Part 1.

) Core Set 2013

Chapter 1.) Odric, Master Tactician (Innistrad)
Chapter 2.) Xathrid Gorgon (Shandalar)
Chapter 3.) Chronomaton (Unknown Plane)
Chapter 4.) Krenko, Mob Boss (Ravnica)
Chapter 5.) Threadbare (Unknown Plane)
Chapter 6.) Tarland, Sky Summoner (Shandalar)
Chapter 7.) The Stonekiller Part I (Alara)
Chapter 8.) The Stonekiller Part II (Alara)
Part 2.) Modern Masters
Preparation (Dominaria)
Part 1.) Core Set 2013
Chapter 1.) Odric, Master Tactician (Innistrad)
By Jenna Helland (6/27/12)

A town crier hollered the evening news on the cobblestone street below the open
window. "Execution at Bloodless Wall! Tomorrow at sunrise! The Healers of
Heron are at Child's Wall tomorrow..."

When Odric last looked out the window, it had been early afternoon. Now a cold
mist had settled on Thraben, and the city was cloaked in evening shadows.
Where is the moon? Odric's arm jerked involuntarily, nearly upending his ink jar.
No, he reminded himself. It no longer matters. The phases of the moon were no
longer predictors of life and death now that Avacyn had returned and cleansed
the world. Or at least begun to...

He glanced across the oak table at Grete, his lieutenant, who looked surprised by
his sudden movement. Sir Odric, Master Tactician, Commander of the Gavony
Riders and Recipient of the Moonsilver Accommodation didn't startle easily.

"Sir?" Grete asked.

"Darkness fell," he told her. She glanced out the window, and he saw similar
emotions play across her features. We've spent too many years as prey. Too
many years spent cowering in the shadows.

"There's still no sign of Ludevic," Grete continued, scanning the parchment. "A
miller spotted him near Estwald, but he'd moved on before the cathars could
detain him. So the hunt continues."

Just the thought of the mad alchemist made his headache. Odric leaned back and
pressed his palms against his temples. This was a temporary assignment—one he
had requested in hopes of getting an angel's-eye view of Innistrad. Every
regiment sent in daily dispatches of what they encountered in the field. From
these reports, Odric was piecing together where the Church's power was still
being threatened. But he didn't enjoy sitting in a leather chair in a cathedral
chamber. He was a battlefield man, much better suited to combat maneuvers
than negotiating the politics of the Avacynian Church.
"What of your friends around Hanweir?" Odric asked and was rewarded with a
slight smile from the deadly serious Grete. She'd led an assault against a legion
of ghouls ravaging the moorlands, a success that had earned her the promotion to
second in command.

"We're hunting down the last stragglers. Gisa is being transported from the
Rider's Lock up to Thraben next week."

"Triple the escort," Odric said. "She's caused enough trouble in my lifetime."

Grete nodded and scanned the last dispatch. Only a few more days, and Odric's
administrative duties in Thraben would be done. His time here had been
valuable. He knew that demons were still on the loose, but Avacyn herself was
focused on the Helvault escapees. Necromantic activity still plagued the
moorlands, but nothing like the heyday of Gisa and Geralf's tyranny. Sigarda's
forces were hunting the perpetrators of the Nephalia Massacre. The vampires
had all but slunk back to Stensia. Someday soon, I will purge that province
myself, but first I must be sure that Avacyn's blessings hold.

"The mayor's son in Torbach tumbled down a river bank and broke his leg."

Odric sighed. "Does the mayor of Torbach truly request the Church's assistance
to fix a boy's leg?"

"It says he fell fleeing a... werewolf. He later died of a fever and gangrene."

As Odric pushed himself to his feet, it felt as if a steel trap had closed around his
stomach. Every morning since the Cursemute had rid the land of the lycanthrope
curse, he'd fallen to his knees praising Avacyn's blessing. But in his heart, he
doubted. What if the wolfir reverted to a murderous state? What if the
abominations that had slaughtered so many of his kin returned?

"Rouse our regiment," he told Grete. "It seems our days in Thraben have come to
an abrupt end."

The Mayor of Torbach was a pompous, red-faced administrator who took power
after Avacyn returned. A sheep in fancy clothes, Odric thought. Not a leader
during the darkest hours. The mayor had been ranting at them since they arrived
in his chamber. Grete shifted uncomfortably beside Odric, no doubt wondering
why he was letting this tirade go on so long.

"I demand to know! What is this new devilry? Werewolves walk even during the
half moon? Did you not promise that this curse was lifted from us? These wolfir
may slaughter us even during the daylight?"

"Sir, there is no reason to believe that a wolfir—" Odric said.

"It slaughtered the widow of Bitterheart Hill!" the mayor interrupted. "Destroyed
her cottage just last night! And took its time under her roof. Maybe it slumbered
a bit? Going to cook a hock of meat in her fireplace?"

"The creature was in her cottage?" Odric asked.

"This vile creature is terrorizing my village. Where are the angels? The cathars
waste time building bridges and trimming apple trees and..."

"One more question," Odric interrupted. "Has it attacked other cottages? Or just
the widow's?"

"Cottages, no. But my son! He was just a boy...."

Odric laid his hand on the mayor's shoulder. At his touch, the man abruptly
stopped speaking, and tears brimmed in his brown eyes.

"We will find the monster that killed your son and put its head on a pike," Odric
assured the mayor, who had lost his bluster and seemed to have no more words
for them. Odric and Grete found their own way back to the street where their
horses waited.

"He acted as if all it was our fault," Grete said angrily.

"He's a grieving man," Odric replied. A man who has lost a son to a werewolf, he
thought. Just as I have.
As they rode toward the edge of the village, the red sun dropped low to the
horizon. Above, a sliver of pale moon appeared in the indigo heavens. The
phases of the moon once had been Odric's guiding hand. The shape of the moon
would figure into his battle tactics as much as supply lines and the morale of his
cathars. Odric spent years watching the night sky, noting how the moon touched
the world in unexpected ways. Some seemed trivial. The leaves of the maple
curled downward during a full moon. Others were crucial to survival. Ghouls
moved quicker during a new moon. A waxing moon brought unnatural fighting
among the rank and file. With Avacyn's Cursemute, Odric secretly felt he had
lost one of his tactical advantages. The moon was playing new games, and Odric
had yet to learn the rules.

"What are your thoughts?" Grete asked over the thud of the horses' hooves.

"I knew of the widow who was killed. They called her the Bitterheart Witch.
Remember how he said it stayed in her cottage? Something about her attracted
the monster. We'll set a trap near there."

As they quickened their horses and made toward camp, Odric's eyes fixed on the
pattern of mist around the meek sliver in the sky. Whatever evil was now
manifesting itself, it would stop in the shadow of the widow's' cottage. He would
mount its head on the gates of Thraben.

By midnight, there was no moon at all. He and Grete lay in the undergrowth at
the edge of a clearing. The only light came from a witchbane's orb, a magical
ward against curses that hovered at the edge of the trees. The spell was the
widow's handiwork, from a time before she'd been outcast by the villagers as a
witch. Odric had poured the blood of the widow on the ground below the orb.
Blood he'd taken from her lifeless corpse in the catacombs of the local church.

The strange thing was that when he'd viewed her corpse, he'd seen no signs of
violence on her. There was no evidence she'd been killed by a werewolf attack,
which Odric had assumed after talking with the mayor. She looked peaceful
enough to have died of old age.

A hooting call broke the night's silence. He recognized it as a cathar's signal that
something had passed through the perimeter of scouts he'd placed around the
grove. He glanced at Grete, and she silently stood up and disappeared into the
shadows. Odric moved into a crouching position, waiting for the second signal,
which would confirm if it was natural or unnatural...

The signal came again, urgently. Unnatural, then.

Odric saw it before he heard it. A shadow—much taller than an average man—
stretched across the clearing. He'd fought countless werewolves and none had
moved with such quiet deliberation. Odric glanced up at the inky sky, suddenly
doubting his strategy. But the monstrosity had entered the clearing and was
loping toward the scent of the widow's blood. Whatever was approaching, there
was no time to question the plan. Fear holds no place in faith's battle plan.

Odric shouted to the cathars in the treetops, who cast down the heavy net,
sending the creature's massive bulk onto the forest floor. Odric sprinted toward it
as it struggled under the ropes. He unsheathed his sword as he ran, ready to slice
through ropes and neck in one blow.

"Wait!" screamed Grete, attempting to intercept her commander. "Wait! It has an

axe!"

Odric froze, seeing the massive weapon on the ground behind the monster. Then
he saw the arm—a human arm—a hand, and human eyes, peering out of a
haggard face crisscrossed with sickly black veins.

"In Avacyn's name," Odric thundered. "What are you?"

"I'm weakened, cursed, and no threat to you," it said. "I'm Garruk

Wildspeaker..."

The guttural voice infuriated Odric. Every corpse that had been mutilated by a
werewolf flashed through his memory. He would never forget the raw carnage of
the attacks and the senseless rage that left human bodies in bloody tatters. The
only way Odric could comprehend those murders was if they were done by
mindless beasts. Mindless beasts don't have language or a voice to speak it. And
never a name. Garruk Wildspeaker. Even when Odric killed werewolves in
human form, he never spoke their names. In his mind, the curse stripped them of
any human identity they once possessed.

Odric bashed the blunt end of his sword against the monster's temple, hearing the
crack of skull as it shattered under the weight of his blow. It slumped to the
ground. He yanked the net off the monster and grabbed a handful of its long
matted hair. He yanked it back to expose the bare throat where lifeblood still
pulsed through its unnatural veins.

"Wait!" Grete was at his shoulder.

Odric lifted his sword. One blow to sunder the head from the body.

"It's not a werewolf! Sir, Avacyn's blessings didn't fail us."

He wanted its head. I'll throw it at the feet of Avacyn and scream the name of
every person murdered in her absence.

"Let us bring it to Thraben—alive. Leave the days of slaughter behind us. It's a
new day in Innistrad."

