This content was originally included in The Magic: The Gathering: Pocket Players’ Guide (Revised Edition). The original text can be accessed via Internet Archive here and requires borrowing. The Magic website version is archived here.

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By Richard Garfield

The Ergamon plane did not impress her with its colossal peaks and exotic fauna. Of course, “colossal” and “exotic” are nearly meaningless words to Worzel, because they presume everything else in Dominia is “average” or “normal,” which is not an assumption Worzel makes by now. So I suppose it is no surprise that she wasn’t impressed. I was, though.

Ergamon is a small, hidden plane. At least that is what Worzel told me, though it looked as vast as any other world I had visited. I have no idea what she means by hidden. For me a hidden place is a hole-in-the-wall tavern where I can escape attention, or a woodland grotto obscured by the surrounding forest. For someone who has ways of seeing and travelling between worlds like Worzel, maybe planes be “hidden” in the same way. But what would obscure a wizard’s sight when she can see from plane to plane? Some sort of plane-forest? Thinking about what Worzel means usually makes my head ache, so I’ve learned to stop worrying about it.

We were standing near the bottom of a ravine between two of the Ergamon mountains. The breeze was dry and subtly scented. The base of the mountain met the ravine in a craggy black cliff slick with trickling streams. About a hundred feet away on the ravine floor we could see what appeared to be a dry river bed.

Worzel was examining the ruins of a structure built of shiny black rock. Each stone was as large as a horse. Occasionally she would mutter some incantation, or pull some weird instrument out of thin air which she would pass over the rock. When she was satisfied, the instrument would disappear. Planewalkers can travel light.

We came to Ergamon to seek lines. Wizards use lines to connect to the lands of the planes, from which they draw most of their power. Once we find a line Worzel establishes a bond to it, and then she can draw on that bond for mana. Finding the lines is my job. I am good at it; I think that’s because I am built so close to the ground.

Occasionally we come across something else she is interested in, like a device or place or maybe a creature of some type. Or a pile of black stones. I can never predict what will interest her and what she will pass by. Sometimes she will spend days examining something and then leave without a comment. At other times she will give a shout and show me a kaleidescope of colors emitting from her hand, or a pool of some sparking liquid, or sometimes something I can’t even see. She says that these things have lines like the land lines, and that she bonds with them too. I don’t usually ask her what these lines do for her anymore. Sometimes I understand her response, but more often I nod and wag my tail as she tries to express something I can’t comprehend. Sometimes she’ll flush a little while explaining; I suspect that even she isn’t sure what all the lines can do.

I was resting, half napping, beside the stone heap. Worzel was sitting beside me reading a parchment she had pulled from nowhere, when my fur began to stand on end. I started with surprise—her warning field had just activated. That usually meant another wizard was near by, which also meant there was going to be trouble.

I have a theory about why wizards fight so much. When whelps are together they fight. We call it play fighting, but it can get pretty serious. The thing is, they can’t hurt each other too badly. Their second set of teeth haven’t come in yet, the male’s acid sacs still contain water and the females haven’t hit their growth spurt. I think wizards fight a lot because they can’t really hurt each other too badly either. With an infinite number of places to flee to and their personal magic to protect them, wizards can’t suffer much direct harm.

Worzel, though, would probably say she fights to protect her domain. Her precious lines are threatened with other planeswalkers around. She would also say she has to fight because they attack her. That’s true, and she attacks them in anticipation of this. Planewalkers do make friends with each other, but the paths to friendship are like the paths between planes: unstable and often violent. Worzel’s best friends are old duel opponents.

I had only been through a few duels by then, and Worzel had told me that if I didn’t stay close by she might not be able to keep me shielded or bring me with her if she was forced to flee. She also told me that if I were constantly underfoot she would toss me out herself, even though I weigh about three times as much as she does. So I wasn’t sure just how far away from her I should get at a time like this.

She gestured and pulled a handful of lichen-covered dirt out of nowhere. The dirt clod was dripping water, and the lichen looked like miniature trees, over which hung a tiny rainbow. I glanced up and saw a real rainbow in the distance. I swung my head to see more clearly: a hand-sized map showed rivers flowing between her fingers, and tiny mountain lakes reflecting cloudlets. She sighed. “Thomil”. Her sigh made me shiver. I knew Thomil was another planewalker, and a powerful one, from what Worzel had said.

I peered closer at her clump of dirt, trying to see Thomil. Worzel glared at me and blew across the top of the map, raising a cloud of dust which made me back off, sneezing.

