Invasion

Chapter 29

Weatherlight topped a ridge of sand above the plains of Koilos and soared down the far slope. Gerrard's gunnery harness held him in place as the deck dropped out beneath him. "There are the buggers," he growled. Ahead and for miles to the horizon camped Phyrexian troops.

"Attack formation!" Gerrard shouted into the speaking tube. "Signal the fleet. Strafe the troops. Ray cannons, plasma jets, goblin bombs. Kill 'em with whatever you've got. Let's let them know Benalia's revenge has arrived."

A cheer rose from the prison brigade. They crowded the decks, elven bows clutched in their eager hands. Among them were Steal Leaf troops. Their leader, Eladamri, stood at the prow. He lifted high his longbow, nocked a flaming arrow, and sent the shaft streaking away. It raced ahead of Weatherlight and sank among the Phyrexian troops. The shaft cracked through black scale. It punched into oilblood. The creature ignited, blazing blue. Elves and prisoners whooped excitedly.

"Fire!" Gerrard shouted. "Fire!"

All along the decks, elves and men drew arrows from pots of burning pitch. They set notch to string and loosed. From Weather-light, rings of fire spread. Where those flaming waves touched ground, Phyrexians blazed and flared and exploded.

Gerrard unleashed his own fire. Red-hot bursts of energy leaped from the barrel of his ray cannon. They stabbed faster than arrows. The bolts ripped through monsters and their sleeping sties, tore apart trench worms, blasted through pens of live food. From Tahngarth's gun, another bolt roared. It cut a parallel trough to Gerrard's attack. Each line of energy felled hundreds of Phyrexians, but there were hundreds of thousands.

Benalish assault ships dropped down to Weatherlight's beam. They loosed their own arsenals, not as flashy, but in their own way deadly enough. From the stem hatches of round-bellied bombers, gray goblin bombs rolled. They dropped in twisted lines. Smoke barked up where they struck. Chunks of scale and bone tumbled through the mounded smoke. Hoppers jagged like serpents' teeth above the armies. Their quarrels pelted down in a deadly hail.

Gerrard loosed another volley of ray cannon fire. He gazed appreciatively at the broad line of destruction that his armada cut through the Phyrexian hordes.

"They've got no airships. It's like shooting fish in a barrel!"

He spoke too soon. The beasts might not have airships, but they had brought cannons. Fire spat from entrenched batteries. Crimson and black, rays roared skyward.

One bolt struck a falling stream of goblin bombs. It ignited them. In midair, they detonated. Each new explosion triggered a second and third. Like a fuse, the line of bombs carried their explosions up toward the stem of the bomber. Shrapnel tore into the fuselage. The detonations went to completion. A white blaze erupted around the ship. A thousand explosions roared out. Hunks of ship cascaded down.

Another beam rippled through a line of fighters. One after another, they flew into the radiance and were cloven in two. Halves spiraled down in fiery wreckage.

A third bolt-this placed best of all-smashed into Weatherlight's port airfoil. The spars lit with fire. The canvas flashed away to nothing. Weatherlight listed hard to port and began to roll over.

"Take her up!" Gerrard cried even as his latest shot raked the enemy lines.

"I know! I know!" Sisay shouted back through the speaking tube.

The starboard airfoil slapped closed, and the ship's engines roared. Weatherlight lolled upright and rocketed heavenward.

"Signal the fleet! Break off the assault!" Gerrard ordered. He braced himself against the hot casing of the gun. Weatherlight jigged up through a rack of clouds. "Rendezvous at the Metathran camp. Land and repair!"

He had breath for little more. The ship ascended like a comet. Gerrard and his crew and their fugitive armies held tight to the meteoric craft. It vaulted just ahead of the cannon fire, outpacing killing heads of flame. The Benalish armada straggled upward in the great ship's wake.

In canyons of concealing cloud, Weatherlight leveled out. Gerrard gave a gusty sigh.

"Let's hope for a better reception from the Metathran."

