd hidden behind the throne. He smiled ironically when 
she took the weapon from him. Belbe cradled the heavy 
gun in her arms. 

Crovax fixed her with a stare. "It won't work on me, 
you know. I can absorb the energy of its blast. That's how I 
can handle the powerstones bare-handed." 

Belbe swung around and fired the discharger at the 
doors. No one was ready, and the resulting explosion 
scattered troops in all directions. When the smoke cleared, 
the doors were not even marred. Crovax seemed impressed. 

"A very useful substance," he said. "I wonder if Volrath 
could be persuaded to share the secret of its composition?" 

Belbe tossed the discharger to him. She turned to 
Greven. "I want you to withdraw your men. Clear an area 
ten yards out from the doors. Leave the rebel prisoner with 
me." 

He didn't question why she wanted this, he simply 
obeyed and ordered the soldiers back to the mouths of the 
converging corridors. The battering ram was dragged clear 
and abandoned. Belbe helped the semi-conscious Vec 
warrior to stand. A hard knock on the head had not only 
laid open his scalp, it dulled his wits. "What's your name?" 
she asked. "Sivi... Liin Sivi." 

"Isn't that a female name?" 

She raised her head slightly and peered at Belbe. 
"You're the first one to notice." 

"That's all right. Liin Sivi, you'll soon be reunited with 
your friends." 

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Nemesis 

Belbe ushered the dazed rebel fighter to Crovax. "Your 
Highness," she said, using his title for the first time. "Take 
your storming squad back, too." 

"Why?" 

"I mean to persuade the rebels to come out," she said. 
"I'll give them their wounded comrade as a token of trust. 
But they won't budge if they see your men poised to strike." 

"You no longer command here." 

Belbe smoothed the hair back from her face. Her arms 
felt leaden, her fingers were numb. Her healing capacity 
was reacting poorly to her many accumulated wounds. 

"Do this, Crovax. It will cost you nothing. There's no 
way out of the Dream Halls, as you well know. This Vec 
woman will be just as much a prisoner inside as she is out 
here. If I can talk the rebels out, it will save lives and 
trouble." 

He looked past her. "Lives are cheap fodder," he said. 
"But it would be a shame to ruin those fine doors before I 
can ask Volrath how they were made ... all right, Belbe." 
He pointedly dropped her title. "You have my leave to try." 

The storming squad faced about and marched back to 
the line of flowbot lifts. Crovax followed, the discharger 
hanging loosely from one hand. 

Belbe and Sivi approached the imposing black doors 
cautiously. Belbe rapped quietly on an ornate panel. 

* * * * * 

On the other side, Shamus flinched at the unexpectedly 
civil knock. 

"Brother!" he hissed. "Someone's knocking at the 
door!" 

Eladamri shoved the paper scrap in his shirt. He stood 
close to the panel. "Who's there?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Belbe. The emissary." 

He flushed with sudden emotion. "What do you want?" 

"You're trapped in there. There's no way out. I've come 
to help you." 

Medd, Shamus, and Eladamri exchanged startled 
expressions. Takara roused herself from her gloom and 
quietly joined the group at the door. 

"Why should you help us?" Eladamri questioned. 
"Wherever I come from, I'm flesh like you. I no longer 
believe in my masters' goals. The people of Rath deserve to 
live in freedom." 

Eladamri clutched Shamus's arm. "Find Kireno," he 
hissed. "Get him here at once!" Shamus dashed away. "Can 
you hear me? Did you hear what I said?" 

"I heard you," said the elf. "What proof do you offer of 
your sincerity?" 

"I've convinced Greven and Crovax to withdraw their 
men from the door. I have one of your comrades with me. 
She says her name is Sivi. If you open the door, only the 
two of us will enter." 

There followed a frantic argument among Medd, 
Takara, and Eladamri. If it meant saving Liin Sivi, the Dal 
warrior wanted to take the chance the emissary was telling 
the truth. Takara would have none of it, and Eladamri said 
nothing but brooded over the face he knew was on the 
other side of the door. 

"How will you save us?" Eladamri asked, once the 
arguments cooled. "If you're relying on safe conduct grants 
by Greven and Crovax, forget it. We're not trusting our 
lives to such faithless villains." 

"Greven and Crovax know nothing of what I'm doing. 
Let me in, and I'll explain." 

The rebel fighters came running to Eladamri. He hastily 
explained the situation. 

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Nemesis 

"Do you trust this woman?" asked Kireno. 

"No, but I intend to face her. There's something about 
her you should know. She's my daughter, you see. Or was." 

"How did this happen?" asked Takara. 

"I don't know. It's some awful ploy of Volrath's, I 
believe." 

"Eladamri," Belbe called. "Time is short. Let me in." 

He grasped the floor bolt. "Stand ready. There may be 
treachery." 

* * * * * 

The door opened a few inches. Ten yards away, Crovax 
leveled the discharger. He'd discovered that Belbe's story 
about it not firing for anyone but her was a lie. His earlier 
failure was simply a case of not knowing what button to 
push. He'd remedied his ignorance since then. 

Eladamri's eye met Belbe's. "Send in Sivi." 

Belbe steadied the Vec warrior and eased her into the 
gap. 

"Now give me your hand," he said. 

Belbe raised her right hand. 

Crovax squinted through the sight pins at the back of 
Belbe's skull. Greven saw the evincar raise the weapon and 
take aim at her. 

