Francis Lebaron
                    "Mercadian Masques"
      
    (Magic: the Gathering. Masquerade cycle. Book I.)
    
    
                         Book I
    
                        Chapter 1

    Years later, Atalla could remember every moment of the 
night he saw the ship that flew.
    It was early, at least two hours before morningsinging. 
The sky still held the pale yellow of dawn, though darker 
streaks showed where the deeper orange of full daylight was 
beginning to break through. Atalla had risen before sunrise 
because Father had promised he might ride his first jhovall, 
and the ten-year-old boy had been far too excited to sleep. 
All through the dark hours, he lay on his pallet, staring into 
the blackness, listening to the soft breathing of Mother and 
Father asleep in the adjoining bed. In the stillness of the 
country night, he could hear the mournful cries of mating 
qomallen to the south, and when the hour was latest he heard 
the distant booming vibrations of nightsinging from the city.
    As the walls of the cottage slowly lightened, Atalla rose. 
Carefully, to avoid waking his parents, he slipped out the 
door.
    Before him the plains of the west stretched to a horizon 
that was still only a dim line between sky and earth. Atalla 
stood still, drinking in the rich, heady smells of the air; 
the faint odor of human habitation mixed with the scents of 
farm animals and the wild creatures of the plains. Breezes 
tousled his black hair and riffled through his nightshirt. His 
heart thumped in his chest, and he felt deeply, warmly alive.
    He passed along the side of the house to the Jhovall 
stable. The six-legged tiger-creatures patiently purred in 
their stalls. Father had said Atalla might ride the smallest 
one, Skotcha. The boy stood by her head, gently stroking her 
wet nose for several minutes. Even a small Jhovall could tear 
across the plain like a dust devil, could kill a red wolf, 
could carry a farm boy on plenty of adventures. Atalla fondly 
patted her shaggy gray flank and left the stables.
    The air felt dry, even for this early in the day. It would 
be at least two more turnings of the moon before the rains 
came, filling the riverbed and pond with water. Now, as the 
boy watched, distant eddies and clouds of brown dust moved 
across the endless plain under the brightening sky. The air to 
the south seemed to shimmer. Predawn light bent and played 
about the boy, caressing him.
    Atalla felt a sudden pressure in the air. Something 
invisible violently struck his chest. The world before him 
exploded in a silent sound.
    Atalla staggered backward, tripped, and fell. He rolled to 
his feet in time to see the air divide and slip away from the 
sides of a ship, which burst across the screaming sky. A 
flying ship? Atalla had seen oceangoing galleys last year in 
Rishada, but a flying ship? It hurtled through the air as if 
shot from one of the great cannons that guarded the city. A 
flying warship-more than that, a comet, a sign from the 
heavens....
    What was that old myth Father spoke of? The Uniter?
    A sudden gale threw Atalla down. Rocks dug into his knees. 
The grass thrashed like flames. The barn's thatch was ripped 
free. Jhovalls shrieked in their stalls. Every window in the 
house shattered. The ship screamed so low overhead that lines 
trailing from its side slapped the roof. For one frozen 
moment, a bull's head stared at him over the rail. With a 
great whoosh, the ship disappeared behind the house.
    There was a heart-stopping crash. Wood rent and 
splintered. Screams came with the sound. Earth flew outward in 
a pelting hail. The ground shook. There was a loud crack, a 
thud of some heavy body, and then silence.
    The ship had crashed in the plowed field to the north of 
Atalla's home.
    He sprinted around the cottage, meeting his mother and 
father. A confused babble of voices rose ahead. Charging out 
to the brow of the low rise, they gazed down. Atalla's jaw 
dropped as the scene opened before him.
    Two deep furrows had been dug right through the heart of 
the simsass plants. Broken stalks drooped forlornly, sap 
oozing from their sides. At the end of the furrows was the 
strange ship. One sail-were they sails? Atalla wondered- had 
caught against the tartoo tree, the only tree for miles 
around, and had snapped clean off. So had the top of the tree. 
The ship lay below, near the dry riverbed.
    In unison, Mother and Father muttered, "I'll be damned."

                          * * * * *

    Gerrard Capashen wiped a trickle of blood from his close-
cropped beard. The once-healed cut on his left cheek had 
opened again, but if that was his worst injury, he was lucky. 
Ribs ached beneath his red waistcoat. He would have fallen if 
not for the helm, but it had paid him back with a blow that 
drove the air from his lungs. Clutching the wheel in strong 
hands, he managed a shuddering sigh.
    "I shouldn't have taken the wheel from Hanna." Gerrard 
released the helm and staggered across the bridge of 
Weatherlight. "Hanna!" he gasped out, approaching the 
navigator. She slumped across the cartographer's desk. Gerrard 
tenderly embraced her. "Are you all right?"
    Hanna lifted her head, breathing in short, panting gasps. 
She raked blonde hair back from her face and said 
breathlessly, "Yes ... but what of the ship?"
    "Ship be damned. What of the crew?" Gerrard said gravely.
    The only other crew member on the bridge had been the 
cabin boy. The goblin had been hurled against the wall and was 
now a mere bundle of whimpering limbs.
    "Are you hurt, Squee?" Gerrard asked, moving toward him.
    The green-skinned creature struggled to his feet. There 
was no sign of serious injury. "Squee's head got cutted off!"
    Gerrard smiled. "Not cut off, but I'm not sure it's on 
straight." As Squee cracked his neck and every other joint, 
Gerrard strode to the bridge window.
    Beyond, the minotaur first mate helped injured crew 
members. Strong and surehoofed, Tahngarth himself had escaped 
the crash relatively unscathed.
    Hanna was already heading out onto the upper deck. She 
gave a faint yelp of dismay and ran aft along the slanting 
planks to view the damage done to the ship's sails.
    Gerrard joined the minotaur. "How bad is he?" he asked, 
gesturing at a young sailor who gingerly cradled his arm.
    Tahngarth's eyes blazed yellow beneath twisted horns. 
There was blood in the minotaur's flaring nostrils. "This 
one's not bad. Some broken bones, cuts, bruises. Orim's 
sickbay will be overflowing." He motioned to two crewmen, who 
helped the injured sailor to his feet and conducted him toward 
a hatch.
    Gerrard nodded gravely. "At least we got out of Rath-" 
"Most of us," Tahngarth said. Gerrard had only recently gained 
the minotaur's trust, and now there was unspoken accusation in 
his eyes. "There are at least two dead-thrown from the prow. 
They can't be alive, twisted like that. And, of course, 
there's Mirri, and Crovax, and Ertai-"
    "Ertai?" Gerrard asked, scanning the deck with anxious 
eyes.
    "Not here. He must not have made it." Gerrard slapped a 
hand against the railing. "You're saying he's still in Rath? 
Damn it, how could he not have made it onto the ship? All he 
had to do was jump as Weatherlight passed under him."
    "He did manage to close the portal behind us." The 
minotaur pointed behind Gerrard to the empty sky. "The opening 
is gone."
    Taking in the news, Gerrard said solemnly, "Even if it 
weren't, we'd have to fix the spar before we could fly back to 
get him."
    "It's worse than that," came a new voice, rumbling behind 
them. The two turned to see a massive man of silver haul 
himself up from the engine room hatch. Smoke wreathed the 
metal golem and coiled into the early morning sky. Karn was a 
living part of Weatherlight's engine, and no one but Hanna 
knew the ship better than he. "Systems throughout the ship are 
burned out. Hull integrity in the bow is compromised. The left 
landing spine is jammed. A split has opened in the subreactor 
manifold. And, of course, the Thran Crystal is still damaged. 
Everything else will have to be fixed before we can fly, and 
the Thran Crystal before we can planeshift-"
    Gerrard licked his lips and tasted the coppery sweetness 
of blood. Impatiently, he wiped his sleeve across his face. 
"Well, wherever we are, we're stuck for a while."
    "Hoy! You up there!" a man shouted below.
    The minotaur glanced thoughtfully over the rail. "Someone 
wants to talk to us."
    "Hoy! Who are you, and what in the name of the Nine 
Spheres are you doing crashing into my farm?"
    Gerrard took a deep breath and shrugged to the minotaur. 
"Now for a bit of diplomacy." He secured a coil of rope to a 
bulkhead and dropped one end over the side of the ship. With 
practiced ease, he slid down the line and stood facing the 
fanner. Gerrard extended a hand in greeting. "My name's 
Gerrard Capashen. This is my ship, Weatherlight."
    The farmer, whose smock and bare feet indicated that the 
crash had awakened him, looked at Gerrard stolidly. His arms 
dangled at his sides. Beyond him, huddled in the doorway of 
the house, Gerrard could see a woman and the head and 
shoulders of a small boy.
    "Weatherlight?" the farmer repeated at last.
    Gerrard slowly lowered his proffered hand. "Yes."
    "What... what is it? What are you doing here?"
    Gerrard smiled humorlessly. "We crashed. That was what all 
that noise was."
    "How in hell does a ship fly? I once heard of a Rishadan 
dirigible but this ain't got an air sack ..." the farmer 
continued, staring incredulously at Weatherlight. He looked at 
Gerrard, fear flaring behind his coal-black eyes. "Where in 
all the worlds did you come from?" he whispered. Although the 
air around them was cool, the farmer was perspiring nervously. 
"Are ... you gods?"
    Gerrard's voice rose. "We're not any sort of gods. But you 
wouldn't understand where we came from if I told you.
    Suffice it to say, we want to get our ship out of your 
field as much as you do. That means repairs-"
    There was a loud thump as another figure, sliding down the 
line, landed on the ground beside him. Sisay's ebony skin 
gleamed in the bright light of early morning. She turned a 
winsome smile on the farmer. "I'm Sisay, captain of his ship-
and from now on the one at her helm." Gerrard nodded a little 
sheepishly at that. "We apologize for any damage we've done. 
May I know your name, good sir?"
    The farmer looked at her a moment more, then cleared his 
throat. "I am Tavoot."
    Sisay repeated the name several times, as if digesting a 
fact of great importance. "Tavoot. Tavoot. And do I see behind 
you your wife and son?"
    Tavoot gave a grunt. "Sesharral-my wife-and my son 
Atalla." His eyes remained on Sisay's face.
    For her part, Sisay continued to beam cheerfully at the 
woman and boy. "I hope we didn't frighten you too much. I'm 
sure-"
    Tavoot interrupted. "Who sent you? Are you Mercadians? You 
don't look Mercadian."
    "No one sent us. We were fleeing from a being called 
Volrath," Sisay replied. "His ship was chasing ours, and we 
went through a portal to elude him." She looked around, taking 
in the cottage, the orderly garden, and the neat rows of crops 
surrounded by dust-covered flats, which stretched in every 
direction. "We need to repair our ship. Can you advise us as 
to where we might get some mechanical assistance?"
    Tavoot turned to look east. Against the lemon-colored sky, 
beyond the graceful lines of the cottage, loomed a great, gray 
shape. Its contours were softened by the dust that blew like a 
fine sand through the morning air. It was a dark triangle, its 
tip embedded in the ground and its long, flat edge hovering 
above the horizon. "Maybe you ain't from Mercadia, but that's 
where you'll end up. Everybody in trouble ends up in 
Mercadia."
    Staring at the strange sight, Sisay said, "The Mercadians 
could help us?"
    "They could." A rueful smile crossed Tavoot's face. "But 
Mercadians only ever help themselves."

                          * * * * *

    Atalla was a bright lad-bright and a little enterprising. 
He and Gerrard stood in an empty pen in the Jhovall stables. 
The space had been shoveled and swept, and new grasses lay in 
a bed across the floor.
    "I imagine Father would rent this space to you as cheaply 
as he would rent our Jhovalls," the boy said, eyes ingenuous 
beneath his tousled black hair. "Even with the hole in the 
roof."
    Gerrard set hands on his hips and stared up at the rafters 
where a large section of thatch had been torn loose. The 
lemon-colored sky showed beyond-dust kept this world's sky 
from ever looking blue. Sunlight streamed down through the 
hole in the roof to splash against one wall of the stables. 
"It won't keep out the rain."
    "Oh, there won't be rain for another few moonturnings. It 
will keep out most of the sun. Besides, you were the ones who 
ripped that hole in the roof."
    "Just so," Gerrard admitted. "And we do need the space to 
get the more severely wounded out of the sun. But as I told 
you-we have no Mercadian currency and little in the way of 
precious metals or gems to pay."
    "The issue of payment needn't come up," Atalla assured 
him. "There is always a trade to be made."
    Blinking, Gerrard said, "What do we have that you could 
possibly want?"
    "Take me with you to Mercadia."
    "Out of the question."
    "I've always wanted to see the city."
    "Your father wouldn't allow it."
    "He needn't know. I'll leave him a note. It would only be 
a few days."
    Gerrard turned and set a hand on the shoulder of the boy. 
Atalla was in fact on the verge of being a young man, he 
thought. He was a bright lad and knew the languages and 
customs of the people. A local guide and interpreter could be 
helpful, but there was one flaw in him. Atalla craved 
adventure, and young men craving adventure tend to find it. He 
was, all in all, a little too much like a young Gerrard. "I'm 
sorry, Atalla. I wouldn't want to risk it. Where I go, trouble 
follows. We'll find something from the ship- an old sextant or 
something-that you'd like in exchange for the stall-"
    Atalla's young eyes grew very hard in the dim space. 
"Don't bother," he said, stomping out the stable door.
    Just as he left, another figure entered-two figures, in 
fact: Takara and her blinded father, Starke. The woman's red 
hair was flame bright in the sun, and her muscular figure was 
bent to aid the shuffling man beside her. Starke was not an 
old man, but he seemed one now. Blinded in Rath, he wore a 
white bandage about his eyes. He had not shaved since the 
incident and had eaten little. Starke was withering daily-the 
wages of guilt-and now, atop his craggy head, there was a 
bright sheen of sunburn.
    "It's in here, Father," Takara said gently. "Gerrard has 
found a place out of the sun, in here."
    "Gerrard!" Starke growled. "He wants me dead. They all 
want me dead, after what I did to Sisay."
    "You cannot blame them. Treachery on any ship is a capital 
crime," Takara replied quietly.
    "I did it only to save you, my dear," Starke pleaded, 
miserable.
    "Yes, Father, I know," Takara replied. "But the rest of 
the crew does not know me. They would never have sold out 
Sisay to rescue a complete stranger."
    Starke let out an exhausted hiss. "Then get them to know 
you, Takara. They hate me, and if they start to hate you, 
they'll kill us both."
    As he shuffled along, a Jhovall stretched in a catnap 
within one stall. It rolled massively to one side, released a 
rumbling purr, and licked its dagger teeth.
    "What is that sound!" Starke gasped. "What sort of animals 
are in this stable?"
    "You'll be perfectly safe," Takara said.
    "I'm surrounded by monsters, vicious monsters. You say 
I'll be safe, but every last one is after me. If you don't 
protect me, Takara, you're as much a monster as the rest."
    Gerrard at last stepped from the empty stall, motioning 
Takara toward it. "You are safe, Starke. No one is out to harm 
you. The wrongs you committed toward Sisay have been undone, 
and I think even she would agree that your blinding is 
punishment enough for everything."
    Starke visibly trembled. He seemed more terrified of 
Gerrard than he had been of the Jhovall. Sullenly, he said, 
"Yes, Commander."
    "I know you don't trust me," Gerrard replied easily, 
laying out a saddle blanket on the grassy floor, "but trust 
your own daughter." He glanced at the lithe and muscular 
woman. "Takara was imprisoned in hell, but she emerged 
stronger than she had been before. She was annealed by Rath, 
not destroyed by it."
    As she helped her father sit on the saddle blanket, Takara 
locked eyes with Gerrard. She mouthed a silent thanks.
    Gerrard nodded. He felt a sudden strong connection to this 
woman. It was not the heady wine of desire-though Takara had a 
fiery beauty, to be sure. Instead, this was the wordless 
understanding that comes between folk who have faced down the 
same foes. It was the strange, sudden camaraderie of 
strangers.
    "Sleep now, Father. You are exhausted. Others will rest 
here too-those with the worst injuries. You won't be alone. 
You needn't fear monsters."
    Petulant to the last, Starke rolled away from her. Tears 
emerged from beneath his bandage and bore in them red flecks 
of dried blood.
    Takara patted his shoulder once more and then stood to 
leave.
    Gerrard joined her. As they walked away, past stalls of 
six-legged tigers, he whispered quietly, "You are showing a 
great deal of grace under pressure."
    She continued a few more paces before responding. "My 
father-the father I loved and grew up with-is a different man 
than this husk. My father is dead. That doesn't mean I 
shouldn't honor him by caring for this ... poor creature."
    Shaking his head in wonder, Gerrard felt again the sense 
of connection. "You have lost so much, and still you fight 
on."
    "What else is there for heroes to do?"

                          * * * * *

    It had taken all day to empty the wounded vessel. Five 
crew members had been killed in the crash. Four others were 
wounded badly enough to need bed rest in the stables. Two had 
such severe head and neck injuries that Orim had refused to 
let them be moved from the ship. She tended them throughout 
the long day in Weatherlight's own sickbay.
    The rest of the crew had to make themselves at home in the 
open air. They had off-loaded the stores of food and drink 
that would see them through and had rigged makeshift shelters 
with torn sections of sailcloth. All the while, Gerrard moved 
among them, planning the next day's expedition to Mercadia.
    When the sun set on the dust flats, the air quickly grew 
uncomfortably cold. The crew huddled around a bonfire built 
from shattered hunks of Weatherlight's hull and simsass stalks 
rained in the crash. The fire lit five graves dug that 
afternoon on the hillside. Already, the bodies lay within, and 
three sailors, sweaty and stripped to the waist despite the 
cold night, waited with shovels to fill in the spots.
    Atalla watched it all from a shattered window.
    The crew of the vessel stood to attention as Gerrard, 
Hanna, and Sisay passed in front of them, followed by Karn and 
Tahngarth. The bridge crew of Weatherlight stood to one side 
of Hanna as she spoke solemnly.
    "We lost dear friends this morning-Danis, Groud, Steepen 
Willm, Erkika, and Bevela. We lost dear friends on Rath-Ertai, 
Crovax, and Mirri. We have spoken their names to each other in 
grief, and all have mourned according to our own traditions. I 
want now to speak the name of my grief, the name of my dear 
friend and companion Mirri." Her eyes glistened in the 
firelight.
    Sisay put out a hand to gently touch hers.
    "Mirri gave her life that we might live," Hanna continued. 
"She did this without thought. That was the way she lived her 
beliefs. It was during this last journey that I came to know 
her best. We became friends when she and I traveled through 
the Skyshroud Forest on Rath. It was a friendship born of 
mutual respect. She passed through the dangers of the 
Stronghold," she continued, "was wounded defending Crovax, and 
slain defending the rest of us...."
    Karn spoke into the choked silence. "I join in mourning 
Mirri, for I remember her life and the brave deeds she did, 
but now she is gone."
    Sisay said, "Mirri is dead, but we, her friends, her 
comrades, will always remember her. In our memories, she will 
live."
    Tahngarth said simply, "I salute you, Mirri, a warrior 
worthy of Talruaa."
    Last, all eyes turned to Gerrard. He had been standing in 
the shadows behind Hanna, shaking his head quietly. As the 
silence stretched, he looked up, caught unaware, and blurted 
the first thing that came to his mind. "So many lost. We have 
lost so many friends...." Uncertain what else to say, Gerrard 
peered numbly out at the crew. Orange light illuminated 
Takara's hair, and her face shone white in the firelight. The 
fine bones beneath her skin were lit as though from within. 
Her green eyes returned his gaze. He said at last, "We have 
lost so much, but we must keep fighting. What else is there 
for heroes to do?"
    The ranks of the sailors bent and rose, tossing handfuls 
of dust into the air where it briefly formed a black cloud 
before falling back to earth. They also scooped dirt into each 
of the five graves. Their voices murmured together an orison 
for their fallen comrades.
    A sudden, loud rumble broke the quiet. A fine spray hissed 
above the fire.
    "That sound came from the ship," Gerrard said.
    Cries rose in the distance.
    Sisay seized a burning branch from the fire and rushed 
into the night. Gerrard and Hanna followed, Tahngarth and Karn 
bringing up the rear.
    From the direction of the dry riverbed, perhaps fifty 
yards to the north of the farm, they saw a strange, ghostly 
light. Clouds of fine mist sparkled, turning blue and green. 
Figures moved in that mist. They were the size of men but had 
wings of skin like dragons. The advancing cloud cast a dark 
and sinuous shadow on the ground beneath it. Within that 
shadow more figures darted.
    But it wasn't a shadow. The river was running-
    That was impossible. Hours ago the bed had been dry and 
cracked. The blazing sun had evaporated every drop of moisture 
from the soil, leaving it baked and gritty. Yet now, a torrent 
of water flooded down the center of it, splashing over the 
banks and washing in puddles out over the field- the field 
where Weatherlight lay.
    "All hands to the ship!" Gerrard shouted even as they ran.
    "What is it?" Hanna gasped as she clambered over a brake 
of simsass and climbed down toward the field.
    "Water," Gerrard answered.
    "I've never seen water like this," Hanna replied.
    The flood swirled and lapped as if it were alive, driven 
by conscious purpose. It was limned with light, each wavelet 
shining with a glow that seemed to amplify the light of the 
twin moons overhead in the starry sky. Through the flood, 
figures moved like darting merfolk. Atop it came dark shapes-
craft of some sort propelled rapidly over the waves. In the 
mists above, winged, semi-human figures soared and dove.
    Gerrard and Hanna reached the field, near the 
Weatherlight. Something long and heavy thudded into the ground 
next to Hanna's feet. With a kind of slow-motion detachment, 
she saw that it was a spear, a slender stone head bound 
tightly to a wooden shaft. She looked up. The riverbank, 
deserted a moment before, was filling with dark figures.
    They rose from the deep, descended from the mists, and 
shot across the crests of the waves in canoes. The force of 
the waters propelled them forward, and they steered with slim 
paddles, wielded by oarsmen in the rear of the craft. Those in 
the front of the boats were clearly warriors, who wore 
headdresses made of woven grass, colored by dyes in brilliant 
reds and oranges. They were bare-chested, clad in loincloths, 
and armed with spears, bows, and arrows. Some stood in the 
prows of their canoes, and others leaped to the shore, hurling 
missiles. There seemed to be hundreds of the dark figures.
    With bare fists, Gerrard attacked one of the warriors. 
With a quick punch to the temple, he sent the man to the 
ground. The warrior rolled, groaning. Gerrard smashed him in 
the jaw, knocking him out. He yanked up the warrior's spear 
and tossed it back toward Hanna. "You think you can make use 
of this?"
    "Sure," she said, grasping the haft of the weapon. "I've 
wielded slightly more sophisticated artifacts in my time."
    "Good," Gerrard said, grinning. "I'll go get me one."
    As he dashed off, Hanna advanced on another warrior. His 
back was to her. Oddly, he was kneeling next to the ship's 
hull, placing his palms flat against the ground. In the 
distance, Hanna glimpsed several of the other attackers making 
the same mysterious gesture.
    "That's my ship!" she growled, and rushed at the man.
    The ground rocked. Hanna was thrown from her feet. Dirt 
and pebbles stung her face. The soil sank. Cold wetness rushed 
in around her. Water rose, lapping at Weatherlight's hull. 
Hanna splashed, struggling to keep her face above water.
    Figures teemed through the sudden flood. In moments they 
grasped and bore away the man Gerrard had knocked unconscious. 
The pool widened and deepened.
    Hanna cried out as a hand grasped her leg and pulled her 
under. Lashing out with the spear, she bashed her attacker and 
swam to the surface, spluttering and coughing. The edge of the 
widening pool was twenty feet away. She struck out, swimming 
vigorously, kicking off her sandals and fighting the weight of 
her sodden clothing. Nearby, she could see the bobbing heads 
of several fellow crewmen.
    Hanna swam harder, but the shore receded continuously. For 
some moments, all was shouting blackness and cold struggle. 
Then she threw both arms over the edge of the pool and pulled 
herself onto the bank. Staggering up the slope, she turned to 
look behind her.
    Weatherlight was floating on the small pond that had 
somehow been created by the attackers. Its damage made it list 
heavily to one side. The repair crews had done a partial job 
of patching the rent in the ship's side, but Hanna suspected 
the vessel was taking on water. She wondered how long it would 
be before the water reached the engine room.
    All around Weatherlight surged canoes and swimmers and 
gliders. They cast lines about the hapless craft and began 
hauling it toward the river. The waters boiled with the 
struggles of crewmen caught in the sudden collapse of solid 
ground. Hanna reached out to help her companions to shore.
    She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Sisay's 
dark face, almost invisible against the backdrop of night.
    "Who are they? What are they after?" shouted the young 
woman. Her voice was trembling.
    Frantically, Hanna scanned the scene for some sign of 
Gerrard. At last she saw him. He was wrestling with one of the 
attackers, whom he had evidently captured and pinned to the 
ground. Just as she spotted him, he reared back and, with a 
great blow, laid his opponent senseless.
    "They're taking the ship!" she shouted to him.
    Looking up, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, Gerrard 
rose and rushed toward her.
    Already, Weatherlight was in the clutch of the river, 
which had reversed its course. It flowed away from the 
cottage, almost due west into the blackness of the plains. The 
ship was drawn along with the current.
    "Run," Gerrard said. "It's speeding up!"
    "We'll never catch it now," Hanna said as she fell into 
step beside him.
    "We might! Look!"
    The massive ship seemed to hang up on something, as if 
caught on a sandbar. Streaming water piled up behind it, but 
Weatherlight stalled for a moment in the flood. Something 
glimmered in the moonlit waters at the prow-a shiny boulder? 
No. It had eyes. Its mouth opened, and an almighty roar of 
exertion bellowed across the waves.
    "Bless you, Karn," Hanna said, darting across the dark 
grasses toward the spot.
    It was too much for the silver golem. The weight of the 
ship drove him down into the muck. His fingers scraped 
uselessly along the keel. Weatherlight won free and shivered 
away atop the receding flood.
    "No!" Gerrard shouted. He ran futilely onward. "No!"
    Panting, Hanna stomped to a halt. She gazed hopelessly 
toward the disappearing vessel. Her heart stood still as she 
spotted a small, turbaned figure clutching the rail and 
shouting.
    It was Orim. She had remained on the ship with her two 
charges.
    Gerrard had seen her as well. With a shout that rose to 
the skies, he pursued the ship. It moved all the faster now, 
swiftly vanishing from him. The river dried up as swiftly as 
it had swelled. Pools and rivulets of water splashed beneath 
his feet, and his face was stained with mud. All was in vain.
    Weatherlight was gone.
    
                        Chapter 2

    In her trips aboard Weatherlight, Orim had experienced 
many un-pleasantries but nothing quite this bad. The ship 
creaked and groaned as it raced along the river. The bed was 
narrow, and Weatherlight lurched from side to side, 
occasionally blundering into the banks. Each impact jolted the 
ship and almost hurled the healer from her precarious perch at 
the rail.
    Short and scrappy, Orim clung on. Her turban had padded 
her head against the worst knocks. The pockets in her healer's 
cloak helped absorb some of the body blows-and promised her 
salves and poultices aplenty when this all was done. She only 
wished her knee-high calfskin boots would have better footing 
on the rolling deck. Orim desperately wanted to get below and 
check on her patients.
    She could see nothing behind her but the foaming water of 
the river, which receded as the ship passed. She turned to 
look ahead and was rewarded with nothing more than an onrush 
of blackness. Over the top of the pilothouse she could see dim 
forms moving about the ship's deck- attackers. The ones who 
abducted her patients, her ship, herself.
    Orim struggled toward them along the rail. One figure- 
more surefooted than she-ascended the stairs and clung to the 
siding before her. He was tall and slender. Dark hair flew 
before his face. Hundreds of coins were braided into the long 
strands. The man's eyebrows drew tightly together. His eyes 
glinted like onyx in the night. He wore white robes that 
draped his shoulders and his waist but left his muscular chest 
bare.
    The man spoke in a language she had never before heard.
    She shook her head. "What do you want? Where are you 
taking me?"
    He grabbed her elbow and hauled her to the hatch leading 
below decks. At the bottom of the ladder she could see him 
more clearly. His hands were glowing strangely-a silvery light 
that flooded the familiar passage. He urged her on toward the 
infirmary.
    She entered and found two other strangers already 
occupying the cramped space, standing guard over Klaars and 
Drianan. Klaars was suffering acutely the effects of having 
been pitched from side to side in his bunk. In the crash, the 
thin young sailor had suffered a concussion. A large black 
knot hovered beneath his shock of auburn hair. In addition, 
his arm had been broken just below the elbow, and it was bound 
with a splint. In all the sloshing mayhem, the sling had 
fallen off, and the splint had been battered to pieces.
    Drianan was in worse shape. His spinal injury had been 
severe, and despite Orim's neck splint, the man lolled back 
and forth on his bunk as if already dead.
    Orim tried to remember some god to pray to.
    From outside, over the noise of the ship, she could hear 
shouts from the others above decks. From time to time men 
climbed into the small room to consult with the coin-haired 
man, evidently the leader of the raiders. He answered them 
perfunctorily, all the time keeping his unwavering eyes on 
Orim as she moved between the two patients, trying to minister 
to them. He did his best to help, holding on to Drianan while 
Orim tended Klaars, and vice versa. Even that aid soon was 
unneeded. Drianan was dead before midnight.
    It was a long and horrible night, traveling that way. Just 
when Orim was certain the ordeal would never end, the lurching 
motion abruptly stopped. There were further shouted exchanges 
from above. Weatherlight shivered. Klaars slipped from his 
bunk with a crash against the bulkhead. Mercifully, he struck 
his head and fell unconscious.
    The ship shivered again and heeled upward. The list was 
gone. Weatherlight floated, buoyed on water.
    There was a faint cheer from above, and then a clamor of 
feet across the deck. A hatch was thrown back with a crash. 
Silvery-green light spilled downward. The chief of the raiders 
strode to the hatch and called up into it.
    Orim backed up, trying to shield Klaars with her body.
    Two more raiders came into the sickbay and stood with 
their chief. One was a thin young man with straight, brown, 
shoulder-length hair. Coins were braided among the strands, 
though not nearly as many as in the chief's hair. Medallions 
and pouches hung about his neck. The other was a stocky 
warrior with black shoulder armor. They stood beside the 
chieftain and stared at Orim.
    "You have the ship. Leave us alone," she said nervously.
    They pushed past her. She tried to stop the plated 
warrior, but he brushed her aside impatiently, as though she 
were a child. He drew a long, thin knife. Orim stifled a 
scream. The warrior slashed away some bedding that had tangled 
Drianan's body. Then, with surprising gentleness, he lifted 
the dead sailor. His companion hoisted Klaars. Orim sprang 
forward to support Klaars's arm, and the procession moved 
cautiously above deck.
    Orim looked around in amazement. The open plain was gone. 
Around the ship rose huge trees, each trunk as wide around as 
a small village. They rose to a lofty canopy, far above which 
the yellow-orange sky of morning could be glimpsed. 
Weatherlight itself was floating on the edge of a vast lagoon 
whose dimensions were impossible to determine, and whose 
waters stretched off into distant oblivion. Everything was 
dark and cool. Festooned vines and moss draped from the lower 
branches of the trees, trailing across the deck of the ship.
    All around her, Orim sensed a vast, living presence-a 
being beside whom she and all the humans with her were 
insignificant. After the long, horrific night, this 
magnificent presence was a balm. She stretched cramped limbs. 
Likewise, her spirit seemed to stretch outward, reaching up 
and up until it emerged from the topmost leaves to find itself 
pressed against the warm body of the sky. She wanted to cry 
out at the pain and beauty around her. With an almost audible 
sigh, her spirit slowly sank back into the soft bed of the 
trees, drifting lower and lower until the warm waters of the 
earth received and caressed it. She shivered with a sudden 
chill and blinked her eyes. The vision faded, and she found 
herself once again standing on the deck of the ship. The 
enormous trees all around were limned in silver fire.
    "A prisoner in paradise," she muttered.
    She was not the only one. Klaars had been moved to the 
other side of the deck, where he lay unconscious on a woven 
pallet of reeds. The medallion-wearing young man tended him, 
working over his arm. A vine rope was meanwhile wrapped around 
Drianan's body. Three men lifted him and gently lowered the 
corpse over the side of the craft. Below waited a canoe filled 
with fern boughs. Women in adjacent canoes received the body 
and arrayed his arms and legs, laying flowering ivy atop his 
chest and wreathing his head in blossoms. They cared for him 
as though he were one of their own fallen.
    Other figures swarmed over the rails to stand dripping on 
Weatherlight's polished planks. With their chieftain, they 
approached Orim.
    She took a deep breath and murmured, "Now what?"
    The leader gazed levelly at her. His eyes glinted with the 
same light as the coins braided into his hair. He was 
handsome, yes, but proud and commanding. He gestured Orim 
toward the side rail. There, she saw a slender canoe, 
evidently there to take her to shore.
    A line was swiftly passed over the side, and she clambered 
down. Even as she descended, other raiders who had swum from 
shore to meet the ship were scrambling up the sides of 
Weatherlight. She seated herself in the middle of the canoe. 
Warriors climbed down fore and aft. The chieftain of the 
raiders meanwhile dove from the rail and struck out for shore. 
The warriors paddled out behind him.
    As they pulled away from the swimmers and canoes, they 
entered very still waters. Despite the dim light, Orim could 
easily see the slender ripples that bled away from either side 
of the canoe. Around her hung a vast silence, broken only by 
the soft calls of the raiders and the rhythmic swish of the 
paddles. Here and there on the lagoon crouched huts, linked by 
bamboo causeways.
    There was a sudden fluttering from above. A dark winged 
form passed close overhead. Orim ducked and gasped. The 
tribesmen chuckled. They halted their paddling for a moment, 
and one held up his hand, making an odd chirruping noise with 
his tongue. There was another flapping of wings, and something 
settled on his arm. It hung there upside down, apparently a 
very large bat, but its eyes were enormous and gleaming. Its 
ears perked sharply in her direction, and it cocked its head 
to one side, as if deciding what this new creature was doing 
in its domain.
    The paddler reached into a hidden pocket of his cape and 
plucked forth some morsel, which he offered to the bat. The 
creature, without taking its eyes from Orim, snapped it up in 
a mouth gleaming with sharp, white teeth. The man who held it 
crooned to it in a soft voice. It chittered briefly, then 
flitted off into the darkness.
    A few more strokes of the paddle, and the canoe ran 
aground. The warrior at the prow climbed out and motioned for 
Orim to do the same. She alighted on a level bank formed not 
of soil but of mossy wood. The vast trees were so thickly 
clustered in this portion of the forest that their root bulbs 
merged. Trunks rose all around like pillars in a temple- 
except that each trunk was itself as wide as a whole temple. 
Bark gleamed silvery beneath robes of lichen.
    The warriors took Orim's arms and escorted her in among 
the trees. The hush deepened, though here and there she 
glimpsed more tribesfolk. Soon, the forest was full of them. 
They waited furtively among the crowded boles. With their 
white robes and their coin-coifed hair, they were dwarfed by 
the gigantic boles. Folk peered at her out of mossy hollows. 
The men stared suspiciously, the women quizzically, and the 
children with curious grins.
    Countless feet had worn footpaths along the root bulbs. 
Though the green ceiling overhead was lofty, it cast all below 
in a purple murk. Even at midday, the yellow sky would give 
little light this deep. In most places, only the silver glow 
of the ever-present trees lit the darkness.
    Ahead was an exception-a bright clearing. One of the 
millennial trees had fallen, perhaps centuries ago, and torn a 
vast hole in the oppressive canopy. The downed tree now was no 
more than a huge, mossy hill that ran through the forest. 
Young trees grew in straight lines from the decaying bulk. The 
villagers had burrowed into the side of it, excavating cave 
homes for themselves. Windows and doors were dug into that 
log. They leaked silvery-green light out into the clearing. 
Other villagers dwelt in eroded root bulbs or lived in hovels 
so encased in lichen as to seem only knobs on the forest 
floor.
    "We are like mere insects in this place," Orim thought 
aloud.
    At the center of the clearing was a welcome sight. A great 
bonfire flamed. Its warm, red light was almost blinding after 
the forest's ghostly illumination. Klaars sat on a pallet near 
the fire, his auburn hair seeming a manifestation of its 
flame. He had reawakened, and he cradled his broken arm as 
though it pained him greatly. A metal-plated guard stood on 
either side of him.
    Orim pulled free of her own guards and hurried over to 
him.
    Klaars's arm bore a crude splint, probably devised by the 
man with the medallions. His skin had been pasted with a thick 
orange goo. It clearly agonized him. His eyes rolled in his 
head.
    Orim patted his healthy shoulder and spoke soothingly. 
"Stay calm. I don't think these people mean to hurt us. They 
could have done so quite a while ago if that's what they 
intended."
    The young crewman continued to breathe unevenly. The vein 
in his neck pulsed in a violent rhythm.
    The leader of the raiders arrived, stepping into the 
firelight. His coin-braided black hair dripped lagoon water. 
He said something to Orim and pointed to himself.
    "What? What is it? I don't understand." The healer spread 
her hands in a gesture of frustration.
    Patiently he repeated the phrase, again pointing first to 
people around him, then to himself. "Yo shava Cho-Arrim. Ja 
shav Cho-Manno."
    Orim shook her head in frustration. Beside her, Klaars 
gave a moan of fear and pain.
    The chief reached down to Orim. His hand gently lifted 
Orim's chin. She found herself staring into deep brown eyes 
that contained a flash of humor. Satisfied he had her 
attention, the man pointed to himself. "Cho-Manno."
    Orim nodded slowly, repeating, "Cho-Manno."
    He smiled and gestured to the crowd. "Cho-Arrim."
    "Cho-Arrim." Deep within her, Orim felt a long-dormant 
excitement begin to build.
    He pointed to her and cocked his head.
    "Orim," she said.
    "O-leem."
    "No, Orim."
    "O-reem."
    "Yes. That's it. Orim."
    He flashed white teeth at her and glanced swiftly around 
the gathering. His hair shimmered with hundreds of coins. 
Striding toward the gawking villagers, he drew forth a pretty 
teenaged girl. "Is-Shada."
    "Is-Shada."
    Is-Shada smiled nervously. She was beautiful, with long 
dark hair, a smooth olive complexion, and dressed in a knee-
length white shift. She approached Orim, took her hand, and 
stroked it gently. Then she lifted it to touch her forehead.
    "O-reem. Is-Shada. Do chrano 'stva o'meer." Her hand 
glowed faintly.
    To her surprise, Orim saw that some of the silver light 
from Is-Shada's hand passed momentarily to her own fingers. 
She smiled and gently released her hand.
    The girl knelt next to Klaars.
    "Can you do something for him?" Orim looked from Cho-Manno 
to Is-Shada.
    The former looked grave and pointed across the fire.
    From the other side of the clearing came the thin, brown-
haired young man she had seen on Weatherlight. Orim suddenly 
realized the pouches about his neck were medicine bags, not 
unlike her own, and the medallions symbols of healing.
    The young man knelt beside Klaars and gingerly probed his 
wounded arm. Releasing a shriek of pain that echoed through 
the forest, Klaars fell back on the pallet and writhed in 
agony. The young healer shook his head in concern, raised the 
largest amulet at his neck, and touched it to Klaars's 
forehead. He spoke a brief word.
    Klaars immediately sank limp, a faint snore emerging from 
his lips.
    Orim stared in astonishment at the young healer. "Thank 
you," she said, hoping he could hear the gratitude in her 
voice.
    The young Cho-Arrim stepped back a pace and said something 
to the leader.
    Orim watched their grave faces as they spoke. "The things 
I could learn from these people," she whispered in amazement.
    Cho-Manno nodded in decision.
    In a single fluid motion, the young healer turned, drew 
from beneath his robes a weighty cleaver, and slashed it down 
and across Klaars's arm.
    The crewman awoke, giving another wild scream of pain. The 
arm fell away from his side.
    "No!" Orim shouted, reaching out. Her warrior escorts 
dragged her back.
    Three more warriors held down Klaars as the healer knelt 
with a cloth and bound the spurting stump. He placed a stick 
in the rag and twisted it until the tourniquet shut off the 
blood flow.
    Orim fought the warriors who hauled her away. She stared 
in horror at Klaars's maimed body. "No! You monster! You're 
all monsters!"
    Is-Shada was suddenly there, wrapping Orim in a tight 
embrace. Even as the warriors pinned Orim's arms, the young 
woman held her tightly, patting her back and whispering 
soothingly in her ear.
    "O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer. Is-Shada 'stva o'meer...."

                          * * * * *

    Night came to the village of the Cho-Arrim-though night 
was little different than day. The yellow-orange sky had gone 
dark, yes, but even during the day, little of its illumination 
reached the forest floor. Day or night, most of the light came 
from the silvery gleam of the ubiquitous trees.
    That gleam was the only source of light in Orim and 
Klaars's cell. The room lay deep in the root cluster of an 
ancient tree. Though the chamber had neither door nor lock, it 
was clearly a prison. Stout roots formed a cage all around 
them, receding fifty feet in each direction. There was only 
one pathway down into that thicket of roots, and Orim and 
Klaars had been forced to descend it despite the man's 
amputation. At the top and the bottom of the path, a guard had 
been posted. No door, no lock-and no way out.
    "Monsters," Klaars said, gripping the tourniquet on his 
arm. He paced across the foot-smoothed cluster of roots, his 
teeth grinding angrily. "Savage monsters!"
    Orim shook her head. She had been trying for hours to calm 
the man, to comfort him, but he would not sit down beside her 
or listen to her. "I think they just didn't understand. They 
didn't realize the limb could be saved. Perhaps gangrene is 
worse here-"
    "I'm going to get up there and kill one of them. I'm going 
to find that healer and chop his arm off!"
    "No, Klaars," Orim said. "That wouldn't do any good."
    "It sure would feel good!" Klaars hissed. He made a 
vicious chopping motion with his remaining hand. "How do you 
like that, you Cho-Arrim bastard!"
    A new voice spoke out of the murk. "O-reem?" Soundlessly, 
Is-Shada had descended past the two guards to visit her new 
friend. "O-reem? O'meer Is-Shada." She stepped furtively into 
the chamber.
    Orim hadn't the chance to warn the young woman. Klaars 
leaped like a wolf upon her. He knocked her down and wrapped 
his good arm about her neck. He flexed his elbow, but not 
before she released a strangled shriek.
    Through the doorway came a guard-a huge and metal-plated 
manifestation of the night. A sword flashed out from his belt.
    "Fight him, Orim," Klaars shouted, swinging Is-Shada out 
as a shield before him. "Fight the guard! Get his sword!"
    Orim stood there, imploring, "What are you doing, Klaars?"
    "Getting us out of here! Take his sword!"
    "Let her go!"
    The guard sized up Orim, who stood with hands trembling 
before her. He decided she was not a threat and lunged at 
Klaars. The sword darted in.
    Klaars pivoted, flinging Is-Shada into the guard's way. 
Steel bit into her side. Blood welled forth.
    The soldier withdrew, staring in disbelief at the blood he 
had drawn.
    Growling, Klaars only tightened his hold. Is-Shada's face 
went from crimson to purple. In moments, she ceased struggling 
and hung limp in his grasp. Snarling like a cornered beast, 
Klaars shouted, "Drop the sword, or I'll kill her! I'll do it! 
I'll kill Eeeshadda!"
    Somehow, the guard understood. He dropped the sword on the 
floor and lifted his hands. He nodded in supplication.
    Klaars dragged the limp young woman across the floor and 
picked up the sword. Once its hilt was in his hand, he 
brusquely dropped Is-Shada.
    The guard stooped to grab her, but suddenly, red gore 
sprayed all across the motionless young woman.
    "No, Klaars!" Orim shouted.
    The guard stood. His severed arm flopped grotesquely atop 
Is-Shada. He staggered, blood jetting from his stump.
    "Take that, Cho-Arrim bastard!"
    Orim shucked her healer's cloak and wrapped it around the 
spurting limb, applying pressure. "Damn it, Klaars! Put down 
the sword!"
    "Get away from him!" Klaars shouted.
    "He'll die!"
    "Get away from him, or you'll die!"
    It was too late anyway. The bulky warrior went to his 
knees and collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.
    Klaars stared avidly at the two bodies. "Let's go, Orim."
    She knelt, struggling to stanch the blood flow. "I'm not 
going anywhere with you."
    "Suit yourself," Klaars spat. He strode out the door and 
began climbing toward the forest floor.
    Meanwhile, Orim checked the guard. Pools of red life lay 
on the floor of the chamber. He was dead-irretrievably dead. 
But Is-Shada ...
    Orim reached the young woman. Her neck was not broken. 
Orim rolled her onto her back. Neither was she breathing or 
her heart beating. Orim pounded thrice on the young woman's 
sternum, tilted her head back, inhaled deeply, and filled Is-
Shada's lungs with the breath of life.
    "Live, damn it. Live."
    As she compressed Is-Shada's chest again, Orim whispered, 
"Is-Shada, Orim 'stva o'meer. Is-Shada, Orim 'stva o'meer...."

                          * * * * *

    The killing had ended by morning. Klaars had slain two 
warriors, a young man, and an old woman before he had finally 
been wrestled to the ground. Now he knelt there at sword 
point. Beside him knelt Orim. She had been discovered in the 
cell, bloodstained beside the body of the first guard. Is-
Shada lay unconscious but alive nearby. Without the ability to 
explain her appearance, she seemed as guilty as Klaars.
    Morning had come-the time for executions.
    Ta-Spon was the executioner, a hulking man as tall as 
Gerrard and as muscular as Tahngarth. A mane of long black 
hair spilled back from his head to his shoulder blades, and a 
crimson mask covered his features. He bore a wickedly sharp 
and heavy blade, which just now he held at Klaars's throat.
    "They were always planning to kill us, you know," Klaars 
whispered to Orim. His eyes hatefully raked across the white-
robed crowd that surrounded them. Cho-Manno stood in their 
midst, returning the man's vicious glare. To his right, in the 
space where Is-Shada would have stood, there was only an 
unsheathed sword. Klaars spit toward the chieftain. "At least 
I killed some of them before they killed me."
    "At least I saved one of them," Orim answered stoically.
    "Yes, but the one you saved can't save you," Klaars noted.
    As if understanding the conversation, Ta-Spon glanced at 
Cho-Manno.
    The chieftain nodded.
    Steel flashed. It hummed in air. It sliced through skin, 
muscle, and bone as though through water. Klaars's head 
bounded free.
    Orim saw no more. She buried her face in her hands and 
wept. The sound of her sobbing spread out through the hushed 
throng. The slump and spatter of her comrade only fueled her 
cries.
    Ominously, Ta-Spon stepped up beside her. His blade cast a 
crimson light across Orim.
    She did not lift her head. If he would kill her, he could 
do it easily enough as she lay there.
    Ta-Spon seemed to wait for the signal. His feet shifted.
    The sword rose into the air. Utter silence gripped the 
forest.
    Then came the hum of the blade ... and another sound- 
someone rushing up the path. A great weight fell on Orim's 
neck-not the weight of steel, but of arms. Someone crouched 
over her, weeping.
    "O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer.... O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva 
o'meer...."
    
                        Chapter 3

    Gerrard himself dug the new graves. Whoever had stolen 
Weatherlight had killed three of his sailors-and abducted 
three more. He wondered if he ought to be digging six holes in 
the gloaming hillside. It was a solitary penance. Others had 
volunteered to help him, but Gerrard felt he owed it to these 
crew members- and to all the others he had lost.
    "Dig them deep," came a warm voice in the chill morning.
    Gerrard glanced up, flinging another shovelful of dirt 
onto the mound. Atop shifting soil stood Takara. Her flame-red 
hair blended with the crimson sky ... what was the old 
saying?-Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
    "Dig them deep, Gerrard. The dead have a way of rising to 
haunt you."
    Gerrard shook his head grimly, and droplets of sweat 
pattered across his bare shoulders. "Is that what's next? 
Black magic raising the dead?"
    She nodded and smiled. "Yes, black magic. The blackest 
magic there is. Regret. You've become a master of it."
    It was as though she saw right into his soul. With a grim 
laugh, he said, "I've had lots of occasions like this to 
practice it."
    Takara grabbed a shovel that had been abandoned in the 
pile of dirt and dropped down into the grave beside Gerrard.
    "I don't want any help."
    "I know," Takara said, even as she flung a shovelful out 
of the hole. "But you don't want the others to help because 
they don't understand what you are doing. They tell you to let 
go of guilt and regret, but I know you can't. I know you can't 
because I couldn't either. I survived Rath not by letting go 
of guilt, regret, and anger, but by clinging to them. They are 
powerful magic, indeed-black and powerful. You can't get rid 
of them, Gerrard, so you have two choices- you can let them 
rule you, or you can rule them."
    He paused and stared amazedly at Takara. Rivulets of sweat 
ran down his back.
    She returned his gaze. "Every time I think of Father, of 
the man I loved, who was stolen away from me by a spoiled and 
vengeful monster, my hatred strengthens me. Hatred and fury. 
They perfect me, prepare me to kill that monster." She lifted 
her hand, fingers forming a trembling claw just before 
Gerrard's neck. "And when the black magic is complete, I will 
rip his throat out!"
    Gerrard stared into Takara's eyes. They blazed like twin 
furnaces-steel and fire. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes. I have 
the same score to settle. I will use my anger. I will use it 
to get back my ship and escape this strange world and defend 
my own world. I'll use it to kill Volrath."
    Takara's eyes narrowed, and she drew back, lowering her 
hand. "That's right, Gerrard. Take possession of your hatred. 
It will refine your soul-"
    "What's going on?" came a new voice above-Atalla. The lad 
stood silhouetted against the morning. His homespun work 
trousers and patched tunic riffled in the breeze. "I thought 
you didn't want help."
    "I changed my mind," Gerrard said, glancing at Takara, 
"about help, and about other things."
    "So, I can go with you to Mercadia?" Atalla asked 
hopefully. "We're not going to Mercadia. We're going to-what 
was the name of that forest you spoke of?"
    "The Rushwood-land of the Cho-Arrim," the boy replied.
    "Right. That's where we march, as soon as I'm done here."
    A call came up over the hill. Atalla turned, cupping a 
hand behind his ear. He relayed the message. "They say there 
are riders approaching-a whole army."
    "Damn," Gerrard said, planting his shovel in the dirt and 
hauling himself forth. "Sorry about my language, kid." Atalla 
looked affronted. "I'm not a damn kid!" Gerrard laughed a bit 
at that. He slipped his waistcoat over sweating shoulders and 
buckled on his sword belt. Takara's words rang in his head as 
she, too, armed herself. Gerrard felt anger like a forge fire 
stoking within him. "Let's go see who's coming."
    With Takara and Atalla beside him, Gerrard headed out 
across the encampment and to the edge of the farm.
    Karn stood there, watching the east. Beside his motionless 
form huddled the tiny green shape of Squee. The goblin clung 
to one of the golem's great silver legs, cowering almost out 
of sight.
    On the dim horizon stood a strange shape-a gigantic, 
inverted mountain. When they had first glimpsed Mount Mercadia 
yesterday-a huge conic stone with its tip embedded in the wide 
plain-Gerrard had been sure the vision was a desert mirage. It 
must have been a normal mountain, its image flipped by a trick 
of the hot air. Tavoot had assured them that Mercadia was 
indeed inverted, and so were all its dealings. Now, from the 
shadow of the mountain came a cloud of dust, approaching fast. 
Within the dust storm rode a large contingent of soldiers.
    Reaching Karn, Gerrard stared at the army, shading his 
eyes against the growing light. "What can you see ?"
    "There are perhaps two hundred riders," the golem replied. 
"They are riding Jhovalls, but they do not appear to be 
keeping a close formation. I cannot tell if they are in 
uniform or not."
    "Mercadians," Atalla said, spitting to one side. "They 
would have seen your ship when it shot across the sky. They 
saw it just like the Cho-Arrim. They've probably come to take 
it."
    "They're a little late," Gerrard said wearily. "Nothing 
left to take."
    Atalla shrugged. "They could always take you."
    Behind him, Tahngarth sounded a call-to-arms through his 
cupped hands. The loud hooting rang through the camp. Men and 
women leaped to their feet and raced to the brow of the hill.
    Across the flat, dirt-covered plain, the dark shapes 
rapidly advanced. They shimmered in the heat rising from the 
baked earth. There were hundreds against Weatherlight's two 
score crew.
    Tahngarth barked orders. "Form a semicircle here, two 
lines. Get your arms ready." The minotaur thrust Gerrard and 
Hanna to one side as he prodded the crew into place, almost 
tripping over Squee.
    Gerrard spoke to them next, his tone soft and confident 
after Tahngarth's barking roar. "All right, listen. This would 
be a battle better not fought. We're outnumbered five to one, 
and we've got more important things to do than bang swords. 
Don't make a move unless you hear a specific order.
    Let's find out if these people are friendly-"
    Atalla hid a small smile behind his hand.
    "-and if not, let's find out how to make them friendly-"
    "-and if not that either," Tahngarth interrupted, "then we 
fight."
    "Just so," Gerrard affirmed.
    The faint sound of tinkling harness bells intruded on the 
conversation. Soon the tintinnabulation was drowned out by the 
thunder of clawed feet on dry earth. The bounding Jhovalls 
flung up dust. Grit clung to tawny, matted fur on the beasts' 
flanks. The six-legged tiger-creatures looked miserable in 
their cerements of dust.
    The riders were little better off. Dust dimmed their 
saffron-yellow riding cloaks and the red and blue uniforms 
beneath. Their long, steel tridents glimmered only where 
sweating hands had grasped them. The lead rider's pennant 
streamed behind him, its white dimmed to dun, its blue to 
brown. He and many of the other soldiers were corpulent. Jowls 
waggled with each bound of their mounts. Almond eyes watered, 
bloodshot. Noses were red from sneezing and sun. Sloping 
foreheads and sunken cheeks wore dirt as thick as face powder. 
As they arrived, the soldiers brought the dust cloud with 
them, and also a faint stink that did not smell like Jhovalls. 
The riders, more than two hundred of them, surrounded the 
Weatherlight party and halted.
    Tahngarth hastily directed the crew to bend their line 
into a complete circle, swords held in a thicket outward.
    Gerrard and the bridge crew stood outside the circle, just 
before the lead rider. As the Mercadians arrayed themselves, 
Gerrard noted the clumsiness of their maneuver, the unkempt 
state of their uniforms and animals, and the rust on their 
weapons. The tridents, Gerrard observed hopefully, were still 
held skyward.
    There was a short silence, and then the leader spoke in a 
long string of syllables that tripped out unpleasantly.
    Gerrard shook his head. "We don't understand you," he 
said.
    The leader repeated his statement with an air of 
irritation.
    "He speaks High Mercadian-I think," Atalla offered. "All 
the nobles do. They think it's the only language worth 
speaking."
    "You mean, he understands us?"
    Atalla shrugged. "I don't know, but you better act like he 
does."
    Takara tugged Gerrard's sleeve. "I think I know what he's 
saying. Their language is similar to some dialects spoken on 
Rath."
    "Interesting," Gerrard said, his eyes narrowing. "1 wonder 
what connection the two places have. Can you interpret for 
us?"
    "1 can try," Takara said.
    Turning to the leader, she spoke a sentence or two in the 
same curiously dissonant flow of words, ending in an abrupt 
crescendo. The leader uttered a reply. They exchanged a few 
more words, anger rising.
    "They claim our ship as property of the Chief Magistrate 
of Mercadia, gods bless and keep his name in their eternal 
roll of glory." She couldn't entirely remove the sarcasm from 
her voice. "1 told him he was too late, that the Cho-Arrim had 
already taken the ship. He then declared us under arrest and 
commanded us to lay down our arms and surrender."
    "Arrest? On what charge?" Gerrard hissed.
    Takara spoke once more to the soldier, who replied with an 
imperious air.
    She translated, "The charges include-but are not limited 
to-invasion, illegal migration, arms smuggling, trafficking 
with the enemies of Mercadia, refusal to speak High Mercadian-
"
    Gerrard raked his sword from its scabbard. "Better damned 
well add resisting arrest! Attack!"
    He vaulted directly toward the lead Jhovall. His sword 
slashed down.
    The Mercadian captain hauled hard on the reins. His cat 
mount reared back, mouth gaping to lunge for Gerrard's head. 
Before it could, he sliced downward, cutting the beast's 
halter. Leather traces dragged across the cat-creature's face, 
yanking it aside. Reins suddenly went loose. The rider tumbled 
back in the saddle. Gerrard lunged beneath the rearing beast 
and sliced the saddle strap too. He scrambled out from beneath 
the Jhovall even as its rider spilled to the ground. 
"Understand me now, Captain?" Gerrard growled, leaping at him.
    He never reached the man. Mercadian troops surged into the 
gap. Jhovalls hissed and nipped. Tridents jabbed. Dust flew.
    Gerrard found himself facing two troopers. They thrust 
inexpertly at him with their forked pikes. His sword parried 
the stroke of one guard member, while he caught the weapon of 
the other and pulled it hard, yanking the soldier off-balance. 
The man flopped in the dust beneath his Jhovall. The other 
soldier stabbed at Gerrard again. The master-at-arms beat back 
this blow too, but pain erupted in his shoulder.
    The man's Jhovall sank its jaws into him and lifted him 
from the ground.
    Gerrard roared, thrusting his sword directly into the 
flank of the tiger-creature. The Jhovall released him and 
reared away, blood gushing from its teeth. Eyes rolled and 
ears flattened in pain, it rose again, almost hurling its 
rider loose.
    Gerrard pursued. "Mean puss, aye?" He stabbed the feline's 
heart.
    With a magnificent roar, the Jhovall crashed lifeless to 
the ground, its rider pinned beneath it.
    Protected on one side by the fallen creature, Gerrard 
knelt to rip loose a hunk of shirt and stanch the blood flow 
from his shoulder. There was no question these Mercadians were 
poor fighters. Their weapons were badly tended and poorly 
wielded. Nonetheless, their sheer numbers had broken 
Weatherlight's line, and these Jhovalls were fierce beasts.
    Even now, Karn the pacifist wrestled one of the tiger-
creatures. It was not fighting. The silver man could not have 
been truly injured by the monstrous feline, nor would he do 
anything to hurt the beast. Even so, he wouldn't allow teeth 
and fangs to tear his friends apart. It was an impressive 
tussle, solemn and quick like cats rolling in an alley. Matted 
fur and gleaming silver entwined. Razor claws screeched across 
impassive metal. Vast, stubby fingers clutched masses of hair. 
The Jhovall gnawed hopelessly on Karn's head. For Karn, this 
tumbling match was play, but the cat meant to dismantle the 
silver man. Karn made himself a distracting-and maddening-cat 
toy.
    Despite his efforts, the rest of the crew had their hands 
full.
    Tahngarth was doing the best of any of them. His curved 
blade slashed one Mercadian, dropping him at the minotaur's 
feet. He caught a second with a swift elbow to the eye and 
bulled a third onto his craggy horns. Tahngarth lived to 
fight. He would say he lived for honor and loyalty, but for 
Tahngarth, honor and loyalty invariably led to fights. A 
fourth Mercadian found that out when Tahngarth butted heads 
with his Jhovall. The tiger staggered and slumped. The 
minotaur charged on, clambering up the beast's neck and 
attacking the man in the saddle.
    If all Gerrard's crew could fight like Tahngarth, they 
would win. Takara and Sisay came damned close, with three 
fallen Mercadians at each of their feet. Hanna did her best 
with a trident she'd wrangled from her single victim. Squee 
darted about, tripping any Mercadian he could reach. But the 
rest of the crew were falling like grass.
    Gerrard suddenly remembered the dry grass thrashing at the 
edge of the graves he had dug.... How many more graves after 
this hopeless fight?
    "We surrender! Stop the fight! Ground arms!"
    The guard captain barked out similar orders.
    The combat quickly faded. Swords froze in the air. 
Tahngarth let the latest Mercadian slump from his horns. Karn 
released the Jhovall, who backed away, hissing and spitting, 
its pelt standing all down its back. In moments, Gerrard and 
his crew were surrounded by grim troopers, their weapons 
bristling. He looked around for his interpreter.
    "Takara!" he called.
    The woman emerged from beside a pile of dead. Her eyes 
glowed with the same fiery light as her hair. She wore an 
angry grin and wiped her bloodied blade lazily on one of the 
dead Mercadians. "Do you think they'll be more likely to 
listen now that we've killed some of them?"
    "Perhaps not, but the fight was hopeless. They wouldn't 
have listened if we were all dead."
    Gerrard drew her to his side and directed her attention to 
the guard captain. The man was even dustier after his fall 
from the Jhovall, but there was no blood on his saffron robes. 
He had never rejoined the fray.
    Gerrard said to Takara, "Tell him we submit. We'll lay 
down our weapons and go with him on condition that our sick 
will be treated-well treated-and our dead buried with proper 
ceremony."
    Takara translated.
    The captain bowed his head in acceptance. In the common 
tongue, he said, "You honor my master, the chief magistrate, 
with your decision. Order your folk to disarm."
    Brow furrowing, Gerrard said, "Do as he says."
    Most of the crew flung down their weapons with alacrity 
and raised their hands. Tahngarth was more reluctant. His 
curved crystal sword was one of a kind, and the assortment of 
daggers in his belt had taken years to accumulate. He flung 
each to the ground, where they stuck and shuddered angrily. 
The sound almost covered the minotaur's curses.
    Meanwhile, Mercadian soldiers unpacked lengths of shackle 
and chain. They carried the shackles among their prisoners, 
fastening them over wrists. One whole set was wrapped about 
Karn, his arms bound to his sides and his legs connected so he 
could take only short steps. The crew members were chained in 
pairs to whomever was closest, so that they could ride 
jhovallback in tandem.
    "You have killed just enough of our folk to each have a 
ride to the city," the captain said biliously as a soldier 
handed him the ring of shackle keys. He hung the ring on his 
belt and said with a flourish, "A fair payment for your 
fighting prowess. For my losses, I confiscate your weapons, to 
be kept or sold, as I will it." He gestured to another 
soldier, who gathered the swords and knives from the ground. 
The man scurried especially quickly as he snatched up 
Tahngarth's blades. He bundled them all together with rope and 
stowed them atop the captain's saddlebags.
    Sitting aback their respective Jhovalls, the crew at last 
received medical aid. Gerrard's shoulder was bandaged, a cut 
over Hanna's eye was cleaned and dressed, and Sisay's 
dislocated shoulder was reset rather brutally. Squee claimed 
to have gotten foot fungus from one of the soldiers he had 
tripped, and two Mercadians assiduously checked over his feet.
    Gerrard watched them quizzically. He spoke over his 
shoulder to Takara, who sat behind him on the same Jhovall. 
"They seem eager to live up to their end of the bargain. Look 
how they treat Squee."
    "There's something else going on," Takara replied. "Look 
how they treat the dead." She nodded toward the bloody ground.
    There, teams of Mercadians unceremoniously dragged away 
the dead-soldiers and sailors and six-legged cats. The workers 
grabbed whatever appendage presented itself and pulled. Heels, 
hips, backs, and faces rubbed the rocky ground as the bodies 
were dragged to a nearby ravine. The corpses were flung or 
rolled or kicked down the steep bank.
    "What are you doing!" Gerrard roared at the guard captain. 
"I said due ceremony-"
    "In Mercadia, we do not bury our trash, we dump it," came 
the bland reply.
    "They aren't garbage! The deal is off!" Gerrard shouted, 
struggling against his chains. A trident jabbed beneath his 
neck, piercing shallowly. Gerrard stilled to keep the points 
from digging deeper.
    "The deal is off?" the captain sniffed. "Your shackles 
would say otherwise. No, the bargain is good. The wounded are 
treated. The dead are disposed of. There is no more cause for 
delay. Off to Mercadia."