Within his tent, Commander Agnate stared bleakly at the tactical maps of Koilos. They lay in a sloppy stack across his field table. Once, they had been neatly stored, each in its own tube. Once, Thaddeus and Agnate had strolled their compasses easily across lines of topography. Now, the maps bore the fretful, fruitless scribbles of a commander in a hopeless engagement.

Agnate was trapped. His forces had been winnowed horribly by the last, disastrous assault. Fifty thousand Metathran had marched into battle behind him, and twenty thousand had fled. They had made camp here, twenty miles beyond the caves-out of reach of the monsters. Members of Thaddeus's army slowly joined them. The field was lost. The Metathran were in full rout. Thaddeus's force was equally reduced. Thirty thousand of them remained, but they had lost their commander.

Thaddeus was easily worth ten thousand troops.

He is worth more than that, Agnate mused bitterly. Thaddeus was the other half of his mind. Even distance could not block their shared thoughts-until Tsabo Tavoc. She knew of their bond and targeted it. She tore the point from the compass, leaving only a lead nib to turn, hopelessly alone.

Agnate could not think without Thaddeus. Together, they had planned an assault of a hundred thousand Metathran on a hundred thousand Phyrexians. The Metathran ranks had been halved, and the Phyrexian ranks had doubled. Agnate had positioned paper troops in various arrangements throughout the broad plain. Even with a four-to-one kill ratio, no Metathran would remain to possess the field. It would be suicide to attack now and swifter and surer suicide with every passing hour.

A sound intruded on Agnate's bleak reverie. He had blocked out camp sounds-crackling fires, conversation, strummed lyres- and so the slow-mounting roar startled him alert. Lurching up from his camp stool, Agnate caught his head in the peak of the man-sized tent. With a growl, he ducked and emerged. The flaps slapped angrily together behind him.

Mounting thunder filled the dusty sky. It was unmistakable- the approach of airships. The Phyrexians were bringing sky machines to destroy them.

Agnate shook his head grimly. I couldn't make a damned decision myself, and now they have decided for me.

All around, Agnate's troops stood stunned, staring upward. His indecision had infected even them.

"To arms! To arms!" Agnate bellowed. "Train the guns! Wake! It's time to die."

Soldiers snatched up their swords and pikes. They cranked crossbows. They scrambled to rip covers from cannons and wheel them about. Blocks of powder slid down the barrels of bombards. Powerstone charges mounted within ray cannons. Shouts filled the air. It was a sound that heartened Agnate after days of silent fear and indecision.

"You might not want to fire on these," came a voice abruptly at his side. "These are your reinforcements."

Agnate whirled, sword raking out, and found himself staring at the grim visage of Urza Planeswalker. The man's face was battle weary. His ash-blond hair was disheveled and singed-though only a moment's attention would make it perfect. Urza had not had a moment to spare.

"Master," Agnate said breathlessly, dropping to one knee.

"Call off your gunners!" Urza replied with quiet urgency.

"Gunners, stand down!" Agnate commanded without standing. His call went down the lines. To Urza, he said, "Reinforcements?"

"Coalition forces. Airships, a Benalish army, an elf strike force, and a replacement for Thaddeus," Urza said simply.

"There will never be a replacement for Thaddeus."

"We will see."

Suddenly, the sky was split by a hurtling ship. The vessel clove the air into canyons of white exhaust. The ship was sleek and large, unmistakable to any Metathran's eye. This was Weatherlight-Urza's angel. Her lines were etched into the dream minds of all Urza's children. Her lines meant salvation.

It was a ragged salvation. One airfoil had burned away, and the other was folded like a praying hand. Burns scored her hull. Frightened faces crowded her rail. In the ship's rocketing wake came an even less impressive swarm of vessels. All were small. Some gave out puffs of smoke. Others whined gnatlike.

Weatherlight cut her starboard thrust and spread her remaining airfoil. She slowed and banked, beginning a long circle around the Metathran camp. If she could land without crashing, it would be a miracle. Metathran were raised to believe in miracles from Weatherlight,

Rising to his feet, Agnate watched the wounded war bird and her fledglings circle. "Who is this replacement for Thaddeus?"

