Disclaimer: I do not own Magic: The Gathering, otherwise I would never have written this. Some of the text at the beginning is identical to an entry in Uncharted Realms. Rest assured, I did not write that.
The Unbroken Chain
Do you understand how you must always fail?
Sarkhan gritted his teeth and gripped his staff. "No! I—I can't!"
Do you understand that you must always fail, as long as your goal is to fight fate—and not move with it?
"You continue to speak in riddles now?! You are dying! Tarkir will die with you!"
It will not die. I have seen your mind, Sarkhan. Tarkir will live. It will be diminished, but it will live. Even part of me will remain—a ghost of consciousness to inspire you on this path and to forge a link between times.
Sarkhan's eyes alit on the hedron shard swinging from his staff. "A link…" he breathed. He knew what he had to do now. And yet…
You cannot change your past, Ugin's mental voice told him. To do so could erase you from existence. All the people who died and lived to create your world, would cease to be if you save me now. Even if you could return, it would be to a Tarkir fraught with paradoxes and as alien to you as your time will be to me.
"But I have seen your bones Ugin! Even if I save your mind, there will be nothing left to return it to!"
My body is unimportant. I, and other planeswalkers in this time, have no need of flesh. Even with my spark diminished, I am a creature of spirit. Bolas is destroying my psyche. If you save it now, you can restore me when you return.
But he had come all this way, Sarkhan despaired. How else could he save Narset? Surely she was dead. Although…if she were only injured…Either way, this was more important than one life – this was about the future.
At last decided, the haggard man removed the hedron from its fixture, extending it between him and the expiring dragon. The runes took on the glow of those upon Ugin's own body. Letting go of the stone, Sarkhan willed it between them. The shard from Zendikar began revolving in place, growing so bright that he had to squint.
Out of Ugin's dying form rose a shadowy outline of the great planeswalker. Pulled inexorably towards the fragment of his distant chamber, the dragon's consciousness contracted as it neared the vessel which would contain it. As the last of Ugin's essence left his corpse, its color dimmed, even as the hedron's glowed with life.
"What have we done?" came an echoing shout, Yasova's voice, from the top of the chasm.
Sarkhan looked up to see her peering down at him from the chasm's edge, a bewildered expression on her face.
Framing her, in the sky high above, the dragon tempests faded into whisps.
Sarkhan smiled up at Yasova, a crooked smile made of gratitude and sad purpose. "What we were meant to," he yelled up at her. "Thank you, Yasova khan."
She looked down at the hedron shard, confounded, and Sarkhan chuckled. It struck him that the chain of events that had brought him here was not a circular joke at all—it was a chain with a purpose. Fate had conspired to place him here, at this crossroads of history, to give him the chance to act. If he had never served Bolas, if he had never been sent to the Eye of Ugin, if he had never come to Tarkir with voices ringing in his broken mind—without all of that hardship, he wouldn't have had a chance to restore glory to his world's chain.
For the first time in a long while, Sarkhan's skull felt like his own. An unfamiliar sensation of clarity and elation spread through him, as if he were waking from a dream in which his eyes didn't quite work. His thoughts flowed simply, without their usual jaggedness, his consciousness undivided and unbroken.
Over the husk of Ugin's body, the air seemed to twist and warp, as Sarkhan knew it must. He didn't know if the Nexus was a final spell cast by the spirit dragon, or if destiny merely willed the phenomenon into existence. Whatever the case, he strode towards the fiery hole in reality with renewed purpose and determination.
"Wait!" Yasova called, drawing his eyes back to her. "Who are you?"
Instead of answering her directly, Sarkhan replied, "Tell your people that when the tempests return—so too will Ugin and Sarkhan!"
He faced the Nexus once more and marched into its roiling tumult, disappearing from Tarkir.
Snowflakes fell past Yasova, dropping flecks of white on the colossal carcass at the bottom of the chasm. Her sabertooth padded over and nuzzled her, and she put her hand on its head. High above, only a few dragons screeched and soared across the sky; its heights clear of any storms.
A thousand years passed by. Humans and other smaller species hunted the less numerous dragons to extinction, though not without cost. A race so great did not go quietly. Lives were lost on both sides before the last dragon fell. Perhaps, if things had been different, those who died might have lived, and gone on to foster new bloodlines and alternate destinies.
