Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [71]
“Mubin! Mubin! Mubin!”
He was hoarse before he realized he was screaming at the rhox knight, preoccupied as he was with the desperate maneuvers of leotau and rider that it took to cross through the sea of combatants to reach him. He shifted his weight to and fro, yanking and kicking to guide the steed deftly through the fray, trying not to trample the injured or the friendly. The enemy mage had chosen her target cleverly; Mubin was one of the most dangerous soldiers on the battlefield—in all of Bant, in truth. By the time Rafiq had reached Mubin, he had already made the decision: he would have to wound the rhox, hard, and bring him down.
He tried to circle around to Mubin’s front side to land a proper blow, but Mubin kept circling his steed to present only the unarmored back—a dishonorable target. It was only after Mubin walloped a young soldier squarely in the helmet, felling her as one might a doll, that Rafiq realized he’d have to violate his code as a Sigiled-caste and as a knight. He’d have to attack the unarmored gap in the rhox’s back, like a child or a common bandit. It was just like the arena, when Aarsil the Blessed had purposely changed the rules to test his willingness to break them himself—except things were beyond a mere swayed judge. It was an entire army, an entire world with no conception of the rules of honor at all.
Rafiq swept up to Mubin, and angled himself to hit the junction between the flanges of metal on the rhox’s back. He saw his opening, and swung with all his might. Rafiq’s sword came down between Mubin’s shoulder blades, and struck deep, tearing through several inches of skin and fat, severing a muscle group or two, and scraping vertebrae and cartilage. It must have cut something else too—something deeper—because Mubin dropped his mace and fell limp, roughly, off his steed, into the mud.
GRIXIS
You’ve done well, my pet,” said Bolas.
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Sarkhan, following Bolas down an enormous cavern under the necropolis. Sconces made from hollowed-out human skulls lined the tunnel. Light flickered through the eye sockets.
“Yes. The Grixis legions have advanced deeper than expected. We’ve captured Vectis on one front and Bloodhall on the other, creating ostentatious firefights in every battle. The other planes have engaged in all-out war on multiple fronts. In this, your reconnaissance and infiltration have proved most useful. As a result, I have a surprise for you.”
Sarkhan’s heart stopped for a moment. He thought of the hundreds of skull sconces he’d seen, and recalled a mountaintop littered with braindead goblins. “What is it?”
“It should be obvious,” said Bolas, his grin a mockery of magnanimity. “I’ve given the gift you’ve always wanted. Come.”
Bolas gestured to an undead guard, who pulled open gigantic doors into the next chamber. Bolas strolled through them, looking surprisingly natural on two legs. With his wings folded and his tail balancing the weight of his torso and long neck, the elder dragon looked almost humanoid.
They emerged in a dry natural cavern. Standing inside were five dragons, their heads held up oddly, as if they were posing for the judges of some sort of contest. They were Jund dragons, their scales scarred and blackened in places from the wear and tear of draconic battles. But something was wrong about them. Their eyes were inert, unresponsive. They breathed and held position, and did nothing else.
They were magnificent, but despite himself, Sarkhan felt his stomach clench.
“What did