Paul B. Thompson - Magic The Gathering - Masquerade Cycle 02

Paul B. Thompson

"Nemesis"

(Magic: the Gathering. Masquerade cycle. Book II.)

OVERTURE

LENS

The ever-gray sky of Rath darkened from pearl to slate

before the agent moved. He'd spent a day and a night in his

hiding place, molded into a crevice between two large trees.

His hooded shroud took on the color and texture of bark, and

the special unguent on his hands and face had the same

mimetic properties. While he was hidden, elves of the

village had passed within arm's length of him. He could have

struck them down with impunity, but such were not his

orders. He had a specific target, and his new masters did

not tolerate deviation. As shadows lengthened in the

Skyshroud Forest, the agent stirred his stiff, aching limbs.

His legs burned with the sensation of a thousand needles

pricking his skin, but with his altered senses he was able

to block out the discomfort, just as he disregarded any

feelings of hunger, fear, or remorse.

Villagers went about their evening tasks. Greenish light

from their foxfire lamps filtered down, and for a moment the

agent froze, startled by his own faint shadow on the black

water beneath the trees. He craned his hooded head and saw

the tree dwellers pass unconcernedly over him, scaling their

vine ladders and bridges with practiced ease.

The large tree house in the center of the settlement was

his target. The village had been denuded of warriors by the

recent attack on the Stronghold, but a lone elderly elf in

snakeskin armor leaned against the doorway of the target's

home.

Don't underestimate him, his master's voice whispered

inside his head. What strength elves lose in age, they make

up for in skill.

He gave the old guard wide berth, circling under the

plank porch to the far side of the tree. The enormous swamp

elm, a living pillar twenty feet wide, ran straight through

the center of the house. On the trunks of their tree houses

the elves cultivated a special type of gray-green lichen. It

looked harmless, but when pressed, it exuded an oil that

made the tree too slippery to climb. Under ordinary

circumstances it was meant to keep out hostile merfolk and

large predatory snakes.

Beneath his chameleon shroud, the agent wore two pairs

of black cloth pads. One set had finger loops for his hands,

the other, large bands to fit around his knees. The pads

exuded a sticky substance developed in the evincar's own

laboratory. His master assured him it would defeat the

elves' lichen.

He sprang onto the trunk and stuck there like a wasp on

a smear of honey. He raised his right hand and knee and

heaved them upward. The pads adhered to the tree without a

wobble. Soon his head was brushing the underside of the

porch. The climbing pads worked just as well on smooth

boards, and in moments he was on the porch.

The house was still-as it should be, for its master was

away fighting the evincar. The target's shuttered window

betrayed a hint of foxfire within. Was she still awake?

He inserted a finger between the shutter slats. The

kidney-shaped room beyond was hewn from the living tree.

There was a bed of boughs at the far end of the room, away

from the only door. The target lay in the bed covered by a

dappled green animal skin. By the door, a carved image of an

angel held an open foxfire lamp.

The shutters were locked with a simple hook, which

easily yielded to his knife blade. They swung out, and he

lifted a lean leg over the sill. The figure in bed never

stirred. Once in the room, he closed the shutters and went

to the door. It was barred with a carved wooden beam as

thick as his arm. Such primitive safety measures were

useless against an agent of the evincar. He crept to the

bed, removing the sticky pads from his hands as he went. The

agent knelt beside the bed and studied the face of his

target. She was the one, all right. How many days had he

looked into her eyes and felt love? How many days did it

take the evincar's minions to condition such feelings out of

him?

With a sudden motion, he yanked his knife from its

sheath. It wavered for a moment in the lamplight as the

deepest vestiges of his old self struggled with his new

loyalties. He could not... resist. The blade slid quietly

into the nest of soft boughs. He took out the vial provided

by the overlords and used the knife tip to pierce the wax

seal on the stopper.

One drop is sufficient.

He was supposed to pour a single drop in the eye or on

the lips, but he saw something that made him change his

method. A feather headdress hung from a peg above the

target's bed. Silently, he plucked a single blue feather

from the stylish array. Not so long ago he'd worn feathers

like this.

He dipped the feather into the vial and gently pulled it

out. Clear liquid clung to the tip. It smelled fresh, like a

field of newly mown grass.

He brought the feather to the sleeping girl's mouth. For

a reason no one will ever know, she sensed his nearness and

awoke just as the elixir touched her lips.

Her eyes opened wide. The agent dropped the vial and

feather and reached for his knife.

She must not scream.