                          * * * * *

    The procession wound across the land to the north. In all 
his travels aboard Weatherlight, Gerrard had never seen a 
place so utterly barren. There was no water anywhere, and what 
plants survived in the bare, hard ground grew in the myriad 
dry cracks that crisscrossed the land. It was as if a great 
plague had blasted almost every living thing from the soil. 
For hundreds of miles, the land stretched out flat. Only the 
distant wedge of Mount Mercadia broke the horizon. Throughout 
the afternoon it had loomed, dark and impossible against the 
lemon-colored sky.
    Then a dust storm rose, obscuring the view. Similar clouds 
could be seen in the distance, moving with slow majesty back 
and forth across the hard, flat ground. This one roared 
straight for them. The guards did not hesitate, only lifting 
yellow hoods, buttoning cloaks, and veiling faces before they 
rode straight into the brown eddy. The riders were quickly 
obscured. The storm grew thicker and darker. The chain leading 
back from them dragged Gerrard's Jhovall into the dust storm.
    Gerrard shielded his eyes and looked back. Takara sat just 
behind him, and blind Starke hunched against her. A chain led 
back to the next Jhovall, where Hanna and Sisay rode. The 
navigator was bent almost double in her saddle, her hand 
pressed against her eyes. Her blonde hair was turning a dirty 
gray. Beside them strode Karn, who was forced to march forward 
with short, shuffling steps. This storm could well freeze his 
joints with grit. On the third beast rode Tahngarth. He used 
his great white bulk to shield Squee. The rest of the crew 
stretched out across the prairie, armed Mercadians riding in 
columns to either side.
    The maelstrom thickened until Gerrard could see only the 
beasts beside his own. Gritty winds hissed and sighed. Tan 
ghosts swirled in the air. Dust drained the breath from his 
lungs, scoured his face, packed his pockets, trickled down his 
collar, up his sleeves, and beneath his bandages. It was 
maddening.
    Gerrard shouted over his shoulder to Takara. "How is your 
father?"
    She shook her head. "We must find shelter soon."
    Gerrard motioned to the guard riding alongside him. The 
man reluctantly guided his Jhovall up beside Gerrard's. "How 
far to shelter? We'll die in this storm."
    Takara translated and then listened to the man's shouts. 
"He says there's no place to shelter here and that we will be 
at our destination soon."
    That wasn't possible. They had ridden only a dozen miles 
from the farm. Before the storm, the inverted mountain of 
Mercadia was at least forty miles distant. "He's lying."
    Takara shrugged. "Does it matter? We've no other options."
    Even as she spoke, the wind diminished. Gerrard felt a 
large presence looming before him. He looked up.
    A vast shadow rose out of the wind and dust to blot out 
the sky-the mountain.
    Gerrard stared, rubbed bloodshot eyes, and stared again. 
It was still there, still impossibly there-Mount Mercadia. He 
leaned back in his saddle and looked up through clear air. The 
mountain was at least five miles wide at the top but barely 
half a mile wide at the bottom. It was perfectly balanced, 
like a gigantic spinning top frozen in place.
    "How could it stand there? And how could we have gotten 
here so fast?" he wondered hoarsely.
    Takara leaned up against him. "You've been to Rath. You've 
seen the Stronghold floating within a volcano. You've rescued 
me and Sisay, seen Tahngarth transformed, and Karn turned into 
a meat cudgel, and then you've flown out of that hell into 
this one-and still you wonder how it can be?" A smile twisted 
onto her face. "We're on a different plane, Gerrard. The same 
laws of physics don't apply here. For all we know, gravity 
works differently."
    Gerrard could think of a thousand possible consequences of 
that statement, none of them very heartening.
    The mountain shielded them from the wind now. Suddenly 
Gerrard wished the breeze would return. A gagging stench rose 
from the shadow of the mountain.
    "What's that smell?" Gerrard wondered, gagging.
    "It seems to come from beyond that wall."
    A high, thick wall circled the base of Mercadia. It was an 
amazing earthwork, thirty feet high, thirty feet wide, and 
five miles in diameter. Here and there, tall, conic towers 
stood. Roads converged on it, and there were numerous gates 
through the wall. It must have taken decades, if not 
centuries, to build, but whatever lay beyond smelled too 
rotten to deserve guarding.
    The soldier escort led the prisoners up onto one of the 
main roads, crowded with travelers. Carts, barrows, 
pedestrians, and riders all converged on the city. Many were 
Mercadians, with their sloping foreheads and small, high ears. 
Others wore turbans and desert garb and had swarthy skin. 
Still more were not human at all-giant rat creatures, men with 
the heads of boars, women with the heads of eagles, grimy 
giants carrying crates, shambling slaves whipped by their 
masters. All of them walked toward a vast gate in the wall. 
Gerrard could make out no more, his eyes watering. "This is 
worse than the dust," he said, wiping away tears and gagging 
slightly. "What could possibly lie beyond that wall?"
    "I'm beginning to think the stench doesn't lie beyond," 
Takara said into his ear. "It's the wall, itself." She pointed 
toward the cliff-edge of the inverted mountain. Gerrard looked 
up.
    Something dribbled from the edge of the city. Globs of 
dark material plummeted. A few items flashed in the cascade. 
There was foul liquid and tumbling bits of paper-?
    "Garbage?" Gerrard asked, his throat clenching. "That's a 
wall of garbage?" Even as he spoke, he saw more filth tumbling 
down in brief showers all along the perimeter of the city.
    "The captain said they knew how to throw away their 
refuse. Perhaps this is what he meant," Takara said. Some 
runnels were clearly sewer mains.
    There was no more talking as they approached the mound of 
garbage. In waves, the stench grew worse. Someone had 
thoughtfully inserted long black pipes that vented gases from 
below and burned them away in constant blue flames.
    Miserable, Gerrard and his crew rode on toward the 
archway. That stonework gate was meant not to keep enemies out 
but to prevent filth from landing on those who walked the 
road. It piled atop the arch instead. A few of Gerrard's crew 
members leaned over the sides of their mounts to retch. 
Similar spots on the ground told that this was a common 
reaction from visitors. The prisoner caravan marched along 
beside merchants and slaves and slavers, all passing beneath 
the putrid gate.
    Within the wall, the stench was somehow more diffuse- 
either that, or the crew's sense of smell was well nigh dead. 
The caravan continued onward, and after about a mile along the 
crowded main road, the stink had become only a pervasive 
sourness.
    Gerrard looked at Takara and the others. All the crew were 
attempting to brush and clean themselves of the dust, which 
had swept into their every cranny and pore. Tahngarth was 
quietly cursing to himself in Talruum-quietly for a minotaur. 
As they drew nearer to the mountain, the crew saw that the 
base was the site of complex activity. They passed through a 
low brick wall with mounted guards stationed along it at 
regular intervals.
    Ahead stood the base of Mount Mercadia. It was hewn with 
doors, evidently leading to storerooms. Folk constantly passed 
in and out, some carrying boxes and bundles. From this mass of 
people rose a constant hubbub. Clusters of small booths dotted 
the area, taking up all available space, and the competing 
cries of merchants rose into the air.
    "Best pressed tralana!"
    "Morkrain! Ground morkrain! Get it before it's gone!"
    "Come now! Who wants some nice, fresh kava berries?"
    Gerrard listened to the cries for a moment before 
something struck him. He turned to Takara. "I can understand 
them!" Though the barkers had a strange predominant accent, 
their words were perfectly recognizable.
    She nodded. "Yes. The language the guard speaks must be 
unique to the ruling class of the city. To them, it is 
evidently a mark of distinction."
    Gerrard looked around in some awe. In Benalia and Jamuraa 
he had often passed through city marketplaces. Among the 
Benalish infantry, with whom he'd trained, such places were 
extremely popular. Soldiers on leave could purchase food, 
drink, or more exotic diversions. The great market town of 
Triven Fralli in Benalia had always seemed to Gerrard a 
circuslike experience. Yet, had that fabled market been 
dropped into the middle of this scene, it would have been 
immediately swallowed up. This market extended in all 
directions around the mountain as far as the eye could see.
    "Tell him-" Gerrard jerked his head toward the captain of 
the guard- "we're impressed with the size and wealth of the 
city."
    Takara spoke a few halting sentences to the guard, who 
looked at Gerrard in some surprise and burst out laughing. He 
dispatched a long reply. Takara questioned him further before 
turning back to Gerrard.
    "He says this isn't the city at all," she reported. "It's 
merely the outskirts. A camp." "Then where is the city?" The 
red-haired woman pointed silently upward. "Up where? You mean 
on top of the mountain?" Takara nodded yes.
    "But how are we going to get up there?" Gerrard asked, 
craning his neck.
    Before Takara could reply, a bellow came from Tahngarth. 
"They have strivas." He pointed emphatically toward a booth 
that contained a variety of steel-edged weapons. Short, 
intricately carved swords spread in a fan against the dark 
cloth that formed the backdrop to the booth. "Strivas!"
    Gerrard gave the minotaur a blank look. He shouted back, 
"What are they?"
    "It is the chosen weapon of the minotaurs of Talruum. Why 
would they be for sale here?"
    That question was ringing in Gerrard's ears even as 
another question formed. He was watching a group of five 
goblins strutting between the stalls of the market. They wore 
long, flowing robes and carried slender golden rods in their 
hands. Their stance was proud and upright, and they glared 
menacingly at those foolish enough to cross their path, yet 
there was no mistaking their essential kinship with Squee. The 
goblins spotted Weatherlight's cabin boy, sitting before 
Tahngarth. Clearly they were equally amazed. They exchanged 
glances. Then the largest one, fully as tall as Gerrard, bowed 
low to Squee and passed on. The others followed suit, leaving 
the crew to gape after them.
    Gerrard felt his own jaw dropping and collected himself. 
He, along with the other members of Weatherlight's crew, 
stared at Squee, who smiled uneasily and ducked his head.
    Between the booths was a path that wound its way along the 
mountain base. Here and there, vast columns of stone extended 
down from the cliffs above. Some were smooth, as if the 
mountain had turned liquid and dripped onto the ground, while 
others were pitted and twisted like old tree trunks. Gerrard 
even saw a few pillars that supported stairways winding 
upward, vanishing into doorways high above the ground.
    The Jhovalls shouldered through the thick crowd. The 
Mercadian guards herded them along successfully, and the 
thronging buyers and sellers parted easily before them.
    At last, the beasts drew up next to an area where there 
were no booths. Long lines of people waited, chattering among 
themselves. The soldiers made their captives dismount, tied 
the beasts to nearby posts, and led the prisoners through the 
throng.
    They reached a series of cages resting on the ground. Each 
could comfortably accommodate forty people. Surrounding each 
cage were four slender metal columns that extended upward 
toward the looming cliffs. Just now, an attendant slammed shut 
the door of a crowded cage, throwing a locking bar across it. 
Those within continued their chatter unperturbed. The 
attendant stepped back. The cage emitted a gentle whir as it 
rose swiftly up the shaft.
    Gerrard watched openmouthed as the folk soared out of 
sight into the jutting slope of the mountain. He turned to
    Takara, hoping for an explanation. The red-haired woman 
made inquiries of the captain.
    "He says they are 'lifts.' They will take us to the main 
city."
    Two more cages became available, and the soldiers herded 
their captives within. Twenty chained crew and twenty soldiers 
occupied each. The doors clanged closed. There was a violent 
jerk. Gerrard felt his stomach plunge. He saw the ground 
suddenly drop away beneath him.
    Hanna was nearby. She examined the device as best she 
could in the cramped space. "Wires," she said. "There may be 
wires in the supports that control the cage. Though how 
they're powered ..." She shook her head. "It takes a lot of 
force to lift this many people. Pretty clever, though. This is 
obviously how they control access to the city. Unless you have 
an airship, it makes the top of the mountain practically 
impossible to invade."
    Gerrard spotted the second cage ascending at roughly the 
same speed. He looked around at his companions. Some of the 
sailors were pale and nervous.
    Hanna watched them too. "Well," she said to Gerrard and 
Takara, "it can't take very long at this speed."
    It was taking long enough to suit everyone, thought 
Gerrard. Tahngarth appeared to be frozen in fear, as if this 
close confinement brought back memories of his imprisonment in 
the Stronghold. Gerrard looked for Squee, but the little 
goblin was nowhere in sight.
    Even as they ascended, Gerrard found himself staring at 
the panorama unfolding before him. Farmland spread out on the 
east side of the mountain, intersected by stone walls that 
marked complex patterns on the land. To the west, clouds of 
dust rolled across the land. Far away, Gerrard could see the 
black stain of the Rushwood and a long black line that marked 
the dry course of the riverbed. To the south, the land was 
broken by a series of jagged canyons, punctuated by red and 
gold spires of rock. Those must be the Deep Lands Tavoot 
referred to, he decided. To the north, the dusty plain 
stretched to a far horizon obscured by yellow haze that merged 
land and sky.
    Above them the sky glowed in brilliant orange and red. 
Thick clouds raced across it. Gerrard passed his hand over his 
eyes. How long was it since he had slept? It seemed a 
lifetime. Images rose unbidden before him: his battle with 
Volrath in the Dream Halls of the Stronghold, his flight to 
the Gardens. But overwhelming all the other memories was the 
recollection of Mirri the cat warrior in her final battle with 
Crovax, whose mad eyes turned red as he tore out her throat.
    Those unwanted dreams were banished, though, when he 
glimpsed nearby an unexpected face-impish beneath black 
tousled hair. Gerrard smiled slowly at the lad.
    "What are we going to do now?" Takara asked.
    Gerrard leaned close to her. "I'm thinking about making an 
escape."
    She smiled conspiratorially. "An escape? Why have you 
waited so long?"
    "The chance only just presented itself," Gerrard replied. 
"We have a friend in the crowd. A young man who tailed us on 
his own Jhovall, through storm and garbage and market, all."
    Takara looked about the cage and smiled a sharp-toothed 
smile. "Atalla."
    
                        Chapter 4

    The long, dark ride in the lift ended in a narrow stone 
chamber, brightly lit from some undetectable source. Ahead was 
a set of arched double doors. These the guard swung open.
    Gerrard passed through and found himself in a wide 
corridor filled with similar doors, from which flowed a steady 
stream of humanity. A moment later, Gerrard caught sight of 
the second contingent of Weatherlight crew. The soldiers 
reassembled the prison caravan. Chains chattered on stone as 
the crew marched up the wide passage. Even here in the nooks 
and crannies of the wall, there were merchants calling out to 
the crowd to come and sample their wares.
    Hanna pushed up beside Gerrard and touched his shoulder. 
"Have you seen the looks we're getting?"
    He nodded. "We cut a pretty ragged picture compared to 
these people." Indeed the people around them were far better 
dressed than the Weatherlight crew. They were clad in flowing 
silk robes that were brightly dyed, elaborately folded, and 
piled high despite the heat and grit. Gerrard whispered to 
Hanna, "We'll have to find a laundry line once we escape-help 
us blend in...."
    "Escape?" Hanna whispered back.
    "Atalla's tailing us-brave lad. He's the outside man. And 
the lifts have reduced our soldier escort from two hundred to 
twoscore. The time is right. Pass the word for the others to 
watch me and follow my lead."
    Hanna nodded and fell back among the crew. The corridor 
widened farther and ascended a short flight of broad steps. 
The group emerged into bright daylight in the midst of 
Mercadia.
    Gerrard's first impression was of incredible noise. At the 
foot of the mountain, the cries of the merchants had been 
nothing compared to the roar up here. It was omnipresent and 
almost deafening in its intensity.
    "Hale nuts! Selling hale nuts! Brown roasted hale nuts!"
    "Buying simsass for coldseason. Anyone have simsass for 
coldseason?"
    "I have four bottles of raga wine. I'm looking for hale 
nuts. Any hale nuts for raga wine?"
    On either side of the street were long stalls bursting 
with goods. In the center of the broad avenue was raised a 
circular set of stairs ending in a platform. On this platform 
sellers crowded, each waving a paper and yelling out the 
virtues of goods offered or wanted for purchase. Along the 
street at regular intervals were other such platforms, and 
beyond- more streets and platforms and noise.
    Around the platforms the crowd ebbed and flowed, looking 
over the items in the booths, picking them up, putting them 
down, touching, tasting, squeezing, stroking, asking the 
price, arguing over the price, paying the price- all in that 
unpleasant accent!
    The stalls themselves were little more than temporary 
creations of wood and canvas, stretching out from the fronts 
of buildings. Behind the stalls stood dun-colored buildings 
with square windows and arched doorways. Structures crowded 
against each other, shouldering for space and forming rankling 
canyons that mazed away through the city. The dizzy chaos of 
mud walls was accentuated by the tiles and elaborate mosaics 
that covered them. No street was straight, no block was level. 
The roads climbed and shambled, dipped and drifted. The sense 
of vertigo that Gerrard had felt at the base of the impossible 
mountain now redoubled.
    Heedless, the guard pushed through the crowd, conducting 
the Weatherlight crew through. Squee, his short green form 
unmistakable among the tall Weatherlight sailors, was several 
files back from the Benalian. Gerrard noticed that any time a 
Mercadian caught a glimpse of the goblin, he bowed low and 
touched his forehead. The little creature was both puzzled and 
impressed by this behavior, and he began to strut a bit.
    Tahngarth wrinkled his nose and frowned. "They smell," he 
growled, gesturing at the Mercadians. "The whole place 
smells."
    Sisay nodded her agreement. "There's a lot of incense 
burning around here." She stopped a moment, breathing hard, 
and wiped sweat from her forehead. "I don't know about the 
rest of you, but this place is giving me a splitting 
headache."
    Gerrard rubbed his eyes. The street seemed to oscillate. 
He glanced at his companions and saw they were having 
similarly dazed sensations. Some of the crew were staggering. 
Hanna looked ready to pass out.
    Gerrard knew it was now or never. He fell to his knees, 
gasping, and vomited into the gutter-that much was not acting. 
"Water! I need some water!"
    Takara's hands fidgeted on his shoulders as she relayed 
the message to the laughing guards.
    "You, there, kid," Gerrard called, gesturing to a familiar 
lad with tousled black hair.
    "I'm not a damned kid," Atalla spat back, though he gave a 
wink.
    "Bring me something to drink! Wine would be good."
    Nodding, Atalla darted away through the market. His cloak 
flashed tan beside a vintner's stall. His hands darted atop a 
pile of burgeoning wineskins, and he snatched one. Holding it 
high, he waved the skin overhead and darted back toward 
Gerrard.
    A roar of protest rose behind him, and a morbidly obese 
wine seller trundled in fury after the thief.
    Atalla arrived, sandals skidding on cobblestones.
    "Great work, kid-sorry, Master Atalla," Gerrard said, his 
smile turned down into the gutter. "Quick, pull the cork, give 
me a sip, and dump the rest on the ground."
    Atalla worked deftly.
    "When the captain of the guard comes," Gerrard continued, 
"get his keys."
    The merchant stomped up behind Atalla and caught him up by 
his collar. The wineskin lay empty on the pavement, and wine 
and vomit mingled in the gutter.
    "Thief!" the wine seller roared. "I'll cut off your hand!"
    Gerrard stood, towering over the merchant. "Let him go! 
He's no thief! I sent him to fetch some wine for my master."
    "Your master?" the merchant asked.
    Rattling the chains at his wrists, Gerrard said, "I am but 
a slave to the captain of the guard. He uses me to taste his 
food and wine, for he fears poisoning. Your wine tasted to me 
of poison, and I vomited it there, in the gutter." A wry light 
shone in his glinting eyes. "I know what to do with rubbish!"
    "Rubbish? Poison?" the vintner shouted in a pique. He 
dropped Atalla like a rag doll. "Your master will pay for this 
poison!"
    The captain of the guard arrived, barking questions in 
High Mercadian.
    "Don't pay him, sir," Gerrard said, gesturing emphatically 
toward the gutter. His jangling chains helped to draw 
attention away from Atalla. "I've never tasted such putrid 
bile in all my life!"
    "Putrid bile?" the merchant shouted. He quivered with 
rage. His burgundy-dyed robe swayed dangerously. "You'll pay! 
You'll pay!"
    The captain glowered at the merchant, oblivious to the 
dangerous operation occurring even then at his own belt. He 
shouted an indecipherable warning.
    "He wants to trade me for the wine," Gerrard proposed.
    The merchant gasped, a breath like a huge hiccough. "I'd 
rather own a one-eyed syphilitic donkey than an idiot slave 
such as you!"
    "A donkey might like your wine," Gerrard agreed.
    More shouts indecipherable, more threats, more bluster...
    Gerrard leaned conspiratorially toward the captain of the 
guard to whisper in his ear (in fact, he extended shackled 
hands to Atalla, who quickly tried key after key). "I think 
the vintner is calling you a syphilitic donkey."
    Giving an inarticulate cry of rage, the captain raised his 
trident to skewer the merchant. Metal lanced downward.
    The wine seller squealed and rolled back on his round 
haunch.
    The shackles fell from Gerrard's wrists. He snatched the 
trident in the air before it could fall and brought its butt 
swinging about. The shaft struck the guard captain in the side 
of the face, sending up a cloud of dust.
    The Mercadian tottered for a moment like a dizzy top and 
then went down.
    Gerrard gave a whoop and whirled the trident again, 
bashing back the soldiers who swarmed him. Meanwhile, Atalla 
crawled among the other prisoners, fitting the master key to 
the shackles. Takara was free, and then Starke, Sisay, and 
Hanna ...
    Tahngarth was too impatient. He lunged toward a nearby 
stall, snatched up a striva, and brought the heavy blade 
smashing down on the chain. It clove the inferior metal 
easily. Tahngarth sloughed off the shackles and lifted the 
weapon high. Merchants, and soldiers, and even Squee fell 
fearfully back from him.
    For his part, Squee scampered up a similarly imposing 
figure-Karn. Being a pacifist, Karn would probably be an 
island of calm in the sea of swords. Squee shinnied up the 
chains that wrapped Karn's torso and flung his arms around the 
silver man's massive neck.
    Karn opened his mouth, apparently to console the goblin. 
Instead he bit down on the chain that held Squee. It severed 
in two places, and Karn spit out the shattered links.
    "Return the favor?" he asked Squee. "Lift one of my chains 
into my mouth."
    Squee did. In moments, the whole mass of chain-and the 
goblin clinging to it-cascaded down to the street. Karn lifted 
his arms. Dirt poured from the gritty joints. Sunlight gleamed 
off his massive figure, and the crowd fell back again.
    Not all of the crowd. Though their captain lay in the 
middle of the road, feigning unconsciousness, other soldiers 
fought inward. Their tridents slashed and jabbed among canvas 
stalls.
    Sisay, Takara, and Gerrard parried easily with the weapons 
they had snatched. Tahngarth's striva merely clove any haft 
that came nearby. Always ingenious, Hanna had retreated to a 
fruit cart and thrust vast purple melons onto the tridents. 
Inspired by her valor, Squee clambered behind the cart and 
pelted the soldiers with hale nuts and simsass fruits.
    Karn found he need only bellow and wave his arms 
menacingly to keep the soldiers at bay.
    "As soon as the rest are free," Gerrard hissed to Takara 
as he flung back a pair of attackers, "scatter and blend. 
We'll meet again tonight by that big tower. Pass the word."
    She was telling Sisay and Hanna when a new threat arrived.
    At the lower end of the road, a huge shadow appeared. The 
creature that cast it was larger still. The color, height, and 
general bulk of an adobe house, the giant lumbered up to 
survey the scene. Its black hair dripped grease across a 
rumpled forehead and squinting eyes. It blinked in indecision. 
Soldiers behind it prodded it forward with tridents. Muscles 
rippling across its broad chest, the giant strode toward the 
melee.
    "Karn!" Gerrard shouted. "Engage that giant!"
    "I will not fight!" the pacifist called back. It was a 
foolish announcement there and then. Soldiers approached the 
golem.
    In exasperation, Gerrard flattened another guard and 
shouted. "If you won't fight him, detain him."
    "How?"
    "I don't know! Dance with him!"
    "Dance?" Karn asked as the giant loomed up.
    "Hold him tight! That's an order!"
    With a deft move that belied his bulk, Karn reached out, 
grasped the giant about the waist, and flung him into a heady 
spin. Karn held on tightly. He whistled a hornpipe he'd heard 
aboard Weatherlight, and his feet pounded out a precise 
imitation of the reels he'd seen Sisay perform. However, the 
effect was somewhat different. The giant was not a good 
dancer. It did not even seem to be trying. When its feet were 
not stomping down atop Karn's, they were smashing bookstalls 
or overturning juice carts or caving walls. Its hand motions 
were also a bit abrupt, more roundhouse than rondo. Still, 
Karn did not give up on his student-as long as no one got 
hurt, what was the harm?
    Laughing, Gerrard turned from that scene to one less 
funny.
    On the high end of the road, Mercadian soldiers escorted 
another creature to the scene. This monster's eyes glowed 
orange within a skull that was molded in green muscle. Two 
pairs of buglike mandibles extended from its cheeks and jowls. 
They hungrily shivered beside its fangs. From its shoulders 
sprouted a pair of venous humanlike arms ending in claws. 
Another pair of arms emerged behind the first, these tipped in 
wicked barbs. The thing's muscular abdomen was perched atop 
legs worthy of a drake, complete with eviscerating talons.
    "A cateran enforcer," hissed Atalla, scrambling up beside 
Gerrard. "They're the meanest mercenaries the Mercadians have. 
I'm getting out of here. You should too. Your folk are all 
free."
    "Thanks ki-Atalla. I owe you one." Gerrard cupped his 
hands and shouted, "Scatter!"
    Only too happily, most of the crew obliged. Only Karn 
remained, dancing with his giant, and Tahngarth, who strode up 
beside Gerrard.
    "It has four arms, so I thought we should as well," the 
minotaur said.
    Gerrard smiled grimly as the thing came on. "You could 
never resist a fight."
    "Not when I have a good striva." Tahngarth lifted the 
curved blade overhead just as the cateran reached them.
    It hurled itself hungrily atop the pair.
    Tahngarth thrust the striva into the beast's belly. Metal 
clanged uselessly on the creature's hide. The blade that had 
severed iron could not penetrate that skin.
    Gerrard meanwhile rammed his trident into the thing's 
fangs. It bit down, severing the prongs and swallowing them.
    This was going badly.
    In one clawed hand, the beast clutched Gerrard's head, and 
in the other, Tahngarth's. Its grip was implacably strong. 
Barbed arms entrapped them. There was no escape. Fangy jaws 
ratcheted wide. The beast shoved Gerrard's head toward its 
gullet as though his skull were a melon. It sank its teeth 
past the tough exterior and into red pulp and reared back. Its 
mouth was full of crimson chunks and seeds-
    Seeds?
    Squee hauled back the other half of the melon he had 
rammed in the thing's mouth. He shoved the ruined fruit in the 
cateran's eyes.
    Enraged, the blinded beast dropped Gerrard and Tahngarth 
to rake pulp from its face. It roared, melon spewing in a red 
shower from its jaws.
    "Squee!" Gerrard shouted, startled, "I thought I told you 
to scatter-"
    "-I'm glad, for once, he didn't listen," Tahngarth panted, 
crouching to receive the beast's next attack.
    The cateran scraped the last seeds from his face and 
lunged again.

                          * * * * *

    "Squee shoulda listened," the little goblin shrieked as 
the thing launched at him. He closed his eyes, cringing back 
from death. Any moment, fangs and claws and barbs would 
descend and rip him to pieces. There would be nothing left of 
Squee but hunks of meat, which the merchants would probably 
skewer and cook and sell.... Yes, once this beast fell on him, 
he'd be done for. That would be the end of the story for 
Squee. A short life, over too soon ... he rather wished the 
beast would get on with the killing part. The suspense was 
getting monotonous.
    Squee opened his eyes to see something altogether 
unexpected. The cateran had stopped midlunge and fallen to its 
scabby knees. It looked up beseechingly at Squee. The goblin's 
incredulity was mirrored on the faces of Gerrard and 
Tahngarth.
    Through jagged fangs, the cateran pleaded, "Forgive me, 
Master."
    Squee looked over his shoulder to see who the beast 
addressed.
    "He's talking to you, Squee," Gerrard hissed nervously.
    Squee splayed a hand on his chest and mouthed, "To ... 
Squee?"
    Gerrard only nodded.
    "I did not realize a Kyren sponsored these ... worthies. I 
did not realize these were your friends."
    Squee considered, folding arms over his chest and frowning 
disapprovingly. "Well, dey are! How 'bout dat!"
    "I was only following orders," the beast buzzed out, still 
kowtowing. "Of course, my master was not Kyren. Your rank 
exceeds his. What are your orders, Master?"
    Gerrard nodded encouragement to the goblin, his eyebrows 
lifted. "Yes, Master Squee. What are your orders?"
    Tahngarth released a groan. "Your orders ... Master?"
    A broad smile on his face, Squee took a deep breath. "Yes. 
Orders. Master Squee's orders ..."
    "Yes ..."
    "Dance with dat giant," Squee said. "Karn's bushed. We're 
gonna go get something ta drink."
    "Yes, Master."
    There was no difficulty sneaking away after that. Even the 
reinforcement troops that arrived seemed to see nothing except 
the dance stylings of the cateran and the giant.

                          * * * * *

    For a day and a night, Weatherlight's crew hid out in the 
great city of Mercadia. All had procured Mercadian clothes, 
the better to blend with the crowd. Only Karn remained in his 
native garb of silver-though he kept to the back alleys, Squee 
running interference for him. As a Kyren-that is, a goblin-
Squee had special rights and privileges in the city, though 
Gerrard still did not understand why. In time, Squee secured 
discreet lodgings for him and the other bridge crew members.
    The streets outside buzzed with talk of the foreign 
warriors who had marched into the city, defeated five hundred-
no, a thousand-of the city guards, fought off twenty giants, 
and killed a whole band of cateran enforcers. Tavern talk made 
them outlaw heroes, striking out against oppression. Garrison 
talk made them simply outlaws, but their names were mentioned 
only in tremulous whispers.
    "Legendary Gerrard, giant killer!"
    The legend of Gerrard and his band reached a fevered pitch 
by next afternoon. It was time to enact his plan.
    Gerrard and Takara climbed the white limestone stairs of 
the Magistrate's Tower-the opulent building at the center of 
Mercadia. In this city of trade, Gerrard had heard that any 
citizen who had a worthwhile bargain could approach the chief 
magistrate. Of course, if the deal was found wanting, the 
citizen would probably not be found again at all. Gerrard and 
Takara would take that chance. The outlaws had in mind an 
impressive bargain.
    They climbed the tower steps, which wound around the 
outside of the structure without a rail to guide them. Gerrard 
felt increasingly dizzy as the streets of Mercadia opened out 
below. Beyond the edge of the city, he could see forever. Far 
away, probably fifty miles distant, was a blurred line of 
yellow.
    Gerrard called Takara's attention to it. "What is that?"
    "The Outer Sea, I imagine," she said.
    They passed a number of landings with doors into the 
tower. A steady stream of people were also climbing up and 
down the stairs, passing in and out of the various openings. 
None paid the slightest attention to Gerrard and Takara. 
Surprisingly, there was little wind. Sweat beaded on both 
humans' faces as they climbed.
    At last, at the very top of the tower, when only the 
endless sky beckoned above them, the stairs bent inward in a 
large landing. Its rail was inlaid with dark marble and 
polished stones in elaborate patterns. The side of the tower 
was pierced by a tall wooden door framed in elaborately 
wrought metal.
    "This is it. The audience chamber."
    Gerrard pushed hard. The door swung back to reveal a dark, 
narrow opening. Gerrard and Takara passed through. They 
traveled down a short hallway hung with tapestries and 
decorated with mosaics, and entered a large circular chamber.
    The ceiling was an open skylight through which the bright 
morning sun shone. A circle of pillars lined the edges of the 
room. In the very center was a small platform. On it rested a 
chair, carved of ivory, where sat the Chief Magistrate of 
Mercadia.
    He was short and fat, with dimpled cheeks and thinning 
blond hair plastered against his scalp. His robes were yellow, 
trimmed with scarlet. They clung closely to the rolls of fat 
that cascaded from his chin to his waist. Indeed, Gerrard 
could never remember having seen so fat a man. His flesh 
seemed to drip from his body, and his six chins quivered and 
shook. His fingers were thick and stubby, and Gerrard noticed 
with a flash of surprise that the nails were manifestly dirty. 
His mouth was a round, pursed splash of red, and his face was 
liberally coated with rouge and powder. A foul smell arose 
from him, as if he had not bathed in several weeks. It melded 
with the thick scent of incense that pervaded the chamber. 
About the magistrate's stout shoulders hung a heavy gold 
chain. Each of its links was a tiny casket. He rested his 
pudgy hands on his stomach and watched through small, piggish 
eyes as the visitors entered.
    About the heavily perfumed room were courtiers. All were 
clad in shades of yellow. They lounged languidly around the 
chamber or relaxed on cushioned benches-on which many of them 
sprawled full-length-eating, drinking, and sleeping.
    Something whizzed from the midst of one of these groups 
and struck Gerrard's foot. He leaped, startled.
    There was a burst of laughter. A courtier lumbered toward 
him as quickly as his grotesquely fat body would permit. He 
bent with a grunt and retrieved a small, furry creature. 
Chuckling, he held it up for Gerrard's inspection. It appeared 
to be a species of rat, somewhat larger than Gerrard was used 
to seeing. Its tiny eyes glittered, and its whiskers moved 
back and forth as it twitched its nose. Its tail was at least 
a foot long and ended in a sharp cluster of spikes. Deftly, 
the Mercadian flipped the rat on its back and scratched its 
stomach. A small panel opened, showing a tangle of machinery 
and a tiny glowing stone.
    Gerrard gasped and said to Takara, "It's a toy-with a 
powerstone."
    "Yes." The Rathi woman stepped closer and stared intently 
at the mechanical creature.
    Glancing around the room, Gerrard noticed a number of the 
other nobles were playing with toys. Many were in the shape of 
animals; others were fashioned in the likeness of engines and 
vehicles. All were small but animated by power stones. He 
looked at Takara and grinned. "Our terms have just gotten 
steeper."
    Moving very little, the magistrate beckoned to Gerrard. 
His voice was high and strained, and Gerrard could barely hear 
it above the other noise in the room. The words were High 
Mercadian, but on the lips of the magistrate they sounded even 
more coarse and degenerate.
    Takara translated. "The magistrate asks who you are and 
what you offer, to approach his exalted figure."
    Lifting his eyes to the man, Gerrard said, "I am the 
legendary outlaw Gerrard, giant killer."
    That caused a sensation. The courtiers paused in 
conversation and looked up. A few gathered their grapes, and 
cheese, and little mechanical toys, withdrawing along the 
wall. The guards in the room also tensed.
    The magistrate's eyes darted nervously toward the door.
    "Call them off, Magistrate. I have slain whole companies 
of your soldiers," Gerrard lied. "I will slay these and you, 
too, if you don't call them off."
    With a pallid nod, the magistrate sent the soldiers back 
to their posts.
    "Good," Gerrard said. "We have come to make a bargain."
    "To make a bargain you came?" echoed a mocking little 
voice-a Kyren. He emerged from beside the ivory throne, where 
others of his kind stood. They were garbed in fine silks and 
shadows. This one walked very erect, its eyes pinning 
Gerrard's insolently as it approached. "Most respected 
Magistrate of Mercadia, may the gods bless and keep your 
name," observed the Kyren, "does not your ineffable wisdom 
truly spread wherever the name of Mercadia is known? Might a 
humble servant of your divine mightiness presume to offer some 
small tidbit of advice on the matter of this stranger?"
    The magistrate gestured meaninglessly.
    The goblin continued. "Would it not be proper and 
advisable to determine why we should give any audience to a' 
brigand? Would it not be advisable to call the city wizards, 
or failing them, the city guard, or failing them, the city 
waste managers?"
    The insouciant Kyren had ventured a little too close. 
Takara lunged, grabbed the beast by the throat, and hoisted it 
in one hand.
    Guards who had not rushed to the magistrate's aid now ran 
toward Takara. Gerrard turned and drew a sword to ward them 
away.
    Takara meanwhile stared into the goblin's bugging eyes. 
Her own eyes narrowed, and her mouth was a toothy gash across 
her face. "Look at me, you little bug. Look at me. Really 
look, and you will see why you must listen to us!"
    Gerrard busily circled the pair, keeping guards at bay. 
Over his shoulder, he glimpsed the goblin's face. At first, 
there was only angry umbrage and the panic of suffocation. 
Then suddenly, there was something else-abject terror.
    The Kyren waved the guards back.
    Takara nodded, lowering the beast to the ground. She 
released him, and the Kyren staggered away slowly, clutching 
his neck.
    Gerrard hissed to her, "What did you do?"
    Through a humorless smile, Takara whispered, "Just let him 
see my hate. It is a powerful thing."
    Coughing raggedly, the creature retreated toward the chief 
magistrate. "Might I suggest... the chief to treat these folk 
... as privileged citizens ... instead of outlaws?"
    The fat man's chins quivered like the wattle of a chicken. 
"Very well. The magistrate accepts your advice." He nodded to 
Gerrard.
    Gerrard said, "I am the legendary Gerrard, giant killer. I 
would triumph no matter what forces you sent against me. My 
folk are as powerful as an army. Our prowess is not diminished 
by the fact that your troops are pathetic, listless, and 
hopeless. Are you satisfied with the state of your army?"
    One of the goblins replied, his voice oily and unpleasant. 
"Is Mercadia not still threatened by enemies from abroad, and 
yet our armies are untrained? Is not their skill with arms 
poor? Are not the weapons they possess badly maintained? Have 
you weapons you can trade? Have you sufficient soldiers to 
fill our ranks?"
    "Better. The legendary Gerrard will make a bargain with 
you," Gerrard said. "I will train your troops in the use of 
weaponry. I will train them how to train others. I will turn 
your army into a fighting machine that will be, itself, 
legendary."
    "You will train our armies in return for what?" the Kyren 
asked.
    "Freedom for my folk, first of all," Gerrard said. "I want 
them to walk the streets as citizens."
    "Is there nothing more we can offer?"
    "There is plenty more. When I have finished training a 
division of your troops, I will be granted them to march into 
the Rushwood to fight the Cho-Arrim. I seek to regain the 
airship I was falsely arrested for trading to them."
    Avarice flared in the goblin's eyes. "Why would we refuse 
the offer of legendary Gerrard to lead our armies against our 
enemies?"
    "Once I retrieve my ship, I want facilities here to repair 
it-"
    "Why would we refuse to grant facil-"
    "And assistance in gathering power stones to repair the 
ship."
    "Do we not know legends of power stone troves?"
    "And last, but certainly not least, I want a thousand gold 
coins given to the farm family of Tavoot, in payment for 
damages incurred."
    "A thousand gold?"
    "Are the terms of this bargain accepted?" Gerrard asked. 
"Think twice before you answer with another question!"
    The Kyren's eyes grew wide.
    The magistrate himself answered. "The bargain is accepted, 
I legendary Gerrard, giant killer. Train our troops, and your 
folk will be treated as citizens and honored guests. You will 
be granted the right to lead a division to regain your ship. 
If you regain your ship, you will be allowed to use our 
facilities to repair it and benefit from our assistance in 
obtaining power stones to complete the job. And a thousand 
gold pieces will be granted to the farm family you mentioned. 
Agreed."
    Legendary Gerrard nodded, smiling with satisfaction. 
"Good."
    Beside him, Takara whispered, "Good for now, but that was 
too easy. Nothing here is as it seems. We must proceed 
cautiously."
    
                        Chapter 5

    The dark water spread out in a V behind Orim as she swam. 
Ripples ran away from her across the lagoon's surface. A few 
shafts of sunlight reflected off the water, glinting in the 
evening air.
    It was, as nearly as Orim could determine, about a month 
since her capture by the Cho-Arrim. On the forest floor it was 
difficult to be certain of the passage of day and night. The 
light was always the same soft, gray glow of the tree trunks. 
Within the village a fire burned at all times, and the Cho-
Arrim moved about it immersed in their everyday routines. Orim 
slept when she was tired and awoke feeling rested and 
refreshed, but she had no idea whether she had been asleep two 
hours or ten. Perhaps the best measure of how much time had 
passed was how well she had picked up the Cho-Arrim language. 
Total immersion had taught her many words very quickly.
    Total immersion ... she dove deep and swam through dark 
spaces.
    Orim now had full run of the settlement without 
accompanying guards. They would have been a useless 
expenditure of manpower, since Orim had no idea in which 
direction lay the forest's edge. If she went the wrong way and 
became lost, the Cho-Arrim told her, she would wander 
endlessly down the aisles of tall trees and never again feel 
the wind on her face. Certainly the forest looked the same to 
her wherever she walked: hoary, shaggy, vast, and vaguely 
threatening. Her sole clear landmarks were the village and the 
lagoon that bordered it-the lagoon whose waters seemed to 
swell and recede according to some strange rhythm. Odd sounds 
came from the water occasionally, noises too deep and remote 
to come from human or animal throats.
    She surfaced. A few hundred feet from where Orim swam, 
Weatherlight floated peacefully. Figures moved casually on the 
upper deck. One waved to Orim, and she waved back. To these 
folk, Weatherlight was not a ship. It was an oracle. Even down 
here among the trees, they had glimpsed Weatherlight's 
cometary arrival across the sky and had believed the airship 
to be their god Ramos. An old myth told of Ramos falling from 
the heavens and breaking into pieces-soul, mind, and body. All 
the evils of Mercadia arose from his broken being. A prophecy 
told that Ramos would return, and if soul, mind, and body were 
reunited, he would unite the world and drive the evil away. To 
these folk, Weatherlight was not a warship but something 
altogether more valuable. It was a holy relic-the soul of a 
god.
    There was no arguing with gods or their believers. Orim no 
longer tried to disabuse these folk of their strange notions 
about the ship. She only waved and smiled at the soldiers, 
turned, and swam for shore.
    In the roots of the tree where she'd left her clothes, the 
healer found Is-Shada, her arms clasped about shapely knees, 
dark hair pulled back in a braid.
    She giggled as Orim shivered. "I told you it was too 
cold."
    "Cold water can be good for you," Orim said serenely. "At 
the university, we used to pour cold water over ourselves 
every morning and evening. In the winter we had to break the 
ice on the surface."
    Is-Shada's giggles grew louder. "You were young and 
foolish. I'm young and sensible. You won't catch me swimming 
for at least another month. What was the 'university'?"
    Orim had become accustomed to Is-Shada's rapid-fire 
questions. At first, when she only vaguely understood their 
meaning, she had labored over her answers, provoking still 
more questions and frustration on both sides. Now the healer 
had learned to pick and choose the questions to which she 
supplied detailed replies. Is-Shada never stopped asking, 
though.
    "The university was a place at which I studied my art. My 
friend Hanna studied there as well."
    "Hanna!" Is-Shada exclaimed. "What is she like? Is she 
pretty like you? Did she study the healing arts as you did? 
Where was the university?"
    "Hanna is very pretty," Orim replied. She had not thought 
of Weatherlight's navigator in some time. Is-Shada's question 
conjured up a mental picture of Hanna, her face grimy with 
grease, bent eagerly over a dissected component of the ship's 
engine-but pretty. Always pretty. "She was not a healer, 
though. At the university she studied artifacts."
    "What is an artifact?"
    Orim laughed. "It's-an artifact. A magical object." She 
pointed toward the ship. "Weatherlight is an artifact."
    Is-Shada's eyes, always expressive, grew round and wide.
    "An artifact? Really? It's more than that! Much more."
    "Yes," Orim replied, her eyes faraway. "Yes, on that we 
agree."
    Is-Shada looked troubled. "I think we should not speak of 
this." She lay back and watched as Orim bound her turban about 
her head. "Why do you wear your hair like that? It conceals 
your beauty."
    "It marks my status as a healer," Orim replied.
    Is-Shada looked serious. "Yes. You healed me that horrible 
night. Do you have chavala?"
    "What is chavala?"
    Is-Shada hesitated, struggling for the right words. "It is 
a gift from above," she replied slowly. "It is not given 
often, but those who possess it stand high in the favor of the 
tribe and of the gods. Ta-Karnst is so marked."
    Orim put out a hand and pulled the younger woman to her 
feet. "Come on. Let's get back to the village before they 
think I've run off."
    As they made their way through the trees, both women 
greeted the tribesmen they passed. Some sat industriously by 
the side of the lagoon, pulling gently on fishing nets. Much 
of the Cho-Arrim diet consisted of fish, supplemented by 
fruits, berries, and vegetables collected from various parts 
of the forest. Orim had not tasted red meat since she had been 
among the tribe, and she found the change a welcome one.
    As a rule, Cho-Arrim preferred the cool, pale light that 
came from lanterns that each home possessed, or the gentle 
silver light of the forest itself. Tonight, though, the 
bonfire burning in the middle of the village was heaped high 
with fuel, driving away the cold and shadows. Around the fire, 
a large group had gathered.
    Orim and Is-Shada approached curiously, and the younger 
woman gave a delighted clap of her hands.
    "It's the separi! The storytellers. They are about to 
start!"
    There were seven separi, three women and four men. They 
looked no different from the other Cho-Arrim Orim had met, but 
the village tribesfolk surrounded them, chattering cheerfully. 
One by one, villagers found seats around the fire. The very 
old and young were wrapped in shawls and blankets. Orim and 
Is-Shada settled in among them.
    The separi began to perform. Around the fire they went, 
each carrying two masks, which they alternated as they assumed 
different characters. For the most part, the stories were 
simple fables, easy to follow, mostly comic. Orim laughed with 
the rest of the village, and when she had any trouble 
understanding, Is-Shada, curled up catlike at her side, 
explained.
    In time, there came a short pause. The players gathered in 
front of the fire, upon which several villagers stacked more 
wood so that it blazed with a sudden ferocity. Then the separi 
began another play.
    This was evidently not comic, and Orim had more difficulty 
following the action. It concerned some great conflict, for 
two men stood opposite one another, moving their hands in 
complex rhythms as their minions battled. Sometimes the 
fighters pretended to wield swords or spears; other times they 
moved swiftly, as if imitating machines that hacked and clawed 
at one another. The two sides separated, and Orim saw that the 
man on one side had been joined by a woman, from whose mask 
flowed a tangle of vines dyed bright red to simulate hair. On 
the opposing side were two figures, both male. In the middle, 
two separi surrounded a female, her mask trailing green vines. 
She swirled the tendrils around her, a whirling cloud of green 
and yellow. As the motions of the opposing men became more 
intense, supported by the players at their sides, the woman in 
the middle gradually sank to her knees. Her motions became 
slower, then ceased altogether.
    Something about the performance touched the very edge of 
Orim's memory. Dimly she recalled similar events: a mighty 
conflict between rival magicians, a conflict that ended in 
tragedy and death. She had heard the story back at the 
Argivian University, sitting in the library on a gloomy winter 
day, glancing through an obscure, age-old poem....
    Recognition came in a sudden shock. "It's the Brothers' 
War!"
    "What?" Is-Shada had been lying on her stomach, intent on 
the play.
    "The Brothers' War!" Orim slapped her hand against Is-
Shada's foot in excitement. "I learned this legend at the 
university. Two brothers, Urza and Mishra, fought a war 
against one another on the continent of Terisiare. During the 
latter part of the war, they invaded the island of Argoth and 
fought until it was devastated. We were taught that the spirit 
of nature in Argoth died when the brothers had completed their 
battle. Then there was a huge explosion that killed both 
brothers and ended the war."
    Is-Shada was plainly uninterested in her friend's story. 
"That's not what this is about," she said, turning back to the 
figures by the fire. "Watch."
    The battle was reaching a climax. The gestures had become 
more violent. The red-haired woman slowly crossed the space 
between the two principal figures, her arms outstretched. Her 
former ally, whose mask was painted in dark, handsome 
features, lifted his hands and clapped. The red-haired woman 
dropped to the ground. The dark man lifted his arms in a 
gesture of triumph. He hefted three great stones waiting 
beside the fire, set them on his back, and began a whirling 
dance around the flames. At the height of one turn, he seemed 
struck by something, and the three stones flew outward, 
dropping among the fallen folk. Then, the man himself 
collapsed.
    All the separi lay still on the ground now, save one, 
wearing a golden mask, who stepped over their bodies. She 
reached down and touched each of the fallen, and at her touch 
each one rose. Finally, when all were standing, they wove back 
and forth in an intricate dance until at last they joined in a 
single entity.
    This episode brought the play to an end. The separi 
discarded their masks and stood grinning amid the plaudits of 
the watching Cho-Arrim.
    Orim clapped with the rest of the crowd and then turned to 
Is-Shada. "All right. What is it about?"
    Is-Shada shrugged. "It is the Peliam, the origin story," 
she said. "It tells us where everything came from and to where 
we'll return when we die."
    "All right," said Orim after a pause. "Tell me."
    Is-Shada spoke as if talking to a child. "The fight was 
between two gods, Ramos and Orhop. Each had pulled down a 
piece of the heavens, and each sought to use it to best the 
other. In the end, Ramos triumphed, and Orhop, the evil god, 
was vanquished. Ramos grieved for the ruin he had brought to 
his world. And so, he gathered the people of forest and plain 
and mountain and set them on his back and carried them to a 
new world, a better world. But when he arrived, he was struck 
from the sky and fell in three great pieces-soul, mind, and 
body. Borne atop his soul, the tribes of the Cho-Arrim landed 
in the forests. Those atop his mind-the Saprazzans-fell into 
the oceans. And those atop his body-some fell from the fiery 
corpse and struck the coastal lands, and they became the 
Rishadans. Those who held on to the blazing body were slain 
and lie now guarding the bones of Ramos. That is why when we 
die, we return to the heavens, the place from which we came. 
Once there, we are joined in the Great River that runs among 
the stars until at last it falls off the edge of the world 
into the great, everlasting dark."
    Orim nodded thoughtfully. "And who in the play was the 
red-haired woman?"
    "A demon who pretended to support Ramos in the conflict. 
In the end, she betrayed him, but he defeated her and so won 
the war. Her name was Hassno the Unrighteous."
    "And the last part of the play?"
    "Though the children of Ramos-Cho-Arrim, Rishadan, 
Saprazzan-were scattered through forest, plain, and sea, 
someday will come the Uniter. He will be a great metal 
serpent. When he returns, all the children of Ramos will be 
joined as one and will triumph over our enemies," Is-Shada 
said with conviction.
    "And you believe Weatherlight is the soul of this Uniter?"
    Is-Shada pushed back the dark hair that framed her heart-
shaped face. "You would have to ask Cho-Manno."
    "You know, there were other folk who thought the owner of 
Weatherlight was a uniter-the Korvecdal."
    The woman only shrugged. "Truth is truth, wherever it is 
found."

                          * * * * *

    Orim startled awake from a nightmare. Her heart pounded in 
her chest.
    She had dreamed of monsters-inhuman beasts with four arms, 
boar-heads, scorpion tails. They scaled the vast forest wall, 
where tree trunks formed a barrier a hundred feet high. The 
monsters leaped upward, as nimble and bloodthirsty as fleas. 
They loped into the nighttime wood. Whenever they encountered 
a creature-whether coney-fox or wumpus or red wolf-the 
monsters fell upon it, tore it to pieces, ate their victim's 
innards, and flung away bone and muscle to rot. Their claws 
girdled ancient trees. Their talons tore up undergrowth. Worst 
of all, they arrowed straight through the forest toward the 
Cho-Arrim village.
    "Just a nightmare," Orim said to herself, panting and 
clutching a hand to her chest. Her bed of leaves and moss lay, 
warm and familiar, beneath her. Solid walls of wood enclosed 
her. Is-Shada's room was just down the corridor, and Cho-
Manno's beyond. She was safe. "Just a nightmare."
    Feet came along the passage-probably Is-Shada, checking on 
her.
    "You are awake," came a man's voice, basso in the 
darkness.
    "Cho-Manno!" Orim gasped, grabbing a robe from a hook on 
the wall and holding it over herself. "What are you doing-?"
    "You dreamed it too," he interrupted. His eyes glinted in 
the dark. "That's good. The Rushwood is getting its roots in 
you."
    "You had the same nightmare?"
    "Yes. Mercenaries. Monsters. They must be caterans," Cho-
Manno answered. "But it was not our dream. It was Rushwood's. 
And it was not just a dream. The monsters are coming."
    Orim stood. "Where can we flee? They can run, and climb-"
    "We do not flee. We fight. The forest awoke us to mount a 
defense. Even now, it awakes other defenders-ancient things 
that have not walked the land in centuries-but they rouse 
slowly. We must go. We are the first line of defense."
    "We?" Orim asked, astonished. "I'm not a fighter."
    "You are a healer, like Ta-Karnst. The forest dreams in 
you, as in him-chavala. Where there are fighters, there must 
be healers."
    Dropping her robe, Orim donned her healer's cloak, slipped 
on her leggings and boots, and wrapped the turban about sleep-
tousled hair. "I'm ready."
    "Good," Cho-Manno said, holding his hand out in the 
darksome room. She saw then that he himself wore only a 
loincloth. "My armor and sword wait by the door. Already, the 
skyscouts and wizards are on their way." Orim took his hand. 
It was strong and warm. A salty scent enveloped him. "Let us 
fight for the Rushwood."

                          * * * * *

    A coney-fox darted, shrieking. Ears lay back along its 
shoulders. Gray haunches pumped furiously. Claws flung up the 
mossy ground. Hunks of lichen smacked the fangs of its 
pursuer.
    The monstrous thing came on, heedless. Eyes glowed yellow 
deviltry in the night. Mandibles thrashed hungrily. Four arms 
raked out after its prey. Taloned feet tore the ground. A 
barb-tipped appendage stabbed down, pinning the coney-fox's 
bushy tail.
    With another shriek, the terrified creature yanked free, 
leaving half its tail behind. It bled. Each bound flung a 
sanguine trail behind it. The monster would never give up now. 
It would follow the blood path across the forest floor. It was 
doomed. To ground-every coney-fox knew to go to ground to die. 
It vaulted over a root tangle and scrambled down into the vast 
hole that opened on the other side.
    Darkness lay ahead. The silver glow of the tree trunks 
receded. The coney-fox bounded down a worn trail among roots. 
There was a strong smell ahead.
    Another creature laired down here, a creature with massive 
claws, a scaly gray hide, huge muscles-a crouched and 
lumbering thing. Its mouth was filled with blunt, plant-eating 
teeth. This beast was a protector. The coney-fox leaped 
beneath it, flushing it from cover. The lumbering satyr jumped 
up the side of the hollow just as the fanged monster plunged 
down it.
    The satyr lunged atop the cateran enforcer. Quicker and 
crueler, the cateran bit open the beast's belly and started 
feasting.
    In its dying gasps, the satyr clasped the cateran's legs 
and yanked them apart as though it were breaking a wishbone. A 
messy moment followed, and then one dead beast collapsed atop 
the other.
    The coney-fox cowered silently below. More fanged horrors 
vaulted over the pit and raced on into the deep forest.

                          * * * * *

    By the time Orim, Cho-Manno, Ta-Karnst, and Ta-Spon 
arrived at the battleground, the forest was bathed in blood.
    Red shafts jutted from the bellies and brainpans of fallen 
monsters-boar-headed men, demon-eyed beasts, four-armed 
killers, things with scorpion tails, snake bodies, roach 
legs.... They lay thick across the ground behind the battle 
lines. Scores more had broken through, crashing against 
hastily entrenched Cho-Arrim warriors.
    Black armor bashed black carapace. Darting swords of bone 
parried darting stingers of poison. The Cho-Arrim were 
outnumbered four to one, but they bravely fought on. Unarmored 
archers even waded into the midst, their arrows leaping a mere 
arm's length to pierce fiendish eyes. The Cho-Arrim made a 
valiant stand, but more inhuman monsters rushed from the dark 
woods.
    A four-armed monster ripped the armor from one warrior's 
chest and plunged its claws through skin and muscle and rib to 
pierce the flailing heart within. A boar-headed beast drove 
its tusks up beneath a woman's jaw, impaling her and whipping 
her back and forth until her chin ripped off. A scorpion-man 
sunk its stingers in an archer's eyes and smiled lustfully as 
it pumped its red venom into his brain.
    "I've got to get down there!" Orim gasped, clawing forward 
over a mossy root bulb.
    Cho-Manno's hand pulled her back. "No. Wait here with Ta-
Karnst. If my healers die, my warriors are doomed. First, let 
us drive them back. Then you emerge to tend the wounded." 
Drawing his bone sword, Cho-Manno strode down the embankment. 
Beside him went Ta-Spon, the gigantic executioner who had 
slain Klaars. Ta-Spon bore a massive spiked mace on his 
shoulder. Soon, those spikes would be running in blood.
    "Drive them back?" Orim worried aloud as she watched the 
men's broad, armored shoulders. "How can they possibly drive 
them back?"
    Young and lithe beside her, Ta-Karnst pointed to a rise of 
wood that overlooked the battlefield. "Watch. The wizards have 
arrived."
    "What good is water magic in a dry place?"
    "No place is truly dry," Ta-Karnst said. "Look!"
    A spell leaped in white ribbons down from the hillside. It 
surged toward the center of the battle, where a four-armed 
beast tore apart warrior after warrior. The monster stood in a 
small swale between roots. Blood mantled the creature and 
filled the spot to cover its talons. Tendrils of force plunged 
into the blood pool, coiling through it, enlivening it. A 
sanguine vortex rose. As it gathered more liquid, the vortex 
formed into a man-a man of blood. With no sword, no armor, the 
man rammed his gory fist down the cateran's throat. His arm 
followed to the elbow, to the shoulder.
    "What is it doing?" Orim asked.
    "Drowning the beast in blood," Ta-Karnst said.
    Gagging, clutching its throat, the cateran fell to its 
knees. Red bubbles gushed from its mouth, and it sank down in 
the pool of blood surrounding it. Gore disgorged from the 
monster's nostrils and mouth. The pool churned again, another 
vortex rising. The blood warrior drew more power from the pool 
and strode out to attack a second beast.
    "We are, after all, creatures filled with water," Ta-
Karnst said. "But we are not the only ones-see?"
    Another spell lashed down from the wizards on the hill. 
Fingers of mist reached out and wrapped around a boar-headed 
invader. Droplets of water condensed out of air and soaked 
into the beast's hide. Moments later, steam issued from its 
every pore. The monster shuddered, flesh seemed to boil. It 
opened its mouth to bellow, but only steam jetted angrily 
forth. With it came the unmistakable scent of roast boar. It, 
too, collapsed.
    As more magic roared down from the hilltop, Cho-Manno and 
his warriors made brutal work of the beasts. The chieftain 
strode angrily against the foes, driving his sword into 
bellies and hearts and eyes. Ta-Spon's mace had become an 
aspergillum that laved the battlefield in blood. Beside him 
fought the blood warrior, empowered by the red rain in the 
air.
    No new monsters joined the fray, and those already 
fighting fell back before the Cho-Arrim defenders.
    "And now, they are trapped," Ta-Karnst said, gesturing 
behind the line of beasts.
    From the treetops, on cords as long and sleek as spider 
webs, dropped the skyscouts. Others glided down on capes that 
draped from ankles to wrists. They reached the ground and drew 
their swords. In moments, as many Cho-Arrim stood behind the 
beasts as before them. The battlefield had become a vice.
    "Let's go," Orim said. She vaulted over the root cluster 
and ran down the slope. Ta-Karnst followed behind.
    They reached the first of the fallen warriors, many of 
them dead. For those who lived, there were bandages and 
salves, opiates to deaden local pain and soporifics to bring 
sleep. The work was brutal and busy. The number of wounded was 
overwhelming. Lacerations, amputations, eviscerations, 
poisonings...
    Orim worked over her ninth patient when Cho-Manno strode 
to her side.
    "The battle is won," he said heavily.
    "I'm still fighting mine," Orim replied, cinching a 
tourniquet on a ruined arm. Panting, she asked, "Do we even 
know who the attackers were? Where they came from?" Cho-Manno 
stooped, helping to tie the tourniquet in place. "They were 
cateran mercenaries, as I thought. They were hired by the 
Mercadians."
    Shaking her head bitterly, Orim hissed, "Mercadians ... 
they are not among the children of Ramos, are they?" "No. 
Their origin is different than ours. But the forest knows 
them, now. They will not win so far inward again. As soon as 
Mercadians harm the forest again, greater powers will arise. 
The forest itself will destroy them."
    "Vicious monsters. Why are the Mercadians attacking us?" 
Cho-Manno's eyes were dark in his handsome face. "They came to 
capture Weatherlight."
    