He wanted to scream at her, too. She'd fought the same wars and lived in the
same grisly world as he. But unlike him, her conscience was untarnished. She's
still hopeful. Grete's compassion would kill her someday. Someday soon. Odric
let go of the monster and sheathed his sword.

"Drug him and tie him down. It's a long road back to Thraben. Let Avacyn
measure the worth of his life."
Chapter 2.) Xathrid Gorgon (Shandalar)
By Jenna Helland (7/4/12)

East of the border, I am called Sentos the Merciful. West of the border, I am
called Sentos the Righteous. In the place where east meets west, I am just a man.
A man alone in a monk's cottage in a monastery deep in the borderland
mountains. A man twenty-six years old and the veteran of a war that started the
year I was born.

An hour to the east is An Karras, the city of my birth. It's an ancient city, so old
that the dust between the flagstones is the remnants of temples built in its
infancy. There, my parents, my wife, and legions of admirers would joyfully
welcome my return. They venerate Sentos the Righteous, the soldier who brought
glory on all who dwell in Thune.

But what of those who cry for Sentos the Merciful, the soldier who ended the war
through an act of mercy unparalleled in a war-torn land? What of their eastern
city with its ancient temples? They blessed me for sparing their Elder Sun King,
a man of unnatural long life and wisdom. Their storytellers called me goddess-
born. My mother, who nearly died bearing me, laughed to hear such foolishness.

On a cloudless day, I can glimpse the legendary domes of An Karras in the

distance, backed by the cerulean ocean. But it's night, cold and misty, and I see
only shadows outside my open window. By choice, my world has narrowed to
four things: A sleeping pallet. The empty desk at which I sit. The ring upon my
finger. And the flask of poison.

The ring came to me the day the war ended on Fleet Rock. The day I did not
execute a man. The poison I obtained the day An Karras celebrated the
scourging of the east. If I drink to righteousness, I end myself in the name of that
great city on the western horizon. If I drink to mercy, I end myself for that
eastern city now a shamble of charred stone. You could not draw a straight line
between my heart and that devastation. But in the borderland, in this place
where I am nothing but a man, it's my burden alone.

So I'll lift the flask in praise of elder kings, to ancient temples, to tales of men
who forsake glory. But I'll drink to oblivion. And rejoice as darkness falls.

***

The wooden door of the cottage slammed open against a gust of wind, and the
crash jerked Sentos out of his dark slumber. The empty flask of poison careened
across the desk and shattered against the wall. He whirled around in his chair as
the wind gusted again, blowing autumn leaves through the open door. Several
black rats scurried over the threshold and hid behind the straw pallet along the
wall.

The torch on the far wall still burned, and it was still night. But is it the same
night? On shaky legs, Sentos tripped toward the door, hoping to shut it against
the chill, when something at the edge of the clearing caught his eye. He left the
cottage and stumbled toward it. A statue? Gleaming white in the moonlight, the
statue resembled one of the monks who lived in the keep. But the stonecutter had
carved fear into the monk's elderly features. A strange way to show a holy man,
Sentos thought.

The monk's cottage was isolated from the main keep. There had been no statue
before, of that he was certain. How could the monks transport such weight along
the winding footpath that led to the cottage? He stumbled back inside, where he
wanted to lie down and sleep. But what of the rats?And the broken glass? Has
midnight come and gone? His thoughts felt too banal for a man who just opted
for death over life.

Back in the cottage he realized he was not alone a heartbeat before a cold blade
was pressed against his throat.

"Don't move," a woman's voice warned him. She sounded young, like one of the
youth who lived in the village below the monastery. "Are you Sentos the
Merciful?" She spoke with an accent not of Thune, but not of the east either.
Shandalar was vast, and wherever she was from, it was unfamiliar to Sentos.

"No." He could see the woman's shadow on the wall, backlit by the torch near
the door. She was only slightly shorter than him, but then, he wasn't a very tall
man.
"Then who are you?" she asked.

"Sentos the Not Dead," he said. She jammed the blade into his back, between his
shoulder blade and his spine. He barely managed to not scream. Such a foolish
assumption that a woman couldn't be deadly.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Sentos," he managed to say. The blade was still in his back. He felt momentary
panic, like a clawing sensation in his belly. He wanted it out of him. He wanted
it in her throat.

"Tell me what happened on Fleet Rock. The day you ended the war."

"I didn't kill a man," Sentos said through clenched teeth. Pain is just weakness
leaving the body. She twisted the blade, and he felt a gush of warm blood release
from the gap in the skin. She doesn't understand the mind of warrior. Once she
makes me hate her, pain becomes irrelevant.

"Use more words, Sentos the Not Dead," she hissed.

"They led a silver-haired man to the executioner's block. He looked like a

vagrant from the streets of An Karras," Sentos said. "No one told me he was the
false king."

"So why spare his life?" she asked.

Why, indeed? Because of the ring that is now heavy on my hand. Why? He
offered me the ring to spare his life. Why? Because a ring for my pretty wife
sounded better than a bucket full of blood and another head rolling across the
floor.

"Why torture me for an answer?" She was not an eastern survivor. An easterner
would have murdered him for calling the silver-haired man a false king.

She ripped the blade out from the left side of his spine and drove it into the right.
But as fury warmed his chest, the pain disappeared. Oblivion could wait until he
snapped her neck with his bare hands. He tried to spin around, but her grip was
iron. Far stronger than he had expected, she slammed him down on the desk, his
face grinding into the broken shards of the poison flask.

"Because you have something I need." She pushed his head down with such
force, it felt like the planks would snap under the pressure. "Why did you spare
his life?"

"Because it could have been me on that block. Or my son. Or anyone in the

midst of that miserable war. I did it out of mercy." It was a lie he'd told many
times before, and it flowed easily from his lips. She'll believe me because she
thinks I want to live.

"Was it your secret plan to use their surrender against them?" she asked. "Get
them to lay down their weapons, then rip their throats out?"

"No, my superiors saw an advantage where none had been intended." That was
not a lie, and the words felt like pebbles on his tongue. No straight line between
my heart and that devastation.

"So what they say is true. You are a righteous man." Usually, when someone
called him that, it was with deference. But he heard no respect or awe in her
tone.

"Does that give you peace?" Sentos asked, still hating her, still immune to the
blade in his back, still watching her shadow on the wall.

"Peace?" she scoffed. "I am cursed. A demon requires payment. He demands the
eyes of a righteous man."

She pushed back her hood, and her silhouette transformed as the writhing strands
of her hair unleashed themselves. A gorgon, a monster of Xathrid, with the
power to petrify a man with her gaze. Disgusted, he recoiled against her grip. If
he glimpsed her face, he would meet the same fate at the monk in the clearing.
Just a kindly man come to check on my fate.

"Eyes of stone have failed me," she hissed. "Eyes of lesser men are insufficient.
Your eyes will be my salvation."

The instant she eased the pressure on his head, Sentos grabbed a shard of glass,
whirled around, and plunged into her heart.

Even before he removed the shard, black snakes poured from the wound. He
scrabbled away from the flood of vipers, slipping and crashing to the ground.
They swarmed over him, their fangs sinking into him and releasing venom into
his blood. Desperately, Sentos rolled on his belly and crawled toward the door.
Around him, the snakes that caught the gorgon's gaze turned to stone. With their
fangs still deep in his skin, they weighed his body down as he inched toward the
threshold.

The gorgon's foot slammed into the back of his neck, pinning him down in the
nest of petrified snakes.

"How are you not dead? Are you not a man?" She crouched down beside him,
yanking up his hand with such force that he heard his shoulder snap. "This ring?
Where did you get this?"

From the False King on Fleet Rock, that man of unnatural long life and wisdom.
He offered me the same in exchange for his freedom. I didn't believe his lies. But
I gave him his freedom for the trinket anyway.

Without the ring, the venom seized his heart. The blood flowed freely from his
wounds. He struggled to breathe while the door seemed to plunge miles away
from his reach. Escape is senseless. Instead, Sentos twisted his neck and gazed at
the gorgon's face. She howled, slicing the knife down to take his eyes while he
was still flesh. But he heard the tip of her blade meet the stone of his face. And
rejoiced as darkness fell.
Chapter 3.) Chronomaton (Unknown Plane)
By Ryan Miller (7/11/12)

Bazzle woke with a start. He heard a cry of alarm and the sounds of boots
rushing outside. He sat up with some effort and listened to the chimes and ticks
of the two hundred twelve clocks around him. It was a comforting noise, so
much so that the cry for help had to register a second time in his mind before he
realized what had probably happened.
It got out again. My creation continues to defy my wishes!
He cast his eyes on the creature's bronze shell, completely covered in filigree
lines and a slight patina of rust that somehow made it look stately. He had done
all the work himself, of course, and with his one good hand. He had lost his left
arm to the creeping plague that had been his constant companion for the past six
years—the plague turned the strange clockmaker into the village pariah. He was
certain that, were it not for his rare skills, he would have been cast out into the
snow-covered forest and forgotten long ago.
Probably would have been better off... no, that's just self pity. Poor form, old
man.
He had abandoned his dreams of a wife, children, and even mentoring his own
apprentice. He poured himself into his work. None of the villagers understood
why everyone else touched by the creeping plague had died, while this strange
tinkerer lived on. When the clock orders inevitably ceased altogether, he carried
on nonetheless, turning out one masterfully crafted clock after another. His
workspace began to look like an overgrown tomb in a forest of silver and
bronze, clicking, clacking, and chiming all around him. He imagined they were
colorful birds.
But this—this was the pinnacle of his work. He had nearly gone blind cutting the
thousands of gears the legs required. The chest cage was the most difficult by far
and required two huge keys—front and back—to wind its springs. Working with
only one arm, he had come up with a way to turn the keys simultaneously: twist
the front one enough and the clockwork arm sprung to life and turned the one in
the back. It had taken him a year to figure that out, and another year to get the
movements to align precisely. The memory made him smile.
Yes, this was by far his greatest creation. One that would be his lasting legacy to
a world that had shunned him. But now it seemed that even it preferred the
company of others and went out on its own at night to terrify the villagers down
the lane. He hid the keys, chained the thing up, and tied boulders to it, but
nothing seemed to suffice.

