Chapter 43: Test of Faith
You are free.
These three words haunted Samut. She had said them so many times this day that they had begun to lose all meaning, worn down by constant use like the edges of her twin khopeshes. It was a small death rite meant for the Trials of her home, one to guide fallen initiates to the Blessed Sleep, to give a warrior's name the reverence it deserved before it was returned to the gods. It was never a prayer to be said so rapidly, to be stacked end to end like bricks until the individual pieces faded into a homogenous mass. It was not meant to be a mantra.
Sometimes, Samut could punctuate it with the name of the soul to which she addressed it. No matter how ghoulish and twisted the lazotep armor made them appear or how stiff their motions had become in undeath, she could never forget those with whom she faced her own Trials. Whether it was in a familiar piece of clothing, the way a weapon sliced through the air, or simply the unexplainable, preternatural sense one has when they are near someone that they have stood next to before, she could always recognize them. To say their name as she forced her blades through them, to restore even the smallest mote of their stolen valor, it buoyed her own mind amidst the suffocating darkness of the day. The longer she fought, however, the less faces she recognized, the less names she could attach to her prayers, the less humanity she could return to her people.
At this point, she did not truly know why she kept repeating the words. Bolas had not simply disrupted the afterlife when he awoke the Amonkhetian dead, he had systematically destroyed it. Their first Blessed Sleep was no more, and there could be no second one in these conditions. Samut's prayers could not cleanse their defiled bodies. She could not wrap them in sacred bandages nor burn them to ash to scatted on the wind. She could not bring them all home to be carried through the gates. And even if she could, Bolas had ensured that there would be no one to greet them on the other side. Her gods, the gods of her people, were now no more than sickening puppets of the dragon they once revered as the God-Pharoah, commanding their once loyal followers to exact his gnarled will. Even in renewed death, there was no freedom to be had.
Though Hazoret, the last god to which she had ever prayed, was not among their ranks, she could not kindle even the smallest ember of hope. There would be no saving her people. Amonkhet lived on in her alone, and even if the old rites were blurring into obscurity as they continually poured from her lips, she would not stop. She could not stop. Samut knew that she had to succeed where even her gods had failed. Having such thoughts made her feel like a blasphemer, but she could not stop them from manifesting, and it made her incomparably angry.
It was this rage that had carried her since Svogthos. She channeled it into her acceleratory magics, propelling herself ever forward to ensure that the dead of her home could not harm her living allies. While they focused on plotting the safest course or ensuring that any straggling citizens were shepherded to safety, she looked to little else besides freeing the Eternals from Bolas' control. She knew her actions were not always optimal. Her initiate training told her as much with every movement, internally criticizing every hastened reaction or standoffish response because of her unchecked aggression. Though she searched for a compelling reason to stop, Samut found herself continually wanting.
And so she charged headlong into the Dreadhorde. Her blades dealt out death faster than her tired lips could dole out prayers. Her legs moved at lightning speeds while her mind could not move past her perceived status as an apostate. In this state, she carved a path for herself and her allies through the city. It brought her out of the sewers, past the plane's towering center, across the neglected landscape of its outer limits, all before delivering her out of the city of Ravnica and into the stomping grounds of the Gruul.
While attempting to shake the last of the large detachment of pursuant Eternals within the city's labyrinthine outskirts, Samut and her allies had crossed into what she know knew was referred to as the Rubblebelt. A clarion had sounded from an unseen source. As Ajani gave the order to halt, a mob of raggedly-clad barbarians suddenly appeared, climbing out from every nook and cranny in the destroyed urbanity like scarabs in a baited pit. In a moment, the presumedly empty area was suddenly rife with hulking brutes wielding jagged spears, lean warriors twirling slings faster than the eye could trace, and bone-covered berserkers riding atop great snorting beasts.
Samut remembered the tension well, her attention pulled between the newly uncovered threats before them and the unstopping Eternals behind. The Gruul surrounded them, staring down menacingly upon the tattered troupe and snarling like animals, but they did not make a move. Samut poised, ready to tear through the encircling rabble, but it was then that she heard the clamor at their backs. The Gruul surrounding them were not the only ones, and a small army of the bestial warriors had intercepted the Eternal crop. They lunged at them, striking back with all their might. Though they were severely outmatched by the Eternals' strength, they made up the difference with sheer tenacity, taking whatever brutal measures they needed to stand a chance. It would not be until they were deep in the Gruul turf that she would understand the horde surrounding them had done so as a defensive precaution, though it was never made clear from which side they required defending.