                        Chapter 6

    Tahngarth coughed and spat a gobbet of dust-blackened spit 
into the parched earth. The beads in his hair rattled in the 
dry wind. The minotaur reached up behind his neck and adjusted 
the straps of the pack riding high on his muscular shoulders. 
He twisted his other arm, reaching inside the heavy fabric of 
his brocaded jacket. His thick fingers scrabbled against his 
chest, reached his armpit, and gave a long, satisfying 
scratch.
    Around him soldiers of the Mercadian Imperial Guard
    Fifth Regiment groaned in the unrelenting heat. A stench 
rose from their sweating bodies, almost palpable in the dusty 
air. Around them, the broad plain before the city stretched 
away into nothingness. Far to the west, a thick brown eddy of 
dust swirled, spitting out long tendrils of dun-colored grit.
    A thudding of claws nearby made the minotaur look up. 
Astride a nettled Jhovall rode a familiar green form.
    "Speed it up, men!" trumpeted Squee shrilly. "Keep dat 
line straight! Dress da front of the rear! Wheel behind da 
right of flank left!"
    Since facing down a cateran enforcer a moonturning ago, 
Squee had pressed every advantage of his species. Goblins were 
accorded strange honors in Mercadia. It had taken Gerrard a 
whole week to convince his soldiers they did not need to 
listen to the "little commander"-that Squee in fact wanted 
them not to listen. After a month of training, the soldiers 
dutifully ignored Squee's commands. They marched steadily 
forward, looking neither left nor right.
    With some difficulty, the goblin turned his large steed 
until he caught sight of the minotaur. "Hallo, Tahngarth. 
Didn't see you. Squee's having fun. How 'bout you?"
    The minotaur's enhanced muscles bulged and swelled, and he 
bent his head without saying a word. He thought a good many 
words, though, and muttered a few under his breath.
    Squee rode to the rear of the procession, where he found 
Gerrard, similarly mounted. The Benalian was sweating 
copiously. Near him, a group of young Mercadian nobles, 
dressed in the uniforms of brigadiers and generals, were being 
carried in litters by slaves. Other slaves walked alongside, 
waving large wood and parchment fans to create a continuous 
breeze upon the noble companions.
    "Hoy, Squee! Everything going well up in front?" Gerrard 
asked, not expecting to get any real information from the 
goblin's answer.
    "Oh, yeah. Great. Gerrard?"
    "What?" The Benalian spoke through dry, cracked lips.
    "Ain't you supposed to salute Squee when yer talking to 
Squee?"
    Gerrard's lips moved, forming some of the same words 
Tahngarth spoke fifty yards away. Next, the Benalian thought 
sourly, the little goblin will expect to take Sisay's place as 
captain of Weatherlight.
    That thought jolted Gerrard's mind back to the present. 
With a quick command he brought the party around in a right 
turn and then headed them back in the direction in which 
they'd come. Every day, every foray, the Mercadians improved a 
bit. He held up a finger, marking wind direction, and then 
rode up beside Tahngarth. "Well, what do you think? Are they 
ready?"
    "No," the minotaur growled. "Their discipline is poor, and 
too many have not yet mastered fighting skills. If they were 
to confront properly trained soldiers, they would be 
slaughtered."
    "I agree. From what Takara reports, the Cho-Arrim are more 
than trained soldiers. They're bloodthirsty head-hunters. It 
would be murder to march into Rushwood with unseasoned 
troops." Gerrard shook his head. "But from now on, we drive 
these enlistees harder.... Who knows what those inhuman 
monsters have done with Orim?"
    The shrill voice of Squee broke into the conversation. 
"Play dead! Everybody, roll over 'n' play dead!"
    In unison, Tahngarth and Gerrard spoke a curse.

                          * * * * *

    The vendor ran a hand lovingly over his display. It was 
hard to imagine that anywhere in the lands ruled by Mercadia 
was a farm that could best these farfhallen melons: firm, 
ripe, an edge of green showing along the creases in the rind. 
He drew the morning air into his lungs and let loose a bellow 
heard across the entire marketplace. "Fresh scarlet melons! 
Beautiful farfhallen melons! Ripe for the taking! Who'll take 
some nice, ripe farfhallen melons?"
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a long, thin arm 
reach for the fruit and pull one off the stand. Visions of 
adolescent boys, the bane of his existence, filled his mind, 
and he spun around, slapping down hard. An outraged squeal was 
heard, and the merchant found himself facing a small, green 
figure whose face showed surprise, anguish, and anger.
    It was a goblin.
    Yet this one was different. The merchant looked at the 
small green figure carefully. Like everyone else, he was well 
acquainted with Kyren, but this goblin was smaller than most. 
His eyes were dull and lacked the malicious glint of those who 
daily ascended the steps of the Tower of the Magistrate.
    The farmer snatched back his hand as if it had been 
burned, his voice switching to a pleasant tenor. "I do beg 
your pardon, my good sir. I'm pleased my melons have found 
favor with you."
    The thin, green face looked inquisitively at him. Behind 
the thief loomed an enormous brown figure, twisted horns 
brushing the top of the stall. The farmer gave a whimper of 
fear and stepped back away from his wares.
    "Come, Squee. It's only a melon. Give it back and come 
along."
    "But, Tahngarth, Squee's terrible hungry."
    "You are always terribly hungry."
    "Not always!" The goblin's face wore an injured 
expression. "But Squee ain't had a decent meal since we got ta 
this place." He looked disdainfully at the melon. "This place 
ain't got no proper goblin food. What 'bout bugs? What 'bout 
slugs? Squee ain't seen none around nowhere anyhow."
    The farmer found his voice. "Pardon me, but the melons are 
scarce this season. There has been little rainfall in the 
lowlands, and Cho-Arrim raiders plague the caravans."
    The minotaur gave a sour grunt. "Put it back and come."
    "Sir, wait!" The merchant ignored the enormous brown 
creature and deferentially addressed Squee. "Allow me to offer 
you this melon-as a gift."
    A young blonde woman, who had materialized by the 
minotaur's side, said to the merchant, "We apologize for our 
friend's behavior. We're a bit new to the city. We thank you 
for your generosity."
    The fruit seller performed an obsequious obeisance. 
"Whatever our scaly friends desire."
    The blonde woman wore an unsettled expression. "Yes, we've 
noticed."

                          * * * * *

    "1 can't believe they already sent a contingent after 
Weatherlight.'" Gerrard growled, whirling his sword. The blade 
struck the practice dummy, shearing off its head. "I can't 
believe they didn't wait until our troops were trained!"
    Takara took a deep breath of the dusty afternoon air. 
Gazing at the decapitated dummy, she said with dark humor, "If 
it is any consolation, the force they sent was slaughtered."
    "Of course they were slaughtered!" Gerrard said. He kicked 
the post and snapped the thing in half. His troops on the 
practice grounds beyond stared with bald fear at their angry 
commander. "Of course they were slaughtered. Our fighters are 
the only fighters Mercadia has. It's taken us six weeks to 
turn these lazy sausages into fighting men. Anybody else would 
have been killed."
    The Mercadians' eyes grew wider still. They stared down 
into the dust, practice swords hanging limp in their hands.
    In six weeks, every last one had dropped in weight and 
bulked their muscles. They had learned to fight hard and bathe 
afterward. They were even beginning to be impressive with 
trident and sword, but still they feared their vitriolic 
commander.
    Takara, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on his fury.
    He hissed, "They're trying to get to Weatherlight before 
we can. They're trying to renege on the deal."
    Folding arms over her breastplate, Takara replied, "That's 
not reneging. They've met all the demands and will let you 
have your force when they are trained. The Mercadians never 
agreed to leave Weatherlight alone."
    Gerrard nodded, sweat falling from his forehead. "Well, 
we'll just have to take these soldiers sooner."
    "The Cho-Arrim aren't just cannibals. They're monsters, if 
you can believe these Mercadians. These Cho-Arrim are 
apparently vicious, inhuman beasts."
    "All the more reason to whip these sad sacks into shape, 
and quickly. Orim is a prisoner among them-if she still 
lives," Gerrard said. "Go find Tahngarth and Sisay. I know 
this is their day off, but from now on none of us gets a day 
off until we have Weatherlight back."
    "As you wish," Takara said, striding away.
    Gerrard turned toward the Mercadian troops and barked out, 
"Back to the drill!"

                          * * * * *

    The minotaur grumbled as they left the merchant's tent. 
Squee greedily seized another melon and began to munch on it, 
the juice dribbling over his chin.
    A porter rushing along with a heavy basket of fruit on his 
shoulder barreled into the goblin and sprawled, the basket 
spilling bright red berries. Hanna and Tahngarth bent to 
retrieve what they could. Seeing Squee, the porter gave a 
sudden shriek and rushed off, leaving his basket and scattered 
wares behind him.
    Tahngarth gave a snort, trying not to laugh. "Kyren 
goblins! What sort of place is ruled by goblins?"
    Hanna shook her head. "I don't know. It's clear they're 
very important."
    "Goblins! What 'bout goblins?" Squee appeared at her 
elbow, his nose and mouth smeared with red berries.
    Hanna said sharply, "You shouldn't eat these things until 
you know what they are."
    "Yeah, but how're you gonna know what they are without 
tasting 'em?"
    The trio passed on down the street. Every few yards they 
were confronted with yet another merchant shouting and 
gesturing. It was a dizzying spectacle. The whole city was 
dizzying. During their six-week stay, the crew had come to 
realize the labyrinth of streets was ruled by a contorted, 
recursive geometry. A person could reach a landmark not by 
walking toward it but by walking away. A woman striding down a 
straight street would discover that she had been going in 
circles. A man wandering in circles would quickly reach his 
destination. It was as though a city of millions had been 
impossibly squeezed into a city of a hundred thousand. Space 
folded and refolded, maddeningly unpredictable. Sobriety led 
to utter confusion. Delirium led to truth.
    Squee did quite well under these conditions. He did not 
even notice the disparities. Hanna's navigational sense was 
intrigued. She had plotted neighborhoods with various 
projections and found no system of coordinates adequate. 
Tahngarth-and other linear thinkers-spent their days 
hopelessly lost and suffering constant, raging headaches.
    Tahngarth stumped irritably along. Buyers and sellers 
scattered before his hooves. The navigator looked at him and 
was struck at the change that had come over the minotaur. His 
bulky muscles were impressive, his frame more imposing than 
before his imprisonment in Volrath's Stronghold. Yet in his 
brown eyes there was a haunted look, as if something deep 
within him had died.
    On an impulse, she put her hand on his broad arm and 
guided the minotaur to the base of a small tree. Here there 
were no stalls, and the noise was somewhat diminished. Hanna 
sank to the ground with a sigh of relief. Tahngarth remained 
standing. Squee squatted near them for a short time and then 
nosed off.
    "Come, my friend. Sit down." She tugged at Tahngarth's 
tunic. He cleared his throat and knelt by her side with every 
appearance of reluctance.
    "Do you want to tell me what the matter is, Tahngarth?"
    "No. You would not understand."
    "Perhaps I would. Suppose I tell you what I think is 
troubling you, and you tell me if I'm wrong?"
    He stared sullenly into the middle distance where the 
Tower of the Magistrate rose against the lemon sky.
    Hanna followed his gaze. "You were hurt in the Stronghold. 
However, Volrath didn't only torture you, he altered you. So 
much I've already heard from Gerrard, but I think there's 
something else to be said. I think you're afraid of 
something."
    "Afraid!"
    Hanna shrank back at the minotaur's roar.
    "I am afraid of nothing!" He looked at her and blew a deep 
breath through his great nostrils. "Yet you are right. I would 
prefer I had died on Rath."
    Hanna sighed in exasperation. "Oh, really? Well, that 
would be a lot of help to us here, wouldn't it? Then we'd be 
mourning you and Mirri." She leaned back, appraising the 
minotaur. "Is it the physical changes that bother you?"
    Tahngarth stared silently into space. When Hanna started 
to get up, he spoke. "Ever since I was a tiny calf, I was told 
how handsome I was. I thought myself the handsomest of any 
minotaur in my tribe. I was more than handsome-I was 
beautiful." He turned and looked her full in the face. "Among 
my people, destinies are written in our faces, our bodies. I 
knew I would grow up to be a great warrior because I looked 
like a great warrior."
    Hanna said thoughtfully, "Surely there must be more to 
being a warrior than looking the part?"
    "There is, of course. One must train long and hard, hone 
one's fighting skills, prove oneself against others. But looks 
are by no means unimportant." He looked at her sharply. "Tell 
me this is not true among humans."
    "It isn't," protested Hanna.
    "Of course it is. Do you mean to tell me, Hanna, that when 
you look at Gerrard you do not see one who looks like a hero?" 
Though Hanna started to speak, the minotaur interrupted. 
"Sometimes during our journeys together I've heard you and 
others aboard Weatherlight speak of the great heroes of the 
past. Did you never notice that in all those tales the men are 
tall, strong, and handsome? That the women are exquisitely 
beautiful? Would you have enjoyed those stories just as much 
if the women had been ugly, and the men short, fat, and 
deformed? Would you still follow Gerrard if he looked like a 
rotten potato?"
    Hanna spoke coldly. "I certainly hope that I can see 
beyond the surface. Gerrard is heir to the Legacy. That's why 
we follow him."
    The minotaur shook his great head. "If Squee were heir to 
the Legacy, would you follow him?"
    Hanna laughed. The idea of anyone following Squee anywhere 
was absurd. "But you're still exceedingly handsome, still 
young and strong."
    "No. Strong but twisted. Volrath's soldiers placed me in a 
room where a beam of light shot from the ceiling. No matter 
which way I turned I could not avoid it." His voice cracked at 
the memory. "Finally it struck me, pinned me. I could feel it 
within me. My bones turned and twisted. My skin felt as if it 
was breaking. When it stopped, Greven il-Vec came. He looked 
at me and laughed. He said I might make a good first mate for 
him." The minotaur turned and stared at the blonde woman by 
his side. "And for a moment, I could see myself standing by 
his side. I could see myself, in my new, scarred body, 
standing on the deck of that dark ship as it swept across the 
skies of Rath. More than that, I wanted to be there." He 
lifted his great fist and slammed it into the ground. "Strong 
but twisted."
    Hanna jumped as the earth quaked. There was a long 
silence, and then she said cautiously, "But you were rescued."
    "Yes, yes, but I might have joined the dark ship had not 
Gerrard rescued me."
    Hanna shook her head. "No, you wouldn't have, Tahngarth. 
Anyway, the past doesn't matter. What matters is what you are 
today, and right now you're the first mate of Weatherlight." 
She cleared her throat. "Maybe you have a point about 
appearances. But even if that's the case, I can tell you that 
you look like a first mate to me. Indeed, you look like a 
hero."
    Tahngarth remained deep in thought for several minutes. 
Then he clapped Hanna on the shoulder. "Perhaps I have been 
brooding too much on this matter."
    The conversation was ended abruptly by the arrival of 
Takara. "Tahngarth, Gerrard wants you and Sisay. He's ready to 
form up the troops for inspection. He's ready to march to the 
Rushwood."

                          * * * * *

    Dust was everywhere. Grit filled sky and earth. It stung 
eyes and scoured noses. It clung to teeth and poured into 
ears. It clogged pores and tickled in necklines and filled the 
shaggy pelts of Jhovalls.
    Mercadian dust-magic moved whole armies rapidly across the 
plain, but they arrived looking like dirt clods.
    Riding a great rust-colored Jhovall, Gerrard led the 
Mercadian Imperial Guard Fifth Regiment through the dust 
cloud. To his right hand rode Takara, wrapped in a sandy 
scarf. To his left were Sisay and Tahngarth. Gerrard wanted 
his crew members beside and behind him-the best and most loyal 
fighters in his elite division. At their backs rode one 
hundred highly trained Mercadian warriors. Though grit covered 
their faces, they rode in even ranks. Amid swirling dust, the 
troops were mere shades of brown, yellow, and gray, but their 
weapons gleamed. Behind these riders came the most fearsome 
troops of all-caterans. The mercenaries were a motley and 
bloodthirsty band, some human but most inhuman, monstrous. 
They were cruel and unruly, loyal to Gerrard only through 
their commander, Xcric.
    Gerrard whistled a distinctive trill. Out of the blinding 
cloud behind him rode Xcric. He was a cateran enforcer much 
like the one Squee had cowed in the marketplace that first 
day. Demonic eyes gleamed in his bulbous skull. Four mandibles 
plucked sand from a fangy mouth. Four arms jutted from his 
twisted shoulders. Clawed hands clutched the beast's reins, 
and barbed nubs held a lizard-skin cloak tight to his back. 
This taloned horror was no more than a brigand-and yet the 
Mercadians had hired him and insisted that he and his gang 
accompany the crew. Gerrard couldn't refuse.
    "How close are we to the Rushwood?"
    "Close." The creature's face was a mask of brown dirt. 
"Between a half mile and a quarter mile."
    Gerrard nodded. "All right. Tell your people to fight only 
on my orders. We're counting on surprise and skill at arms, 
not brute force."
    The fangy smile on Xcric's face was indecipherable. "Oh, 
yes. I'll tell them." He reigned in his Jhovall and dropped 
back through the ravening storm.
    Takara leaned toward Gerrard, putting a hand on his knee. 
"You'd better be ready to fight, Gerrard."
    "I don't trust the caterans," Gerrard replied. "They could 
just as easily kill Orim as the Cho-Arrim."
    "And if the Cho-Arrim have already killed your friend- our 
friend-what then?"
    Gerrard's smile was humorless. "Then I'll let the caterans 
kill as many as they want."
    The dust cloud suddenly thinned and fell away entirely. 
The ever-present shroud of tan dissipated, replaced by a 
searing yellow sky, parched brown soil, and the vast green 
wall of the Rushwood.
    The ancient forest was an imposing sight. Tree trunks, as 
wide around as mansions, reached to the sky. They were packed 
as tightly as teeth in a titan's smile. The lower boles and 
root bulbs had fused together into a smooth and sloping wall a 
hundred feet high. Above it, trunks divided and soared 
straight up, mossy columns in a colossal temple. They 
supported a lofty and dense ceiling of foliage and vines. 
Trees receded into dim infinity.
    "Is this the right spot, Sisay?" Gerrard asked.
    She nodded grimly, staring at a small map scroll. "Yes, if 
Mercadian cartography can be trusted." Sisay wiped dust from 
her face. The beautiful sheen of her skin appeared beneath it. 
She stared at the dark forest ahead. "It's another world in 
there, Gerrard. Outsiders are not welcome. It's no wonder the 
caterans before us got slaughtered."
    Takara studied Sisay. "Those Cho-Arrim survive in a forest 
where caterans don't."
    "Perhaps they survive because the forest wants them to," 
Sisay replied. "Stories in the Mercadian libraries tell that 
the Rushwood is a living entity, a great thinking thing. It 
will know we enter it. It will marshal defenses."
    Gerrard nodded. "Then let us enter respectfully. Fight 
only if you are attacked. Relay the word." He set heels to his 
Jhovall's flanks.
    He rode up the slanting ground beneath the forest wall. 
His tawny mount flung back the bank easily. It bounded, weary 
of dust flats and eager for woodlands. The Jhovall's claws 
sank in the loamy soil.
    Takara, Sisay, and Tahngarth followed in his wake, and the 
Mercadian Guard and caterans brought up the rear. Though 
individually soft-footed, en masse the Jhovalls made a vast 
rumble on the sloping ground.
    Gerrard's mount reached a wooden wall and climbed. Claws 
gripped ancient bark. The beast hurled itself upward. Gerrard 
leaned forward in the saddle. With its six legs, the Jhovall 
ascended with greater ease than a typical cat. In moments, it 
topped the forest wall and entered the cool, wet space between 
trees. Bounding over lichen and spongy humus, the tiger-
creature led the mounted corps into the forest.
    "So," Gerrard murmured to himself, "this is the Rushwood."
    Glaring dust gave way to damp murk. Sweat turned cold on 
necks. Shouts and rumbling footfalls were swallowed in a 
preternatural hush. The forest seemed to hold its breath as 
the army charged inward.
    Gerrard motioned Sisay up beside his surging steed. Her 
mount matched his stride for stride. So quiet were their 
footfalls across moss and mushroom that the two old friends 
could speak to each other in hushed whispers.
    "Where from here?" Gerrard asked.
    "You should have brought your navigator," Sisay replied 
with a wry smile. "Though I wouldn't have flung Hanna into 
these fights, either." She consulted the map scroll. "We head 
southeast from here to the river. After we cross it, we head 
due south to reach the center of the wood. Then, of course, we 
hope Weatherlight is there."
    "She's there, all right." Gerrard's eyes were faraway. 
"Does she call to you?"
    "What?"
    "Weatherlight. Does she call to you?" Gerrard asked.
    Sisay blinked. "Maybe. Maybe I've just never listened...."
    "She calls to me," Gerrard said, his voice husky among the 
rushing boles. "Even when I fled away from her, Weatherlight 
called to me."
    Sisay shrugged. The green murk grew deeper around them, 
and a ghostly silver glow shone among the vast trees. "That's 
why I'm Weatherlight's captain, and you're her comrade, her 
destiny."
    "She's there, all right," Gerrard repeated, gazing into 
the darkness. "She's in the center of the forest. The Cho-
Arrim took her there."
    A speculative look crossed Sisay's face. "I think Takara's 
been listening too much to these Mercadians-all this inhuman 
monster nonsense. Those weren't monsters we fought at the 
farm. The way they appeared and took Weatherlight- it was like 
the ship called to them too." Hesitantly, she ventured, 
"Perhaps she is part of their destiny too."
    A muscle in Gerrard's jaw leaped. "We'll see, soon enough. 
We'll ride until dark and then set up camp. No fires tonight. 
Nothing that might... offend the forest."
    Sisay gave an appraising nod. The forest scrolled dizzily 
past her mount. "Yes. I think Weatherlight does call to you."
    
                        Chapter 7

    "Orim!"
    Weatherlight's healer turned on her bed of leaves and 
woven moss, murmuring inarticulately. "Orim!"
    "All ri'. All ri'. I'm 'wake. What is it?" She sat up, 
rubbing her eyes. Dim light shone through the window, 
illuminating the small room and its simple furnishings: the 
bed, a small hearth, a rough table, a chair. Before her 
squatted one of the Cho-Arrim whose name she did not know. He 
touched his forehead in salute.
    "Is-Meisha's time comes. You must help her now." Orim 
threw off the rough blanket that covered her and, without 
giving any thought to her nakedness, pulled on a simple shift. 
"Is Ta-Karnst with her?"
    "Yes, but he wishes you to be there as well." He paused 
and added, "Cho-Manno and Is-Shada are already there."
    Orim nodded, scarcely looking at him. Her mind was racing 
ahead. "Can you heat some water?" she asked, pushing back the 
door. She left, not waiting for an answer.
    Orim made her way easily through the settlement. Many of 
the villagers' huts were grouped around the clearing in which 
the central fire burned. Others were tucked back within the 
trees, some nearer to the waters of the lagoon. A few, indeed, 
were built out over the lagoon itself, supported by wooden 
stilts, with narrow causeways connecting them to the land and 
each other.
    The hut Is-Meisha shared with her mate was one of these. 
It took Orim only a few minutes to traverse the causeways to 
reach it. By the entrance, a small crowd had gathered, 
anticipating the new addition to the tribe. Is-Shada was among 
them, eager to help but uncertain what to do.
    "Don't fear, everyone," Is-Shada said. "Orim is here. She 
will know what to do."
    As Orim pushed her way through, she smiled nervously at 
her friend. The tribesmen respectfully gave way.
    Inside the dwelling, she strained to make out the identity 
of the people. The executioner Ta-Spon, Is-Meisha's mate, was 
crouched next to the bed, on which lay a recumbent figure. Ta-
Spon rose as Orim entered. A giant of a man, almost seven feet 
tall, his head brushed the top of the hut. Orim made a quick 
bow to him, feeling more than a little intimidated. 
Gratefully, she saw Cho-Manno standing motionless in one 
corner. He caught Orim's eye and smiled reassuringly at her.
    Ta-Karnst was kneeling at the other side of the bed, his 
hands busy kneading Is-Meisha's muscles. He glanced up at 
Orim.
    "The youngling is coming hard."
    Orim joined him, putting a hand on Is-Meisha's swollen 
belly. She could feel contractions running along the smooth 
skin, straining the exhausted muscles. She lifted Is-Meisha's 
shift, already damp with sweat, and glanced beneath it. "How 
long has she been in labor?" "Four hours."
    "Why did you not call me earlier?" "There seemed no need 
to disturb your rest. I have birthed younglings many times 
before." He added, "I have seen this too. The mother strains 
and strains but cannot give birth. At last she may give birth, 
but the child is always dead, and often the mother dies as 
well."
    Orim nodded. "I've seen it too, but it's a problem with a 
solution. The baby is breeched, turned in the womb. It's 
coming out wrong. We'll have to try to move it around inside." 
She looked about the hut and caught sight of the tribesman who 
had awoken her, bearing a large bowl.
    From his place in the corner Cho-Manno stepped over to the 
man, placed his hands above the bowl, and murmured a word. 
Steam rose from the surface, and Orim plunged her hands into 
the hot water, almost scalding but barely tolerable.
    "You too," she said to Ta-Karnst. "We don't want to cause 
infection."
    The healer shrugged, immersing his hands. Then he knelt on 
one side of the struggling woman, holding her legs apart while 
Orim slowly forced her wet fingers inside. Is-Meisha cried 
out, a shudder convulsing her limbs. Ta-Spon growled something 
unintelligible and took a heavy step forward, but Cho-Manno 
put a hand on his big shoulder, restraining him.
    Orim probed delicately. Only once before had she delivered 
a breeched baby, a number of years ago during one of 
Weatherlight's journeys. Now she touched the baby's tiny 
limbs, feeling it stir. She withdrew her hand and looked at 
Ta-Karnst.
    "Definitely a breech. The baby is feetfirst."
    "Can you suggest anything?"
    "Let's try to rotate the child in the womb. But it's 
tricky, and it will hurt Is-Meisha."
    The last phrase penetrated Ta-Spon's anxiety, and he 
tensed.
    Cho-Manno tightened his grip on the big man's arm, saying 
quietly to Orim, "If you do nothing, will the child die?"
    "Probably."
    "And Is-Meisha?"
    "Ta-Karnst is right." Orim washed her hands in the hot 
water, rubbing the blood and mucus off. "Often in such cases 
the mother dies as well."
    Ta-Spon groaned, sweat dripping from his forehead. He bent 
over his mate, rocking back and forth in an agony of 
indecision. Is-Meisha shuddered as another contraction seized 
her, and a soft cry escaped her lips. Ta-Spon clutched her 
tiny hand in his enormous paw and nodded his assent to Orim.
    The healer once again plunged her hand into the hot water, 
while Cho-Manno motioned to the big man to move back. He 
positioned himself behind Is-Meisha, stroking her head, 
murmuring a soft, slow chant. Outside the hut, the chant was 
taken up by the waiting crowd, filling the room. It washed 
away tension like a cleansing rain dragging dust from the air.
    Again Ta-Karnst pushed apart the young woman's legs, and 
Orim reached in with her hand. She touched the tiny feet, 
pushing them gently back while at the same time her other hand 
pressed against the woman's belly, carefully manipulsting the 
baby's shoulder.
    Another contraction came, nearly crushing her fingers, and 
her involuntary cry matched that of Is-Meisha. When the 
contraction subsided, Orim tried to will away the pain as she 
again worked her hands around the small body.
    There! She pushed on the feet, while from the outside 
pressing on the upper torso of the child. For an agonizing 
second she met resistance, and the thought flickered through 
her mind that perhaps this was too much, perhaps the best 
thing was to remove the child in any way possible, to let it 
die and save Is-Meisha ... but then, the fetus turned.
    She withdrew her fingers with a gasp and plunged them into 
the bowl of water. "All right. Now let's try again, shall we, 
Is-Meisha? The next time there's a contraction, push. Push 
with all your might!"
    The pregnant woman gave a scream as a fresh wave of 
contractions wracked her body, yet in the scream there was now 
a note of triumph. It was Ta-Karnst, leaning forward, eyes 
alert, who caught the tiny form as it emerged. He made a quick 
slashing motion, cutting the umbilical cord that bound baby to 
mother, and proudly lifted the newborn aloft.
    Orim sat back, gasping for breath. Then, a second later, 
she realized something was wrong, very wrong. She turned to 
Cho-Manno. "Why isn't she crying? Why isn't she crying? What's 
wrong?"
    Is-Meisha lay back, completely spent, her eyes closed, her 
mind oblivious to the fate of her child. Cho-Manno looked 
sadly at Orim, touching her hair gently. Orim felt the tears 
begin to trickle down her cheeks.
    Ta-Karnst ignored both of them and showed no signs of 
mourning. Holding the child's body with one hand, he spread 
his other over the bowl in which he and Orim had washed their 
hands. His voice snapped out a command. Then, without 
hesitation, he plunged the child into the water.
    Orim started forward in protest but was brought up short 
by the baby's squeal of outrage. The noise seemed to arouse 
Is-Meisha, who moaned and reached out her arms. Carefully Ta-
Karnst wrapped the baby in a blanket and deposited her in her 
parent's arms. Ta-Spon, whose great hand had been pressed to 
his mouth during the birth, rushed forward to join his mate 
and baby daughter. He lay close by them, cradling them in his 
arms.
    Orim rose and almost fell. Black spots swam before her 
eyes. She felt hands catch her arms, Cho-Manno on one side, 
Ta-Karnst on the other. Together they gently led her from the 
hut.
    At the entrance, Cho-Manno halted and lifted his arms for 
silence from the crowd of Cho-Arrim. "She has come," he said. 
"Another soul to join the Great River of our people." There 
was a murmur of acclamation from those assembled, and they 
began to sing a welcoming song.
    Cho-Manno looked from Ta-Karnst to Orim and said, "You did 
well. Both of you."
    Orim turned to the Cho-Arrim healer. "I thought the child 
Was dead."
    Ta-Karnst shrugged. "Sometimes the child has a hard birth 
and will not breathe. But a little cold water helps."
    "Of course," Orim chuckled. "You turned the hot water cold 
and then immersed the baby." She laid a hand on the healer's 
arm, but he pulled away as if embarrassed, touched a hand to 
his forehead, and slipped silently into the darkness beneath 
the trees.
    Cho-Manno put an arm about Orim's slender shoulders. 
"Tired, chavala?"
    She shook her head.
    "Then come with me. We will sit by the waters and talk 
until our souls fall into the everlasting river that races 
through the sky."
    He guided her footsteps over the causeway, over root and 
branch, until before them Orim saw the soft glint of distant 
moonlight on the still waters of the lagoon. Cho-Manno sat 
down on a low stone. The water rippled about his dangling 
feet. He motioned for her to join him.
    Orim did. Listening to the murmur of night noises, she 
felt a sense of peace such as she had never experienced.
    Beside her Cho-Manno was silent, but she could feel the 
steady rhythm of his breathing. Orim watched his face in 
profile, the strong line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his 
brow, the thick, dark hair braided with countless coins.
    He looked at her, his eyes gleaming. "You are strong, 
Orim, yet gentle. I admired you as you brought that child into 
the world tonight."
    "As I helped," Orim corrected. "Ta-Karnst deserves 
credit."
    "You are two sides of the same coin, chavala. Ta-Karnst is 
the head, while you are the heart. He himself has come to see 
this." Cho-Manno bent, his fingers barely touching the surface 
of the water. From his outstretched hand, a ripple of light 
ran away across the surface, flashing, diving, recombining in 
a hundred different forms. At last it faded away.
    Orim, in her days among the Cho-Arrim, had become used to 
such water magic, but it never ceased to delight her.
    Cho-Manno leaned back against her and slumped wearily.
    "You are tired."
    "Yes. The watchers reported today, and I spoke long with 
them."
    "Who are the watchers?"
    "Those who watch from the eaves of the wood. They speak 
with the trees and the water and watch the people of the 
mountain."
    "And what do these watchers say to you?" Cho-Manno flicked 
another light pattern across the water. "They say there have 
been dust clouds on the horizon. Mercadians returning. The 
watchers will attack as soon as invaders harm the forest. The 
Mercadians haven't yet, but they will. They always do-and now, 
especially. They come for the soul of the Uniter." He motioned 
to where Weatherlight lay at anchor.
    Orim felt a painful jolt, as if cold arms had suddenly 
embraced her. "What will you do?"
    "Fight, again. Mercadians are not the children of Ramos.
    They would destroy the soul of the Uniter before it could 
be joined with the mind and body."
    "Tell me of the Uniter," Orim said, her eyes searching 
his. "Tell me."
    "Your arrival on this ship, flaming through the nighttime 
sky, was foretold in the Sixth Prophecy of the Uniter. You saw 
the tale performed in part by the separi. It is the story of 
our creation and of our future. We came to this world riding 
on the back of a great god-Ramos. This great god carried us in 
an argosy-like this ship here-but the Mercadians flung it from 
the sky. It fell in three parts-soul, mind, and body-and so 
created Cho-Arrim, Saprazzan, and Rishadan. The Sixth Prophecy 
tells that the soul of Ramos will return again, blazing in the 
sky. Should his soul be reunited with his mind and body, he 
would live again and unite the people. Now, we Cho-Arrim have 
the soul of Ramos. The Saprazzans have his mind-called by them 
the Matrix. And in the ghoul-haunted Deepwood lie the Bones of 
Ramos. Unite these all, and the folk who possess them, and we 
shall drive off the evil of the land forever."
    Cho-Manno rose abruptly and pulled her to her feet. "Come. 
I wish to show you something."
    He found one of the small canoes the Cho-Arrim kept 
alongside the lagoon and boarded it. Orim sat in the prow, 
while Cho-Manno, with swift, sure strokes of his paddle, 
guided them across the still waters. The lights of the 
settlement dimmed behind them.
    Orim felt sleep pulling at her. The journey became a dream 
in which she floated endlessly on a glass sea. There was no 
wind, and from time to time the trunk of a mighty tree thrust 
up high out of the waters. The trees were silver shafts in 
absolute blackness.
    At last, before them, Orim saw a slender line of light 
that seemed to grow out of the water itself. As they drew 
nearer, she saw it was a small island, some fifty yards in 
breadth, ringed by trees. Unlike the other trees she had seen, 
these were mere saplings, no more than eight or nine feet in 
height. Curiously, their trunks shone with a brighter sheen 
than the larger trees, as if they were more vital, more alive-
younger.
    Cho-Manno carefully grounded the canoe, jumped out, and 
helped Orim come ashore. Between the water of the lagoon and 
the trees was a wide swath of moss. They paced across it, up 
the gently rising ground, and to the trees.
    The light in the center of the circle was bright after the 
dim light of the forest. Orim stood still for a few moments 
rubbing her eyes. When she could see again, she observed that 
at the very center of the circle was a short stone pillar with 
a broad top and narrow bottom. As they came closer, she saw 
the pillar was carved with runes, many of them worn with age. 
From a broad, shallow bowl at the top bubbled a spring of 
clear water. It coursed over the edges of the disk and down to 
the earth in a sparkling mist. From there it ran through the 
circle of trees to the lagoon.
    "This is the Fountain of Cho," Cho-Manno said. His voice, 
after such a long silence, rang strangely in Orim's ears. "It 
is the Navel of the World, the place from which we began, the 
place to which we return. It is the point around which all 
things revolve. It is here that our souls pass away from this 
world into the Great River."
    "What is the writing on the stone?" the healer asked.
    "It tells our story. The story I have just recounted to 
you." He smiled wryly. "I cannot read it, but its memory has 
been passed down from Cho to Cho."
    "May I look closer?" Without waiting for an answer, Orim 
released his hand and neared the pillar. The characters on it 
had been deeply carved and wound around the stone in a spiral, 
but many of the carvings were faded, worn by the ceaseless 
action of the water. She reached a hand out to touch them.
    "Orim, no! No one may touch the Fountain of Cho." He 
remained where he was, watching her intently.
    Orim stared at the characters. Like the separi's 
performance around the village bonfire, they stirred a memory 
within her.
    Cho-Manno advanced to stand by her side. He said, "I 
brought you here because I wish you to understand my people. 
This stone tells all our history. It tells us that once, long 
ago, our forest stretched from the base of the mountain of 
Mercadia all the way to the sea. All that vast forest was 
filled with the singing and light of the trees, and the waters 
of the Great River flowed freely.
    "Then, gradually, the mountain people pushed back our 
boundaries, cut down trees, scarred the land. The plains of 
dust arose around their city, and only dust clouds lived on 
them." He shook his head sadly. "We live here, clinging to a 
tiny portion of what was once ours. It may be that a few 
generations hence, there will be nothing left of the Cho-
Arrim. Do you see now why the Uniter is so important to us?"
    Orim looked at him thoughtfully. There were depths to him 
that she never entirely appreciated. "Yes. All this-" she 
waved her hands about the sacred grove- "all this is somehow 
what I've looked for all my life."
    Cho-Manno cupped her chin in his hand. "I was about to say 
the same of you." Their kiss warmed the chill morning.
    
                        Chapter 8

    The trouble began in camp that night, and among the 
caterans.
    Without fire, with only trail rations and canteens, the 
exhausted Mercadian Fifth Regiment sat in camp. They sheltered 
in a clearing with a natural root hollow, where the jhovalls 
could be corralled. The six-legged tigers slept in warm 
comfort in a feline pile, their saddles and packs removed and 
their coats brushed.
    The soldiers and caterans were much less comfortable. They 
had washed during their river crossing, but their clothes had 
never fully dried. More layers of cloth only deepened the 
chill. Throughout the day, the forest's murk had been 
unnerving. Nighttime was worse. Only the cold gleam of the 
trees illuminated the dark. A fire would have been welcome, 
but Gerrard would not allow it for fear of "offending the 
forest." Instead, he offended his fighters. They grumbled 
angrily as they cleaned their weapons.
    Soon around the camp appeared a circle of eyes-small, 
grim, glowering eyes. Minions of the Rushwood. It was more 
than the caterans could bear.
    Their master, four-armed Xcric, had a crossbow. He cranked 
it quietly back, fitted a quarrel, and took bets from his 
comrades. "My orders from Gerrard were to command my troops 
not to fight unless attacked. I've done so. But Gerrard never 
forbade me to fight."
    With a shuddering twang, the bolt launched free. It tore 
through undergrowth.
    In the forest beyond, a set of eyes slammed shut. There 
came the agonized thrashing of something massive amid weeds. 
The beast's shrieks were piteous. Among vast, impassive trees, 
the cries echoed. They summoned the forest's myriad defenders.
    Gerrard and his command crew came running. "What happened? 
What's going on?"
    Xcric spoke proudly in the murk. "I got him right between 
the eyes."
    "I ordered you not to fight unless-"
    "He attacked me-looked at me wrong," Xcric replied.
    "You bastard," Gerrard spat, raking his sword from its 
scabbard. "You've just declared war." Turning toward the camp, 
he shouted, "To arms! To arms! Light perimeter fires!"
    In the anxious moments afterward, deadfalls were piled and 
sprinkled with rye spirits. Fires leaped up in an uneven ring 
around the camp. Orange light limned warriors as they rushed 
past abandoned packs. Jhovalls lolled awake and disentangled 
themselves from their sleeping kin.
    Gerrard and his comrades meanwhile stared out into the 
darkness.
    Tahngarth clutched a sword eagerly. "At least we have 
fires now. Our clothes will dry."
    Sisay shook her head. "I'd rather have them wet with river 
water than wet with blood. What do you think is out there?"
    "We'll find out soon enough," Takara said. She gestured 
beyond the fires, where flames glimmered in angry eyes. "They 
are converging."
    From all sides, the beasts came. Hunched backs and stooped 
shoulders, twisted horns in shaggy brows, vast claws raking 
away undergrowth, footpads pounding ground ...
    "Lumbering satyrs and horned trolls," Sisay whispered in 
awe. "They're bigger than the books made them out. These are 
feral creatures-solitary. They must have been brought together 
by the mind of the forest."
    Gerrard's face was grim as he watched the advance. The 
satyrs and trolls had nearly reached the outer fires. "If 
these are the forest's first defenses, what other monsters 
will follow?"
    Xcric tugged on Gerrard's sleeve. "My crossbowmen are 
ready. Do we fire?"
    "There's no sense in defending this camp. It'll be our 
grave. The beasts won't stop coming until we're dead or driven 
out. If we must fight, we fight forward," Gerrard said. "Clear 
a corridor. Open fire." Even as the first quarrels raced away, 
he shouted, "Troops! Mount up! Fight from Jhovall-back!" He 
turned, heading for the corral. "Ride behind me, toward the 
center of the wood-"
    These shouts were drowned out by another roar-the death 
throes of scores of beasts. Cateran quarrels sank in throats 
and eyes and brows. Many trolls and satyrs went down in that 
first volley. Many more charged. With bolts sticking from 
mounded backs and between grappling claws, they came on.
    Gerrard and his comrades reached the Jhovall corral. There 
was no time for saddles or packs. Gerrard yanked harness and 
bit from a nearby vine. He slipped the reins over the cat's 
head and clambered up. Caught between firelight and silver 
tree glow, he whirled and met the attackers.
    As quickly as that, the satyrs and trolls arrived. They 
flung themselves over root networks and down into the corral. 
Two tons of muscle and claw and horn-they landed, breaking 
soldiers' heads and Jhovalls' backs. Roars of rage mixed with 
shrieks of pain.
    In moments, five cats and ten warriors lay dead.
    A huge monster dropped into the space beside Gerrard. His 
Jhovall hissed and turned. Gerrard's sword sang in the 
darkness. It arced through screaming air to impact a great 
scaly skull. Steel bit through skin and muscle, lodging only 
on bone.
    The satyr gathered its massive legs and lunged.
    Roaring, Gerrard turned his blade. The sword pivoted 
across the beast's jaw and slid within the collarbone. Gerrard 
held tight to the reins. The satyr came on, impaling itself on 
his sword. Blood poured forth in a steaming torrent.
    Gerrard wrenched his blade free and backed his spitting 
mount. The satyr plunged ponderously into the space where they 
had been. His Jhovall reared and shrieked.
    It barreled into the rump of Sisay's beast, which stood 
like a rampant lion. Her Jhovall's claws raked the face of 
another satyr.
    "Win free!" Gerrard shouted. "Then grab a torch and follow 
my lead!"
    He barged past Sisay's mount, heading toward a nearby 
bonfire. Gerrard leaned down and snatched up a burning brand. 
No sooner had he righted himself than the bonfire erupted 
before him. Coals and sparks leaped up in a killing hail. 
Gerrard reined his mount back. Something vast had plunged into 
the midst of the blaze, driven there by a shrieking Jhovall.
    Tahngarth rode that Jhovall. His sword was sanguine, and 
his horns too. Though he spoke to Gerrard, his eyes were fixed 
on the fire. "There is no honor in this fight."
    Gerrard saw why. In the bonfire, a horned troll thrashed. 
Fire flashed away its thick pelt, sending up acrid white 
smoke. Next moment, skin burst and peeled and blackened. The 
muscles beneath contracted moments more, until they, too, 
sizzled to stillness. Lids burned away from rolling eyes, 
which became as white and opaque as boiled eggs.
    "No honor," Gerrard agreed, chopping the head from another 
satyr. The decapitated corpse went down sloppily before him. 
Holding high his torch, Gerrard drove his mount up over the 
enormous body. "No honor but to fight for Orim and 
Weatherlight. Follow me!"
    Aback snarling six-legged cats, Tahngarth and Sisay fought 
in Gerrard's wake.
    Ahead, Takara clung to the back of her dead Jhovall, which 
draped across the horns of a troll. The massive monster had 
impaled her steed and lifted it into the air. Takara lashed at 
it with her sword but couldn't reach the troll's bent back. It 
bounded toward another bonfire, ready to fling Jhovall and 
rider both into the flames.
    "Get up!" Gerrard commanded his mount, digging heels into 
its sides.
    The tiger-creature flung itself behind the troll. Huge 
feline claws sank into troll flesh, but they only propelled 
the beast faster toward the flames.
    "Climb on!" Gerrard shouted to Takara, holding out his 
hand.
    She sheathed her sword and rolled down the back of her 
dead mount, grasping Gerrard's hand. He swung her into place 
behind him. Gerrard reined hard. His mount reared.
    Fires roared up ahead. The troll and the dead Jhovall 
plunged into the flames. More putrid white smoke belched up.
    "Thanks," Takara panted.
    "Let's get out of this deathtrap."
    With Takara sitting behind him and Tahngarth, Sisay, and 
the Fifth Regiment following, Gerrard sent his mount bounding 
across the battlefield. Many of Gerrard's regiment were dead 
already, slain as they ran for their mounts. Their bodies lay 
savaged among forgotten packs. Not a few satyrs and trolls lay 
amid them. Some of the fighters who had slain them fought on. 
They seemed mere children waggling sticks at hulking bears.
    One woman, who had killed two trolls, battled a third now, 
her strength flagging.
    Gerrard's mount lunged beside the troll, and he clove the 
thing's brain between the horns. "Pick her up!" he shouted to 
Sisay, pointing to the weary soldier.
    No sooner had Gerrard's Jhovall leaped out of the space 
than Sisay's leaped into it. She grabbed the soldier's arm and 
dragged her onto the Jhovall's back. Tahngarth likewise 
rescued another beleaguered guard. Soon, every soldier that 
lived rode a Jhovall across the camp.
    On the opposite end of the killing field, the caterans had 
been busy. They were not content merely to slay the beasts. 
They harvested trophies-sawing at horns and claws, hewing 
teeth, lopping off fingers, flaying skin and fur. Where a 
creature was cut open, the caterans thrust an arm in the gore- 
sign of a successful kill. When both-or all four-arms were 
red, the caterans painted their chests and foreheads and legs 
in the stuff. They fought like fiends, these caterans. Few if 
any of them had fallen, but the ground was thick with dead 
trolls and satyrs.
    Gerrard's steed bounded past that abattoir and onward, 
into the murk. He held high his burning brand and charged on 
between silvery boles. With a glance back, he saw that most of 
his force remained-perhaps fifty Jhovalls followed in his 
wake, bearing one or two soldiers each. The six-legged cats 
were faster and more agile than these lumbering, shuffling 
monsters. Soon, the Fifth Regiment would be beyond their 
reach.
    "That was a near thing," Takara panted into his ear.
    "Yes," Gerrard agreed in the rushing wind. "Do you think 
Orim has ... survived?" "I hope so," Gerrard replied. "We 
drive on until we reach the center of the forest, and 
Weatherlight."
    "At least we're safe for the moment." Takara said. She had 
spoken too soon.
    Something massive moved ahead-many somethings. As tall as 
five men, they lurked in the interstices between boles. Their 
bodies were black silhouettes against the silver gloaming-
living shadows. They darted, positioning themselves in the 
path of the Jhovalls. Here and there, true glimpses came of 
these vaguely human titans. In place of skin, leaves stood 
across their bulk. Mosses clumped in untidy mats of hair. 
Vines twined in veinwork. Fists of stone and stick bore huge 
clubs. Most horrible of all, though, were the creatures' eyes, 
glowing with the silver fire of the trees all around.
    "Rushwood elementals!" Sisay shouted. "They are formed out 
of the leaves and boughs of the forest!" Takara whispered 
sardonically, "What now?" "What else?" Gerrard replied, 
feeling his fear turn to anger, and his anger to hatred. "We 
fight." "That's what I like to hear."
    "Hang on!" Gerrard kicked the flanks of his Jhovall. The 
tiger-creature snarled and leaped toward one of the looming 
shadows. Overhead, a club dropped with an awful roar. Gerrard 
drove the cat upward. The Jhovall leaped. Claws sank into the 
moldy mass of the elemental's thigh. A vague roar came. The 
massive club descended toward Jhovall and riders.
    "Get up!" Gerrard shouted at his mount. The Jhovall 
bounded again.
    The club struck. A shriek came, inhuman anguish. The 
elemental staggered. Its thigh-stones and sticks-had shattered 
beneath the blow of the club.
    Rising still, the Jhovall sank its claws in the monster's 
arm and hurled itself higher.
    "Good work," Takara shouted.
    But the elemental was not maimed for long. It pressed its 
club against the shattered thigh. The wood fused with its leg, 
solidifying it.
    "Not good enough," Gerrard hissed.
    The jhovall leaped from the elemental's shoulder toward 
its face. Feline claws sank into the elemental's skull. 
Standing in the saddle, Gerrard drove his sword into one of 
the titan's silver-glowing eyes. Takara rammed hers into the 
other. Mercurial flames danced out along the blades and burned 
their sleeves. Gerrard and Takara shouted in unison pain.
    But the agonized shriek of the elemental overtopped their 
cries. Silver fire guttered and failed in its eyes. They went 
dark. The wailing ceased. The elemental died. With terrific 
and terrible motion, its corpse began to slump. Boughs and 
humus and rocks separated. No longer joined in a titanic body, 
the multifarious vines and mosses tumbled free of each other.
    Growling, Gerrard drove heels into his Jhovall's side. 
"Jump!"
    The tiger-creature did, flinging itself across the 
wheeling heights. It bounded from the head of a dying 
elemental toward the shoulders of a living one. Trees flashed 
past in a dizzy spectacle. The Jhovall extended its forepaws 
to grasp the next titan.
    The elemental turned. Its club whirled about and struck 
the six-legged tiger in midair.
    A whuff of breath exploded from the cat. With it came the 
snap of ribs. Blood boiled out of the creature's face. Broken, 
the Jhovall spun through the air.
    Gerrard and Takara clung miserably to its inert bulk. 
Trees whirled.
    They struck one. The dead cat caught the brunt of the 
blow, but Takara was flung away. She fell toward the forest 
floor, landing atop a root-cluster and sprawling brokenly.
    Gerrard meanwhile smacked up against rough bark. Something 
shattered in his chest, but he clung to the dead cat. It 
sloughed off the side of the tree and plunged beneath him. 
Cursing, Gerrard clawed atop the falling Jhovall. It struck 
ground.
    The impact was horrible. It drove the breath from Gerrard. 
He crumpled off the Jhovall's corpse and flailed on the 
ground. He rolled across his torch. The wet fabric of his 
riding cloak-it was a flask of rye spirits that had shattered 
in his chest pocket-flared with sudden fire.
    Gerrard staggered up and shucked the burning jacket. He 
flung it furiously away. The cloak wrapped itself around the 
elemental's leg.
    Flame leaped to wood and dry moss. Fire spread up the 
looming titan. It shrieked, pounding the blaze. Flames roared 
onto its hands and arms. In moments, the elemental was 
engulfed-a living column of fire. It thrashed horribly among 
the boles, shying away from the trees lest it set them ablaze. 
Its screams were terrifying.
    Gerrard could only grin grimly. He drew a hissing breath 
through gritted teeth and shouted, "Burn them! Burn every last 
one! Burn them!"
    Even as the elemental fell to the ground, writhing in 
death throes, more fires awoke among the others.
    A slim hand touched Gerrard's shoulder. "That was well 
done."
    He turned, astonished. "Takara! How did you survive that 
fall? Your spine was broken."
    "No. Hatred is my spine," she said, smiling a bloody 
smile. "As long as I keep it at the core of my being, I 
survive."
    "Yes," Gerrard said, staring at her. "I've begun to see 
the definite benefits." There were four elementals burning 
now, their wails like music in the night. Gerrard cupped hands 
about his mouth and shouted through the chorus of moans. 
"Caterans to the fore! Clear a corridor! Kill anything that 
stands between us and Weatherlight.'"
    
                        Chapter 9

    The stillness of the wood was broken by shouts.
    Orim rose, dropping the herbs she had been washing in the 
lagoon. She ran frantically, her mouth open in wordless 
horror. Even as she fled across the mossy forest floor, she 
saw hellish figures break through the surrounding trees.
    On scaly legs they bounded forward. Claws ate up the 
ground. Bloody arms grasped villagers. Fangs sank into sides, 
shoulders, and heads. More blood painted the inhuman monsters.
    "Mercadians!" Orim shouted. "Bar your doors! The 
Mercadians have come!"
    More beasts arrived, monstrosities with boar heads, 
scorpion tails, and snake teeth. They rode horrific, six-
legged tigers and bore swords and crossbows. As they filed 
into the clearing, the brutes hoisted their wicked bows.
    "Left wing, pivot. Archers, loose!"
    The battle commands, familiar and yet remote in Orim's 
memory, made her freeze. There was a whir from the line of 
beasts. Shafts streaked through the air to punch with deadly 
precision among the crowd of Cho-Arrim. The front ranks 
staggered and fell in disorderly rows. Tribesmen behind turned 
with a shout and hauled forth weapons, only to fall to a 
second volley of quarrels. Then came a third hail of deadly 
missiles.
    Dimly, Orim heard Is-Shada shout something and run toward 
her.
    Several of the crossbowmen pivoted toward the motion, bows 
at the ready.
    Orim threw herself to the ground and felt the volley pass 
over her head.
    Is-Shada ran across the clearing. Several of her playmates 
kept pace. She had almost reached Orim when an angry hiss 
sounded. Is-Shada stopped suddenly, staring at Orim. Two 
black-feathered shafts protruded from her chest and shoulder. 
She looked stupidly at them for a moment, and then fell face 
forward. Companions on either side caught her as she fell. One 
of them twisted and screamed in agony as a quarrel sprouted 
from her knee. She staggered and dropped Is-Shada, whose body 
bumped against Orim.
    Orim wrapped the girl in her arms. The breath was already 
gone from Is-Shada's punctured lungs, the blood from her 
pierced heart.
    Hands seized Orim and drew her away. She heard a voice 
shrieking and realized with astonishment that it was her own. 
Her lungs felt raw, her cheeks wet with tears.
    "Is-Shada," Orim sobbed out, "O-reem 'stva o'meer. Is-
Shada., O-reem 'stva o'meer."
    Ta-Karnst's firm hand was on her elbow, and he pulled her 
rapidly back toward the lagoon and the complex of huts that 
extended over the water. Wordlessly, the two healers ran up 
the causeway. The wickerwork strained beneath their pounding 
feet.
    Another volley of quarrels whizzed overhead. Orim looked 
up and caught her breath. Before her, a wrinkled old woman 
slowly sank to the wooden platform. Three quarrels bristled 
from her chest, and another had pierced her leg.
    The healers reached her. "Don't move," Orim commanded 
harshly. "We'll get those things out of you."
    The old woman's fierce brown eyes, seemingly all dark 
pupils, glared at her. "Svascho.' Traitor! You have betrayed 
us all! Rot forever in the Nine Circles!"
    "No," whispered Orim. Then louder she cried, "No!"
    The dying woman's face wrinkled up into a terrifying 
rictus meant as a smile. "You will never win, Svascho. We are 
Cho-Arrim. We are ..." Her voice was drowned out by a stream 
of blood gushing from her mouth. Her old eyes clouded. Her 
head slipped sideways from Orim's lap.
    "You must leave the dead," Ta-Karnst said urgently, "and 
tend the living-" He rushed off in the direction of fresh 
screams.
    "Yes," Orim said, laying the old woman down gently.
    A sudden cry came from a nearby hut. Is-Meisha stood in 
the doorway. In her arms was a tiny, wrapped bundle.
    Orim raced up the causeway. A quarrel skimmed her leg and 
struck die wall. Ignoring it, Orim thrust the young mother 
back into the comparative safety of the hut. Another flight of 
quarrels smashed into the side of the structure. They were 
tipped with burning pitch. The forest was damp and would not 
easily burn, but the smoke would drive the Cho-Arrim from 
their huts. Already, the fire spread.
    At her wits' end, Orim slammed her shoulder against the 
rear wall of the hut. The thick grass reeds swayed and bent. 
Orim struck the wall twice more and then, casting her eyes 
about the smoke-filled room, saw a thin stone knife lying near 
the empty cooking pot. She grasped it, slashing at the reeds. 
They yielded, and in a few moments she had a hole carved in 
the wall, overlooking the water.
    "Come on," she gasped. "Through there, quick, or we'll 
suffocate."
    "My baby," Is-Meisha wailed. As if in sympathy, the baby 
had begun crying.
    "You'll have to swim," Orim said, panting. "Come on! You 
can do it. It's your only chance." There was a shout from 
below. A reed canoe passed beneath her, packed with tribesmen. 
"Hey," Orim called.
    The paddler looked up. "Orim!"
    "Wait." She bodily dragged Is-Meisha to the opening. 
"Look. You can go in the canoe. But hurry."
    The paddler shook his head. "No. We will sink. There is 
another close behind. Take that one." He bent forward for 
another stroke.
    Is-Meisha, with a shriek, stumbled to her knees. A bolt 
protruded from her chest. The quarrel had also pierced the 
baby's arm, and the child added her wail to her mother's dying 
gasps.
    Orim tore the bloodied baby from Is-Meisha's arms and 
thrust it at the paddler. "Take the child!"
    He did. "Where is Ta-Spon?"
    Orim shook her head. "I do not know."
    One of the other men in the canoe turned back. "Ta-Spon is 
..." He stopped, and Orim could see the unspoken words in his 
eyes. "He fell in the front lines, along with the archers and 
skyscouts and wizards. Along with Cho-Manno."
    Orim reeled, almost falling through the gap. "No ... he 
isn't..."
    The canoe was already beyond reach of her words. Its 
paddlers propelled it rapidly away from the burning village.
    Orim dropped to her knees and clutched the ragged opening 
in the side of the hut. All around her, flames crackled. One 
wall of the hut was a solid mass of fire. Smoke stung her eyes 
and raked her throat raw. She didn't care.
    "Cho-Manno is dead...."
    Surrounded by killing fire, she felt only his warm arms 
around her. Despite roars and screams, she heard only his 
tender words in her ears. Through blinding smoke, she saw his 
smiling face, lit by the Fountain of Cho-by belief in the 
Uniter....
    "Cho-Manno is dead...."
    If Mercadian monsters filled the forest, Weatherlight was 
lost to them. The Uniter was lost. And if Cho-Manno lay dead 
in the woods, Orim would lie dead just here.
    "Cho-Manno, Orim 'stva o'meer."

                          * * * * *

    Aback a new Jhovall, Gerrard and Takara rode into the 
clearing and saw the atrocities performed by the caterans. 
"How could they ... ?"
    Women and children-human women and children-lay 
slaughtered everywhere. There were hundreds torn apart by 
cateran claws and fangs, pinned to ground by cateran quarrels, 
burned alive by cateran torches. Human flesh like so much 
refuse, human blood like so much sewage ... Already the flies 
were gathering. The nearest corpses were missing hands, ears, 
scalps-trophies gathered. Surely those visceral cuts could 
only be for cateran blood rites.
    "How could they ... ?" Gerrard repeated, white-faced.
    "The Cho-Arrim were human after all," Takara hissed.
    Sisay rode up behind, turned in the saddle, and vomited.
    "A massacre," Tahngarth gasped.
    The survivors of the Mercadian Fifth Regiment flooded into 
the space as well.
    Takara spoke a dread whisper in Gerrard's ear. "You 
ordered them to do this, Gerrard. You ordered the caterans to 
kill everything between you and Weatherlight. They followed 
your orders. Unknowing, you killed every man, woman, and child 
in this clearing."
    "It must stop!" Gerrard shouted, standing in the saddle. 
"Forward, all of you. Fight the caterans. Kill them, if you 
must. Stop the massacre!"