You can't blame the thing. You would go out on your own too, if you could.

Sometimes he would awake to find strange things in his shop—objects that had
no business being there. A guard's helmet, the stirrups from a saddle, even a pair
of wooden teeth. Mostly, he found strange keys, hundreds of them, filling small
burlap sacks and stacked near the door. He never bothered to return them, since
their original owners would never touch them now that he had. He merely
pushed them into one of the few corners of his shop that wasn't covered in parts,
tools, or shavings and forgot about them. They were brass, after all, and no use
to him.

This morning, he looked warily at his surroundings to see if he would be

surprised again. He awkwardly ambled over to his workbench, nearly knocking
over his favorite sitting chair, and stopped in his tracks, letting out a pathetic
yelp. There, resting on the boarhide desk cover, lay a crude clockwork arm.

You have really gone down the well, old man. Now you're making things you
don't even remember making.

He approached it cautiously, slowly reaching out his good hand as if he expected

the thing to jump to life and grab him. He winced as he touched it, but the thing
didn't move at all. Something was just not right about this artifact. Something
that tugged at the back of Bazzle's mind.
He pulled the leather headband that held his reading crystals in place from the
owl clock next to his desk and put it on. Swinging the thickest of the crystals
over his eye, he began to scrutinize the work in front of him.
No filigree, no smoothing of the rough-cut corners, and hammered pins! And
was that trace of gray mineral... zinc? This was brass! Bazzle refused to use
brass, since it cheapened the end result of his hard labors—at least in his
estimation.
You didn't do this. Nobody else could have.
His paradoxical line of thinking was interrupted when he noticed something.
There were lines on the arm after all, but they seemed to make a haphazard kind
of sense; clearly intentional but lacking any artistic logic. That's when he saw the
angular teeth and the looped handles.
Keys. This is made of melted keys.
He compared it to the creature's arm, the one he had made, and found the
evidence he hoped he would not find. Its fingers were covered with brass filings,
held in place by clock oil. For decades, he had scrubbed a similar mixture from
his own hands at the end of a long day's work.
Now, it seemed, he finally had an apprentice.
Bazzle stared, wide-eyed, as the implications began to fill his brain like milk
poured into water. The creature had somehow learned it creator's trade and was
using it to build... what? A companion? An army?
He frantically tugged at the thing's chest key, but he was still sleep-weak and his
good arm failed him. He gritted his teeth and pulled again, this time dislodging
the key and sending it clanking across the room. To his horror, the creature's arm
reached around and began turning the back key, the loud cranking sound filling
the sad little workshop. Before Bazzle could do anything, the hand swung back
and struck him squarely in the face. The last thing he heard was the chiming of
the two hundred twelve clocks. It was time for breakfast.
On the second morning, Bazzle woke up on his own, a splitting headache
reminding him of the previous day's attack. He looked around frightfully, trying
to remember where he had thrown the key. With it, he might regain control of
his creation and dismantle it, ending this terrible endeavor and perhaps saving
the old man some of his waning dignity.
The militia was marching outside and he could hear the hoarse shouts of the
sergeant-at-arms. They were searching the farmhouses, no doubt looking for his
mischievous metal child, but he knew they would not come calling today. The
pitch-black skull painted on his door, the symbol of plague, was better than
castle walls for keeping out invaders. He found himself looking forward to the
annual visitor who would refresh the paint.
The sunlight pouring in from the hole in his thatched roof caused a sparkle in the
corner of his eye. The key! It rested under what used to be his dining table, but
which was now covered in tools and metal bits, much like every surface in his
shop. He stood up, groaning with pain and suddenly losing his balance. He fell
toward his workbench, grasping it for stability. As he lifted himself up, his heart
jumped into his throat.
He was staring at a severed head.
He swooned in shock. As his mind began to realign, he recognized the metal
features he had come to know in the mysterious arm. This was a clockwork
head. The guard's helmet had been fashioned into a skull, Bazzle's own reading
crystals repurposed as eyes, and the stirrups and wooden teeth set in the jaw in a
sad mockery of a human face. He could hear his heart beating deep and low in
his ears, almost in time with the ticking that surrounded him, but not quite.
Your child has grown beyond your ability to control. You should have left well
enough alone. Stupid, sad old man.
He fell to the floor and reached out for the key, just as he heard the dreaded but
familiar whirr of gears. The thing had a mind of its own and apparently no
intention of going quietly. Bazzle dragged himself with his good arm toward the
golden promise the key held.
Not far to go now. Just an arm's length, just a hand's-width, just fingers away.
He felt the cold metal of the key on his fingertip just as the thing's arm connected
with the back of his neck. Pain pierced through his mind and he felt the room
spinning. He saw the thing reaching out for the key, heard the metal action of the
mechanism as the thing slid the key into place...
On the third morning, Bazzle opened his eyes. He was momentarily oblivious to
the events of the past two days—a state of mind he was soon to envy. He
realized he was seated at his workbench. The pain in his neck made him want to
reach up and rub it, but his arm would not heed the call of his instincts.
One look around the room told him why: his formerly good arm lay severed on
the floor near his bed, and attached to his shoulder in its place was the metal arm
from days before.
Isn't this what you wanted all along?
He looked down at his creation; his metal body. The body he had spent six years
making. The body that had helped him cheat the creeping plague death. Bazzle
realized all too late that the thing wasn't making a companion. It wasn't
constructing an army. It had merely decided it would no longer share a body
with a rotting old clockmaker.
The arms began moving again, and no matter how much Bazzle's mind screamed
at them to stop, he could not control them. The hand he had made and the hand
he had not served a different master now, and there was nothing he could do but
watch.
The desk was strewn with chirurgeon's tools: a bloody bone saw and a huge
cleaver. He watched as the arm he had made clicked into action, the springs
singing their song of tension's imminent release. The metal fingers wrapped
around the cleaver, raised it to neck height, and reared back.
The last thing he saw was his shop spinning roof-over-floor around him. He
would not hear the final click of the head as the hand snapped it into its newly-
vacated space.
Finally, his creation was complete.
Chapter 4.) Krenko, Mob Boss (Ravnica)
By Jenna Helland (7/18/12)