No sound came from her slightly parted lips. She was

dead. At the exact moment the deadly potion touched her

livid lips, her life was extinguished. Her eyes, still soft

with sleep, stared sightlessly at her killer. Without a

shudder, he closed them.

His mission was only half done. He quickly set about

finding something to hide the body in. An emerald snake hide

would give him away in the dark, so he cast about for a more

suitable wrap. He found a brown homespun blanket, trade

goods from some Dal weaver, and flung aside the animal skin.

The girl's linen shift might rustle, so he stripped it off.

In death, her naked body resembled one of the evincar's

statues, her pale skin translucent in the failing foxfire.

The agent swallowed three times, trying to dislodge a

strange lump in his throat.

Noise outside-shouts and the clamor of a crowd.

Startled, he flung the blanket over the body. A gentle knock

on the door thundered through the small room.

"Avila? Are you awake?" said a female voice. "Did you

hear the cries? Your father returns! He'll be here shortly!"

The agent hurried to the window. His knife and the open

vial of death elixir were still in the girl's bed. There was

no time to retrieve them; his arms were full.

"Avila? Avila, are you all right?"

When no one answered, the woman's tread could be heard

rapidly retreating. She called, "Firanu! Firanu, come

quickly! Something's amiss with Avila!"

No time for stealth now. He burst through the shutters

onto the porch. He ran toward the high bridge platform.

Pursuers would expect him to descend to a boat, not climb

higher in the trees. As he rounded the curve of the great

tree, he came face to face with the elderly guard, no doubt

Firanu. He was armed with a barbed snake-fang spear.

"Stand where you are, or I'll kill you," the old elf

said. The agent stopped so suddenly that the blanket around

his prize slipped down, revealing his burden's lolling head.

"Avila!"

The agent leaped and kicked the spear from Firanu's

hand. Before the elderly elf could go for his knife, the

agent lowered his head and butted him squarely in the chest.

The steel skullcap he wore under his hood connected with

Firanu's breastbone. With a groan, the old retainer pitched

backward over the porch rail.

The sound of the crowd was getting louder. A woman

appeared, a matronly elf with a strong family resemblance to

the dead girl. She saw the shadowy agent, his face paint

adjusted to the gray night.

She screamed, "Kidnap, kidnap! My brother's child is

taken!"

She offered no resistance as he rushed by on his way to

the bridge. He pounded up carved steps three and four at a

time. On either side he could see the glow of lamps

gathering. He ran to a swinging bridge of planks and vines.

Behind him, someone shouted for help.

Elves, some armed, gathered at both ends of the bridge.

One pointed at him and cried out. The agent spared them a

glance and began to run in earnest.

Nothing matters but the completion of your mission. Not

your life, nor the life of any who oppose you.

A spear-wielding elf appeared at the near end of the

bridge. The agent dropped his prize and sprang at his new

foe. Before the elf could raise his weapon, the wraithlike

agent was on him, bearing him down to the plank floor of the

bridge. They grappled, and the agent used his steelclad head

to bludgeon his enemy into submission. Blood streamed down

the agent's face, mixing with the mimetic ointment. He

rolled the dead elf's body off the bridge and let it splash

in the dark waters below. He picked up the fallen warrior's

spear.

More torch-bearing elves filled the landings at both

ends of the bridge. They were carrying whatever weapons came

to hand-snake-fang maces, flails, tree-limb knobkerries-but

luckily no bows. He slung the blanket-wrapped body over his

shoulder. Elves filed onto the bridge.

"There he is!"

"What is it? A demon?"

"No demon-see, it bleeds!"

That brought forth calls for more of the agent's blood.

He calmly positioned himself on the bridge and raised his

captured spear. A thrown mace hurtled past him. He faced his

nearest pursuers and bared his teeth in a snarl. Torchlight

gleamed off his steel fangs. A refinement, his masters

called it, pulling his natural teeth and giving him these

metal spikes. Now the angry elves hesitated, transfixed by

the weird apparition between them.

The spear was useless, so he flung it at his pursuers.

He grabbed one of the bridge's supporting vines and clamped

down on it with his metal teeth. The cable parted with a

crack. The left side of the bridge sagged. Elves began to

scramble back to the platforms. The agent turned and just as

efficiently bit through another cable.

The broken bridge fell. He'd judged his place perfectly.

His portion of the bridge was just long enough to drag the

surface of the water and stop before slamming into a tree

trunk.

Clasping his burden, the agent plunged into the murky

water. His shroud and body paint took on the deep color of

night, and he was soon lost in darkness.