"Stop!" cried the warrior. 

In one smooth motion, Eladamri jerked Belbe through. 
She stumbled, which was fortunate; in the next second a 
searing blast of plasma hit the door. The substance burst 
with a loud crackle, and glowing fragments showered in all 
directions. Yelling with alarm, Medd and Kireno shoved 
the door shut, and Shamus snapped the bolts back in place. 

* * * * * 


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Paul B.Thompson 

Belbe stumbled against Eladamri, but instead of 
catching her, he tripped her with his outstretched foot. She 
landed hard on her belly. 

"I knew there'd be treachery," Eladamri said coldly. 
"Your marksman missed me." 

Belbe got up, and the elf backhanded her. She fell 
again. Eladamri was about to repeat the blow when Takara 
stayed his hand. 

"She may have no other value than as a hostage," said 
Takara. "But she's no use at all dead." 

Belbe stood and shouted, "Why do you hate me so? Is it 
because I represent the overlords whom you fight?" 

"I don't know your overlords," said Eladamri. "All I 
know is this world and the evil men who rule it. Those 
men decreed my family should be extinguished. I am the 
only one of my line who still lives. 

"Perhaps you really don't know, but you were once my 
daughter. Her name was Avila. She was killed on the 
orders of Volrath and her body stolen. That was five weeks 
ago. How long have you been here?" 

"I've been on Rath three weeks. Before that, on 
Phyrexia, two weeks..." Belbe looked at her hands, touched 
her own face. "Why would the overlords command Volrath 
to do such a thing?" 

"It's very plain. By murdering my child, they hoped to 
terrorize me into submission. If that failed, they counted on 
me becoming unmanned by the sight of my dear daughter 
commanding the enemy host." 

You are the instrument of our study. The words of Abcaldro 
filled her with sudden loathing. 

"I came to help you!" she said. "Volrath returned 
without warning. He fought Crovax and lost. Crovax is 
now evincar, and as long as he reigns, no one is safe— 
friend, foe, ally, or neutral." 

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Nemesis 

"Tell them about Dominaria," said Takara. "Tell them 
what's going to happen when this world and that one join." 

Belbe backed away from the rebels. "You know about 
the invasion?" 

"Lady Takara was kind enough to explain it to us," 
Eladamri said. "I notice you didn't mention it." 

"I've taken care of that! It won't happen so long as I 
remain on Rath!" 

* * * * * 

The elf drew his sword. His heart was pounding so 
loudly he thought they must be able to hear it. The enemy 
with his daughter's face edged away. He could not bear to 
see her like this, her mind empty of memories, her face 
mockingly free of a daughter's love. That she wore the 
colors of his blood foes, the livery of her own murderers, 
was the most unendurable fact of all. 

"Wait, O Eladamri!" Kireno pleaded, trying to hold him 
back. He ignored him and raised his sword. Belbe turned 
and ran. 

Thirty yards down the concourse, she stopped and faced 
the oncoming elf. His attack was clumsy, and she easily 
avoided it. 

Belbe grasped Eladamri by his cuirass and threw him to 
the floor. She planted her foot on the wrist of his sword 
hand and plucked the weapon from his fingers. In one deft 
motion she snapped the blade over her knee and let the 
pieces clatter to the floor. 

"The time for swords is past," she said. "I'm not your 
child, Eladamri. It's true I was made in the workshops of 
Phyrexia. I don't doubt I was made to resemble your lost 
child. It would suit my masters' purpose perfectly to use 
your loved one's face against you, but I had no choice in 

360 



Paul B.Thompson 

the matter, no more than you chose the face you were born 
with. 

"I've come here to undo the cause for which I was 
created. I can get you out of here safely, if you want. That's 
all I'm offering." 

He sat up stiffly. "On what conditions?" 

"No conditions." 

The rest of the rebels, including Sivi, leaning on 
Medd's shoulder, surrounded them. 

"And how do you propose to get us out of here?" Takara 
asked, her voice dripping with venom. 

"I have an emergency exit. Let me show you." 

She slipped by Kireno and Takara and made her way to 
the fourth pilaster on the left side of the hall. The floor was 
littered with Volrath's shattered dreams, and Belbe's feet 
crushed the brittle shards to dust. 

At the base of the half-column was a row of decorative 
studs. She pressed the third one from the left side, and a 
panel popped open, revealing a deep recess four feet high. 

They crowded around. Two large boxes were stowed 
inside. Belbe dragged them out. The tall metal carton she 
tore open with her bare hands, exposing an intricately 
machined device three and a half feet tall and about ten 
inches thick. It had a square base, tall cylindrical sides 
ribbed with metal tubing, and a transparent dome on top. 

"A weapon?" asked Kireno. 

Takara's eyes shone. "No," she said, smiling. "It's a 
portal device." 

"You've seen one before?" Belbe said. 

"My father has used them in times past. This is quite a 
small one." 

Belbe admitted it was. "It was provided to me for special 
purposes only. If any of Weatherlight's crew or their 

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Nemesis 

equipment came into my hands, I was supposed to send 
them to Phyrexia for closer examination." 

The other box contained a single powerstone. Belbe 
inserted it into the base of the unit, explaining it had just 
enough power to transmit four hundred pounds of material 
to another plane. 

"Four hundred pounds!" Medd protested. "All of us 
together weigh a lot more than that!" 