Letting go of the clod, she reached in front of her with both hands, as if she were preparing to play an unseen harp. I had seen this before: she was gathering her lines for battle. You could tell by the way her fingers and hands would disappear and reappear quickly, with a flicker. Soon I saw some of the land lines in her hands. She took some of the lines and began to braid them. I can see why wizards don’t keep their lines braided all the time so they can always draw on their power. The energies that crackle through the lines are immense, even to those standing close by, let alone to the wizard holding the lines in hand. It would be like leaving a teapot always boiling so you could make tea anytime. Except that the wizard is the teapot.

Worzel pulled at the air with one hand as if yanking an invisible rope. There was a crack and out of the air fell half a dozen little winged people. “Scryb,” I thought, and backed away. They hit the ground and dusted themselves off, buzzing angrily among themselves. The cloying odor of slightly aged marigolds hung in the air. One of the Scryb pointed at me and said “Kawa buje nor Ro-ree-ka Kamf,” rolling the ‘r’s like Scryb do, and they all laughed. I am not sure what it means, but that’s what they call me: “Roreca Kamf,” which means Roreca Blanket. I don’t like Scryb; once some of them stole a square foot of my back fur for a coverlet. Worzel fixed it, but it hurt like a thousand ironburs, and since her healing magic is not as good as perhaps it could be, I have a tattoo there rather than fur. Worzel snapped her fingers and a glowfly appeared. The Scryb were still laughing noisily but she looked at them sharply and they were quiet. Worzel waved her hand and the glowfly went speeding off with the Scryb following it. The glowfly would guide the Scryb to where Worzel wanted them to go. I hoped they wouldn’t come back —the Scryb usually don’t.

Worzel yanked again and pulled an enormous bear from nowhere, bringing with it the cool, musty smell of deep forest. It reared up briefly on two legs and then went back down on four and flared its nostrils at us. Shortly after that another bear appeared. The bears followed their own glowflies. There aren’t any bears or Scryb native to Ergamon, but since Worzel didn’t have any lines to local creatures she used creatures from other planes.

I noticed that Worzel had a blue land line in her hand which she hadn’t woven. I hoped she didn’t braid it in. The last duel we were besieged by huge sea snakes, which Worzel says gained access to the plane we occupied through the land line itself. All I know is that she wove the line in and suddenly the world was titanic teeth and scales and a cold black eye as large across as I am. I looked at the land lines she had woven: several green lines and a red one. The green lines are where the Scryb and the bears would have come from. The red line could explain the flashes off in the distance and rolling thunder. I watched the line fade to a dark red and slowly grow brighter to the sound of the thunder, like an artery filling with blood.

I was wondering what Thomil was doing, when Worzel inhaled sharply. “Black magic,” I heard her mutter with surprise and what seemed like disappointment. Then a sound burst from far beyond the nearest crag, a wail that made me cower and shiver: the cry of a bear being terrified to death. I found myself howling before I could restrain myself. Worzel looked grim but said nothing, focusing on her lines.

I could smell it before it came into sight down the ravine, something rotten. Even Worzel seemed to choke on the stench for a moment. Creatures began to shamble up the slope toward the clearing in which we stood. I couldn’t tell whether they had once gone on four legs or two, or perhaps three; I could tell only that these beasts no longer lived, they just moved. I saw their progress falter and stop. The walking dead gnashed their teeth and swiped their claws at the invisible barriers that kept them at bay. Worzel betrayed signs of pain as they struggled to close the gap; it was costly for her to repel the decaying things herself.

“Where are you, Cabralin Shire?” I heard her complain, as she did some more weaving. Cabralin was where we were shortly before Ergamon, a peaceful plane with lots of rolling hills and fields. The shire was the area where I found a white line. I noticed she had braided in the blue line, and I looked nervously around for signs of the snakes. She gestured toward the sky and dark clouds began to gather, and the wind picked up. She pointed at the dead still struggling up the hill, and they flew up into the air leaving a small hail of torn clothing and teeth. I saw them get sucked into the storm which was now raging high in the sky. “Sorry my little sprites,” muttered Worzel. I guess they got sucked into the storm also.

The storm began to abate, and I relaxed a little. The wind had cleared the stench of the grave, and the sun came out again. I wondered a both bears had perished or just the one whose death cry I had heard. Worzel was still muttering about her missing white line, and about the protection she’d have if she found it, when she suddenly quieted and froze. She looked off into the distance and began to turn pale. She glanced anxiously at the floating clod, and went back to her weaving with redoubled effort. I was terrified. I looked at the map and saw a dark shadow hanging off to one side. The air began to stink again—not as strong as the walking dead, but much more corrupt. And I suspected the source of the smell was still far away.