He knew it wasn't over. The elves were master hunters

and trackers. By daylight they would be after him in force,

and his escape portal was far enough away that day would be

well underway by the time he reached it.

Failure is not an option. You will complete your mission

whatever the cost.

Clasping the dead girl's waist, he swam faster.

* * * * *

Light dispels darkness-a fundamental principle, a law of

nature, on every known world. But on the plane of Phyrexia,

nature does not exist. On Phyrexia, light serves the dark,

it does not rule it.

The Fourth Level of this unnatural plane was the realm

of great furnaces. Here were forged many of the components

of Phyrexia's living machines. Around the clock (for there

is no night or day), gangs of slave gremlins fed the scrap

of redundant mechanisms into the mile-high furnaces. Molten

metal was drawn off, alloyed and tempered in greater

automatic rolling mills, and the resulting mixtures poured,

pressed, or stamped into parts for new Phyrexian machines.

If the gremlins faltered, they too were recycled, their

ranks constantly renewed with more expendable laborers.

Strange, then, was the mission of the gremlin Dabir. A

minor gremlin of trifling wits, he was best known for his

reliability and his utter subservience to his masters. His

immediate overseer, the vat priest Paax, had given him an

unusual task. Dabir stood for hours before a shimmering

portal to another plane, impatiently awaiting the arrival of

... what was it again he was waiting for?

"A sample," Paax said.

"What sample?"

The hulking Paax extended an oiled, acid-etched arm

until his black fingers were half an inch from Dabir's

beaked nose. A blue spark arced from the demon's hand, and

the gremlin collapsed on the greasy metal floor of the

Fourth Sphere in agony.

"Ask not the will of your betters," said Paax, his voice

punctuated by tinny clicks. He was bothered by a sticky

breathing regulator. "Only obey."

Dabir picked himself up, fingering his throbbing nose.

The smell of scorched flesh made even his feculent stomach

churn.

"Dabir always obey great, wise Paax," he whined.

Paax swiveled his slender undercarriage and started away

on four delicate, articulated legs. His rear mouth warned,

"Be at the portal at the appointed time. Receive the sample,

and deliver it to Monitor 8391 at Processing Mill 44. You

know the penalty if you fail."

The vat priest maneuvered his bulky upper body around a

steaming flue and was soon lost in the maze of heat

exchangers and lubricant chases.

And so Dabir waited by the open portal-a glowing pane

twelve inches square-for the sample. He could see through

the dimensional doorway glimpses of a world far removed from

the inferno he'd always known. The surface of that distant

place was soil and stone, not oily metal, and living plants

waved in the wind. If the gremlin got too close, the portal

would shimmer, like the air near the mouths of the great

furnaces. Fearful of damaging the ethereal portal, Dabir

kept his distance.

He waited through an entire shift of work, rubbing his

haunches when they numbed from sitting so long. He turned

his back on the portal and laced his taloned fingers through

his yellow-nailed toes, bored as only a vapid gremlin can be

bored.

Suddenly there was a flash of blue light behind him. He

spun and saw the portal had enlarged itself four times. A

hooded figure was running across a plain of tall, dry grass

toward the portal, pursued by a dozen flesh beings. Their

mouths worked, but Dabir could not make out what they were

saying. Sound did not traverse the portal.

Several of the tall beings, clad in painted hides and

feathers, nocked arrows and loosed them at the fleeing

figure. Three arrows struck and bounced off. A fourth found

a chink in the agent's armor and buried half its length in

his back. He staggered, and for the first time Dabir

recognized the hooded figure bore a weighty bundle over his

left shoulder.

"Hurry! Come!" Dabir shouted uselessly. He cared nothing

about the wounded agent, fearing instead his own punishment

if the agent failed to reach the portal. More arrows

flashed. A second broadhead found its mark, and the shrouded

figure fell, pitching his burden to the ground.

Dabir wet himself in terror. He thrust his long arms

into the vibrant portal. A teasing sensation, not

unpleasant, played over his oily skin. The precious sample

was just beyond his grasping claws. Galvanized by visions of

his own lengthy and painful death, Dabir shoved his head

through the dimensional window.

He felt cool air, free of oil or soot. Then came the

shouts of the hunters. An indefinite light from above

dazzled the gremlin's eyes. He reached out for the cloth-

wrapped bundle. His movements seemed slow, as if he were

swimming through thick oil instead of fresh, open air.