"I'm not going," Belbe explained. "As for the rest of 
you, you'll have to work out your own arrangements." 

She took out the portal control unit from her belt and 
clicked the activator. The dome atop the portal device 
flickered to life. 

"Stand back," she said. "It will throw the doorway 
across this axis." 

The rebels watched in awe as the machine began to 
drone. The air between them and the far end of the Dream 
Halls shimmered and thickened, gradually losing its normal 
transparency. A square seven feet high slowly formed out of 
gray mist and flashes of light, like lightning in a fogbank. 
Medd went around the edge of the square. It was as thin as 
paper and opaque from both sides. 

"Do we go now?" asked Kireno. 

"It hasn't reached travel potential yet," Belbe said. "It 
may take another quarter hour before the door is open. 
Then I have to calibrate the transmitter." 

"What?" 

She smiled. "Choose your destination." 

"Skyshroud!" Medd said. "Send us to the Eye of Korai!" 

Belbe fiddled with the tiny dials on her control unit. 
Ripples of color sprayed across the gray square. 

"You must understand," she said emphatically. "A 
portal is a transplanar connection only. I cannot send you 

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elsewhere on Rath. You'll be going to another plane— 

another world." 

She let this astonishing revelation sink in. 

Sivi roused herself. "Will we ever be able to come back 
to Rath?" 

"I don't know. What I do know is if you remain here 
you'll die, and the cause you've fought for will suffer a 
terrible loss." 

"Whatever happens, Eladamri must go," Medd said. 
"Are we agreed on that?" Sivi, Kireno, and Shamus 
solemnly concurred. Takara chewed her lip and said 
nothing. 

"I'll never be able to live with myself if I leave anyone 
behind," said the elf gravely. "Is there no other choice?" 

"The unit will transmit four hundred pounds, no more," 
Belbe said. "Anything exceeding the power limit will not 
go through. The consequences for a living being would be 
disastrous." 

"You mean, a person might arrive without their legs or 
head?" asked Shamus. 

"Exactly so." 

Belbe finished her power adjustments. The portal 
square was now brilliant blue, free of ripples or fog. She 
announced the portal was stable, and all she needed was a 
destination to align it with. 

A long pause ensued. Finally Eladamri said, 
"Dominaria." 

Takara's eyes widened in surprise. "Why there?" 

"You told us our ancestors came from there. That means 
there are people there like us, including, I presume, elves. 
Dominaria is the target of Phyrexian aggression, and people 
there should be warned. I'll see to it they know what's 
coming." 

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He faced the azure square. "A strange woman told me 
things not long ago, things I didn't understand. Prophecies 
... I would be the savior of a world I'd never been to. A 
door would be offered to me, and I must enter it. I believe 
the Oracle en-Vec saw me going to Dominaria. So I will 
go." 

Belbe set the coordinates for Rath's parallel world. The 
patient blue door began to flash and flicker again as the 
barrier between the planes was subverted. 

* * * * * 

Ertai jumped up from the infuser. He'd dialed in a 
double dose of dark energy, and got off the crystal platform 
bursting with newfound vigor. He'd had no time to warn 
the four servants who'd brought him to the laboratory. A 
silent wave of energy washed over them, transmuting them 
in minutes. They were now flapping around the room on 
fleshy wings or clinging to the walls with multiple pairs of 
legs. As he lay on the infuser and the dark glow flooded his 
anguished mind, the truth had burst upon him like a bolt 
from Belbe's plasma discharger. 

She'd hidden her portal device in the Dream Halls. It 
was the perfect place to hide it. The ordinary inhabitants of 
the Citadel never went there, as they feared Volrath even 
in his absence. Crovax thought the halls were a vain, 
empty monument, so he never deigned to go there either. 
By luck, or fate, the rebels had chosen this room for their 
last stand—and Belbe was going in to "talk" to Eladamri.... 

He had the good fortune to encounter Greven first. 
Crovax might have slain him on sight. 

"Dread Lord!" he said, actually grasping the fearsome 
warrior by his broad shoulders. "Has Belbe gone into the 
Dream Halls yet?" 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"Some time ago. It's been very quiet since." 

Ertai was frantic. He could feel the weight of death or 
permanent exile on Rath settling over his shoulders. Fear, 
and perhaps too much decadent energy, warped his morals 
and loosened his tongue. 

"We must do something, Dread Lord!" he said. "She has 
a portal device in there!" Which I need to use! was the part 
he dared not say out loud. 

Greven shoved him away. "You'd better not be lying, 
Boy!" 

"Why would I lie? We have to stop her!" 

Greven roused his idle troops and had them stand to 
arms. "Come," he said, taking Ertai roughly by the collar. 
"We must report this to the evincar." 

The stir among the soldiers spread ahead of Greven, 
and by the time he found Crovax sitting in an elaborate 
chair drawn from the flowstone, the new Evincar of Rath 
knew something was amiss. His expression hardened when 
he saw Ertai. 

"What's this corpse doing here?" he said. 

"Your Highness, the emissary brought a portal device 
with her from Phyrexia. According to the boy, she hid it in 
the Dream Halls," explained Greven. 

Crovax bolted from the chair, which subsided into the 
floor. "A portal? Are you sure?" 

"She told me so when we ... I believe her," Ertai replied, 
his face burning. 

