INVASION mtg-1

by J. Robert King

  "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."

  Chapter 30

  The Nine Titans

  Urza stood on a sand dune overlooking the duel grounds. His cloak billowed with the breezes of night. One hand clutched his war staff. The other fidgeted at the edge of his cloak. It was a momentous hour.

  Below, warriors thronged the sandy arena and the deck of the mired ship. They shouted their excitement to the heavens. In their midst stood Eladamri, victorious above a fallen Agnate. The elf's broadsword dripped Metathran blood. He had cut a shallow slice along the warrior's biceps-the sort a human could heal in a week and a Metathran in a day. It meant nothing and yet everything. Eladamri would command half the Metathran army, leading warriors who believed in him. Perhaps more importantly, he would complete Agnate. Eladamri could never replace Thaddeus, of course, but he could bring fight back to these beaten soldiers. That would be enough.

  Victory in the arena and defeat in the ship. Even from where he stood, Urza could sense Hanna's death. Planeswalkers could heal most diseases with a thought but not Phyrexian plague. A futile regret fled through Urza, a wish that he had studied disease processes instead of artifice. It was foolishness. His machines would save millions of lives-they could not be reasonably exchanged for this one life. Even so, this was a loss. Hanna had anchored Gerrard. Without her, he would be a different man, a lesser man. Urza hoped only that Gerrard would still be sufficient to his role.

  "I shall have to tell Barrin of his daughter's death," Urza reasoned, "once he has won
the battle of Urborg."

  Victory in the arena and defeat in the ship. It was a momentous hour. Urza's own labors in the coming minutes were critical. Taking one last breath of the dust of Koilos- a smell that took him back to the days with his brother- Urza planeswalked away from the dune.

  He did not step into the chaos between worlds. That was a place for mortals. Urza did not have to travel that way, though sometimes he visited the Blind Eternities when he needed time to think.

  Not now.

  Urza appeared in the gloaming of a forested hillside. He stood in the minotaur homelands. An-Havva lay below, but he had no interest in minotaur cities. A single cabin stood on the hill. It was picturesque-what seemed a mere hunting cabin. A fieldstone pathway led among wildflowers. Chink logs held aloft a pile of thatch. A queer little chimney contentedly puffed smoke into the air. Quaint and tiny, it was meant to seem so. Its owner had built a cabin that was larger inside than out.

  Urza walked up the fieldstone path. Through the soles of his boots he felt the cool stones. They were reporting his approach to the man within. Some intruders dropped dead on the path. Those who stole through the wildflowers fell into a sleep that proved eternal. Urza was not susceptible to such protections. Neither did he wish to circumvent propriety and incur the resentment of another planeswalker.

  The door was round topped and rugged. Urza knocked on it with the shimmering head of his war staff.

  "Good evening, Taysir. The time has come."

  Without a sound, the door swung suddenly inward. A short, thin man stood there, his bushy brows peaked dubiously. Though bald on top, the man had a regular mane of white hair, and his beard was cinched at his sternum. He blinked deep, querulous eyes, and his voice whuffed with bookish intensity.

  "Time? Time?"

  "Yes," Urza replied. "The hour has come. Dominaria hangs in the balance."

  "Doesn't it always?" Taysir replied dryly.

  "Who is it, Father?" asked a young woman who appeared at Taysir's side. She seemed a great-greatgranddaughter to him. Her shoulder-length hair was black beside his linty locks, her face smooth and bright next to his pruny visage. She saw Urza and scowled. "Oh, it's you."

  Apologizing with a smile, Urza made a shallow bow to the woman. "Hello, Daria. It is time for your father to come to the defense of the world."

  "If you are taking him, I'm coming with you."

  Urza's face turned dark. "This was never part of the agreement."

  "It is now," Taysir said quietly. He rubbed his throat, loose folds of skin beneath his beard. Louder, he went on. "We've agreed. We go together or not at all."

  "You didn't discuss it with me," Urza quietly protested.

  "You need planeswalkers," Taysir said. "She is of our ilk and powerful even in her youth."

  Urza considered. "I do need someone to replace Teferi."

  Taysir smiled. "Teferi's pulled a Teferi?"

  Huffing irritably, Urza said, "Lock your doors. Snuff your candles. Douse your fires. You're both coming."

  Daria gave a begrudging grin and hugged her father. "I'll get our stuff," she said, ducking back within the door.

  The glow in the cabin windows went dark. The sudden rush of steam up the chimney smelled of cool ash. A moment later, Daria emerged. A pair of packs rode on her shoulders. They seemed small, but as with Taysir in all things, they were larger within than without. Daria shooed her father from the doorway and emerged into the blue gloaming of the hillside.

  Panting slightly, she said, "We're ready, Urza Planeswalker."

  "Are you ready, Daria Planeswalker?" mocked Urza, his eyebrow hitched ironically. "Take us, then, to the realm of Freyalise."

  Canting her head sideways, Daria reached out her hands. "Take hold."

  The two ancient planeswalkers rested their hands in hers. The twilight mountainside melted away like watercolors running from a page. Reality puddled and rose again.

  It spread itself in a new design, what seemed a vast star burst. It was in fact a huge thistle bloom. Green and gold down extended from a gleaming core. Breezes whispered among the feathery seed pods. Occasionally a stalk tricked free to glide away. No sooner had one tuft floated off than another grew outward.

  Beside that enormous bloom, the three planeswalkers floated, as tiny as gnats.