Krenko had a strong stomach from a childhood of eating out of gutters, but Mr.
Taz made him uneasy. This was the third time they'd met to discuss business,
and Taz's strange appearance was always the same. He looked human, but his
face fit too loosely on his skull, and his skin didn't seem attached to his skeleton.
When Krenko thought about it too hard, he could imagine Taz's entire epidermis
slithering off and sliding down into a fleshy puddle around his feet.
"How is your lamb, Mr. Krenko?" Taz asked. They were in a smoky pub near
the Smelting District—Taz's choice. Not in bloodwitch territory, but just by a
smidge. This was good because Krenko despised the Rakdos thugs. Too
unpredictable, and not in the way Krenko liked.
"Umm, yum," Krenko took an obligatory bite and considered his options. Taz
wasn't a lich or necro-thing, or Krenko's exceptional goblin nose would have
detected it. In fact, Taz smelled quite expensive, like almonds and clean rabbits.
Krenko analyzed how the skin wobbled beneath Taz's eyeballs and bunched up
around his knuckles. Oh, it was so obviously a skin-suit—and not a very tailored
one at that.
"I trust you find the task appealing?" Taz continued. His neck was straight down
—no bump at the throat—like a female human. But his voice was low and
gravelly.
"It's gutsy," Krenko said approvingly.
"Yes, but you have proved yourself to be a master of bold maneuvers."
"Thanks to you, Mr. Taz," Krenko said. He fondly remembered the last job, the
one with the exploding Azorius statue and flaming saprolings. Yes, Krenko liked
this slippery-face man who kept offering him delicious jobs. As a young goblin
just getting his start, a well-connected patron was a gift Krenko never expected.
Besides, Krenko had a healthy respect for anything that could claim itself ugly
and not give a rat's tail what the rest of the world saw.
"The Boros, huh," Krenko said, stalling for time. He wanted the job, but it would
complicate things. He had rounds to make along Foundry Street. Azzik and
Pondl were loyal but could barely count past ten. More goblins appeared at his
warehouse daily. They followed Krenko around like he was some honey basket,
which would be useful if he found things for them to do. Maybe with the capital
from Taz's new job...
"All right," Krenko said finally. Krenko had no doubt in his ability to carry off
the heist, but he marveled again that Taz trusted a lowly goblin with such a task.
Most thought goblins were pests at worst and pack animals at best. "I'll do it."
"I have no doubt you will," the man said mildly. He slid a velvet bag across the
table. Light escaped through the seams. "Here is a special tool to help you in
your endeavor."
Krenko peeped inside, grinning when he saw the glowing shiv nestled against
the velvet. "Aw, you know me so well."
"Brilliance recognizes brilliance," Mr. Taz said mildly.
"And you're sure about what you want me to bring back?" Krenko asked.
"Maybe there's something more valuable I can pick up for you?"
"No, Mr. Krenko. The item I requested will make me quite happy." Taz smiled
with his ill-fitting lips and disappeared into the crowded pub.
With Taz's enchanted shiv tucked in his boot, Krenko began his surveillance on
Sunhome, the imposing Boros guildhall. After an hour on a rooftop with a
spyglass, Krenko was hot and bored, and had learned little new: the Boros still
loved straight lines and hard work. And Krenko still couldn't believe that goblins
joined the guild willingly, but there they were: Digging trenches, washing
barracks, and loading corpses onto a Golgari corpse-hauler. Krenko wondered if
an average day resulted in that many dead soldiers or if something had happened
beyond the scope of his eyeglass.
The next morning, Krenko swaggered into Sunhome's mess hall like he owned
the place. The cavernous hall fed a thousand soldiers at a time. They sat in front
of platters of hot food on long tables that seemed to stretch for miles. It was
noisy and hot, but the abundance of free food answered one of Krenko's
longstanding questions. Suddenly, goblins in Boros made a lot more sense.
Krenko slid onto the end of a bench, helped himself to the duck eggs, and settled
down for a good listen to the dull roar of voices around him. The soldiers behind
him were talking about a fight in Keyhole Downs—Krenko concluded it was
about a girl and turned his keen ears elsewhere. Then, a few seats down, a young
man with black hair said something that caught his ear:
"It's come down to a duel," he informed the woman seated across the table. She
had a bandage on her forehead.
"Who drew the line? Aurelia?" she asked. She kept her voice low like she didn't
want to be easily heard. But the man spoke louder than necessary.
"No, the nosy Azorius found it in the fine print," he said.
"I find that hard to believe," the woman said doubtfully. "Aurelia let it stand?"
"Why shouldn't she?" the man practically shouted. "She could crush Vinrenn in a
heartbeat."
Suddenly, Krenko's bench tipped dangerously and several soldiers clambered to
their feet.
"Shut your mouth, grunt!" someone shouted and a fistfight erupted between the
tables. Krenko picked up his plate and headed to the other end of the hall. Such
undisciplined hot-headedness seemed very un-Boros. Krenko took a deep breath,
enjoying the tension seething in the room. Yes, this was going to be as fun as it
was lucrative.
The next day, Krenko went looking for trouble. And he found it everywhere. In
Sunhome, tempers were high, and the rank and file were more interested in
squabbling than their daily chores. Krenko joined a goblin maintenance crew on
one of the gigantic balconies that jutted from the blocky edifice.
"If I want to get a look at Feather, where should I go?" he whispered to the hook-
nosed goblin next to him. He'd been polishing the wall for nearly an hour and
nothing useful had happened. The goblin had a couple of patches on his uniform,
but apparently they weren't enough to get him out of manual labor.
"Shhhh! She says you got to call her Guildmaster Vinrenn now," he spoke very
slowly as if Krenko was an idiot child.
"Whatever her name is, where do I find her?" Krenko asked.
"Where you from, some Gruul outhouse? Top floor, but you better stay away."
"What is going on?" Krenko asked. "I just got here from the Rubblebelt."
The goblin looked smug. "Yeah, I knew you were Gruul. Well, it's crazy around
here. Aurelia's gonna be our new master, 'cause she says that no disgraced
angel's got the right to rule. Vinrenn's gonna be banished. As long as she makes
no trouble, she'll keep her life. Now, no more talking or I'll report you. Got it?"
The goblin's self-importance filled Krenko with loathing. This place was
teetering on the edge. All it needed was a little push.
Chaos is the best cover, and Krenko went about setting fires and kicking down
doors. Floor 1: an incendiary rumor in a willing ear; Floor 2: punched
yesterday's pompous goblin on his fat nose; Floor 3: spark bombs; Floor 4:
actual bombs. By the time he reached the top tier, the halls were filled with the
sound of thudding boots and alarmed shouts. Outside, swords clashed on the
balcony. And no one noticed a snaggletooth goblin enter the chambers of
Vinrenn, aka Feather, the guildmaster who apparently lacked control.
Krenko found himself in an empty room under an open skylight. Harsh sunlight
shone down on a glassy detention sphere, which hovered above the blood-red
fist emblazoned on the tile floor. A white-winged angel was in magical stasis
inside the cell. Her wings tucked around herself like a baby bird, she appeared to
be sleeping.
After a cursory look around the chamber, Krenko took his glowing shiv from his
boot and poked at the sphere. Nothing happened, so he stabbed it again. And
again. Nothing. Ugh, why would Taz give him a glowy shiv unless it was better
for smashing than a regular shiv?
At first, the sphere seemed like it was made out of light and mist, but when
Krenko traced the surface with his palms, he felt something solid near the top.
He took the shiv and slammed its handle against the invisible piece. There was a
sucking sound and blue lighting zinged across the room. With another good
smash, the sphere dissipated, sending the angel tumbling unceremoniously to the
floor.
Hearing footsteps approaching in the corridor, Krenko quickly plucked two
feathers from the angel's wings just as she began to stir.
"Help!" Krenko screamed, running for the door. "She tried to escape! She's free.
She attacked me!"
Suddenly, broad-shouldered guards crowded the room, and Krenko dodged legs
to get to the door. As he scampered out, an armored minotaur dragged the angel
to her feet, her protests falling on deaf ears.
Just as Krenko reached the front gate, a large explosion rocked Sunhome. Not
one of his, Krenko thought gleefully. Yes indeed, chaos was the best tool of all.
At sunset, Krenko met Taz on the Millennial, an aerial platform with the most
coveted views in all of Ravnica. You had to be someone to get a ticket to come
up here. Some Ravnicans waited their entire lifetimes. Most would never get the
chance. Taz was waiting for him by the appointed marker, staring out at the eye-
boggling maze of buildings and streets.
"Sometimes I forget to look at the sky," Taz said as Krenko handed him a
wooden box. Inside was a white angel's feather. It seemed to glow red under the
setting sun. "Entire days go by, and I never see the sun at all."
Krenko grunted in agreement. He knew what it felt like to be a rat in the
darkness.
"I'm exceptionally pleased," Taz said. "Your payment is being delivered to your
establishment as we speak.
Krenko beamed. With coin like that, he could buy Azzik and Pondl breakfast
every day if he wanted to. Not that he did. Krenko extended his hand to close the
deal, but instead of shaking it, Taz handed him a silver key with the Orzhov
symbol carved into the shaft.
"An Orzhov safebox," he said. "This key is all you need to retrieve the money."
Krenko's ears perked up. "Whose money?"
"Feather's, actually. She earned a salary as a Wojek for a time. But she won't
need it anymore."
"Why don't you keep it for yourself?" Krenko asked.
"Consider it a bonus payment. For a job well done." Mr. Taz smiled, and the skin
on his face sagged beneath his jaw bone. "You have management skills, Mr.
Krenko. I can see you as the boss of something grand."
Krenko pocketed the key and cocked his head. "What else, Mr. Taz?"
"Oh, just a trifle. While you're in the Orzhova, perhaps you could pick up a little
something for me?"
Chapter 5.) Threadbare (Unknown Plane)
By Jenna Helland (7/23/12)

Can you see it? That red dot high in the night sky? It's a harbinger of destruction.
There's not much in this mad world you can rely on. But if I am certain about
one thing, that red dot is headed straight for me.
I am an emissary of pain. I've survived countless battles, seen generations pass
into dust, and watched mighty kings tumble into history. I have been tortured
and cursed... yet I have survived. I have experienced things that would make
most fall to their knees weeping in despair. Yes, I have endured.
Not long ago, in the midst of the Slaughter of the Arches, I had a revelation. I
was knee deep in the blood and muck of a rain-soaked battlefield. For hours,
men and beasts had raged against each other in furious combat. Thunder crashed
around me, nearly drowning out the howls of pain and fury. Suddenly, I was
overcome with an overwhelming sense of unfairness. If I had a mouth, I would
have screamed to the heavens: "Absurdity! Is it all vain absurdity?"
In that instant, a golden blade pierced my belly. Staring down at the gilded
sword in my gullet, I was struck by a moment of clarity in an insane world.
Suddenly, I had to know: Was I made to suffer?
After I slogged my way to higher ground, I set out on a quest to find answers. I
sought out great mages in illustrious academies of learning. I implored monks in
their stark towers to share their hidden knowledge. I fell at the feet of
philosophers debating the foundations of life itself. None had answers for a doll
in the midst of an existential crisis... just more questions and, inevitably,
attempts to harness me for their personal ambitions.
For a time, I wandered the back roads and byways in search of a purpose. The
sight of a happy peasant family through a cottage window sent me spiraling into
despair. Am I alone in the world? Yes, everywhere I look there are other people,
but sometimes it feels like no one else can relate. It's like an invisible barrier
prevents me from really connecting with anyone else. Pain is ever present. In the
end, someone always gets hurt. And I'm hell to be around when I have a guilty
conscience.
A few months ago, I was kidnapped by bandits and sold to an evil toymaker. He
had a stuffed-bear minion who was possessed by the spirit of murdered man.
Finally! I believed I was among my own kind and no longer relegated to the
punishing whims of a mage. But alas, the stuffed-bear lacked my resilience and
was incinerated in his first battle with the villagers. The villagers arrested the
toymaker, and I was out on the streets, left to my own threadbare devices.
The ravens mocked me as I set out, alone again. You reach a certain age, and
you find yourself asking, am I more than the sum of my parts? Surely I have an
essence beyond mere burlap and cotton. With as much torment as I've suffered,
am I not entitled to something greater?
Soon, the thud of galloping hooves shook the ground. A caravan of nomads
rumbled into sight, their tattered banners the last remnants of a kingdom now
passed into the enemy's' hands. As I was plucked from the roadside and shoved
into a shaman's pack, I wanted to rage at the heavens. If I had a fist, I would
have shook it at the sky. Do I not have free will? Alas, given my self-destructive
tendencies, this has proven to be the least fruitful line of philosophical inquiry of
all.
Today, I'm the follower of a mighty nomad shaman. She is yet another contender
in the epic struggle for power that plays out over the epochs and changing
borders. Tonight, we're locked in battle with a legion of knights, as she pits
herself against a famous crusader. I can see him on the ridge overlooking the
battlefield. His great helm flashes silver as lightning crashes across the sky. Yet
for all his glory, he is oblivious to the red dot, growing larger by the second.
Life marches ever onward, and I perambulate an endless road. Despite the battle
raging around me, I take a moment to pause and reflect. If I had a spine, I would
lift my head toward that beacon of destruction. My fate is vengeful toil, and
acceptance is the path of least resistance. After all, I know what's bearing down
on me, and how in just seconds, the battle will be over.
Over for the crusader anyway. Me? It's just another day, another meteor, and no
closer to the meaning of life.
Chapter 6.) Tarland, Sky Summoner (Shandalar)
By Ken Troop (7/30/12)