"Would she use it to help Eladamri?" Crovax stopped 
himself. "It doesn't matter. Everyone in that room is hereby 
condemned to death," he announced. "Let's put an end to 
this game." 

The chosen storming squad fell in step behind Crovax, 
Greven, and Ertai. The evincar strode to within a dozen 
paces of the locked doors. 

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"Will you summon them to surrender?" said Ertai. 

"Why should I? They're dead as of this moment." 

Crovax handed the plasma discharger to a guardsman, 
then pressed his palms together in an awful parody of 
prayer. He slowly raised his hands, spreading them wider as 
they rose. 

A large hump appeared in the floor. Soldiers fell back as 
the cubic shape mounted higher. So much of the floor was 
drawn into the rising shape that the floor joists appeared as 
if shoals around the edges of the room. The summoned 
form took on the shape of a truncated pyramid fifteen feet 
high and twelve feet wide at the base. 

"What's he—?" Ertai's question was cut off when the 
pyramid heaved itself forward and slammed against the 
doors. The entire Citadel quaked from the shock. 

* * * * * 

The sudden impact startled the rebels. "Crovax is tired 
of waiting," Eladamri said. "Is the portal ready?" 

Belbe made some hasty calculations. "No, it's not fixed 
on the destination yet." 

The massive ram hit the doors again. Loose dream 
catching machinery rained down, and for the first time the 
huge doors showed damage. The center was dented inward 
eight inches, and the gap at the top and bottom was 
admitting more of the bright light from outside. 

"How much longer?" Takara asked anxiously. 

"I don't know exactly—the unit's never been used 
before. It has no settings to compare to." 

Eladamri grabbed Belbe by the hair and jerked her head 
back. "Hurry," he said. "If I find out you're delaying—" 

"You're delaying me now," she said. He released her. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The remaining rebel fighters placed themselves 
between the doors and the portal with drawn swords. Sivi 
tried to take her place beside Medd, but he gently pushed 
her away. 

"I'm still good enough to fight with you!" she said. Her 
words were slurred and her movements shaky. 

"You've had a hard knock on the head, Sivi," Medd 
replied. "You can hardly stand. Go with Eladamri. He 
needs someone to protect him." 

"I won't leave you here to die!" 

A third powerful impact caused more debris to shower 
down from the heights of the Dream Halls. The heavy 
shocks caused the portal unit to topple over. Belbe let out a 
yelp of horror. 

She and Takara returned the device upright. 

Takara was concerned. "Is it damaged?" 

Belbe ran the test commands on two sides of her 
control unit. All the responses were normal. "No! But we'd 
better brace it— another fall could ruin everything." 

* * * * * 

Outside, Crovax was reeling. The battle with Volrath 
had depleted his strength, and the effort required to raise 
and move several tons of flowstone strained him to his 
limits. He gathered his power for a fourth attack, but he 
couldn't finish it. The giant battering ram froze inches from 
the doors when Crovax passed out. He pitched face down 
on the floor. No one attempted to catch him. 

Greven closed the visor on his helmet. "Tenth 
Company, to the right! Sixth Company, on the left. At the 
double, charge!" 

Hurrahing, the soldiers swarmed against the doors. 

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* * * * * 


The feral shouting from the storming troops chilled 
Belbe's artificial blood. She tapped in the final coordinates, 
and the transplanar unit whined loudly. The portal locked 
onto a destination, and an image formed, filling the square 
top to bottom, side to side. 

Weeping silently, Takara walked toward the portal. "Is 
that it? Is that Dominaria?" 

The scene through the portal was of a verdant plain, 
green in the lush growth of summer. A few trees dotted the 
rolling savanna. The sky was blue—not so blue as the open 
portal, but a warm, living shade never seen in Rath's gray 
skies. 

Eladamri was transfixed by the beauty of the view. "Is 
that it, Avila?" 

Belbe didn't notice what he called her. "It should be." 

Four hundred men pushed and pounded on the sagging 
doors. Medd, Kireno, and Shamus clasped hands. The 
interlaced hinges of the right-hand door began to squeal as 
the metal was torn apart. 

Takara could stand it no longer. She pushed Eladamri 
aside and ran at the portal. Where she touched it, the 
image distorted in concentric ripples, like a pool of water 
after a pebble falls in. Then she was gone. Half a second 
later Belbe saw Takara's back as she ran through the chest 
high grass, away from the open portal. Away from Rath. 

"Go, Eladamri," Belbe said. 

"Not yet. I have something for you." 

"What?" 

The upper hinge gave way and crashed to the floor. The 
right hand door slowly fell, twisting the lower hinge as it 
went. Soldiers and guards, fired by their success, didn't wait 
for the door to fall, but clambered over it. Kireno shouted a 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Vec war cry and ran at them. Shamus followed, leaving 
Medd alone to ward off attackers trying to reach the portal. 

Kireno stabbed two soldiers before they could leap clear 
of the door, but more poured over the sides, and he was 
soon enveloped in hostile blades. He traded cuts with foes 
on two fronts for several breathtaking seconds, then he was 
cut down from behind. A swarm of Rathi soldiers trampled 
the fallen rebel and overran Shamus. The nimble young 
Dal drew off at least forty guards as he retreated to the wall. 
He fought on, killing two and wounding four before the 
press became too great. He was impaled on no less than six 
swords at once and pinned to the wall. The soldiers drew 
back, leaving Shamus dead at the base of one of Volrath's 
pilasters. 