As the Eternals lost sight of the planeswalkers amidst the chaos of battle, an enormous man draped in animal pelts stepped forward to greet them all. He introduced himself as Gan Shokta, a chief warlord of the Gruul clans who had been tasked with containing the Dreadhorde within the city's limits. His deep voice resounded like a hippopotamus's, easily cutting through the tumult at their backs. While Samut and the others remained silent, Ajani introduced them all and told Gan of their current mission. Gan looked them over, and as his fierce gaze lingered on Tolsimir and Voja, she could see in her periphery the wolf's hackles raising in defiance. The moment passed soon enough, and Gan gave the order to his men to escort their group back to the encampment.
The din of battle gradually receded as they strode through the tapering edge of the city until it suddenly stopped, leaving them in a fitful silence. No other Eternals approached them as they went, though the evidence of their attempts was scattered in all directions for Samut to see. Bodies pulverized within craterous footfalls, black fluid leaking from bite marks on twisted necks, torsos arranged with their formerly attached limbs into grisly displays. She even saw, far from them, a jackal that had been left alive after losing its legs and one arm, clawing desperately at the broken limestone to reach them, its progress too slow to carry any menace. She squinted, attempting to recognize it, but the face was unfamiliar.
It was not long before they had reached the Gruul encampment, a yawning procession of ramshackle tents and bivouacs that seemed equally comprised of pieces from the surrounding forests and rubble scavenged from the outskirts. Filthy individuals with bodies covered in leather and faces in thick war paint tended to animals, sharpened weapons, or treated the wounded who came hobbling back, though all these activities stopped so they could stare at the outsiders. Samut could feel their looks, both wary and provocative, ready to attack these intruders the second their guard dropped. Though Gan shouted to the masses to leave them be, she continued to feel their eyes on her with every step.
The mana swirling within her seemed to resonate somewhat with these people, but there was a palpable difference. The magic here felt far more primitive than what fueled her own spark, more unchecked in its ferocity. It reminded Samut of walking among the fresh initiates who had yet to truly enter the Trials, their bodies eager to fight and their ideals uncompromised by reality.
Eventually, their escorts dispersed into the crowds, leaving just Gan to now lead their group through the tangled mess of nomadic Gruul homesteads. While Ajani and Tolsimir walked beside the warlord, discussing the details of their mission, and Arlinn stayed behind them as she continued to ride Voja, Samut was left to take up the flank. Mowu followed close at her heels, refusing to leave her side since she rescued him from the Dreadhorde. She did not mind the position, knowing she could react fast enough to a threat regardless of direction, and this gave her a favorable vantage point to watch the Gruul as they passed. It also allowed her to simply listen to the conversations happening at the front, which suited her current temperament.
Gan Shokta seemed to fancy himself closer to a beast than a man, and not simply in his sinuous, unkempt appearance. He spoke little more than what was necessary, utilizing an array of animalistic grunts and growls for communication whenever possible. His strode with an odd gait, holding his head high with a warrior's gleam while his meaty hands practically dragged through the soil below. Though Samut could not fully see Tolsimir's face from her vantage, his disgust at the barbarian's near-feral presence was clear in every glimpse she found.
The reasoning behind Gan's reticent commincation became clear soon enough. When Ajani asked about why the Gruul did not send a representative at Jace's behest, he made his contempt known. It was not contempt for the guilds, however, but for the travelers, those who came to Ravnica from beyond the stars to interfere with their lives. He did not know the word "planeswalker" but between Jace's contentious tenure as the Living Guildpact and Domri's violent rise in the Gruul's hierarchy, he understood enough for mistrust to build. Samut found it hard to argue, especially as he explained how Rade managed to seize control of the guild.
The prior leader was Borborygmos, a cyclopean warlord who, as Gan explained, was known in equal measure for his strength and short-sightedness. Domri was an outcast, seen as a deserted by the small-minded Gruul who could not comprehend the vastness of the Multiverse or their miniscule part within it, but Borborygmos was apparently never one to abandon a clansman, no matter how much time had passed. Thus, when Domri appeared, stinking of otherworldly magic, to challenge Borborygmos for the throne, the old leader acquiesced. He lost soundly, and Domri secured his position as their leader. When Gan spoke of this ordeal, Samut could see the muscles across his half-naked frame go inexpressibly taut.