                          * * * * *

    Orim was nearly dead in smoke and flame when she felt Cho-
Manno's hands upon her. She could not have spoken to him. Her 
lungs were suffused in smoke. Nor could she see him, but his 
rescuing arms were sure as they wrapped her and lifted her and 
carried her alive from the pyre. He strode from the oven-hot 
room and across wicker causeways.
    Orim's eyes streamed, unseeing, beneath her turban and 
coin-braided hair. She clung to him, coughing poison from her 
lungs.
    Then, they were clear, on shore. He laid her down on 
scorched reeds. The sounds of battle receded. The distant 
fighting slowly died.
    "You're ... alive," Orim choked out, her eyes swimming.
    "You're alive," came the glad response. The voice was not 
Cho-Manno's. It was a woman's-strong and familiar.
    "Sisay?" gasped Orim.
    "Yes!" Sisay said, laughing happily. "Yes, it's me!"
    Rubbing tears from her eyes, Orim said, "What are you ... 
what are you doing here?"
    "We came to rescue you," Sisay replied as she daubed a 
cloth at Orim's eyes. "And to get Weatherlight."
    A look of dread crossed Orim's features. Her face went 
very white. "You came ... with Mercadians ... with those 
killing ... monsters?"
    Sisay's eyes darkened. "Yes. But we didn't know about all 
of this. We thought the Cho-Arrim were the monsters. Even now, 
Gerrard is calling off the caterans. He even killed a few that 
wouldn't stop fighting."
    Teeth gritting, Orim sat up at last. "Gerrard. I should 
have known...." Eyes at last clear, she struggled to stand. 
"Take me to him."
    "You're too weak," Sisay objected.
    Orim wrenched her arm free, disproving the objection.
    "All right. All right. I'll take you."
    Weatherlight's captain and her healer walked arm in arm 
across the battlefield. The dead lay all around. With shame 
and despair, Sisay's eyes traced out shattered skulls and 
punctured hearts. Orim's eyes were full of death too, but they 
overflowed with tears of loss and fury. Scorch marks covered 
the sides of trees. Huts on the lagoon burned. Dead floated in 
the dark waters.
    At least-at last-there were no more roars, no more 
screams.
    Ahead, Weatherlight's deck swarmed with Mercadians and 
caterans. They had lashed the ship to shore, tossed off the 
scaling vines, and positioned a makeshift gangplank to one 
side. The vessel was well guarded. Even now, Tahngarth and 
Takara followed a cateran enforcer below decks.
    On the nearby shore stood another familiar figure: 
Gerrard. He stared at his ship. His face was battle-scarred 
and weary, but he bore the look of a man seeing an old friend. 
As Orim and Sisay approached, Gerrard turned, and his glad 
look deepened. "Orim. You're alive! It's so good to see you!"
    "Kravchak!" she hissed. "I wish I weren't alive. I would 
gladly die if I could bring back all the people you 
slaughtered today!"
    "Orim?" Gerrard asked wonderingly.
    The healer glared at him. Her eyes were dancing with 
sparks. "Look at what you have done, Gerrard. Look who you 
have brought with you." She gestured to the Mercadians and 
caterans, who stood watching her curiously.
    "We came to rescue you, to recover the ship. What's the 
matter with you? I thought you'd be glad to see us. I thought-
"
    "You thought nothing! You're just like them. You only take 
things! You never give! Instead, you take and take, and always 
with the point of a sword! What about Is-Shada? Is-Meisha? Ta-
Spon? And all the others?" She gestured to where a few of the 
Mercadian soldiers were still piling corpses. "What about Cho-
Manno?" Her voice caught, and then she recovered herself. 
"They paid the price for your greed."
    "Orim, I don't understand...."
    "No, of course not! How could you? You've never made an 
effort to understand anything."
    "All right, that's enough!" Gerrard shouted. "A massacre 
occurred here today. An atrocity. I gave the order that set it 
off, yes, but as soon as I found out what was happening, I put 
an end to it. I didn't come for massacre. I came to rescue you 
and Weatherlight-"
    "You don't even know what that ship is! You don't even 
know the power it has. You've spent all your life running from 
your Legacy, but now, when someone else finds the true worth 
of it, you come with swords and monsters to take it back?"
    "I'm sorry for what happened here," Gerrard said 
contritely. He looked out over the fields of dead. "I am very 
sorry. But I didn't declare this war. These folk stole my 
ship, and I came to get it back."
    "The ship is secure," said a new voice. So intent had the 
argument been that Gerrard and Orim had not noticed the 
approach of a four-armed cateran enforcer and his henchmen. 
The creature was crimson from his knobby head to his taloned 
feet. Only his fangs remained white, and they smiled 
gruesomely. "Per your orders."
    "Thank you, Xcric," Gerrard replied coolly. "Just now, I'm 
in the middle of something." He turned back toward Orim.
    "Yes, you are," the cateran hissed. He seized Gerrard's 
wrists and locked shackles over them.
    Gerrard spun in sudden shock. "What is this?"
    "You are under arrest, Commander," Xcric said, grinning.
    Sisay reached for her sword, only to have shackles snap 
closed over her wrists too. A whole party of cateran enforcers 
surrounded them.
    "Arrest? And what is the charge?"
    "Murder of those in your command," Xcric said. "You 
ordered the Mercadian guard to attack my forces. You yourself 
killed two of my soldiers."
    "This is ludicrous," Gerrard growled. Orim was also 
imprisoned now. Aboard Weatherlight, Tahngarth and Takara 
stood, similarly chained. "You have no authority-"
    "On the contrary, the magistrate himself hired me and my 
band. He anticipated such treachery from you. I am empowered 
to imprison you and your coconspirators and press into service 
whatever Cho-Arrim wizards and workers are needed to convey 
Weatherlight back to Mercadia. Now, I am finished with you. 
Take him to the Jhovall corral."
    Gerrard struggled against the caterans that dragged him 
away. "You can't take my ship! The magistrate can't renege on 
the deal."
    Xcric smiled. "He does not renege. You bargained for 
troops to regain your ship. You did not bargain for the ship 
itself."
    Guards pushed Takara and Tahngarth up beside Sisay and 
Orim. Together, the bridge crew of Weatherlight staggered in 
chains across the field of the dead.
    Takara's red hair gleamed with firelight. She said 
bitingly, "I knew it had been too easy. Nothing here is as it 
seems."
    
                         Book II
    
                        Chapter 10

    Gerrard stood amid a huge, jeering throng. He'd been 
washed. His clothes were cleaned and pressed. The rust bands 
had been scrubbed from his wrists. The cuts and burns and 
bruises of the Rushwood now lurked beneath a thick coat of 
powder makeup. A Mercadian coiffeur had trimmed, polished, and 
set his hair and beard. He had never looked cleaner or more 
handsome.
    Gerrard was not simply a military prisoner. He was a 
political prize.
    "Behold, people of Mercadia!" cried a stout nobleman from 
a nearby dais. His gold-embroidered robes gleamed against the 
dark shadow of Mount Mercadia, towering above. His eyes swept 
the huge crowd that had gathered in the lower market. A sour 
turn of corpulent lips showed how little he enjoyed speaking 
the vulgar language of the commoners. "Behold our prisoner-
Legendary Gerrard, giant killer!"
    Boos and hisses came from the throng. The multifarious 
roar of the marketplace this morning had been stilled when the 
soldiers had returned with their prize. Now, the warring 
shouts united in a single purpose-the humiliation of the 
foreign traitor.
    Even if Gerrard could have fought past the two hundred 
soldiers who hemmed him in, he would have had to battle a 
crowd of tens of thousands. His obedience was assured not by 
these hundreds or thousands, though, but by the daggers 
pressed to the shackled throats of three-Sisay, Takara, and 
Tahngarth. No, Gerrard would play out this perverse drama 
today, and his friends would live. Though unfettered, Gerrard 
was utterly trapped.
    "Once, his fame echoed through these walls-the man who had 
single-handedly slain a thousand giants and two thousand 
cateran enforcers! So magnificent were his rumored deeds, the 
chief magistrate graciously provided him Mercadia's finest 
fighting force-the Fifth Regiment-to lead against his 
enemies." The nobleman smiled capaciously, his jowls 
glimmering like the wet pouches of a satisfied frog. "He took 
the Fifth Regiment to the Rushwood to rescue a friend, a 
comrade, who is here among us as well." He gestured 
expansively backward.
    A crowd of soldiers parted, allowing a snow-white Jhovall 
to stalk slowly into the clear space beside Gerrard. Tridents 
prodded the beast forward. It growled low and nipped at the 
points that jabbed its haunches.
    Aback the beast rode Orim. Just like Gerrard, she had been 
washed and primped for this public spectacle. Her turban was 
bleached to shine like a standard. Her hair had been 
elaborately braided with Cho-Arrim coins. Though she seemed 
unshackled, hidden chains bound her to the dazzling beast. 
Orim was a critical figure in the drama- Gerrard's crew member 
and friend, a convert of the Cho-Arrim, the damsel in distress 
that the giant killer had ridden to rescue. Her actions were 
as compelled as Gerrard's. Orim rode the gleaming Jhovall 
toward Gerrard, but her eyes only watched the daggers that 
pinned the throats of her friends.
    "Orim," Gerrard said. His eyes were slitted against the 
gleam of the plains. "I'm sorry for all that has happened."
    She dropped her gaze from Sisay and the others. Pain, 
anger, and regret warred on her face. Whatever her true 
feelings, her part in the play was already scripted. Orim 
reached up, drew the turban from coin-coifed hair, and flung 
it at Gerrard's feet.
    "Renunciation!" the noble shouted exultantly.
    A roaring cheer answered from the crowd.
    "Even the woman he rescued renounces the giant killer!" 
the nobleman cried above the furor.
    Soldiers converged on Orim, fastening shackles over her 
wrists while removing the hidden ones on her ankles. They 
dragged her from the mount and drove her before their 
tridents. Dust rose in puffs from her feet as Orim staggered 
toward Tahngarth and the others.
    "And here-do you see?-here are his other proud friends!" 
the noble said, gesturing toward the shackled crew.
    They stood there only until Orim was driven into their 
midst. Then, impelled by blades, they turned their backs on 
Gerrard and marched under guard toward the lifts that waited 
beyond the crowd. In moments, they and their soldiers were 
within one of the golden cages that would take them to the 
city above.
    "His friends renounce him as well. They turn their backs 
on the giant killer. But why? What could the Legendary
    Gerrard have done that was so horrible?"
    In the pause, the question echoed against the mountain's 
base. It circulated in hisses among the crowd.
    Nodding in mock indignation, the nobleman answered his own 
question. "There, first of all, is the matter of a massacre. 
The Cho-Arrim are our ancient enemies, yes, but they are still 
human. Gerrard did not act so. He ordered his troops to 
slaughter every man, woman, and child in the central village-
ten thousand of them!"
    Not even boos answered that, so deep was the shock. "Even 
the cateran commander sent among the Fifth Regiment recognized 
the atrocity. When he tried to stop Gerrard, the giant killer 
turned his own troops on the caterans. He slew his own 
forces."
    Groans turned to growls and then to roars. Gerrard could 
only stand in their midst, head held high, eyes glinting 
darkly.
    "For his acts, he and his coconspirators have been 
arrested, and all will face trial. For their crimes, they lose 
their freedom. For their atrocities, they lose the great 
treasure that they had marched to take from the Cho-Arrim. 
Their loss is our gain. Behold, Mercadians, our new airship, 
the glorious vessel-Weatherlight!" He flung his hand outward 
toward a great bulk covered in billowy shrouds.
    Soldiers pulled down the obscuring canvas. Tan cloth fell 
away to reveal the long, sleek hull of Weatherlight. Her 
broken spar had been repaired, and both airfoils raked batlike 
back from slender rails. Her hull was sound again, seamless, 
as though the wood had healed itself. Her engines were still 
defunct, of course. The ship had to be brought arduously 
overland by giants with relays of rolling logs. Sweating crews 
of them stood beside it even now, clutching the vast ropes 
they had used to haul the ship forward. Some of the less tidy 
titans still had rubbish hanging from their heels after 
shoveling a path through the garbage wall. Despite filthy 
giants, shoving soldiers, and a gawking rabble, Weatherlight 
was a glorious vision there on the plains.
    A cheer that was one part victory and one part avarice 
burst from the throng. Gerrard felt crushed beneath its 
omnipresent weight.
    "Yes! This ship is now our ship-a defender of Mercadia. 
And, soon, the magistrate will complete its repairs and will 
send it out to conquer our foes in woods, and plains, and 
seas."
    It was too much. As the greedy furor rose into the air,
    Gerrard went to his knees.
    If the Mercadians succeeded, the massacres had only just 
begun.

                          * * * * *

    For much of Gerrard's humiliation, Sisay had stood with a 
dagger at her throat. Now, within the golden cage of the lift, 
the dagger was gone, but shackles remained. So too did the 
horrible lump of dread. Takara, Tahngarth, and Orim seemed 
equally stunned by the events of the last days. They were 
doomed this time. The Mercadians and caterans had orchestrated 
every aspect of this day.
    Almost every aspect...
    Sisay's eyes widened in recognition and alarm when a 
certain goblin magnate arrived. She shook her head slightly, 
muttering to herself, "What are you up to, Squee?"
    He strode imperiously onto the lift. Squee wore the full 
regalia of a Kyren: manifold robe in maroon with gold piping, 
double stole, and ermine hems that dragged in the dust. He was 
shorter and more rumpled than most Kyren, and he struggled to 
speak the lofty inquisitions that befitted his station. His 
words were singsong, as though he had rehearsed all night. 
"Aren't these the brave soldiers dat brought the giant killer 
from over there in the woods? Aren't these the thirsty guys 
dat bested a man not bested by the best-by the bestest of the 
best giantish fellows dat we've got hereabouts in Mercadia ... 
?" The words dribbled away in uncertainty.
    Sisay leaped in, "They sure are! They bested Gerrard and 
all of us! But do they get any credit?"
    "No. What do we get?" wondered the sandy-faced guard 
captain. He tried to spit some grit from his teeth, but there 
wasn't enough saliva to bear the grains away. The sputum 
landed in an ignominious glob on his yellow riding jacket. "We 
do all the work, and the traitor's the one that gets cleaned 
up. Is that right?"
    "No-" Squee blurted, and then hurriedly turned the 
response into a question- "no, urn, no drinks have been given 
ta you guys?" He tried to snap his fingers, though even that 
act seemed beyond him.
    A nearby wine merchant heard, though-a mere boy with a 
wheelbarrow filled with wineskins. He lifted his face, nodded 
a head of tousled black hair, and wheeled his wares up beside 
the goblin. "Yes, Master? Do you wish to purchase a skin of 
wine?"
    "A skin of wine? Do Squee look cheap to you, Atalla?" 
Squee asked. "Uh, dat is-do Squee look cheap ta you at all, 
huh?"
    "No, Master!" the young man said, bowing obsequiously.
    "Will this money purse buy dat whole cartful?" the goblin 
asked, pulling a bulging sack from his robes. He tossed it to 
Atalla, and it chinked with a sound like coins-or, perhaps, 
river stones.
    Tucking the bag into his own robes, Atalla cried, "Wine 
for everyone!"
    "Not the prisoners!" the sandy-faced man said greedily, 
grabbing two skins for himself.
    "Why would Squee buy wine for filthy, scummy, stupid, 
ugly, bad-stinking prisoners?" the goblin asked, giving a big 
wink to Sisay.
    She sneered in order to hide her smile.
    "Might I also offer the work of my brush?" Atalla asked, 
producing a whisk broom and beginning to clean the dust from 
the guard captain. "That'll be just one copper more per 
soldier!"
    "Ain't these guys worth a brush-off?" the goblin wondered 
amiably.
    The captain squirted raga wine into his mouth, swallowed, 
and said, "You're going to earn this copper. I got dust 
everywhere."
    Atalla quickly worked over the riding cloak and then 
coaxed it from the captain's shoulders. "I'll brush off your 
uniform too. Lift your arms. There. Your belt is really 
dirty." The whisk worked furiously over the set of keys 
hanging there. The captain began to look down.
    Squee shouted in sudden startlement, "Is this here 
claptrap cage safe? Can it hoist these real good soldier guys 
up ta the uppity city? Doesn't dat console there look kind of 
banged up, like as if it'd been gotten into by somebody dat 
shouldn'ta gotten into it? Who's s'posed to fix this?"
    A woman standing quietly nearby shoved forward. She didn't 
look very Mercadian-her face was suspiciously lean. Even so, 
she had greasy hair, grime on her cheeks, and a bit of a 
paunch beneath, her yellow cloak.
    Sisay's secret smile deepened-Hanna was in on this too?
    Hanna bowed, her eyes averted toward the toolbox in her 
hand. "I am assigned to maintain this lift today, Master."
    "Will you open dat console ta show me it's all right and 
not messed up by ... guys trying ta ... mess up things?" 
"Saboteurs?" the woman supplied. "Do Squee not know how ta 
talk?"
    "Yes," the mechanic lied. She ducked past the goblin, set 
her tool case on the floor of the lift, and began working at 
the console.
    Oblivious, the guards gulped their wine.
    The boy had moved on from the captain to brush down Sisay. 
As clouds of dust went up from her shoulder, she whispered, 
"Surprised to see you, Atalla."
    He flashed her a smile. In a wry murmur, he said, "Father 
told me I could come back to the city as long as I returned 
with another thousand gold."
    "You will if you get us out of this," Sisay pledged. 
"What's the plan?"
    "Drugged wine," Atalla replied. He brushed the shackles on 
her hands, and they clicked open. "A skeleton key ... a 
rewired lift... Once Gerrard joins us, we'll soar to the city 
and disappear."
    Sisay nodded. "The best place to hide in hundreds of 
miles-"
    "Hey! What'th thith?" the guard captain slurred. "Why're 
you brushing off the prithoners?"
    Atalla blurted, "To keep your hands clean when you grab 
them."
    The captain nodded blearily and took another drink.
    Atalla meanwhile moved swiftly to Tahngarth and Takara, 
intent on "cleaning" their shackles.
    A soldier sprawled beside them, overcome by the drugged 
wine. Others turned on rubbery legs and stared down stupidly 
at the fallen man. One man tried to lift his comrade, but he 
fell too. Realization crossed the faces of the others.
    "What thort of wine ith thith-?"
    A third went down, and a fourth. The slumping soldiers 
were beginning to attract attention from the crowd nearby.
    "I wish Gerrard would get here," Atalla growled as he 
unlocked Tahngarth's shackles.
    "He's not coming," the minotaur rumbled, pointing toward 
the crowd.
    In chains now, Gerrard rode away from the city aback the 
snow-white Jhovall.
    "The prithonerth are loothe!" shouted the guard captain 
even as he crumpled to the floor of the lift. "They're loothe! 
Guardth!"
    Nearby, an officer heard the slurred call for help. He 
turned, gestured toward the lift, and barked orders to his 
contingent. Swords flashed out. Soldiers converged.
    "Take us up, Hanna," Sisay shouted. She flung away her 
shackles, grabbed up a trident from one of the fallen guards, 
and swung it about, smashing the butt into the face of a new 
arrival. "Take us up!"
    Sudden motion flung down the last of the drugged guards. 
The lift lurched upward. It pulled free of the ground. Its 
cage door clanged loose. Soldiers leaped, grabbing onto the 
gate, but Sisay kicked their hands away. They fell, and in 
moments, the lift rose out of their reach. It accelerated 
toward the city above.
    "It'th no uthe," the guard captain laughed blearily. 
"They're going to exthecute your friend." He slowed down to 
speak more clearly. "They're going to bury him in the wall of 
garbage."
    Tahngarth's eyes slitted. "Not if I can help it." With a 
roar, he flung himself from the soaring lift.
    "No, Tahngarth!" Sisay shouted, extending her hand 
futilely after him. The lift was higher than he could have 
realized-a hundred feet and rising. As Sisay watched in 
horror, Tahngarth plunged toward ground. "Take us back down! 
Reverse, Hanna! Reverse!"
    "I can't!" Hanna shouted. "It's hard wired now!"
    "But Tahngarth!" Sisay shouted, staring down as his body 
shrank to a tiny point. Hands grasped her shoulders and pulled 
her back from the edge.
    "Think of Gerrard!" Takara hissed as air rushed down over 
them. "If we can find the dump site, can stop them- we can 
save Gerrard."
    Sisay collapsed atop her arms. "Yes. We can do nothing for 
Tahngarth. Think of Gerrard. Think of Gerrard."

                          * * * * *

    Tahngarth had thought only of Gerrard when he flung 
himself from that lift. Now, he wished he'd thought of 
himself-and of basic physics.
    Roughly speaking, every ten feet of a fall means another 
broken bone. This fall would leave Tahngarth with multiple 
contusions of legs, arms, spine, and skull. Those last two 
were the bad breaks. The shattered skull seemed almost a 
certainty since Tahngarth was flipping slowly over as he fell.
    The marketplace spread out below him. Spectators crowded 
on either side of the road where Weatherlight rolled. Giants 
dragged the ship across logs and toward a huge door that gaped 
at the base of the mountain.
    That was all Tahngarth saw before his face turned toward 
the spinning wall. Why had he thought of Gerrard? A few month 
ago, he couldn't stand the man, and now he would die for him?
    Tahngarth somersaulted a second time. He glimpsed 
Gerrard's snow-white Jhovall marching amid a military escort. 
Gerrard was headed for the rubbish wall, for the section dug 
out to allow Weatherlight through. He would be buried there, 
in more rubbish.
    Just before flipping to the wall again, Tahngarth saw a 
silver flash below-Karn? And what did he hold? A canvas tent 
roof?
    Karn ran to the base of the lift shaft and hurled the 
canvas upward. The cloth's upper edge snagged on a lift 
bracket. Karn yanked on the lower edge, drawing it into a 
taut, beautiful, slanting slide.
    Tahngarth struck the canvas slide-face first-and shot down 
the fabric slope. The rug burn on his nose was agony, but it 
was better than a skull spattering on stone. In whizzing 
moments, he ran full speed into Karn, who clutched the base of 
the slide.
    There came a terrible chime sound that jarred minotaur and 
golem, both. The two tumbled to the ground side by side, their 
ears ringing.
    That tone might have been bearable if it weren't 
accompanied by the roar of hundreds of booted feet converging 
around them. In moments, Tahngarth and Karn gazed at a ring of 
tridents and angry faces.
    "I could slay twenty of them ... before going down ..." 
Tahngarth panted breathlessly.
    Karn gave a shuddering sigh. "I couldn't dance with more 
than three."

                          * * * * *

    Where were Hanna, Orim, and Takara? They talked a big talk 
about responsibility and all that, but then they get 
themselves lost. And look who was left holding the bag? Look 
who got to save the day time and again! Squee, that's who. 
He'd faced down the cateran enforcer that first day, and he'd 
been saving Gerrard and the others ever since. Today was a 
perfect example. He'd played his part perfectly. He'd saved 
the whole crew. But did anybody talk about Squee, giant 
killer? And why not? Did anybody ever-
    One of the best-looking bugs in Mercadia scuttled along 
the gutter. Squee stooped to watch it wobble. The wobblers 
were the tastiest. They had the most meat under their shells.
    "Come on, Squee! It's right up here! No time to waste!" 
Atalla said, yanking on his arm.
    Now, there was an impatient lad-Atalla. Nice, but 
impatient. He'd also helped the crew escape twice now, which 
was plenty nice, but he'd gotten paid a thousand gold for it. 
Did anybody ever offer a thousand gold to Squee for anything 
in his whole stinking life? Maybe if he got impatient once in 
a while--
    "Come on!" Atalla said, bodily dragging Squee from the 
gutter.
    For his part, Squee snatched the bug up and gobbled it 
down.
    Atalla hauled him down a twisted lane to three huge wagons 
that stood side by side in stalls at the end of the road. Each 
wagon bore a massive bin brimming full of rubbish. Vegetable 
peels and hunks of splintered wood formed a slurry with broken 
plates and raw sewage. Above each of the bins swarmed ecstatic 
flies. Their tiny bodies jittered against the lemon sky. Just 
beyond the refuse wagons hung empty air-a drop of almost two 
miles straight down. Gerrard would be at the bottom of that 
drop, shackled and waiting to be slain by filth.
    "Do you remember what you are supposed to say?" Atalla 
asked, shaking the goblin. "Do you remember?"
    Squee tried to answer, but his mouth was full of bug. 
Clutching Squee's arm tightly, Atalla approached the giant 
workers that milled about behind the wagons. "You see, Master 
Squee? These are the brigands I told you about!" Atalla said 
dramatically, pointing at the lead giant. "Illegal dumping!"
    Gray-faced and massive, the giant jutted his jaw downward 
and compressed his brow. Beneath putrid locks, his eyes 
gleamed in confusion. "Illegal dumping? Ain't no such thing!"
    "It's new," Squee replied, and then hastily added, "ain't 
it?" The giant scratched a knobby torso. "We was told to bring 
this load of crap to this here street and dump it when we seen 
the flare."
    "This-Here Street? This isn't This-Here Street." Atalla 
shook his head. "This street is That-There Street. Dumping's 
not allowed on That-There Street."
    The giant shook his head, bedeviled. "This here street 
isn't This-Here Street?"
    "No," Atalla affirmed. "This here street is That-There 
Street." He pointed to an adjacent road. "That there street is 
This-Here Street."
    Gaping, the giant said, "I'll be damned."
    "Is it not confusing?" Squee interjected.
    "No-it is confusing," the giant replied.
    "Don't it get more confusing with lots of street names?"
    "I don't know what to say-"
    "Don'tcha think we oughta call all streets by one name?"
    "Now you're talking!"
    "Wasn't Squee talking before?"
    "Enough talking!" Atalla interrupted urgently. "By order 
of Master Squee, move these wagons to This-Here Street and 
prepare to dump them!"
    "This here street, or This-Here-"
    "Just do it!"

                          * * * * *

    Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn knelt side by side in 
rubbish. Chains bound their wrists and necks and legs. To 
either side, a great wall of garbage rose. They would soon be 
part of that wall. Before and behind them stood whole 
regiments of men. Above it all, standing cockily atop the wall 
of filth, was none other than Xcric.
    The cateran enforcer carried a crossbow and strolled idly 
back and forth along the mound. His talons gripped and 
released the pestilential muck. He relished this moment. As 
the officer who had captured Gerrard, he was given the honor 
of presiding over the execution. An execution by muck. It was 
an honor no Mercadian noble would have wanted.
    "And now, we see the man for what he truly is! No giant 
killer, but rubbish!"
    The cateran lifted his crossbow, lit the pitch-tipped 
quarrel, and fired a flaming shot into the sky. The bolt raced 
upward, disappearing except for the bright glow of fire it 
carried. All eyes except the prisoners' followed it upward. In 
time, even the fire was lost against the lemon sky.
    Something else appeared to take its place. Along the rim 
of the city directly above, three bins of rubbish suddenly 
tilted. The vile stuff that disgorged from those bins sloughed 
down in a black and shapeless mass. Three muck-loads became 
one, spiraling toward ground like a black demon. It dropped 
straight down, not seeming to move but only to grow slowly 
larger.
    "Won't you look up? Won't you see your coming doom?" 
hissed the cateran. "Judgment from the sky falls on each of us 
but once. Do you truly wish to miss the spectacle?"
    Whether from the goading or from some impulse of their 
own, the three condemned men raised their eyes in unison. They 
saw the black monster of filth rushing down from sky. Faint 
smiles formed on their faces. Even Karn's jaw seemed to grin.
    "Defiant to the last," Xcric growled, staring at his happy 
prisoners. "Smiles won't save you! Farewell forever, Giant 
Killer!" The cateran enforcer raised his arm in an angry fist.
    And then Xcric was gone, buried under hundreds of tons of 
filth.
    
                        Chapter 11

    "The new giant killers!" hissed a nobleman near the door 
of the magistrate's chambers. He startled from the bench where 
he had lain, scooped up a half-finished hunk of cheese, and 
withdrew among tapestries and tiles. The four women who had 
just entered the chambers were a forbidding sight. Sisay wore 
black-metal armor and an indomitable look beneath her saffron 
riding cloak. She was clearly the warrior of the group. Beside 
her strode Orim, swathed in turban, veils, and healer's cloak. 
She shimmered with the silvery light of a Cho-Arrim mystic. 
Hanna wore an artificer's jump suit-the mastermind. And 
leather-armored Takara was the fiery will that united them 
all. Swords and tridents shone naked in their hands as they 
marched toward the magistrate's seat.
    It wasn't weaponry or armor that made nobles scurry back 
and guards cringe. Since the women's escape, their fame had 
swelled. It was said each had slain twenty giants, hoisted a 
twenty-ton wagon of refuse on her back, and hurled it twenty 
yards beyond the rim to crash down atop the cateran, Xcric. Or 
was it forty giants, forty tons, and forty yards? Numbers are 
tricky but inconsequential. What mattered was that these women 
were unstoppable, cheered by the rabble and feared by the 
soldiery.
    The deadly ladies passed by broad columns and entered the 
round glow of the rotunda. Unopposed, they came to a stop 
before the magistrate's dais.
    He eyed them with trembling dread, and his gaze flitted 
hopelessly toward the guards at the door. They made no move.
    Takara spoke for the foursome. "We come to bargain."
    A Kyren appeared from behind the throne and began to 
speak.
    Takara pointed angrily at it. "Get back! We've no time for 
nonsense. We deal with the magistrate only!"
    With grinning fear, the Kyren backed away.
    Corpulent and tremulous, the man on the dais said, "We are 
honored by the presence of the new giant killers and would be 
pleased to hear whatever bargain you might offer. Do you seek 
your freedom?"
    Takara spoke with steel in her voice. "We have already won 
our freedom."
    "Yes," the magistrate allowed uncomfortably. "On the other 
hand, your friends have not won their freedom, or even their 
lives."
    "We ask only a stay of execution while we work out our 
bargain," Takara said.
    "Speak on."
    "You have our ship, but you cannot repair it. It is 
useless to you. We offer this bargain-we will repair 
Weatherlight and fly it on a mission in service of Mercadia in 
exchange for our friends' freedom and possession of the ship 
once the mission is complete," Takara said.
    The chief magistrate nodded in consideration. Behind his 
pursed lips lurked a smile. "Your friends would be held 
captive until the mission was complete? Their lives are held 
in security?"
    "Yes. And if you wisely choose Weatherlight's mission, you 
can make its singular appearance have an effect for 
centuries," Takara said.
    The magistrate nodded, jowls rippling.
    "There are conditions," Orim spoke up. "You cannot order 
Weatherlight to assault the Cho-Arrim in any way. They have 
suffered enough."
    "Granted."
    "And we need Mercadian assistance to repair the ship," 
Orim continued.
    Shrugging, the magistrate said, "Whatever you require."
    "We require passage to Saprazzo, realm of merfolk beyond 
the sea."
    Brow furrowing, the magistrate said, "For what possible 
purpose?"
    "To acquire the piece needed to repair the ship-an 
artifact called the Matrix."
    A hiss of laughter came from the dais. "Do you truly 
believe you can steal the national treasure of the 
Saprazzans?"
    "No," Orim said. "We will not steal it. We will bargain 
for it. And that is why we must be sent as ambassadors of 
Mercadia. We must be entrusted with the right to bargain on 
behalf of the city for this object."
    "Outrageous! How shall foreigners represent Mercadia?"
    "Send your own delegation along with us, if you must," 
Orim said. "They will assure the interests of Mercadia are 
guarded. We will function as ambassadors only in respect to 
acquiring the Matrix, and we will do so only to repair a ship 
that will perform a great service for Mercadia."
    The hidden smile behind the magistrate's lips emerged now 
fully. "Perhaps we will merely acquire this item without you."
    Takara spoke with a near sneer, "You have no idea how to 
incorporate it into the ship. And should you choose to deny 
us, perhaps we will simply orchestrate another escape, and 
bring old and new giant killers here to slay you and your 
Kyren court, and take back our ship and strafe this city until 
it is rubble." She smiled a dagger smile. "It is, as they say, 
your choice."
    An ironic look crossed the magistrate's face. "Perhaps, 
and perhaps not. But the bargain is agreed to. You will go as 
emissaries to Saprazzo, in company with true ambassadors, will 
secure the Matrix and bring it to Mercadia to repair the ship, 
then will fly the ship on a mission of my choosing- not 
against any Cho-Arrim targets-and thereby win your friends' 
freedom and your ship."
    "There is one more condition," Sisay said. "And this is 
nonnegotiable."
    "What else could you possibly want?"
    "A thousand gold to the family of farmer Tavoot..."

                          * * * * *

    A week later, Sisay, Hanna, and Orim set out for Saprazzo. 
Takara remained in Mercadia to tend her father and make 
certain Gerrard and the other prisoners were treated well.
    Though Sisay, Hanna, and Orim had intended to ride 
Jhovalls to the sea, the Mercadians would not deign the dust 
and fur of such a transit. Instead, they rode in silk-veiled 
litters borne by gray-skinned giants. Retinues of servants 
conveyed wine and fans and cheese. The ambassadors seemed 
incapable of traveling more than two or three hours a day and 
that only in the cool of early morning. During much of the day 
they sat in their tents complaining about the heat, the dust, 
and the long hours.
    At first Sisay and Hanna had ridden in the curtained 
litters. By the second day, however, they found they preferred 
to walk or ride Jhovalls. Indeed, the pace was so leisurely 
that at the end of the day the only aches and pains they 
suffered were from sitting in one place too long.
    Orim did not give up her private litter. She also spent 
evenings in her tent, meditating on the magic and mythology of 
the Cho-Arrim. When she spoke with her friends, she invariably 
directed the conversation toward the Power Matrix of the 
Saprazzans-what she called the "Mind of the Uniter."
    Hanna knew of the Matrix from mentions in the Thran Tome 
and believed it could recharge-in fact supercharge- 
Weatherlight's damaged power stone. She sought the Matrix as 
one of the final pieces of the Legacy. Orim sought it as part 
of the Cho-Arrim Uniter. Sisay sought it just to get her ship 
and crew back. Discussions of the device gave the women common 
ground, but outside of these conversations, Orim spoke little 
with her comrades.
    Onward they traveled. Gradually the scenery changed. The 
road wound out of flat, dusty plains and into a series of low 
hills, covered in scrub and broken by dry channels. The earth 
was a deep reddish brown, and the litter bearers often slipped 
when climbing down the sides of the chutes. Snakes slithered 
along the bottoms of the channels, red and black diamond 
patterns on their scaly backs. Near the mountain, the 
travelers had occasionally passed outlying farms, struggling 
to wrest crops from the inhospitable land. Farther from 
Mercadia, all signs of settlement ceased.
    Wind swept over the hills, ruffling patches of long grass. 
The travelers made camp as best they could each night, 
servants clearing nettles. The ground was covered in harsh 
lava-like stones that poked through the bottoms of the tents 
and their thin blankets. Dry stalks rattled in night breezes, 
creating eerie moans and sighs that made sleep all but 
impossible. The hills grew steeper and the knifelike grass 
thicker.
    Impatient with the slow pace, Sisay asked a servant why 
they did not conjure a dust cloud to take them to the shore.
    "The clouds of hassim are present only on the west side of 
the mountain," the man replied. "Along this way, one must 
travel by the road." He sighed and looked about the desolate 
place. "My grandfather's grandfather could have told you of 
the days when it was lush and green, when water flowed in 
abundance. Trees rose overhead. Birds and beasts filled the 
land. But now..." He gestured at the dismal landscape.
    Sisay rubbed her red and weary eyes. "So what happened?"
    He was about to reply when a harsh cry from one of the 
Mercadian tents stopped him. He rose and hastily answered the 
call of his master.
    As day after day passed, Sisay and Hanna succumbed to the 
boredom of the trip. The scenery changed little. After 
journeying a few hours, they would halt, pitch camp, and sit 
sweltering beneath the lemon sky and the merciless sun.
    At last one morning, Sisay awoke from a restless sleep, 
emerged, and smelled on an east breeze a soothing scent: the 
tangy odor of salt water. The camp lay on the side of a long, 
ascending slope. The caravan had been climbing out of a broad 
basin, the bottom of which was broken by the crisscrossing dry 
water channels. Far to the north she saw a low, dark line that 
seemed to be a stone wall.
    Hanna joined her and peered ahead. "The sea?" she asked.
    "I think maybe over this ridge. I can smell it, but I 
can't hear it yet."
    "Yes, the Mercadians say we're not far now. Perhaps 
another two or three days' travel."
    The day's journey was somewhat longer than usual, and 
brought the party, shortly before noon, to the very top of the 
slope. When they crested it, Sisay stared in ecstasy at the 
vista spread before her.
    As far as she could see stretched the ocean. On Dominaria, 
the seas were blue. Here, under yellow heavens, the waves were 
every shade of red, yellow, and orange. Along the horizon were 
low banks of clouds that promised of rain. The air was filled 
with sound that the hills had previously blocked: the cries of 
birds swooping to and fro over the water; the moan of wind as 
it swept along the shore and over the ridge. Distantly, 
breakers crashed against a rocky precipice.
    A short distance before Sisay, the ground fell away 
precipitously, ending in a cliff, with the sea a thousand feet 
below. The road here ran north along the top of the ridge, its 
seaward side bordered by a wall. Sisay slipped from the saddle 
of her Jhovall and approached one of the Mercadian servants.
    "Where is Saprazzo?"
    He gestured toward the sea. "There. Beyond the waters and 
within the waters."
    Sisay shaded her eyes against the glare. "I can see 
something way off there, but it doesn't look high enough to be 
an island."
    "Nonetheless, that is the isle of the unnatural and vile 
Saprazzans, may their names be cursed forever." The epithets 
rolled easily and unthinkingly off his tongue. "We will halt 
here and rest before traveling on to the great port city of 
Rishada."
    "When will we get there?"
    "It is hard to say. So many things are dictated by the 
gods, who may intervene in even the best-laid plans. Weather, 
accidents, enemy raids-"
    "All right, all right!" Sisay, having had some experience 
with Mercadian answers to simple questions, beat a hasty 
retreat. She led her Jhovall back to where Hanna sat looking 
at the sea.
    "We're camping here, evidently."
    The navigator nodded.
    The curtain on Orim's litter drew aside, and the healer 
slowly emerged. She looked about, not seeing anyone in the 
traveling party, only the sea. It seemed to Sisay that Orim's 
face was changing. The expression of irredeemable grief she 
had worn since her return from the settlement had been 
replaced by something else. The sadness was still there, but 
now it was mixed with joy.
    "Orim!" Hanna stepped toward the healer, hand 
outstretched.
    Slowly the Samite turned to face her. Her eyes changed 
focus as she looked at the tall, blonde woman.
    "Hanna." Her voice sounded like that of someone waking 
from a long dream. She turned. "Hello, Sisay."
    Sisay smiled tentatively. "How are you doing?"
    The healer made no reply, turning back to the sea. "Where 
are we?" she asked.
    "Somewhere south of Rishada-another city-state. Kind of a 
jumping-off place for Saprazzo."
    Orim nodded, seeming to lose interest. She turned to 
Sisay's Jhovall, stroking its flank, patting it gently. Then 
she put her head close to its ear and whispered something. The 
beast gave a loud purr, as was its wont when contented, and 
arranged itself peacefully in a sitting position.
    Sisay stared. "How did you do that? It took me a week of 
hard work and falls before I could even get the damn thing to 
let me sit on its back."
    The healer ruffled the short fur on the top of the 
Jhovall's head. She turned to her companions. "It's good to 
see you again. I haven't said that before."
    Sisay looked at her thoughtfully. Orim was more than a 
friend. On Weatherlight she had been under Sisay's command. 
"Orim," she said quietly, "tell us what happened to you."
    The healer shook her head. "No, Sisay. I'm not ready for 
that yet. Maybe never. But regardless, I'm happy to see you 
and Hanna."
    Next day, as they journeyed northward, Sisay, Hanna, and 
Orim grew accustomed to the spectacle of the Outer Sea on 
their left. On the third day, the road broadened. A low stone 
wall ran beside it, along which small empty guardhouses stood 
every mile or so. After perhaps fifteen miles, the road 
descended toward the water. Long, sweeping turns burrowed into 
the cliff wall, and Sisay sometimes closed her eyes as her 
Jhovall's claws slipped on the spray-covered rock. The 
travelers' view to the north was blocked by a long spur of 
rock that thrust out into the sea. The sound of breakers 
filled the air all around, and many birds nested along the 
cliff wall.
    A tunnel loomed before them, piercing the spur, barred by 
a great wrought-iron gate. The party came to a halt. One of 
the Mercadians approached the gate and placed his hand on the 
intricately carved iron plate at its center. He spoke a word, 
and there began a musical ringing that spread throughout the 
cavern and echoed above the crash of the waves below. Then, 
with a rumble, the great gates swung open, sliding into 
recesses in the rock. The party moved forward into the tunnel. 
As they entered, lights sprang up on the walb, illuminating 
the way. The passageway was long and straight, carved by 
picks. At the far end, a similar pair of gates opened as they 
approached. Sisay appreciated the military advantages of an 
approach that could trap invaders in a narrow space where they 
could be disposed of with impunity.
    The caravan emerged from the tunnel, lights behind them 
fading into blackness. Before them, a steep, cobbled causeway 
descended into the main street of Rishada. Jhovalls' claws 
clicked along the street. Mercadians nodded condescendingly at 
the crowds that stared at them, shouting at the few foolish 
enough to block their way.
    Rishada was a smaller version of Mercadia, with the same 
profusion of market stalls, the same clamor of merchants- but 
all of it had a distinctly nautical flavor. Many folk roamed 
the streets with the rolling gait of sailors. Fresh fish were 
laid out on stone slabs, along with crabs, lobsters, squid, 
shrimp, and other, less identifiable creatures.
    The Mercadian procession made its way through the 
confusing maze of streets, down to a broad, open square. 
Around three sides of the square were low stone buildings. The 
fourth side was open to the sea and extended outward in a long 
pier lined with docked ships. Most were small fishing smacks, 
but a few were sleek schooners.
    It was beside one of these that the caravan paused. The 
ship Facade had been chartered to take the ambassadorial 
contingent. The company loaded on the ship and settled in for 
a night in the moorings.
    One night's stay in Rishada was enough to last the 
Weatherlight companions a lifetime. The cabin in which they 
were housed was dark and narrow and smelled intolerably of 
fish. The beds were small, lumpy, and damp, and there was 
little privacy save the darkness. All three women-Sisay, 
Hanna, and Orim-were crowded together, and since Orim chose to 
speak no more than a few words, Sisay and Hanna felt 
constrained to silence as well. They slept as best they were 
able and were roused the next morning by a sense of motion.
    Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Sisay rose and climbed 
to the deck. The crew had just cast off the lines, and Facade 
drew away from the city. Sisay breathed deeply. It felt 
wonderful once again to be aboard a ship under sail. Hanna 
came to join her, and the women traded quiet smiles.
    On the water, the Mercadians seemed abnormally silent and 
tense. They huddled together on the deck while Sisay and Hanna 
stood in the prow of the ship, watching the water.
    Rishada dropped quickly behind them. Before them the sea 
spread out in an endless horizon. Both women found the rush of 
air and water exhilarating after the long, hot, dusty journey. 
The wind filled the sails, and the flag of Rishada, gray with 
a red ship surmounted with a blue crest of arms, snapped 
smartly from the mast.
    Along the surface of the water, small fish skimmed. One 
suddenly rose from the waves and, spreading a pair of broad 
fins from its sides, took to the air with a graceful swoop and 
soared away on air currents. Sisay and Hanna stood open-
mouthed as an entire flight of the flying fish followed their 
leader and disappeared into the yellow sky. The water was very 
clear, and Sisay at times glimpsed stranger creatures moving 
about in the depths. When she stared hard at the distant 
forms, they seemed only shadows that flitted over the dimpled 
waves.
    Gazing at the illimitable ocean, Sisay said to Hanna, 
"What wonders await us out there?"
    Hanna's eyes too were filled with the oddly colored sea. 
"What wonders, and what horrors?"

                          * * * * *

    Two nights hence, Orim was at the prow when the horrors 
began.
    In the last gloaming of evening, a huge figure burst up 
from the distant, inky tide. It hung massively in the ribbon 
of dying light, and then crashed back into the wide sea-a 
breaching whale.
    Orim gripped the rail. Through stout wood, she felt the 
profound thrumming of the waters across the beast, the 
compression wave flung from the leviathan's vast bulk, the 
rumble of tip vortices trailing enormous fins. Her own arms 
and legs remembered the blissful sensations of swimming and 
diving and surfacing in the lagoon. Closing her eyes, she 
could almost imagine stroking toward Cho-Manno....
    Another tremor moved through the rail-this one violent and 
shuddering.
    Orim gasped, opening her eyes.
    A harpoon sailed out from a deck-mounted gun. Its line 
uncoiled with a brutal whipping motion. The barbed shaft sank 
into the swell where the whale had disappeared. There came a 
muted shriek through the deeps. Rishadan crews cleated off the 
harpoon line, and it went taut with the agonized thrashing of 
the beast.
    Orim staggered back from the rail, stunned. Gathering her 
strength, she stalked toward the harpooners, a pair of tall, 
thin, tan-skinned seamen. "What are you doing?"
    One Rishadan flashed a glad smile. "Harpooning!" he said.
    She shook her head. "This is a chartered vessel, an 
ambassadorial voyage-"
    The young man shrugged narrow shoulders. The short gray 
vest across his chest leaped up. "This won't slow us. If we 
can kill it, we can drag it behind us and work it in the water 
while we make way. If it gets away, there's nothing lost."
    "Nothing lost!" Orim said angrily. "What about the whale? 
What about its life? Nothing lost?"
    The other seaman shouted a warning, pulling in slack rope. 
"It's coming about! It's heading straight for us. It's going 
to stave the ship!"
    Orim turned back to the rail.
    A massive mound of water angled across the billows, 
heading directly at the ship. Within the water rose a low 
roar. Fin tips broke the surface, and a massive figure 
shouldered through the darkness below. The harpoon stuck 
stupidly from the thing's back, slack rope trailing in the 
water behind.
    "Fire!" the Rishadan cried.
    That same shuddering violence moved through the rail.
    Orim caught her breath as the second harpoon leaped 
outward. It met the surging bulk of the whale, embedding 
itself just behind the leviathan's head. Red streamed in the 
darkling water behind that jutting shaft. The beast did not 
slow. It came on, straight for the ship.
    More amazing, though-a vast hand rose from the waters 
ahead of the whale. Huge fingers laid hold of the shaft and 
ripped it bloodily forth.
    "That's no whale!" the harpooner muttered in dread. "It's 
a Saprazzan warrior beast!"
    From the mounding waves rose a huge head, as large and 
knobby as a boulder. Kelplike hair streamed behind a sloping 
brow, which overshadowed small, angry, and intelligent eyes. 
The gray-green muzzle of the thing bristled with fangs that 
could bite a man in half. One vast hand clutched the gory 
harpoon above the waves. The other took a final stroke and 
then surged up to seize the gunwale of Facade. With an 
almighty rush, the warrior beast hurled itself on deck. 
"Attack-!" one of the harpooners began. His warning was cut 
short. The beast rammed the bloody head of the harpoon through 
the man. His chest cracked open and gushed like an egg. He 
riled on the shaft, gore making the deck slick beneath him. 
Orim fell back. More shouts rose.
    Crew rushed forward with tridents and spears. The vast 
beast hauled itself across the deck, clutched the second 
harpooner, and crushed him in an enormous fist. There was 
nothing left of the man but meat and bone meal. This was a 
Saprazzan? Orim wondered numbly, clawing her way to the 
fo'c'sle. An ominous sight greeted her.
    The black sea all around boiled angrily with fins. They 
converged on Facade. More monsters climbed the gunwales to 
slide onto the deck.
    These were smaller-man-sized creatures. Their faces 
gleamed like mother-of-pearl, with hooked beaks and vast, 
staring eyes. Great mantles of seaweed draped the heads of 
some, while the heads of others were encrusted as with giant 
barnacles. Their torsos and arms were also very human beneath 
their conch armor, but from the waist down they had the long, 
scaly tail fins of fish. Pearlescent tridents were gripped in 
their webbed hands. As beautiful and otherworldly as these 
creatures seemed, they killed with an all-too-familiar 
savagery.
    Orim staggered back. It was just like the attack on the 
Cho-Arrim village, this tide of killing monsters. They slashed 
and impaled and eviscerated. Dead crew littered the deck. 
Blood covered everything. Even Facade herself was being ripped 
apart. Soon, the ship and all hands living would be dragged to 
their deaths in the destroying sea.
    Orim was surrounded. Saprazzans hemmed her in on all 
sides. She had no weapons. As they converged, rushing in to 
slay her, she could only hold up her silver-shimmering hands 
in futile supplication.
    Then, the Saprazzan warrior beast surged up from 
amidships, grasped her in one huge and horrible hand, and 
dragged her overboard. Down, down into the dark waters of 
night they sounded.
    Twilight waters receded above. Facade was only a black 
shadow there, only a slender leaf lying on the evening waves. 
The darkling sea below was bone cold and endless. It crushed 
Orim more viciously than the claws of the beast.
    Already, light had quit the waters, and warmth with it. In 
moments, the sea would shatter her eardrums, burst her 
sinuses, and flood into her lungs. Only the Saprazzan beast 
remained-its fury, its agony. Orim reached up toward the 
creature's shoulder, and her hand settled on the harpoon wound 
there. A twitch of pain went through the creature. She could 
tear at that wound, perhaps win free as the beast spasmed-or 
she could show the Saprazzan that she was Cho-Arrim, that she 
was kin.
    Silver light appeared in an aura about her hand. Magic 
awoke from streaming seawater. Warmth suffused her hand in a 
tingling glove. It sank into the harpoon wound, coursing deep 
along ruptured tissues. The glow intensified, and it stitched 
tissues together.
    The warrior beast released a great moan that might have 
been anger or ecstasy. It only dove deeper.
    Heedless, Orim continued healing its wound. She stopped 
only when the cold black deeps drew her own life away.
    
                        Chapter 12

    Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn might not have been crushed 
by rubbish, but neither had they been coddled by it. The three 
were spattered and smudged and foul-smelling when they were 
yanked up from their filthy knees. Soldiers further shackled 
them, loaded them on their bellies on a wagon, chained them 
yet again, and hauled them back to the city. No baths-but 
neither were they executed.
    Simple termination was not enough for these three. They 
had publicly humiliated the chief magistrate and his minions. 
Their deaths would publicly repair the damage they had done.
    So, it was chains and more chains, dungeons, and dank 
bread, nothing to drink but the septic swill that trickled 
through the prison catacombs. No baths, and no escape- not by 
brute force or cunning contrivance, not by ruse or bribe. 
These rock-hewn cells were too hard, cold, and deep, their 
bars impassable, their guards implacable.
    Then, suddenly, a few weeks into their imprisonment, there 
were baths. Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn were marched out of 
the hole. Washed, powdered, dressed-but still shackled-they 
were led by a full regiment of soldiers. Their escorts 
conducted them toward the Magistrate's Tower in the center of 
the city. Gerrard scanned the crowd for signs of Atalla, 
Takara, or Hanna-but no outside aid appeared. He twice tried 
to improvise an escape but only got yanked back in line and 
flogged.
    The soldiers conveyed their prisoners into a small upper 
chamber, near the Magistrate's Tower. It was called an 
"ambassadorial apartment" and looked pleasant enough, though 
in truth it was as inescapable as the prison had been. 
Fifteen-foot-thick stone walls, a ceiling of plastered metal 
plates, triple-barred windows above a fifty-foot drop, three 
separate iron-banded doors, guard towers watching the four 
comers of the structure-whatever ambassadors resided here were 
in truth political hostages.
    That's what Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn had become- 
political hostages. Someone had made a deal, and they were the 
security on the deal. Still, this was a cleaner, warmer, more 
comfortable prison than below-furniture and books, clothes and 
beds and-
    "Wine anyone?" asked a familiar voice.
    As the soldiers filed out the triple doors, Takara made 
her way in, carrying a wooden crate. Her red hair seemed flame 
in the dark entryway, and her lips were equally red around a 
smile.
    Gerrard gaped at her, astonished. "What are you doing 
here-why have they let you-what is all this-?"
    "What is all this?" Takara echoed. She lugged the crate to 
a low table, set it down, and pulled on the top. Nails 
complained but were no match for her strength. The lid came 
away, revealing two dozen corked green bottles carefully 
packed in straw. "All this is wine."
    Shaking his head in confusion, Gerrard approached. "No, I 
mean all of this? Why are they letting you in here-?"
    "I made a deal, Gerrard," Takara replied, hefting a bottle 
and staring with admiration at it. "In Mercadia, deals are 
more powerful than armies. The deal I made brought you up out 
of the pit, sent Hanna, Orim, and Sisay off to get another 
piece of your Legacy-will even allow us to fix the ship and 
get out of here. You're still prisoners, of course, but part 
of the deal is visitation rights-and wine." Producing a 
corkscrew from her pocket, Takara yanked the cork from the 
first bottle. "Have some?"
    Gerrard shrugged, taking the bottle in hand. "No 
wineglasses?"
    "Don't get uppity," Takara replied, already working over a 
second bottle. "How about you, Tahngarth? I can't remember if 
minotaurs like this stuff-"
    "Not in such piddling quantities," Tahngarth said, 
striding across the room to grasp the opened bottle. He smiled 
ruefully and took a long draw. "Gerrard will owe me a bottle 
from his case, when it arrives," he said dryly.
    Takara laughed. "Then I'll owe you one, also." She lifted 
her own bottle. Only after a deep draught did she seem to 
notice Karn, standing like another piece of furniture near the 
window. "I don't imagine silver golems-"
    "You are right," interrupted Karn, his voice a quiet 
rumble like distant thunder. "I require a different sort of... 
lubrication."
    That brought laughter from everyone except the golem.
    Gerrard smiled sadly and slouched into a low chair, his 
wine bottle hanging from his hand. He shook his head. "How did 
we ever end up here?"
    Takara took a seat opposite him and drew a deep breath. "A 
dangerous question. I asked it often when I was a prisoner on 
Rath. The answer always came down to betrayal. I had been 
betrayed."
    After a long swallow, Gerrard said, "Betrayal. Yes, that's 
awful stuff. Someone betrayed you into Volrath's hands, and 
then your father betrayed Sisay to get you back. It's the 
filthiest business-betrayal."
    "It was my brother," Takara said, her eyes focused beyond 
the room. Embers smoldered in her gaze. "He betrayed me."
    "Your brother? I didn't realize you had a brother."
    "Ha! Of course you didn't," she said acidly. "I never talk 
of him. He wasn't really even my brother, only a usurping 
orphan. He was always jealous of me. He was always trying to 
steal what was mine. He betrayed me, cut me off from my 
father, destroyed my whole life, and sold me into slavery."
    Shaking his head in compassionate outrage, Gerrard said, 
"That's horrible. You talk about your hatred, how it makes you 
strong. Now I see just how much reason you have to hate."
    She stared directly at him, and her eyes were piercing, 
almost predatory. "So, how did you end up here? Betrayal?"
    A speculative smile crossed Gerrard's face. "Well, there 
was that bastard Xcric-" he gently shook away the thought- 
"but, no. I'm through with blaming everyone else for my 
problems. I'm here because of my own failings, not someone 
else's."
    Takara's look only intensified. "What failings?"
    Gerrard laughed heavily, waving the question away. "You 
haven't time to hear all my failings." He took a long drink.
    "Well, then tell me about the big one," Takara replied. 
"Tell me the first big mistake you made, the one that set up 
all the others."
    "I don't know if there was just one."
    "Oh, yes, there was. Every chain of misery has its first 
link, the one that binds you to all the others. What was it 
for you, Gerrard?"
    He leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath and an 
even deeper draw, and said, "Of all the regrets I have, the 
deepest, the earliest, would be my father's death."
    "Your father's death?" Takara said, seeming somewhat 
surprised and strangely angered. "What happened?"
    "My brother-" Gerrard hissed- "gods, another wicked 
brother. He killed my father. He raised an army and marched on 
my father's village and killed my father and mother-the whole 
tribe."
    Takara leaned forward, as if eager to hear the next bit. 
"Why?"
    It was Gerrard's turn to stare into distant spaces. "He 
wanted to kill me. He killed the rest because he wanted to 
kill me.... He tried to kill me. He hated me...."
    Again, the single-word question. "Why?"
    A bleary look was entering Gerrard's eyes, a sad muzziness 
that only thickened with his next drink. "Well, you see, I 
saved his life."
    "You saved his life?"
    "It was during his coming-of-age ceremony-a deadly climb 
up a nearby precipice. He was stuck, exhausted. He could go no 
farther. He was going to die. The tribe would have just let 
him die, but I wouldn't. I climbed up and carried him down. I 
saved his life."
    "And for this, he hated you?"
    "Well, yes, because in saving his life, I disrupted his 
coming-of-age ceremony. He could never be considered a full 
man from then on. He could never inherit the sidar's rule."
    Takara's brow lowered. "Because of what you did, your 
brother could not inherit your father's kingdom? He could not 
ever rule?"
    "Yes," Gerrard admitted heavily.
    Sitting back in her chair, Takara took a drink, though her 
gaze remained on Gerrard. "I can understand his anger.
    You stole his future. Whether you meant to or not, you 
took his inheritance."
    "Yes, but after that, he came to take it back-no, not even 
to take it back, to destroy it so no one could have it. He 
murdered our father and burned the village. He took my Legacy-
which was never his-and scattered it to the four winds. He 
joined the Phyrexians. He became Volrath-"
    "Your brother ... became Volrath?"
    "Yes."
    "And all because of you. Do you see what I mean?" Takara 
asked. "What you did to your brother led inexorably to your 
father's death and the village's destruction, to the 
scattering of your Legacy-even to my imprisonment in Rath, and 
Sisay's imprisonment in Rath, and the deaths of all those 
people who journeyed with you to Rath to save her. Do you see? 
The first link in a chain of misery. And it is a deep link, 
Gerrard. A deep, unbreakable link. Betrayal."
    "That's enough," Karn rumbled from the window where he 
stood. "You weren't there, Takara. I was. You don't know what 
Vuel was like."
    "No, Karn," Gerrard said, blinking in dread. "She's right. 
That's when it all began. All the misery started with that 
first betrayal."
    With slow relish, Takara downed the dregs of her wine. She 
brought the bottle away from her lips. Wine hung bloodlike 
across them. A smile spread beneath the red liquid. "I told 
you, Gerrard, it was a dangerous question. Still, when you're 
locked away in a small room and there's wine aplenty, what 
other diversions are there than dangerous questions?"
    Karn and Tahngarth stared intently at the woman.
    Takara stood and languidly stretched. "I had better be 
going. I seem to have overstayed my welcome. I'll leave the 
wine, though. And there will be more. I see you've finished 
yours, Gerrard. Would you like another?"
    He rested the empty wine bottle on the floor and tipped it 
over in resignation. "It's a bitter drink, but it's better 
than nothing." He reached his hand out. "Yes. Give me 
another."