Over time, the clans that had once hunted dragons now revered their savage strength; venerating their ancient enemies and emulating their best traits.
All this Sarkhan sensed as the Nexus ushered him through history. His world's history.
As he erupted from the rift onto Ugin's luminescent bones, Sarkhan tumbled forward; recovering in time to turn his undignified flailing into a roll that brought him to his feet in a crouch.
He had just left. He could still see Zurgo, bloody weapon in hand, staring at the ground below him. Snarling, Sarkhan slammed the shard containing Tarkir's heart into the bones where it had once beaten.
Without a second glance, he leapt off his perch and charged towards Zurgo, bellowing incoherently at the orc until his voice became a dragon's roar. Transforming into his draconian form, Sarkhan caught his one-time chieftain in the chest and dug his claws into Zurgo's leathery hide. His blow carried them both through the air before the dragon-man hurled his foe to the ground, a spray of orcish blood trailing from his projectile.
Landing beside him, Sarkhan shifted before the eyes of his ex-khan. He needed to be able to speak to his fallen nemesis.
"What are you Vol?" Zurgo spluttered through blood-rimmed lips as he clamped down on his gushing wounds.
"What I am, is who I am," the former Mardu declared, hefting his staff and advancing on the orc. "You once mocked me, but I took your label and made it my own—I am Sarkhan."
Zurgo could only manage a disbelieving hiss with his injuries.
"But more important is what I am about to be: your death. You stole Narset from me, and for that, I will kill you."
The downed warrior, shook his head bitterly, slurring, "Di'n't kill'er. Body's gone."
His eyes going wide with hope, Sarkhan turned back towards Ugin, whose bones shone anew. Holding up a hand to ward off the glare, he returned to the bloodied spot where Narset had fallen. There was no trace of her body. Yet…Sarkhan felt something familiar. Something…out of place.
Æther. Traces of the substance that joined the planes of the multiverse together lingered where her body should be.
Was it possible? It seemed too good to be true! Could Narset be a planeswalker? If she were, Sarkhan knew she would be disoriented, confused, and grievously hurt in a foreign place. He needed to follow her trail.
But first, he had to see this through.
Ugin's resurrection was complete. High over his longtime resting place, the spirit dragon had restored himself, after a fashion. The crystalline bones of the planeswalker moved as a living thing once more, visible through a transparent skein of mystic energy formed in place of scales. Ugin's flesh was gone, but his soul remained.
While the reborn heart of Tarkir churned in the skies above, Sarkhan returned to where Zurgo lay. The orc was vacillating between gasps of breath and gritting his teeth at the pain in his torso.
"You spoke truly, Zurgo," Sarkhan said. "And so, I won't kill y-"
"Coward!" his former khan spat, hacking blood. "What…new devilry have you wrought? You unleash devastation and then…flee! You are no warrior! No khan! You are…hah…a plague."
Containing his immediate desire to rip out the man's throat, Sarkhan continued, "As I was saying, I won't kill you until you have witnessed the restoration of Tarkir. Our world has been a shadow of what it once was. I have healed it. And, despicable though you may be, you deserve to see what our world will be once you're gone from it."
All across the plane, people wondered at the strange clouds overhead. They formed quickly and crackled with unnatural lights. However, their interest was a mere candle compared to the blaze of shock that awaited them when wings flapped out of their depths and the creatures they carried descended on the world for the first time in a over a thousand years.
Varuk was old for an orc, at least for one that belonged to the Mardu. At forty-five, he was easily the oldest person in the clan by a good five years. His venerable status meant that he was not just a strong warrior, but a wise one. It was this wisdom that had convinced his fellow clanmates to select him as their next khan after Zurgo Helmsmasher's disastrous foray into Temur territory in pursuit of Vol.
The reckless younger orc would not heed Varuk's advice, and had been left behind. The Mardu's new khan doubted he would ever see Zurgo again. Even if Vol didn't kill him, Zurgo was too proud to return and Varuk doubted the clan would tolerate him if he did.
Following their recent conflict with the Temur, Varuk had decided to lead his people back to Wingthrone, to rest in familiar territory.