His seething anger seemed to draw the attention of the surrounding Gruul, whom she saw reaching for whatever makeshift weapon may be close at hand. Gan eventually calmed down, and the populace receded with him, but it left Samut unnerved and on-guard.
These people are dangerous, she glowered. They know they are at war, but they seem to care more about the act of destruction than the direction in which it is aimed. We need
these savages' help to restore this Guildpact they spoke of, but can such savagery truly be the answer to our problems? Do Jace and the others truly think that these people, who value
nothing but brute strength, can best a god-slayer? Samut suddenly felt an immense pressure between her teeth, and it took her a moment to realize her jaw had inadvertently tensed up.
She did her best to alleviate it, allowing a weary sigh to slip out. If all the faith of my people and my gods could break so effortlessly on Bolas' scales, what hope have any of them?
It took much effort for Samut to keep her mind from wandering further. She tried to refocus on what Ajani, Tolsimir, and Gan discussed just ahead. Now somewhat pacified, their leonin leader asked if the Gruul would join their efforts, and much to their surprise, he readily agreed. With Domri gone, the leadership of the guild was now in the hands of the various clan elders, with Gan and Borborygmos among them, and even the most devout followers of Domri's charge held no sympathies for Bolas with the boy's passing. Once they were properly mobilized, Gan assured that he and Borborygmos would lead their members into battle, though he seemed more excited by the prospect of destroying the city than stopping the Dreadhorde. While Ajani met this with moderated acceptance, Tolsimir's lividity reached a momentary peak from which Arlinn's intervention proved necessary.
Thus, it was Ajani who recognized that Gan would not be the one to represent the Gruul for the Guildpact ritual. When he asked about that, Gan scoffed and pointed ahead of them, towards the direction of their path. There, the Gruul encampment ended, and the wilds of Ravnica yawned out in sylvan splendor. It was within these wilds that he would show us to Nikya, the elder of the Zhur-Taa clan of the Gruul. She was apparently a master of the old magics of Ravnica and would serve well as the conduit for the Guildpact.
Keeping her blades openly drawn for all to see, Samut followed along the rest of the group as they proceeded in relative silence. Slowly, the number of makeshift tents and firepits dwindled, replaced by the growing accumulation of trees and underbrush. It was not long before they found themselves isolated amidst the dense forest of the Ravnican outskirts. The omnipresent rabble of the encampments gradually faded, replaced by only the sounds of leaves crunching underfoot and the light breathing of the wary party.
The way was dark, the lush canopy adding to the unnatural darkness Bolas had conjured to cloud the sky. Gan did not seem to need light to traverse the forest, his pace unbreaking as he ducked around hanging branches and sidestepped bushels of nettles. Ajani summoned a ball of light into his paw, holding it at his back for his allies to follow. Samut treaded carefully, sure to never leave the corona of the miniature sun.
It was calm in the forest, the kind of calm that had eluded Samut for so long that it now set her nerves on edge far more than any obvious threat. Her eyes constantly scanned the blending mosaic of trees, searching for the barest hint of an imminent attack, but she saw nothing but the fleeing images of long-legged deer and sloth-like creatures hanging from the boughs, watching them as they passed with languid eyes. This far away from the city, wrapped in the unexpected placidity of its undeveloped limits, one might find it hard to believe that the entire plane was at war. Samut looked at the unbothered beasts around her and found herself envious.
In the surrounding darkness, she sensed Mowu trotting by her side, twigs snapping beneath his deceptively heavy paws. The odd dog must have sensed her apprehension, letting out a low whine as he brushed a pointed ear against her sore calf. A shudder went up Samut's back, one borne more of frustration than fear.
Why won't you leave me be, Mowu? Your affections are wasted on me. I may have saved you, but I could not save your young master. I'm sure you miss Jiang dearly. I did not know him long enough to feel the same, but I mourn him no less than I do the soul of Neheb that took him from you. Go, seek companionship elsewhere from someone more deserving. I will not pet you with such bloodstained hands.
Her eyes did not leave her surveyal to look at Mowu, but she resisted the urge to quicken her pace.