His fingers felt oddly numb, and the sensation was

spreading up his arms. Desperately, the gremlin snagged the

edge of the wrapping. With a tremendous heave of his long

legs, Dabir pulled himself and the bundle back through the

portal. Both landed with a thump on the gritty metal plates

of the Fourth Sphere.

The portal began to dwindle. The wounded agent raised a

hand, either in a final plea or in final salute. Dabir

watched six tall beings surround the fallen figure. They had

spears. Shafts rose and fell in pitiless repetition as the

portal shrank to a few inches, then winked out.

Dabir bobbed up on his knees. He sat in the shadows cast

by the eternal glare of the furnaces, biting his own hands

to restore feeling to them. His normally glossy black skin

had turned ash gray on those parts of his body he'd stuck

through the portal. The numbness slowly faded, but his color

did not return.

A whiff of something delectable teased his formidable

nose. Inserting it in a hole in the tattered blanket, he

sniffed. The ugly white thing inside smelled like the air on

the other side of the portal. No oil, no soot, no tang of

acid aerosols ... he replaced his nose with his tongue and

gave the sample a quick lick. Flesh, newly dead and still

sweet. The Phyrexian agent had died to deliver a corpse.

Dabir delivered the body to Monitor 8391 as ordered and

departed to other tasks. Monitor 8391 ran a laboratory for

the analysis of organic specimens. The Monitor put the

slender corpse on his examining table. A chemical spray

removed the creature's hair. The Phyrexian precisely

measured every critical dimension of the body with calipers,

then carefully laid a square of flowsheet over the corpse's

head. At the Monitor's command, the tiny machines in the

flowsheet crawled over the cold skin, conforming themselves

to every contour. When they were done, he had a perfect mold

of the dead girl's face.

Monitor 8391 passed on the corpse to the Necrometric

Unit 725 for further processing. Body fluids were drained.

The blood was contaminated by poison and therefore useless.

A substitute would have to be used. The flesh was carefully

stripped off and sent to culture vats so the corpse's

tissues could be preserved for eventual reuse. The

sterilized, polished bones were sent back to the Monitor,

who applied his meticulous skills to them once more,

measuring them to the finest calibration of his instruments.

These figures were forwarded to the engine controlling the

mighty apparatus of Processing Mill 44.

The rollers and stamping presses of the factory began to

churn. Bars of duralumin and steel were fed into the

machinery, which formed a hard, metal skeleton identical to

the one measured by the Monitor. Each bone was copied, right

down to the individual metacarpals of the hands and

phalanges of the feet. The girl had once broken her right

arm, and the calcified break was mirrored in the new

duralumin humerus.

Jointed and joined, the sparkling new skeleton was

sealed in a sterile copper shell to shield it from the ever-

present oil rain of the Fourth Sphere. Gremlins loaded the

shell into a pneumatic tube and sent it whistling away to

the culture vats. Organs and tissues were re-fitted to the

gleaming bones, along with certain mechanical improvements

added by Phyrexian engineers. The crude and wasteful

processes of eating and sleeping were eliminated by filling

the body's veins with Phyrexian glistening oil in lieu of

ordinary blood. The new body would have six times the speed

and strength of the purely organic creature it was based on.

It would be resistant to heat and cold, and its senses would

surpass those of any elf or human. As a final touch, the

mold made by Monitor 8391 was used to restore the old face

to the new creation.

The lifeless body was placed in another copper capsule

and routed downward to the Sixth Sphere, where it would

await the attention of the Inner Circle member, Abcal-dro,

servant of the Dark Lord of Phyrexia himself.

* * * * *

She awoke standing in a domed, circular room. It was

cold. She looked down at her bare arms and legs, flecked

with goose pimples. A moment's concentration dispelled them

as heat coursed through her veins.

How strange it was, this shell of flesh. Strange and yet

familiar. She stood easily, testing the articulation of her

hands, arms, and legs. Breath plumed from her nose in soft

wisps. All parts worked. All systems were in order.

The chill walls were blue glass, polished and seamless.

Without effort, she calculated the height of the dome at

16.39 feet. She walked slowly toward the only other object

in the room, a five-foot-high chrome tripod, above which

floated a small black sphere four inches in diameter.

Some things she knew, others she didn't. She knew she

was alive and on Phyrexia. She knew the periodic table of

the elements, the expansion rate of live steam in a turbine,

and the speed at which flowstone multiplied under optimum

conditions. She knew where to strike a human body to cause

the most damage, but she could also set a broken leg with

her bare hands. She did not know her own name.

"That has not been decided yet," said a calm, genderless

voice.