But Tarkir had other plans. Far from finding relaxation at their sole permanent outpost, Varuk and his horde soon found another battle.
The grizzled khan was sitting on the Wingthrone when the thunderheads rolled in. They streaked across the plains, covering the steppe in a matter of minutes. As soon as he saw the light of magic flashing within them, Varuk seized a club from a human guard and drummed the thick implement against the hollow skull of the beast from which he reigned. The Wingthrone thrummed, even drowning out the thunderous noise that rumbled in the skies. Sooner or later, every Mardu head within earshot had turned towards him.
Varuk had only opened his mouth to address them when the first roar turned his and everyone else's attention back to the heavens. Like eagles in dives, they plummeted earthward on four, feathered wings each; lightning flashing from their maws to strike the tallest things below.
"Dragons" was the word on nearly all their lips as they all gaped at the legends' return.
Seizing the initiative, Varuk thwacked the throne again, howling to be heard over the storm of dragons.
"Do not stand and gape like Jeskai scholars! Our ancestors bested these beasts! Will we prove ourselves their equals? Mardu!"
"Mardu!" the horde cried, raising their fists. They would show these dragons the meaning of speed.
The Day of Storms, as it would soon be called, brought both danger and opportunity to the plans of Sidisi, khan of the Sultai Brood. She had found that each was rarely present without the other. On the one hand, the dragons' return opened many potential avenues for greater power. Unfortunately, many of those avenues were open to others. That would not do.
She sat in her throne room, her serpentine tail coiled about her seat. To her left, she was attended by her Hand, Taigam. The human aide eyed her current guest with trepidation, even if he tried to conceal it. It amused the naga woman that he thought he had any secrets from her.
"Your people must demonstrate their prowess, Ebirri," Sidisi said imperiously. "Send your sidikur demons to contest the depredations of the dragons."
Ebirri, a representative of the powerful rakshasa cat demons, and second to their chief Feyomsi, gave a hunched bow and replied, "Sidisi khan, our sidikur are strong, but surely you know of the dragons' legendary power? Their very breath is acid! Can you not supplement our forces with your sibsig army?"
"No," Sidisi stated flatly. "The army is not yet complete, nor are mere zombies clever enough to fell foes as ruthless as dragons. If we wish to harness the dragons' power, we must strike fast."
"Yes my queen," Ebirri relented, a hint of a growl escaping from between his fangs. "I will convey your orders to Feyomsi at the Necropolis." With a significant look at Taigam, the rakshasa swept out of the room.
Sidisi's Hand swallowed audibly, only seeming to breathe once they were alone.
"My queen, may I ask what your plans are?" he inquired, upon regaining his composure.
"It is quite simple, ape. The clan has become far too dependent on the rakshasa. They grant bargains of power, as you well know."
The man swallowed again.
"Though strong in necromancy, the rakshasa are a crutch the Sultai can no longer afford to lean on. Regardless of whether they are victorious over the dragons or not, they will be weakened. And weakened demons will be no match for my army, especially once I have come to an arrangement with the dragons."
Taigam's grin nearly split his face. Sidisi knew he was eager to free himself from his debt to Ebirri.
"To that end," she continued, "you must reach out to them. I understand your time among the Jeskai enabled you to learn basic Draconic. Win them to my side, by hook or by crook. I trust you will be capable of groveling in the appropriate fashion."
Although still optimistic, the human had turned decidedly greener, a sign of ill ease among his race, or so Sidisi had heard. She dismissed him, and the thought, with a wave.
What mattered was that everything had fallen into place. Anyone who emerged from the coming conflict would, ultimately, bow to her.
Usually known for their calm, detached reasoning, the dragons' arrival caught even members of the usually unflappable Jeskai Way off guard. With their khan missing, it fell to the elders of individual mountain strongholds to maintain order. This was a difficult proposition when said strongholds, which had been unassailable for centuries, suddenly came under attack from above.
Still, the Jeskai rallied as their efforts became more coordinated. Communication between the fortresses was maintained through the daring of windscouts, who flew messages between the isolated leaders. Mostly composed of aven, the force also contained mantis riders, whose steed's wild, untrustworthy instincts took a backseat as they fled their ancestors' greatest predators.