The serenity of the forest, however, did not last forever. As they followed Gan deeper into its tangled belly, her keened senses began to pick up on new disturbances, each starting out almost undetectable but steadily growing as they pushed forward. An inarticulate yet rhythmic chanting, accompanied by ominous rattling. The dim glow of red and green lights peeking around the tree trunks in the distance. The faint smell of unidentifiable herbal smoke. The unmistakable metallic tinge of blood on the air. Samut gripped her khopeshes and held them out at her sides, ready to strike if needed.
While these new sounds and smells grew stronger, the forest seemed to grow weaker. Samut noted that the trees were becoming less densely packed, allowing more space for them to move. With this quickened pace, it was not long before Samut saw what appeared to be the edge of the tree line, preceded by the volume of chanting and persistence of bitter aromas that had both grown unignorable. The lights now bathed the area in flickering shades of jade and crimson, though their sources were still obscured. Gan stepped into the light, waving them forward past the trees with a throaty grunt.
Samut felt a vague unease wash over her, but she quickly shook it off. Gan passed through the forest's edge, with Ajani and Tolsimir close behind. Arlinn guided Voja through the clearest path possible, laying her stomach flat against the wolf's back as she passed underneath the lolling canopy. Samut followed just after them, with Mowu still at her side, his paws syncing to her own cautious steps.
The forest fell away, revealing a massive clearing at its heart. Samut stared around in awe at the giant circle of flattened land, stretching for kilometers in all directions. As she and the others walked into its midst, they had to carefully maneuver around a field of shorn stumps and unsettled holes. Samut placed a hand on one to steady her path, noting that it was still sticky with rosin. She realized then that this area must have been cleared recently, likely by the Gruul who had little concern for whether a tree is chopped down or simply ripped from the soil.
Further ahead, where the fresh excavations petered out, most of the abundant space in the clearing was taken up by a red circle painted onto the leveled earth. Intricate patterns flowed like a fractal gyre, drawing the energy of its surroundings to the image of an animalistic eye at its center. Around the perimeter, shamans, priests, and druids stood at regular intervals, each facing this unblinking red iris. They wore little more than rags and shredded leather, exposing skin wrought with cryptic tattoos and jagged scars. Some chanted while rattling staffs with smoking censers dangling from the end, some swung crude weapons in wide, ritualistic arcs, and some were content to simply channel their burning hot magics into their bare, calloused hands.
The area radiated with a pulsating, primordial vigor, washing over Samut and the others as they were illuminated by flashing bolts of crackling reds and greens. The sensation almost reminded her of the Elderspell, so far only experienced in passing whiffs, but it did not carry the same sinister necrosis. For a reason Samut could not rightly explain, she felt it stir something within her chest, just adjacent to her spark.
Gan stopped walking halfway through the pockmarked perimeter, turning to address them all. Samut immediately saw the quiet awe on his face as it flickered in the alternating shadows. He had to shout to be heard over the wild chanting of the Zhur-Taa and the conjured winds that howled just overhead. "Her, over there, she's the one you're looking for." He pointed across the field to a centaur whose body was almost entirely covered in hanging animal bones. She was tall, made even taller by the huge burgundy mohawk that crested over her scalp like a sandwurm's ridges. She was currently engaged in etching a pattern into the dirt at her hooves with the butt of an oversized staff. A tusked skull pointed from its other end, verdant light flooding from its mouth to the sky.
"Um, is it… is it okay to interrupt this… ritual of theirs?" Tolsimir asked, clear disgust brewing between each hitch in his words.
Gan shrugged. "You'll have to ask her." With that, he gave the group a brief salutation before he started back towards the forest. As he passed, Samut heard him mutter something about needing to find his daughter before he rallied the clans, and then he quickly disappeared within the obfuscating trees.
Once Gan's footsteps and bass grumblings receded from earshot, Ajani continued through the uprooted landscape towards Nikya's position, and the others soon followed. With each careful step she took, Samut could feel the infectious itch of the ambient magic seeping into her pores. It made her grimace, and she found herself awash in an irritable woe.
This ritual… I have not seen anything like this since the Trial offerings. To think that was so long ago now, and yet I can still remember the sensation. A weary, inaudible sigh escaped her parted lips. Whatever this ritual may be, I doubt their beliefs will be strong enough to overturn Bolas' will. I suppose there is still honor to be sought in even the most futile of gestures.