  "The Inner Sanctum," Urza said, blinking at the great thistle. "I am not welcome here."

  "We are," replied Daria with a quirked smile. Cupping a hand to her mouth, the young woman called: "Freyalise, it is time."

  There came no change to the mammoth thistle. No door opened, though a presence emerged from the core of the blossom. Not a single downy tuft shifted. Still, out of a clump of them formed a statuesque woman with delicate, almost fey features. Her blonde hair was shorn short and dyed in the fashion emulated by the Steel Leaf elves. Across her face coiled intricate tattoos in woodland motifs-leaves and flowers whose stems extended down her throat and beneath the white shift she wore. A ring glinted in one nostril, and light mantled her.

  Freyalise smiled. Her lips held much the same caprice as Daria's. It was clear these two had become allies in what Urza would call mischief. Still, Freyalise was ancient. She was protector of Fyndhorn and goddess of the Juniper Order, savior of the Llanowar Elves and Patron Lady of the Order of the Steel Leaf. She also was no particular friend of Urza's.

  "Time, is it?" asked Freyalise, blinking as if awakening from a dream.

  "That's what Daria said," Taysir put in.

  "Yes, it is time," Urza answered. "A critical battle is at hand, a dry run for our final target-"

  Ignoring Urza, Freyalise extended her hands toward her friends and took them in her arms.

  "How are your studies getting on, girl? Your father's a tough master-the minotaurs made him so. No, that's not true. He was tough before the minotaurs. If anything, they rounded his rough edges." Turning to Taysir, she said, "And speaking of rough edges, guess who is visiting me?"

  The old man's eyes rolled. He said with infinite resignation, "Kristina."

  "Yes!" Freyalise said happily. "Oh, don't tell me you still moon over her."

  "No. The Anoba Ancestors took care of that, as well. They said I couldn't have my body back until I 'got shut of the rut.' I did. Get shut. Of the rut."

  Freyalise laughed.

  "Ahem," Urza interrupted, coughing into his hand.

  Freyalise turned. Her eyebrow lifted. "Oh, it's you."

  "That's what I said too!" Daria replied happily.

  "Planning another Ice Age, Urza?" Freyalise jabbed.

  Urza winced. "I might remind you that your spell to end the Ice Age was as devastating as mine-and cast with the same disregard."

  "You two…" Taysir said.

  Urza continued, "I understand you have no love for me. I expect none. But you have love for the world and its creatures, and that's why we've come. We are sworn-even that bastard Szat-to fight for Dominaria. That's why we come together."

  Freyalise strolled easily across the air until she stood before him. "I don't remember your swearing to fight for Dominaria, only against Phyrexia."

  "There is no difference," Urza said.

  Again came the laugh. "If you had any inkling why that was funny, you might understand why we have so little love for you." She shrugged. "Oh, well. It is time." Her eyes closed for a moment. The air around her shimmered with a silent conversation. "Kristina will be right out."

  "Kristina?"

  "You need eight planeswalkers to power these contraptions of yours, right?" Freyalise asked. "Kristina is a planeswalker. Get rid of Szat."

  Urza shook his head. "No, I need Szat. I'll get rid of Parcher. He's a bit of a lunatic."

  "A bit?" said Freyalise and Daria in unison. They traded glances, and Freyalise said, "This is going to be more fun than I thought."

  Another presence shimmered into being. Kristina had deeply tanned skin and long brown hair done up with beads. She had the angular intensity of a mage and the presence of an oracle. T
aking shape beside Taysir, she took his hand in hers. Her voice was mellifluous and low.

  "So good to see you again, Taysir. We'll be seeing much of each other in the next months."

  He bowed in midair. "Nothing would make me more glad."

  Feeling vaguely sick, Urza swept his arm in a broad gesture over the floating assemblage of planeswalkers. The thistledown Inner Sanctum of Freyalise melted away.

  A stiff salt breeze burst over them, flung up from fifteen-foot billows. Beyond the rails, the sea was black beneath the Glimmer Moon. Clouds dragged rags across the sky. A deck of rugged wood solidified beneath the feet of the company. The ship ran lightless through midnight seas. The pirate ship was immediately familiar to them all.

  "Bo Levar?" Freyalise asked dubiously. "The cigar smuggler?"

  Urza blinked, his gemstone eyes glimmering in the dark. "He prefers 'interplanar merchant.' After all, the laws of continental embargo should not extend between worlds."

  "Whatever his title, he's a patriot," Taysir said, licking his lips. "I hope he has a crate of Urborgan maduros."

  "You bet," said Bo Levar, leaping down from the dark stern castle to light among the planeswalkers. He wore the aspect of a young man, with sandy hair and a trim mustache and goatee. "You can have two. The rest are bound for Mercadia. The Ramosians have gotten really fond of them."

  "It's time," Urza said.

  "You're telling me," Bo replied, shaking his head. "It was easy enough to run a Benalish blockade, but these Phyrexian plague ships aren't as friendly." He sighed. "Still, business can't wait. I'll take these to the Outer Sea of

  Mercadia, give instructions to my crew, and meet you all- where?"

  "At Tolaria, in the Phyrexian rift."

  Bo made a gagging face. "You're still working in that stink hole?"

  "It's fast time," Urza replied defensively. "I get ten days inside for each one outside."

  "Yeah, but it stinks," Bo said. "I'll bring a crate of candellas to cut the air."