Kuhnde, alone among his fellow messengers, flew not under his own power, nor atop a dangerous mantis. It had been only a few years ago that the mantis he had trained to ride for decades had been killed by his current mount. The adjustment had been far easier than he had expected, given the easier temperament of his steed. Even so, the former mantis rider had needed assistance from efreet handlers to fully break the bird in.
The phoenix had drawn disapproving glances from his aven comrades, but Kuhnde failed to see what was so upsetting. Phoenixes were as far below their intelligence as apes were below humans'. He had no objection to the bird people riding gorillas. Not that they would ever need or want to, but the point still stood.
He would have pointed this out to them, but their current circumstances, namely being under assault from dragons with frigid breath, did not lend well to conversation.
Muttering a quick protective incantation, Kuhnde tapped out a command against the large bird's neck. The phoenix burst into flames, fending off the icy attack and scorching feathers from their pursuers' wings. Completely unaffected by the heat, Kuhnde laughed and stabbed out at a nearby dragon. He and his mount would show these dragons that their kind did not have a monopoly on fire.
And if his current message proved true, the Jeskai would demonstrate to all dragons that they were more than a match for the reptiles' cunning.
Anafenza felt exposed, which was ironic, given that she was surrounded on all sides by wood. The return of dragons brought unfortunate truths about her people's way of life to light. As difficult as the Shifting Wastes made invasion into their territory from the ground, aerial assaults were all too easy. The ravening attackers could strike at will and then fly out of arrow range in no time at all. Even their aven soldiers fared little better, for their foes' breath burned them to the bone with blasts as bright and hot as the sun.
Before embarking on her current journey, the Abzan's khan had looked dismally out at the view from atop the First Tree. Huge sections of desert had been superheated to glass. Bones of the behemoths that pulled their mobile fortresses lay picked clean amid the shiny blights on the landscape.
Most difficult of all to look upon had been the damage closer to home. A black spot marred the top of the wall surrounding the courtyard of the Abzan's first kin tree, marking where her loyal guard captain Kwaro had fallen a few days ago. What little of him remained had joined with the ancestors residing in their most holy of trees.
The khan had consulted her forebears' spirits, but none could give her the answers she needed. To find real strategies about how to combat dragons, she would have to seek truly ancient spirits, residing at the heart of the First Tree.
Now Anafenza made her way down a hidden passage hewn from the living wood, reaching all the way to the very roots below. Amid a tangled coil of timber tendrils lay the object of her search—the Remembrance.
Set atop a short, two-handed staff, the Remembrance was an intricately carved piece of amber. Bound with the collective presence of some of the first Abzan, the mace's head was said to have been cut from the heart of a kin tree so old that the First Tree she now stood underneath was merely its seedling; the same source from which her throne had been shaped. The ancestors that directed her here had spoken of the harsh wisdom contained within and how the relic was sealed away after the dragons' fall, when life became easier.
Times were harsh once more, and Anafenza was willing to swallow this bitter pill if it meant the salvation of her people.
Whispers of the past flooded her mind as the khan retrieved the Remembrance and departed into the open air once more. They told her of the strategies the ancient Abzan had used to defend and strike against dragons.
Seeing her bond-brother Gvar waiting for her, Anafenza raised the mace in salute to the orc, eliciting a similar gesture in kind. Drawing the Khan-Blade and hefting the heavy Remembrance with her other hand, she crossed them before her and examined them with satisfaction.
Dragons might have scales as tough as diamond, but the Abzan would prove they could outlast even armor such as theirs. After all, her clan endured beyond death.
Surrak Dragonclaw had never been more excited by the prospect of a hunt. The largest animals to walk the Qal Sisma mountains in these latter days were bears, and he had bested one of the mightiest years ago. The Temur sought all that was wild, and these antlered, inferno-breathing dragons were ferocity incarnate!
A man of few words, all Surrak had to do was point with his bladed staff at their new quarry, and his clan understood. Temur's khan would earn the title of Dragonclaw properly now.
Before leaving though, he needed to have words with the chief shaman. The One Who Whispers Twice told him recently of an unwritten now in which dragons were ascendant, leading the other races.