She leapt over the last stump, landing heavily on the solid ground just behind her allies. Mowu followed soon after, the wooden sections of his collar hollowly knocking from the impact. Samut fell in line behind them, watching as Tolsimir ceded the leading position to Ajani so he could walk alongside Voja and Arlinn as they all traced the outer rim of the ritual circle. Samut watched as Arlinn leaned over the wolf's saddle to the stalwart elf. She could not hear what they were saying, but Arlinn's posture, along with the hungry, almost feral look in her eyes, told Samut everything she needed. Despite Arlinn's insistence, however, Tolsimir did not acknowledge her, his attention seemingly focused on Voja.
Though they were not attempting any stealth, Nikya appeared too engrossed in her current duties to notice the approaching party. Then, as Ajani passed the goblin shaman that squatted in the ritual position just next to hers, the centaur's head suddenly snapped up to them. She looked over them all from high atop her mounted posture, her face gravely serious. From a distance, Samut had thought she looked rather young, appearing like a lean warrior seated on a formidable steed, but now she could see the branching wrinkles that pulled at her hazy eyes.
"Tread lightly, outsiders, for you step now upon the most sacred ground in all of Ravnica." Her voice confirmed Samut's suspicions of her age, rich and sonorous with years of use. There was an almost songlike quality in her words, as if her mouth had spent so much time on incantations that it could not shake their inherent cadence. "Come, fall away from the bloodpaint circle as you approach. I have been expecting you."
Ajani took a few steps away from the red line in the grass, leading the others in a rippling fashion towards Nikya. As they grew closer, a powerful musk began to permeate the air, though Samut could not determine if it came from Nikya's glowing staff or the centaur herself.
"Thank you for allowing us into your presence, Nikya," Ajani said with a curt bow. "I am Ajani Goldmane, of the plane of Alara. My outworld compatriots here are Arlinn Kord, of the plane of Innistrad, and Samut, of the plane of Amonkhet." At Ajani's introduction, Arlinn offered an aloof salute, while Samut took the time to visibly sheath her weapons and curtly nod as well. "And you may know of Tolsimir Wolfblood, who has joined us to represent the guild of Selesnya."
The two guild members stared at each other. Though their eyes both held a calm ambivalence, Samut could feel the invisible string between them go taut. They both went still as statues, with neither moving to put aside their armaments. Behind them, she heard Voja growl lightly.
"I cannot say that I have ever known the name of Wolfblood," Nikya eventually responded. "My clan tend to keep out of guild affairs whenever possible, and I am certain I would remember such a fine creature as this in the services on one such as this." Her staff gestured to Voja, then back to Tolsimir, never allowing her words of movements to convey anything but a honed sagacity. The elf remained silent.
Sensing the mounting tension, Ajani spoke up. "As your people stay away from the inner workings of the guilds, we are then made even more fortunate by your allowances this day. I assume that Gan has informed you of our reasons for such an intrusion."
Nikya turn to him and nodded. "Indeed, Chief Shokta sent word of your requests for the Gruul. As the acting leaders of the guild, he, Borborygmos, and myself have decided to grant you our guild's assistance in fighting against the forces that threaten our home. While my loyalties lie far from that den of blight and blasphemy they call a city, we are not so foolish as to misunderstand the danger Bolas poses to all Ravnica."
"That is good. We are eternally grateful for the aide of your people. And for your own personal aide, as well, as a representative of your guild, correct?"
She nodded again. "For the reestablishment of the Guildpact, it is so. Though Gan and Borborygmos will be occupied with the mobilization of the Gruul's assault on the city, I would have volunteered for this duty regardless. To allow the magic of the Old Ways to finally touch the Guildpact is an opportunity for which the Zhur-Taa have waited too long."
"It brings me much comfort to hear such conviction. The Gruul's decisions at this juncture will not be forgotten, I will make sure of that."
As Ajani spoke, Nikya turned away from the group, returning her attention to the ground by her front hooves. She continued to work the end of her staff into the packed dirt, carving out more obscure runes. "It is a kind sentiment, but an unnecessary one. We care not for our perceptions among the other guilds. Souls so lost as them may think what they like, but so long as we walk the path of our ancestors, the perfection of their lives will be returned to us in due time. The End-Raze will be upon us soon enough."