"His name is Eladamri. He is a Skyshroud elf from Rath. He is the Seed of Freyalise."

"What is a Freyalise?"

"He is my choice to replace Thaddeus."

"He is not my choice, nor the choice of Thaddeus's troops," Agnate replied quietly. "He is no good until we have chosen him."

"I know."

"And if he fails the test?"

"Then Koilos is lost."

Weatherlight's landing would have been better described as a controlled crash. It was controlled in the sense that Sisay was at the helm, and she was among the best fliers in the multiverse. Also, its engines took orders from a silver golem-undoubtedly the best engineer anywhere. The rest of the crew did all they could- which meant tying themselves to something that would not move and informing their gods they might soon need afterlife accommodations. Aside from these efforts, the landing was simply a crash.

Weatherlight's landing spines sliced into a sand dune. They flung up grit as if it were water. The hull smashed to ground. It groaned under its own weight and bounced briefly aloft again. Sand streamed from a mangled spine. The ship smacked the top of the next dune and knocked the peak off. The keel sawed through packed dust before hanging up on a layer of gravel. Weatherlight pitched forward. She slid down the far side of the dune. Sand shoved her sideways. Flinging a blanket of the stuff, Weatherlight came to rest on the side of a natural bowl in the desert.

Panting in his gunner's rig, Gerrard spat grit from his teeth and said, "That wasn't so bad."

Suddenly, the bare dunes all around teemed with Metathran soldiers. Pikes, swords, and axes gleamed in their hands as they topped the hills. They kept coming- hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. Their blue faces were grim, and their boots sent ominous dust clouds up to shadow the great airship.

"All right," Gerrard allowed as he pulled himself out of the tangled traces. "Maybe the bad part is still to come."

In all the surrounding ring of soldiers, there was a single clear avenue. The commander of the Metathran marched there, accompanied by his personal retinue. Garbed in silver battle armor and bearing a naked sword, the commander had a solemnity that bordered on belligerence.

Donning his most winning smile-though just now it was full of sand-Gerrard came to the rail and called out to the commander, "Hail, Friends of Dominaria. I am Gerrard Capashen. I have come to ally my forces with yours."

"I know who you are," shouted the commander curtly. "And I know why you have come. Where is Eladamri?"

"Eladamri?" echoed Gerrard blankly.

"Yes. Eladamri. The Seed of Freyalise. He is to take command of half my army."

Gerrard shook his head in astonishment but managed not to echo the words. "How do you know all this?"

"A god told me."

"I get a lot of that," interrupted the Skyshroud elf from amidships. "I am Eladamri."

"Come," beckoned the Metathran commander. "You must prove yourself to me and to my troops."

"I get a lot of that too," replied Eladamri. "What must I do?”

The commander replied with even steel. "Draw my blood before I draw yours."

It was a duel, like so many others. This had been an age of duels-Urza and Mishra, Xantcha and Gix, Gerrard and Volrath, and now Eladamri and Agnate. It seemed the whole world had come into being between pairs of adversaries squaring off on either side of some table, bringing every weapon, every spell, every ally they had gathered over the years and fighting a duel to the death. Agnate and Eladamri did not fight to the death, of course-but to first blood. There was little difference when both men were weapon masters and both fought with broadswords.

As the gladiators fought, Gerrard watched from a crowded port rail. Beside him stood Liin Sivi, Eladamri's closest companion. Her nostrils flared with every sword blow. In white-knuckled hands, she gripped the hilt of her toten-vec. It was clear she wished she could be down in that battle. She wasn't the only one. Steel Leaf elves watched avidly, shoulder to shoulder with Benalish warriors and Weatherlight's own crew.

Beyond the ship, Metathran filled the sand dunes. It was a natural arena, and Metathran were a naturally bloodthirsty crowd.

Eladamri rushed in. He was the quicker of the two. He knew the cuts and feints taught by wild men and scrappers. His blade lanced toward Agnate's gut. It would be a killing blow if it landed. It was well placed. If Agnate dodged or knocked the sword up, down, or to either side, the tip would catch his flesh and score first blood.