                          * * * * *

    By that evening, Gerrard and Tahngarth had each drained 
three bottles. As close as the space had seemed during 
daylight, when the windows were black and the only light came 
from a single candle beside the wine crate, it felt downright 
claustrophobic. The sheer bulk of man, minotaur, and golem put 
them forever in each other's way, and wine headaches put 
tempers on edge.
    It was probably not the right time for Karn to express his 
doubts about Takara.
    "Takara is wrong, Gerrard," Karn blurted. He plodded 
across the room and, knowing no chair would support his 
weight, knelt ponderously beside a slouching Gerrard. "You 
weren't the one who corrupted Vuel."
    "What do you know about it?" Gerrard snapped.
    "I know that after Vuel failed his test, a young, vicious, 
conniving man came to live in the village. I remember seeing 
him with Vuel. They spoke often," Karn rumbled quietly. "Do 
you remember?"
    "Only vaguely," Gerrard replied, rubbing his temples, "but 
I'm not about to blame my troubles with Volrath on some 
sinister stranger."
    "I had forgotten about that 'sinister stranger'-it had 
been so long-though now I recollect his face clearly. A young 
face, but familiar all the same."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Starke," Karn said. "It was he who led your brother 
astray."
    Shaking his head in disbelief, Gerrard said, "No, it can't 
have been. That's too much of a coincidence."
    "There are other coincidences. Takara spoke of losing 
everything because of an orphan brother adopted into her 
family. You were adopted into Vuel's family, and he lost 
everything."
    "What are you saying? That Starke masterminded every 
disaster in my life because Takara and her adopted brother 
didn't get along?"
    "I don't know how this all fits together," Karn replied, 
"but I'm certain it does. And I no longer trust Takara. Why 
does she question you? Why does she dredge up such guilt and 
regret?"
    Gerrard was suddenly angry. "Listen-Takara is the only 
reason we aren't dead now. She's our only advocate in the 
city. I think it unwise to alienate her." He scrubbed his head 
with sweaty fingers. "If you've got to talk, Karn, talk about 
something useful."
    Karn leaned back on his heels, a sound like scrap metal 
settling. "Well, I suppose it is safe enough, now...." From 
within his chest, from the cavity in which he stored the 
precious elements of the Legacy, he drew forth a wrinkled 
document. "I found this in the city archives," he remarked. "I 
feared to show it to you in the dungeon, or with Takara 
present."
    "What were you doing in the archives?"
    "Studying. I wished to learn more about the history of 
Mercadia." The golem shook his great head. "They are not 
meticulous record keepers. There are a number of documents 
that date from a very early period of the city's existence. At 
least, so I was told by the chief archivist. He had little 
real knowledge of the treasures in his vaults, and when I bore 
this paper away, I daresay he did not notice."
    "All right. It's a piece of paper," Tahngarth said 
laconically. He had no especial interest in documents, but 
with no other entertainment, he moved the wine crate from its 
low table and settled in the seat opposite Gerrard. "Lay it 
out. What have you found?"
    The golem spread the parchment on the table, smoothing it 
with his great hands. Gerrard and Tahngarth bent over it, 
puzzling over the symbols that seemed at once both cryptic and 
tantalizingly familiar.
    Gerrard exclaimed, "Hallo!"
    "What?" Tahngarth's eyes flicked back and forth over the 
unknown script.
    "Look at Karn's chest."
    On the golem's massive chest, a trio of symbols was 
inscribed by some unknown hand. Tahngarth had seen them 
hundreds of times but had never asked Karn about them.
    "I do not know their meaning," said the golem as if in 
answer to the unspoken question. "But I know they are in the 
ancient language of the Thran."
    "Thran?" Tahngarth snorted. "You mean you were made by the 
Thran?"
    Again the massive head bowed. "I do not know. I know 
nothing of my origins. But I do know that in some fashion I am 
connected to the Thran and their mastery of artifice."
    Gerrard looked at Tahngarth. "I don't know why it took me 
so long to see it. When 1 was a boy, I asked Karn what those 
symbols meant and got the same answer. But I've always 
imagined he was made by some Thran long ago." He turned back 
to the parchment. "So this document is written in the language 
of ancient Thran?"
    "Not precisely, but there is an undoubted resemblance." 
His massive hand indicated the document. "It would seem that 
in some way the Thran are connected to the origins of 
Mercadia."
    The Thran. Gerrard was swept away on a wave of thought. He 
remembered Multani, years before in his cave, lecturing him, 
Mirri, and Rofellos on the mysterious race who had lived on 
Dominaria millennia before. Thran artifacts were scattered 
across the land, hidden beneath the sands. Even the legendary 
Brothers' War had had something to do with the Thran, 
something to do with-
    "Wait," Tahngarth growled, "are you saying these 
Mercadians are Thran?"
    Karn said nothing, but looked to Gerrard, who rose and 
paced the room.
    "No," he said at last. "Legend says the Thran became 
Phyrexians, the machine race that tried to invade Dominaria in 
the age of the Brothers' War. They were stopped by Urza the 
artificer."
    Tahngarth's brow quirked in puzzlement. "But when we were 
shackled together, Orim told me the Cho-Arrim had a play about 
the Brothers' War."
    Gerrard stopped pacing. "Then they would have to be ..." 
"Perhaps not all Thran became Phyrexians," Karn supposed. 
"Some might have come here. If they kept contact with the 
Phyrexians, they could have learned of the Brothers' War. 
Their earliest records, then, would have been kept in early 
Thran. That would explain this document."
    "It would," Gerrard replied. "But did you hear what you 
just said?"
    "Which part?"
    "You just said the Mercadians must have kept in contact 
with the Phyrexians. If that's the case, Volrath may know 
we're here. Perhaps he has been watching us all along."

                          * * * * *

    For nearly a week, Tahngarth had been drinking. The 
Mercadians, whatever their other vices, were well skilled in 
the art of producing alcohol. The minotaur had indulged 
himself considerably this evening.
    The candle flared in its stick, and the room was stifling, 
smelling of its three inhabitants. Air from the windows was no 
relief. It smelled of hundreds of thousands of human bodies 
packed together into houses and courtyards, all sweating in 
the unbearable heat. A stillness had descended on Mercadia, 
and with it, heat that grew ever more oppressive. The very 
walls were sweating. Though the Mercadians seemed unaffected 
by the heat-trading in the marketplace below was as brisk and 
energetic as ever-the prisoners found themselves increasingly 
snappish.
    The situation was not helped by the conduct of Squee. He 
visited only occasionally, always garbed in the robes of his 
kind. After "saving everybody's butt but not getting nothing 
for it," Squee had begun to spend more and more time with 
Kyren. That he was far less intelligent than they was patently 
obvious to everyone but Squee. The Kyren treated him as a dim 
but beloved cousin. He told stories of the practical jokes 
played on him, the incessant teasing, but indicated they also 
defended him against any perceived slight from non-goblins. 
All of this, he related in singsong questions, like his peers. 
Squee's ego flourished under these circumstances, and the 
minotaur had had to restrain himself on several occasions from 
taking the ship's cabin boy across his knee and giving him a 
sound thrashing.
    And speaking of sound thrashings-what of Gerrard! 
Tahngarth frowned and took another deep draught of sweet wine. 
The young man who had stepped into the center of all their 
lives had been something of an enigma to the minotaur. Now, 
after regular visits from Takara, Tahngarth knew too much 
about Gerrard. Despite his outward calm, a great anger dwelt 
in Gerrard. Takara only enflamed it. He was angry about 
betraying his brother. He was angry about the deaths of 
Rofellos and Mirri. He was angry about everything, and every 
time Takara showed up, he grew angrier. At least she brought 
wine-and now, cups for drinking it.
    Tahngarth poured a deep, dark-red stream into his cup and 
belched. The minotaur was rarely drunk, but on the few 
occasions on which he had let himself go, the results had 
usually been spectacular. His capacity for alcohol was 
amazing.
    "Good wine!" The minotaur thumped his cup on the table for 
emphasis. Wine splashed from the cup and pooled on the heavy 
wood.
    "Have you not had enough?" Karn asked, standing by the 
window.
    Tahngarth growled in the back of his throat and drained 
his cup.
    The silver golem stood impassively watching him. "Gerrard 
has slept all day today." "So?"
    "I think we should wake him."
    "What's the point?" The minotaur scraped his cup along the 
table, drawing a long, raw gash in the wood. He rose and 
walked, albeit unsteadily, to the window and gazed out over 
the lights of the city. Even at night, it seemed to him he saw 
the waves of heat rising from the rooftops.
    Behind him the golem's calm voice said, "We should be sure 
Gerrard is all right."
    "Fine. Wake him. He'll just have another drink." Karn 
strode to where Gerrard lay, sloppily tangled in a blanket. 
Stooping, the silver golem nudged his shoulder. "Aw, c'mon, 
Hanna. Lemme sleep." Tahngarth stomped up loudly, grasped 
Gerrard by both shoulders, and hauled him to his feet.
    "All ri', all ri'." Gerrard stood unsteadily in the light 
of the room, his dark hair tousled and his clothing askew. He 
opened bleary eyes, and anger kindled there. "All right, 
Tahngarth! Challenge me, will you? All right!" Balling fists, 
he knocked away the minotaur's hands.
    "Ah, at last, some entertainment!" Tahngarth said with 
relish.
    Karn stepped back, leaving minotaur and man circling each 
other. "Fine entertainment for a pacifist," he rumbled.
    Gerrard struck first, one hand darting out at Tahngarth's 
neck. The minotaur blocked the jab easily and countered with a 
swing to the head. Gerrard ducked under, came up, and brought 
both hands clenched together against Tahngarth's muzzle. It 
was a powerful blow, and the minotaur staggered. Gerrard 
snorted in satisfaction.
    "Mutiny, is it?" Gerrard taunted. "You've wanted the ship 
ever since Sisay was kidnapped. Now she's gone, so you thought 
you'd have another try, eh?"
    Tahngarth swung again. He connected with the Benalian's 
shoulder, sending him backward over the table and crashing to 
the ground. "You fool!" roared the minotaur. "You were never 
worthy to even lick Sisay's boots. You've done nothing for her 
ship and nothing for her!" He leaped at Gerrard.
    The master-at-arms was too quick, rolling to one side and 
jumping to his feet. Tahngarth crashed past him. Gerrard spun, 
kicking him in the ribs. It was a blow that would have 
disabled a man, but a minotaur could shrug it off, and 
Tahngarth minded it little. He scrambled up, and he and 
Gerrard, each drawing a breath, rushed together.
    Tahngarth was massive, but Gerrard was quicker and lighter 
on his feet. The Benalian had trained in hand-to-hand combat 
and had learned tricks that evened the odds.
    Tahngarth grabbed him. Gerrard, with an agile twist, 
slipped through his huge arms and spun around behind him. One 
foot lashed out at the back of the minotaur's left knee. 
Tahngarth staggered forward with a cry and stumbled to the 
ground. Gerrard leaped on his back, clasping his arms around 
his opponent's throat.
    "Admit it, you respect me," Gerrard growled.
    Tahngarth merely flung Gerrard over his shoulders and onto 
the floor. "Admit it, you fear me."
    Gasping, Gerrard rolled to his feet. "Who wouldn't fear 
... a walking pile of bullsh-?" The taunt was ended by a 
crushing blow to the stomach.
    The minotaur smiled through bloodied lips. "Who wouldn't 
respect a man almost worthy of the Legacy?" He got a foot in 
the teeth for that one.
    The combatants reeled back a moment, gathered their 
strength, and lunged. Two fists carved the air. Two jaws 
cracked. Two sets of eyes spun. The fighters fell in opposite 
directions to the floor.
    Brushing off his hands, Karn walked slowly between them 
and to the window. He peered out past the bars. "It's going to 
be a quiet night."
    
                        Chapter 13

    Sisay staggered onto a blood-spattered deck. She hadn't 
time to see whom she fought-there were only pearly tridents 
and lashing scales-and then she was killing them.
    The cutlass she had snatched below decks slashed down. It 
cut kelplike hair and clove a shoulder beneath. In fountaining 
gore, the beast crumpled. Sisay strode over it and caught a 
jabbing trident. She flung the iridescent prongs to the deck, 
where they stuck. Sisay's cutlass buried itself in a belly of 
scales and gutted the creature. It spilled messily at her 
feet, a net disgorging fish.
    Another trident lanced in above the dead creature. Its 
twisted tines jabbed deeply into Sisay's side.
    With a cry, she fell back, slipping on gore. She crashed 
down atop the two creatures she had slain. Her killer-that's 
what this scale-faced beast was-rammed the trident deeper. 
Sisay struggled, writhing back and forth on the impaling 
spikes. A hot gush came from her side, and she slumped.
    The creature's fierce face changed not a whit. It hauled 
its trident back and spun to attack another crew member.
    Sisay lay dying among the dead. She clutched the three 
ragged holes in her side but otherwise could not move.
    The bloody battle all around became a dreamy thing ... a 
masked dance. These fish creatures ... they were beautiful in 
their clamshell armor and abalone masks.... Green and gold, 
orange and red, they danced.... What bright and flashing 
weapons they bore! The Rishadan crew-they were beautiful too. 
Tall, slim, bronze-skinned ... Their cutlasses flashed in the 
dying evening. The players circled, fish and flesh. Steel 
joining them. Where it bridged the races, one would fall in 
red singing.... How alike they were, scale and skin, when they 
bled and died. How alike were Sisay and the fish corpses that 
pillowed her....
    She was death dreaming, she knew. This was the delirium of 
dying.
    Amid the chorus of screams and the circling dance, there 
came a surreal figure. A beast as large as a whale vaulted 
onto the deck and clawed its way to the center of the fight. 
Warriors fell back in fear. The huge beast raised its fangy 
head and flung back green hair.
    Stranger still-tangled amid that hair was a woman. She had 
ridden upon the beast's shoulders and now stood there 
streaming. She spoke to the stilled warriors. "Children of 
Ramos, fight no longer!"
    It was Orim. Her voice was strained from the fist of the 
deep, and she was sodden to the bone, but it was she. In the 
tongue of the Cho-Arrim, she repeated the words. The vast 
beast beneath her roared something in kind.
    The last tridents and cutlasses ceased their dance in air.
    "We are not killers, but kin. The harpoon stroke that 
began this fight was given in error, and the second in terror. 
But those wounds are healed now. Already, too many of us lie 
dead from those absent strokes. Let no more die-"
    Sisay smiled. This was not just a death dream. Orim and 
her Cho-Arrim magic had made allies of enemies. Even now, 
merfolk stripped feral masks from their very human faces. 
Their vast and scaly tails divided and reshaped into slender 
and very human legs. Where monsters had fought moments before 
stood only more humans.
    This was not just a death dream, no-but it was a death ... 
Sisay's death.
    The last thing she saw in the twilight of her mind was 
Orim's face. The healer must have finished her speech, secured 
her alliance, for she had climbed from the beast's shoulder 
and traversed the deck of dead to kneel there beside her 
friend.
    "Good-bye ... Orim ..."
    "You cannot go," Orim replied firmly. "Not yet." Her hands 
settled on Sisay's side, and warm, silver, healing fire awoke.

                          * * * * *

    Ever since she was a little girl, Hanna had had an intense 
dislike of water. Baths had been traumatic events, punctuated 
with shrieks and wails. As she grew older, she resisted all 
attempts to teach her to swim, and even, when possible, stayed 
away from the beaches and bluffs that bounded the shores of 
her native isle of Tolaria. Aboard Weatherlight, she had, to 
an extent, overcome this fear. Though, she felt herself 
fortunate the ship sailed through air rather than water.
    Standing in the main street of Saprazzo, she was happy to 
be on dry land-or what seemed to be dry land. The city was 
built within a half-submerged volcanic caldera. A semicircle 
of basalt mountains ringed one half of the metropolis, and a 
thick, stone seawall ringed the other half. Together, mountain 
and wall kept the sea out. Like other arriving ships, Facade 
had entered a channel bored through the mountainside and 
progressed down a series of locks to the deep harbor at the 
center of Saprazzo. Crews and cargoes were off-loaded there, 
hundreds of feet below sea level. Though the streets of the 
upper city were dry, they were below sea level, and every air-
filled building had its foundations in deep waters. One could 
walk the streets above or swim the streets below. Hanna stood 
on dry land, yes, but it was dry land poised atop-and beneath-
ever-present water.
    It was not a great comfort for a woman with hydrophobia.
    She looked out at the shimmering city. Saprazzo was a vast 
inverted cone extending down into the caldera. Buildings and 
streets formed concentric rings in their descent toward the 
docks and the bay. Terraced houses in polished stones 
overlooked the central cone. A few of these dwellings were 
grand and dignified, with elaborate carvings and designs over 
the doors. Most were simple, with trailing plants hung over 
the pediments. These plants often bore bright blossoms or 
strangely shaped fruits. It would be difficult to imagine a 
greater contrast to the dry, dusty streets of Mercadia or the 
narrow, fishy lanes of Rishada.
    Along the streets moved Saprazzans. They seemed completely 
at home on land or in water. From the docks the navigator had 
beheld groups of them sporting cheerfully among the waves. 
Most Saprazzans looked similar, having light blue skin and 
thick, flowing blue hair. The women wore their hair in 
cascades down their backs, save when they bound it up above 
the nape of the neck with exquisite silver filigrees. 
Saprazzan hands and feet were slightly webbed between fingers 
and toes, and about their necks was a suggestion of gills. 
They breathed water and air with equal ease and could 
transform their legs into fins. The Saprazzans who had 
attacked Facade in aquatic form had transformed into 
terrestrial bodies at the end of the battle, and stayed that 
way, tending the wounded and conducting rites for the dead. 
These same folk now walked with Hanna, Orim, Sisay, and the 
Mercadian contingent down a winding avenue in the heart of the 
city.
    Hanna found herself stopping now and again to breathe the 
unusual air, damp and rich at the city's center. She felt as 
if she were inhaling an atmosphere that had somehow become 
liquid.
    The broad pavement along which they made their way was 
intersected in places by little waterfalls that descended in a 
series of cascades from level to level. Hanna bent down to 
taste the water of one, and was surprised to find it fresh and 
pure. She straightened and caught one of the Saprazzans 
watching her. He smiled and said something.
    Orim moved to her side. "He says these are the source of 
drinking water for the people here," the Samite healer said. 
She herself appeared to be more at ease than at any time since 
she had rejoined Weatherlight's crew. Her dark, curious eyes 
took in every sight as they passed along the street.
    Sisay, fully healed by Cho-Arrim and Saprazzan magic, 
looked happily intrigued as well. Hanna was glad for her 
friends. Their ease comforted her.
    The lead Saprazzan turned into a broad doorway set with 
seashells. He stood to one side, gesturing to the visitors.
    The Mercadians, who had been hanging back with expressions 
of disgust, shouldered past Sisay and Hanna. The women bit 
their tongues, let the Mercadians enter, and then followed.
    The ambassadorial corps found themselves in a broad, 
descending hallway. The passage was lit by some means 
undetectable at first glance, and the walls were studded with 
shells. The hall ended in a pair of impressive double doors 
that the Saprazzans swung open, revealing a chamber beyond.
    It was a large room, wide and tall. Its walls were adorned 
with shells and shapes of sea creatures hewn from the living 
rock. Most impressive though, and what took away the breath of 
the visitors, was the enormous window, fully fifty feet high. 
It stretched up and opened on an underwater vista of 
breathtaking beauty.
    Outside the window teemed living coral beds that moved and 
swirled in the currents. Within their folds, small fish darted 
and swooped. Plants created a green fringe that swayed 
ponderously in the water. In the bay beyond, great schools of 
fish leaped into view and then swam away. A school of flying 
fish darted past, propelling themselves swiftly with their 
broad, winglike fins. Occasionally, stranger sea creatures 
appeared, undulating silently by the window as if observing 
the scene within.
    As a child Hanna had seen the little fish her father kept 
in a bowl in his laboratory. Standing here, she began to 
appreciate the fish's point of view.
    From a corner of the room, a woman came to greet them, 
also dressed in glittering blue robes. Though there was 
nothing to indicate her office, Hanna felt sure that here was 
the city's leader. Her face was lined, and silver streaked her 
hair, but her step was that of a young girl.
    She stood before them, examining each member of the 
delegation. When she greeted the native Mercadians, her face 
was expressionless. She came next to Sisay, Hanna, and Orim, 
and a look of wonder appeared in her eyes. The woman spoke, 
and Orim translated haltingly, "I am the Grand Vizier of 
Saprazzo. I greet you, in the name of my people." She bowed 
deeply.
    Sisay, Hanna, and Orim returned the gesture. The 
Mercadians only dipped their heads mildly.
    The vizier continued, with Orim translating, "You claim to 
come from Mercadia, but my folk say you know Cho-Arrim magic. 
To me, you seem neither Mercadian nor Cho-Arrim."
    Sisay replied, "We are not native to Mercadia, but we 
speak with the authority of the chief magistrate. Nor are we 
native to the Cho-Arrim, but are friends of theirs."
    The Saprazzan looked at her curiously as Orim translated. 
Then she said, "It is unusual for the Mercadians to allow 
women to speak for them. They have certain unaccountable-
eccentricities."
    Sisay smiled slightly. "1 agree. But they've allowed it 
this time," she said.
    The Saprazzan leader seemed momentarily perplexed, then 
smiled and touched Sisay's hand gently. Her eyes closed, and 
she seemed to enter a mild trance for a few seconds.
    Sisay looked at her curiously, and then with amazement. 
She felt she had received a sudden shock.
    The Saprazzan leader broke her connection and stepped back 
a pace. Her smile broadened, and she held up a hand, palm 
outward in greeting. In perfect Dominarian, she said, "I am 
glad. For too long women among the Mercadians have not spoken 
with us. I am pleased to have the opportunity to confer with 
one."
    The others stared at her in amazement. Sisay's breath was 
coming hard, as if she had been running in some great race.
    The vizier's expression changed to one of concern, and she 
said, "Please, sit down. I am sorry if I have caused you 
discomfort. Yet it seemed to me best that we be able to speak 
frankly, without interference, and without misunderstanding.
    "You, my sister-" the Saprazzan leader turned to Orim- 
"you have a strong, familiar soul." She stared intensely into 
the Samite's eyes, then looked away to the Mercadian nobles. 
She gestured to them and said something in Mercadian that 
sounded placating.
    The nobles, with what appeared to Hanna to be very bad 
grace, seated themselves on the chairs that were provided, 
carefully placing their backs to the window and its vast 
seascape.
    The Saprazzan leader touched a bell that stood on a rack 
to one side of the chamber. Amid sweet chiming, she said to 
Sisay, "You have had a long journey hither. I have instructed 
chambers to be prepared for you and for your friends."
    The captain nodded. "Thank you." "We shall begin our 
discussions tomorrow. Meanwhile you and your companions are 
free to make your way about the city. If you like, I shall 
send some of my people with you to guide you and answer your 
questions." "Your offer is most kind."
    From a hidden recess a servant entered, bearing tall-
fluted glasses on a silver tray. He distributed them, and the 
Saprazzan leader lifted hers in a toast. "To the success of 
our meeting." "To success!"
    Sisay, Orim, and Hanna lifted their cups. They contained 
water, but to Hanna it tasted like no water she knew. She 
could feel the liquid flowing deep down inside her, washing 
away the weariness of her journey, invigorating her. It had 
much the same effect on Orim and Sisay, who were drinking with 
eager delight. The Mercadian nobles had done no more than 
touch the rims of their cups to their fat lips and were now 
sitting silently, with expressions of disapproval.
    The Saprazzan looked around, then addressed Sisay once 
more. "You come in the name of Mercadia, though our long-
standing antagonism with them is no secret. You come aboard a 
Rishadan ship, and we have no love for their harpoons and 
nets. You come as friends of the Cho-Arrim, and though in 
ancient times we were great allies, it has been centuries 
since we have conversed with our forest brothers. Mercadian, 
Rishadan, Cho-Arrim-what message could you possibly bring to 
Saprazzo?"
    Sisay replied, "It is a very important message we bear- 
very strange and wonderful. So important and strange, you will 
not believe if we tell you here, in this place of politics."
    A look of concern crossed the vizier's face. "Where then?"
    Sisay's gaze was level and bright. "A place of faith- for 
outside of faith, our message will be but foolishness."
    "There are many places of faith in Saprazzo-sea shrines 
and sacred wells-but you seem to have one place in mind ... ?"
    "Yes," Sisay said. "We beg the favor of speaking to you 
tomorrow in the Shrine of the Matrix."

                          * * * * *

    The Shrine of the Matrix lay, heavily guarded, at the 
center of Saprazzo's royal palace. The palace itself was a 
massive edifice poised above the docks. One bank of windows 
gazed out on the wide bay and the other on the spreading city 
above. The building was a vast jewel box, built of red oceanic 
marble, white limestone, and insets of onyx. Corals of fuchsia 
and mauve had been figured into bosses along the walls. 
Curtains of kelp, rugs of woven seaweed, sponge cushions, 
whale-bone archways, baleen screens-the majesty of the sea 
suffused the place. At its heart, in a small raised room done 
in crimson, the Power Matrix resided within a large case of 
thick glass. It was magnificent.
    The main body of the Power Matrix was a single enormous 
white crystal, nearly the height of a man. All along its 
faceted outer edges, other smaller stones in blue, green, red, 
white, and black were affixed. They seemed to pluck each 
strand of the spectrum out of the room's dim light and send it 
lancing into the central crystal. A network of metal wires 
connected the stones, and along the wires moved scintillating 
jolts of energy. It was a mesmerizing sight.
    "We must keep the room dark," the grand vizier told her 
guests, "for the Matrix stores and channels energy. Were it to 
be exposed to sunlight, the stored energy would quickly cause 
the Matrix to explode."
    Hanna nodded, her eyes tracing out the device she had read 
about in the Thran Tome. Orim's gaze was less analytic, more 
worshipful. To her, this was the mind of the Uniter. The 
Mercadians could only gape in naked avarice.
    Sisay spoke reverently, "Tell us, Grand Vizier, if you 
please-tell us the story of this glorious artifact."
    The vizier replied, "This is our greatest treasure, a 
symbol of the Saprazzan people, of their origins in divinity. 
Have you heard of the myth of Ramos?"
    Orim said, "Yes. Among the Cho-Arrim, I observed the 
separi and stood beside the Fountain of Cho."
    "The separi and the Navel of the World are well-known 
legends among us," the grand vizier replied. "I cannot speak 
for the Cho-Arrim account, but among Saprazzans, the story we 
know is this." The vizier's voice sank low, vibrating through 
the room in a kind of singsong rhythm that grew more 
pronounced as her tale continued. "Ramos was a great king and 
artificer, born in the dim past in another world. Some say he 
ruled all of his world, and the people bent beneath his foot. 
He strode across mountain and sea, fen and forest. But one 
place eluded his rule. At night he beheld the stars shining in 
the sky, and he wept because he could never reach up to them, 
could never bring them within the folds of his power and 
wisdom.
    "Ramos sought long and hard for a way to reach the stars 
and grew increasingly obsessed by his quest. Each night he sat 
in the top room of the highest tower of his castle by the sea 
and stared up at the night sky. He made machines that might 
lift him up to the stars, but all failed.
    "His people began to suffer for his neglect. He ignored 
the ordinary affairs of state, and the kingdom fell into 
disarray. Cruel, ambitious men took advantage of his 
preoccupation and carved out kingdoms for themselves. The land 
and sea groaned under their depredations, and the people sent 
ambassadors to Ramos, begging him for help. Still he would not 
listen.
    "At the height of his pride and the peril of his need, he 
began to delve into the deepest secrets of artifice, secrets 
long hidden and forbidden. The palace was filled with strange 
men in white robes, and his courtiers shrank away from them 
when they passed. Yet they were welcomed into Ramos's inner 
sanctum, and he spent more and more time with them and less 
time with his ministers, so the kingdom grew even more 
weakened and divided.
    "There came a night when the smoke and oil reek from the 
sealed room at the top of the tower was especially noisome, 
the chants and exhortations especially foul. So horrible were 
these mad ministrations that the folk of the forest gathered 
below the castle to shout imprecations. A shipful of pirates 
drew near to shake their fists toward the castle. Even the 
people of the sea rose from the waves to cry in anger. All of 
them heard the artificers clamoring amid their unholy 
machines, and they saw flashes of light from within the tower.
    "On the balcony of the tower, from which place he had been 
accustomed in times past to watch the skies, appeared Ramos 
himself. Yet it seemed not Ramos, for his body shone and 
glimmered from within as if he were on fire. He clutched to 
his body a strange device-this device, the Power Matrix. It 
gathered the light of moon and stars and channeled them into 
the king.
    "With a mighty shout that was heard through all the 
corners of the kingdom, he leaped from the tower. But instead 
of falling down, as might a normal man, Ramos rose into the 
sky. As he did so, the light from his body grew more and more 
brilliant. The watchers trembled at the unnatural sight. The 
body of Ramos grew until it seemed titanic in size, filling 
all the sky, turning night to bright day.
    "The false sun's beaming raiment rolled down to catch up 
the folk of the forest. They were lifted aloft in the hem of 
his glory. So, too, the rays of light grasped the pirates and 
their ship and hauled them skyward. Lines of radiance hooked 
the people of the sea and brought them aloft, as well. Ramos 
carried the people of forest and coastline and ocean into the 
heavens with him, beyond his world. They ascended to the 
emptiness between worlds.
    "So high they rose, so far so fast, that cracks appeared 
in the visage of Ramos and spread throughout his body. His 
triumph turned to terror, and great rents opened within his 
body. His luciferous raiment unraveled as well, flinging away 
his folk of sea and coastline and forest. Their clothes burned 
away, so that the people were flung naked into a new world. 
The pirate ship arced, flaming across a new sky-harbinger of 
their coming. The folk of the forest fell in the deeps of the 
Rushwood. The folk of the coastline fell in the bay of 
Rishada. The folk of the sea fell here. So cometary was their 
arrival that they broke the basin of the sea, and a great 
volcano rose-the volcano of Saprazzo.
    "Ramos dropped the Power Matrix. It fell from the heavens 
with such force that it ripped the top from Mount Saprazzo. 
That is how the mountain came to be as it is and how we came 
to have the Power Matrix.
    "Even Ramos himself burned. His flesh drifted to earth in 
ashes and embers, flaming in the air. In a mighty explosion, 
the remains of Ramos burst apart in five great pieces. They 
burned as they shot through the sky, each coalescing into its 
crystal essence-the Eye, the Skull, the Heart, the Horn, and 
the Tooth of Ramos. Together, they are called the Bones of 
Ramos.
    "It is said that should this Power Matrix be joined with 
the five crystalline bones of Ramos, that Ramos himself would 
rise again and carry his people of forest and coastline and 
sea back to the beautiful world before."
    The vizier's words ceased. She breathed slowly, deeply, 
gazing with reverence at the device.
    Orim glanced at her companions, a small smile playing 
about her mouth.
    Taking her own deep breath, Sisay said, "Grand Vizier, you 
have spoken very eloquently about the Power Matrix, symbol of 
your people. So too has our own Orim spoken eloquently of 
Ramos. The myths differ, though they agree about a few central 
truths."
    The vizier's slim eyebrow lifted as she listened. "What 
truths are shared among Cho-Arrim and Saprazzan?"
    "These truths-that you came here from another world, that 
you are kin one to another, that you arrived in this world on 
the back of a god who burned across the sky, that if artifacts 
left by that god were brought back together in conjunction, 
the people who held those artifacts would be united once 
again, that they could transform the world into a truer, more 
beautiful one."
    As Sisay finished relaying these words, the vizier's 
beautiful face changed. A solemn joy came to her features. 
"Yes. History is full of facts without much truth, and 
mythology is full of truth without much fact."
    "A matter of faith," Sisay replied, "which is why we asked 
to see you here. Have there been rumors of Ramos's return? 
Have the people been speaking of a fiery ship that burned 
across the skies?"
    A look of surprised realization came to the vizier's face. 
"They have."
    "So have the Cho-Arrim. So have the Mercadians and 
Rishadans. Ramos has returned. His soul-that fiery ship- 
brought us to this place. It cannot rise to fly again unless 
Ramos's mind-this artifact, the Power Matrix-is joined with it 
and with the Bones of Ramos. We have come seeking the Power 
Matrix, to fit it to the core of the ship. Your stories, Cho-
Arrim stories, even the stories in our own Thran Tame agree-if 
these pieces are but joined, Ramos will rise again."
    The spell of hope that had entered the vizier's face 
suddenly vanished like a soap bubble popping. "No. Faith and 
myth are good as far as they go, but you cannot ask a people 
to sacrifice their greatest treasures on faith. You cannot ask 
us to give up who we are in order to be united with our foes."
    "Don't make up your mind yet, I beg you," Sisay replied. 
"Let us provide proof of what we say. Let us propose ways that 
your treasure and the treasures of the rest of the world might 
be safeguarded."
    "Now you are speaking politics. And this is no place for 
politics. We will meet again tomorrow, in the council hall." 
So saying, the grand vizier lifted her hands, ushering the 
ambassadorial corps out of the Shrine of the Matrix.

                          * * * * *

    Later that evening, Orim left her room and walked quietly 
along the street. Her head was bent in meditation. The 
Saprazzans she encountered gave her room to pass and did not 
speak to her.
    After two days in Saprazzo, Orim had determined the city's 
general geographic structure. Toward the top, nearest the 
seawall, was a large open-air market, not nearly as extensive 
as that of Mercadia but impressive nonetheless in the range of 
goods available. Farther down the descending spiral were the 
homes of the Saprazzans. As far as the healer could tell, the 
poorer families lived closer to the top, while the level of 
wealth and luxury increased the farther down one went. Toward 
the bottom, one encountered the buildings that housed the 
Saprazzan government. All were richly decorated. Like the 
Mercadians, the Saprazzans had a weakness for mosaic, but 
while the people of the mountain used colored bits of stone 
and glass, the sea people preferred shells.
    Water was ever-present: it cascaded in streams from the 
top to the bottom of the city, creating a fine mist that shone 
like diamonds in the morning sunlight. The inhabitants drank 
water in preference to wine, and to Orim, the water seemed 
intoxicatingly fresh and strengthening.
    The waters of Saprazzo were far different from those of 
the Rushwood. That water was dark and secret, and its strength 
lay in its stillness. This water was lively and sparkling, 
constantly changing and shifting as the sun's rays struck it, 
turning it to yellow, orange, scarlet, and violet. So too, the 
Cho-Arrim had been hidden and unchanging, preserving the life 
they had lived for centuries in the face of a changing world. 
The Saprazzans, meanwhile, had embraced change and become part 
of it. The Cho-Arrim had been interested in quiet, inward-
directed philosophies. The Saprazzans were ever watching the 
horizon for what new adventures the sea would bring.
    A short distance from Orim's room was a courtyard. There, 
graceful columns rose to an evening sky, and fresh greenery 
lined a small pool of clear, cold water. As the sun dipped 
behind the seawall and shadows lengthened, Orim sat beside one 
of the columns and listened to the gurgle of the stream that 
fed the pool. She could almost imagine she was back in the 
Rushwood, gazing out over the lagoon, Cho-Manno sitting 
peacefully at her side.
    She knelt by the pool, legs and feet tucked beneath her, 
in what Cho-Manno had taught her was the proper position for 
meditation. She sought the inner peace and solitude that Cho-
Arrim called vomannis, but lately she found not peace but 
pain.
    Cho-Manno was dead. That thought haunted her. This time 
she did not push the thought aside. Instead, she reached out, 
embracing the pain. Her body shook with sobs. Damp hair clung 
to her cheeks. Her arms and legs trembled.
    In her despair, she thought not of Cho-Manno but of the 
mystical place they had explored that last night before the 
attack, the Navel of the World, the Fountain of Cho, and its 
garden ringed by the lagoon.
    Peace washed over her. As if in a trance, she heard the 
voice of her lover.
    After death our souls are joined with the Great River to 
wind endlessly among the stars. The river has no find 
destination, just as it has no source. Amid its waters, all 
souls merge and become one. The river meanders through the 
heavens, redoubling upon itself until at last it merges with 
its beginning and the cycle returns. The river becomes the 
sky, which shelters the earth, embraces it, draws its strength 
and existence from it. True perfection lies in unity, the 
unity of all existence. True wisdom begins from the 
recognition of this unity. True happiness comes from 
participation in this unity.
    As her lover's voice faded, Orim felt herself drifting. 
The stars wheeled above her. The sound of the stream merged 
with that of the sea. She reached toward the heavens, seeking 
to pluck down one of the bright stars that glittered there, to 
touch it, to taste it, to-
    "No one comes here. We can discuss the plan here-"
    Orim started from her dream and straightened. Her limbs 
were sore, her arms and legs full of pins and needles. She 
backed away, hiding behind a pillar.
    The speaker had been one of the Mercadian ambassadors. 
There was a Saprazzan with him, clad in the light blue 
loincloth characteristic of the citizens. His face was in 
shadow, but Orim could see the moonlight glinting off his 
light blue skin. The men were speaking Saprazzan, slowly 
enough that Orim could understand their words.
    "We need to act now," the Mercadian said. "They had the 
vizier in the palm of their hand today. Give them another few 
days, and she will surrender the Matrix to the foreigners. Our 
master would be very unforgiving of that outcome."
    Orim ventured a glance from behind the pillar. She could 
see the Mercadian, his white robes gleaming in the darkness. 
The Saprazzan bent toward him and said something Orim could 
not hear.
    "Of course. Your treachery will be well repaid. You will 
be the richest Saprazzan in the city and all because of a 
simple theft. You'll have your money once the Matrix reaches 
Mercadia."
    There was a pause, and the Saprazzan asked some question. 
The Mercadian shook his head. "It will be simple enough. The 
foreigners have already expressed great interest in the 
Matrix. They have been shown its resting place. They will be 
easy enough to frame."
    Orim must have made a sound of which she was unaware, for 
she saw the Saprazzan half-turn in her direction, peering into 
the dusk.
    The Mercadian turned also. "Who's there?"
    She leaped up but was too slow. Out of the starry night, a 
club descended.
    A loud crunch ... the smell of blood in her nose ... and 
she fell to the limestone floor. Dark waters closed over her, 
and she knew no more.

                          * * * * *

    Orim awoke to blades and blood. She sat up and peered 
about in confusion. Merfolk soldiers surrounded her, their 
tridents forming a deadly circle. The dark courtyard had been 
replaced by a bright and ornate room.
    "What... what's happening?" she asked in garbled 
Saprazzan, rising to her feet. "Where am I? Who are you?"
    The commander of the soldiers said, "I am Guard Commander 
Oustrathmer. You are in the royal palace, and you are under 
arrest."
    "Arrest?" Orim asked, clutching her throbbing head. "For 
what?"
    "For murder," the commander said, pointing down beside 
Orim. A Saprazzan guard lay there, his throat slit. Gesturing 
toward a small raised room, the soldier said, "And for 
conspiracy to steal the Power Matrix."
    The blood ran from Orim's face. "No. You don't mean-"
    "The Power Matrix is gone," Oustrathmer replied flatly.
    Only then did Orim recognize the man-he was the Saprazzan 
conspirator at the pool.
    
                        Chapter 14

    Keys turned. A pair of doors opened. A visitor was coming 
to the cell of Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn.
    "Is anybody home?" came a shrill shout through the final 
door. "Is any criminals wishing ta see a great magnanimity 
such as yours truly, eh?"
    Standing at the opposite window, Gerrard shouted over his 
shoulder, "Go away, Squee." To Karn, he whispered, "The little 
maggot's gone completely over to the Kyren."
    Karn shook his head and replied, "No, he's served on 
Weatherlight a long time. He's not smart, but he's loyal. What 
he needs is a good talking to. He might even be useful to us 
right now. He can go anywhere in the city, he can get into any 
room, he can probably find out more than the rest of us put 
together."
    Gerrard sighed. "All right, all right. I'll talk to him, 
if you want."
    "Does anybody stuck in there gots the smarts ta know they 
gotta see Squee, seeing as he's Master Squee?"
    "Come in, Squee," Gerrard said with a sigh, not bothering 
to turn around.
    The final door opened, and guards allowed the goblin into 
the room.
    Those who had known Squee only as Weatherlight's cabin boy 
would have been astonished at the change Mercadia had wrought 
in him. He stood taller, clad in rich silks. A band of gold 
was bound about his head, though its impressive effect was 
unfortunately ruined by its tendency to slip down over one 
eye. The ends of his robes were fur trimmed, though they, too, 
had suffered from Squee's insatiable curiosity and his 
tendency to follow tasty insects into inaccessible places. 
Even now, he was chewing on something, and the tiny wisp of a 
jointed leg protruded from one corner of his mouth.
    "Squee don't gotta visit you in here, you know?" he said 
as the guard locked the door behind him.
    Gerrard turned, regarding the goblin calmly. "Squee, I 
think it's high time you and I had a talk."
    "Suits Squee. Whatcha wanna talk 'bout?" The little goblin 
seated himself in one of the chairs and propped his feet on 
the table. He toyed with a shiny bauble on his finger-a Kyren 
ring that showed his special status in the city.
    Gerrard ambled over to Squee and stood looking down at 
him. "You've done pretty well for yourself since we've come to 
this place, haven't you?"
    The goblin gave a final chew of his morsel before 
swallowing. "Squee's happy. People like Squee! Dat's good. 
Squee likes dat. Get some respect."
    "Ah! Is that what you want, Squee? You want respect?"
    The goblin nodded, but something in Gerrard's expression 
was troubling him, and his eyes, though never the brightest, 
narrowed suspiciously as the Benalian drew closer. "Yeah. 
Respect. Dat's what Squee's got here."
    "Let me tell you what you've got here." Gerrard's arm came 
around in a blow that knocked the goblin's feet from the table 
and sent him sprawling on the ground beside the overturned 
chair. "You've got nothing! Nothing! Do you hear that?"
    Squee rose, shaking, and started to back away toward the 
door.
    "Don't you think you're going anywhere, mister! Stand at 
attention!"
    Some dim memory penetrated the goblin's consciousness, and 
he drew up in a rough parody of a salute. Gerrard paced in 
front of him and stopped, his face lowered only inches from 
the goblin's.
    "Now you listen to me, and don't speak until I give you 
permission. You're a cabin boy! Understand that? You're a 
cabin boy and nothing else! I don't care how goblins are 
treated in this city. You are a member of the crew of my ship, 
and you're subject to my command! You'll take your orders from 
me. When I say move, you'll move. When I say jump, you'll say 
how high, and that's final! Understand?"
    Squee gave a strangled answer.
    "What was that?" growled Gerrard.
    Squee looked down, eyes rimmed in red. "Okey-dokey, 
Gerrard. Maybe Squee forgot all dat. Maybe Squee forgot you 
was in charge since you ... since you turned so mean."
    "Mean?" Gerrard said, his temper flaring. He raised his 
hand to strike.
    Squee cringed back.
    Someone grabbed Gerrard's arm and kept it from falling. 
"He's right, Gerrard," Tahngarth said, his voice a low rumble. 
"You've turned mean."
    Gerrard spun on the minotaur and tried to break free, but 
Tahngarth's grip was too powerful. "So you want another 
fight?" Balling his free hand in a fist, Gerrard hurled a 
roundhouse toward Tahngarth's jaw.
    Another hand grasped Gerrard's fist-this time a hand of 
silver. The pacifist Karn clutched Gerrard's arm implacably. 
"They're both right, Gerrard. Listen to them."
    Gerrard stared at his three crew members, his three 
friends. He struggled a moment more but glimpsed his red-faced 
reflection in Karn's silvery chest. His eyes glowed like 
stoked embers. His brows were twisted demonically in the 
contours of the metal. His gritted teeth formed an ugly 
grimace.
    Dropping his head, Gerrard gave an exhausted laugh. "I'm 
sorry. It's just being cooped up like this-not being able to 
fight our enemies, not knowing what's become of Hanna and the 
others..."
    "All that's bad," Tahngarth said, "but it's none of that. 
It's Takara and her wine."
    Gerrard lifted his eyes. "You don't mean she poisoned it?"
    "No," Tahngarth said. "Not the wine. She's poisoning your 
thoughts. She's turning you into a monster, making you eat 
yourself away from the inside out. She made you mean, and if 
you keep listening to her, she'll destroy you."
    Breathing heavily, Gerrard looked to his old friend Karn, 
who only nodded quietly. He stared down next at Squee.
    The goblin said, "Let's both straighten up, eh?"
    Gerrard smiled and nodded. "Eh." In a final act of 
violence, his leg lashed out. It struck none of his comrades, 
but instead a wine bottle that sat on the floor nearby. Glass 
shattered and wine spattered across the stones. "I'm drinking 
Takara's wine no longer."
    Nodding their approval, Tahngarth and Karn released 
Gerrard.
    Squee smiled and bent down to fetch something from the red 
mess. The mouth of the wine bottle had broken cleanly away, 
leaving a smooth ring of green glass. Squee poked the cork out 
from its center. "Squee like this ring." He slipped the Kyren 
ring from his finger, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, 
and reverently slid the green glass over his finger. "Squee 
wear this ring from now on."

                          * * * * *

    "My father and I demand a private audience with the chief 
magistrate and his Kyren servants!" Takara shouted 
imperiously. Her voice filled the vast chamber, echoing among 
columns and through the rotunda above. Guards and nobles 
shrank back from the angry woman and the shivering blind man 
at her side. "Drive out the courtiers! Bar the doors! Pull the 
curtains!"
    On his throne, the magistrate swallowed in dread. The 
action rippled bags of fat hanging from his chin. "Isn't your 
father receiving adequate care?"
    "He will receive adequate care by the time I'm finished 
here!" She dragged a sword from her waist. "Now clear the 
chambers!"
    In a move of uncommon athleticism, the magistrate clapped 
his hands twice. "You heard her. Out! All of you! Quickly. 
Guards, wait outside. Kyren, bar the doors!"
    There was pandemonium in the next moments. Courtiers who 
had spent whole weeks lying about scampered as guards jabbed 
tridents at them. They gathered what they could- grapes and 
wine, cheese and games-and scuttled out into the glaring sun. 
More than a few wondered why this new giant killer should 
receive such special attention, but they knew better than to 
ask.
    With a resonant boom, the main doors closed. The room 
darkened. A pair of goblins lifted a stout bar into its 
brackets over the doors. The courtiers and guards were gone. 
Even the gentle breezes that spent their days coiling among 
banners and veils died away to nothing.
    "Better," Takara said, sheathing her sword.
    With the departure of his court, the facade of command 
that veiled the magistrate unraveled. He trembled visibly, his 
neck shuddering in fearful anticipation. "H-How might I a-
assure your f-father his d-due?"
    Takara smiled wickedly and walked slowly around the blind 
man, gazing at his pathetic figure. "You needn't trouble 
yourself. I'll make sure he receives his due." Coming up 
behind her father, she shoved him. Her boot lashed out, 
catching Starke in the back of the knee. He crumpled to the 
floor.
    "Takara!" he gasped piteously, clutching his bruised leg 
and kneeling. "Please, Takara. What are you doing?"
    She continued to circle her father, staring hatefully at 
him. "I preach to Gerrard about his betrayals, but I should be 
preaching to you. You're the one who betrayed Vuel into the 
hands of Phyrexia, and Sisay and the rest of the crew too."
    Starke's trembling fingers clutched at the bandage around 
his eyes. He was a broken man, sobbing into a stubbly beard. 
"I betrayed them for you, Takara. I betrayed them to get you 
back."
    "And now, the traitor himself is betrayed," she said with 
relish. As she walked about him, a vulture circling a doomed 
man, she slowly drew a dagger from her belt. "I'm the one who 
blinded you, Starke, or didn't you know?"
    His lips trembled, and he shook his head. "No! Madness! 
You didn't blind me. Volrath blinded me."
    "You betrayed everyone to win back your daughter," Takara 
said, though her voice was changing, deepening. "And you 
thought you had won her back, but betrayal is a wager that 
wins only its own returns."
    "Volrath!" hissed Starke in terror.
    It was his last utterance. Behind him, Takara grabbed 
Starke's forehead with one hand and drew her knife in a long, 
slow, deep line over his throat. It was almost a decapitating 
wound, so deep was her hatred. There came a wet, red moment, 
and then the blind man slumped to his face on the mosaic 
floor. His lifeblood made a bright sunburst around him, what 
seemed a gleaming and fitting adornment in that patterned 
place.
    Takara stepped back, but she was no longer Takara. Her red 
hair compressed into a gray mantle of skin, and bone, and 
brain. It curled up from knife-edged brows, back around 
pointed ears, and down to fuse along a tapered jaw. Small 
black horns jutted from the ridge of these folds, and a tail 
of flesh draped from the back of the knobby skull. Where once 
there had been fiery eyes, now were white, inhuman orbs. A 
masculine face replaced the feminine one. The muscled body of 
a man replaced the wiry litheness of the woman. Clothes became 
plates of gray armor across a tortured green-black skin. At 
last, the body matched the voice ... matched the seething 
hate.
    Volrath. The shapeshifting lord of Rath-and Mercadia.
    Snickering gleefully, Kyren emerged from behind the throne 
of the magistrate.
    The fat man quivered there, staring in dread at the corpse 
of Starke and the pool of his blood-but not for long. Kyren 
hands laid hold of the magistrate, set after set, and claws 
sunk in. Struggling, the crew of goblins hauled hard. With a 
rubbery motion, the magistrate slipped from his seat and 
spilled messily to the floor. His finery ended in a pile, and 
his corpulence lolled out grotesquely beneath the fabric. His 
hands and face slapped the floor in the pool of blood. Powder 
makeup was painted in red. Gibbering in dread and tears, the 
magistrate lifted his head.
    Volrath strode slowly through the sanguine pool. His 
armored feet dripped with each step. Lifting one of those gory 
boots, he set it gently on the magistrate's head, forcing it 
down into the blood.
    With a contented breath, Volrath said, "It is good to be 
rid of masks once in a while. It is good, occasionally, for 
outward things to plainly reflect the things that lie within."
    The chief of the Kyren gestured placatingly toward the 
empty chair of the magistrate. "Does Master Volrath's plan 
proceed well?"
    Treading across the magistrate's head, Volrath slowly 
ascended the throne. He sat, easing himself into the chair. 
"Yes. My blood-brother Gerrard is half destroyed. His ship is 
in my grasp. His friends travel to retrieve the artifact that 
will repair it. Already, my agents have framed them for the 
theft of the device. Once it is in my hands, my people will 
repair the ship, and I will kill Gerrard and fly Weatherlight 
and the Legacy back to Rath." He smiled with vicious savor. 
"Yes. Master Volrath's plans proceed well."
    "What would the Glorious Master have us do with the body 
of the blind man?" asked the lead Kyren obsequiously as he 
arrayed cushions about the master.
    Volrath stared dispassionately at the corpse. He heaved a 
sigh. "Starke was the weightiest part of the mask I wear. 
Having to coddle him ... having to walk slowly beside the old 
bastard... especially knowing he was the man who lured me into 
Phyrexia. I could not stand him." He made a dismissive 
gesture. "He'll have to be conveyed to the infirmary and 
discovered there, his throat slit by some hateful healer. 
Someone will have to be charged with the crime and killed for 
it, of course, and Takara will need to seem distraught- more 
repellent playacting. But it will all be worth it. Soon, 
Gerrard will be destroyed, and his Legacy will be mine."
    Volrath's eyes glowed with a cold light beneath his brows. 
He turned his attention on the lead Kyren. "And what of your 
progress, Lord Griid? Last week you reported rebel uprisings 
in both the lower and upper markets. Have you rounded up the 
culprits? Have you put them to death?"
    Griid recoiled from the pillows, and his head bowed.
    "Has Master Volrath heard the rumors of the giant 
killers?" Eyelids drooped angrily across Volrath's eyes, and 
his lips curled. "Don't hide your ineptitude behind tales of 
the rabble."
    "Is it not remarkable how a fiction can rally the people? 
How the Ramosans have used lies to foment rebellion? Is it not 
astonishing how their leader Lahaime lays hold of vulgar 
minds?"
    "Astonishing," Volrath echoed, his hand lunging like a 
cobra and gripping the Kyren's bowed head. "Isn't it 
astonishing how I have laid hold of your vulgar mind? Now, 
tell me what you are driving at-and tell me without any of 
your damned questions!"
    Griid went to his knees. His eyes clamped shut against the 
pain. His brow pressed the edge of Volrath's throne. "The 
giant killers-Gerrard and Sisay and their friends-have rallied 
the people. They have become popular heroes. Hope has replaced 
fear. Folk who once were unquestioningly loyal are I now 
harboring and aiding revolutionaries."
    "Dispel these stories then," Volrath said, tightening his 
grip. "Forgive, Master, but how can we dispel them while 
Gerrard and Sisay yet live? While you yet are Takara among 
them?"
    Volrath hissed. "When Weatherlight is repaired, Gerrard 
and the whole crew will be killed. That will end these 
stories." "Perhaps not," Griid replied miserably, his voice 
muffled by the edge of the chair. "The giant killer stories 
have banded the people together, have catalyzed the Ramosans. 
Lahaime leads them. While he lives, the revolution lives."
    "We will find him, then, and kill him," Volrath replied. 
"You can kill Lahaime, but you cannot kill the Uniter." "The 
Uniter!" growled Volrath. In fury, his hand clenched, fingers 
piercing the Kyren's skull as if it were a ripe melon.
    Griid convulsed, impaled on the man's clawlike hands. He 
slumped against the throne, and his riddled head gushed down 
his leg.
    Volrath stood, abstracted. His fingers slid languidly from 
the mush that had been Griid's head.
    He walked. Gore dripped from his claws. It fell with a 
quiet pattering sound on the floor, on the prostrate 
magistrate, on the puddle of Starke's own lifeblood. "I should 
have anticipated this. Weatherlight is an oracle wherever it 
goes. I should have seen that Lahaime and his Ramosans would 
be whipped into a frenzy by it." He strode calmly over the 
body of Starke. "Everyone is after my prize. I shall simply 
have to rebuild it more quickly and defend it more ... 
viciously." He neared the barred doors.
    Kyren scurried to haul away the bodies, to mop up the 
blood, to cover the chief magistrate's bloodstained face and 
hands with powder.
    Meanwhile Volrath himself transformed armor to clothes, 
black muscle to pink flesh, gray skull to red hair. In 
midstride, the master of Rath and Mercadia had once again 
become Takara.
    She placed one hand beneath the stout bar on the door and 
with a single gesture, hurled it up from its brackets. The bar 
rattled loudly across the tiled floor. Takara hauled the doors 
open, spilling nobles and guards who had been listening there. 
As they fell to the ground in seeming obeisance, Takara strode 
through their midst, out into the deepening night of fomenting 
rebellion.
    "Defend my prize more viciously ..."
    
                        Chapter 15

    After much effort, Sisay obtained an interview with Orim, 
who was being held in a small suite of rooms beneath the 
statehouse. If a makeshift prison, it was a spacious one, but 
the lack of growing things and the forced confinement had 
pushed Weatherlight's healer back into a state of acute 
depression. Under Sisay's prodding, she repeated the 
conversation she had overheard. She vigorously expressed her 
opinion that Guard Commander Oustrathmer and the Mercadian 
ambassador were responsible for the theft and murder. They had 
made off with the Power Matrix, framed Orim, and left the 
Weatherlight officers virtual captives in the city.
    "One thing's sure," Orim said bitterly. "The Mercadians 
have accomplished what they intended. We're stuck here, and 
they've got the Matrix."
    Sisay nodded. "I'm afraid so. There's a hearing scheduled 
for two weeks from today, and the gods know how long that will 
drag on."
    "What about the Mercadians? What are they doing?"
    "They're gone. They disappeared just after your arrest." 
Sisay slammed a hand angrily on the arm of her chair. "Can you 
believe it? They couldn't have left the city without help from 
within-the Saprazzan commander you mentioned. The Mercadians 
are gone with the Matrix, and we're stuck here."
    "What do we do?"
    Sisay began to pace restlessly, kicking pieces of 
furniture as she passed. "Well, we've got to do something. I'm 
going to talk to the vizier."
    Though in the past Sisay had had little difficulty 
obtaining an audience with the Saprazzan leader, today she 
found her way barred by Guard Commander Oustrathmer. When she 
insisted on seeing the vizier, he motioned several guards over 
and stood implacably before the door.
    Sisay grew belligerent. "Look, just take her the message 
that I need to see her! Is that too much to ask?"
    He replied in an unmistakable Saprazzan negative.
    "She'll damn well see me, and you know it! Of all the-"
    "What is the matter?" came the vizier's gentle voice. She 
came to the doorway. Her face seemed older, wearier.
    The dark woman drew a breath and fought to control her 
emotions. "Vizier, I must speak with you."
    "I cannot free your friend. We have already discussed this 
matter."
    "Vizier, that's not what I'm asking. I understand she must 
stand trial. But what I have to say, I would rather say-" she 
shot a venomous look at the commander- "in private."
    Oustrathmer spoke coldly to his vizier. The Saprazzan 
leader put a hand on his arm and made a request in Saprazzan. 
He replied in the negative, but the tone of her final words 
brooked no resistance. Oustrathmer's face turned pale. With a 
brief salute, he marched away from the door, allowing Sisay 
through.
    The vizier beckoned Sisay to follow into the counsel 
chamber. They seated themselves on either side of the table. 
At a gesture from the vizier, a servant brought them each a 
tall glass of clear, cold water and then retired from the 
room.
    The Saprazzan looked at the Dominarian silently, waiting 
for her to speak.
    Sisay spread a hand on the table before her. "Excellency, 
I am as concerned about this theft and murder as you. Now the 
Matrix is in the hands of those who do not believe. If Orim 
had conspired to steal the artifact, at least she would have 
stolen it to raise Ramos. But those who have the Matrix wish 
only to prevent him from rising."
    "We do not know yet who stole the Matrix."
    "Orim was attacked by a Mercadian and your guard 
commander."
    "So she says," interrupted the vizier.
    Sisay nodded. "Yes, but assume for a moment her story is 
true. If that's the case, your enemies have our ship and your 
Matrix. If they can acquire the Bones of Ramos too, we'll all 
be doomed."
    The vizier shook her head skeptically. "And if you had the 
Matrix and could join it with your ship and the Bones of 
Ramos, what is to say you would use your ship to help us? We 
Saprazzans might be doomed anyway."
    "No," Sisay said, clear eyed. "I give you my word. If 
Ramos rises, his children-Cho-Arrim, Rishadan, and Saprazzan- 
will rise too."

                          * * * * *

    Even after two weeks, Orim found sleeping difficult in 
Saprazzo. The soft, diffuse light that came through her 
underwater window made her feel sleepy and sluggish, and the 
perpetual damp gave her the feeling she risked molding. Her 
bedclothes felt damp as well, and she often shivered beneath 
them half the night, or avoided them altogether, rising to 
pace back and forth across the room, waiting impatiently for 
morning.
    Even the coming of day brought no change in her 
restlessness. The Saprazzans were continuing their 
investigation of the theft and murder, but at a leisurely 
pace, characteristic of everything that happened in the city. 
Orim was permitted to leave her quarters and move freely about 
Saprazzo, but she was invariably accompanied by a guard, who 
never left her side. She could talk to whomever she pleased, 
and though she spent time with Hanna and Sisay, she found she 
had little to say to them. Most days she spent meditating in 
her cell or sitting on the seawall and staring at the ever-
changing water.
    This morning, in what had become a disturbingly familiar 
routine, she rose, dressed, and rang the bell that signaled 
she was ready for breakfast. Having completed the meal, she 
opened the door and, the guard at her side, walked up into the 
city.
    Unlike Dominarian merfolk, Saprazzans were excessively 
friendly, even with a prisoner. Orim had several times been 
invited to dine with the vizier, who questioned her 
extensively about Dominaria and the journeys of Weatherlight. 
Orim answered the questions as best she could, trying to avoid 
explaining too much about the Legacy or Gerrard. The vizier 
never seemed to take offense when her questions were turned 
aside. Instead, she moved politely on to some less sensitive 
topic.
    Orim's daily meditation in the little courtyard had 
reduced the pain of Cho-Manno's death to a dull heartache. It 
no longer overwhelmed her, as it had in the first weeks since 
it occurred, but it was always with her, always a sadness that 
rose up behind every thought and action.
    Now, as she sat in the courtyard, the sun slowly rose over 
the city. Orim emptied her mind as the Cho-Arrim had taught 
her. She let her senses flow out around her, embracing her 
surroundings. The voice of Cho-Manno returned to her.
    To live is to grow. We live only because we are growing. 
Even death is a kind of growth. Growth is more than mere 
change. To grow is to become one with those things around you. 
All existence-the sky, the earth, the water-strives to become 
one. All things yearn to be united to one another. Thus to 
grow is to progress toward a state of oneness, of unity.
    Intellectually it had been easier for Orim to grasp this 
idea than to understand all its spiritual implications. The 
desire for unity was common to many religious systems. She had 
encountered such beliefs many years before at the Argivian 
University. What she found more difficult was the Cho-Arrim 
conviction that to actually attain unity with one's 
surroundings meant rejecting the logical connections formed by 
the conscious mind and surrendering to those elements she had 
always rejected as irrational and ineffable. Nonetheless, each 
time she practiced the meditation Cho-Manno taught, she felt 
closer to a moment of revelation, a flash of insight in which 
all creation would suddenly come into focus and, for the first 
time, she would become complete. This feeling was still a dim 
anticipation, but she now found meditation a delicious rest 
rather than a vain striving against some distant, unattainable 
goal.
    She felt, rather than heard, a step behind her on the 
stones of the courtyard. Her concentration broke, and she 
rose, a reproof on her lips.
    Silence enveloped her. The world rushed away, and all she 
knew was concentrated in the face before her.
    Cho-Manno.
    He stood exactly as she remembered him, one eyebrow 
slightly raised, his mouth drooping half-humorously. He was 
clad as he had been that day of the raid-in a short skirt, his 
chest bare, and coins flashing in the braids of his hair. She 
could see the fine beads of sweat on his breast, the gentle 
rhythm of his breathing as he looked silently at her. She gave 
a wordless cry and held up a hand, blocking him from her 
sight. Then, cautiously, she lowered her hand and saw that he 
was still there, still gazing at her. His soft brown eyes 
reflected all the world in their deep pools.
    Without another sound, she ran to him and was gathered 
into the warmth of his embrace. She heard his voice, just as 
she'd remembered it so many times. "Orim. Chavala."
    She pressed into his chest until she could hear his heart 
beating. His hands caressed her hair. He knelt, pulling her 
down with him, and covered her mouth with his lips in a kiss 
that lasted forever.
    The healer pushed away from him, suddenly, thrusting 
herself back with rigid arms. "No! No! You're not here! You're 
dead! You died in the Mercadian raid!" She bent almost double, 
weeping. All the pain of that tragedy returned, as fresh as it 
had been a month ago.
    Cho-Manno reached out for her, and again she backed away. 
"Orim," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "I am not 
dead. How could I be, when you see me here, when you touch me? 
I am not dead, chavala. It is you who have been dead and are 
now alive."
    Still crying, the healer shook her head. "You can't be 
alive. Everyone saw you die."
    "They saw what they thought they saw. I was not dead, and 
here I am to prove it to you." He drew Orim to him, and this 
time she did not resist. Their kisses were gentler this time, 
less urgent.
    At last Orim withdrew. "What happened?"
    The Cho-Arrim leader shrugged. "I was badly hurt, but not, 
as they thought, killed. It is more difficult for my people to 
die than you suppose, Orim. We have such a strong life-urge 
within us. Yet we can be killed, and many were that day."
    "Is-Shada?"
    "Yes, she and others. We fled across the lagoon to the 
Navel of the World and from there into the Inner Waters. It is 
a dangerous place, and we do not like to go there, but I knew 
that once there none would find us." Cho-Manno chuckled 
grimly. "If the Inner Waters frighten a Cho-Arrim, how much 
more will it frighten a Mercadian?"
    "What is it?"
    "It is a bad place, Orim." For the first time, Cho-Manno 
looked troubled. "Do not ask me about it. It is a place of 
decay and rot. Others died there. There, we lost Ta-Karnst."
    "Ta-Karnst." Orim closed her eyes, remembering the Cho-
Arrim healer.
    Cho-Manno nodded. "His soul is with the river now." He 
rose and stretched, one hand absently stroking Orim's hair as 
she gazed up at him. "At last we fled that place. We could not 
return to the village. The Mercadians had destroyed it and 
placed guards about the site, and 1 knew that if any of us 
appeared, they would never rest until they brought us down. We 
traveled south for many days until we came to where the 
Rushwood ends and the Endless Water begins."
    Orim nodded. "The Outer Sea."
    Cho-Manno repeated the words to himself, and Orim was 
reminded of his habit of learning new words and phrases, 
almost as a compulsion.
    "The waters of this place are not as friendly to us," he 
resumed. "They are bitter rather than sweet. Nonetheless, we 
dwelt for a few days at the very edge of the Rushwood while we 
debated what to do. While we were there, we captured a 
traveler, who proved to be Ramosan. He-"
    Orim lifted her hand. "What is a Ramosan?" "A society of 
Mercadians who fight against the khovoshtvo." Cho-Manno used 
the Cho-Arrim word for goblins, a word charged with contempt. 
"They are few and secret, but we know something of them. This 
man was one of them. From him we learned of what had happened 
to you after the attack. The Ramosans told us you and your 
comrades had headed to Saprazzo. I told him you must have 
sought the mind of the Uniter. He warned that the Mercadians 
would take it before you could, in hopes of destroying the 
Uniter, or using it for their own gain." Orim nodded. 
"Prophetic words ..." "We determined to come to Saprazzo to 
aid you. In the past, Saprazzans have given help to the 
Ramosans. We came, but not soon enough."
    "How long have you been in the city?" "Since yesterday." 
Cho-Manno anticipated her next question. "I have waited to see 
you, chavala, because I needed first to be sure of my 
reception by the Saprazzans. Dear as you are to me, I have a 
political responsibility to my people."
    He linked Orim's arm through his and walked slowly about 
the courtyard. They stopped near a stream, and Cho-Manno let 
the fresh sparkling water run over his hand. It seemed to give 
him new strength, and he smiled and laughed as it bubbled over 
his fingers.