"I'm sorry?" He turned to Tolsimir, whose steely demeanor did not shift as he shrugged his shoulders in ignorance.
Nikya's voice dropped, returning to a volume that seemed reserved for prayer. "The End-Raze, it is the final step in returning Ravnica to its prior state, before the great city came and attempted to destroy the influence of the old gods. The ground and sky alike will be cleansed by the purifying forces of primordium, driven once more by the gods that this world so soon forsook."
Samut felt something stir inside her chest. She did not know whether it was Nikya's words or her tenor, but she could not ignore the sudden, if minute, resonance. She felt her hands itch, pulling in the direction of her scabbarded khopeshes, but she held them stiffly at her side. Trying to discard this sensation, Samut's eyes narrowed as she scanned the ritual circle once more, intently watching the gathered mages as they went about their esoteric duties.
The forces of the old gods, huh? To still believe in the strength of such forces, even in the face of a destructive power as omnipresent and absolute as Bolas'…
"Back when the Old Ways were not so old that its practitioners required such reminders, the elders foresaw the trajectory of the city, one that threatened to swallow the whole of Ravnica within a tomb of traitorous industry and choke the gods with the thick smog of sacrilege. When such desecrations reached their zenith, it was told, a prophet would appear to deliver upon the city its due retribution. One with power that could summon forth the will of Ilharg, the great Raze-Boar, whose divine hoofs will tamp the stone back into the earth, whose bellowing call will bring forth the beasts of the land to reclaim their territory, and whose flaming mane will scorch clean the blasphemous works of the old citizenry, ushering in a new, harmonious age for all."
"And you believed that Domri Rade was this prophet?" Ajani asked, his voice hesitant in the face of Nikya's bold prophesizing. "That he was the one who would bring about this End-Raze?"
Nikya paused her staff for a moment, as if contemplating Ajani's words, but she quickly resumed her scribing without skipping a beat. "I still believe that Domri was the prophet foretold in the legends. His ascent in the guild. His mastery of the wild beasts, especially the wild boars, the very children of Ilharg himself. It matters not if you believe his power came from Bolas, just as he did. I know that is was only by the will of the Utmungr that Domri came to us, ready to restore Ravnica to its fullest natural glory once more."
"And yet he's dead now."
Nikya suddenly stopped, her head snapping up to look at Samut, who had yet to realize that it was in her own voice that the preceding words had been spoken. While Nikya spoke of Domri and the gods, the churning in her stomach ratcheted in intensity, a small whirlpool growing into a tempestuous hurricane within her chest. With her last sympathetic declaration for the former guild leader and Bolas lackey, Samut found that she could no longer contain herself.
Her voice was flat, so dead with exhaustion both physical and mental that it no longer carried the steely resolve of the battlefield. Still, she unconsciously mustered enough vitriol to draw not only the centaur's attention, but the rest of her group's as well. She could feel their eyes on her, but the weight bearing down on her shoulders was far too great for her to wither beneath their gazes.
"He's dead, dead by the will of the very master he swore to serve. His soul was ripped from his chest, the first of so many that were to follow. Domri's actions have already condemned many to deaths that he will never know, never see. Many were our allies, our compatriots. Though I never met him, nor so much as witnessed his actions, I know he was nothing but evil. And yet you call him a prophet, even still…" Samut's fists clenched, and she suddenly felt her lips parting against her will, summoning forth a sentiment she had not expected. "You still believe in him, in the salvation he was meant to bring, even though he is dead and gone and has brought no End-Raze with him. By all accounts, he failed you and your people, Nikya. He could not enact the will of your gods, not in the face of Bolas' might. I understand that you must keep fighting, but why, then, do you keep believing?"
A tense silence followed, seeping effortlessly into the gap left by Samut's strained words. In her periphery, she could see the staring faces of her comrades. Ajani's pauldrons sunken and single eye mournfully cast. Tolsimir's pointed nose upcast to emphasize the revulsion emanating from his pupils. Arlinn leaning her chest on Voja to part the wolf's great ears, one eyebrow arched as she curiously cupped her chin. At her feet, she could feel Mowu's tentative presence close to her leg, as if the orphaned hound's inherent sympathy was being stymied by the taut atmosphere. In their owns ways, she knew, they were all caught between worry for her and worry for what her words might do to their mission. Samut, however, watched only Nikya, studying her inscrutable features.