A cheer rose from the deck of Weatherlight.

Agnate did not try to knock the blade away or attempt to dodge. He merely caught the sword in a gauntleted hand. He was the stronger. His classical training made him keen eyed and efficient. With a powerful yank, he hauled the blade forward, just above his own sword. Eladamri must either let go or overbalance and sprawl onto his foe's sword.

The Metathran shouted their praise from the sand-dune coliseum.

Except that Eladamri vaulted over his trapped blade. He used Agnate's own strength to carry him in an easy arc above both swords. Eladamri flipped, landing on his feet behind the Metathran warrior and yanking his sword free.

On ship and sand dune both, the watchers cheered.

Eladamri swung his sword in a gutting stroke.

The Metathran commander was no longer there. One step carried him beyond the elf's blade. A second step brought him back during the follow-through, when Eladamri would be defenseless. Agnate's sword stabbed for his side.

Eladamri slid sideways. The stroke nicked armor but missed flesh. Eladamri kicked the weapon away. His foot trailing a swath of sand that temporarily blinded the towering warrior. Agnate staggered back. This would be Eladamri's winning stroke.

Cheers from Weatherlight's deck mixed with growls from the Metathran troops.

Both fell suddenly silent.

Eladamri stepped back, waiting for his opponent to clear his eyes.

In the hush, Agnate's words were heard by all. "You would be a fool to let a Phyrexian clear his eyes."

Eladamri's responded wryly. "You, friend, are no Phyrexian."

The roar of the crowd united ship and sand dunes.

Gerrard was glad. Eladamri was doing it again. He was bringing disparate people together.

A voice broke through the ovation, the voice of a very old, very tired man. "She is asking for you, Gerrard."

Applauding Agnate's escape from a back stab, Gerrard said distractedly, "Who is?"

"Hanna."

Wheeling, Gerrard stared incredulously at the blind seer. "Sh-she's awake?"

The old man nodded, his face shadowed in the wide brim of his hat. "But not for long."

Gerrard shoved his way across the deck. He reached the amidships hatch and descended. It took only moments to clamber down the stairs to the sick bay. It seemed hours.

Gerrard fairly vaulted across the room, falling to his knees at Hanna's side.

"You're awake! Hanna! You're awake!"

She smiled a wan smile through rictus lips. "The old man. He did something."

"He's healing you!" Gerrard gasped, though even he knew this hope was false.

"No. He is letting us say good-bye."

"Don't say that!"

Despite the plague's ravages, she was somehow beautiful in that moment. "I have to, and so do you."

Gerrard grasped her shoulders, felt only cold bones in his hands, and let go. "How can I live without you?"

"You lived without me for twenty-six years," Hanna said sadly.

Gerrard's smile was rueful. "We all remember how worthless I was then."

A loud cheer shook the sands beyond the ship.

"What's happening?"

"A duel," Gerrard said. "It's nothing. Someone lost his partner-"

"It's a new world being born, Gerrard," Hanna replied wistfully. "It's a new world, and the partners of the old must say good-bye."

"No." His eyes glimmered intently. "No. I won't say it."

"Then I will die without hearing it-"

"You won't die. You can't-"

"I can, and I will," Hanna said. Her lids slid slowly down her blue eyes. "The old sage's magic cannot last much longer. Goodbye, Gerrard."

"I'll say I love you. I'll say you're everything to me. But I won't say-"

She trembled once last. Her final breath left in a long, sweet sigh.

An ovation roared through the heavens, shaking the ship's vast beams.

"No, Hanna," Gerrard groaned. He leaned over, sliding his arms beneath her. A tear fell on the white sheets. He lifted her. There was nothing in his arms, nothing at all. She was gone. "No, Hanna. No. I won't say it. I can't say it."

A voice came at the door-loud and excited, with a clear Benalish accent. "He's done it! Eladamri has bested the Metathran!"

Clutching that lifeless shell to his breast, Gerrard whispered simply, "Good-bye, Hanna. Good-bye."