                          * * * * *

    The vizier gathered them all-Orim, Cho-Manno, Sisay, 
Hanna, and several Saprazzan officials and advisors-in her 
rooms. Also present was a thin, dark man, with a long angled 
scar running from the comer of one eyebrow to his chin. Orim 
deduced correctly that this must be the Ramosan Cho-Manno had 
told her about.
    The vizier's face was serious as she addressed them. "I 
have spoken with my Circle, with Cho-Manno of the Cho-Arrim, 
and with Lahaime of the Ramosans. We have pondered why the 
Matrix was stolen and its guard slain, and who would 
perpetrate such a crime in the heart of the city." She rose 
and stood before Orim, looking the healer full in the face. 
"Orim, Cho-Manno of the Cho-Arrim tells me he is certain you 
had nothing to do with this crime. Will you truth-speak with 
him to confirm your innocence?"
    Orim hesitated. Truth-speaking, she knew from her time 
among the Cho-Arrim, was a practice that was used only in the 
cases of most extreme crimes. The merging of two minds was a 
difficult and often extremely unpleasant business. She looked 
at Cho-Manno's dark face as he sat expressionless, then turned 
to the vizier and nodded wordlessly.
    The Cho-Arrim leader came before her. He did not touch 
her, but instead looked long into her eyes. He began a low, 
soft chant and closed his own eyes.
    Orim felt the chant run through her mind, but instead of 
soothing her as Cho-Arrim ritual chants had done in the past, 
his words beat against her brain, forcing it open. She felt 
violated and started to protest, but could not break away from 
his power.
    Cho-Manno's presence suffused her. Into her mind poured 
his entire life-not merely its events but its emotions. She 
saw his mother and father, his brother, his sisters. She felt 
his pain when his sister Is-Mashtsun was lost in the dark 
places of the Rushwood and never found. She heard the great 
weeping of his mother and father. She experienced his joy when 
he came of age, and the awe with which he realized that he, of 
all the tribe, had been chosen as leader.
    Then, with an odd feeling, she relived his first meeting 
with her, and the feelings that stirred within him as he 
beheld her, as he desired her. She felt all this, and in some 
part of her mind knew that he was exploring her life too, 
experiencing her emotions.
    A cool hand touched her forehead. Orim opened her eyes. 
Tears streamed down her cheeks. The vizier gazed at her with 
great pity. "Cho-Manno has assured me of your innocence in 
this matter, Orim," said the woman. "We are sorry for the pain 
you have experienced at our hands. You are free to go where 
you will."
    Orim bowed her head in acknowledgment. The Saprazzan 
leader continued, "Cho-Manno has also confirmed to us the 
truth of your vision of the thieves and murderers. We will act 
upon this."
    She turned to her guard and spoke several short, harsh 
sentences in Saprazzan. The guard bowed his head in a brief 
salute and went out.
    The vizier turned back to Orim and Cho-Manno. "I have 
instructed the guard to place a watch upon Guard Commander 
Oustrathmer. He must not yet know we have received evidence of 
his guilt in this matter. There is something going on, 
something much more complex than I first suspected. I think we 
have been caught in a great web, and the more we struggle 
against it, the tighter it will bind us to it."
    Orim asked, "What about Oustrathmer? What will you do with 
him?"
    The vizier smiled grimly. "It would be foolish not to take 
advantage of a tool so ready at hand," she said. "Clearly the 
guard commander has had considerable dealings with the 
Mercadians. He likely has already reported that leaders of the 
Cho-Arrim and of the Ramosan rebels are seeking the help of 
Saprazzo. Perhaps we can use our spy to spread misinformation 
to the Mercadians."
    She looked thoughtfully at the Ramosan, whose face split 
in a wicked grin.

                          * * * * *

    Along the seawall, a large group of Saprazzan officials 
gathered. Next to the vizier were Sisay, Hanna, and Orim. On a 
separate, lower platform stood Guard Commander Oustrathmer. 
All were stern faced as they stood watching a line of storm 
clouds slowly taking shape along the western horizon of the 
lemon sky.
    There was a loud rumble of drums, and from out of a 
guardhouse came a file of soldiers. In their midst, bound with 
chains, was a thin, dark figure. His face was red with 
bruising, and a line of blood trickled from the corner of his 
mouth. A scar stood out in scarlet against his pale face.
    A guard at each elbow, he shuffled to a narrow, enclosed 
stone pit that stood on the outer section of the wall. The 
cover that normally sealed the pit had been placed to one 
side, and the crowd collected about the edges. As the prisoner 
reached the side of the well, a guard bent and fastened a 
large block of stone to his leg by a weighty chain.
    The vizier turned to the assembly. "See, citizens of 
Saprazzo," she said in a clear voice, "that justice is done 
upon those who commit thievery and murder in our midst. This 
Mercadian has conspired to steal our Matrix. He has killed a 
guard in the commission of his act. For the loss of our 
national treasure, and for the death of this comrade, I am 
heartily sorry."
    The tall figure of Oustrathmer stood watching the scene 
impassively. A close observer might have noticed that his 
webbed fingers twitched nervously.
    The vizier looked at the Ramosan and said, "I have been 
satisfied of this man's guilt in the crime. Sentence against 
him is passed. Let him return to the sea from which we all 
came, and let the centuries wash his bones free of guilt."
    She nodded to the guards. Two of them seized the heavy 
stone, while another propelled the prisoner to the edge of the 
well. His last despairing cry was cut off by a splash. Bubbles 
sparkled along the surface of the water.
    The vizier spoke once more. "I understand this thief and 
murderer was a member of a secret organization that would 
overthrow legitimate government in Mercadia. This execution 
provides a clear message to such conspirators-Saprazzo will 
tolerate no subversive activity within its walls."
    Orim looked on worriedly. A guard was busy securing the 
lid over the well. She turned to the vizier, who stood beside 
her, and whispered, "Do you think he's..."
    The vizier smiled and spoke quietly. "He is fine. Trust 
me, Orim. We had our folk waiting below for him, and they will 
ensure that no harm comes to him. But Oustrathmer will send 
word that Lahaime of the Ramosans is dead and that Saprazzo is 
on the side of Mercadia. It will allow Lahaime and I both to 
operate without intense scrutiny." Her face grew grim. "More 
such false information will be borne by this spy, and we will 
use him to weaken the Mercadians. Once Oustrathmer's purpose 
is at an end, we will be certain he receives his due for 
betrayal. There will be no return to the sea for him."
    She looked at Orim, and her face softened. "Now, let us 
talk with Cho-Manno. We must pool our strengths-the people of 
the waters-and end the evil that has gripped Mercadia."

                          * * * * *

    The long quay leading out into nighttime waters bustled 
with activity. Wagon trains were drawn by sweating workers. 
Iron bands surrounded their upper arms, and cloths tied about 
their foreheads kept the sweat from their eyes. Their muscles 
bulged and strained as they hauled their loads over the 
flagstones toward a waiting vessel.
    Accompanying the men were four figures, hooded and 
cloaked. They halted when a gigantic captain raised a hand 
before them. The captain walked slowly around them, stopping 
before a dark-skinned woman.
    "Where to?"
    "Mercadia. Our passage has already been paid." She brought 
out a piece of paper.
    The captain took it, scowled at it, turned it around 
several times, and spat to one side on the slippery cobbles. 
"To Mercadia? Very well. But I have no cabin space left. 
You'll have to ride in steerage."
    "Steerage!" a blonde-haired woman said indignantly. "But 
this paper guarantees us-"
    The captain crumpled the paper, tossing it away. "That's 
what I think of that," he growled. "You paid only for passage 
to Rishada and Mercadia. You'll travel in the style available, 
and I tell you you'll journey to Rishada in steerage and no 
other way. Understand?"
    A man with the tawny skin of a Cho-Arrim said, "Look me in 
the eye and tell me that."
    The captain permitted himself a small chuckle. "All 
right." He stared intently into the man's eyes.
    A quiet chant began on the Cho-Arrim's lips.
    The captain pulled away, frightened. "What did you do?"
    "Where did you say we were riding?"
    Blinking in confusion, the captain said, "You can have my 
quarters. I was planning on sleeping with the crew."
    With a sly smile, the Cho-Arrim man nodded. "That's what I 
had thought. Now, can you show us to our quarters?"
    The captain nodded, at a loss for words. He led the four 
hooded figures along the quay and to one of the ships that 
bobbed in its moorings beneath a star-filled sky.
    
                        Chapter 16

    Atop the great engine block of Weatherlight perched the 
Power Matrix. It seemed a huge, crystalline squid clinging to 
a vast whale of silver and ivory, glass and wire. The two 
artifacts were clearly kin, clearly fashioned by the same hand 
in some ancient time. Their polished brass panels, their 
networks of wire, their elegantly turned support structures, 
their enormous arrays of crystal-all of it showed the same 
genius for artifice. Matrix and engine were of a piece, 
fashioned for each other.
    But the crystals of both were utterly dark. "Where is the 
power?" roared Volrath. His voice echoed through the long, 
narrow engine room. He lurked back in the darkness amid the 
ribs of the hull. Teams of Mercadian artificers meanwhile 
swarmed the inert bulk, lifting their examination lanterns for 
a better look. Volrath hissed. "This is supposed to be a Power 
Matrix! Where is the power?"
    The chief artificer cringed beneath the verbal assault. 
She was one of twelve workers holding the Matrix in position. 
Her fingers struggled to find a grip along the lateral 
crystals. They were slick with the gore of the former chief 
artificer. Volrath had been unimpressed with the man's results 
and had forced his successor to drag the corpse to the deck 
and fling it overboard. Now, the new chief artificer's life 
depended on the same faulty piece of equipment.
    "Forgive me, Master Volrath," she ventured quietly. "But 
might I make an observation?"
    From the darkness behind came the growled response. "It is 
your job to make this machine run, not to make observations."
    If she was going to die anyway, she might as well die 
speaking the truth so that her successor might be spared. 
"There are crystals missing-five large and irregular 
crystals." With a bloodstained finger, she pointed. "Here, 
here, here ... do you see where the conduits converge on empty 
spaces? Crystals must be inserted here before the Matrix will 
function. And not just any crystals--these are irregular, one 
of a kind. Once they are in place, the Matrix will fuse with 
the main body of the engine, and-"
    She could speak no more. It is hard to speak when a 
cutlass is lodged in one's lungs. There was a red fountain, 
and the chief artificer slumped brokenly on the machine she 
was unable to fix. In her last glimpse of the world, she saw 
the eyes of her assistant-the next chief artificer. Horror, 
despair, and sadness mixed on his features, with something 
else-gratitude. The woman slid, dead, to the floor of the 
engine room.
    "Well, haul her out of here," Volrath growled. "And clean 
this place. I want it to be sparkling by the time I return 
with these ... these crystals she spoke of."
    The new chief artificer lifted his dead mentor and carried 
her toward the hatch. The other workers gaped at the horrible 
sight.
    "Clean this place!" Volrath ordered. "How can you fix 
anything when there's so much blood in here?"

                          * * * * *

    A freak thunderstorm rose from the evening seas beside 
Rishada. It formed misty hills and then massive mountains and 
then anvil-headed continents. At their heights, lightning 
argued like gods.
    Fitful, hot winds crowded beneath the clouds. Ships shook 
in their moorings. Lines and stays moaned in dread. Rishadans 
packed up the last of their market goods and fastened shutters 
and rushed for the safety of cellars.
    The storm was not intent on them, though. A tan wind came 
off the plains and tried to shove the storm back out to sea, 
but it was not intent on Saprazzo either. Like a huge black 
wolf, the front only gathered on its haunches and leaped over 
the wind, out onto the vast plains. High in the sky it went, 
bounding, sending down cyclones like clawed legs and hurling 
itself forward-toward Mercadia.
    Like a wolf, it ran toward the city.... Or like a vast, 
running river, leaping its starry banks.
    It had been centuries since such a storm hit Mercadia. The 
dusty plains ate away most moisture before it could arrive, 
but this storm had a predatory instinct. It fell upon the 
city, blackening the already deep night. It flung down its 
drops in a trillion pounding fists. The few folk left in the 
streets ran as though from murdering brigands. Some even 
barred their doors, as though the rain might ram them open. 
White ghosts of mist danced through the streets. At their 
feet, water sank into every dry crevice and joined and mingled 
to wash away ancient dust. Soon, torrents followed the 
recursive roads, some streams spiraling endlessly back upon 
themselves, growing deeper and faster as liquid sought escape. 
Yellow and brown serpents of water ruled the street. They 
coiled and slithered, fusing into a vast and multi-limbed 
creature that gripped the whole city.
    The tower at the center of the city was held tightest of 
all. Cyclones descended from the black heart of the storm to 
coil about the tower. Sand grit mixed with rain, scouring 
stone walls and bedeviling guards.
    The storm was crudest to them. They had to stay out in it, 
at their posts. At first, they had thought their thick yellow 
riding cloaks would be proof against the drops, but fabric 
that kept out dust only greedily soaked up rain. Soon each 
cloak dragged like a fully loaded pack on the backs of the 
guards. Scarves protected faces from the slapping fingers of 
water but also channeled the stuff down necks and across 
spines and shoulder blades. Eyes squinted, near blind. Ears 
strained to pick orders from the shouting air. Mouths 
streamed. Throats shouted. Every patch of exposed flesh was 
pounded to numbness.
    The guards outside Gerrard's tower prison were no 
exception. Indeed, the storm converged with a particular 
vengeance on that spot. They couldn't see farther than ten 
feet up or down the stairway. The guards in the corner towers 
were driven away from their windows.
    All the while, Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn were warm and 
dry within.
    "Who's the prisoners here?" shouted one guard to his 
comrade. Though the man stood just opposite him beside the 
triple doors to the cell, there was no hope of hearing. "I 
said, who's the prisoners here ... them, or us?"
    The other man only shook his head, mouth clamped grimly 
shut.
    Soldiers approached from below. Yellow cloaks shouldered 
up the stairs. They were led by a half-collapsed parasol, a 
cringing Kyren beneath. A relief contingent? At least somebody 
was thinking of the soldiers out in this storm. Already, the 
relief troops were bedraggled. Their hair was plastered to 
their faces. Some looked dark with bruises, others pale with 
fear. Three of the guards were so young they seemed mere women 
within their voluminous riding cloaks. Another had a long scar 
on his cheek. The goblin ahead of them was the most pathetic 
of the lot, though. He seemed to have shrunk within his 
bedraggled robes, and his rain-lashed face looked pugnacious. 
As he approached, his worthless little parasol was ripped from 
his hands and carried away to smack a nearby rooftop.
    The goblin was in a bad mood. He shouted something to the 
guard at the door. The guard leaned closer, cupping a hand. 
Again came the shout. "Aren't you sick of this?"
    "Sick to hell, sir!"
    "How 'bout if you stand down?"
    "Love to, sir."
    The guard motioned to his partner and headed down the 
stairs. Two of the relief soldiers took their posts. Eager to 
get out from under the hammering heavens, the guards descended 
to the street.
    "Glad somebody thought of us."
    "What?"
    "It's unusual... somebody thinking of us ..."
    "What?"
    Instead of responding, the guard glanced back up the 
tower, where the relief soldiers stood their posts. In the dim 
heart of the storm, a light shone, as though the door had 
opened to the prison cell. Perhaps the goblin had some word 
for the prisoners. Or perhaps this was an escape. Ha, that was 
a funny one. Who would leave a warm, dry cell to come out in 
this?
    "We were the real prisoners," the guard shouted.
    "I can't hear you!"
    "Never mind." Already, the guard could think only of his 
warm, dry bed.

                          * * * * *

    "Ain't you ready ta get outta here?" came a shout at the 
door. It swung open, and in came a drenched Squee.
    Gerrard had been leaning next to the window. He came away 
from the wall and smiled, shaking his head. "You couldn't wait 
until after the storm?"
    "We brought the storm," said a new voice-Orim. She strode 
into the room, her riding cloak streaming on the floor. At her 
side came a handsome olive-skinned man with coins braided 
through his hair. "Water magic. Cho-Arrim can bring rivers 
coursing over dry land and rivers coursing across the sky."
    Gerrard strode toward the pair. He smiled happily, 
embracing Orim despite her dripping cloak. "I'm so glad you're 
safe. There were terrible rumors. Takara heard you'd been 
imprisoned, the Power Matrix stolen."
    "All that did happen," Orim said. "I would still be 
imprisoned if it weren't for Cho-Manno."
    Reverent eyed, Gerrard regarded the chief of the Cho-Arrim 
and extended his hand. "So, at last, we meet face-to-face. 1 
have much to apologize for."
    "The regrets of the past are many-too many. We cannot 
allow them to doom the future," Cho-Manno interrupted, taking 
Gerrard's hand.
    "How did you get into the city?"
    Cho-Manno gestured upward. "We can move in rivers and 
storms just as the Mercadians move in clouds of dust. Our 
skyscouts and wizards have mastered the warm air currents. 
This storm brought us and rained us down into abandoned 
streets. The rain fills the city with my folk." He nodded 
toward a scar-faced man who came in beside him.
    "We will join the Ramosans and prepare an uprising."
    "Great news!" Gerrard said.
    "Not all great," interjected a new voice. "After all, the 
Mercadians do have the Power Matrix."
    "Hanna!" Gerrard cried, wrapping her in a happy embrace. 
He kissed her, stopping only to stare into her eyes. "You 
can't imagine how much I've missed you."
    "And I you." Hanna's face was beautiful despite the rain 
that dripped from her blonde hair. Her expression turned sad. 
"Even so, we'll be apart again soon, I fear. I must seek out 
Weatherlight and find out what they've done with the Power 
Matrix."
    "I'll help you. It's my ship after all."
    "No, you've got to go after the Bones of Ramos," said 
Sisay, behind. "I'll go along, and Tahngarth, and whatever 
fighters we can scrounge up from the ship's crew-Chamas, 
Tallakaster, Fewsteem ..."
    Hanna supplied the names of three others. "Dabis, 
Ilcaster, Takara."
    Tahngarth rumbled, "I think we'll leave Takara out of this 
one."
    "Hold on, everyone," Gerrard interjected, gripping the 
sides of his head. "What's all this about the Bones of Ramos?"
    Hanna answered, "They are the final pieces that will 
complete repair and overhaul of Weatherlight. They will allow 
the engine and the Power Matrix to fuse. The ship will be 
faster, more powerful than ever."
    "But, what are these bones, and where are they?" Gerrard 
asked.
    Cho-Manno said, "We will explain all as we make our 
escape. There is no time to stand and talk. Gather your 
things. The storm cannot last much longer. Nor can Mercadian 
stupidity."
    Gerrard glanced back at his cellmates.
    Tahngarth eagerly pushed his way out the door and stood in 
the pounding rain. He howled into the heavens.
    Karn meanwhile said simply, "Let us go, Gerrard. 
Weatherlight awaits me, and the Bones of Ramos await you."

                          * * * * *

    From the Magistrate's Tower, Volrath watched the storm. 
His fingers dug into the stone windowsill where he stood. It 
was one of the subtler powers of a shapechanger, to make his 
flesh as thin and sharp and strong as razors, to insinuate his 
being into whatever fault might present itself and swell in 
those cracks to split them wider. Solid stones became sifting 
sand in his grip. His flesh could flow, and freeze, and 
destroy like water. It was how he ruled the rock of Mercadia. 
His grip had split the mountain to its core.
    These rebels, though, were not rock. Ramosan, Cho-Arrim, 
Saprazzan, Rishadan-they were all folk with affinity for 
water. They brought this storm down upon Mercadia. They would 
grip it in a fist larger and more powerful than Volrath's. 
They would break the rock of Mercadia to shifting sand.
    Why, though, did they bring this storm now? What did they 
seek?
    Volrath saw. Through the shredding curtains of rain, he 
saw. Dark figures descended amid those cascades. They were 
human, though they had billowing cloaks above them that seemed 
the wings of bats. On the warm currents of the storm they 
rode, dropping where they would, where they could-rooftops, 
streets, gardens, awnings. Like the water that had borne them 
hence, they went to ground. Following channels invisible to 
the eye, they gathered and went below. One by one, each of the 
invaders escaped into gutters and rebel safe houses.
    "Not safe for long," Volrath muttered to himself, flinging 
limestone sand out into the night. He would send a regiment of 
the guard around next morning on a house-to-house search. 
Invaders and anyone harboring them would be summarily 
executed, their property seized by the state. Whatever 
uprising they planned would be put down before it could even 
occur.
    "I shall defend my interests viciously."
    Something else moved in the stormy night. Another group of 
rebels streamed down a stairway and into the winding streets. 
Gerrard and his crew.
    Volrath watched angrily. He had planned just such an 
escape- Takara had planned it to send Gerrard after the 
crystals he needed to repair Weatherlight Now, the ingrates 
were escaping on their own. Their plans were already 
discussed, and Takara had neither been consulted nor thanked. 
It mattered little.
    Gerrard was doing just what Volrath had planned. Gerrard 
had always been his own worst enemy. His betrayals and his 
blunders led inevitably to ruin.
    Smiling, Volrath released the crushed windowsill. He 
turned and took a step. In midstride, he transformed into a 
lithe, fire-haired woman.
    "Gerrard will lead me straight to the crystals I need, and 
I will destroy him in the process."

                          * * * * *

    Squee led his companions on a ridiculously jogging path. 
The pounding rain and lightning flashes made Mercadia's mad 
maze only madder still. Hanna, whose direction sense was the 
best of anyone's, was hopelessly confused. Squee insisted he 
knew where he was going, and his errant rout proved very 
quick. The company traversed the two-and-a-half miles from the 
Magistrate's Tower to the outer rim of the city in only half 
an hour.
    "Dis here street is Dat-Dere-Street," Squee announced 
proudly.
    Gerrard and his comrades arrived at the dumping station 
where Squee and Atalla had fooled the giants. In the pelting 
storm, there were no giants or wagons, only the yawning 
blackness of a nearly two-mile drop to the storm-lit plains 
below.
    Reunited again for the rescue, the company would soon be 
sundered. Hanna, Squee, and Karn would remain behind to search 
for Weatherlight. Orim, Cho-Manno, and Lahaime would 
rendezvous with the Ramosans and begin to foment rebellion 
against the ruling Mercadians and their Kyren. Meanwhile, 
Gerrard, Sisay, Tahngarth, and five other crew members would 
take the maps and lore provided by Cho-Manno and set out in 
search of Ouramos, where lay the Bones of Ramos.
    Parting was no easy thing, especially for the commander 
and the navigator.
    "Listen," Hanna said, staring into Gerrard's eyes. "Don't 
just bring back Ramos's bones. Bring back your own, as well. 
And all in one piece."
    His smile glinted with lightning. He stroked a sodden lock 
of hair back from her face. "Don't I always?" Glancing over 
the precipice, he said, "If I survive the next few minutes, I 
can survive anything." He lifted his arms. The cape of a Cho-
Arrim skyscout draped, dripping, from wrists to ankles. "Orim, 
are you sure these things are safe?"
    "Safe enough," Orim replied, sheltered in Cho-Manno's 
arms. "Just glide like a flying squirrel and let the Cho-Arrim 
wizards do the rest. Don't try anything fancy."
    Gerrard gave a flap of the wings. "I'm not sure I'll even 
breathe on the way down."
    Tahngarth stood nearby, snorting white plumes of 
irritation in the air. "I'm no squirrel." He stared down at 
his own cloak-two skyscout capes sewn together.
    With a light laugh, a similarly winged Sisay recited, 
"Birdie, birdie in the sky, what just dropped down in my eye? 
I'm sure glad that cows don't fly!"
    "I'm not a squirrel or a cow," Tahngarth growled. If 
anyone but his captain had made the remark, there would have 
been a brawl.
    Cho-Manno said, "The storm is losing its force. You had 
better get going."
    "Yes," Gerrard replied. Leaning forward, he kissed Hanna 
one last time. "I'll bring back my bones and Ramos's. Don't 
worry about me. You just find Weatherlight and get ready to 
put the stones in place."
    "I will."
    "And we'll make sure the revolution is ready," Orim 
pledged.
    "Good," Gerrard said. He cast a glance toward Sisay, 
shrugged, and said, "Well, here goes."
    Taking a deep breath and spreading his arms, Gerrard did a 
swan dive off the edge of Mount Mercadia.
    The ridge of solid ground disappeared beneath him. He 
plunged toward the blackness beyond. Spreading arms and legs, 
he felt the skyscout cloak snap outward. Air filled the 
garment. Insistent cloth yanked on wrists and ankles. 
Gerrard's back hyperextended. Gritting his teeth, he brought 
arms and legs to full extension and entered a steady glide.
    Rain pelted down. Winds roared up. The black plains swayed 
nauseatingly as they stretched away toward the hills.
    A sharp crack came nearby. Gerrard glanced over to see 
Sisay hanging there on the wind, like a spider drifting down 
on a thread too gossamer to see. To the other side came a 
sound like a shot. It was followed by a long roar in concert 
with the winds. Tahngarth was taking the descent less well 
than his mates. Six other crew drifted downward in a tenuous 
flock.
    Gerrard smiled grimly. The sooner they were on the ground, 
the better. He dipped his arms and banked toward the 
marketplace below. There, under cover of dark, they would 
"requisition" Jhovalls and supplies. Before daybreak, they 
would charge out of the city, on the way to Ouramos.
    The other gliders followed. They crossed above the vast, 
putrid circle of the garbage wall. Beneath the sheltering edge 
of the inverted mountain, the rain ceased. Still, mists 
followed them-the conjurations of Cho-Manno's wizards. Cho-
Manno had said he would take care of the flight, but Gerrard 
would have to take care of the landing.
    Selecting a likely corral of Jhovalls, Gerrard soared 
down. What seemed at first to be only specks of white pepper 
slowly swelled upward to scraps of paper and then to large 
tents. Gerrard brought his team down among them, near the 
corral.
    He tried to land upright, but the ground stole his feet, 
and he rolled in the dirt. A fence post of the corral caught 
him short. Fouled in his cloak, muddy, and somewhat bruised, 
Gerrard staggered up and turned to see his crew land.
    Sisay soared up beside him, flung her cloak out to catch 
one last hold on the air, and landed easily on her feet. 
Tahngarth came to ground like a great black comet. He flopped 
facefirst, his horns digging twin furrows in the dirt. Chamas, 
Tallakaster, Fewsteem, Dabis, and ilcaster arrived less 
gracefully than Sisay-but less catastrophically than 
Tahngarth.
    Last of all alighted a thin, strong figure, who folded the 
cloak behind her as though she were used to having wings. 
"Sorry I'm late. Squee sent word you'd arrived and told me 
what you were up to. I figured you could use another fighter."
    Gerrard only shook his head in disbelief. "Takara ..."
    
                         Book III
    
                        Chapter 17

    In the dark before dawn, a caravan moved slowly away from 
Mercadia, through circling walls of stone and garbage. Gerrard 
and his companions trailed in its wake. Here in the shadow of 
the mountain, the ground was dry enough to produce dust, which 
masked the rebels and their stolen Jhovalls.
    The corral Gerrard had landed next to had turned out to 
belong to the city guard. He had "borrowed" several mounts 
from the stables. It seemed poetic justice. The guard was in 
such disarray they were unlikely to miss the Jhovalls until it 
was far too late to do anything about the theft. "They should 
have learned from my training," Gerrard told himself dryly, 
spitting dust from his teeth. It was not the first or last 
time he would spit on that long, dusty journey.
    Despite the inevitable grit, Weatherlight's crew members 
rode with a glad ease. For Gerrard and Tahngarth, the journey 
meant freedom after long incarceration. For Sisay, it was a 
chance to negotiate with sword instead of word. For Dabis, 
Tallakaster, Fewsteem, Chamas, and Ilcaster, the smell of 
clean dirt was welcome after months in the perfumed fetor of 
Mercadia. All were glad to be riding-and soon, fighting-
together. It was like old times.
    Only Takara rode apart. Since her mysterious arrival, she 
had hung back in the pack, lending aid where it was required 
but offering little comment. Perhaps she sensed the crew's 
growing distrust of her. Perhaps she knew that Gerrard no 
longer welcomed her advice. The others left the fiery Rathi 
alone. By the dawn of the second day, her reticence was 
beginning to wear on her comrades.
    In the dusty morning, Gerrard's curiosity at last 
awakened. He let his Jhovall fall back among the other steeds 
until he came even with Takara. Keeping his eyes trained on 
the road ahead, Gerrard said, "You've been pretty quiet on 
this trip."
    Takara's mount stalked easily forward. "Yes."
    "Is something bothering you?" Gerrard pressed. "You seemed 
happy enough to join us."
    "My father is dead."
    Gerrard's eyes grew wide. He stammered, "H-He's dead?"
    "Murdered in the infirmary. It was one of those Ramosan 
assassins."
    "Ramosan ... assassins?" Gerrard echoed amazedly.
    "The city is rife with them. The guards are worthless. 
They haven't the first clue where to find the killer."
    Gerrard's eyes followed the rumpled ground. "I'm sorry, 
Takara. I shouldn't have ... intruded on your grief."
    "Oh, I don't grieve," she said bitterly. "I never grieve. 
I only hate. I'm going to corner the man who killed my father. 
I'm going to wrap my fingers around his neck and rip his 
throat out." She turned her gaze toward Gerrard. Her eyes were 
as sharp as poniards. "Do you know where the Ramosans hide 
out?"
    Pursing his lips, Gerrard said quietly, "No, I couldn't 
help you there."
    Jaw flexing grimly, Takara peered toward the front of the 
caravan. "Aren't you needed up there?"
    Gerrard nodded, nudging his Jhovall with his heels. "I'm 
sorry to have intruded on your ... on your hatred."
    Two days out, the caravan they'd been following turned off 
to the north. The Weatherlight brigade continued to the west. 
The directions to Ouramos, such as Gerrard had managed to 
ascertain, were tantalizingly vague. The Cho-Arrim had 
provided their best map scrolls, but even those were only 
approximates. By Sisay's reckoning, a Jhovall journey of five 
days west, bearing along the line of the Great Scales at 
darkest night, would bring them in sight of the fabled place.
    The plains rose in a long, gentle slope and then fell away 
into a valley. At the far end, the road curved through a 
series of high paths. The earth was very black and moist but 
with surprisingly little vegetation. The road they followed 
grew narrower and less used. Finally, they could follow it 
only by tracking along a widely spaced series of huge, gray 
stones on its edge.
    At the mouth of a wide, swampy gorge, Gerrard halted, and 
the others stopped behind him.
    "What's the matter?" Sisay wiped her forehead.
    The day had been hot, and the sun was only just beginning 
to sink into the south, amid a striated series of clouds. They 
were facing a long passage between two mesas. The high cliffs, 
made of blood-red rocks, dropped to foul-smelling fens at 
their feet. Drowned forests stood white amid marshy grasses. 
Clouds of insects hovered in the air. The stillness and the 
unpleasant odor that lingered in the air contributed to the 
atmosphere of rot and decay that hung over everything and bore 
down on the travelers.
    Gerrard said, "We're not alone here." He looked at 
Tahngarth.
    The minotaur nodded. "Yes. Someone is watching us."
    "Who?" Instinctively, the party drew their mounts closer 
together, and Gerrard loosened his sword in its sheath.
    Before the minotaur could reply, a black shape surged up 
from behind a dead tree that bordered the road. As it raced 
toward them, it gave an unearthly, ululating cry. The shout 
was echoed a few seconds later by other creatures emerging 
from the swampy forest. They rose from the muck, gray-skinned 
manifestations of it. Once men, these withered and shambling 
monsters were draped in whatever clothes had survived the 
ravages of rot. Here and there, bone showed through sloughing 
flesh. The creatures shrieked as they stormed the party. Their 
screams rebounded from the white ghosts of drowned trees.
    "Deepwood ghouls!" Takara shouted as her sword raked free.
    Tahngarth's striva slashed off the head of the foremost 
ghoul. Rather than collapsing, the body of the creature pushed 
its way blindly forward, groping in a horrid parody of human 
action. Its arms embraced Tahngarth's Jhovall. The six-legged 
tiger-creature reared, slashing its forepaws across gray 
flesh. Claws tore open the undead thing's belly, as if ripping 
a sack of old leather. Out tumbled desiccated organs. Parts 
quivered on the ground, but still the ghoul raked forward.
    With a shout of disgust, Tahngarth kicked the headless 
monster away from him.
    Another group of ghouls converged from the other side of 
the road.
    Swiftly Weatherlight's crew backed their steeds into a 
circle. Swords menaced above the snarling and spitting heads 
of the Jhovalls.
    The ghouls showed no fear, leaping inward.
    Sisay bent from her saddle, thrusting her blade into the 
heart of the nearest ghoul. Steel crackled through dead flesh 
and snapped ribs as though they were twigs. Her sword sunk 
deep. A full foot of blade protruded from the monster's back. 
It kept coming. Its decaying fingers gripped Sisay about her 
waist and pulled her down into the dust. White bones with 
shredded flesh sank into Sisay's neck. It squeezed, strangling 
her.
    A Jhovall bounded up beside her, and a sword flashed down. 
Gerrard's blade slashed the arm from the ghoul's body. From 
the other side, Fewsteem attacked with a heavy mace. Spikes 
fell, impaling the thing's skull. Powdery brain ghosted out on 
the air. The strike smashed the ghoul's body to the earth.
    Sisay pried the dead hand from her neck and retreated 
among shouldering Jhovalls.
    The party was fighting perhaps twenty of the flesh eaters. 
The ghouls were impervious to mortal wounds. They bore on, 
regardless of the injuries they suffered. Survival did not 
matter to them, only destruction of their foes. Despite their 
obvious mindlessness, the ghouls seemed to attack in concert. 
Two ghouls would slash at adjacent Jhovalls, opening a space 
into which a third could charge. It was as though they were 
the dumb pawns of a much larger mind, playing out the battle 
like a game of chess. And every good chess player guards his 
king.
    "They fight with a vengeance!" Gerrard shouted above the 
melee. As his sword split the head of another creature, he 
yelled, "They fight like guardians!"
    He heard a shriek to his right and saw that one of the 
ghouls had plunged a rusting sword into the heart of 
Fewsteem's Jhovall. The great tiger sank to its knees, its 
head jerking back and forth as lifeblood poured out. Fewsteem 
was flung from his saddle, and a pair of ghouls dragged the 
hapless crewman toward the swamp beyond the road. His eyes 
rolled back in panic.
    With a shout, Gerrard leaped from his own mount, which was 
hemmed in by a circle of slashing, clawing ghouls. He vaulted 
over their heads. Even as he did so, he heard a squeal of 
agony from his Jhovall. It too fell victim to the bloodbath. 
The Benalian reached the fen. He swung his sword and cut in 
half one of the ghouls holding Fewsteem. Sisay ran up behind 
him and disposed of the other creature. They dragged Fewsteem 
out of the muck.
    On the road above, the situation was improving. The crew 
had destroyed a dozen attackers, at the cost of three 
Jhovalls. The other ghouls continued to press forward without 
hesitation, but the tide of the battle had clearly turned.
    Despite a dozen small cuts on his chest and arms, 
Tahngarth scooped up a ghoul and threw it some twenty feet 
away to smash against a twisted tree. Takara cut the legs out 
from beneath another at the same moment that Ilcaster chopped 
its head from its shoulders. The severed head bounded along 
the road into the ditch, where it sank beneath the muck, its 
eyes rolling in their sockets.
    Gerrard, Sisay, and Fewsteem rejoined the others to 
destroy the remaining beasts. In a few minutes, the crewmen 
were panting, wiping their weapons, and binding up each 
others' wounds. Without visible effort, Tahngarth picked up 
the various pieces of ghoul left on the road and tossed them 
into the festering swamp. Gerrard looked sadly at the mangled 
body of his Jhovall. The two surviving Jhovalls were so 
seriously injured that their suffering called for mercy. At a 
nod from Gerrard, Tahngarth walked them to the side of the 
road and swiftly, efficiently dispatched them.
    Sisay looked at Gerrard and sighed. "Well," she said 
philosophically, "I suppose we could all do with a long walk 
to get back in shape."
    "Did you notice how the ghouls fought?" Gerrard asked 
amazedly. "I got the distinct impression they were servants of 
some higher being."
    Sisay worried her lip a little. "Cho-Manno had warned me 
that the road to Ouramos was protected by the dead comrades of 
Ramos-his soldiers who were burned alive when he fell flaming 
from the sky. I'd just taken the comment as a bit of folklore, 
but perhaps he meant these ghouls. I should have passed on the 
warnings."
    Gerrard smiled appreciatively, patting her shoulder. "Your 
reticence was understandable, but from now on, if you remember 
any more of Cho-Manno's warnings, make sure you tell us. In a 
legendary land, myth may prove truer than truth."

                          * * * * *

    None of the party was seriously injured, but the claws and 
teeth of the foul beings had evidently been infected with the 
water of the swamps. Next day, Sisay and Fewsteem both ran 
high fevers. The party camped in the shadow of cliffs far 
removed from the fens. Gerrard soaked a rag in canteen water 
and pressed it to Sisay's forehead. Chamas performed a similar 
service for Fewsteem. They spent a miserable, uncomfortable 
day and night before the two ill travelers had recovered 
sufficiently to move on.
    The next day, much to their relief, they left both swamps 
and cliffs behind. They had reached the top of a large 
plateau. The land stretched before them, dotted with clumps of 
trees and other vegetation. On the far horizon was a ridge of 
mountains, their tops capped with snow. Looking back, the 
party could see they had come through a long series of broken 
defiles that led down to the eastern plains. That night, they 
found plenty of wood for a fire and built a cheerful blaze to 
guard against the brisk wind that swept over this higher land.
    Sisay and Fewsteem huddled close to the fire. Both had 
recovered from their infection, but neither was as hardy as 
before the ghoul attack. Against the darkness, the flames made 
fantastic, leaping shapes. Tahngarth picked up a long stick 
from the ground and stirred the fire. A shower of sparks spat 
and leaped up, rising into the ebony sky. To himself, the 
minotaur chanted softly a Talruum battle song. Gerrard looked 
at him with affection.
    "What are you smiling about?" asked Sisay, a blanket 
wrapped tightly about her.
    "I was just thinking," Gerrard returned.
    She moved a bit closer to him on the log. "About what?"
    Gerrard rubbed his chin, feeling the rough bristle of his 
beard. "I've forgotten how much I miss this."
    "Miss what? Sitting miles away from your home with nothing 
to eat but dry rations, nothing to do but hope you'll make the 
next day's march without some disaster, nothing to wear but 
the clothes on your back that you haven't washed for a week." 
Sisay wrinkled her nose. "I hope to the gods we find a stream 
tomorrow. You need a bath."
    Gerrard laughed. "I know. You're pretty ripe yourself. No, 
that's not what I meant."
    "What, then?"
    He waved a hand around him. "All this. Companionship. 
Searching for something but not knowing whether you'll ever 
find it." He shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."
    Sisay put a hand on his arm. He could feel the tough 
calluses on her palm. "I know what you mean. Believe me, I do. 
There's something special about the search itself, even if you 
don't find what you're looking for. I think sometimes that's 
what I was really looking for, rather than for the Legacy. I 
was looking for ... for the looking itself. Is that stupid?"
    "No. No, it's not." Gerrard turned and looked Sisay full 
in the face. Since he'd found her in Volrath's Dream Halls, 
this was the first time he'd looked closely at her. Fine lines 
surrounded her eyes. A tiny streak of gray had appeared in her 
hair. A delicate scar-almost a decoration, it was so fine-ran 
from the edge of her mouth back along the line of her jaw to 
her ear. Her skin was weather roughened, not the fine blush 
that mantled Hanna's face. Yet it had a kind of unearthly 
beauty that was all Sisay's own. Her eyes were brown, set deep 
in her face, filled with pain, with joy, with a kind of wild 
hope.
    "Do you know something?" Gerrard asked. "Rath made you 
stronger. Made you wiser. More beautiful."
    "It's the power of hate," interrupted Takara, sitting 
nearby, tossing pebbles sullenly in the fire. "Hate makes you 
stronger, wiser, more beautiful."
    Without looking at the Rathi, Gerrard shook his head. "No. 
There you're wrong. Hate eats you up from the inside. It makes 
you weak and stupid and ugly. It's hope that makes you strong. 
There were two ways to survive Rath-hate and hope. Only hope 
makes heroes."

                          * * * * *

    The next two days, the road wound among trees of 
increasing girth and height, with branches that began fifty or 
sixty feet up the trunk. They were of a kind completely 
unfamiliar to anyone in the party. In some places, the path 
was completely overgrown. It took all of Tahngarth's and 
Sisay's tracking skills to keep them going in the right 
direction.
    From the lower branches of the trees, moss draped like 
tattered clothing, casting mysterious shadows across the path. 
Wherever upper branches let" sun penetrate to the forest 
floor, lizards scuttled across the roadway or sunned 
themselves on rocks.
    At night the party lit fires that drove back the shadows 
but attracted thousands of huge moths. During the still 
watches of the night, the rumble of vast hooves came from the 
forest, and huge pairs of eyes gleamed distantly with 
reflected firelight. It was easy enough for watchmen to stay 
awake, but no beast ever came close enough to be identified.
    On the second day in the forest, they came upon the ruin 
of a large stone tower among the trees. Its walls were limned 
with moss and ivy, and the roof had fallen in. When new, the 
tower must have been impressive, but now it was merely a sad 
reminder of a long-ago glory. The crew found themselves 
speaking in hushed tones as they examined the ruins.
    It was Ilcaster who drew Gerrard's attention to the glyph 
carved in the stone arch.
    The Benalian examined it carefully. "Yes. No doubt about 
it. It's another Thran glyph. Whoever built this place knew 
something about the Thran." Gerrard looked about them at the 
tall trees, silent witnesses to the unknown past. "I think," 
he said finally, "we can safely say we've entered Ouramos."
    The following day saw the number and size of the ruins 
increase. The Thran glyphs engraved on the fallen edifices 
were now so common that they ceased to provoke comment. The 
buildings were closer together, bigger and more impressive, 
but all were in a state of decay and ruin.
    Gerrard saw Sisay looking about her with a slightly 
puzzled expression. "What's the matter?" he asked.
    She pointed to a series of walls that extended along one 
side of the path for a quarter mile before ceasing abruptly. 
"These ruins. There's something odd about them."
    Gerrard glanced around. "I don't see it."
    "That's right," chimed in Tallakaster from behind them. 
The large blond sailor, bare to the waist, shifted his pack on 
massive shoulders. "I mean, Cap'n, if you were standing out 
here all alone for years, you'd be falling to pieces too."
    Sisay chuckled. "I daresay you're right. But that's not 
what I mean. They're not just falling to pieces; they've been 
destroyed."
    "What do you mean?" asked Gerrard.
    "I mean something happened to this city."
    "Like Ramos falling on it from the sky?"
    "Well, perhaps a figurative Ramos. The myth might mask a 
historical truth. Look." Sisay grabbed Gerrard's arm and led 
him toward the wall. She touched the stone, which crumbled 
beneath her fingers. She rubbed her fingertips, and the stuff 
turned to a white powder.
    "I've seen something like this before, on Dominaria." She 
pushed a few of the stones, and they fell with a thump to the 
forest floor. "This wall's been blasted by sudden heat-"
    "Gerrard! Sisay! Tahngarth! Come look at this!"
    The three turned, making their way to where Ilcaster and 
Dabis stood near a large mound. Both were holding their hands 
before their faces, warding off the stench that rose from the 
mound.
    "Phew! What have you two found?" Gerrard's eyes watered.
    Tahngarth spat once. "Taumalangah!"
    "Spoor!" Sisay translated for Gerrard's benefit. 
"Droppings from something."
    "Humph! Well, whatever it is, it's huge." Gerrard walked 
around the pile of excrement, careful to keep his distance. 
"Everybody keep your eyes open-and your noses covered."
    The travelers moved on down the road into dim, green 
recesses.
    Another hour of silent tramping brought them to a small 
clearing. There, they halted for a moment to rest. Sisay sank 
to the ground, head between her hands, knees drawn up. 
Although she had largely recovered from the fever of a few 
days previously, neither she nor Fewsteem were quite as 
healthy as the others. Tahngarth moved restlessly about the 
glade, while Gerrard took a long pull from his waterskin. In 
the forest, they had found several streams, all of which 
seemed excellent sources of drinking water.
    "Sir!" Dabis ran up. The dark-haired Icatian was about as 
excited as Gerrard had ever seen him. He opened his clenched 
fist. "Look, sir!"
    Gerrard gasped. A powerstone. Tiny, no more than a mere 
speck compared to the crystal that powered Weatherlight, but 
it was nonetheless a glowing powerstone, shining with its own 
source of internal fire.
    "Excellent!" He clapped Dabis on the shoulder. "Where was 
it?"
    "Just lying on the g-ground." Dabis, almost too excited to 
speak, stuttered. "I saw a glow from off to the side, and 
there it was, just lying on the ground like somebody dropped 
it."
    In an instant, the group was down on its knees in the spot 
Dabis had indicated, clawing through the undergrowth. After a 
frantic, silent ten minutes of searching, Gerrard gave up with 
a sigh.
    "All right. This is only one. But the important thing is 
we know we're on the right track." He lifted his pack to his 
shoulders. "Let's go."
    The companions proceeded, in single file, Gerrard leading 
the way and Tahngarth, his sword drawn, bringing up the rear. 
Before them, the path grew more obscure, the trees denser. To 
either side, they heard a series of deep rumbles, with an 
occasional hiss that sounded like the heavy breathing of some 
mighty creature.
    Without a word, the party halted, and swords were drawn 
from scabbards. Gerrard placed a finger on his lips, and they 
stole cautiously forward.
    Suddenly the trees parted. A great vista opened. They 
found themselves blinking in the unexpected sunlight.
    Before them, the land dipped in a wide bowl carved from 
the living rock, a great arena overrun by weed and creeper. In 
the center, perhaps a thousand feet from where the party 
stood, was a great circle of raised sand, low but baked and 
gleaming in the bright sunlight. Standing stones, carved with 
Thran glyphs, ringed the sandy circle. In the center of the 
circle was a large, flat stone table, resembling an altar. The 
altar stone in turn held five large crystals, glinting in the 
sunlight.
    "Ouramos," Gerrard said in awe.
    Sisay looked at him and nodded. "Yes. Those must be the 
powerstones. The Bones of Ramos."
    Takara said, "It's not likely those stones would remain 
undisturbed all these years unless they were pretty well 
guarded. Magic. Or worse ..."
    The Benalian cast a quick glance around. "All right. 
There's no point in all of us going down there. If ever there 
were a place likely to be rigged with traps of some kind, this 
is it. Sisay and Tahngarth, you're with me. The rest of you 
stay here and keep a sharp eye out-"
    His instructions were interrupted by a terrified scream 
behind him. Gerrard turned.
    Ilcaster's dark, handsome face contorted with pain. He was 
caught in the grip of two vines that had snaked across the 
path, entwining his feet. The lad fell to the ground, drew his 
knife, and hacked at the green tendrils.
    Gerrard darted in and chopped down with his sword. It 
clanged away. The vines were as hard as steel.
    Ilcaster gave a yell of horror. There was a spurt of blood 
from a severed artery as the clinging vines cut through flesh 
and bone in his ankles. Another vine, writhing as if it were a 
snake, shot across the path and gripped him around the throat, 
cutting off his cry. A moment later his head rolled free 
beside Gerrard's feet.
    Sisay and the others curved in a tight circle, facing 
outward. Gerrard joined them. From the woods, more vines 
groped inward. The crew bashed them back with ringing blades.
    A young sapling lashed down atop the crew like a scourge.
    Tahngarth reached up, grasped the bole, and viciously 
snapped off the top. The rest of the tree sprang back. It 
seemed to give a shriek of pain. Thick green sap surged from 
the wound.
    A vine yanked Sisay's feet from under her. Gerrard jerked 
her upright and battered the tendril until it let go.
    A tree trunk smashed to the ground beside Tallakaster, 
missing him by a hairsbreadth. Below the feet of the crew-man, 
the ground boiled and turned to mud, imprisoning his feet. He 
screamed and sank farther into the morass.
    Gerrard pulled at his arms in a vain attempt to pry him 
loose. Gerrard's fingers dug into the sailor's flesh. 
Tallakaster's eyes bulged with fear. The sailor slipped 
another few inches, pulling Gerrard with him. In a moment, he 
too would be trapped by the mud. Gerrard felt the man's hands 
slip away. The Benalian had a last brief glance of 
Tallakaster's fear-crazed face sinking below the mud, and then 
he was gone.
    A blast of wind trembled the treetops and rose to a 
screaming gale. The trees shook. Leaves, pine needles, and fir 
cones beat on their heads. The very ground bucked and swayed 
beneath their staggering feet.
    "We can't last here!" Gerrard shouted. "Retreat!"
    They did, moving cautiously away from the great bowl of 
Ouramos.
    "Look!" Sisay yelled, stopping short.
    The crew were suddenly surrounded by fantastical figures. 
Roughly human in shape, they had green hair and pale, green 
skin. Long, slender fingers waved as if branches. They were 
clad in leaves, twigs, and vines, knitted together in sheaths 
that barely covered their lean bodies. Their hands were 
raised, crossed together and linked in a curious pattern. As 
if from a great distance, Gerrard heard a sound that could 
only be described as singing.
    "More defenders ..." Sisay said breathlessly as Gerrard 
staggered up beside her. "Dryads."
    
                        Chapter 18

    The two guards lounging about the lower story of the 
Magistrate's Tower were drunk. Duty shifts among the city 
guard were observed rarely, if at all, but yesterday 
Samanalashakal had had the bad luck of beating the sergeant at 
a game of bones and tosses. This morning when Sama entered 
guard headquarters, he found the sergeant waiting for him, an 
unpleasant grin on his face.
    That was how Sama came to be sitting on the first landing 
of the tower, passing a wineskin back and forth with 
Dromelasthamarab. Above them, the sun rose slowly in the sky, 
and the shadow of the tower thinned and disappeared entirely, 
leaving them awash in brilliant light.
    The heat made them even more thirsty, so they drank to 
quench their thirst, and then they drank to forget their 
troubles, and then they drank because the wine was plentiful 
and good and neither cared anymore.
    Indeed, Sama was so intoxicated that he almost did not 
notice the small green form that descended the tower steps, 
poking and prying, flicking long greasy fingers into the nooks 
and crannies of the staircase and sucking greedily on them. 
Eventually, the goblin bumped into one of the guard's legs and 
started back.
    Sama and Drome drew aside from the door, their hands 
rising in clumsy salutes.
    The goblin stared at them.
    In their sodden haze, they noticed he seemed reluctant to 
give the counter salute. "Enter, Master," Drome said, bowing 
deeply.
    The goblin seemed to take the invitation as a command and 
scuttled through the dark door they guarded.
    Drome laughed and seized the wineskin from his compatriot. 
"Here's to the-" he used a vulgar Mercadian term for goblin, 
one that was carefully kept from earshot of the green race "-
and may he fall down the stairs and break his neck!"
    Sama grabbed for the skin and missed, almost tumbling off 
the balcony. "Go to the Nine Spheres! Don't shout that stuff 
so loud, or you'll get us in hot water!" He rubbed his eyes, 
and somewhere in his wine-soaked brain a worry stirred. 
"Wasn't that one awful small?"
    Drome shook his head and hiccuped. Belching loudly, he 
sank back into his seat. "Who cares? They're all green 
buggers! Look a' me! I do my job, and wha's it get me? 
Nothing! Because green buggers are the ones that count. I been 
fifteen years in the guard, getting nothing but trouble. 
'Cause I won't kiss up, tha's why. Know why I don' get ahead?"
    " 'Cause you don't kiss up?"
    "Damn right!"

                          * * * * *

    Squee, meanwhile, was intent on following the trail of a 
bug-not just any bug, but an enormous insect. Squee's nose 
fairly quivered in anticipation of the delicious treat. His 
senses, poor of sight but keen of smell, drove him onward. The 
bug-almost three inches long, with a thick, juicy-looking body 
and long feelers protruding from its head-scurried along, 
heedless of its pursuer. His nose to the ground, Squee headed 
down a short passageway, through another door, and along a 
hallway. His light footsteps could scarcely be heard. He 
almost had it now. Just another few feet, another few inches, 
another- Thump!
    His head struck hard stone, and he fell sprawling. He had 
run squarely into a brightly patterned mosaic. Similar bright 
patterns flashed dizzily within Squee's head. After a few 
moments, he was able to rise and look about. His quarry was 
gone. "Damn."
    The passage bent left, and Squee blinked away the flashing 
tiles. Curious to see what might lie beyond, he ambled along 
the corridor to a flight of stairs that descend in a great 
sweeping curve. In three gentle turns, it reached a large 
doorway with a decorated lintel in a pointed arch. Squee 
pushed open the doors and found himself in a big chamber, 
empty except for a singular platform at one end.
    A more discerning observer would have considered the room 
a shrine, altar to an unknown god. Squee considered the room 
merely inviting. He pushed and poked at the strange carvings 
on the altar. One, done in colored stone, depicted a large 
snakelike creature with a snouted, horned head. Outlined in 
flashing gems, its horns caught his attention. Without 
conscious thought, he touched them and was surprised to feel 
the stone beneath his feet move.
    Hinged to pivot, the altar swung back slowly to reveal a 
broad stair plunging to unknown depths. Dark, deep places were 
good for bugs. This place didn't look oozy-dark, deep, and 
oozy was the best-but dark and deep was good enough. There was 
sure to be plenty of fat grubs and worms below, a tasty midday 
snack.
    Squee scampered swiftly down the steps. The stairs were 
steep, but steep was good because it meant you got to the 
bottom quicker. Even so, it seemed to take a very long time. 
Miles of stairs. It would've been nice if they'd made these 
stairs straight up and down-then you'd get to the bottom real 
fast.
    Voices echoed up to Squee from around a bend. Some 
instinct for self-preservation made him slip into a convenient 
niche and stand as still as he knew how. Ears pricking, he 
listened to the voices as they drew closer.
    "... two weeks at most?"
    "Not bad, but is not it possible that the schedule could 
be moved up to allow for a completion date in one week?"
    "Is that not only possible but desirable? Will I not 
attempt to finish by this date? Do not the workers require 
some extra ... encouragement?"
    There was a long, drawn-out chuckle accompanying this last 
remark. Two dark figures brushed by the hollow where Squee 
stood concealed, trembling for reasons even he did not 
understand. The voices faded into the distance.
    "Has anyone discovered what has become of the prisoners?"
    "Has the master not sent them to gather the stones for 
him?"
    "Are they not stupid pawns?" Their laughter retreated with 
them.
    Silence once more mantled the stairs. Slowly, Squee 
extricated himself from the cleft in the wall. He was not sure 
of the entire import of what he had overheard, but he would 
try to remember it to recount to Hanna.
    In fact, it was tempting to retreat back up the stairs and 
tell her now. At the best of times, Squee was a coward; he 
remained in Weatherlight's crew only because he amused Sisay 
and Gerrard. Still, the goblin had virtues even Sisay and 
Gerrard did not suspect. The events of Rath had deeply stirred 
him, and after the scolding he'd received from Gerrard, he 
took pride in his fierce loyalty to Weatherlight and 
Dominaria. Though fear nudged him back up the stairs, duty 
pushed him forward. Duty won.
    Squee headed around the corner. A few minutes brought him 
to another doorway-this one even larger than the first. He 
slipped through it, moved to one side, and gasped in wonder.
    He was standing on one side of a vast underground cavern, 
miles across and miles deep. Huge stone columns descended 
through the space, joining ceiling to floor. In some places, 
the columns had been carved out, and light gleamed from 
windows within. Scaffolds ran around the columns, and huge 
horns projected outward from them in a stony thicket. Catwalks 
clung to stalactites and stalagmites. Aerial platforms and 
bridges stretched across the huge, dark reaches.
    "What kinda place is dis?"
    It was like staring out through a nighttime thicket and 
seeing a complex of cobwebs joining thorn to thorn. Globe 
lights gleamed like golden dew along the webs. Humans, Kyren, 
machines, and ... other things ambled spiderlike on the 
walkways. Some folk carried supplies. Others bore tools. Still 
more clambered over great, hoary things that seemed like flies 
caught in the giant web.
    They were not flies, though. They were ships-aerial ships, 
most of them larger than Weatherlight. Vessels hung from the 
jutting thorns.
    Squee had discovered an enormous underground hangar, 
bristling with piers and moored airships. Long and sleek, with 
wings of skin and carapace shells, the vessels reminded Squee 
of something ... his small brain wracked itself trying to 
remember what. Then he seized upon it: the ship they'd met on 
Rath-Predator. That was it! Some of these ships were even 
larger than Predator.
    Squee had once thought Weatherlight the mightiest warship. 
Then, they encountered Predator on Rath. Now, though, amid 
this multitude of mammoth vessels, Weatherlight seemed a grain 
of sand on an endless beach.
    There were ships with two and three masts, ships whose 
foredecks were bigger than the entire deck of Weatherlight. 
There were ships that seemed to move even as they stood still. 
All were coppery brown or black in color. The larger ships 
were moored, floating impossibly in the air, line after line, 
layer after layer. Several smaller dinghies busily ferried 
workers and supplies about the hangar. Workers moved from ship 
to ship, ignoring the vast space over which they hung 
suspended.
    Cannons jutted above and below decks on those ships 
closest to Squee. Curious, he left the wall and trotted across 
the stone floor toward a rail.
    Squee was out in plain view before he thought better of 
it. He skidded to a halt, freezing in fear. A pair of human 
workers approached. He was sure they would haul him away. 
Instead, they merely bowed deferentially as they passed by.
    It was good to be a goblin.
    Squee continued toward the rail. En route, he came across 
two metallic beings-squat, roughly spherical, with a variety 
of legs extending in many directions. They stank of oil, and 
liquids flowed through tubes that bounded their bodies. The 
creatures' eyes jutted on long stalks and rotated slowly to 
look at him.
    Squee squealed in alarm, cowering as the metal spiders 
scuttled up to inspect him. Feelers, pincers, and antennae 
methodically prodded the shivering little goblin. He'd spent 
his life poking bugs, but now the bugs were poking him. The 
scent of oil was overwhelming as they bent over him.
    "Squee wasn't doing nothing," he said defensively.
    Neither creature gave the slightest heed. The one on his 
left put out a long, jointed feeler and touched the goblin. A 
sharp, brief pain, like an electric shock, coursed through 
Squee's veins. Then the two beings turned toward one another. 
The one that had touched him reached out an arm to the other 
and inserted it into an available socket in the top part of 
its spiderlike body. There was a long moment of silence 
between the creatures, and then they moved away, apparently 
satisfied.
    Squee heaved a sigh of relief and proceeded on his way, 
licking his arm. "Least Squee didn't get ate."
    He reached the rail. A ship slowly and gracefully rose 
just beyond. It glided through the air like a fish feeling its 
way through unfamiliar waters. Its decks were crowded with 
workers-Kyren, human, and otherwise. The craft passed overhead 
and moved through an enormous arch on the far side of the 
cave, disappearing from Squee's view.
    He rose to his feet, rubbing his head in a desperate 
attempt to stimulate his thought processes. "Gotta follow da 
boat," he muttered to himself, scurrying after the ship.
    As much as possible, he kept within the great shadows 
along the edges of the cave. He rounded the arch, raced along 
a huge passageway, and then emerged through a second doorway 
into another chamber, equally large.
    Here he saw additional lines of ships moored, their 
runners resting on the cave floor. There were fewer here than 
he'd seen in the first cavern, but the size of the complete 
fleet was immense beyond his imagining.
    Stunned, Squee wandered down aisle after aisle of vessels, 
staring, stroking, tapping, poking. No one questioned him, no 
one stopped him. There were fewer workers here, but those who 
did pass between the ships carried bundles and boxes of 
supplies, which they were loading onto the ships.
    Then he saw the ship-Weatherlight, resting on her landing 
spines. She was moored there in the midst of the fleet. She 
seemed small and delicate next to the bristling monsters 
around her, but just now, Squee could think of no more 
beautiful sight in all the worlds.
    "Squee found it! Squee saved everybody all over again! 
Gotta go tell Hanna!" A loud growling in Squee's stomach 
reminded him he'd not had a full meal in some time. With a 
pang, he thought of the huge bug he'd been pursuing earlier. 
"Get sumpthing ta eat and tell Hanna 'bout all this."
    Squee's mind, as Hanna had once remarked to Gerrard, 
rarely had room for more than one idea at a time. Now all he 
could think of was a plate of tasty grubs and worms. Turning 
his back on the fleet, he headed back the way he'd come. 
Indeed, he was so intent on thoughts of eating that he paid 
little attention to where he was going and ran full-tilt into 
the stomach of a creature coming from the opposite direction.
    Whuff!
    Squee sat down quickly and looked up, a whine already 
forming on his lips.
    A pair of Kyren looked down at him. Goblins might have 
looked alike to other races, but to each other, they were as 
distinct as goats and chickens. With a sinking feeling, Squee 
recognized the Kyren advisor to the chief magistrate, the one 
who'd insisted that Squee be made a captain in the Mercadian 
guard. Now the Kyren advisor was staring at Squee with a look 
both surprised and disapproving.
    From his years of service aboard Weatherlight, Squee was 
thoroughly familiar with that look and was generally adept at 
evading its consequences. He rose, wheeled to one side, and 
dove across the cavern floor in a movement that ended in a 
roll and jump. With a loud parting squeal, he dashed into the 
passageway. Behind him he heard shouts and the beating of 
flat, flabby feet against the stone. As the sounds became more 
distant, Squee gave a gurgle of triumph.
    Something slammed across his chest. He fell backward, 
striking his head against the stone floor. As blackness closed 
around him, he saw dimly the form of a Phyrexian dock worker-
big, ugly, and dead looking.
    "Phyrexians ... h-here!" Squee stammered.
    The monster's club struck him again. Squee slid across the 
floor and lay still, feeling the long arms of darkness embrace 
him.
    