The baloth's enormous body convulsed one last time in Kalyntri's jaws, its
widened eyes giving way from the rage and fear that had marked its last
moments to the stumbling resignations of breath and care. As the beast's eyes
dimmed, Kalyntri crunched his jaws through the baloth's torso, thick bony
armored plates snapping like sticks as beautiful blood and meat began their
hurried passage down the dragon's throat.
Kalyntri paused from eating to roar his triumph to the sky and sea. He wanted
Talrand to hear it, wherever the damnable merfolk might be. Talrand's
proclamations had been very clear that all of the Kapsho was now Talrand's
kingdom and all of its denizens under Talrand's control. Kalyntri's predations
were at an end, claimed Talrand, and the dragon would have to kneel in fealty,
leave the Kapsho seas, or die. His kingdom? Kalyntri would taste the marrow of
Talrand's bones!
The dragon looked at the other baloths still backed in a large circle. They were
ferocious predators, used to dominance, yet they knew better than to challenge
Kalyntri. The law of superiority was a natural one, followed by those in
Kalyntri's domain for hundreds of years. Followed by most, anyway. The baloths
ambled out of the clearing, retreating to the jungles of their island home.
Kalyntri swung what was left of the carcass up through the air and opened his
mouth wide to catch it on the way down, swallowing it whole. His belly finally
full, he rose into the air, ready once more to survey his dominion.
A fine dominion it was, too. Kalyntri had been the natural ruler of this part of the
Kapsho seas for over three hundred years. Flanked by large islands to the north
and south, between thousands of squares miles of ocean and archipelagos, the
dominion formed perfect hunting grounds for the voracious dragon. Occasional
human settlements would form on the islands, but when they got too big,
Kalyntri would destroy them. The merfolk, too, had taken offense a few times at
Kalyntri's ocean hunting, but they went just as smoothly down the dragon's
gullet as the other food from the sea.
Talrand was the first note of discordance in what had otherwise been a
harmonious melody of power and food for all these years. Talrand had first
appeared a year ago at one of the many island caves Kalyntri used for lairs.
Although a merfolk, he seemed equally comfortable on the ground as in the seas.
Even more unusual was the obvious magical energy that radiated from him. A
mage, and a very strong one at that. Most unusual, and most offensive to
Kalyntri, were his drake servants that sat on each shoulder. Kalyntri had listened
to the merfolk blather for a few seconds before responding with a coruscating
blast of flame that filled the cavern. He had not expected the mage to die so
easily, and there was no charred pile of bones and ash lying in wait to suggest
that this was a matter quickly solved. Talrand was merely gone, and only the
problem of him, and his drakes, remained.
Dragons and drakes, the "little dragons," had always had a contentious
relationship. The drakes feared their larger cousins and the dragons' obvious
superiority. But what they lacked in power they made up in numbers. To
themselves and the outside world they were known as drakes, and they were
everywhere. Conniving scavengers, they hunted in packs, using their sheer
numbers to bring down prey they had no right to. But worst to Kalyntri were
those drakes who had given up all pretense of freedom, such as those who now
served the upstart Talrand.
How had Talrand convinced the drakes to serve? Certainly the little ones, ever
jealous of power, were always willing to serve those who had it; Kalyntri
himself had a few for minions over the years. But the efforts and reach of
Talrand suggested an amount of support that was surprising to the dragon. Well,
no matter how powerful the mage was, Talrand's reign would come to a bloody
end once his head was ripped from his shoulders and eaten as a delicious snack.
Now all Kalyntri had to do was find him.
The dragon was soaring high over the Kapsho seas. His wings fully unfurled, the
sun glinting off the red metallic scales of his head and back, Kalyntri knew he
was an awe-inspiring sight. A red comet among the azure seas and skies. None
dared confront him. None had dared for such a long time. Perhaps it was good
for the occasional dumb and arrogant contender to have pretensions. It had
perhaps been too long since Kalyntri had had an opportunity to fully show his
power.
Lost in this thought, Kalyntri almost missed the lone dark storm cloud up ahead.
A single small cloud of blackness amid an otherwise endless blue sky. The air
had the tangy scent of a fresh storm, recently passed. As Kalyntri flew lower, he
could see a small ring of islands dotting the water beneath cloud. And there, in
the middle of the islands, in the water, was a man. No, he was on the water. And
not a man, but a merfolk.
Good gods, was Talrand suicidal? Or perhaps simply that dumb and delusional.
Kalyntri never had understood how the lesser races thought. He swooped low,
eagerly, not wanting to lose Talrand again like he did the first time they met. But
this time Talrand had chosen the wide open seas. No place to run, no place to
hide. And if Talrand thought he could swim away... Kalyntri had made many a
tasty snack of creatures who thought the deeper oceans were sufficient refuge.
Talrand stood on the water, small bubbles constantly churning in the sea
underneath his feet to keep him aloft. There were no drakes around, not that a
few of them would have made any difference. Kalyntri had seen many merfolk
during his long reign, and there was nothing physically remarkable about
Talrand—no clear sign that this was a being with pretensions to grandeur. He
was just a small meat puppet on two legs, like the thousands of other meat
puppets the dragon had eaten or burnt over the years. Except most meat puppets
did not have the magical power Talrand seemed to have. But even powerful
magics were no match for an enraged dragon.
The fool was holding up a hand. Kalyntri was amused. He wanted to hear the
last words of this meat puppet. The dragon hovered a short distance away from
the blue-skinned mage, his nostrils deliberately letting loose puffs of smoke.
Feel the growing heat, feel your impending death. Kalyntri had not yet decided
whether to eat or incinerate Talrand. Both would be immensely satisfying.
Talrand looked up at the dragon, and his face betrayed no fear, no hint of the
seared destiny that soon awaited. Kalyntri was amazed at the mage's power of
self-delusion.
"I didn't want to have to kill you. I would much rather have found a way to
productively use you. Your strength and predictability are both major assets. I
have explored many paths of keeping you alive. I regret none were viable." As
Talrand spoke, his voice was calm and rational. A strong voice, one obviously
used to leadership. But the voice of a crazy man. And soon to be a dead one.
Kalyntri's rage built with every hot breath through his nostrils.
"In fact, as I examined you and your environment more closely, I became almost
envious. You were built to prey upon those weaker than you. It is a simple life,
and one that you were very good at. Unfortunately, I was built to perform more
complex activities. Learning. Analysis. Understanding. And once I understand
how something works—a spell, a system, a culture, the world—I must make it
work better. How can I not? Yes, sometimes I wish I were just a predator."
Kalyntri roared, an incandescent rush of rage that transmuted into scalding
flame, a bright flash that boiled away all water and air it touched. He will burn!
Yet Talrand had already been moving, running sideways on the water, and fog
started rolling in from all directions. Kalyntri noticed an odd magical "echo" as
Talrand had summoned the fog, but he paid it no mind as he bulled ahead,
chasing Talrand's dimming figure. Huge geysers of water erupted from the sea's
surface and formed nooses that lashed around the dragon's wings, seeking to
hold him in place. Another strange echo resonated in the dragon's mind.
Kalyntri burst free from his watery bonds and lifted up to clear the low-lying
fog. Higher in the air, he could make out a dim humanoid figure shrouded in fog
below and rushed down to attack. Talrand looked up to see the charging dragon,
and winds and waves surged to meet him. It barely slowed the dragon down as
he let loose a bright gout of flame aimed at Talrand's head. At this short distance
the mage had no room to maneuver and an upsurge of water met and barely
deflected the oncoming flame.
Kalyntri slowed and sent his large tail whipping around the side of the water
column, faster than thought, crashing into Talrand with a sharp crack that sent
the mage flying through the water. The dragon turned to chase and saw as the
water leapt up in countless small places to cushion Talrand's blows and slow his
deadly velocity. Another echo. I will eat his head! The dragon rushed fully into
Talrand, and only a weakly summoned wall of water prevented the dragon from
crushing Talrand outright. The impact of the blow sent Talrand sprawling across
the water once more before skipping onto the beach of one of the nearby islands.
Talrand sprawled on his back, bloody and struggling to get up. Kalyntri
approached and smiled, having savored the thought of this day for the last year.
This is the consequence of fighting against power. The dragon beat his large
wings slowly, hovering over the prone and beaten figure, and prepared to
descend and feast. Talrand lifted his head and spoke, his voice still sounding
strangely strong and confident. "I have a gift for you, dragon. I bring you—" and
here he paused and looked up, a shadow passing over his face as something
came between the sun and his body—"rain." Another echo. Kalyntri swung his
long neck around to look up at the sky. He saw the storm cloud that originally
marked Talrand's location and very large drops of rain were now falling from it.
He turned back to dispose of this uselessly talking merfolk, when something tore
through the outer membrane of his left wing.
Kalyntri screamed in pain. He looked up and realized they were not large drops
of rain falling from the sky. Drakes. The echoes. They were hurtling from the
cloud above, dozens of them, too many to count. All aimed at Kalyntri. Another
drake bit at his ear and flew off as the dragon tried to snap it in his jaws. Kalyntri
let loose a blast of flame but it veered wildly as the drakes scampered out of its
path.
The drakes were darting in and out, seeking spots to claw and bite Kalyntri.
Most of the dragon was protected by thick scales, but not all. Soon the air
became so thick with drakes that Kalyntri could not help but rend or crunch a
few without special care. But for every one or two he killed, ten more were
drawing blood from the great dragon. It suddenly occurred to Kalyntri that he
was losing.
His eyes widening with fear, he sought to rise, to flee. The small ones cannot
outrace me in the sky. A large geyser of water crashed into his body from the sea
and sent him sprawling onto the beach. He struggled to get up, but was failing.
I've lost so much blood. And still the drakes were swarming, pecking, biting,
chewing. He tried to summon more flame, but the flame was spent. And there
was Talrand, standing to one side, still bloody and bruised, but looking calm,
confident. Kalyntri desperately wanted to eat his bones. The dragon's body
continued to thrash, though with softer movements each time.
The dragon saw a large drake fly in from the deeper ocean and to Talrand's side.
Talrand scratched under the chin of the drake, who made small, throaty purring
sounds. Then the drake looked at the dragon, and its hunger there was
unmistakable. A hunger the dragon himself possessed, not too long ago. Or was
it an eternity?
The drake looked back at Talrand, and Talrand nodded.
"As I promised. Service to me means an end to the tyranny of dragons. He is
yours." The drake scampered over to the dragon. He looked into Kalyntri's wide
eyes, so recently marked by rage and fear, though now giving way to the
realizations of physical necessity, those stumbling resignations of breath and
care. The drake disappeared from Kalyntri's sight, and next the dragon felt sharp
jaws at his unprotected neck, and he felt them crunch. The dragon's eyes
dimmed.
Chapter 7.) The Stonekiller Part I (Alara)
By Jenna Helland (8/8/12)