"Eladamri, hurry!" Belbe cried. She wasn't armed, but 
she was prepared to use her considerable skills to safeguard 
his departure. 

She watched the elf remove the wooden fetish from 
around his neck. It was a knobby little carving of a sprite, 
an ancestral spirit revered by elderly elves. Eladamri wasn't 
religious. The fetish had another purpose. 

He snapped the figure's waist. The fetish was hollow. 
Inside the cavity was a small glass vial, closed with a cut 
glass plug and sealed with wax. It was the vial left in 
Avila's bed the night she died. 

Medd shouted several words to Sivi, who was also 
unarmed but ready to defend the portal. She watched as 
Medd was engulfed in a storm of swords and shields. He 
died as she looked on, but he bought his leader a few more 
precious seconds. 

Belbe backed away from the melee until she bumped 
into Eladamri. "What are you waiting for?" she cried. "Go! 
Will you go?" 

"After you, Avila." 

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Nemesis 

This time she heard him. She looked at him with 
genuine pity. "I can't go," she said. 

He looked quite calm as he pulled the plug from the 
vial and flung the contents at her. There were only a few 
drops of death elixir in it. Most of it hit her armor 
harmlessly, but a single droplet landed on her cheek. 

Belbe's hearing instantly failed. Her vision blurred, and 
when she wiped her eyes with her hands, she smeared the 
tiny droplet across her face. Her muscles locked, and 
searing pain shot through her entrails. An ordinary person 
would have died the moment the elixir touched her, but 
Belbe's powerful systems had more resistance. She was 
doomed, and she knew it. One by one her bodily functions 
folded up, ceasing to work. She was already deaf. Her vision 
was contracting to a narrow point. 

Sivi lurched into her line of sight, and Belbe saw 
Eladamri push her backward into the portal. The bucolic 
scene of another world rippled, then settled to show Sivi 
on her back in the tall grass. She stared back through the 
portal at the two elves. 

Belbe's knees failed. She slumped to the floor facing the 
portal. She shivered violently as her borrowed life fought 
with the toxin. Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came 
out. 

"For the peace of my soul and yours, this had to be," 
Eladamri said. With a final knowing nod, he stepped 
through the waiting portal. 

Greven and his soldiers had reached the transplanar 
device. One zealous guard tried to follow Eladamri by 
jumping into the portal, but there was not enough energy 
left to effect his transfer. Sixty pounds of the man landed in 
the grass beside Sivi— head, shoulders, one arm, helmet, 
part of a breastplate. The rest of him, a singed stump, fell 
back on the floor of the Dream Halls. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Its power exhausted, the portal shut down. The pristine 
image of the plain where Takara, Eladamri, and Sivi had 
escaped faded into murky gray mist. Belbe, pale as death 
and with tears streaming down her face, could just make 
out the words on Eladamri's lips. 

"Farewell, Avila." 

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Nemesis 

CODA 


MEMORIAL 

When order was restored to the Dream Halls, Greven 
had his victorious soldiers line up by companies, facing 
each other. There they stood at attention until Crovax, 
recovered from his faint, entered the hall. The dead rebels 
were laid out for his inspection. Crovax gave them a 
cursory glance. Their souls were long departed, and so were 
not available to him. 

Ertai skulked on Crovax's heels, anxiously searching for 
Belbe and the portal device. Looking past the evincar, he 
saw Belbe kneeling on the floor a few yards away, her head 
slumped to her chest. Disdaining the evincar's displeasure, 
he ran ahead of him. "Belbe! Belbe!" 

She didn't move and didn't answer. He touched the 
back of her neck and immediately knew why. Her skin was 
cold as ice. "Belbe ..." He knelt beside her. Her eyes were 
closed, her cheeks still wet. Ertai picked up her hand. Her 
fingertips were already turning black. 

"Dead, is she?" asked Crovax. Ertai nodded dumbly. 
"How was it done? I don't see a wound. I didn't think a 
Phyrexian construct could be killed so easily." 

Ertai blinked through his own tears and spotted a tiny 
glass vial on the floor. Seamed with cracks and empty, it 
smelled like newly mown hay. 

Crovax took the vial from his hand. "I see. I'll have this 
analyzed. Potent poisons are useful things to have." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

The evincar ordered Belbe's body removed, along with 
what remained of the portal machinery. Greven stood by 
awaiting his new master's pleasure. 

"Eladamri is gone," Greven said. 

"Where?" asked Crovax. 

"No one survived to tell us, Your Highness. This device 
of the emissary's may provide information." He placed 
Belbe's portal control in Crovax's hand. 

As soon as Crovax had the vital device, Greven was 
stricken with pounding waves of unimaginable pain. He 
bellowed and fell at Crovax's feet. 

"This is just the beginning," he said. "I have years of 
pain in store for you. You impeded me, thwarted me, aided 
my enemy, and on top of all that, allowed the arch-rebel to 
escape." 

Greven flailed helplessly, retching and beating his 
tormented face on the floor. 

"The only reason I don't kill you is because you'll be 
needed in the coming war." He kicked Greven's head. 
"Besides, having Eladamri exiled to another plane is almost 
as helpful as having him dead—maybe more so. There will 
be no martyr's grave, no brave example for another 
generation of troublemakers." 