                        Chapter 19

    "Dryads," Sisay repeated breathlessly, staring at the 
surrounding thicket of creatures.
    Attenuated limbs, oblong faces, features formed of wood 
grain and patterned bark-the dryads were beautiful, 
otherworldly. Beneath minimal clothing lurked skin as smooth 
and tough as birch bark. Their eyes were narrow and a deep 
green shade, though the color seemed to shift in the dappled 
sunlight. They sang a song that stilled the rioting forest and 
the roiling ground. As swiftly as the song had begun, it died 
away.
    Gerrard cleared his throat and edged forward. Instantly, 
the ground beneath his feet grew soft, sucking his boots down. 
He was mired to midcalf. The Benalian stopped and held up one 
hand, palm outward in a gesture of peace. "I'm Gerrard," he 
said. He indicated the rest of the party. "We come in the name 
of Ramos."
    The creatures made no response. None of the dryads so much 
as lifted a finger.
    Tahngarth brushed a hand over his horns.
    His sudden motion alarmed their captors. From one dryad 
came a single soft note.
    The minotaur looked sleepily at his comrades. "Must 
sleep," he said in a voice filled with weariness. "Tired. Must 
..." Without another word, he fell forward on the ground, 
almost flattening Sisay. He began to snore.
    "What the ... ?" The dark woman leaped back. "They 
enchanted him somehow."
    The dryads regarded the sleeping minotaur stoically.
    Gerrard quietly lowered himself to the ground and told the 
others, "Sit down."
    "What?" Sisay stared at him. "Are they enchanting you, 
too? Chamas, take Gerrard's right hand, I'll take the left-"
    "Belay that." Gerrard's voice was low but sharp. "Sit 
down, all of you."
    Slowly, the crew sank to the ground.
    Sisay glared at Gerrard, but she too followed suit. "What 
are we doing?"
    "A long time ago, I overheard Multani tell Rofellos that 
among the tree people sitting is a sign of peaceful 
intentions. While we were standing, they thought we might 
attack them."
    There was a long moment of silence. Then the dryad who had 
sounded the note glided a foot or two closer. His eyes were 
half-closed, as if in concentration. From his lips there came 
a series of notes, some long and languorous, others sharp and 
sparkling.
    Gerrard bowed his head submissively. The dryad chieftain 
advanced to within a foot of the Benalian and slowly, 
tentatively, extended long fingers toward him. Gerrard's hand 
came out in response, and the two gently touched.
    Something passed between their fingers-small, leaping 
energies. The others in the glade could see the tiny 
lightnings in the air. Auras roiled up Gerrard's arm and 
sparked in his eyes. He felt power jagging through his mind, 
and he suddenly knew this was the way whole forests thought-
infinitely intricate networks of bough and vine, tangled 
masses of root, and energy leaping from one to the next. Each 
tree and plant was an individual being until those minute 
synapses were bridged, and then, each and all became one.
    Gerrard suddenly understood. He understood this place, 
these people, the guardians of the wood. He rose. His boots 
pulled free of the entrapping earth.
    The dryad chief took a step back. He too understood. He 
knew of Weatherlight and the Matrix, of the Cho-Arrim and 
Saprazzans and Rishadans, of the coming rebellion....
    "We have reached Ouramos," Gerrard told his crew. His 
voice sounded oracular in his own ears. "This place was shaped 
by the arrival of Ramos on this world."
    "Ramos ..." Sisay whispered in amazement.
    Words rolled out of Gerrard in a steady, strong stream.
    "Long, long ago, in the wake of the Brothers' War, Ramos 
fled Dominaria. He had been on the battlefield of Argoth when 
Urza unleashed the sylex blast. Ramos flew out before it. 
Naked energy pursued him. It leveled mountains and sank 
continents. It lifted oceans in killing waves. Ramos soared 
ahead of them.
    "Beneath the waters, he spied merfolk fleeing in terror. 
Reaching one gigantic hand into the flood, Ramos bore the 
merfolk away with him. He flew on, ahead of the hand of death. 
Next, Ramos came upon a great galley packed with refugees. In 
his mercy, he reached down with his other hand and lifted the 
ship from the waves. He bore them away, that they too might be 
saved. Ramos flew on, ahead of the incinerating blast.
    "Perhaps, though, Ramos sought to save too many. So 
weighty was the great galley and the host within it that 
Ramos-great Ramos-was slowed. He could not outrun the 
shattering wave. It struck him and the ship he carried. Chaos 
energies and magic vortices enveloped them. Madness dragged at 
reason. Falsity overwhelmed truth. In the malign irony of 
destruction, the wave flung Ramos and the ship beyond 
Dominaria to his former world-to Phyrexia.
    "Yes, the great Ramos was himself Phyrexian. He had been 
brought out of Phyrexia by none other than Urza Planeswalker. 
Once created to hunt and destroy humans, Ramos was altered by 
Urza to save them. He had been redesigned to fight the malign 
leviathans of Mishra and to bear away from battle wagonloads 
of wounded. When the sylex blasted away the isle of Argoth, 
Ramos had only followed Urza's design and become a rescuer. 
Ramos had flown ahead of the blast, seeking someone to save. 
He had lifted the merfolk and the refugees in the great galley 
in hopes of saving them-but this was not saving them. Bearing 
them to Phyrexia was not saving them. In that horrible place, 
the folk would be mangled and mutated into monsters.
    "Ramos knew of another world beyond Phyrexia, a fair place 
linked to that foul one. Gathering the last of his might-for 
the blast that had borne him to Phyrexia nearly destroyed him-
Ramos soared through a near-forgotten portal that led from 
Phyrexia to Mercadia.
    "It was truly the last measure of his saving power. 
Through a portal in the sky, Ramos emerged, bearing in one 
hand a school of merfolk and in the other a great galley. They 
all were mantled in fire. The folk Ramos sought to save were 
burning alive. Seeing their distress, Ramos's heart broke. It 
cracked away from the core of his being and fell into the sea. 
There it waited in the deeps, the great artifact called the 
Power Matrix.
    "Hollow hearted, Ramos lowered the hand that bore the 
merfolk. He released them gently into the ocean. Water hissed 
to steam, extinguishing the fires that burned the people. As 
the burning ship neared shore, Ramos reached onto the deck, 
where crew struggled among blazing lines and masts. He 
clutched them up and rolled them out on the beach of Rishada. 
Sand extinguished the fires that burned the people. As the 
ship soared over Mount Mercadia, Ramos reached into the hold 
where the refugees of Argoth cowered. He hauled them forth and 
spread them through the forests of Rushwood beyond. Leaves 
extinguished the fires that burned the people. When next his 
hand reached inside, there was nothing but corpses to be 
found. In his pity, Ramos lifted even them and sprinkled them 
through the fens of Deepwood.
    "Only the ship and Ramos himself remained. Together, they 
burned like twin suns. Beneath them, the forests and cities 
flashed away. Buildings were shattered, stones turned to ash, 
and folk in the hundreds of thousands died. Hundreds of 
thousands died because Ramos sought to save hundreds.
    "It was this last, cruel irony that shattered the core of 
great Ramos. The immortal's crystalline soul, which had 
withstood incendiary heat, could not bear the deaths of 
hundreds of thousands. His will fragmented. The burning ship 
fell from his hands. It struck ground just behind us, carving 
out the vast crater there. Fires erupted from the spot and 
blazed through the forest. Ramos fell into that burning bowl-
his own killing sylex. He did not rise. He no longer had the 
will to.
    "Fire is the bane of mortal things but not of things 
immortal. Ramos was not slain, though every living thing 
around him fell to black soot. In time, the flames died. Ramos 
was left alone among ashes. Shards from the shattered core of 
his being rattled loose within him. Five great pieces had 
chipped away, and for their lack, he could not muster the will 
to move.
    "If fire is the bane of mortal things, time is their ally. 
Life always returns. Grass covered the torn earth. Saplings 
pushed up through the ashes. Black gave way to green. With the 
rise of life, Ramos rose too. He placed an altar stone at the 
center of the blast crater, and upon that stone, he set the 
five crystals that had broken away from the core of his being. 
He made those stones a symbol for the hundreds of thousands. 
He made Ouramos a temple, sacred to their memory.
    "As the forests around had brought will and life back to 
Ramos, he brought will and life to them. He enlivened the 
trees with his spirit. He gathered the dryads from among them 
and made them into his people. He raised even the dead folk in 
the Deepwood and made them guardians of his realm. He longed 
to heal all the shattered world, to make it whole again, but 
such feats were beyond the ruined immortal. His will, his true 
power, lay in shards on the altar stone."
    Gerrard blinked, seeming to awaken from the oracular 
trance that had taken hold of him. His crewmates stared at him 
in wonder.
    Sisay approached reverently. "That was beautiful. Did the 
dryad chief tell you all that? All with a mere touch?"
    Gerrard nodded. "And I have told him many things. He 
knows-all of them know-about our quest."
    "And we know another version of the Ramos myth-"
    "It is no myth," Gerrard interrupted. His eyes seemed like 
mirrors, they were so bright in his head. He gestured toward 
the crater. "You will see. He invites us to go below."
    A chill went up Sisay's spine. "Who, the chief?"
    "No, Ramos."
    Gerrard turned and walked back toward the great stone 
crater. The wall of dryads parted to let him pass.
    The other crewmen warily watched Gerrard go.
    "Well, you heard him," Sisay said. Her voice quavered in 
the air. "Let's go meet Ramos."
    Following Gerrard, Sisay and the crew walked reverently 
through the gap in the line of dryads. They began a slow, 
cautious journey down the cracked, broken stone edge of the 
crater, toward the sandy circle and the altar at its center. 
The sun's rays seemed to grow brighter, hotter as they went- 
or was it merely that they had traveled so long in the cool 
shade of the forest?
    Gerrard wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared ahead. It 
might have been a trick of the heat or light, but to him, the 
stones around the altar wavered, as if they were emitting some 
sort of energy. He looked at his companions and saw they too 
were staring ahead. The very air grew thicker and more 
forbidding, and the silence more ominous.
    He reached the circle of standing stones. Gerrard stepped 
between two of them. The air was resistant. It was as if he 
had encountered an invisible wall. He tried again and managed 
to slip between the stones but with an effort that left him 
gasping.
    Sisay, Takara, and the others followed his example, the 
minotaur doing so with a great grunt of effort.
    They climbed over the sand circle, which was no more than 
three feet high, though Gerrard guessed its total 
circumference at perhaps a hundred feet. The altar itself, 
unlike the ruins they had observed thus far, was undamaged. 
Its polished surface gleamed in the bright sunshine. In the 
center of the table was scooped a low bowl, and within it lay 
the five Bones of Ramos.
    Powerstones. Gerrard stared at them, marveling. Before 
coming to Mercadia, he'd seen only the Thran crystal that 
powered Weatherlight, the most impressive stone of its kind, 
and a few smaller stones used to power ornithopters on 
Dominaria. The stones he had seen in Mercadia were tiny, 
barely more than gleaming pebbles. But these ... each of the 
irregular shards of crystal was the size and general shape of 
a hand laid out flat. They glowed with lambent energy.
    "The Bones of Ramos," Gerrard said reverently.
    Sisay came up beside him, staring with hungry eyes. "I 
thought we had come to see Ramos himself, not just his bones."
    "We have," Gerrard replied. He lifted his gaze beyond the 
altar.
    The ground suddenly shook. The crew were nearly hurled 
from their feet. The stones that ringed the sand circle 
trembled.
    Sisay grabbed Gerrard's arm. "What's happening!"
    "Ramos is coming."
    The sand beyond the altar exploded. Up from the ground 
jutted an enormous head, long snouted, with a sharp beak and 
lizardlike eyes. Polished metal scales gleamed. Two slender 
horns rose above a long, sinuous neck. Sand sifted from the 
gearwork shoulders of the beast, and a pair of enormous claws 
dragged the massive, winged body from his lair.
    Ramos was a dragon.
    No, Gerrard realized, even as the word shaped itself on 
his lips. Not a dragon. Ramos was a dragon engine. Dim 
memories of Multani's sketchbooks stirred. Dragon engines were 
the mightiest artifacts in the age of the Brothers' War. Armed 
with them, Urza and Mishra fought until the land of Terisiare 
sank beneath them. Ramos had been one of those engines, 
redesigned by Urza not to kill, but to save....
    Gerrard found himself bowing before the great beast. Sisay 
and the others followed suit.
    Meanwhile, Ramos had risen to his full height-a hundred 
feet tall. He bent his head backward. Metal plates of armor 
gleamed. Oil streamed. His jaws opened.
    Sisay winced, fearing a gout of flame.
    Instead, Ramos only spoke. His voice was ancient. His 
words were barely recognizable-an accent that must have been 
common on Dominaria when Urza and Mishra walked the land. 
"Gerrard of Weatherlight-you have come to pillage a temple, to 
pillage a grave."
    Lifting his head, Gerrard replied, "No, great Ramos. We 
have come to fulfill a prophecy."
    A huge sound answered that, the ominous rumble of metal on 
metal. It was a fearful racket, though it could have been 
nothing but a laugh. "You forget, Gerrard of Weatherlight, 
that those prophecies are fictions about me. I am Ramos, whom 
you have come to raise. But I cannot rise, or I would have 
already. Your ship's arrival in this world-through the very 
portal I took from Phyrexia, now moved to Rath-only 
coincidentally resembles my own arrival. Both of us crashed 
upon this world. Neither will rise again."
    Gerrard felt his insides sinking. Ramos knew everything. 
The dryad chief had conveyed it all to him. Ramos saw the 
masquerade and the truth that lay beneath it. Why ever would 
he allow Gerrard to take the sacred stones that had calved 
from his own power core?
    "You are Ramos, yes," Gerrard replied, "but perhaps 
Weatherlight truly is the Uniter. Perhaps the prophecies are 
not mere whimsy."
    "You do not believe in prophecies, Gerrard of 
Weatherlight," Ramos scolded. His voice had the timbre of 
shivering metal.
    "No, I don't," Gerrard allowed. His eyes remained riveted 
to the dragon engine's. "But I do believe in hope. That's 
where these prophecies came from. Hope. The people who believe 
these stories remember how you brought their ancestors here. 
They remember that horrible day so long ago. They remember the 
death and destruction, but they have transformed horror into 
hope. They remember Ramos, yes, but they hope for the Uniter. 
No, these aren't prophecies, foretelling what was destined to 
happen. These are only hopes, wishes for what must happen."
    Ramos's metallic eyes peered deeply, sharply into 
Gerrard's soul, but the dragon engine did not speak.
    Gerrard continued. "You built this place as a memorial to 
the dead, but what about the living? You long to heal the hurt 
that you brought to this world, and here's your chance to do 
it. You've mourned the hundreds of thousands you killed, but 
mourning is not enough. What about the hundreds of thousands 
even now who suffer? The Bones of Ramos are only selfish 
relics lying here. Within Weatherlight, though, they can raise 
the Uniter. They can bring the world together. They can save 
those who are doomed."
    Gerrard had never spoken with such passion in his life, 
and the tone of his own voice suddenly struck him as 
ludicrous. He began to laugh. At first, he only snickered, but 
attempts to stanch the giggles only made them worse. Soon, he 
guffawed, slapping his leg.
    Ramos glowered at him. "What do you find funny about all 
this?"
    Gerrard smiled through his laughter. "It's just that... 
it's just that I used to be like you, Ramos. People decided I 
was a Uniter. People said I had a Legacy, I had a mission to 
fulfill. They told me I was supposed to save the world. For a 
long time I dragged my heels. How does one man save the world? 
But then I gave up fighting. It was too hard to fight destiny. 
It was only just now, as I heard my own voice talking to you-
it was just this moment when I realized my destiny had caught 
up with me. Without even knowing it, I'd become everything 
everybody said I was supposed to be." His explanation ended in 
a belly laugh.
    A great shiver moved through the dragon engine. He seemed 
to slump in resignation. "You are right to laugh, Gerrard of 
Weatherlight. All of this is absurd. You have come here 
because of a myth that misremembers me and makes you something 
you are not. You came seeking these five simple stones, broken 
millennia ago from my power core. They cannot save you. They 
have power only because they lie here beside me, in the midst 
of my forest. Beyond the crater, they will be nothing." Ramos 
gestured dismissively. "I understand hope and know it does not 
die easily. You will not give up until you see for yourself. I 
will allow you to take these stones as far as the dryads' 
grove. There, you will see what I say. They will darken beyond 
the crater. They will be nothing more than useless shards of 
stone."
    Bowing his head in thanks, Gerrard said, "I will take them 
to the dryad glade, great Ramos-but you are the one who will 
see. Hope can enliven even dead shards of stone."
    "They cannot save you, Gerrard of Weatherlight. I cannot 
save you. And you cannot save Mercadia, or your own world."
    Despite the dragon's words, Gerrard gazed down into the 
bowl at the center of the altar. There the Bones of Ramos 
rested. The central facet of each rough shard bore a 
resemblance to a body part-Skull, Eye, Heart, Horn, and Tooth.
    Reverently, Gerrard lifted the Skull stone. It was warm to 
his touch, and its blue light glimmered on his palm. He turned 
and presented it to Sisay. "Keep this safe." She nodded her 
head and backed away, allowing the next crew member to step 
up. Gerrard picked up the rest of the stones, one by one, and 
presented them to his dear companions-Tahngarth, Takara, 
Chamas, and Dabis.
    "Fewsteem, I want you to lead the march back up out of the 
crater."
    "Yes, Cap'n."
    "I'll bring up the rear." Then, turning back to Ramos, 
Gerrard said, "We thank you for this gift, great Ramos, and 
for the chance to prove you wrong."
    "I dearly wish you could do so," the dragon engine said.
    "Perhaps you can prove yourself wrong. Perhaps you can be 
united with the Uniter," Gerrard said.
    "Perhaps." With that single mournful word, the ancient 
Phyrexian dragon engine coiled back into his nest. Wings 
flapped, stirring storms of sand to settle over him.
    The crew of Weatherlight turned and started back across 
the bowl.
    As they ascended the side of the crater, Ramos's warnings 
were borne out. One by one, the inner light of the stones 
guttered and failed.
    Sisay's stone-the Skull of Ramos-flickered tepidly, its 
blue gleam disappearing by the time she stepped from the 
crater.
    "It's dead, just as he said," Sisay muttered, sadly 
shaking her head.
    The others gathered, showing similarly dark stones.
    Gerrard joined them, staring down.
    "Well, that's it," Takara said bleakly. "We've come all 
this way, chasing a lie."
    Gerrard patting her and Sisay on the back. "No. It's not a 
lie. This morning I would have had doubts but not now. We'll 
camp with the dryads tonight. I need a night to think. The 
answer lies here somewhere."
    Takara sighed angrily. "Well, while you're holding on to 
hope, I'll hold on to hate." She gestured toward the bloody 
ground where Ilcaster had died. "We'll be sleeping among the 
folk that killed your crew, Gerrard. I forgot how skillful you 
are at burying your friends."

                          * * * * *

    The rest of the day was spent burying the remains of 
Ilcaster and holding a memorial for him and Tallakaster. 
Gerrard and Weatherlight's crew made their camp in the dryad 
glade nearby. All the while, the tree folk watched them, 
hemming them in lest they should try to escape with the 
stones.
    When night came, the dryads simply faded away into 
darkness. Gerrard had a vague impression that somehow they 
were absorbed into the trees themselves and remained there 
until they had renewed their energy. Only the elders of the 
wood folk remained visible-standing in a line at the edge of 
the clearing.
    While the rest of the crew bedded down, Gerrard approached 
the chief of the dryads. He lifted his hands in a sign of 
peace and sank to the ground cross-legged. The chief imitated 
him, though the others remained standing.
    The Benalian took the Heart of Ramos from his breast 
pocket. Holding it up, he pointed to it and tapped it sharply.
    The dryad chief stretched out a slender, long-fingered 
hand. Gerrard held out the powerstone, and the chief took it. 
He held it up, closed his eyes, and made a sound that 
resembled a single, clear note of a bell. The tone resonated 
until it filled the air. The trees themselves seemed to 
vibrate.
    The dryad lowered his hand. In its center was the 
powerstone, and within its heart there now glowed a distinct 
spark of energy.
    Gerrard gave a whoop that brought the others running.
    The dryad sprang back in alarm.
    Weatherlight's commander gestured frantically to the 
others. "Sit," he hissed. "Look at this."
    Sisay gasped. "It works. How did you-"
    "I didn't do anything. He did it." Gerrard jerked his head 
in the direction of the dryad, who had now been joined by 
several of his fellows and was looking nervously at them. They 
conversed between themselves with the soft musical tones that 
served as their speech.
    Tahngarth was examining the powerstone more closely. "It 
is fading," he observed.
    Sure enough, the glow within the stone had diminished 
appreciably. Even as they watched, it flickered, flared 
briefly, and then went out. Gerrard held out the stone to the 
dryad again and spread his hands in an interrogative gesture. 
The creature carefully picked up the stone and made a sweeping 
gesture toward the forest, accompanying it with a low quiver 
of sound.
    Chamas spoke up. "I think he means to say something about 
a circle-a gathering."
    Sisay asked, "How do you know?"
    "I've been watching them and listening to them," the woman 
replied. She extended a hand toward the dryad, two fingers 
outstretched in a V. At the same time, she gave a ululation 
ending in a kind of squeak.
    The dryads watched attentively and replied with a series 
of motions and trills.
    "What did you just say?" Sisay asked.
    "I think I said thank you," returned Chamas. "It's an odd 
language. They've developed a relationship between words and 
gestures. I'm not sure, but I think if you make the same sound 
but match it with a different hand movement, it will have a 
completely different meaning."
    Gerrard said, "Everybody, pull out the stones I gave you 
and give them to the chief."
    They did, and the chief received them, beginning a keening 
song.
    In the cold, clear night all around, dryads shifted. They 
emerged from the trees and gathered, adding their voices to 
the song of the chief.
    Gerrard and his crew remained where they sat. He felt 
Sisay shivering and heard her teeth chatter. Earlier, she'd 
wanted to light a fire, but Chamas had warned her against it.
    "What are they doing?" Sisay whispered.
    "I don't know." Gerrard turned to Chamas. "Any ideas?"
    She shook her head.
    Soon, dryads surrounded the crew in a dense thicket. The 
tree folk seemed to root themselves. They stood unmoving, 
their faces lifted to the stars that shone brightly down from 
the cloudless sky.
    The dryad song fell away into a low humming noise, so 
faint at first Gerrard thought it was the sound of night 
insects. Then it grew in intensity, a vibration that made the 
ground quiver. It was as if they were at the center of an 
enormous drum, its tense surface trembling with suppressed 
power.
    From the north, Gerrard felt an answering call. With a 
start, he realized it came from the dragon engine. Unutterable 
loneliness infused the sound, as if Ramos had waited an 
eternity for this moment. For millennia, he had been alone, 
truly alone. Phyrexians had built him, and Urza had given him 
a purpose, but for eons, Ramos had dwelt beyond any purpose. 
He had waited. The folk he had saved remembered him in myth, 
not truth-the folk he longed to help lingered forever beyond 
his reach. The cry of the dragon filled Gerrard with 
overwhelming sorrow.
    In other parts of the forest, new minds awoke. Ramos's 
loneliness gave thought, being, to the forest around him. 
Animated by visions of the dreaming dragon, the denizens of 
the forest were woven together in a pattern of increasing 
complexity, drawing their power from the land itself. Trees 
became individual neurons in a great mind. A circle of wolves 
lifted their throats in howling. Flora and fauna raised a 
single song of many voices, swelling into a triumphant anthem.
    A new light awoke. In the hands of the dryad chief, the 
Bones of Ramos were beginning to glow. Dimly at first, then 
brighter they shone. Light splashed across the circle of 
dryads, across the waiting crew. Sun bright, the stones 
beamed.
    Gerrard turned his face away. He saw his companions 
shielding their eyes, their faces bathed in the brilliant 
light. Waves of power surged from the stones, far stronger 
even than fluxes from the Thran crystal at the core of 
Weatherlight.
    "Ramos is joining us!" he shouted to Sisay through the 
omnipresent song. "He is joining himself with the stones. He 
is joining the Uniter."
    The stones were linked to the dragon. None could function 
alone for long, but when joined together by the power of 
Ramos, they formed an inexhaustible source of energy. It was 
as if five unique worlds had been united in the stones, and 
each universe within the stone was a part of the greater 
multiverse.
    Suddenly, Gerrard knew with certainty that the struggle he 
was engaged in-the enemies he faced on Rath and here in this 
reality-were part of a cosmic struggle that was being played 
out across the entirety of existence. These stones connected 
him and Ramos to that struggle. Each stone was a cosmos, and 
within each cosmos were myriad worlds.
    The song of the dryads slowly faded. As it did, the glow 
within each stone lessened. When the music ended at last, the 
powerstones each retained some portion of their inner fire.
    Silence settled like a blanket on the grove. A hush 
extended across the land for miles, a stillness that embraced 
every living creature. For a long moment, it stretched 
outward. Gradually, normal night noises resumed.
    Gerrard found, to his surprise, that he was breathing 
rapidly. Beside him Sisay sat, head bowed to her knees. When 
Gerrard touched her arm, she stirred and looked at him, her 
eyes dark pools in the night. Tears glinted on her cheeks.
    "Did you hear it?" she whispered. "Did you?"
    He nodded.
    The chief dryad approached, laying the stones at Gerrard's 
feet. Twiglike fingers reached toward the Benalian. He held 
his hand out as well. Small, snapping surges of power arced 
between them, and Gerrard once again understood.
    "Ramos has given us his blessing," he told the crew 
reverently. "Ramos has joined the Uniter. Within these stones, 
he will return with us to Mercadia."
    While Gerrard spoke, the dryads faded into the trees that 
ringed the grove. The crew rose to their feet. No one said 
anything else; nothing was needed. Gerrard gathered the Bones 
of Ramos, placing them in his pack.
    "We will remain here through the night," Gerrard said 
quietly, "and hike out for Mercadia in the morning."

                          * * * * *

    By morning, the pack, the bones, and Takara all were gone.
    
                        Chapter 20

    Darkness gripped the deck of Weatherlight. Squee awoke, 
soaking wet and tied hand and foot to a chair. He turned and 
twisted, trying to free himself. Water splashed coldly over 
him, drawing a cry of protest from his throat. "Is not that 
enough? Is he not awake once more?" Unfamiliar voices. Squee 
struggled again. Shapes moved before him in the murk and 
slowly took form and substance. Two Kyren were standing there, 
both in rich robes. To one side was a Mercadian, tall and 
slender, his simple robes indicating his servile status. The 
Mercadian held an empty bowl, which he had evidently just 
emptied over Squee. The dark cave ceiling hovered far above.
    Squee struggled against the ropes. He gave a piteous yelp 
as they scraped his flesh. His chest and head ached. Tiny 
shapes swam before his eyes.
    The Kyren paid no attention to him.
    "Will not his companions miss him if he is gone?"
    "Is it not possible, though, that they sent him away on 
purpose, knowing his nature to be superior to their own?"
    "May your words not be truthful, but even so, is it not 
equally possible that he was sent by his party to spy upon us 
and to bring word of this to those who must not know?"
    "Should we not question him to learn the truth of this 
matter?"
    Both Kyren nodded solemnly and turned to Squee.
    "Do your companions know of your whereabouts?" asked one, 
whose slightly larger size and more authoritative demeanor 
made Squee think of him as the leader.
    The little goblin shook his head. The larger Kyren took 
Squee's chin in his long, slender fingers and twisted it back 
and forth. Squee gave a loud yelp and bit the hand. The Kyren 
jerked back, slapping the prisoner soundly across the mouth. 
Squee wailed and felt blood running down his chin.
    The other Kyren stepped forward. "Are not we your friends, 
Squee?" he asked. His voice was gentle, and he patted the 
cabin boy's shoulder. "Are we not of one people? Are we not 
all klomahamin?"
    Squee nodded without speaking.
    The other, larger Kyren, who had been nursing his hand, 
suddenly grabbed the bowl from the Mercadian and with a shout 
brought it down on Squee's bony knee. The bowl shattered.
    Squee felt something pop in his leg. A wave of agony shot 
through him, and he screamed until his throat felt raw.
    Both Kyren stood watching him impassively. When he'd 
shouted himself hoarse, Squee slumped in the chair, and the 
smaller of the two Kyren stepped forward again.
    "Again I ask, do your companions know of your 
whereabouts?" he asked calmly.
    Again Squee shook his head.
    "Do you know where Gerrard and his companions have gone?"
    Another headshake.
    "Do you know when they will return?"
    Squee tried to shake his head a third time, but the pain 
in his leg was so great that he found himself falling into the 
comfortable, dark shadow world. His eyes rolled back in his 
head. His body sagged against the ropes that bound him to the 
chair. He felt the room falling away. At the same time, as 
from a great distance, he heard the conversation in the room.
    "Must we not revive him and continue?"
    "Have we not received answers?"
    "Is he not lying? Does he not know where his friends have 
gone? Do we not have a clear obligation to continue until we 
are satisfied he truly knows nothing?"
    From farther away, Squee heard another voice break in. The 
voice was tantalizingly familiar. "He knows nothing."
    "Is one completely sure?" The Kyren's reply was 
deferential.
    "I am sure."
    "Shall we release him, then?"
    "No. Keep him here. Question him again. Above all, he must 
not be allowed to communicate with his companions."
    "Is it not easier to kill him?"
    Squee struggled to remain conscious. Amid the pain, he 
felt a new pressure in the air, as if some being, vast beyond 
his conception, was bearing down on him, pulling at his mind, 
seeking to dominate it, to tear it apart. The presence was 
strong, growing stronger.
    "No. I do not wish him killed. He will provide useful 
leverage against his comrades, and when this is over, it may 
amuse me to have him serve me."
    A hand touched Squee's forehead, and he suddenly saw a 
great hallway filled with gleaming mirrors. He turned this way 
and that, and each of the mirrors he saw reflected a small, 
frightened face-his own. Slowly, he walked down the endless 
hallway. Each image of himself became subtly different. As he 
progressed, the images grew leaner, the skin tighter. With 
each reluctant step, Squee felt his body contract and contort.
    He was starving. He was alone. He would never again see 
his friends. He would never again taste food. The goblin knew 
with certainty that in all the multiverse, in all the 
countless planes and worlds, there was no one but him. Through 
space and time, there was no one but him.
    No one.
    He cried out in despair. His scream, high and plaintive, 
echoed down the mirror corridors and found no listener. Try as 
he might, Squee could see nothing but his own endlessly 
repeated image.
    Kneeling, he wept, his tears puddling on the floor. They 
congealed into sparkling ice and spread out on either side of 
him, forming a gleaming pool rimed with frost. Within the ice, 
Squee saw his own frozen shadow, trapped forever in sorrow. He 
knew with a horrible certainty that he would never escape, 
that he was imprisoned for eternity.
    With a kind of relief, he felt his mind slip away. He 
heard the goblins ask the same questions as before, but this 
time he did not hear his answers. The dream world faded, and 
the tiny flame that was his mind flickered with one final 
thought before it went out.
    Volrath ...

                          * * * * *

    Hanna and Karn waited nervously in their latest hideout in 
the lower city. It was a deep cellar hewn from rock, small and 
solid and dark. A single candle burned by the stairs- the last 
of the candles. It cast the cellar in a dingy light. The place 
was better suited for potatoes than people, which made it 
perfect for Karn. He had a tendency to break through the 
floors and walls of rundown shacks, and no disguise allowed 
him to move safely about the daytime streets. At night, he 
made his way by wrapping sackcloth over his silver skin and 
pretending to be a runty giant. Hanna was almost as 
conspicuous-slim, blonde, and clean. Only in the company of 
Squee could Karn and Hanna safely navigate the nighttime 
streets, and Squee had been missing now for days.
    Sitting beside a bushel basket of carrots-her main 
sustenance since Squee's disappearance-Hanna shook her head. 
"He's been captured, Karn. That's the only explanation."
    "I fear as much," the silver golem replied from the dark 
corner where he crouched, donning sackcloth. "It should be 
night by now. We'd better brave the streets and rendezvous 
with the Ramosans. They might have word of Squee."
    "Do we dare risk it? We don't want to lead the Mercadians 
to the rebels."
    Karn shrugged. "We haven't much choice. We're out of 
water-"
    "Shhh," Hanna hissed. She glared toward the dark stairway 
that led above. Metal shifted, and a latch furtively drew 
back. "Someone's coming." She drew away from the bushel basket 
of carrots and moved toward Karn.
    Hinges complained as the shabby doors above lifted away. A 
foot quietly settled on the top stair. Grit crackled beneath 
that furtive tread. A few more steps, and the doors swung 
closed above.
    Hanna whispered to Karn. "I don't imagine you're ready for 
a fight?"
    Silver flesh shuddered beneath half-donned cloths. "I've 
learned to bluff."
    Down the dark wedge of stairway stalked a slim, muscular 
figure-as lithe and brutal as a bullwhip. The shadow reached 
the last stair and ducked into the cellar. Even in the murk, 
the fiery shock of red hair was unmistakable.
    "Takara!" Hanna blurted, clutching her panting chest. "You 
scared the daylights out of us."
    "There you are," Takara said, striding into the room. She 
bore a bag in one hand. "What are you doing hiding in the 
dark-and under those ... rags?"
    "We didn't know who you were," Hanna responded, emerging 
from the corner.
    Karn drew the sackcloth from his shoulders. "How did you 
find us?"
    "Squee told me where you were," Takara said levelly. "He's 
been living it up in the Magistrate's Tower."
    Hissing, Hanna said, "And I thought he'd been reformed."
    "I was sure he'd been reformed," Karn said suspiciously.
    "I've come to take you out of here." Takara upended her 
bag. Its contents emptied atop a bulging grain sack. Out 
tumbled five stones, the size and general shape of hands laid 
out flat. They glowed brightly, red and white, green and blue-
one even cast a purple-black tone over everything around. The 
candle's light was tepid murk beside the stones' collective 
gleam.
    "The Bones of Ramos!" Hanna knelt down beside the grain 
sack. Her hands trembled above the stones, shaking with awe 
and excitement and hope. "They're beautiful."
    Karn loomed up behind her, staring down at the glimmering 
crystals. "More than that. There is an intelligence in these 
stones."
    "That's Ramos himself. He has infused the crystals with 
power," Takara said.
    Hanna gingerly lifted the Heart of Ramos. "I can feel it-a 
warm vitality." She looked up at Karn and Takara, her eyes 
full of wonder. "Now, we need only find Weatherlight, insert 
the stones, and get everyone aboard-"
    "That's the sad news ..." Takara interrupted. "We can't 
gather everyone."
    Karn's jaw dropped slowly open.
    A cloud of worry passed over Hanna's face. She lowered the 
Heart of Ramos among the other gleaming stones. They cast 
inverted shadows under her eyes. She stammered, "Wh-what are 
you s-s- Where is everybody else? Wh-where is Gerrard?"
    "Dead," Takara said. She stared unblinkingly down at 
Weatherlight's navigator. "They gave their lives for these 
stones."
    "Dead?" Hanna echoed unbelievingly. "Ghouls attacked us." 
A faraway look came to Takara's eyes. "Deepwood ghouls. 
Tahngarth fought five of them himself. They surrounded him. He 
hacked off their limbs, but it wasn't enough. They sank their 
claws into him. They ripped open his stomach and ate his guts. 
He fought on. They clawed out his eyes. They split open his 
head. They ate his brains." Takara trembled violently and 
dropped to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
    "No," Hanna gasped out in horror. Tears streamed down her 
cheeks. "Killed by ghouls ..."
    Takara sobbed into her hands. "That was just Tahngarth.
    Sisay was ... Sisay was ... It's too horrible to say...."
    "What?" Karn asked mournfully. "What happened to Sisay?"
    "A wumpus attacked her," Takara said, shaking her mantle 
of gleaming hair. "A hulking beast, all hair and claws. It 
leaped down on her from the treetops. It crushed her body.
    She split open like a burst sausage. And then the wumpus 
plucked her head loose as though it were simply a grape. It 
bit her face in half and ..." The horrific account ended with 
more wracking sobs.
    Through tears, Hanna said, "What about Gerrard? What 
happened to Gerrard?"
    Takara's voice was muffled by her hands. "That was the 
worst of all."
    "Tell me!" Hanna cried desperately. "I have to know."
    "He and I were the only ones who had survived the ghouls 
and the wumpuses. We reached Ouramos. We were gathering the 
stones from the altar where they lay. Ramos appeared."
    "Ramos!" Hanna echoed.
    "He was a huge dragon engine, a hundred feet tall, with 
rending talons and fiery breath."
    "Gerrard was burned alive!" Hanna said miserably.
    "Worse."
    "He was ripped to pieces...."
    "No," Takara said, choking on her tears. "He died of 
fear."
    "What?"
    "As soon as the dragon engine appeared, Gerrard fell down 
dead. He died of fear."
    "He died of fear?"
    "Yes." Takara shook with weeping. "Of course, he soiled 
himself first." She lifted her head. In the weird light of the 
Bones of Ramos, Takara seemed to be laughing instead of 
sobbing. Her face seemed a hateful, leering mask. She drew a 
deep, raking breath, and then sobs transformed into gales of 
mocking mirth.
    Hanna shook her head, tears streaming down. "What is it? 
What are you saying?"
    "Gerrard soiled himself and died!" Takara shouted 
exultantly.
    A vast silver hand struck her face, and the red-haired 
woman spun away. She was thrown like a rag doll into the 
comer.
    "Vicious monster!" Karn growled, looming before the woman. 
"Hateful, vicious monster!"
    Takara rose, blood replacing laughter on her lips. 
Fearlessly, she stared at the silver golem and growled, 
"Strike me again, Karn. Strike me again!"
    Shivering in fury, Karn backed away. He hissed. "I want 
to, but I will not. If I struck you again, I would kill you."
    Wiping the blood from her lip, Takara said, "Oh, no you 
wouldn't." In the strange light of candle and powerstones, her 
face changed. Red hair turned to gray skin and bone. Small 
black horns traced out the ridges of a rumpled skull. Human 
eyes became white, piercing orbs. The woman's whiplike body 
bulked into a powerful torso. Only Takara's mocking, bleeding 
smile remained the same. Otherwise, in her place stood 
Volrath.
    "Strike me again, Karn! Strike me again!"
    With a shout of animal rage, Karn lunged at the hateful 
figure. Volrath was too quick. He leaped aside, and Karn 
smashed into a stack of empty crates. He turned, bashing them 
aside. Wood hit the wall and fell in splintery showers. "I'm 
going to kill you, Volrath!"
    "No, you aren't," Volrath replied placidly. He stood 
behind Hanna, one clawed hand clutching her neck and the other 
clutching her stomach. He held her up like a human shield. "If 
you try, your precious navigator dies of strangulation, and a 
broken neck, and decapitation, and evisceration right before 
your eyes."
    Karn stood, quivering, his hands hungry to tear the 
monster apart. "You are a coward, Volrath. Skulking, sneaking, 
hiding, pretending to be a friend only because you feared to 
fight us openly. You are a snake and a coward. You have always 
been one, since the time you were Vuel, you have always been a 
coward."
    With his face pressed up beside Hanna's, Volrath smiled 
wickedly. "Perhaps, but what does cowardice matter when one 
always wins? I always win." He whistled once sharply. The 
cellar doors flung back, and down the stairs flooded a 
regiment of Mercadian guards.

                          * * * * *

    There was a strange parade through the city streets that 
night. Mercadians surrounded a pair of pathetic figures. Both 
were shackled at ankles and wrists, prodded forward by a swarm 
of tridents. The woman, thin and blonde, stared unseeing as 
she hobbled up the street. Her face was wan, her eyes empty, 
her soul dead. Beside her clomped a massive man of silver. His 
arms hung hopeless at his sides. His head draped forward in 
defeat.
    Before them capered the strangest figure of all. His 
muscular frame and gleaming gray armor showed that he was a 
warrior, and yet tonight, he seemed a taunting jester. In his 
hands, he held a pair of gleaming crystals, which he waved in 
front of the unseeing eyes of his captives.
    Orim saw it all. Her heart broke to see Hanna and Karn 
captured this way. Spies had told her that Squee, too, was a 
prisoner within the city. Had she been within reach of her 
Ramosan allies, she would have mustered them to fight this 
regiment. Her heart broke for her friends, but it stopped 
altogether when she recognized the one who tormented them-
Volrath.
    He could not so openly parade through the streets unless 
he ruled them, and all of Mercadian. He would not so openly 
parade through the streets unless he did it to flush out Orim 
and her rebel friends.
    As much as her heart ached, Orim would not be drawn into 
Volrath's trap. No. Her despair and anger would not make her 
weak. She would not bring out her allies now. She would only 
better prepare them for the coming revolt.

                          * * * * *

    It was a horrible night for Hanna.
    First, there was the awful news of Gerrard's death- 
graphically described-and Sisay's death, and Tahngarth's. 
Then, Takara herself did worse than die. She transformed into 
Volrath. The villainous creature paraded Hanna and Karn 
through the streets, taunting them with his destruction of 
Gerrard, with the ways he manipulated the crew to gain 
Weatherlight, the Power Matrix, the Bones of Ramos. He 
regained them all, and then he captured the two crew members 
who would know how to bring them together.
    All the while that they marched through the dark, twisting 
streets of Mercadia, Hanna watched the rankling roof line. She 
hoped at least that Orim and Cho-Manno would not be drawn into 
this latest trap of Volrath's. In dark archways and from 
shuttered windows, many eyes watched, but no one emerged to 
help.
    Volrath led them to ground. As snaking as were the ways 
above ground, the caverns beneath were a mesmerizing 
labyrinth. Endless spirals, dipping shafts, shambling 
stairways, coiling corridors-the tread of the soldiers' boots 
echoed over blind and seeping stone. At least Volrath's taunts 
ceased the moment that they entered the caves.
    Hanna staggered along as if descending into a delirious 
dream. At last, the passage opened up, and Hanna felt her 
heart leap in hope.
    There, before her on a wide cavern floor, stood 
Weatherlight. She was beautiful. The ship's sleek rails 
gleamed like gold in the murk. Her spars jutted in solid 
newness. Her twin airfoils raked boldly outward. Her helm 
glimmered in torchlight. The once-shattered hull was smooth 
and whole, a vast black bulk on the floor of the great hangar. 
The ship was beautiful, and now with the Power Matrix and the 
Bones of Ramos, it was only hours away from flying again.
    Hanna and Karn halted before the great airship, guards 
hurrying to surround the pair. Volrath walked up beside Hanna, 
resting his arm on her shoulder as though he were an old 
friend. The twisted evincar took a deep, contented breath, and 
his black plate armor crackled quietly.
    "A glorious vessel, isn't she?" Volrath asked.
    "Yes," Hanna replied reflexively. She shied beneath his 
arm but couldn't escape the clawlike grip on her shoulder. 
"But she isn't your ship. She's Gerrard's."
    "My brother never deserved his Legacy. Not this ship, not 
Karn, not the Thran Tome-none of it. He is a toad dressed up 
to be a king. Weatherlight was never his, and now she is 
mine."
    Hanna glanced at the Phyrexian armada that filled the 
hangar all about, receding into vast distance. "You have all 
these ships. Hundreds. Most are larger than Weatherlight. You 
want this ship only because you are jealous of Gerrard, only 
because it is his."
    Volrath's hand struck her cheek with such force it flung 
her to the ground amid the chains. "The Legacy is mine. I have 
every piece of it. And now you will put those pieces together 
for me."
    Looking up in anger, Hanna dragged a shackled hand over 
her bleeding mouth. "You can torture me, but you can't make me 
repair Weatherlight for you."
    "Can't I?" Volrath asked with a smile. He gestured toward 
the spars raking out beside and behind the ship. A chain 
connected the ends of the two spars, and something dangled on 
that chain. Not something-someone.
    "Squee!" Hanna gasped out.
    "Yes," Volrath replied. "Are you familiar with this form 
of execution? It is gradual and agonizing, a type of 
crucifixion. Squee's whole weight is held aloft by the 
shackles that bind his wrists. At first, the pain isn't too 
bad, but every moment, muscles and tendons grow weaker. 
Circulation ceases in the hands. Shoulders slowly pull from 
their sockets. Viscera stretch out the diaphragm. Chest 
muscles grow so weary they can no longer force air outward. 
Squee will eventually suffocate because he won't be able to 
exhale. He'll suffocate though his lungs are full of air."
    "You bastard."
    Volrath blinked placidly at that. "If, however, you repair 
the engines, you can use them to lower the masts and save your 
friend. You see? I impose no time limit on you. Only Squee 
does. And if you allow him to die, I'll simply have to bring 
your friend Orim down here and do the same to her, and 
Tahngarth, and Sisay, and Gerrard. It's up to you how many 
crew you'd like to kill as you repair this ship-my ship."
    "So, they are alive!" Hanna said, hope rising in her.
    "For the time being," Volrath said. "Let Squee die, and 
you'll see the others, one by one."
    Karn's joints grated massively as he stooped to lift 
Hanna. "Come. Let us do this quickly. We haven't much time."

                          * * * * *

    "We haven't much time," Orim shouted to the vast assembly 
gathered in another subterranean chamber.
    It was a motley group-Ramosan rebels assembled by Lahaime; 
Cho-Arrim skyscouts and water wizards who had arrived on the 
night of the great storm; an elite contingent of Saprazzan 
warriors sent by the grand vizier; a Rishadan ship crew 
converted to the cause during Cho-Manno's sea crossing; and 
bull-men, boar-men, griffins, and other non-humans and non-
goblins disparaged in Mercadia-a ragtag, rebel army. These few 
hundred would hardly be a match for the Mercadian guard with 
its cateran mercenaries-and its master Volrath.
    "We have a new enemy," Orim continued. "This rebellion 
began against the corruption of the nobles and the vicious 
manipulation of the Kyren. We have felt ourselves mere pawns 
in their great game. Now it is clear that even these great 
enemies are pawns of a much more malevolent master. The 
Phyrexian steward, Volrath, is here in Mercadia. He rules the 
city through Kyren and nobles. He has captured the airship 
Weatherlight, the national treasure of
    Saprazzo, and the very Bones of Ramos. In mere days, 
perhaps hours, he will combine these weapons and train them 
upon us and slay us. We haven't much time."
    A voice rose from among the Cho-Arrim skyscouts. "How can 
we fight if the Uniter has not risen?"
    Cho-Manno stepped up beside Orim and declared, "We can no 
longer wait for the Uniter to rise. The Uniter is in the hands 
of our greatest foe. We must be our own uniters, our own 
saviors. If we do not fight now, the Uniter will rise to fight 
against us."
    A collective groan echoed through the stony cavern. The 
Rishadan captain interrupted. "These allies have told that 
their airship was hauled through doors at the base of the 
city. I will lead my forces through those doors and find your 
Uniter. Perhaps it'll yet rise-and fight for us."
    Scar-faced Lahaime spoke next. "I will lead the Ramosans 
into position to strike against the Magistrate's Tower and the 
seats of government."
    "My skyscouts and water wizards will produce another 
storm," Cho-Manno pledged. "The water will empower us and the 
Saprazzans to take the streets."
    "What about the market?" someone shouted. "You can't win a 
battle in Mercadia unless you can take the market." Among the 
rebel leaders on the dais was a young man with tousled black 
hair, a man who many of the folks in the chamber had taken to 
be a mere page. His voice was still young, though he spoke 
with a calm confidence that impressed them all. "I am Atalla 
of Tavoot's farm. As with many other farmers, I have come to 
Mercadia with this season's harvest of simsass fruit. As with 
many other farmers, I am fed up with Mercadian rule. We 
farmers are united with your cause, and we fill the markets. I 
will lead my comrades to take the marketplaces, high and low."
    "How can you, a mere boy, lead an army of peasants?" 
someone asked.
    Orim grasped Atalla's shoulders and squeezed them 
affectionately. "He may seem young to you, but Atalla here is 
the man who made Gerrard and his comrades into heroes of the 
common people. Atalla is the man who made us into giant 
killers."
    
                        Chapter 21

    Behind them, the group of Jhovall traders kicked up a 
cloud of dust that looked gray beneath the gathering storm. 
The jingle of harness bells and the purrs that came from the 
herd of several hundred mounts were accompanied by 
discontented rumbles from the clouds above. In the marketplace 
beyond the wall, tents flapped in rising winds, cold with 
unnatural mist. Workers pounded tent stakes deeper to keep 
canvas from pulling loose. The guards along the wall crouched 
in surly array and glanced skyward with each distant growl of 
thunder.
    The fattest of the Mercadian guards approached the leader 
of the traders. "How many beasts do you bring to market?" 
Speaking the patois common to traders, his voice had a 
supercilious, sneering edge to it.
    The trader, whose dark face and nose rings proclaimed him 
a Tsaritsa of the northern plains, chewed stolidly on a wad of 
klavaa leaves. "Two hundred."
    "Six pieces of copper to bring them into the city."
    "Two."
    "Five."
    "Four."
    "Done." The trader pulled a greasy leather pouch from his 
saddle and extracted the price. The guard tucked the money 
away in the recesses of his uniform and waved the traders 
ahead. His lip curled. He eyed the dirty, unshaven figures as 
they passed, their robes drawn up tight around their faces to 
keep out the dust. "Hurry up there! Storm's coming!"
    One trader, considerably taller than the others, paused 
and lifted a pair of dark eyes to stare back. There was 
reproach in his gaze. The trader moved on.
    Spitting into the dirt, the guard looked down the road at 
the next party approaching.
    The traders circled around the base of the mountain before 
finding a clear space in which to pitch their tents. They 
hastily erected the canvas, close together and clustered as 
near to the mountain as possible, hoping it would shield them 
from the coming deluge. The Jhovalls were enclosed in a rough 
pen, erected of wooden posts and ropes. The beasts settled 
down to feed.
    Leaving a few of their number to keep an eye on the herd, 
the traders gathered within the largest tent for their evening 
repast. In the center of the space, a brazier burned. The 
traders squatted around it, their robes trailing on the floor, 
as bits of meat roasted on skewers. A large communal bowl of 
rice sat nearby, and the meal was washed down with draughts of 
thick red wine.
    The herdsmen ate in silence, broken only by the sound of 
chewing, swallowing, and sucking on fingers. Outside, the 
ever-present hum of the mountain rose and fell in regular 
rhythms, as if some great beast was breathing heavily. Distant 
thunder came with the ominous portent of war drums. When the 
meal was complete and the dishes removed, the traders sat 
cross-legged on the floor of the tent and passed pipes of 
tobacco. After a long time, the leader spoke.
    "We are arrived at your destination," he said to one of 
the herdsmen. "You have paid us for our help, and we have 
taken you through the outer guard as we agreed. Do you now 
wish to leave us?"
    The herder cast back the hood of his robe, revealing a 
head of dark hair and a long, thin scar running along his 
cheek. His companions did likewise, one shaking out a long 
braid that dangled down her back. The tallest one carefully 
disentangled his hood from a magnificent pair of horns.
    "We must leave you and find our companions in the city," 
Gerrard said. "We are grateful for your assistance, but now we 
must find a way above."
    The leader drew deeply on the pipe and spat into a 
convenient brass cuspidor that had been placed near his side. 
"Not an easy task."
    "Nevertheless, we must try."
    The leader nodded slightly. "I can show you a way into the 
city," he said after long contemplation of the fire. "It is a 
secret known to my people. In the past it has allowed us to 
enter the city without paying the entrance fees and taxes that 
are charged by the magistrate. In the lifts, you would be 
quickly discovered by the guard. But if you and your friends 
take the way I show to you, you will go undetected."
    "Is the way safe?"
    The leader shrugged. "We have not traveled to the surface 
that way in some seasons. The last time I passed through that 
way, I experienced no difficulties."
    Gerrard glanced at the others of his party. "What do you 
wish in return?"
    The leader stroked his chin, his eyes bright and 
glittering. "You have said little of what you wish to do in 
the city." "If I said less than I knew, Most Respected Shi'ka, 
it was because I did not wish to put you and your friends in 
danger." "But I suspect what you intend will threaten the 
chief magistrate and those who support him." He lifted a hand, 
stopping the other's protest. "I will be satisfied if the rule 
of the magistrate is weakened. Such a thing would be of great 
service to the people of my tribe, who suffer beneath the 
taxes and bribes of his rule."
    Gerrard looked at him for a time in silence. "I can 
promise you, Shi'ka, that whatever we do in the city, the 
magistrate isn't going to like it."
    Shi'ka nodded solemnly. "Very well. Let us sleep. Then, in 
the deeps of night, long before morningsinging, I will bring 
you to the secret way."
    He motioned for his fellow tribesmen to clear away their 
meal. Weary with the long Jhovall drive, Shi'ka rolled himself 
up in a blanket and began to snore heavily. The others of his 
tribe followed suit.
    Around the tent, the business of Mercadia went on 
unabated. The markets never closed, and the busy trading and 
selling at the foot of the mountain did not slow. The coming 
storm only added urgency to the marketplace. Through all the 
dark hours, peals of thunder were echoed in the hustle and 
bustle of the stalls.
    A few hours after nightsinging had resounded from the 
minarets of the city far above, the black night was pregnant 
with rain. Shi'ka roused Gerrard and his companions from sleep 
and led them through the crowds of merchants and traders who 
thronged the area. After a walk of considerable distance, they 
reached a series of stalls hung with rich rugs of complex 
design. Shi'ka hastily pushed Gerrard and the others through 
the stall and into a tiny room in back, hung with rugs and 
smelling of musk and the oil used to polish rug racks.
    The Jhovall trader grasped one edge of a large heap of 
carpets and indicated Tahngarth should take the other. With a 
grunt, they lifted the pile and moved it aside, revealing a 
small trapdoor studded with heavy nails. Shi'ka pulled up the 
door and gestured Gerrard toward the dark hole. The Benalian 
could see a slender ladder leading down into blackness.
    "Here is the way of which I spoke," Shi'ka said quietly. 
"Though you have torches, if I may offer advice to you, risk 
no light within the passage unless absolutely necessary. The 
burrows beneath the mountain have many rambling ways, and it 
is possible that a light might be noticed by one whom you 
would not wish to encounter. Keep your voices still and travel 
as quickly as you can. May the face of Gho'miko shine ever 
upon you."
    Gerrard clapped Shi'ka briefly on the shoulder. He shucked 
his Jhovall trader's robe and climbed onto the ladder. As he 
descended, Sisay, Tahngarth, and the sailors of Weatherlight 
removed their cloaks and followed. Shi'ka closed the trapdoor 
behind them.
    The first part of the climb was made in an intense 
darkness. After a dozen yards, the ladder ended in a narrow, 
circular chamber, from which there appeared to be only one 
exit. Along this tunnel the company passed, hands extended on 
either side, ears cocked for the slightest sound. Their own 
footsteps sounded alarmingly loud, rattling and echoing 
against the stone floor.
    The passage was rough and narrow, so that Tahngarth had to 
stoop to fit through it. The minotaur softly grumbled to 
himself.
    After a few turns, Gerrard felt the floor begin to ascend. 
The upward slope continued for some time, the passageway 
climbing in a series of great, sweeping turns. There was still 
no light, but echoes told of a wider, taller corridor. In one 
or two spots, the darkness grew less intense. Gerrard made out 
several side passages that led off to unknown destinations.
    Groping along the main passage, his hands fully extended 
before him, Gerrard encountered a pile of boulders. They felt 
rough and irregular, and they completely blocked the way. The 
others crowded behind.
    "Well," Gerrard whispered. "I think this is where we take 
a risk. Sisay, light the torch, but keep it shielded as much 
as possible."
    There was a faint scrape of steel against flint. A spark 
landed on the torch's head, and Sisay blew it into a flame. 
Soon, the brand glowed brightly. The party saw they had come 
to a cave-in that completely filled the tunnel through which 
they had been traveling. Many of the stones were of great 
size, and there was little hope of clearing the passage easily 
or quietly.
    Sisay smothered the torch, and they were back in the 
darkness, their eyes spotting from the sudden light. "Well," 
she whispered. "What do you think? Do we go back or try to 
find some other way through?"
    Gerrard sensed the sentiments of the others: none liked 
this dark passage and they would prefer to take their chances 
with the guards in the lifts. Nonetheless ...
    "We try to find another way through," he whispered. "It's 
our best hope of getting into Mercadia without anyone knowing 
we've come back." He heard a faint sigh in the blackness and 
led the way back down the tunnel toward the first of the side 
passages.
    The new tunnel felt smaller and narrower than the one they 
had been traversing. Tahngarth had to crouch to make his way 
along, and even Gerrard began to feel oppressed by the vast 
mountain overhead. At last, a faint glow appeared in the 
distance before them. As they drew closer, Gerrard spied the 
outline of a wooden door. He reached it and cautiously pressed 
his weight against it. The door yielded, opening into another 
passage.
    Gerrard peered out. This hall was surprisingly wide and 
broad. Every fifty feet or so, an iron sconce on the wall held 
a flaring torch. To the left, the path angled upward. To the 
right, it bent down around a curve.
    Sisay touched Gerrard's arm. "Well?" she asked. "It looks 
as if this particular road is no secret."
    Gerrard nodded. "I think we have to chance it." He looked 
at the others crowding behind him. "Try not to make much 
noise, and go as quickly as you can. We've probably climbed 
about fifteen hundred feet from the base of the mountain, so 
we've got a long way to go."
    The ascent was faster but tinged with urgency and 
trepidation. From far below, echoes occasionally resounded- 
machinery at work in the bowels of the mountain. Sometimes, 
disturbingly, they heard voices.
    Dabis crouched and retrieved something from the side of 
the road. "Sir," he called in a whisper.
    "What?" Gerrard stopped, as the others gathered around the 
sailor.
    "Look." Dabis held out his hand.
    Gerrard stared at the tiny object in his palm-a ring of 
green glass. "It's Squee's ring. It would seem he's been down 
here. But how?"
    Tahngarth said disapprovingly, "If there is trouble to be 
found, Squee will find it."
    "He was searching for Weatherlight," Sisay remarked. 
"Maybe he found it down here."
    Gerrard thought a moment. "Yes, perhaps Weatherlight and 
Squee are both down here somewhere."
    His voice found an echo, this time from up the tunnel. 
Someone approached around the next bend. The party glanced 
quickly around. The walls surrounding them were solid, 
unbroken by any nooks or crannies. Gerrard shook his head 
grimly and loosened his sword.
    A moment later, a group of Mercadians appeared and stopped 
dead at the sight of Weatherlight's crew. Four in front wore 
the livery of the city guards. The others were courtiers, but 
Gerrard caught sight of a flash of green skin from the middle 
of the group. At least one Kyren.
    With a shout, Sisay dashed forward, Tahngarth leaping 
behind her. There was a ringing that echoed up and down the 
tunnel. The guard drew their swords in time to parry the first 
attack. Sisay and Tahngarth closed with two of them.
    Gerrard engaged the third guard, and Dabis the fourth.
    Chamas rushed forward to aid her shipmates but fell with a 
cry of pain. A silver shaft emerged from her thigh.
    The courtiers edged back. Two Kyren lifted blowpipes to 
their lips. They were aimed at Fewsteem.
    With a slashing blow, Gerrard drove his opponent back so 
that the Mercadian was interposed between the goblins and 
their target.
    Tahngarth meanwhile chopped sword and hand away from a 
guard. The Mercadian stared in shock. The minotaur's blade 
finished the job. In a mighty backstroke, it lopped off the 
man's head and hurled it down the corridor.
    Sisay was having a bit more trouble. Unlike most Mercadian 
guards, her opponent knew how to handle a sword. He delivered 
a powerful blow that would have forced a lesser foe to her 
knees. Sisay parried successfully and shoved the man back. The 
guard aimed a stroke at her head. She ducked just as a shaft 
from the blowpipes whistled over her to thump uselessly 
against the wall.
    Gerrard's duel was also more prolonged than he had hoped. 
He forced his opponent back against the wall. Desperate in 
terror, the man erected a whirling dervish of steel before 
him. The Benalian's best strokes could not penetrate it.
    There was a wild yell from one of the Kyren. A dagger, 
thrown by Fewsteem, stuck out of the creature's wrist. He 
clutched his wound, howling in pain. Sword in hand, Fewsteem 
leaped over the body of the decapitated guard and attacked.
    Tahngarth rushed up beside him, grabbed the Mercadian 
courtiers, and knocked their heads together. They fell 
unconscious-at the least-to the floor.
    Gerrard feinted toward his opponent and brought his sword 
up in a sharp thrust that finally struck home. He felt the 
blade enter flesh and grate against bone. Then the man went to 
his knees. He sank slowly to the floor and clutched at his 
throat, from which poured a fountain of blood. The Mercadian's 
eyes rolled back in their sockets. His legs thrashed twice, 
and he was still.
    In the same instant, Sisay came in over her opponent's 
guard. Her sword made a deep gash in his chest. As he 
staggered back, she lunged at him, twice plunging her blade 
through his body. He fell without further sound.
    Tahngarth's striva hovered at the throat of the remaining 
goblin, whose companion had been cut down by Fewsteem. Dabis 
held Chamas in his arms. Her lips had turned blue, and she was 
shaking uncontrollably. Dabis looked up, tears in his eyes.
    "The dart must have been poisoned. Can't we do something 
for her?"
    Gerrard knelt by Chamas's side. She looked at him and 
spoke through chattering teeth. "S-S-Sorry, Commander. I c-
can't feel my 1-1-legs anymore."
    "Hang on, Chamas! We'll try to do something for you."
    She shook her head. "N-No good. I c-can't feel..." Her 
voice faded. Her eyes closed.
    Gerrard rose and looked about. The tunnel walls and floor 
were stained with blood. Sisay was tying a bandage around her 
arm. The bodies of the Mercadians lay sprawled. From the 
surviving Kyren came a low, chittering whine.
    The Benalian walked to where Tahngarth held the creature 
pinned against the wall. "Where were you going?" he snapped.
    The Kyren said nothing.
    "Where does this corridor lead?"
    Again, the goblin was silent.
    Gerrard turned to Sisay. "Are those two alive ?" he asked, 
jerking his head at the Mercadians.
    She examined each briefly. "This one is. I'm not sure 
about the other."
    "Wake him up."
    The dark woman slapped the Mercadian's face once, twice. 
He groaned and lifted his head. He groaned again when he saw 
who stood over him.
    "Come on, you. On your feet!" Sisay jerked him up by the 
front of his robes and dragged him over to stand next to the 
Kyren.
    Gerrard bent and picked up one of the darts from the Kyren 
blowpipes. He held it up to the Mercadian's face. "You know 
what this is?"
    The Mercadian turned pale. His lip quivered. Gerrard 
brought the dart closer, until its point was resting on the 
Mercadian's fat cheek. "Where does this corridor lead?"
    Tears rolled down the Mercadian's face. He tried to turn 
his head to look at the Kyren but was prevented by the 
pressure of the dart. He opened his mouth, his eyes pleading.
    The goblin's body twisted. A long-fingered green hand 
slapped Gerrard's, driving the dart deep into the Mercadian's 
cheek.
    The man shrieked and fell to the ground, clawing at his 
face. Tahngarth's blade sliced the Kyren's throat, spilling 
lifeblood.
    Gerrard leaped back, not in time to avoid a sharp kick 
from the dying goblin. He turned toward the Mercadian, but the 
man was already stiffening.
    Sisay stared at the bodies around her. "Where in the Nine 
bloody Hells were they going?"
    Gerrard shook his head. "I don't know, but we need to find 
out. Let's get these bodies out of sight."
    "Captain," Dabis broke in, "what about her?" He indicated 
the body of Chamas, lying still on the corridor floor. The 
sailor had done his best to straighten her limbs and wipe away 
the white foam that had gushed through her teeth.
    Gerrard laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, but we'll 
have to leave her with the other bodies for now."
    Dabis swallowed and then nodded. He bent and tore a piece 
of clothing from one of the dead Mercadians and spread it over 
the young woman's face. Then he picked her up and followed 
after the others.
    The hiding of the bodies was a messy business, and none 
spoke during it. When they had cleaned the site as best they 
could, Gerrard removed the closest torches. With luck, no one 
would notice the bloodstained rocks in the dim light.
    Carefully retracing their steps, the crew moved stealthily 
downward until they reached the bottom of the tunnel. They 
crouched in a pool of shadows just beyond the passage's mouth. 
It opened on a vast chamber suffused with a thin blue smoke.
    "By Urza's Rack and Mishra's Ruin!" Gerrard muttered.
    The crew looked out wonderingly on a mighty fleet of 
aerial ships being assembled in the huge cavern. A mile high 
and miles across, that enormous subterranean space was filled 
with vessels-Phyrexian vessels. Workers moved along web-thin 
causeways, building, repairing, testing, preparing.... Two 
ships rose through a wide opening in the floor and moved 
across the vast tunnel.
    "What does it all mean?" Tahngarth asked.
    Gerrard shook his head. "A lot of these vessels look like 
Predator, the one that attacked us in Rath. Most of them are 
bigger, but you can see they have the same general design 
features. I'd guess this fleet is being built for Rath, for 
Volrath's use."
    "Why?" Sisay asked. Her eyes were hard as she heard 
Volrath's name. "Why do they need a fleet this big?"
    "Only one reason," the Benalian returned. "This must be 
for the invasion of Dominaria. This is Volrath's invasion 
fleet."
    Tahngarth shook his head. "That does not make sense. Why 
build a fleet in a place other than Rath? And why here, in a 
place that is not controlled by Volrath?"
    Gerrard rubbed his beard. "Perhaps it is controlled by 
him." A chill moved through them all. "Perhaps it is."
    "They brought Weatherlight through doors below," Sisay 
said. "What if they brought it here?"
    "Weatherlight is here," Gerrard said with sudden 
certainty. "She calls to me."
    Tahngarth said, "Then let's go find her."
    "Yes," Gerrard said, pulling his sword. "Well find the 
ship and do our best to create some mayhem on the way."