The centaur mystic gradually looked her up and down, studying her battered physique, her unraveling braids, her tarnished bronze armor, her legs that still buzzed with the anxious energy of her sprinting spells. The pause stretched out, filled only by the errant crackles of druidic magic from around the great ritual circle, until eventually Nikya wrenched her staff from the dirt and leveled the glowing skull at Samut.
"What you fail to understand, Samut of Amonkhet, is that there has been no failure on Domri's part. Though he has died, neither his strength nor his ambition have left this plane. They live on in us, and in the will of the gods through which he acted."
Samut stood still, responding with neither word nor gesture. In her chest, however, the storm raged.
"Though we speak for the gods, channeling their indecipherable ways to the Gruul so we may live as they instruct, we are still but mortals." Nikya looked back to her hooves, eyes tracing the mass of runes like it was the night sky. "Not but vessels of flesh and bone to serve our time on this world in deference to the higher powers at play. Even the gods themselves, when they once took corporeal form and lived among the people, undivided by districts and guilds, were here but for a brief moment before returning to their place past the unreachable veil. Though the constructs of life may end, the great work of the gods can never be stopped, so long as there is still a soul to manifest it."
Something leapt to Samut's throat, something that she could not choke back down. She did not know if it was physical or mental, if it was simply another coagulated mass of blood and lymph from her accumulated injuries or a refired bolt of sentiment blown through her body by the stirring winds engulfing her spark. Despite it all, she still refused to speak with anything more than the intense exacerbation of her stare.
Nikya raised her gaze from the runes at the ground, seemingly content with their composition. Her eyes passed over the entire group before returning to Samut.
"We believed Domri Rade was meant to fully usher in the End-Raze, but it seems that he was only meant to act as its precursor. You say he failed, but you have not seen all that he did to prepare this world for Ilharg's return. Domri Rade's only failure was forsaking the Old Ways in favor of the power offered by Bolas. And thus, it falls upon us, those followers whose loyalty shall never waver, to finish the great work that has been started."
With this, she pulled back her staff, the clattering of the hanging bones barely audible beneath the soft howl of the winds above their heads.
"That time is now at hand. I delayed our ritual in acknowledgement of your requests, Ajani Goldmane. Ilharg stands at the precipice of our realm, ready to carve a path for the reclamation of this plane from the weak who have corrupted it so. It was Domri's actions that brought him to this barrier, and now it falls to us to release it. The Raze-Boar shall deliver us onto Bolas and trample all those in our way to dust!"
Nikya's voice rose with fervor as she spoke, turning away from Samut and the others so that she could project across the massive ritual site. While her words gathered strength, transforming into great booms of conviction, their cadence shifted as well into a forceful chanting that bristled with mystic purpose. The awaiting sages and druids did not stop their varied activities to listen, instead picking up the pace to match their leader's candor.
Thick plume of smoke billowed across the grass, obscuring the swirling patterns. The dim glows of red and green magic built in intensity, allowing spontaneous arcs of crooked mana to leap from one side of the circle to the other. The wind roared to life just overhead, whipping loose strands of hair, bones, and animal pelts in every direction. It could not, however, drown out the disparate chanting that filled the air, from high-pitched chittering to guttural bellows that sent waves of nausea through Samut's gut.
This discomfort, however, did not register in Samut's conscious thoughts. Her focus was engulfed by the liturgic sights before her. She watched the magic springing to life, crisscrossing through the turbulent air and alighting it with arcane energy. She listened as Nikya, who had ceased speaking in anything resembling a decipherable tongue, began rhythmically stomping her hooves on the dirt. Each step landed on a different rune, creating a pattern that Samut could not hope to understand. The other mystics followed suite, their combined footfalls adding a thunderous backbeat to their occult chants. The cacophony continued to rise and rise, making the ground pulse beneath Samut's feet. Magic flowed from the various focuses and fetishes into the ground, tamped down by the crashing steps, causing the red paint of the circle to glow. It started at the base of each shaman, then flowed through the circle's perimeter and to the eldritch pattern within. Crimson light shone through the fog, casting eerie shadows against the far-off trees and twisting the images of the ritualists into a truly unnatural sight. Looking like a fearsome, unstoppable force of nature, Nikya's voice thundered through the noise.