He sent two guards to bring Ertai to him. They dragged 
the young sorcerer before Crovax and forced him to lie on 
his belly at the evincar's feet. 

"Now, what shall I do with you?" 

"I don't care." 

Crovax drove a toe into Ertai's ribs. He moaned and 
doubled over. 

"Don't play hero with me, Boy. I can make you care 
about anything." His tone relaxed. "But I do owe you, don't 
I?" 

"Owe?" gasped Ertai. 

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Nemesis 

"Don't you think I know you intervened in my duel 
with Volrath? 1 could see your childish spell weighing 
down his blade as easily as he could. No one else on Rath 
practices your brand of archaic magic. Why did you help 
me? I would've thought Volrath would have been more 
your sort of patron." 

"I knew you'd win eventually. I thought if I helped, 
you'd spare Belbe and me." 

"It's too late for the emissary. I suppose her rebel friends 
did her in." He frowned. "A waste of good Phyrexian 
technology, that girl. What were they thinking?" 

He relented on Greven's punishment. The suffering 
warrior couldn't even stand after his treatment. 

"As a reward for your unsolicited help, Ertai, I'll spare 
your life. In return, you will serve me. Do you agree?" 

A faint spark of hope illuminated the profound darkness 
in Ertai's heart. "I have many talents, Your Highness. 
Perhaps I can demonstrate them to you." 

"We'll see. In the meantime, I have use for your 
influence with the flowstone." 

"My influence is nothing compared to yours, Sire." 

Crovax smiled, and everyone in the vicinity flushed 
with fear. "For my purpose, your skills will be enough." 

* * * * * 

In a remote part of the Stronghold, the flowstone 
factory began a new day's production. The output 
accelerator and the flowstone gauge conferred, as was their 
designed custom, on the efficiency of the previous day's 
production. 

"Yesterday's output was 648,922,765 tons," the 
accelerator said. "This is approximately fifty percent of our 
total capacity." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"It is one hundred percent," countered the gauge. 

"Forty days ago we produced 1.2 billion tons of 
flowstone," said the accelerator. "That represented an effort 
of 108 percent of our capacity. How can 648,922,765 tons 
in the previous daily cycle be 100 percent?" 

"It cannot," said the gauge. "Increase production to 1.1 
billion tons in this cycle." 

Lava input tubes at the very bottom of the Citadel were 
switched on. Prodded to full capacity, the factory rumbled 
into high gear. The pitch of production increased. 

* * * * * 

There were a lot of bodies to dispose of. The moggs 
dragged a heavy cart to the death pits and eased the bodies 
in one at a time to avoid splashing the deadly black tar on 
themselves. In went Dorian il-Dal, former chamberlain of 
the palace. In went Tharvello, promising young sergeant. 
In went nine young men of the Dal and Vec, still clad in 
their borrowed Rathi uniforms. 

The moggs hooted happily as the last of the bodies sank 
into the sable ooze. Though there were many bodies yet to 
dispose of, their shift was done. They had a half-day off. A 
holiday had been declared by the new evincar. 

* * * * * 

Tant Jova was dying. She was past one hundred-twenty 
years old, and all the skills of her clan's healers could no 
longer stave off the assault of old age. It was whispered in 
camp the real cause of her final illness was the fact that 
Eladamri and Liin Sivi never returned from their last raid. 

Lying in her tent on a hummock in the Skyshroud 
Forest, Tant Jova called two people to her bedside, Darsett 

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Nemesis 

en-Dal and Gallan. The wealthy Dal merchant and the 
young elf warrior stood on either side of Jova's simple 
pallet. 

"Long life to you, Tant Jova," said Darsett, pressing a 
hand to his chest. 

"Rubbish," the old woman rasped. "My time left is 
measured in heartbeats. If I had a long life ahead of me, I 
wouldn't be lying here, would I?" 

"What can we do, Tant Jova?" asked Gallan. 

"I want you to pledge to continue the fight against the 
Stronghold. I know the night seems dark and long, but like 
all nights, it will end. Lead the free people of Rath into the 
morning." 

"We'll keep the fight going," Darsett said. "Though I 
don't know what the point is now. We have a new evincar, 
worse than the last. The airship flies again, raining death 
on our people from above. The Stronghold seems mightier 
than ever, and we've lost Eladamri and many of our finest 
young warriors." 

"The point is to fight, O Darsett," Tant Jova said, 
taking his broad hand. "Eladamri started his rebellion 
twenty years ago. You and I have been fighting just five 
months. If we can resist even when the enemy is strongest, 
we will prevail in time." 

"Our agents report good progress recruiting in the 
Stronghold," Gallan said. "They haven't forgotten what 
Crovax did to their families." 

The old Vec woman closed her eyes. "He dug his own 
grave that day," she whispered. "The time will come when 
all the righteous souls of the murdered will rise up and 
bring the tyrant Crovax to just retribution...." 

"Sleep now," Gallan urged. "Be at peace. Darsett and I 
will continue the battle." 

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Paul B.Thompson 

Her sunken eyes closed. Gallan and Darsett slipped out, 
leaving the Vec matriarch to dream a last dream of 
freedom. 

* * * * * 

It was dusk. The two rebel leaders walked out from 
under the trees and looked up at the darkening sky. 

"Have you noticed the odd colors in the sky at daybreak 
and dusk?" asked Darsett. "Sometimes the sky looks quite 
blue." 