She darted away from the hovering sphere and crouched

near the wall. It wasn't fear that made her crouch. Fear was

not in her design. Her posture was defensive, a position

from which to strike at the unseen speaker.

"I am Abcal-dro, your master. Stand up."

She obeyed.

"Speak. You have the means," said the voice.

"Who am I?"

"You are called 'Belbe.'" The name had two syllables,

bell-be.

"What does it mean?"

"It derives from the ancient Thran language, be'el-be.

It means 'a lens.'"

She went to the gleaming tripod in the center of the

room. "Lens. A device that focuses to a point or spreads

apart rays of light or other forms of energy," she recited.

"Correct."

Belbe looked at her hands. "Do I focus light?"

"In your case, the name is metaphorical. As you are

going among flesh beings, you are therefore expected to have

a name."

"Where am I going?"

"The plane of Rath."

She closed her eyes and thought. "Rath. An artificial

world, created by our supreme master, composed of flowstone

nanomachines, inhabiting its own plane at coordinates-"

"Stop." The command was mildly expressed, but absolute.

Belbe not only ceased speaking, she ceased moving at all,

"Learn not to speak what you're thinking. By so doing,

you give away too much and bore your listeners."

Belbe remained immobile, like a statue of flesh and

metal.

"Speak," commanded Abcal-dro.

"I do only your will, Great One."

A strange, liquid, bubbling laughter filled the dome. It

subsided to a sigh. "Listen well, Belbe. You are going to

Rath soon, as our emissary to that world. Our lens, one

might say. The time approaches when Rath will be in

congruence with Dominaria, the prime plane of our ancestors.

When the conjunction of planes occurs, all that is on Rath

will be on Dominaria-"

"And all that is on Dominaria will be on Rath."

A pause. "True." Cold clutched at her fabricated heart.

Even the mildest pique of the high priest raked her entrails

like a razor blade of ice.

"You were made to resemble the inhabitants of Rath, not

your masters on Phyrexia. In fact, the native environment of

Phyrexia is inimical to your existence, which is why you

must be kept in this environmental chamber until your

departure. You are as much like them as we could make you,

and that is an important parameter in your mission.

"The governor of Rath has abandoned his post for the

sake of personal vengeance. His dereliction is contrary to

our purpose, and it will not be tolerated. A new evincar

must be found to take his place. You will choose the new

evincar for us. Since natural selection is the best scalpel

for dividing the weak from the strong, allow the candidates

to struggle among themselves until one of the specimens

establishes himself as the superior candidate. You will

observe this struggle for us. You may choose-" more bubbling

laughter rippled through the chamber, "-we give you leave to

participate in the competition as you see fit.

"Only one task must remain inviolate. Under no

circumstance is the conjunction of Rath and Dominaria to be

altered, delayed, or interfered with-by anyone. Do you

understand?"

"Yes, Great One."

"You may encounter certain beings who, by an accident of

breeding, have the power to pass from plane to plane. These

planeswalkers may attempt to thwart our plans to overlay

Dominaria. You will not let them interfere. Your own life

means nothing compared to the success of our plan. Is that

clear?"

She bowed with all the grace of her copied body. "It is,

master."

"Approach the sphere."

Belbe closed within arm's length of the black orb. It

floated a scant inch above the polished tripod. The ball's

surface was smooth, yet did not reflect her face as she

gazed at it.

"Stand still."

Belbe locked her legs in place. The sphere silently rose

and came to her. It touched her at the base of her throat,

and for an instant she felt nothing. The sphere melted into

her flesh without breaking the skin or causing any bleeding.

Pressure built inside her chest, pushing on her newly-placed

organs. She gasped with newfound pain.

"This is our 'lens.' It will be the connection from you

to us."

"What is this feeling?" she whispered.

"It is called pain. As it is part of mortal existence,

you must learn to recognize it. To rule creatures of flesh,

you must make pain your ally. Use it whenever you can,

Belbe. It is the foundation of power."

Her mock-blood roared in her ears. She feared her heart

would rupture, her lungs collapse. Belbe's vision filmed

with gray, and her breath caught in her throat. She opened

her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her knees

buckled.

Stand!

The voice of Abcal-dro was no longer in her ears, but

inside her head. Despite intense pain, Belbe kept her feet.

She staggered against the tripod, blinking through the haze

of her suffering. The tripod abruptly vanished, and she

stumbled forward, blind and gasping. Something warm ran down

her lip.

