Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [42]
Sarkhan came to a realization: Rakka’s master, whether the elementalist knew it or not, was no mere dragon. He was a planeswalker, and an immensely powerful one. Sarkhan was gripped by a strange idea, and felt awe in it despite its absurdity: whereas Sarkhan had walked the planes for years, the being, the dragon planeswalker, always remained perfectly still, and traveled the planes by moving the multiverse around himself.
The dragon folded his wings behind him and sat up, tenting his fingertips as he regarded the humanoids. He was strikingly regal.
“Sarkhan Vol, may I present my master, Nicol Bolas,” said Rakka.
“It is a profound honor,” said Sarkhan. He found himself bowing, pressing the knuckles of his fists together under his chin, as his people did in the world of his home.
Bolas grinned, his lips dragging away to reveal too many teeth. “It is I who am honored,” he said.
At the dragon’s voice, the goblins cheered and clawed themselves.
His eyes turned to Rakka. “The deed is done?” he asked.
She nodded. “It is. Sarkhan was of great help in freeing the obelisk. His magic is broad and powerful.”
Bolas flexed the spikes on his cheeks. “Is that so. Well, then.” He looked over Sarkhan, his neck arching like a question mark.
Sarkhan took great pride in the dragon’s stare, the study of a predator sizing up prey. He knew a dragon of Bolas’s age would not bother with trivial game; he was a fair match. Could the dragon finally be one worth his reverence?
“You may go,” said Bolas to Rakka.
She nodded, then turned and headed back down the hill without another word.
The goblins were beside themselves with excitement, dancing around Bolas in a circle, chittering and peeping, clawing themselves and each other in a frenzy. Bolas looked down on them for the first time.
Sarkhan held his breath. Finally, he would see the ancient dragon unleash his fury on the suicidal goblins.
Bolas took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, but with his mouth unexpectedly closed. His nostrils flared with the long, slow breath. He looked each goblin in the eyes one at a time, his head turning around the circle.
Where was the rage? Where was the ecstatic tumult of destruction? Where was the blast of fiery breath, like Sarkhan had so often seen across Jund? Was the dragon really not going to feast?
Then, one by one, the goblins wheezed a final sigh, and slumped over onto the bare rock. They toppled like stacked dominoes with no apparent cause—if Bolas had used magic on them, it was as effortless as an eyeblink. The goblins twitched, then lay still.
A smile bloomed across Bolas’s lips. Sarkhan felt a bead of sweat travel down his back—which wasn’t that strange, given the volcanic miasma around them. Bolas didn’t devour the bodies, but instead seemed to appreciate the shape of them, around him in a circle. A few of them had pink tongues lolling out of their soricine mouths.
The dragon turned his eyes back to Sarkhan, and Sarkhan felt the weight of the stare like two swords pressed to his chest. The creature was the apex of dragonkind, he realized. He had come to Jund, a world full of dragons, only to meet his ideal dragon from far beyond the world. He had come to Jund to seek the worthiest specimen of life he could find, and found it in an avatar of death.
“Rakka tells me you’re a shaman and a warrior,” said Bolas. “I am.”
“But not one from this world.”
“Is it that plain?”
“Your scent doesn’t match Jund’s. And your spark is … apparent to me.” The comment was innocent enough, but Sarkhan got the impression that Bolas had just called his soul “delectable.”
“I came here to seek a worthy dragon. I believe I have found him.”
“Good. Then I have a mission for you, planeswalker,” said Bolas.
Ever since he had watched his warriors