The pebble was a hazy green, like the eye of a dead fish. Like the eyes of the girl
in the village yesterday.
"Runt," the green-eye girl had said. At first, Lia had no idea who the girl was
talking about. And then she saw those fishy eyes looking straight into her own.
"Worthless runt."
Even girls she thought of as friends joined in to mock Lia: "No one wants you
here... your fingers are freakish... Are you stupid and lame?"
It was true, her fingers were curled like claws. Try as she might, Lia couldn't
straighten them completely. Even her mother, who was the village healer,
couldn't fix them. Lia had never cared, at least not until yesterday. She balanced
the pebble on her knuckle. She didn't even know who the green-eyed girl was.
She'd just asked to join their skipping game. Stupid fingers. Stupid runt.
Lia dug her toes into the sandy riverbank and stared hard at the sparkling river.
Today was the first time her parents let her play by herself near the water. Her
father and older brother were just over the rise in the field, but she couldn't see
them, so she felt alone. Lia stared at the pebble. Make the green-eyed girl
disappear. Instead, there was a popping noise, and the pebble crumbled on her
knuckle. Despite herself, Lia smiled as the green dust swirled away in the warm
summer breeze.
Unfortunately, she didn't have the power to make the girl disappear. She could
make rocks crumble, and that was it. Mages were rare in her village, and none of
the other children had any casting abilities. Her mother said it was a gift. Lia
wasn't sure; it wasn't like the world needed any more dust. But her mother
insisted she was special. All great mages started somewhere, and pebbles are as
fine a place as any.
The village was about a mile away from Lia's family farm, and her mother was
tending people there again today. Usually Lia went along, but not after what
happened with the girls yesterday. I'll never go there again. The village was a
ragtag collection of houses and shops built among the ruins of a castle. Before
the Conflux came and remade the landscape, the castle had been one of the
jewels of the Bant.
Lia was too young to remember the hellish years of torment and war that
followed the merging of Alara, but she often wished she could have seen the
castle in its glory days. All that was left was its high tower and the four corners
of its outer wall. The elders said they were blessed because the village was in a
region that was much like the old Bant. Only the southern horizon had changed
during the upheaval. An unnatural mountain range had clawed its way out of the
earth and forever blocked passage to the sea.
Bant had been a vast realm. A beautiful land of floating castles, seas of lush
grass, and the bluest skies you can imagine. Lia loved the elders' stories about
old Bant, especially about brave knights fighting hordes of undead monsters.
Suddenly, she resolved not to waste any more time thinking about the green-
eyed girl. Instead, she leaped to her feet and searched for sticks, which could
serve as Grixis hordes. With a fistful of twigs, Lia recited the story in her mind:
It was a crisp autumn day when Eos Castle was besieged by creatures too
horrible to imagine.
Lia mounded up sand for a castle, and then smashed it with her fist. The stick
hordes poured into the courtyard! They broke through the wall!Knight Aran
fought valiantly atop his horse! She was just about to unleash the ballista when
something moved in one of the trees on the other side of the river. The sunlight
glinting off the water made her squint, but she glimpsed someone perched on a
tree branch, hidden among the leaves. Just then, a gust of wind rattled the
branches, and Lia saw her watcher. Its body was covered in spotted fur. Pointed
ears stuck up from its head, and its face was more animal than human.
"Mami!" Lia screamed, even though her mother was far away. When Lia looked
back, the creature was gone.
Usually, Lia's family ate together and then told stories until bedtime. But two of
the village hunters were missing, and her father and brother joined a search
party. Lia ate her stew alone on the little stool by the iron stove while her mother
comforted the young wife of one of the missing hunters.
Lia knew better than to interrupt, although she desperately wanted to tell
someone about the thing she'd seen in the tree.
"...strange signs on the road to the mountains," her mother was saying to Cele, as
the young woman nervously twisted the end of her braid.
"They were tracking a herd that way," Cele said, her eyes were brimming with
tears. "Maybe they went up into the mid-lands."
Her mother noticed Lia was watching them and motioned her over. As the
firelight danced across the rafters, her mother slipped an arm around Lia and
pulled her close.
"Did you have fun by the river today?" her mother asked. "It was such a pretty
day."
Lia nodded. "Are there cats who walk like people?"
Her mother's brow furrowed. "In other lands, Lia. Why do you ask?"
"I saw a thing that had a cat face but a body like us," Lia said, half-expecting her
mother wouldn't believe her. "In the trees along the river."
Cele's eyes grew enormous and suddenly her mother was saying how late it was
and bundling Lia off to bed. And maybe they could have sweet bread for
breakfast? Lia fell asleep and dreamed of girls with pebbles for eyes and floating
sand castles.
The next morning, her father's eyes were sunken with tiredness. He hugged Lia
and wanted to hear her story from the day before. People were trying to act
normal, but Lia could tell something was very wrong. Everyone's faces seemed
pinched too tight and she heard them whispering about the missing hunters.
At mid-day, Lia's mother sent her outside after she promised not to wander
beyond the shadow of the cottage. But she grew tired of playing by herself under
the eaves and decided to run circles around the house. The eagle flew over Eos
Castle...With her arms outstretched like wings, Lia ran around the corner and
bashed into something. She stumbled backward and was caught by strong hands.
As a dark bag fell across her eyes, she glimpsed a cat-like face. They'd been
waiting for her behind the cottage, where there were no windows or doors, and
no one to see her disappear.
That night, the demon came to the village.
He came while the hunters' wives were weeping for their husbands. He came
while Lia's parents frantically searched for their daughter. Just as the crimson
sun disappeared behind the unnatural mountains, the demon seemed to
materialize in the starry sky. His presence immediately afflicted the villagers.
They became weak and ill and fell to their knees. A ring of black-clad servants
encircled the village, and as the noose closed around them, none had the strength
to raise their hands in defense.
By morning, a sickly wind blew through the open door of Lia's cottage, which
was as empty as the rest of the village.
The Sculptor surveyed his work with a critical eye. To the uninitiated, it must
look like chaos. But to him, every clink and jangle of bone was a perfect
harmony to the breathing of his master, Nefarox, who slumbered in the tunnels
below the arena.
It was early morning, the servants still in their cages. Seventeen minutes until
sunrise, and then the supervisors would have them working again. But for a few
precious moments, the world was wonderfully peaceful. The hum of locusts in
the trees on the ridges that surrounded the worksite was the loudest sound. For
once there was no screaming, no wailing, no scraping of bloody meat off bone.
His worksite had once been a massive Matca arena where Nayan humans fought
for sport. Everything in Alara had a former life. Even him. He had crafted bodies
from etherium in Esper before he realized his work had been a perverted lie. The
Sculptor sighed, angry at his misspent youth. Now, he was an old man, but at
least the master had given him a purpose, a reason to keep on living.
He took a deep breath and placed one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.
Time to tally the signs. The ritual could only begin when the numbers aligned. If
something was one tick off, the project would fail. The Sculptor felt a ripple of
panic at the thought of disappointing his master. If he failed, it would be better to
cut his own throat than face punishment.
The Sculptor counted the rungs as he climbed. Seventy-six steps, and he was at
the top. From this vantage point, he could assess how his great work was
progressing from a bird-eye view. Months ago, the Sculptor had removed the
stone benches that encircled the arena—five-hundred sixty-six benches. The
servants dug deep pits to hold the carcasses before they were skinned. One-
hundred forty-two pits. Most were now brimming with discarded meat.
Ninety-two. The number of knife strokes to skin a behemoth.
Feeling very kingly, Sculptor eased himself onto the walkway, which creaked
and shifted under his weight. It was constructed from the bones of a hellkite the
master had slaughtered in the high peaks. The dragon's beautiful corpse had
moved the Sculptor to tears. Indeed, it was the seed of inspiration for the entire
project. Etherium had no life inside of it. But bone? Bone was imbued with
blood and power—energy he would harness for his master.
The servants had carried the skeleton down precarious mountain paths. Once
installed, the ribs branched out and down to form a cage around the arena floor.
The spine was the walkway on which he now stood. When he bent down and
touched the bones, he could still feel the immense power of the hellkite pulsing
through the marrow.
One-hundred twelve. Number of total hands needed to move the hellkite's
corpse. Three fingers lost.
The Sculptor enjoyed a gust of wind. It brought a scent of honeysuckle from the
golden lowlands. The warm air rattled the bones hanging from ropes beneath his
feet. Seven-hundred sixty-nine silk ropes. Seven-hundred sixty-nine bones.
Sometimes he wished he were a puppet master and could make those bones
dance like marionettes. But that would be the master's pleasure. And all the
power derived from the ritual? That was the master's reward.
An abrasive metallic screech tore the Sculptor away from his reverie. The
twisted metal gate swung open, and new recruits filed into the arena. Bant
humans from the grasslands, probably that miserable little village near the ruined
castle. They were bound together with rope, and the Sculptor counted carefully
as they passed under the hellkite's spine.
Forty-seven bodies. Plus the two hunters they'd caught spying on them earlier.
Forty-nine bodies.
The Sculptor's breathing quickened. Frantically, he tallied the figures in his mind
again. Was it possible? Yes, all the numbers aligned.
It was perfect. And after such a long wait, it would be tonight.
The Sculptor dug his fingernails into the hellkite's ribs and prayed that the
master liked his gift.
Chapter 8.) The Stonekiller Part II (Alara)
By Jenna Helland (8/15/12)