"Ilharg, great Raze-Boar, we beseech you to return to our realm! Approach this gate that we have opened, so you may bring the glory of the End-Raze upon this wretched world!"
The wind shrieked, pulling leaves from the trees as it converged over the flaring circle. It pulled the smoke in a violent cyclone, expanding it to fill the space over the ritual site like an acrid dome. The burning magics of the Zhur-Taa sent fluctuating shapes throughout the smoke, warping the ephemeral swirls into what looked to Samut like the images of great beasts and ancient vegetation. Then, at its center, a shadow began to grow.
Samut stood, transfixed, as the silhouette took shape, ballooning out from the circle's middle to fill the available space. She likely would have stayed in her spot, just on the precipice of the ritual, were it not for the sudden sensation of a heavy paw on her shoulder. Glancing over, she saw Ajani urgently pulling her away from the circle, entreating her to join Tolsimir, Voja, and Arlinn who had gathered a few meters back. Breaking from her stupor, Samut nodded to Ajani, ready to follow. Before she moved, she looked to her feet and saw Mowu standing behind her, body curled as if around a pair of phantomic legs. She quickly reached down and scooped the frightened dog into her arms, carrying him with her as she gathered with the others.
It was as Samut situated herself amongst her allies that a tremendous snort, far louder and fiercer than the call on any beast or man she had ever heard, ripped across the forest. The force of this otherworldly grunt sent the dome of smoke flying, scattering it across the clearing with a trumpeting blast. Samut doubled over as the stinging gale ripped across her face, clutching Mowu tight to her chest to keep him free of the smog. Her eyes narrowed within the stringent haze, but with the light of the magic having dimmed significantly, her vision could not pierce through it. Nikya, the Zhur-Taa, her teammates, all swallowed up by the churning gray. All she could see in the distance was a looming, formless shape standing where the circle had glowed. Her throat clenched in the unsure stillness.
As the smoke began to clear, Samut saw the enormous silhouette sharpen, fine details soon giving way to features and color of the unspeakable creature now standing in their midst. With her first glimpse, Samut recognized that the only thing Nikya had said that prepared her for the sight of Ilharg was calling it a boar. It indeed held all the trademarks of a wild boar, from the brown striped fur to the whiplike tail to the flat nose from which every heavy breath poured. That, however, is where the similarities ended in Samut's mind between the simple creatures of the land and the monstrosity towering over them. Its head broached the canopy, with emerald eyes that surveyed its kingdom with a hunter's intent. Curved tusks protruded from its mouth, crescents of bone that sharply glinted in the wavering light. A mane of flaming olive-tinted magic ran along its spine, licking at the air from between outcroppings of bony spines. Laying on either side of the mane, the insignias from the ritual circle now blazed against its fur, bathing the behemoth in striking red.
The Zhur-Taa druids stood still, their necks craned back as they basked in Ilharg's overwhelming presence. Nikya, who held the position directly facing Ilharg, raised her staff high above her head as she stared at the boar-god. Ilharg's gaze broke from the horizon to stare down at her. It gave an inquisitive sniff, and though Nikya's bones rattled and mohawk flattened in its breath, she did not waver. After a moment, Ilharg rescinded its nose from her, turned it to the sky, and let out an earsplitting roar.
Behind her, Samut heard the others wince at the sound. In her arms, she felt Mowu stir, burying himself further into her breastplate. She wrapped her arms tighter around the dog, but she did not shy away from the resounding cry. In truth, she barely heard it, too deafened by the sudden rushing of blood in her ears and the warlike drumming of her heart.
"By the gods," Ajani said breathlessly, "I never thought I would lay an eye upon a Behemoth such as this again."
"I suppose they truly were serious about this entire End-Raze myth," muttered Tolsimir.
Arlinn, who had been soothing Voja during the proceedings, spoke disparagingly. "I guess, but what is that thing going to do against Bolas? Hell, he has Eternals bigger than that pig."
"That is no pig." Samut's words were firm with conviction. For the first time since arriving on Ravnica, she felt no weariness, no malaise. The great weight in her spark had shifted, riled by the winds invoked by the great beast. She stared up at Ilharg, at the twin suns of its burning green eyes, and could think only of Hazoret. "That… is a god."