With an ominous crack, the thin flowstone structure bowed under his weight. Crovax's euphoria disappeared. He leaped back to the Dream Halls, just as the feeble platform crumbled away. Crovax hit the sill square in the chest, driving the wind from his lungs. Gasping, he heaved himself over the ledge and rolled back inside the hall. The window flowed shut behind him. Crovax lay on the cold stone floor, heart hammering. Then he laughed.
At the far end of the Dream Halls, the delegation led by Greven had just arrived. Normally only Volrath could have opened the flowstone locks on the doors to his sanctum, but when the group arrived, the massive twin doors were already mysteriously apart. Greven entered boldly, as if he were a frequent visitor. Behind him came Dorian il-Dal and a select group of courtiers, an honor guard drawn from the palace garrison, and Ertai. Dorian had voiced a concern over bringing the captive wizard along.
"He's an enemy," the chamberlain said. "Surely he belongs in prison?"
"All in good time," Greven answered. "For now, let him see the power he opposes."
Ertai slipped along quietly on bandaged feet. The honor guard was close behind him, so he had no chance to slip away. He only considered escape for a moment. The prospect of meeting an emissary from Phyrexia was far too interesting to miss.
The Dream Halls were their widest where the structure joined the main part of the Citadel. None of them had ever seen the interior before, and the austere monochrome reliefs, starkly stylized images of Volrath, and weird flowbot machinery kept the delegation in a tight group, heads turning in all directions. Only Greven kept his dignity and strode straight on. He drew ahead of the rest until Dorian called to him.
"Dread Lord, wait for us!"
"Stop dawdling. You've lived in the Stronghold most of your lives, and you act like you've never seen such sights before."
Ertai sat down on the polished black floor. "Might as well wait here," he said.
"On your feet!" said a shocked Dorian.
"My feet hurt. Ask Lord Greven why they do." "Leave him," said Greven. "When the emissary arrives, he'll stand like everyone else. How many intervals has it been?"
Dorian consulted the time meter he wore around his neck. The dial was as big as a dinner plate but as thin as leather. In between ordinary numbers, intricate runes and sigils-Phyrexian numbers-appeared and disappeared irregularly.
"Six intervals and a half," he said when the yellow symbols appeared on the meter's face.
"Stand at ease," Greven said to the honor guard. The guardsmen, led by Sergeant Nasser, slouched in their stiff, conical suits of ceremonial armor.
No one spoke for several minutes. Ertai amused himself by reading the auras of the courtiers. Their strongest components were fear and greed. The honor guard was a different story. They all wore haloes of violence, and their leader, Nasser, had a powerful aura that spoke of great personal ambition. Ertai looked back at Greven and wondered if he knew.
Poking at the floor, Ertai discovered the marble was just another variety of flowstone. He concentrated as he pushed with his finger, and for a fleeting instant, he thought he felt the substance soften. Surprised, he lifted his finger. There was no sign of any indentation-but the sensation must have been genuine. He was far too practiced to mistake a thing like that.
The silence was broken by a far-off whistling. Everyone in the delegation pricked up their ears. Ertai stood. The honor guard snapped to attention.
"The emissary!" said Dorian breathlessly.
Greven peered down the dim, cavernous hall. "Don't be an idiot. Do overlords whistle like steam kettles?"
Dorian sidled up to the towering warrior. "Who-or what- is it then?"
The trilling grew steadily louder. It didn't sound like a person whistling, more like a pipe or a tin whistle.
"Could it be Volrath returned?" Ertai asked.
"That sound is not Volrath," Greven replied.
A voice filtered down, distorted and sourceless in the odd acoustics of the hall. As everyone strained to hear, the noise grew more distinct.
Greven ordered the guards forward. They formed a wedge in front of Greven and leveled their spears. The whistling was louder and clearer, but there was still no one in sight.
"Whoever you are," Greven shouted, "show yourself!"
The whistling stopped and was replaced by quiet, eerie laughter. All eyes rose, and they beheld Crovax in his new Phyrexian finery, standing on the vertical wall of the hall, twenty feet above them. His position defied reason and gravity, for he was standing at a ninety degree angle to the floor with no more support than the soles of his boots.
"By the colors," Ertai muttered. "How did he get here?"
"You know him?" Greven said mildly.
"His name is Crovax. He's a sullen, tormented man who came here with us on Weatherlight."
Greven parted the line of soldiers. "What are you doing here? This is the sanctum of the Evincar of Rath-trespassing here means death!"
Crovax turned to face the floor and walked effortlessly down the wall. A small bone-white flowstone device perched on his shoulder began to whistle the melancholy nomad song again. Crovax reached the floor and stepped down.
"I am the evincar of Rath," said Crovax.
CHAPTER 4
Greven drew his black-bladed sword in a swift, fluid motion. "You're either a madman or a liar. In any case, your life is forfeit. Get him!"
The guards lowered their spears and charged. Crovax, utterly composed, made no immediate move to evade them. When the soldiers were ten paces away, the smooth black floor suddenly turned to jelly. The soldiers' feet sank into the black goo and were held fast. "Dread Lord, he commands the flowstone!" Dorian cried.
Greven circled wide around the mired troops. Crovax edged away from Greven, drawing his own sword. He seemed wary of engaging the hulking warrior.
Greven leveled his weapon. "You have some influence over the flowstone, but you don't command it as Volrath did, do you?" He cut wide circles in the air with his wickedly curved blade. "Can you direct my control rod, impostor? You have this one chance before I kill you!"
He made a terrific overhand slash at Crovax, who parried shakily. Ertai pushed to the front of the crowd of frightened courtiers. Crovax's aura was astonishingly dense and dark, far stronger than it had been on Weatherlight, and it extended to where the soldiers were stuck in the grip of the flowstone. He had little power left to fend off Greven, however.
Greven came on fiercely, cutting at Crovax's head, thrusting at his stomach and legs. One underhand lunge was blocked in the last second by Crovax's lighter blade. Greven's great muscles bulged, and he brought his blade up against Crovax's full resistance. The latter's sword snapped, and the flowstone blade went skittering away, stopping at Ertai's feet. To his astonishment, the broken blade sprouted tiny legs, stood up, and began marching back to rejoin itself to Crovax's hilt.
Taking his sword in both hands, Greven raised it high for a death blow. The flowstone released the soldiers, and the section of floor between Greven and Crovax heaved up to ward off the warrior's blow. Greven's blade stuck fast in the flowstone shield. He grunted and tugged at the imbedded blade. Crovax, breathing hard, searched for a weapon with which to strike the distracted Greven.
Three deep, even tones echoed through the vast space like the tolling of a great bell.
A shock wave blasted down the Dream Halls, silent and powerful. Lightly dressed courtiers went sprawling. Ertai dropped on his face and clawed at the hard pavement. To his amazement, his fingers probed shallow handholds in the flowstone.