A wild gibbering echoed from down the ravine, and up the hill came bounding a lanky, hunched man-thing. Worzel didn’t look like she was even paying attention. At first I was relieved that the threat was so small. But the man-thing’s scent was not the same as the corrupt smell that came from over the mountains. In fact, the stench was now so strong that I could barely make out the scent of the creature clawing its way through Worzel’s barriers. Worzel snapped an invisible rope and out of nowhere fell more sprites. I concealed my disappointment. She created a glowfly for them to follow, and sent them off over the mountain, confirming my fear that the real threat hadn’t yet arrived.

The sun was blotted out as a solid, spreading darkness came over the mountain. The stench was overpowering. The cries of the man-thing were drowned in the beating of enormous wings. When the darkness landed, the ground shook so hard that rocks broke from the cliff and fell about us. The creature stood in the riverbed down the hill, but its head was level with us. It was some type of demon, the skin blackened and bathed in patches of flame. From its huge fists, with nails the size of plows, fell the charred remains of the sprites.

Heat struck me as the demon strode up the hill; small trees and bushes on the hillside burst into flame as it past. The man-thing still yammered and clawed before us, cowed by this new terror. Crushing the beast in its left hand, the demon tore at the limp body with its teeth. “Well, that’s one problem solved,” I thought, hysterically. “Thomil, you fool, you fool!” cried Worzel. “The Pitlord! I can’t believe you can be this stupid!” The demon raised both fists above its head, the remains of the man-thing dangling from its mouth. It brought them down on us with such force that Worzel was thrown to the ground even under the protective fields. I heard her scream in pain. I howled. Gasping, she scrambled to her knees and began to gesture frantically. I shut my eyes and pressed myself flat against the ground. Perhaps the Pitlord wouldn’t notice me. Not that it mattered; if Worzel died, I was as good as gone anyhow. I wondered which of us the Pitlord would eat first.

I could hear Worzel beside me, mumbling something, in a last desperate attempt to fight off the demon. The footfalls of the Pitlord made the ground tremble, and the stench was paralyzing. Worzel shouted; I wanted to run, but fear held me frozen. It took me a moment to realize that she was laughing. “Thomil, you fool, you wonderful fool!” I opened my eyes and saw her smiling at her hands. Some of her land lines were changing color, fading from pink to white. “Rubbing it in by denying me mountain forces, Thomil? I guess you don’t know I have been brushing up on my white magic.” She spun in a circle as the Pitlord brought its fists down again. This time they met a shield of white flame which formed over our heads. The Pitlord howled in surprise and pain. The heat stopped, the sound lessened, and even the smell faded as a glowing membrane of light surrounded us. Outside I could hear the Pitlord raging, but I couldn’t feel even a tremor as it clawed at the edges of our sphere of light. Wherever it touched the sphere sparks flew and white flame sizzled.

The Pitlord bellowed, but it seemed distant. Worzel watched it intently, fingering her land lines. Frustrated by the impenetrable light which surrounded us, the Pitlord soon gave up the attack. Spreading its huge wings, the demon launched itself upward and flew off over the mountain. Worzel looked pleased with herself. She returned to the still-floating clod and watched as the patch of darkness moved from the center back to the edge. “Poor Thomil. You should be careful what you play with.”

I guessed then that the duel was over and that Worzel had won. The glow faded, and Worzel scrambled out of the ravine. I followed her, reluctantly; without the sphere to protect us, I wasn’t sure that the Pitlord wouldn’t come back. Worzel noticed me lagging behind and smiled. “Don’t worry, Roreca,” she smiled. “It won’t be long before Thomil is forced to abandon the plane, and I am sure he will spend ages healing. Meanwhile it’s time to claim the spoils of victory.” I know what that meant. Often when a wizard is banished from a plane in the heat of battle they leave behind lines untended. We headed over the mountains to Thomil’s last location. We could have gotten there mach faster if Worzel had used magic, but she seemed to enjoy the climb. She was thinking about something, something that excited her.

The Pitlord raged about for a while, but eventually got bored of venting its anger on the Ergamon wildlife and scenery: when I looked at Worzel’s map a few hours later, the dark spot had vanished. A thick, oily smoke hung in the air for the remainder of the day. When we arrived at the place Thomil had last stood, we saw only a steaming, hissing crater. I couldn’t find any land lines. Still, more must have happened in the duel with Thomil than his defeat, because Worzel didn’t even seem disappointed. “I think that it’s time for another trip to Cabralin, Roreca,” she said.