"It's strange," Gallan agreed. "But no stranger than 
some other tales I've heard. I'm in contact with elves in 
other parts of the forest, and with Vec nomads who range 
as far away as the Sawtooth Hills and the Weblands. They 
speak of phantom cities appearing on the plain at dusk, and 
ghostly forests and mountains visible just before daybreak." 

"What does it mean?" 

The young elf shook his head. "I'm no seer, but these 
signs must be portents of coming changes—changes that 
may alter Rath forever." 

Darsett shoved his hands in his pockets. Loose coins 
jingled there. "I went to Eladamri's first meeting because I 
hated the high taxes Volrath made me pay," he mused. 
"Five months later, I find myself running a damned 
revolution and puzzling over mysterious omens. Does that 
make sense?" 

Gallan couldn't tell him. At that moment, he saw the 
northern sky shot through with vivid blue. The low clouds 
were illuminated from some unknown source and glowed a 
sanguinary red. Such colors were unnatural on Rath, and 
their sudden, radical beauty left both Dal and elf 
speechless. 

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Nemesis 

* * * * * 


For reasons known only to himself, Crovax chose to 
give Belbe a sumptuous state funeral. The Stronghold was 
too confining for the spectacle Crovax planned, so the 
funeral pyre was erected outside the crater, on the smooth 
southern plain. The entire army of Rath was summoned to 
attend, each soldier with a new black mantle and black 
headbands tied around their helmets. Delegations from the 
Dal, Vec, and Kor were required to attend, and they did, 
clad in suitable mourning dress. The actual pyre was 
surrounded by over five thousand civilian onlookers. Many 
of the civilians wondered why a sturdy post had been set in 
the ground alongside the pyre and why it was fitted with 
heavy chains. Rumor had it an execution was going to be 
staged during the Phyrexian emissary's funeral. 

The soldiers and civilians arrived at their designated 
places at the specified time, an hour before dusk. They 
waited and watched the causeway for signs of the funeral 
procession. To fill the long minutes, conversation turned to 
the strange colors people were seeing in the sky, and to the 
ghostly visions that appeared with increasing frequency at 
the start and end of each day. 

It was unsettling, but then so was the new evincar. 
Unlike Volrath, Crovax made no pretense of royal 
manners. He was brisk and efficient, dispensing justice and 
injustice with equal facility. His first act after ordering 
Belbe's funeral was to purge over six hundred courtiers from 
the Citadel. They simply vanished without trial or trace. 

The first visceral notes of a distant drumbeat filtered 
down the causeway. The restive crowd quieted, and the 
massed ranks of soldiers came to attention. 

A column of palace guards appeared in full regalia, 
bearing flagstaffs instead of their usual polearms. Each staff 

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Paul B.Thompson 

carried a black oriflamme, hanging limply in the still air. 
Behind the guardsmen came a group of drummers, fifty 
strong, beating a steady rhythm. After the drummers came 
the torchbearers, sixty in all. They wore white tabards over 
black, and each carried a four-foot long blazing brand. 

On the heels of the torchbearers was the emissary 
herself, borne on a bier made of real wood. Belbe had been 
wrapped head to toe in sparkling white bandages. Only her 
pallid face was exposed. Her Phyrexian armor was piled at 
her feet. The entire bier weighed five hundred pounds and 
required eight stout guardsmen to carry it. 

So far, the spectacle had been impressive but 
predictable. What followed Belbe's body made everyone 
gasp with surprise. Volrath—alive and in chains. 

Everyone assumed Volrath had been killed by Crovax 
soon after his defeat, yet here he was in all his lost glory. In 
the weeks since Crovax's ascension to the throne, 
technicians had been working on Volrath. They had 
removed—with varying degrees of success—most of his 
Phyrexian grafts and implants until all that was left was a 
shell of the godlike being Volrath had been. His beautiful 
body was gone, and Vuel's short, homely one was all that 
was left. Dressed only in a loin cloth, Volrath, properly 
called Vuel again, still managed to walk with glacial 
dignity, his head held high. 

Some people bowed when he passed. Their names were 
taken by Crovax's police agents scattered through the 
crowd. Respect for the defeated was forbidden, and the 
punishment was death. Next in the procession came the 
Corps of Sergeants in their bright armor, swords held 
rigidly in front of their stern faces. A hooded executioner 
walked in their wake, and a final contingent of palace 
guards brought up the rear. But where was Greven il-Vec? 
Where was the evincar? 

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The first company of guards dispersed to form a ring 
around the pyre and post. The drummers marched past the 
site and halted. A ring of fire encircled the funeral bed as 
the torchbearers spread out single file around it. The 
pallbearers entered the circle of fire with swaying step and 
carefully placed the bier atop the sturdy pyramid of 
kindling. They withdrew outside the cordon of guards. 

Vuel entered the ring and paused for a moment at the 
foot of Belbe's bier. He bowed deeply, then walked to the 
post and snapped the manacles around his own hands. 

The executioner took his place beside Vuel. He carried 
no ax or sword, just a small leather bag. 

The final contingent of guards halted in the path, 
blocking it. The drummers carried on for a short while, 
then finished their march with a flourish of batons. Silence 
engulfed the scene. 

Overhead, the drone of aerial engines announced the 
arrival of Predator. Greven was now accounted for. The 
airship emerged from the Stronghold and slowly circled the 
funeral site. The sky was unusually free of clouds, and no 
wind stirred the pewter dusk. 

