Kavu emerged from the undergrowth and formed a solemn circle around the ship. For a moment, Gerrard feared they might attack. Then he saw, on one of their backs, the figure of Multani.
Gerrard smiled to his onetime mentor. Waving, he whispered assurances to himself. "Multani will heal the ship, and we'll fight again at Urborg."
While Multani reworked the hull and Karn reworked the engine, Tahngarth descended from the crowded ship to rework himself. He who had saved a thousand minotaurs was not willing to be among them when they awoke.
Already they were shaking off their stupor. Perhaps Orim's ministrations brought them out. Perhaps it was only the healing magic of minotaur muscle.
The healing magic of minotaur muscle… Tahngarth snorted. He looked at his own twisted form. That magic was gone from him.
At the lake, he dived. He dived deep. He remained down long. The cold water felt good on his tortured flesh. It washed away the dust of Kaldroom, the sweat of Urborg, the stink of every tormented place.
When he rose again toward the surface, his eyes made out a strange assemblage on the shore. He broke from the water. It streamed from his horns and hair.
Before him, all along the bank, stood minotaur warriors. The line of them stretched back to Weatherlight. More warriors poured down the gangplank. All headed toward the water and the single figure bathing there. All looked at Tahngarth, their eyes grave as they traced his deformations.
Gritting his teeth, Tahngarth strode from the lake. He would not turn from them. He would not skulk away. He would walk through their accusing midst, back to his friends. He only hoped the minotaurs would let him pass.
They did not. Shoulder to shoulder they stood.
Tahngarth stopped before them. He returned their stares. Words failed him.
Then the beasts before Tahngarth moved. They dropped to their knees and bowed low. So too did the warriors behind. One by one, the minotaurs of Kaldroom knelt before the noble warrior who had saved them.
Chapter 20
At the head of the dragon nations flew Rhammidarigaaz of Shiv and Rith of Yavimaya. She flew in glory, the unquestioned ruler of the serpentine races. At her side, Darigaaz was but a doubtful shadow.
Was he a murderer? Was he a tyrant? Rokun had not been a traitor, not really. He had defied Darigaaz, but before that moment, Darigaaz had suffered defiance. Something had snapped in him. He had killed Rokun and hurled him against the root bulb. He had destroyed the dragon nations' faith and replaced it with fear. He had sacrificed Rokun to gain power.
Fear and power-they were halves of a whole. The more the dragons feared him, the more powerful he became. The more powerful he became, the more he feared himself.
There was but one antidote for fear-rage-and when Darigaaz glimpsed the ruins of New Argive, he had plenty of rage.
Not a building stood. The white glories of the ages were shattered eggshells. Not a soul survived, only bodies- bodies and soulless Phyrexians. Monsters scuttled among smashed walls and collapsed roofs. They feasted on bodies and pillaged metals and burned books. They killed living Argivians and obliterated the knowledge of the dead.
And you wondered why you needed such power, Rith said, speaking directly into his mind. And you wondered why you
needed Primevak. Before he could answer, she tilted in a steep dive.
Darigaaz followed. His wings tucked. He plunged. The ruined city roared up to meet him. The dragon nations stooped into the dive as well. They headed for the central thoroughfare, flooded with Phyrexians. Dragon shadows swept over scaly heads.
Monsters looked up. Into their eyes poured death.
Rith's teeth parted. Green spores roared from her mouth. Where they struck, they rooted and grew. Parasitic plants drank Phyrexian blood. Vines coiled about arms. Tendrils cracked joints. Monsters dropped beneath rampant gardens.
Darigaaz breathed fire-a simpler but no less certain death. Flame bled from him. It baked brains and fried muscle and burned oil.
More attacks poured down on them. White serpents keened a sound that cut like knives, separating flesh from bone. Black dragons belched acidic sludge that ate scale and metal. Blue lizards breathed winds that dashed creatures to cobbles. The dragon nations strafed New Argive like a fivefold plague.
Rhammidarigaaz and dragon lords, come with me, Rith said into the minds of the dragons. The rest of you, fan out and destroy Phyrexians.
Without hesitation, the dragon nations peeled away from the main column. They hurled their killing breath into every alley, every ruin, every plaza.
Darigaaz watched them go, proud of their power.
Before him, Rith soared down to a huge ruined structure. Once it had risen multiple stories. Now it was a rubble pile. Sections of marble column lay among shattered friezes. Terra cotta bosses and torn tapestries and mosaic tiles and bodies-plenty of bodies in bloodstained robes.
A temple? Darigaaz wondered.
A kind of temple. A temple to knowledge. This was once the single greatest library on the face of Dominaria, replied Rith grimly.
Rhammidarigaaz studied the wreckage. A library? Where are the books?
Rith nodded her head toward the street. Huge black circles showed where numerous bonfires had burned.
The greatest library on the face of Dominaria… and they destroyed every lost book.
Yes, but they did not find the library's greatest treasure, Rith said as she settled down atop the rubble pile.
Furling his wings, Rhammidarigaaz landed beside the green dragon. Four more beasts came to ground with him, including the resentful black dragon who had replaced Rokun.
Darigaaz turned a level stare on her. He would have to watch her. Swamp dragons were natural traitors. He shook the thought away. Already, he was thinking the way Rith did.
"Dig," Rith said simply, interrupting his reverie. "All of you, dig."
Rhammidarigaaz stooped, grabbing hunks of stone in his massive claws and hurling them aside. The black beast lashed her tail once, and then she set to work with a vengeance. So too did the rest, even Rith.
Darigaaz ignored the others, lost in his own thoughts. With each cornice he grasped, he imagined the walls it had once joined. With each shattered shelf, he read the books that once loaded it. With each body, he lived lives lost.
Rith had awakened something primal in him- something that stretched back beyond his own millennium of life. At first, he had thought it only instinct, but this was more than race memory. This was a longing for former days, when the world was young and humans were only scurrying rats. Then dragons had ruled. In that half-feral mind, Rith's words made utter sense.
The dragons uncovered a wide marble stairway that plunged away through more piles of rubble. They followed it down into darkness. The library had fallen into its basement, but there was a subbasement below it. In only a few places had its ceiling given way. Rith drove them on. They dug deeper. At the fourth turn of the stair, they reached the end of the debris. Another sub-basement lay below. With wings tucked, the dragons slithered down through the darkness. More turns revealed a third and fourth level. At last they reached a deep vault.
Humans could not have seen anything in that dank space, but dragons saw the cold air that dragged away from musty walls. They glimpsed the chill drafts that danced like dark spirits across the floor. And in the center of the space, at the precise junction of the building's transepts, they saw that the floor glowed with unnatural warmth.
"What is it?" asked Darigaaz.
"Who is it, you mean," replied Rith. On all fours, she stalked slowly toward the spot. "Everything that mortals have, they stole from us. First, they stole dominion over fire, which they used to capture the Primeval of Shiv. Next, they stole dominion over plants-what they call agriculture. With that power, they imprisoned me in Yavimaya. Their greatest weapon they gained next, dominion over words. Stories, histories, sciences-writing is the magic that allows the dead to instruct the living. Books are no less than the memory of the world. Once mortals tapped that memory, they knew exactly how to trap the third Primeval." Her voice was quiet but imbued with a barely contained rage. "She is Treva, and she lies pinioned beneath the foundation drums of this library."