The eye is now in place. You will soon adjust to its

presence. She heard the words, but behind them there was

something else. Behind the cool voice and godly demeanor of

the high priest, Belbe sensed this:

Sweet, sweet the hall of flesh! The song of blood, what

ancient joy! Too long have I slept-why, in this shell I can

walk a thousand worlds, renew the sensations of lost

millennia! It is mine, it is mine. Who is better than I? I

take them all in my hands, caress them or crush them. My

little puppet, my lens. Shrink from nothing, please your

maker-

Belbe struck herself in the face with her open hand,

twice, three times. The thin, shrieking voice submerged in

the throb of her raging pulse. She wiped glistening oil from

her lip. Slowly the room came back into focus. It seemed so

empty without the orb and tripod.

She became aware of being watched. She saw in her mind

an image of herself, standing naked under the cold glass

dome. The lens was working-she was seeing herself as Abcal-

dro saw her.

This frail creature was her? Standing erect on two thin

legs, Belbe was the color of fresh parchment, slightly

flushed from her exertions. A spray of pale blue freckles

dotted her face and shoulders. Her hair, an unruly shock of

brown, began at a peak in the center of her forehead and

arched back over her high, pointed ears. Along her arms,

legs, buttocks, and back were matte black lines in geometric

patterns, like tattoos, but in fact were strips of

reinforcing carbon fiber. Her face was angular, her chin

sharp. Thin white scars remained where her flesh had been

reattached to her metallic skeleton.

She raised her eyes to the apex of the vault. The azure

glass gradually became transparent, and Belbe saw her hidden

master peering down at her from outside the dome.

The room was 29.5 feet in diameter-she knew because her

master knew it. Pressing against the clear shell was a mass

of translucent tissue. Pulsing black veins, distended with

the same glistening oil that filled her blood vessels, lined

the shapeless body. Dozens of pseudopods as thick as her

waist gripped the base of the dome. Drops of thick blue

slime clung to the dome.

Rhythmically twitching green bladders and complex multi-

lobed organs were visible through the dirty gray protoplasm.

At the very peak of the dome was Abcal-dro's true eye: a

swirling green and black iris fifteen inches wide, a trio of

red-rimmed pupils in the center,

"Is this how you see me?" asked the high priest. She

nodded once, slowly. "How does my appearance strike you?"

"My master is beautiful," she said. "Such power and

efficiency must be beautiful."

The Phyrexian's liquid laughter resumed as the dome went

opaque again. "One last warning, little one. On Rath you

will be on your own. Though backed by the power and

authority of the Dark Lord, you will succeed or fail by your

own efforts."

"I will not fail, great one."

"See that you don't. It is time to leave."

The seamless floor split apart, revealing dark

descending steps. Humid, sulfurous air wafted up from the

hole. Unhesitatingly, Belbe went down the steps to a wide,

noisome corridor where four priests in full regalia stood

waiting for her. Behind them was a full entourage of lesser

constructs and functionaries, and lastly a gang of gremlins

bearing her new wardrobe-robes of woven chrome and onyx

brocades, headdresses of flash-formed obsidian. To the rear

were the bearers of her arms and armor. Each piece had been

forged in the Fourth Sphere from Monitor 8391's original

specifications, resulting in perfectly tailored armor that

would fit no one but Belbe.

The suit was made of black diamond, the hardest

substance on Phyrexia. It was so hard in fact, it had to be

shaped and cut with fluoric acid, since no tools existed

that could cut the plates. The acid treatment left the armor

matte black, as dead a color as the lens now embedded in

Belbe's chest.

She coughed and felt the first drops of sweat form under

her arms. The priests bowed as Belbe passed. She thought it

odd the exalted clerics of Phyrexia should bow to her, a

newly made creature more flesh than metal, but then she

heard a whisper deep inside saying my lens, my eye ...

Their obeisance made sense. It was not her they were

bowing to, it was their master.

* * * * *

"Monsters."

The room was crowded with elf warriors, stained with

sweat, smoke, and the blood of battle. They had not

assembled here to fight, but to mourn. Their chieftain's

daughter was gone, her fate unknown.

Eladamri knelt by Avila's empty bed. "Monsters," he said

again. "I knew the evincar was vicious and unnatural, but I

didn't think he would stoop to this!"

"The fiend responsible will be found, we swear it," said

Gallan, Eladamri's lieutenant. The warriors around him

grunted in agreement.

Eladamri put his hand on the boughs where his daughter

Paul B. Thompson - Magic The Gathering - Masquerade Cycle 02 - Nemesis

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