"Yesterday's output was 648,922,765 tons," the accelerator said. "This is approximately fifty percent of our total capacity."
"It is one hundred percent," countered the gauge.
"Forty days ago we produced 1.2 billion tons of flowstone," said the accelerator. "That represented an effort of 108 percent of our capacity. How can 648,922,765 tons in the previous daily cycle be 100 percent?"
"It cannot," said the gauge. "Increase production to 1.1 billion tons in this cycle."
Lava input tubes at the very bottom of the Citadel were switched on. Prodded to full capacity, the factory rumbled into high gear. The pitch of production increased.
There were a lot of bodies to dispose of. The moggs dragged a heavy cart to the death pits and eased the bodies in one at a time to avoid splashing the deadly black tar on themselves. In went Dorian il-Dal, former chamberlain of the palace. In went Tharvello, promising young sergeant. In went nine young men of the Dal and Vec, still clad in their borrowed Rathi uniforms.
The moggs hooted happily as the last of the bodies sank into the sable ooze. Though there were many bodies yet to dispose of, their shift was done. They had a half-day off. A holiday had been declared by the new evincar.
Tant Jova was dying. She was past one hundred-twenty years old, and all the skills of her clan's healers could no longer stave off the assault of old age. It was whispered in camp the real cause of her final illness was the fact that Eladamri and Liin Sivi never returned from their last raid.
Lying in her tent on a hummock in the Skyshroud Forest, Tant Jova called two people to her bedside, Darsett en-Dal and Gallan. The wealthy Dal merchant and the young elf warrior stood on either side of Jova's simple pallet.
"Long life to you, Tant Jova," said Darsett, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Rubbish," the old woman rasped. "My time left is measured in heartbeats. If I had a long life ahead of me, I wouldn't be lying here, would I?"
"What can we do, Tant Jova?" asked Gallan.
"I want you to pledge to continue the fight against the Stronghold. I know the night seems dark and long, but like all nights, it will end. Lead the free people of Rath into the morning."
"We'll keep the fight going," Darsett said. "Though I don't know what the point is now. We have a new evincar, worse than the last. The airship flies again, raining death on our people from above. The Stronghold seems mightier than ever, and we've lost Eladamri and many of our finest young warriors."
"The point is to fight, O Darsett," Tant Jova said, taking his broad hand. "Eladamri started his rebellion twenty years ago. You and I have been fighting just five months. If we can resist even when the enemy is strongest, we will prevail in time."
"Our agents report good progress recruiting in the Stronghold," Gallan said. "They haven't forgotten what Crovax did to their families."
The old Vec woman closed her eyes. "He dug his own grave that day," she whispered. "The time will come when all the righteous souls of the murdered will rise up and bring the tyrant Crovax to just retribution…"
"Sleep now," Gallan urged. "Be at peace. Darsett and I will continue the battle."
Her sunken eyes closed. Gallan and Darsett slipped out, leaving the Vec matriarch to dream a last dream of freedom.
It was dusk. The two rebel leaders walked out from under the trees and looked up at the darkening sky.
"Have you noticed the odd colors in the sky at daybreak and dusk?" asked Darsett. "Sometimes the sky looks quite blue."
"It's strange," Gallan agreed. "But no stranger than some other tales I've heard. I'm in contact with elves in other parts of the forest, and with Vec nomads who range as far away as the Sawtooth Hills and the Weblands. They speak of phantom cities appearing on the plain at dusk, and ghostly forests and mountains visible just before daybreak."
"What does it mean?"
The young elf shook his head. "I'm no seer, but these signs must be portents of coming changes-changes that may alter Rath forever."
Darsett shoved his hands in his pockets. Loose coins jingled there. "I went to Eladamri's first meeting because I hated the high taxes Volrath made me pay," he mused. "Five months later, I find myself running a damned revolution and puzzling over mysterious omens. Does that make sense?"
Gallan couldn't tell him. At that moment, he saw the northern sky shot through with vivid blue. The low clouds were illuminated from some unknown source and glowed a sanguinary red. Such colors were unnatural on Rath, and their sudden, radical beauty left both Dal and elf speechless.
For reasons known only to himself, Crovax chose to give Belbe a sumptuous state funeral. The Stronghold was too confining for the spectacle Crovax planned, so the funeral pyre was erected outside the crater, on the smooth southern plain. The entire army of Rath was summoned to attend, each soldier with a new black mantle and black headbands tied around their helmets. Delegations from the Dal, Vec, and Kor were required to attend, and they did, clad in suitable mourning dress. The actual pyre was surrounded by over five thousand civilian onlookers. Many of the civilians wondered why a sturdy post had been set in the ground alongside the pyre and why it was fitted with heavy chains. Rumor had it an execution was going to be staged during the Phyrexian emissary's funeral.
The soldiers and civilians arrived at their designated places at the specified time, an hour before dusk. They waited and watched the causeway for signs of the funeral procession. To fill the long minutes, conversation turned to the strange colors people were seeing in the sky, and to the ghostly visions that appeared with increasing frequency at the start and end of each day.
It was unsettling, but then so was the new evincar. Unlike Volrath, Crovax made no pretense of royal manners. He was brisk and efficient, dispensing justice and injustice with equal facility. His first act after ordering Belbe's funeral was to purge over six hundred courtiers from the Citadel. They simply vanished without trial or trace.
The first visceral notes of a distant drumbeat filtered down the causeway. The restive crowd quieted, and the massed ranks of soldiers came to attention.
A column of palace guards appeared in full regalia, bearing flagstaffs instead of their usual polearms. Each staff carried a black oriflamme, hanging limply in the still air. Behind the guardsmen came a group of drummers, fifty strong, beating a steady rhythm. After the drummers came the torchbearers, sixty in all. They wore white tabards over black, and each carried a four-foot long blazing brand.
On the heels of the torchbearers was the emissary herself, borne on a bier made of real wood. Belbe had been wrapped head to toe in sparkling white bandages. Only her pallid face was exposed. Her Phyrexian armor was piled at her feet. The entire bier weighed five hundred pounds and required eight stout guardsmen to carry it.
So far, the spectacle had been impressive but predictable. What followed Belbe's body made everyone gasp with surprise. Volrath-alive and in chains.
Everyone assumed Volrath had been killed by Crovax soon after his defeat, yet here he was in all his lost glory. In the weeks since Crovax's ascension to the throne, technicians had been working on Volrath. They had removedwith varying degrees of success-most of his Phyrexian grafts and implants until all that was left was a shell of the godlike being Volrath had been. His beautiful body was gone, and Vuel's short, homely one was all that was left. Dressed only in a loin cloth, Volrath, properly called Vuel again, still managed to walk with glacial dignity, his head held high.
Some people bowed when he passed. Their names were taken by Crovax's police agents scattered through the crowd. Respect for the defeated was forbidden, and the punishment was death. Next in the procession came the Corps of Sergeants in their bright armor, swords held rigidly in front of their stern faces. A hooded executioner walked in their wake, and a final contingent of palace guards brought up the rear. But where was Greven il-Vec? Where was the evincar?