The world took hold of her solidified form, and her wings surged as she descended.
The Evincar of Rath did not rise from his knee, only extending a talon in welcome. It was as though all the horrid days fell away from Crovax, and he was once again a young man in love. His hand received her palm. Gerrard's blood drew red ribbons on her skin.
Selenia lighted upon the ground. Her wings furled.
Crovax kissed her hand. Lips did not entirely close over his teeth. It was a pathetic kiss, leering and hopeless. Crovax shut his eyes in bliss.
"Do you see, Gerrard? I have followed her to hell, and I have reclaimed her. Soon, when I have given all of Dominaria to Yawgmoth, he will give her to me. Until then, I can call her spirit here."
"She's not real, Crovax. She's an illusion," Gerrard insisted. There was more pity than anger in his voice. "Yawgmoth has learned how to twist you. With a simple glamour, he keeps you here."
"Touch him, Selenia," Crovax said. "Let him feel the pulse in your fingers, the warmth of your skin. Show him you are real."
She strode toward Gerrard. Her eyes pinned his. She ran knuckles gently over his cheek. Gerrard's blood smeared from her fingers onto his face. There was solidity to her touch. More than solidity, there was life, even the sweet scent of flesh.
In a voice both wise and sad, Selenia said, "He is freeing me. He is ransoming my soul with a whole world. Death cannot stand before such love."
Closing his eyes, Gerrard said, "Crovax, Yawgmoth doesn't have dominion over the dead. He is not the lord of souls. He could not return your lost love to you."
"Show him," Crovax said. The evincar's head was bowed again, his hands clasped. "Show him, Yawgmoth, that you are lord of the dead."
Gerrard's eye was drawn by movement among the maggots. In their midst, Squee's body shuddered. The green tissues of his neck compacted. Beneath them, fragments of bone slid together to assemble knobby vertebrae. The spinal cord fused again. Fingers convulsed with life. Toes curled and uncurled. Knees drew up beneath an aching body. Elbows trembled as arms pushed the figure upright. Squee's brown vest expanded with breath. He looked up, blinking.
"Gerrard?" Squee muttered absently. He picked a worm from his shoulder. "How'd Squee get down here with dese maggots?"
Gerrard couldn't answer. He stared, unbelieving, at the risen goblin.
Crovax said, "Everyone ends up with the maggots, but not everyone rises again."
"Is it really you, Squee?" Gerrard managed at last. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
Indignation reddened the goblin's eyes. "You? Save? Squee? 'Squee no need saved! Squee save your butt a hundred gabillion times. He save your butt here too." Yawgmoth could not have faked that reply.
Mind whirling, Gerrard shook his head. "What is the point of all this?"
"Yawgmoth is the lord of death," Selenia said. "Yawgmoth can kill and bring life."
Crovax rose and gestured toward Squee. "Look what Lord Yawgmoth has done for this pathetic wretch." His other talon extended toward Selenia. "Look what he has done for me. Think of what he can do for you. Think of whom he could reunite with you."
Gerrard understood at last. "Hanna?"
"Yes," hissed Crovax. "Yawgmoth has her too. Yawgmoth has Hanna. He can return her to you."
Chapter 32
Seas spread beneath Rith's scales. Clouds beamed upon Treva's wings. Skies glowed across Dromar's mantle. The three Primevals were beautiful in flight, a glorious arc before the dragon nations.
Rhammidarigaaz flew just behind them. His wings were weary, and his mind was worse. The Primevals emitted a blinding glory. For a time, Darigaaz had seen nothing but its dazzle. Eventually, though, divine light blinds a mortal eye. Then only darkness remains. Darigaaz could see only darkness now.
How many dragons had died to raise these three Primevals? How many more would die to raise the fourth? Once there were four, how total would their hold be on every dragon heart?
"At least there will not be five," he murmured to himself. The red dragon's death would forever prevent a complete circle of Primevals. A complete circle could tyrannize the whole world.
With a fierce surge of his wings, Darigaaz drove himself forward. Crimson scales hurled back the tumbling skies. Another stroke, and he pulled even with the three Primevals.
In the gleaming ocean beyond stretched a line of black islands-Urborg. There raged the battle that would decide the war. Fleets of troop ships stood at anchor around it. Fleets of airships swarmed the skies. Angels fought, and devils, Weatherlight and the Metathran. All the world fought there. Soon the dragons would join them.
In Urborg's deepest, darkest slough rested the last Primeval.
Rith watched Darigaaz. Her eyes were slivers of jade. It is about time you came up to join us.
Ignoring her comment, Darigaaz asked, What is the name of the final Primeval?
Crosis, Rith replied easily. It was an ill-fated name, the root of the draconic word for death. Rith gauged his response. You needn't be frightened by the name. Rith means childhood, Treva means youth, Dromar means adulthood, and Crosis means death. Together, we Primevals encompass the stages of draconic life.
And the red dragon? asked Darigaaz.
His name meant conception, the moment of volcanic desire that changes old death to new life. He had the power to be reborn and awaken the rest of us. That is why the Phyrexians targeted him first. Despite their labors, the circle will soon be complete.
Complete except for one, correct Darigaaz.
Of course, Rith replied, but once Crosis joins us, no one will stand before us.
Darigaaz studied her. You mean no Phyrexian will stand before us.
Of course, she repeated.
Swear an oath. We fight for Dominaria. We fight against Phyrexia.
Turning her head toward him, she drew her jowls back in a predatory grin. I swear an oath to fight for Dominaria and to fight against Phyrexia. The look faded. You mortals and your oaths. Do you realize what we are doing? We are about to awaken not just one god but a whole pantheon. Everything- even an oath-is swept away when gods awaken. Enough discussion. It is time.
Words and wings brought them rapidly to Urborg. Small blots of land swelled into large islands. Dragons soared over an encircling reef, above briny shallows, and past the shoreline. Beyond rose forests drowned in saltwater.
There was not a living Phyrexian to be seen. The few patches of high ground were marked with fire circles where weird bones lay-remains of the vanquished. The victors meanwhile manned lookout posts of wood and reed. Sentries lifted their eyes to see the great flock of dragons descend on Urborg. Metathran rarely smiled, but these watchmen, each one, waved a glad greeting.