Lia bit the hand that pulled the bag off her head. Something yelped, but didn't
strike her. Instead it set her gently on the ground and backed away.
"I'm Nira," it said softly. "And I'm sorry we had to meet this way."
Lia stared up at a cat-like person and decided it was a girl. Three more of cat-
people stood warily by, as if they felt threatened by the tiny girl glowering at
them. Boys, she decided. They had manes.
"I want to go home!" Lia shouted, startling all of them.
"Have you ever seen the ruins on the mountainside?" Nira asked. Her golden fur
was decorated with black spots. Blue-stone jewelry dangled from her pointed
ears. And the whiskers around her pink nose quivered even when she wasn't
talking.
"What are you?" Lia demanded, looking around. They appeared to be inside a
cave. Torches hung on the wall, and blankets had been laid out over the red-dirt
floor.
"Haven't you seen a nacatl before?" Nira seemed surprised. "We're Sunstrikers.
Our pride is loyal to the great teacher, Ajani. It's our sworn duty to keep his
lands safe."
"These aren't his lands," Lia said petulantly.
"The demon that lives in the ruins is a threat to us all, no matter where we call
home," Nira replied.
"Please?" Lia said. "I want to go home."
The Sunstriker looked over her shoulder, as if hoping her companions could
make this easier. They said nothing. "The demon is harvesting the bones of
creatures for a ritual. . ."
"Ritual?" Lia asked in confusion.
"He's killing countless creatures just to give himself more power," Nira
explained. "We've been hunting him for a long time. Many of our pride have
died, including most of our mages. He's taken your village, which I didn't expect
to happen so quickly."
"Taken them where?" Lia wondered if the demon had the green-eyed girl, and
then felt guilty for thinking it.
"To the ruins here in the mountains," Nira told her. "If you don't help us, they
will die. I wish you didn't have to hear that, but it's the truth."
Lia thought of her father and how tall he was. She couldn't imagine anything that
could hurt him. "Let's go see my father. And my mother is a mage. She helps
people all the time."
The Sunstriker looked sad. "You must help her. Your family is at the ruins, too."
Lia hugged her knees and wondered why she didn't feel anything. This all
seemed like part of a bedtime story. A cat that could talk. A demon in the
mountains. Surely Nira was wrong. Her family was safe in the cottage, waiting
for her.
"We must attack before the demon completes the ritual," Nira said. "For my plan
to work, we need a stonekiller, and ours have all been killed."
"What's a stonekiller?" Lia asked.
"You are," she replied. "I watched you by the river. You'll be a powerful mage
one day."
"Breaking pebbles isn't very useful," Lia said doubtfully.
"Today, you break pebbles. Tomorrow, you will smash walls. Someday, castles
might crumble in your passing."
Lia stared at her with awe. Lia galloped by on her white horse, and Eos Castle
tumbled to the ground.
Nira unsheathed her sword. With the tip of the blade, she hurriedly drew in the
red dirt. Lia watched her curiously.
"Like you, a dragon has a spine," Nira told her. "But unlike you, some dragons
have a large plate that connects to every rib. It's also where the wings attach. We
call it the keystone."
"Keystone?" Lia asked.
"Keystone means something important," Nira said. "If you destroy this plate, the
skeleton will fall. And then the ritual can't be finished."
"You want me to kill a dragon?" Lia whispered. She didn't want Nira to think
she was weak, but she didn't want to disappoint her either.
Instead of answering, Nira sheathed her sword and took Lia's tiny hands in her
own. "Can you climb?" she asked gently, inspecting Lia's curled fingers.
"Better than the other children," she promised.
"What is your name?" Nira asked.
"Lia," she said.
"Among my people, a warrior receives a new name before her first battle," Nira
said. "May I give you yours?"
Lia nodded. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her, a warrior?
"In my language, kaa means 'power,' Nira said. "You are now the warrior, Kaa-
lia. You will kill the keystone. And you will bring your family home."
Just before sunset, Kaalia lay beneath a dead tree on the ridge overlooking the
arena. Except for Nira, the ragged band of Sunstrikers had already disappeared
into the trees. They would circle around and launch their assault from a different
direction. Kaalia stared down at the frenzied scene in the valley. She tried to
rehearse Nira's instructions, but her thoughts felt like they were moving too fast.
The pointless slaughter of innocents must stop.
The hellkite's skeleton was like a horrible house.
Kill the keystone, destroy the skeleton.
The dangling bones swayed in the breeze and made hollow, rattling music.
Destroy the skeleton, stop the demon.
Kaalia whimpered, but Nira didn't move. She was watching the scene below
intently.
Stop the demon, bring your family home.
As the sun disappeared behind the dark mountaintops, a line of black-clad
people shuffled silently into the arena. Strips of black cloth crisscrossed around
their throats. Kaalia didn't see her family, or anyone from the village either.
"Those are his servants," Nira whispered.
"They want to be here?" Kaalia was horrified. She could smell a horrible stench
coming from the ruins. How could anyone want to be there?
"They might be controlled somehow," Nira said, as a flash of red light blinked
from the ridge across the valley.
"That's our signal," Nira whispered. She grasped Kaalia's hand, and the two
scurried down the overgrown slope, through a gap in the crumbling wall, and
crouched behind one of the massive ribs. They were only a few feet from the
main floor, and Kaalia realized her teeth were chattering with fear. She clenched
her jaw as the servants formed a circle around the hanging bones. Kneeling, they
held out their hands with palms open to the night sky. An emaciated bald man
wrapped in tattered furs strode to a platform on the northern end. He was
grinning, but it was a toothless, wicked smile that made Kaalia shudder.
During an earlier reconnaissance mission, Nira had discovered pockmarks along
the outside curve of the rib that would allow them to climb it and stay out of
view of the floor. But just as Kaalia put her foot on the first notch, the ground
bucked violently. The servants shrieked with glee, and the sound of their
laughter made Kaalia feel sick with fear.
"Let's go," Nira urged. "We have to hurry."
As Kaalia climbed, the rough surface scratched her hands. The servant's chants
grew louder and more demanding. A thunderous boom shook the earth, and the
servants shrieked in pain. Their palms had simultaneously split open. Droplets of
blood began to cascade upward into the sky. Kaalia looked down at Nira in
horror. Skin couldn't rip open on its own. Blood didn't rain up.
"If you destroy the keystone, the bones will fall," Nira encouraged her. "All this
madness will end."
At top of the rib, Nira leaped onto the spine first and helped Kaalia up. A strong
wind seemed to rush in from all sides, and the bones swayed precariously under
their feet. At Nira's direction, they flattened themselves on the walkway as sickly
fumes began to rise from below.
The bones were sharp against Kaalia'a belly as she inched toward the keystone.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other Sunstrikers fighting through a
mob of armed men to attack the bald man on the platform. In his haste to escape
the Sunstrikers, the bald man scampered up a ladder up to the walkway. At the
top, he caught sight of them and howled with rage. Nira leapt to her feet.
Nira drew her sword. "Do it now!"" she ordered Kaalia.
Kaalia crouched in front of the keystone. Her feet kept slipping between the gaps
in the spine. I'm going to fall. Just inches below her, the hanging bones
undulated with magic she couldn't comprehend, fusing together and then falling
apart. It was hypnotizing. Kaalia didn't want to look away. If I look away, I'll
fall.
"Kaalia!" Nira shouted. She pounced at the bald man, but he dodged her strike
and countered. Nira raised her sword to block, but the force of his blow almost
knocked her off the walkway. For a leathery scrap of a man, he was unnaturally
strong.
Kaalia tore her eyes away from the mass of bones below her. But she felt jittery,
terrified. How could she make her mind calm, like it needed to be when she
broke pebbles?
"Shut out the world!" Nira screamed. "Pretend you're somewhere else!"
Kaalia pressed her hand against the smooth keystone, closed her eyes, and
wished she were by the river again. Bant had been a vast realm. A beautiful land
of floating castles, seas of grass, and the bluest skies you can imagine. Under her
fingers, the keystone grew warm. It was a crisp autumn day when Eos Castle
was besieged by horrible creatures. Kaalia imagined the sparkling river rushing
by her bare toes. They broke through the wall! There was rippling sound, and
then her fingers felt only emptiness. Lia galloped by on her white horse, and Eos
Castle tumbled to the ground. When Kaalia opened her eyes, the keystone was
gone and a gaping hole nearly bisected the spine.
Triumphantly, she called out to Nira, but rough hands yanked her off the
walkway. The bald man was shaking her and screaming in her face. Behind him,
Nira was struggling to her feet. Blood matted the fur on the Sunstriker's head.
"You rat!" the man screamed. "You're the final number! Your blood will light
the fuse!"
And he threw her off the side.
With cat-like grace, Nira leapt after her. In mid-air, she encircled Kaalia in her
arms and they fell together. Just before they landed, Nira twisted her body so she
cushioned Kaalia's fall. Above, there was a loud crack as the spine snapped. The
bald man hung on for a moment before the hellkite's ribcage split in half and
crashed down. His body slammed against the floor with a sickening thud. Bones
clattered to the ground, raining down on Kaalia as she desperately tried to tend
to Nira. Kaalia's vision spun dangerously.
"Nira!" Kaalia sobbed. "We stopped it! The skeleton fell to pieces."
"Well done, little warrior," Nira whispered. "Now flee from here. The rest of us
are lost."
A blast of energy radiated out of the ground, which split open and left a jagged
scar across the arena. Bones and bodies flew like feathers in the wind. Kaalia
slammed against the arena wall, frantically shielding her face from the debris
that tumbled around her. He arose from the rift that now cut across the floor. His
wings cracked and snapped as he ascended slowly into the night sky.
It was as if the entire world has narrowed to a single point—him. He whipped
his blade through the air, and the screams of the dying echoed through the
valley. Fighting for consciousness, Kaalia glimpsed an image of the Sunstriker's
face swirling in the smoke above her, and then the world went black.
When Kaalia awoke, a weak sun was rising in the east, casting a white pall over
the devastation around her. Nothing moved amid the wreckage. There were no
sounds except the distant hum of locusts. The bodies scattered among the
wreckage were charred beyond recognition. Across the valley, half of the ridge
was gone, with just a smoking crater in its place. The demon had escaped.
She knelt beside the last place Nira had laid. Kaalia felt empty. Like her insides
had been ripped out, and there was just shadows left instead. I'll kill the demon. I
don't know how yet, but I'll find a way to make him suffer. Out in the vast
wilderness, that is where she would find her revenge.
Part 2.) Modern Masters
Preparation (Dominaria)
By Nik Davidson (5/29/13)

"There's no such thing as a fair fight."