As if reading his mind, the shaman stepped up beside Surrak. At half a century, Chianul was among the oldest individuals on the plane. The life of the Temur kept the older man in peak condition however, for there were muscles rippling under his heavy furs. Turning his keen eyes to meet his khan's single functioning one from under the rim of his hood, Chianul spoke, "It is as the Wide Whisper foresaw. The now has been healed. Dragons are returned. My former student Vol has done this."
"And the hunt, Whisperer?" Surrak asked, his voice coarse from disuse. "Will you deny us a chance to test ourselves against the dragons?"
"Of course not," Chianul replied, laughing lightly. "If the dragons are to lead, they must prove their strength to us. Still, our mutual might will only be increased once he comes."
"Once who comes?"
"It is said that long ago a prophecy was made to one who bore the Dragonclaw: that when dragons flew once more above Tarkir, a leader would emerge to unite them with the other races and all the clans with each other—the Sarkhan."
"Dragons…" Zurgo husked, his hand reaching out as if to touch the amazing sight.
"Dragons," Sarkhan agreed, before stabbing his foe in the heart.
He was just wiping the soiled blade off when Ugin alit half a mile away, towering fifty feet high. The spirit dragon barely disturbed his surroundings, seeming to float even on the ground. Lowering himself to all fours, Ugin extended his snake-like neck down to look Sarkhan in the eye.
"I, and possibly the multiverse, owe you a debt young 'walker," he said, his voice echoing strangely from his ethereal mouth.
"I only did what anyone would have to save my world," Sarkhan answered, smiling at the wheeling forms cavorting in the sky.
"Our world," Ugin corrected him, following the human's gaze and mirroring his satisfaction. "But make no mistake—peace will not come easily. Balance must be maintained. If the dragons become too dominant, they might subjugate the other races. To be truly equal, all must learn to work together."
"It is a task I will gladly attempt," Sarkhan said, before demurring, "but first there's someone I need to find."
The dragon nodded, blinking in reluctant acceptance. "Then search quickly. I must depart this plane soon. The Eldrazi are loose and I would not leave Tarkir without a guardian I trust."
Flushing with pride at his idol's confidence in him, Sarkhan departed into the void, eager to show Narset their new world. It was a Tarkir he hoped they could shape together.
Author's Note:
As you might have guessed, this story arose out of my dissatisfaction with the way the Tarkir storyline ended up being plotted. Although well written, I found the alterations to the timeline, as well as the lack of negative consequences as a result, to be poorly thought out. As soon as I heard time travel was going to be involved in the story, I immediately hit on the idea of Sarkhan bringing Ugin's mind to the present. It seemed so simple and obvious. The fact that Sarkhan already had Ugin's voice in his head even seemed like foreshadowing.
Magic tried to have their cake and eat it too. It would have been one thing if Sarkhan had created a completely new timeline, or if events played out as they did in my story. Think about all the people who died battling the dragons to extinction in the first timeline, and how many of them didn't die as a result of Sarkhan saving Ugin. In order for all the characters from Khans of Tarkir to still exist in Dragons of Tarkir, their ancestors would have to be exactly the same! Logically speaking, none of them should have been born in the new timeline. And instead of seeing the effects of dragons returning on the characters we'd already come to know in Khans, who had built their lives around dragons and would have been more likely to work with them given the chance (and the proper mediator, i.e. Sarkhan), Magic instead created alternate versions of those characters, whose differences were few, including only slightly altered epithets, as though the new timeline had been created a mere couple of decades ago and not a millennium before.
Given that I hope to write for Magic, I was incredibly disappointed with the way they ended up plotting this storyline, particularly with Doug Beyer for writing "The Reforged Chain," on which this story is partially based and derived from. Speaking of Doug Beyer, I also hate that he ignored or changed a lot about Chandra's backstory in Origins. Continuity is necessary in most fiction, especially when writing in Magic's extensive multiverse, and to see someone blatantly disregard it is discouraging, especially when they're getting paid to do so.
Anyway, I wrote this for myself, and if you enjoy it too, so much the better. I've written a great deal of other Magic fiction, over a hundred pages' worth, which I'm hoping I can somehow pitch to Wizards, but my efforts thus far have met with no success. Depending on how my future attempts go and on the ongoing official plot, I may post more down the road, so keep an eye out.