There was a flash near the pyre. Some of the spectators 
thought the fire had been lit, but it was Crovax's arrival. 
Most people had never seen him teleport before, and he 
was gratified by the awe rippling through the crowd. The 
evincar was resplendent in new white armor and helmet. 
Even his leather gloves were white. 

"People of Rath!" he boomed. "This a solemn occasion. 
We are here to celebrate death—and celebrate we should, 
because death is as essential to life as food, warmth, or 
breath. Death is the great measuring rod against which we 
gauge our lives, and before us today are two whose lives 
have come to their end. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

"The emissary of our overlords accomplished much in 
her short life. She should always be remembered for 
bridging the awkward and dangerous interregnum between 
my reign and that of the previous evincar." 

He took a torch from the nearest bearer and raised it 
high. "Hail, Belbe! Emissary of the overlords!" 

The guards repeated Crovax's cry, and the crowd took it 
up. Crovax thrust his flaming brand into the pyre, and the 
other torch bearers followed suit. The timbers had been 
soaked in volatile spirits and caught fire with great speed. 

Crovax approached the executioner. "How are you, 
Ertai?" he asked. 

Off came the hood. "Fine, sire. It is a magnificent 
evening." 

The once cocky sorcerer had been changed. 
Modifications, not unlike Greven's, had made the man 
taller and wider. From under his heavy robe, Ertai produced 
not two but four arms! And his face was partially concealed 
from view by a metallic mask and shoulder plating. Only 
his forehead, eyes, and the bridge of his nose could be seen 
by members of the crowd. The upper end of the control rod 
implanted in Ertai's spine was also visible. The incision was 
still inflamed, but the yellow metal rod clearly showed 
through the boy's livid skin. 

Crovax gave the order. "Prepare the injection." 

Ertai knelt and opened the bag. There were two objects 
inside: a tall vial of silver liquid and a large metal syringe. 
He broke the seal on the vial and dipped the needle into 
the heavy liquid. 

"This will take a few seconds," he said apologetically. 

"Do the job right," Crovax said. He stood face to face 
with Vuel and said, "Any last words? Go ahead, speak your 
mind." He'd had Vuel's tongue cut out the night before. 

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"Nothing to say? That's refreshing. Looking back at your 

reign, I have to say you talked entirely too much." 

Ertai stood. "The preparation is ready, Sire." 

"Proceed." 

Ertai pushed the syringe plunger to expel any air. Silver 
droplets squirted from the needle. Where the droplets hit 
the ground, they formed tiny spheres that spun madly in 
place. 

Vuel's eyes widened. 

Ertai jabbed the needle into Vuel's carotid artery. The 
preparation was too dense to pump into an arm or leg vein. 
Vuel's bloodshot eyes bulged as Ertai forced the plunger 
down. He thrashed against his chains, to no avail. When 
the syringe was empty, Ertai jerked it out. 

"Your Highness, it is done. Will you do the honors?" 

Crovax folded his arms across his chest and inhaled 
deeply. "The task is yours. Carry out the sentence." 

Ertai bowed. He stood by Vuel's side and formed the 
command in his mind. The former evincar trembled. His 
head snapped around, and he stared at Ertai in abject 
horror. 

Vuel tore against his manacles as convulsions wracked 
his body. One by one his toenails and fingernails sloughed 
off. The skin of his extremities split, and red blood—no 
longer glistening oil—ran out on the gray ground. His 
joints disintegrated, and as he watched, his fingers fell off, 
joint by joint. 

Liquid flowstone coursed through his veins, obeying 
Ertai's last command: disassemble. The nanomachines 
attacked Vuel from the inside, dismantling his body at a 
cellular level. His knees dissolved and his lower legs 
dropped away, leaving the former master of Rath dangling 
by his manacled wrists. Then his wrists came off, and he 
fell to the ground. 

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Paul B.Thompson 

* * * * * 


Vuel landed face upward. As his ears and nose slid from 
his face, as his teeth bubbled out of his mouth on the last 
breath from his lungs, he saw the ever-gray sky of Rath 
change to perfect, cloudless blue. It was the sky of 
Dominaria, and Vuel, son of Kondo, had returned home at 
last. 

* * * * * 

The fire burned out. Nothing but ashes remained of the 
flesh of Belbe. 

The plain was empty. Vuel was gone. Not even bones 
were left as the implacable flowstone disassembled him 
down to the last gory mote. Ertai alone remained. He 
waited under a sky he knew for the fire to die. When the 
last small flames went out, he waded into the pile of 
cinders that had been Belbe's bier, heedless of hot embers. 
Her metal skeleton was intact, though warped by the pyre's 
intense heat. He found her small skull, smudged and 
blackened but with bright alloy gleaming around the eye 
sockets. He tucked the warm skull under his arm. 

His foot dislodged an unfamiliar object—a black sphere 
about four inches in diameter. He picked it up. It was cold 
to the touch, not hot, and not a speck of ash clung to it. 
The shiny surface was seamless, unmarred. Phyrexian, no 
doubt. Belbe's "lens." 

Even with a control rod in his spine, Ertai was terrified. 
He dropped the black orb and kicked it back into the 
ashes. All he wanted was the skull. He ran back to the 
Stronghold under the stars of Dominaria, praying the lens 
no longer worked. 

383