Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [64]
“I am a prophet, yes.”
“Ah. So you presume to know the will of the angels, do you, Sighted-caste?”
“The angels have spoken to all of us, to all the castes. We of the Order of the Skyward Eye have merely interpreted the angels’ message for the people of Bant. All castes, all peoples should understand its importance. You are familiar with Asha’s Prophecy?”
“I’ve heard it, yes.”
“So you know its rhythms, at least. You know how it ends?”
“Yes, I know that it ends with the demons returning, and a war that ends our world.”
“No, not that ends the world, your honor. Not necessarily. The war shall determine our world’s fate, one way or the other. And we need to be sure that we’re prepared. That is the message of the prayer—that we must choose to rise up and defend the blessed land for ourselves.”
Rafiq rose. “May I speak?”
Aarsil nodded.
“The court recognizes Rafiq of the Many,” said the bailiff.
“I don’t know you, prophet, but I know your Prophecy, and I object to your interpretation of it. Your words belittle the angels, our aegis against evil. The events that Aarsil mentions are disturbing, and perhaps a sign that Asha’s time is near. But that’s all the more reason to wait for them to act. Should anything truly dire befall Bant, the angels will rise up and defend us. Our role is to wait for their lead.”
“With all respect due to your station, knight-captain,” said Iama, “I must disagree. The angels will support us in whatever we choose. In the old tongue, they are the bantuthroi, literally the ‘flesh of our volition.’ If we do nothing, neither will they.”
A murmur blew through the assembly.
“Order,” said Aarsil. “That is a radical interpretation, Iama.”
“Your honor, it is what is mandated in the prophecies handed down from knight to knight in our Order, from the angel Asha herself.”
“So you say.”
Iama nodded. “I do. The Prophecy says, further, that our world shall expand, converging with a multitude of lands beyond Bant—which is exactly what we’ve seen coming at the Jhessian coast. The metal towers and strange mages are from a world we call Esper, and Esper is only the first. We know that these worlds will stop at nothing to destroy Bant and our entire way of life.”
GRIXIS
Grixis wasn’t populated entirely by undead horrors. Despite centuries of decay under the withering effects of the plane’s dark mana, some humans still lived—but not many. After the hermitage at Kederekt fell to the undead armies of the demon Malfegor, Torchlight became the last stronghold of living humans.
Morsath Levac peered out the door through the small, round piece of glass. The scouts were late, and on the horizon he could already see the cluster of sickly clouds gathering for that night’s lightning storms. His fingers and jawline were bony, his frame hollowed by the daily trauma of life on Grixis—not like the supple, fleshy cheeks of his young son.
The door hummed gently. Light-bending magic inside the door’s enchanted lens gathered reflections from outside the stronghold and delivered them to Levac’s eyes. The Dregscape looked as bleak as ever, an expanse of flyblown rot the color of gore. Black-feathered kathari shrieked in the distance.
“Levac, anything?” said Captain Haim, coming down the stairs from the tower.
“No, Captain,” said Levac. “No sign of Tomlain or Welly. It’s been three hours; they should have reported in by now.”
“We’ll give them ten more minutes. Then you and I will do a quick circuit, and then we’ll lock up for the night. For now, go be with your wife and son, Levac. I can man the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey, are the wards active?” “They’re hot. I just checked them.” “Then scoot.”
His last shift. One last guard shift, and then he could take a bit of leave—three whole weeks of nothing but time with Salay and the boy, and if all went well, their newborn. Levac climbed the stairs two at a time.
“Levac!”
It was Captain Haim again.
“What do you want, old man?” he started, but the crash cut him short.
Levac dashed down the steps to see the door blown off its hinges, with Captain