The artificer had been at work for thirty hours straight, and she was exhausted.
This wasn't the longest stretch she had worked on a project, not by half. But
those projects had been driven by the muse, by love, or by inspiration. Those had
been works of joy. Joy fills the soul during times like those. There was no joy in
this work. A dozen different timepieces of varying size and make all ticked
away, counting down the hours to her execution.
She didn't have the power for a spell like this, so she had to cheat. The first step
was the amplification circle: Five feet in diameter, silver filigree etched in fresh
black marble. More than six hundred unique runes in the outermost circle, then
seven smaller rune circles, perfectly concentric, detailing the precise time,
location, and energy level of the spell that would target it. It would need to be
flawless. If it worked, it would allow her to pull off a feat of magic that even her
old mentor would have hesitated to try. Otherwise, the spell would fail in one of
an infinite number of spectacular ways. Almost none of those ways involved her
walking away.
A small insect-like construct brought her a new chisel, fresh plates of silver
inlay, and a glass of cold water. She grabbed a rag, wiped her hands and
forehead, and pushed a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes. She had seven hours
before she needed to be back in her cell, and she was nowhere near done.
The artificer stared at the spell circle. She squinted. Her eyes burned, dry from
too much detail work and not nearly enough sleep. She saw no flaws, but this
was worth checking a second time. And a third. She gave it a satisfied nod
before turning to her workbench.
There sat a small crystal sphere with an orange light swirling inside. She took a
deep breath and picked it up very carefully. With slow, deliberate steps, she
walked it over to the spell circle, and set it down very slowly. It made a small
"tink" sound as she let go, and she winced... a long second passed, and she
slowly exhaled. She backed away from the sphere and wiped her forehead again.
With a mischievous smile, she took a piece of paper from her desk, jotted a
quick note on it, and then placed it next to the sphere. Two steps down. Now the
hard part.
Channeling this much energy hurt. The room was filled with an unearthly blue
light—the artificer had conjured an opaque magical dome of force, nearly as tall
as she was, that completely covered the spell circle. Her face was locked into a
pained grimace, her teeth grinding from the effort, as she put everything she had
into creating a perfect barrier. She didn't have any shortcuts for this bit of magic;
she just poured everything in her mind and heart and soul into the dome, and
held absolutely nothing back. She wanted to stop. She needed to stop. But the
part of her that had been hammered into steel through decades of tireless work
knew something else—she knew that she needed to hold the spell for a few more
seconds. Seconds that trickled by like hours. That crept like days. She was
screaming now, but she couldn't hear herself.
The spell came to an end with an explosion. It sent her flying across the room,
skipping off the top of her cluttered workbench, and smashing into a bookshelf.
Countless gizmos and half-finished projects were smashed, dozens of beakers
shattered, and sheaves of paper were launched into the air. The spell circle, and
everything it contained, had been completely annihilated by the device.
As the papers fluttered to the ground, the room was filled with the ringing sound
of a young woman, flat on her back, bruised and aching, laughing at the top of
her lungs.
The artificer was shaken awake by one of her traveling companions—a merchant
who had been captured along with her a week before. Unlike her, he didn't have
the good fortune of being able to transport himself away to safety. So when she
found out these barbarians were planning on killing her and her companions as
part of some crazy solstice ritual, she briefly considered just teleporting away
and leaving them to their fate. Briefly. But then she learned that she'd be allowed
to fight, champion against champion, as part of the ceremony. That sounded like
fun, and abandoning these poor people to their deaths did not.
A ritually painted and fur-clad man with arms as big around as the artificer's
waist glared at her through the bars of her cell. He knew she was a mage, but she
had been careful not to cast any spells that would draw attention during her
supposed "captivity." She had been transporting herself to and from her
laboratory fairly freely at night, but if they had noticed, they hadn't given any
sign.
The man grunted, opened the cage door, and gestured for the artificer to follow.
The camp was clearly prepared for a day of celebration. The rough tents all had
some kind of ribbon or ornamentation, and a ring of barricades had been
assembled for the contest. If she didn't know the purpose of all of this was to be
bloody ritual combat, followed by a series of murderous sacrifices to a sun god,
she would have thought the display quite festive. The sun was bright in a
perfectly clear sky. She couldn't have asked for a nicer day. She was led to a
small pen at the edge of the ring. Her guard grunted and gestured for her to wait.
She did.
The tribe started to gather around the contest ring, and the barbarian champion
was already being prepared by the tribe's shaman and his acolytes. Even from
across the field, the artificer could feel the immense power they were wielding.
Whether learned in the academy or some stinking mud hut, power was power.
Too many at the academy thought that when you bind power in a book, you gain
a monopoly over it. Too few of them remained to regret that line of thinking.
The assembled crowd started to chant their champion's name, a young warrior
who looked to be in the prime of his life—tall, lean, muscled, and unscarred,
with thick dark hair in a loose braid down his back.
"GRELL! GRELL! GRELL! GRELL!"
The shamans concluded their ritual and raised their arms for silence. It was
somewhat disquieting just how quickly the tribe went perfectly still. To the
artificer's ears, the shaman sounded like any other charlatan preacher—a deep,
booming voice with a little edge of menace in his tone to keep the crowd in line.
"HEAR ME! We, the children of the light that warms us, we, the children of the
summer plains! We give thanks to the most mighty on this, the longest of days,
when the one who burns above is mightiest of all!"
A roar came up from the crowd, right on cue, then quickly subsided.
"In his honor, we offer a show of our strength! In his honor, we offer a show of
our devotion! In his honor, we offer the blood of our enemies!"
Another cry from the crowd.
"We have given our champion all of the sun's blessings! We have given him all
of our might!"
At this, two men entered the ring, one with what looked to be small tree trunk,
and the other a metal bucket.
"On this day, our strength can withstand any blow!" The man with the tree trunk
swung it like a club, and it shattered into splinters when it struck Grell. The
crowd roared.
"On this day, our will can withstand any flames!" The man with the bucket threw
its contents over Grell—oil—that burst into flames. Grell stood, wreathed in the
fire, unmarred. The crowd gasped, then screamed its awed approval.
"Son of the tribe, while the light of the longest day shines upon your skin, you
are INVINCIBLE!"
The artificer swallowed hard. She had been prepared for all this, researched it all
as soon as she understood what was planned for the captives, but facing off
against an invincible foe was unsettling, despite her precautions. The shaman
turned his eyes on her.
"You there, challenger of the outlands? I am told you are a great warrior among
your people!"
A chuckle rippled through the crowd.
"I can fight," she said.
"And a great wizard as well! This is what your fellows say of you! Are you a
great wizard, champion?"
"Not nearly as great as some." There was a note of sadness in her voice.
"And you willingly take on the fates of the outlanders under your protection?
Your fate shall be theirs?"
"Let's just get this over with."
A variety of weapons were brought forth for her to choose from. She took a
small dagger from the rack and strode out into the middle of the ring. Grell had
been handed a pair of small stone axes. Drums started to roar, and the crowd
followed suit.
Grell's face was a manic grin. The artificer had no idea how much energy was
being channeled through the man, but it was a lot, and chances were he was
feeling good. With a well-practiced gesture, she sent two bolts of flame streaking
toward him, and in a shower of embers, they spattered across his chest. He was
unharmed, of course. Grell raised his arms in triumph to the crowd. The artificer
gritted her teeth.
She rushed at him, dagger in a reverse grip. She slashed at his face, and Grell
jumped back. The instinct to get out of the blade's path was still there, even
though he knew she couldn't hurt him. He leapt at her, taking careful, powerful
swings with the axes, but the artificer rolled deftly out of the way.
As she rolled through the dust, she palmed a small object from her belt. When he
charged at her again, she tossed it at him—a tiny construct, shaped like an ant,
with a reservoir of a glowing cyan liquid in its abdomen. It sprang to life, and
latched unnoticed on to Grell's loincloth, providing the anchor for the artificer's
next spell.
She managed to duck under Grell's next swing, but his massive forearm caught
her across the chest on the backswing—the force of it lifted her off the ground.
She hit the ground hard, and pulled herself up to one knee. Grell raised his arms
again in triumph, taking in the adulation of the crowd before delivering the
intended killing blow, when the artificer whispered the word of power that
released all of her prepared magic.
"Let's see if this worked."
There was a slight pop, and Grell vanished from sight.
Grell blinked. There air was cold here, and it tasted wrong. He found himself
trapped inside an opaque magical dome of force, glowing with blue swirls of
arcane energy. On the ground was a small glowing sphere and a handwritten
note. He pounded his fists against the barrier, but it absorbed his strikes without
making a sound. The glowing sphere was brightening, and the orange light
inside looked increasingly... unstable. It began to emit a high-pitched hum, and it
started to shake. Frantic, he looked at the note.
The solstice is tomorrow. I win.
—Jhoira