                          * * * * *

    Karn stood on the main deck of Weatherlight and gazed aft, 
toward the panting figure who hung on chains there. "Poor 
Squee," Karn whispered mournfully to himself.
    There was no sense speaking to the goblin. Squee had hung 
unconscious for a day now. At least he still breathed, but for 
how much longer? In his silent suffering, Squee was doing more 
to save Weatherlight than any of his crewmates. Thrice, Karn 
had fought toward the spars, hoping to save his friend, and 
thrice been prevented by the guards that surrounded and filled 
the ship. It was no use. Squee would hang there while he 
lived-but how much longer would that be?
    "Gerrard will come soon, Squee, and we will bring you down 
among us. Gerrard will come soon."
    A figure approached through the moored armada-but it was 
not Gerrard.
    "Volrath," Karn groaned beneath his breath. He turned away 
from his suffering friend and descended through a hatch to the 
engine room.
    The cramped space was littered with tools. Oily rags hung 
across the engine's enameled fuselage. Cogwork lay arrayed on 
towels on the floor. Grease smudged, Hanna sat paging fitfully 
through the Thran Tome, muttering uncertainly about which part 
went where. All of the mess was for show, meant to impress the 
Mercadian guards who watched her. Within the first hour of 
work, Hanna had effected the correct configuration of Power 
Matrix and Bones of Ramos. She had even fitted the Juju 
Bubble, a Legacy item stored in Karn, into its position at the 
center of the Matrix. By merely inserting the Horn of Ramos 
into its position, she could power up the whole ship ... but 
then Weatherlight would be Volrath's....
    "He's coming," Karn rumbled ominously.
    Hanna looked up, startled. "Who?"
    "Volrath," Karn replied.
    No sooner than the name was spoken, the gray-armored 
evincar descended the stairs into the engine room. He wore a 
wicked smile that split his gray-skulled head, and in his hand 
he held a cocked crossbow. He swung it jauntily up to his 
shoulder. "How does the work progress on my ship?"
    Hanna looked away, her face hardening. "Not well. The 
myths were wrong. These devices weren't fashioned to fit 
together. The construct has to be joined by a series of cogs 
and conduits."
    "Nonsense," Volrath responded, kicking the loose gear-work 
aside. "I had not thought your goblin friend would last this 
long. My patience has died before him. But only just... Start 
up the ship, or I will kill him."
    Hanna looked up, her face as white as paper. "I'm telling 
you, I ... I'm working as fast as-"
    Volrath spun on his heel, marching up the stairs.
    Karn followed, his massive hands spread beseechingly. 
"Patience, Master Volrath. Weatherlight is no mere machine. 
She is a being-as complex as a living body. She cannot simply 
be repaired. She must be healed. The Matrix cannot simply be 
fastened in place. It must grow into the engine."
    Volrath was heedless. He gained the main deck and strode 
to one rail, lifting the crossbow before him. Taking a deep 
breath, he trained the bolt on Squee's small, panting figure.
    "Please, be patient," Karn implored behind him. "Please, 
Vuel."
    Volrath hissed, turning angrily on the silver golem. 
"Vuel? Vuel! Vuel is dead! He was killed by your blessed 
master. I am not Vuel. I am Volrath. Volrath is Vuel's corpse, 
a corpse that wouldn't lie down and die when Gerrard killed 
it. Do not call me Vuel!" The crossbow trembled in his grasp.
    "You are not dead, Vuel," Karn replied placidly. "You 
still live inside this monstrous shell. Perhaps there is only 
one nerve of you alive, but I've touched that nerve. Come 
back, Vuel. If you fire that shot, you'll kill Squee, yes, but 
you'll also kill Vuel-forever. Put down the crossbow. Come 
back to life, Vuel!" He reached out and grasped Volrath's 
shoulder.
    Cold steel tore free from warm silver. Snarling, Volrath 
leveled the crossbow. The trembling was gone. He squeezed the 
trigger. The bolt leaped out, straight for Squee's heart.
    "No!" Karn shouted, his arms flashing out too late.
    A thud sounded. Chains rattled plaintively. The spars 
shivered. A hum shivered through the decks and lights flashed 
on along the rail. Masts descended. Chains sagged. The 
crossbow bolt shot over the goblin's drooping head.
    Hissing in triumph, Volrath dropped the crossbow. "So, 
Weatherlight is repaired at last!"
    Karn heard no more. He left Volrath there and clambered up 
over the glassy bridge of the ship, heading toward Squee.
    Volrath smiled wickedly and barked orders to the guard 
captain on the deck. "Summon my crew. Weatherlight launches 
within the hour!"
    
                        Chapter 22

    Silently, the team crept up the passageway alongside the 
subterranean hangar. Gerrard led the way, accompanied by 
Sisay, Dabis, and Fewsteem. Some distance behind, at rear 
guard, stalked the hulking figure of Tahngarth. It was five 
swords against a Phyrexian armada-but these five swords had 
faced down ghouls and dryads and dragon engines, and they had 
won. They had surprise on their side, and Weatherlight called 
to Gerrard.
    "She's above-in the cavern on that side," he had said, 
gesturing beyond the huge columns of stone that spanned a mile 
from ceiling to floor. "They must have moored her where she 
could rest on the ground. She's there. I'm sure of it."
    Gerrard was not given to mysticism, and so these spoken 
certainties had seemed nothing short of oracles. He had 
insisted the group retreat up the side passage, taking the 
fastest route around the huge cavern. Thrice along the way, 
they had encountered more Mercadians, and thrice more had 
cleaned up the resultant mess and removed the torches from 
their sconces. So far, no alarm had been raised.
    In time, they reached the entrance to the upper cavern. As 
they watched, a ship rose in stately grandeur from the central 
pit and sailed gracefully down the tunnel to the side.
    The level of activity within was remarkable. Along one 
wall lay an armory, with bin after bin of goblin bombs. Human 
workers gingerly loaded the incendiary devices into crates and 
set the crates on skids with rollers on their bottoms. 
Phyrexian dock workers-mindless creatures-stooped in their 
traces, pulling the skids down long aisles to various ships. 
Crews conveyed thousands upon thousands of bombs into bomb 
bays. There was a sense of urgent activity, the feeling of a 
vast project nearing completion. Each of those explosives had 
been fashioned with the intent of killing someone-or many 
folk-the folk of Dominaria.
    Gerrard turned to the crew members gathered about him in 
the shadows. He gestured. "Weatherlight is there-about a 
hundred ships in. Do you see?"
    Sisay's eyes were grim as she marked the spot. "Yes, and a 
whole army of Phyrexians between us and the ship."
    "We'll use that army to our advantage," Gerrard replied. 
"Between the armory and the bombs loaded on the ships, we 
should be able to start a good sized chain reaction. I want 
the blasts to lead out into the main cavern-see how many of 
the finished ships we can destroy. We'll create an avenue 
that'll let us fly out of here. Perhaps we'll destroy the 
entire fleet."
    "This is a plan I can wholeheartedly approve," Tahngarth 
said, eagerly gripping his striva.
    "Here at the entrance is an unguarded vessel, loaded with 
bombs. We'll sneak over to it and take as many as we can 
carry. Sisay and I will set charges leading out into the main 
cavern. Tahngarth, Fewsteem, and Dabis, you'll set charges in 
this cavern. Target especially ships with full pay-loads. Head 
toward Weatherlight, set off the charges, and when the guards 
go to investigate, take the ship. See if you can get it up and 
running."
    "What if we can't?" Tahngarth asked.
    "Then abandon the ship, get more bombs, and blow the whole 
cavern," Gerrard said decisively. "Better to lose Weatherlight 
than to let this armada attack Dominaria." He smiled 
humorlessly. "Are you still so wholehearted, Tahngarth?"
    "No," growled the minotaur. "It's the right plan, though. 
Of course, blowing the whole cavern might bring the entire 
mountain down on our heads." He was speaking also for Dabis 
and Fewsteem, who glanced uneasily up at the vast stone roof 
that arched above them.
    Gerrard nodded. "Yes, it might. That's a risk we'll have 
to take. Is everyone ready?"
    Heads nodded.
    "Okay. Let's go."
    Watchful and stealthy, they darted to a nearby ship. It 
was a one-person skiff with a long, bony prow and orange wings 
that folded like paper fans to aft. Sisay scrambled up the 
leathery fuselage and into a goblin-sized cockpit. Her 
practiced eye soon identified the bomb bay door controls. She 
triggered them. Bombs spilled out across the floor. Gerrard 
and the others cringed back a moment before swiftly loading 
their arms. Laden with the heavy black goblin bombs, 
Tahngarth, Dabis, and Fewsteem moved swiftly and silently 
along the wall of the cavern toward Weatherlight.
    Gerrard looked at Sisay. "Ready?"
    Before she could respond, a klaxon suddenly shrieked. A 
brazen voice squalled, echoing off the cavern walls. "Intruder 
alert. All troops to battle posts! Intruder alert!"
    With a shout, Gerrard led Sisay down the corridor to the 
main cavern.
    Ahead, two goblin skiffs rose beyond the railed causeway. 
Gerrard hurled one of his bombs, catching the leading craft 
squarely. There was a loud explosion. The skiff tipped 
sharply, spilling most of its passengers into the abyss. They 
screamed as they fell, their cries fading into the vast pit 
below them. The injured craft turned twice and slipped below 
the level of the causeway.
    At the same instant, Sisay threw a bomb that enveloped the 
second shuttle in a cloud of white-orange flame. The vehicle 
dropped to the cavern floor, and the goblins aboard fell or 
stumbled away from it. The air was filled with the nauseating 
smell of burning flesh.
    Gerrard and Sisay reached the edge of the pit and looked 
down. The plummeting skiffs had struck several other ships. At 
least one was alight, burning brightly some seventy-five feet 
below where they stood. Gerrard could see the forms of the 
dock workers running to and fro attempting to stifle the 
flames.
    "So much for stealth," Sisay commented wryly.
    "Aim for the biggest ships!" Gerrard bellowed. He threw 
his remaining bombs one by one.
    The first struck a massive ship two hundred feet below. 
Its deck exploded. Gerrard could feel the force echo through 
the floor of the cavern. Flames shot up from the ship, 
scorching the hull of the craft immediately above it. The 
rigging and ropes of the second vessel caught fire, and in a 
few moments, it too was ablaze. The first ship shivered from 
stem to stern with another enormous explosion. Its bow tipped 
downward, and then it fell, a fiery meteor streaking down into 
darkness. As it went, it rebounded from several other vessels, 
and they also caught fire.
    Other bombs rained down. The sound of explosions was 
magnified by the cavern until Gerrard felt as if he were being 
shaken to pieces. Flames leaped upward. Ship after ship 
twisted in its death agony and fell, amid the cries of those 
who had been working on them. Some, bearing full payloads of 
bombs, exploded in white-hot sunbursts. They flung flaming 
shrapnel out to slice causeways and slay workers and ignite 
more vessels.
    A skiff wound its way upward, turning and twisting to 
avoid the explosions and fires. It burst from the pit.
    Gerrard hurled his last bomb, which caromed off the 
skiff's side and exploded harmlessly in air beyond. "I'm out."
    "Me too."
    "Here's where the fun begins."
    Kyren dropped from the vessel onto the causeway, 
accompanied by several Mercadian guards, whose livery smoked 
and smoldered. Each guard bore a trident and the fiery will to 
use it.
    Gerrard found himself facing a massive Mercadian. Easily 
seven feet tall, the man had a face streaked with soot and 
oil. He gave a yell of rage as he brought his trident down on 
Gerrard. The arms master dodged and parried with his sword. 
Its blade rang against the trident's metal handle. He drew 
back his sword for another stroke and was pushed violently 
from behind. His weapon almost flew from his hand, and he 
stumbled forward, tearing the skin of his knuckles against the 
stone floor.
    There was a whiz and a thud above his head, and a peculiar 
choking gurgle. Gerrard looked up. The Mercadian stood 
stunned. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His 
hands clutched a trident whose spines were imbedded in his 
chest. The Mercadian coughed, and more blood came from his 
mouth. Then he fell backward and lay still.
    Sisay had pushed Gerrard out of the way of the thrown 
trident. Now she came to her feet in a quick roll and swung 
her sword at the weaponless warrior. His head bounced along 
the floor as his body collapsed at her feet.
    With a roar, Gerrard rejoined the fight. His sword darted 
like a swooping falcon. Where it sank its tip, bodies went 
down in spray.
    In moments, most of the goblins fell. Three broke away and 
ran for their lives toward the surface tunnels. Gerrard and 
Sisay let them go, busy with the guards that remained on their 
feet.
    Gerrard attacked one with a blow so powerful it flung his 
enemy back against the causeway rail. The guard wavered for a 
moment on the edge of the pit and then, with a scream, toppled 
and plunged.
    Sisay meanwhile ran another guard through with a single 
thrust. In the follow-through of that stroke, she bashed the 
final guard to the ground with her elbow. A quick sword jab 
ended his struggle.
    The battle was over. Thirteen dead Mercadians and Kyren 
lay in a bloody mess on the causeway. Beyond, explosions and 
flames were spreading. Most of the ships were burning. A few 
skiffs maneuvered among them, but flaming vessels plummeted 
all around. One skiff, packed with refugee goblins, went down 
beneath the blazing hull of a huge warship. The Kyren were 
thrown from their craft and fell squealing into oblivion.
    "Nice work ..." Gerrard said breathlessly, clapping Sisay 
on the back.
    "Let's get... to the ship," Sisay panted.
    "That's a plan 1 approve ... wholeheartedly."
    The cavern rocked with another massive blast. Stones fell 
from the ceiling and bashed the already burning ships. Cracks 
spread along the roof. On the far side of the hangar, a tunnel 
collapsed in a cloud of dust and rubble.
    Gerrard and Sisay turned and raced toward Weatherlight. 
Even as they did, the floor beneath them shivered. Great 
boulders fell from the ceiling. A crack split the floor, 
extending from the edge of the pit. Sisay stumbled and almost 
fell, but Gerrard pulled her to her feet and ran on. They 
pelted up the passage.
    Behind them, a skiff rose from the pit. Goblin faces 
twisted in grimaces of fear. With a deafening crash, a section 
of the cavern roof caved in. It fell like a huge hammer atop 
the skiff, pulverizing Kyren and flattening the top of the 
craft even as it flung it to the floor. The skiff struck rocky 
ground, which in turn buckled. The floor dropped into the 
space below it. The mountain trembled.
    Gerrard and Sisay fled up the passageway as the tunnel 
collapsed in their wake. Up they ran, their legs aching. The 
way seemed endless, and their shadows leaped wildly in the 
flickering torchlight.
    "Even if we reach the ship ... how do we fly it out?" 
Sisay panted.
    "We'll worry about that... if we live long enough...."

                          * * * * *

    All day and all night, a storm had gathered above the 
city. Its black bulk blotted out moon and star and bore down 
on the mountain below. Unlike most storms, this one did not 
hover overhead. It crouched on the shoulders of the people. It 
gave weight to the ominous musings in every heart. It squeezed 
every pair of lungs until bitter introspection oozed forth in 
whispers of dread.
    "The Kyren have captured the Uniter."
    "They have killed Ramos."
    "This storm is his wrath."
    "He will crash to earth again-not in fire, but in flood."
    Where private dreads mingled, they admixed and became 
public fury. The storm that mounded itself atop the city awoke 
a second storm in the streets below-a storm of rage ... of 
revolution.
    "The Kyren are parasites!"
    "They are apostates!"
    "They can kill Ramos, but they cannot kill us!"
    "We can kill them!"
    Morning light did not come to storm-swathed Mercadia. The 
sun's rays could not dispel clouds so deep. Nor did peace 
return to the streets. Tridents were impotent against such 
rage. Thunderheads rumbled their ominous threats, and mobs 
shouted their calls to arms. Lightning flicked across the sky 
in awesome anticipation, and Ramosans marched along the 
streets in open rebellion.
    Lahaime lifted his voice to the heavens: "People of the 
mountain, arise! You have nothing to lose but your chains!"
    The storm broke.
    A gigantic fist of water fell from the skies and smashed 
into the city. The bashing torrents of rain bore among them 
winged skyscouts, who dropped on soldiers in the street. Water 
wizards descended, lightning bright, and sent jags of power to 
blaze through guard towers. Smoking corpses tumbled from 
parapets. Other Cho-Arrim-warriors and archers-rose from storm 
drains to join the rebellion. Cho-Manno led them, with the 
healer Orim at his side.
    In the deluge, fountains across the city overflowed. From 
their deeps rose merfolk. Limned in storm light, they were 
glorious and horrific. Conch masks streamed rainwater. 
Iridescent scales gleamed goblin blood. Pearly tridents 
skewered boar men and cateran enforcers. Fish had become 
spear-fishers. Rishadan harpooners had joined the vengeful 
spirits of the sea. Wind-lashed and water-soaked, slim 
seafarers slew giants and bull-men and monsters.
    The markets, too, rebelled. Farmers loosed Jhovalls upon 
the very soldiers who had extorted money to allow them into 
the city. Traders dropped tally sheets, and lifted swords, and 
drove the guard out. Slaves rose from their hypnotic stupor to 
pull to pieces the caterans who had captured them for sale. At 
the head of the common army was a most uncommon young man, 
Atalla of the tousled black hair.
    Some who glimpsed these rebel farmers and exotic warriors 
might have thought this a coup from without, but the main body 
of rebels were Mercadians themselves- Ramosans and the common 
folk they had rallied. Scar-faced Lahaime led his marching 
minions through the streets. They took prisoners wherever they 
might. They made guards swear loyalty to the people and 
disavow Kyren rule. Many civilians joined them, and the rebel 
army grew more mighty as it moved along. Whenever rebels found 
a Phyrexian, it was borne in chains to one of the dumping 
stations and hurled from the mountain.
    When the mayhem in the streets was complete, when the 
storms above and below were in full fury, an elite squad of 
rebels marched on the center of the corruption in Mercadia-the 
Magistrate's Tower.

                          * * * * *

    Cho-Manno was gone.
    Orim lifted her eyes from the wounded skyscout she tended. 
In the streaming rain, she could see no more than ten feet in 
any direction, but she knew Cho-Manno was gone. She sensed it. 
There was only one place Cho-Manno would have gone.
    First, Orim must heal this fallen scout....
    Drawing a deep breath of the watery air, Orim set her 
hands on the man's severed side. Her fingers glowed with 
silver fire, fueled by cascading rain. Warmth suffused the 
wound. Water mingled with blood and knit tissue to tissue. 
Pressing her eyelids together in concentration, Orim felt 
muscles and skin fuse. In a few moments, the young man was 
whole again.
    Sitting back, Orim helped the scout rise. "Go. Fight for 
the Rushwood. Fight for the Uniter. Fight for all of us." Orim 
rose with him. She gave his hand one last squeeze and then 
released him. As the man moved off toward the raging battle, 
Orim headed up the street, toward the Magistrate's Tower.
    Toward Cho-Manno.
    She ran across the gray lawn to the tower steps. She drew 
her sword and moved cautiously up the winding stair.
    Storm clouds wreathed the tower. Cyclones battered its 
walls. Rain washed in a regular cascade down the stairs, 
making them treacherous. Lightning danced from cloud to ground 
and ground to cloud. Buildings burned with voracious fire, red 
flames rivaling blue bolts. Deep cracks appeared in the 
street, and from them emerged orange flashes and booms-
explosions in underground caverns. It seemed all of Mercadia 
would disintegrate in the clutch of this storm.
    Orim climbed into the shrieking heavens. Through several 
doors, she could hear the sound of fighting, but continued on 
until she was near the top. At last, she reached the apex of 
the tower. The great doors to the chamber of the chief 
magistrate were broken open, and a clash of swords came from 
within.
    Orim burst into the room. The chamber was in disarray. 
Tables and many of the low couches lay overturned. Before the 
throne were three goblins-advisors to the chief magistrate. 
They wielded short, crooked swords and were slashing at the 
figure who stood before them.
    Cho-Manno.
    His dark face was contorted in anger, and his blade- long, 
curved, and slender-flashed in and out in a gleaming curtain 
of steel. He parried the blows of the creatures before him. At 
least one of the goblin blades was stained with blood, but the 
Cho-Arrim leader did not appear to be wounded.
    Someone cowered behind the throne-the chief magistrate. 
The white flesh about his throat jiggled in dozens of small 
pouches, and his great belly quivered with panting fear. In 
one fat hand, he held something long and slender- a goblin 
blowpipe. He lifted the pipe, pointing it at Cho-Manno's back.
    Orim threw her sword. It left her hand, trailing silver 
magic. The blade sang through the air, revolving in a great 
circle. It struck.
    The magistrate screamed. He stared stupidly at his severed 
wrist. A fountain of blood gushed from the wound. Blowpipe, 
sword, and hand thumped together to the ground. Orim gave him 
no time to recover. She rushed across the room and snatched up 
the blowpipe. Clapping it to her lips, she blew. The dart 
whispered as it left the pipe. It appeared in the magistrate's 
fat neck.
    The Mercadian's eyes rolled up into his skull. He gasped, 
gurgled, and fell to the ground with a thump that shook the 
room. His remaining hand clasped spasmodically for a moment 
before it fell still.
    Cho-Manno had made good use of the momentary distraction. 
With one stroke he slashed open the chest of the Kyren before 
him. His backstroke lopped off the head of the second. The 
third turned to run, but the Cho-Arrim leader made a 
tremendous cut downward. His saber clanged against the ground, 
and the two halves of the goblin fell apart from one another 
in a cloud of blood and bone fragments.
    With a great bound, Cho-Manno sprang over one of the 
couches and bent over a figure lying on the floor. Orim joined 
him and gazed down at Lahaime. The Ramosan leader lay on his 
back, a blood-soaked cloth clutched to his left shoulder. His 
face was pale, and he was unconscious.
    Orim pulled back the bloody cloth and pressed her hand to 
the wound. Silver fire emerged from her fingertips. Flesh 
slowly knitted.
    Cho-Manno stroked her face. "I am glad you came. You saved 
the leaders of the Cho-Arrim and of the Ramosans, both."
    Lahaime's anguished expression faded. He gently awoke.
    Orim said to Cho-Manno, "I was only repaying the favor."

                          * * * * *

    In chains, Hanna staggered up the engine room stairs. Her 
guards hauled her upward with an unusual brusqueness. Her 
shackles made such a clangor in the passage that she had not 
heard the explosions in the cavern until she gained the deck. 
Then, the blasts were omnipresent.
    The cavern's mouth was collapsing in a shower of stone and 
sand. Figures rushed up the path, just ahead of the killing 
cascade. They ran from a crushing death toward a fiery one. In 
a regular line from the entryway, Phyrexian ships exploded. 
Red blasts awoke beneath their keels. They bounded up, hull 
carapaces cracking like eggshells. Ram-headed prows tipped 
forward. Horn-studded sterns flipped backward. Amid shattered 
glass and rent steel and scorched wood flew the crushed bodies 
of Kyren, Mercadians, Phyrexians.... Where fire reached bomb 
payloads, the results were even more spectacular. In 
shattering succession, small blasts awoke large ones. Nearer 
and nearer the armory they went, until a blooming sun awoke on 
one side of the chamber. It was blinding, deafening, and for a 
moment it obliterated all. All.
    The few guards who remained on Weatherlight ducked, 
covering their heads. Hanna shied back. On the cavern floor 
below, Volrath and the rest of the guard fell to their faces. 
As suddenly as the blast had begun, it ended. Blue smoke 
belched out across a cracking ceiling. The smell of lightning 
filled the chamber.
    Hanna's guard barked orders. His shouts were whisper quiet 
after the blast. He hauled Hanna to Weatherlight's rail and 
forced her to kneel. Her chained hands struck the deck before 
her. The guard pressed her head to the wood.
    Another Mercadian, tall and muscular, stomped up along the 
planks. His sword had a cleaverlike head, as heavy as an ax. 
His massive boots ground to a halt beside Hanna. "Put your 
neck on the rail," the man shouted. Without moving, Hanna 
replied, "What if the ship breaks down again? Who will fix 
it?"
    "Put your neck on the rail!" The order was followed by a 
kick from one of those massive boots.
    Swallowing, perhaps for the last time, Hanna lifted her 
neck into position.
    The executioner's sword flashed firelight as it rose. With 
an almighty roar, steel descended. Razor-sharp metal cut 
through nape, and spine, and throat to emerge, streaming gore. 
The severed head vaulted free, bounced once on the rail, and 
tumbled in a sanguine spray toward the floor of the cavern.
    But it was not Hanna's head. Nor was it the executioner's 
sword that had severed it. A bloody striva swooped harmlessly 
over Hanna's neck, and she gaped down at her executioner's 
blinking skull. Turning, Hanna saw her liberator. "Tahngarth!" 
she exclaimed in amazement. He did not return the greeting, 
too busy hoisting a guard who was impaled on his striva. 
Tahngarth hurled the struggling figure toward the rail. The 
body struck a pair of goblins and bore them overboard.
    Nearby, Fewsteem and Dabis fought two more guards. Unmade 
by unison strokes, the soldiers fell. One of them landed atop 
the keys to Hanna's shackles. "Get the keys!" she shouted. 
Tahngarth finished a final guard and went to fetch them.
    He returned and knelt beside Hanna, fitting metal into the 
lock.
    "You arrived just in time," she said.
    "How's the ship?" he asked as he worked.
    "Fixed. Perfected. More powerful than ever," she replied. 
"It's complete at last, Tahngarth. Get these chains off me, 
and the ones off Karn-he's below-and we'll get this ship into 
the air. We'll fly out of here."
    No sooner had she said these words than the shackles 
clicked. Chains tumbled to the planks. "It won't be so easy. 
The flight path is blocked."
    Rising, Hanna stared out bleakly beyond the rail. The 
entry to the cavern was completely sealed by a landslide. Her 
gaze lingered only a moment on that impediment, though. "It's 
worse than that." She pointed.
    Below, in the midst of smoldering ships, stood Volrath and 
his company. Forty-some soldiers surrounded two figures-Sisay 
and Gerrard.
    
                        Chapter 23

    Volrath. Twin mantles of gray skin and bulbous bone arched 
back from white-gleaming eyes. Black barbs jutted from a thin 
sagittal crest, and gray armor clung like a second skin to 
muscles of twisted wire.
    The evincar's form was all too familiar to Gerrard-and not 
just because of the battles and dungeons of Rath. Even after 
leaving that place, Gerrard had seen Volrath's wicked grin, 
had felt his predatory gaze parse his soul.
    "Takara," Gerrard hissed in amazed realization. He held 
his sword out before him, keeping the ring of Mercadian 
soldiers and Phyrexian dock workers at bay.
    At his back, Sisay whispered. "Takara? She's here, with 
Volrath?"
    "She is Volrath," Gerrard replied grimly. His mind fled 
back over all his conversations with the red-haired Rathi- the 
confidences shared, the guilt unearthed, the talk of hatred 
giving spine to a hero. It had been Volrath all along.
    Gerrard growled at the evincar, "So that's where you've 
been hiding-in someone else's skin-afraid to face me. You 
truly are a coward, Vuel."
    An edge of anger entered the man's supercilious eyes, but 
lingered only a moment before dissipating. "I was not hiding, 
Brother. I was ripping your spine out from the inside and 
taking your Legacy from the outside. I did not take the form 
of Takara because I feared you but because I hated you, and I 
wanted you to hate yourself. On Rath, I've made a career of 
ripping out heroes' spines and replacing them with mimetic 
hatred. That's what I was doing to you. I am no coward-more a 
counselor, more a friend pointing out your great and chronic 
failings, and empowering you to overcome them. It would seem 
you are incorrigible. It would seem you are determined to 
fail."
    "You are the one who has failed. Your fleet is destroyed. 
Your Phyrexian monsters are burning among the ships. Your rule 
beneath this mountain has ended."
    Volrath laughed. Pacing back and forth within his circle 
of soldiers, he actually laughed. "You and Sisay are 
surrounded and outnumbered twenty to one, your lover Hanna is 
executed, your guardian Karn is shackled and held captive, 
your perfected ship is mine." The evincar spun on his heels, 
looking directly at Gerrard. "You dare pretend I have failed. 
What is this measly fleet in flames? It was a cheap price to 
pay for so diverting a masquerade, for this pleasant dance in 
which I have systematically stripped away everything you loved 
until you stood naked and helpless-until I killed you." 
Volrath drew his own sword. "This moment was inevitable from 
the time you stole my birthright, Brother. Your death was 
inevitable."
    "All death is inevitable," Gerrard said, lunging forward 
and swinging his sword.
    Volrath easily batted the blade back. Smiling, he dipped 
his head. His troops surged up behind Gerrard, swarming Sisay. 
Three Mercadians and one Phyrexian lost their lives before her 
sword was wrenched away and she was wrestled to the floor.
    Gerrard turned, seeing Sisay lying prone, arms and legs 
held down and a trident jabbing her neck. He growled, stalking 
toward the Mercadians. Something sharp and heavy struck his 
shoulder, spinning him around.
    "You deal with me, first," Volrath said, raking a bloodied 
blade from the wound he had just inflicted. "They'll not kill 
her until I kill you. I want her to see this." He attacked in 
a humming overhead stroke that crashed down janglingly on 
Gerrard's sword. Steel skittered on steel, throwing sparks.
    With a roar, Gerrard caught the evincar's blade on his 
hilt and flung it back. "Mercadia is no longer yours. It never 
will be again. I've denied you this world."
    Volrath chuckled. The sound resembled the soft mirth of 
the boy Vuel when he had roamed the Jamuraan landscape in 
search of adventure. There was nothing left of Vuel now- 
nothing boyish except remorseless cruelty. "Mercadians! They 
can play their little games, or they can perish. It doesn't 
matter to me what they do." He circled slowly to the left.
    Gerrard matched his maneuver. "I've denied you this world, 
and I'll deny you Dominaria."
    Volrath halted, threw back his head, and yelled aloud. Not 
a yell of anger, but a shout of scathing laughter. "You idiot! 
You cannot deny me anything. And even if you could, you cannot 
deny my master."
    "Who is your master?" Gerrard felt his heart hammering 
against his chest.
    "The Ineffable, the Lord of Phyrexia and God of the
    Multiverse. He has spent millennia plotting the invasion 
of Dominaria. It is his homeland. It is his holy land. He came 
from Dominaria, you know, with his people, the Thran. With his 
people, the Phyrexians, he will return. Do you think for a 
minute you're going to stop him? Do you think this fleet that 
you're so proud of having wrecked was the whole of his force? 
What you saw beneath this mountain is the tiniest part, the 
merest forefinger of the hand of Phyrexia. That hand is 
stretching out for your world, and there's not a thing you can 
do to stop it." Volrath's sword vaulted through the air.
    Gerrard barely parried the blow. The Benalian returned it 
with one of his own, and the clash of steel rang through the 
hangar as the two blades battered each other. The brothers 
circled. Volrath lunged wildly. Gerrard stepped back and 
dashed the sword aside.
    As steel skirled again, some long dormant part of 
Gerrard's mind remembered an identical duel. He and Vuel, mere 
boys, fought in the bright Jamuraan sun. Beside them stood 
Vuel's father, the Sidar Kondo. "Remember, boys, no swordsman 
is invulnerable. Every strength casts a shadow of weakness. 
Strike there. Gerrard, you're an aggressive fighter with an 
instinct to attack. Your defenses are weak, cast in shadow. 
Vuel, you favor your left side. Your blows are powerful and 
deadly when they fall on the left. Your right is cast in 
shadow-less guarded and more open to attack."
    As Volrath stabbed toward his left, Gerrard consciously 
gave way. Again, Volrath bore in. Gerrard fell back. Twice, 
Volrath's attacks sank home. Gerrard felt blood stream down 
his left arm. His brother smiled hungrily to see the blood, 
and lunged more recklessly to the left, leaving his right side 
open.
    Careful, Gerrard told himself. He beat back a blow and 
measured the distance between them. You'll get only one 
chance. If you strike and fail, he'll realize what you are 
doing, and you'll perhaps be dead.
    Gerrard lowered his guard and feinted.
    Volrath's blade swung back, aiming squarely for his 
exposed left side.
    Quick as thought, Gerrard struck at the right. His steel 
lanced through the breastplate, punched past metal and muscle 
and bone, and plunged into pink lung.
    Volrath fell back, winning free. He howled in pain, the 
hole in his chest gushing blood even as it sucked air. Golden 
foam boiled up from his lips as he gasped, "You ... wounded 
... me!"
    Mercilessly, Gerrard advanced, his sword raised high. "No, 
my brother. I killed you!" Like an axe, his sword plunged 
down.
    Volrath winced back, lifting his blade to guard. Too late. 
It clanged from his hand, useless.
    Gerrard's weapon landed with the weight of a cudgel- but 
it cut like a razor.
    The sword struck Volrath's right collar bone, severing it. 
It clove a trench eight inches deep. The evincar was laid 
open. Rib marrow, severed halves of meat, and flayed tendons 
showed clearly on either side of the sword before blood poured 
out in a killing tempest. So deep the blade went that it met 
the previous stab wound in gurgling lungs.
    Volrath stood a moment more, only because the attack had 
been so swift he hadn't had time to crumple. Then he went down 
sloppily, sprawling to his face, legs twisted beneath him and 
haunch jutting up.
    Gerrard's brother Vuel-Gerrard's nemesis Volrath-at last 
was dead.
    Gerrard raked his sword free and spun, knowing the same 
fate awaited him. Phyrexian dock workers and Mercadian guards 
flocked inward. He cared about none of them, but only about 
Sisay.
    With a shriek, Gerrard hurled his blade as though it were 
a scythe. It harvested the heads of Sisay's captors. They fell 
as their master had, in streaming gore. Red blood and 
glistening oil mingled on the floor. The few that survived 
this first stroke bolted or did not survive the second. Hand 
slick with the life of his foes, Gerrard reached down and 
hauled Sisay to her feet.
    She had the presence of mind to snatch up a trident from 
one of the fallen guards. Shaking, she turned back-to-back 
with Gerrard. The old friends warily watched the circle of 
soldiers tighten.
    "Just like ... old times," Gerrard spat out between 
labored breaths.
    "Outnumbered twenty to one?" asked Sisay.
    "Well, there's that."
    "Surrounded by idiots?"
    "There's that, too."
    "About to die?"
    "Yeah," Gerrard said with feigned ease. "That's the part I 
meant."
    There was no more time for jokes. A wall of tridents and 
swords converged around the two. Gerrard's sword trailed red, 
painting the faces of soldiers even as it flung back their 
killing steel. An edge flashed past his defense and caught 
Gerrard in the side, but its wielder paid with a sudden 
debilitating gush of guts.
    At his back, Sisay was equally pressed. Her trident was an 
inferior weapon-rusted and dull-but she made devastating use 
of it. Prongs blinded one warrior while simultaneously 
skewering the skull of another. Wrenching the tines free, she 
brought the butt end up to crack a soldier in the jaw.
    In the first press, Gerrard and Sisay each downed five 
foes, but twenty-five fresh ones remained. The sheer weight of 
descending metal dragged Gerrard and Sisay down. Prong by 
prong, Mercadian guards and Phyrexian dock workers slew them.
    "It's been good!" Gerrard shouted above clanging metal.
    "The fight?" Sisay yelled back.
    "Knowing you."
    "Same here."
    The conversation was cut short by converging blades. From 
both sides, the unstoppable foes surged in. Gerrard made one 
final swipe with his sword, knowing it could not fend off even 
one of the killers.
    His blade met no resistance. It swung through empty air. 
Not empty-full of energy.
    A wide, red beam, bright as the sun, surged into being 
before Gerrard. It flash-burned Mercadian flesh, melted 
Phyrexian armor and weapons, turned skeletons of both races to 
puffs of ash. Awash in that destroying beam, Gerrard's sword 
wilted and fell to the ground in a silvery puddle. There, it 
mingled with the watery weapons and armor of his foes.
    He pivoted back from the killing blast and saw that a 
second beam vaporized the warriors in front of Sisay. 
Mercadian and Phyrexian, they were dead. Only Gerrard, Sisay, 
and a handful of soldiers survived in the trough between the 
twin rays. A few of them staggered into the incinerating light 
and burned away to nothing.
    Gerrard and Sisay embraced, steadying each other lest 
either of them tumble into death.
    As suddenly as they had appeared, the blinding rays of 
destruction were gone. They had flashed away more than a score 
of warriors, their armor and weapons, and even melted the 
stone floor into magma. In the gloom, two hovering points of 
light remained-a pair of cooling lenses in the ray cannons 
aboard a certain ship.
    "Weatherlight!" Gerrard sighed gratefully.
    The ship was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
    She floated above, swathed in the gloomy deeps of the 
hangar cavern. Her hull shone as if it had been polished, her 
sails were furled along the great masts that stretched like 
wings on either side of her. Her intakes set a healthy roar in 
the air. Fires from burning hulks cast a lurid light across 
the hull of the ship, but Weatherlight was whole. She was once 
again flying ... and fighting.
    The remaining few Mercadians and Phyrexians beat a quick 
retreat from the warship.
    More bolts of death could have leaped from the ship's 
rail, transfixing them. Instead, a coil of line dropped down. 
It snaked from the bow and waved within reach of Gerrard. A 
head peered down beside the rope, and Gerrard realized the 
ship was only the second most beautiful thing he had ever 
seen.
    "Hanna!" Gerrard cried happily. "Volrath said you'd been 
executed!"
    "He's a liar," the blonde navigator shouted back. She 
nodded toward the evincar's lifeless corpse. "Or, he was a 
liar. Grab the rope and climb up!"
    Shaking his head, Gerrard gave a rueful laugh. "I'll not 
be climbing for a while. Not with this shoulder in ribbons."
    "Then tie it around you, and I'll pull you up."
    Gerrard dropped the hilt of his melted sword, fed the rope 
beneath his arms, and struggled to tie it over his breastbone. 
His hands were shaking too much, and his left arm was weak.
    Sisay stepped up, completing the knot. "There you go."
    "Oh, Sisay-what am 1 thinking? I should have let you go 
first. You're the captain, after all."
    She smiled. "I'll catch the next lift." Even as she said 
it, the rope went taut, and Gerrard started lurching upward.
    "After she brings me up," he quipped, "you might have to 
wait awhile for the next lift."
    Sisay laughed happily. Another line dropped down within 
her reach. She glanced up to see a pair of horns above. 
"Permission to come aboard, First Mate Tahngarth?" she asked 
as she secured the rope.
    The minotaur replied, "Permission granted." He hauled her 
aloft.
    Despite Tahngarth's bulk and Sisay's light heft, Hanna was 
quicker at hauling Gerrard to the deck. She set one foot on 
the rail and dragged the rope rapidly upward. Hands accustomed 
to bolts and wrenches greedily hauled hemp.
    In moments, Gerrard slid up the gunwale and over the rail, 
spilling atop Hanna. They tumbled to the deck, ropes coiling 
all around them. Their glad laughter gave way to kisses, which 
again gave way to laughter.
    "It's nice to see you," Gerrard said in understatement. 
His fingers stroked her grease-decorated face and hair. "But 
you shouldn't have spent so much time primping."
    Hanna smiled as she rolled him over. This time she landed 
on top, straddling him. Her hands gingerly probed the 
lacerations in his shoulder. "Don't you know it's bad manners 
to go on a date with an open wound?" Insistently, she dragged 
his shirt from his shoulder, and the lightness in her voice 
ceased. "I wish Orim were here ..."
    "I'm just glad you are," Gerrard said, pulling her fingers 
away. "It's not bleeding much now. I'll grab some rags and 
wrap it. Orim can look at it once we get above." He looked 
about at the ship. "You've been doing some healing of your 
own. Weatherlight looks terrific."
    "Let's go get you and Sisay some bandages, and then let me 
show you what I've done."
    Sisay had gained the deck by then-with a bit more decorum. 
Together, Sisay, Tahngarth, Gerrard, and Hanna made their way 
into the bowels of the ship. Down a ladder and along a 
passage, they reached the sickbay. There, Hanna dressed 
Gerrard and Sisay's wounds. On a nearby pallet lay Squee, 
sleeping fitfully after his long ordeal. Fewsteem and
    Dabis happened in, lending two more sets of hands. With 
light but weary voices, the crew members each told of what had 
happened to them since their parting. They were, Gerrard 
reflected, like school kids returning after a long holiday, 
happy to see familiar things once more.
    Once the bandages were in place, the crew moved to the 
engine room, jammed with humming machinery. There, they found 
Karn, looking immaculate as usual. His hands were sunk into a 
pair of twin ports in the engine. Within lay handles, which he 
gripped. Metal filaments jutted from the console into the 
joints in his metal fingers, hardwiring him to the power core. 
With a thought, he could control all the engine's levels, 
harness and shunt its power, even sense the outside world 
through the ship's lanterns and weapons and hull. It was his 
concentration that kept Weatherlight floating in midair in the 
smoky cavern. Karn gave no acknowledgment of his friends' 
entry, for his silver shell had gone inert. While engaged this 
way, Weatherlight became his body.
    Passing him, Hanna reached the forward casement of the 
engine, where the Power Matrix rested. She gestured the rest 
of the crew up beside her and pointed within. Her face beamed 
for the first time in weeks. "I used the Juju Bubble!"
    "What are you talking about?" Gerrard asked.
    "The bubble. Karn's been carrying it about in his guts 
for-how long has it been?"
    "A long time," Sisay said. Unbidden, there rose to her 
mind an image of First Mate Meida, killed when they retrieved 
the Juju Bubble from the Adarkar Wastes. "What did you do?"
    Hanna grabbed her arm, leaving a thick, greasy palm mark 
on Sisay's skin. "Look. I took the Bones of Ramos and fastened 
them into the framework of the Power Matrix, but it wasn't 
enough. I'd hoped they would provide the final link that would 
channel their power into the Thran Crystal. They didn't until 
the Juju Bubble was added."
    Sisay shook her head. "I don't understand."
    "It was Karn's idea. He brought it out from his chest and 
realize what it was for. When we placed the bubble over the 
framework of stones, it acted as a kind of lens. It focused 
the power. The Power Matrix spontaneously grew to incorporate 
it. It was beautiful!"
    Sisay laughed. "All right. I'll take your word for it. But 
can we planeshift?"
    Hanna nodded. "I don't see any reason why not. The ship 
actually seems stronger than it ever has been. It might be the 
result of having this new power system combined with the 
Skyshaper that Karn installed just before we left Rath. But 
all indications are that we can travel probably twice as fast 
as we could before."
    "We can't reach enough speed to planeshift out of here-" 
Sisay began.
    "We'll have to blast our way into the main cavern and then 
out the doors at the base," interrupted Gerrard. "We can wipe 
out the rest of the fleet en route."
    "Blast our way out?" Hanna echoed incredulously.
    Gerrard smiled, turning toward her. "You've said the 
ship's more powerful than ever. Let's see how much more. 
Battle stations, everyone." He spoke the command quietly, but 
the sound of it carried even above thrumming engines.
    "Yes, Commander," Captain Sisay said, saluting. With a 
grin, she turned and climbed the stairs toward the bridge.
    Hanna followed this tongue-in-cheek salute with a similar 
kiss. Blushing a little, she said, "Sisay'll need her 
navigator to get through these caves."
    "Just so," Gerrard said through a gentle smile.
    As Hanna passed between them, Fewsteem and Dabis grinned. 
"Must we kiss you as well, Commander?"
    "Not if you'd like to live long enough to reach your 
battle stations," Gerrard replied.
    Dabis rolled a seaman's cap nervously in his hands. "Sorry 
to say, Commander, but our battle station was the galley, 
locking down pots and pans. We never were highly ranked."
    "Come with me, then," Gerrard said, motioning over his 
bandaged shoulder. "You too, Tahngarth. We'll need the four of 
us to operate the forward guns. Acquit yourselves there, and 
you'll get a promotion." He strode up the stairs from the 
engine room, through the hatch, and out onto the deck.
    "Forward guns! Possible promotion!" Dabis enthused to 
Fewsteem. "Better than pots and pans!" Across the deck, they 
scrambled to the guns.
    In her centuries of existence, Weatherlight had been 
fitted out with numerous defensive measures-dimension 
disrupters, glasspitters, bombards, lantern-guns, acid 
atomizers.... All of these weapons, though, had been genteel 
compared to the massive Phyrexian ray cannons now mounted 
along the rail. Each consisted of a man-sized barrel above a 
muscular engine manifold. Conduits ran between the two as if 
they were networks of pumping veins. A pair of foot wells and 
a torso harness allowed the gunner to brace against the 
manifold while gripping the dual fire controls. The pivot that 
joined barrel to manifold was a ball-and-socket operation, 
permitting movement about two axes. Speaking tubes built right 
into the pivot formed an open channel of communication to the 
bridge. Pneumatic arms aided in smooth tracking. A targeting 
chamber mounted atop the gun allowed pinpoint acquisition.
    Two such guns were poised on the upper deck, and Gerrard 
and Tahngarth climbed the stairs to these. They strapped 
themselves in. Man and minotaur gripped their separate fire 
controls, moving the barrels experimentally through their full 
arcs. Both of the guns could shoot forty-five degrees past the 
prow on the opposite side, allowing dual coverage of the whole 
forward quadrant. They each could also sweep back one hundred 
twenty degrees on their own sides. Their field of fire 
overlapped with the guns stationed to port and starboard 
amidships. There, Fewsteem and Dabis readied themselves. A 
fifth such gun perched on the tail of the ship, and even now, 
a certain green fellow climbed stiffly to the controls. Squee 
had overheard the call to battle stations, and he longed to 
fire the weapon he stared down at for agonizing hours. A sixth 
gun was mounted to swivel vertically down from the ship's 
belly, and a seventh to fire vertically upward from the center 
of the main deck.
    "Whatever their other faults," Gerrard called over his 
shoulder to Tahngarth on the upper deck, "Phyrexians certainly 
know their weaponry."
    Checking his range finder, Tahngarth replied in impressive 
deadpan. "I've never before seen a machine so worthy of my ... 
adoration."
    Fewsteem and Dabis, amidships, were similarly delighted.
    "Strap in, boys," came the voice of Sisay from the 
speaking tubes. Gerrard glanced toward the bridge's windows to 
see her standing at the ship's helm. She waved. Through the 
tube came her voice. "Hanna's plotting our course. As soon as 
she's got it-"
    The ship rumbled eagerly, surging higher up from the 
smoldering floor of the hangar. Intakes on either side dragged 
in long draughts of air. Steady and humming, the ship released 
a blast of fire.
    Laughter filled the tubes. Then came Hanna's voice. "Sorry 
about that. We've got lots more power-" She too was 
interrupted as the prow of the ship swung suddenly about, 
pivoting on its central axis. Weatherlight swung in line with 
the caved-in passage.
    "And she's more maneuverable," Sisay explained. 
"Everybody, hang on until we've got the feel of the ship."
    "Hang on, strap in, and draw a bead on that rockslide," 
Gerrard ordered.
    "Right, Commander," came Fewsteem's and Dabis's unison 
reply in the tubes.
    "Take us in steady, Captain, a hundred yards from the 
cave-in," Gerrard said. "Karn, shunt all auxiliary power to 
the forward guns."
    Though there came no response from the engine room, sudden 
heat filled the footwells. Fire crawled within the manifold 
conduits.
    Weatherlight lifted smoothly above a ruined goblin skiff 
and then coursed down a corridor among smoldering hulks. She 
slid easily into place before the landslide and shivered to a 
gentle halt.
    "Train guns. Prepare fire."
    The guns locked in on two axes. Lenses shifted within 
targeting sights, bringing the rubble wall into precise focus. 
Within the barrels, mirror arrays aligned for optimal-range 
targeting. Weatherlight held so steady, the crosshairs did not 
shift a single stone. One by one, indicators flashed, showing 
synchronous alignment among two ... three ... four guns. 
Manifolds blazed underfoot.
    "Fire!"
    Four crimson beams awoke within four barrels. They stabbed 
out and struck rubble. Stone melted to magma, sand to boiling 
glass. Liquid rock gushed downward. A hole opened in the side 
of the rockslide. Its edges were fused together by stellar 
heat.
    "Cut deeper!" Gerrard ordered.
    Beams shifted, stabbing farther into the mound. More rock 
melted and poured away. Stone seemed wax before the beaming 
eyes of Weatherlight. A red river flowed down from the base of 
the glowing corridor. Steam and smoke rolled up along the 
ceiling of the cavern. The red walls of the cave dripped 
killing drops of lava.
    "Wait till the walls cool before edging in there," Gerrard 
shouted above the keen of the guns.
    Again, range finders shifted the guns. The final stones 
melted away. A wave of blue smoke from the main cavern rolled 
inward, hissing as it passed through the glowing cave.
    "Cease fire!" Gerrard ordered.
    The four guns sputtered a moment and went dark, streaming 
their own acrid smoke. The crew gave a cheer.
    The passage was wide enough to allow Weatherlight through, 
and the ceiling was cool enough not to drip molten rock on the 
deck. Through the thick haze of the passage, ship fires were 
visible in the cavern beyond. Fissures in the ceiling of the 
main hangar streamed rainwater.
    "Take us through, Sisay," Gerrard called. The ship's 
captain could steer through the tightest spaces. Gerrard 
smiled ruefully, remembering how at the start of this ordeal, 
he had steered into the only tree on the horizon. "Once we 
enter the main cavern, lay in a spiral strafing run around the 
chamber. Let's finish off this fleet and get a little gunnery 
practice."
    As Weatherlight edged into the hot corridor, another cheer 
went up, echoing from glassy walls.

                          * * * * *

    Volrath heard that sound. Where he lay, his torso cloven 
from collarbone to right nipple, he heard. It was a taunting, 
exultant sound. It meant Gerrard had broken out of the hangar. 
It also meant that Volrath could safely move.
    His rent flesh slowly knitted itself back together.
    In truth, Gerrard had not wounded Volrath as horribly as 
he had seemed to. It was a maiming strike, yes, but not a 
killing one. Desperate for time to heal that wound, Volrath 
had used his shape-changing ability to accentuate its 
appearance. That same ability allowed Volrath rapidly to heal 
wounds that would kill other men. This laceration would take 
him an agonizing hour to heal, but at least it wouldn't prove 
fatal. Volrath had been incapacitated by this cut, and the 
next stroke would have killed him certainly ... except that 
Gerrard had not delivered a next stroke.
    Even now, as Volrath realigned ribs and muscles, Gerrard's 
scorn echoed in his mind. Hiding in someone else's skin ... 
afraid to face me ... coward ...
    Volrath struggled to sit up. He couldn't yet. It was just 
as well. His blood was still crawling back into his veins. 
Soon he would be able to sit, to walk, to reach his own ship. 
Gerrard might destroy most of the fleet, but he wouldn't find 
Volrath's battleship Recreant. Volrath would scrape together a 
crew and reach his ship and fight again.
    It was not cowardly to shrink from a battle that could not 
be won in order to wait for one that could. That was the 
better part of valor ... valor!
    Cowardice? No-valor!
    Even in his own mind, the words rang false.
    Gerrard had killed him. Gerrard had stolen everything from 
Volrath. It was only because of cowardice that Volrath had 
survived. Gerrard had killed him once again.
    Gerrard!
    Hatred gave Volrath a spine. He formed himself up around 
it. He needn't worry about cowardice and valor, only about 
hatred. Hatred would raise him again, and hatred would make 
Gerrard fall.
    
                        Chapter 24

    All morning, the storm poured its dark and vengeful heart 
on the city. Rain fell in sheets and aerial rivers. It pounded 
paving stones loose and ripped mortar from walls. It saturated 
thatch and shoved the cold, wet stuff down into rooms below. 
It washed away whatever old encrustations once held stone to 
stone. In the grip of its fury, Mercadia came to pieces.
    The revolution below performed a similar function. Tides 
of Ramosans flooded the streets, dragging down Mercadian 
guards. Merfolk tangled pearly tridents with metal ones. 
Rishadans sent whaling harpoons into the shoulders of raving 
giants. A deluge of farmers aback Jhovalls poured across 
markets, downing cateran enforcers and carrying off the 
extortion boxes they guarded. Slaves spilled from their pits 
and sent slavers cascading down into them. Every dry and 
ancient institution of Mercadian oppression washed away. The 
masses, who had been mortared together into vast structures 
that served the state, tumbled apart. No person was 
preeminent. All were made equal. The society of oppression was 
razed.
    By late morning, though, the storm above and the 
revolution below had spent their fury. Curtains of rain 
thinned to misty veils. Swords ceased their slashing. Bodies 
ceased their bleeding. Dead Kyren littered the ground and live 
ones went to ground. Dead giants formed disheveled lines, laid 
out by kindred who had joined the revolution.
    Was this justice, though? In the waning moments of the 
battle, it seemed the revolutionaries had only reversed the 
hierarchy of oppression, exalting the lowly and humbling the 
exalted. Such impulses initially feel like justice, but they 
are only vengeance. Over time, vengeance hardens into 
vendetta, and vendetta into tyranny.
    It was a dangerous moment for the revolution. Everyone 
sensed it. The old vicious monster was dead, slain by a new 
monster who could prove twice as bad.
    Heroes rose to cage the beast. Atalla rode his bounding 
Jhovall to the rubbish wall to stop a mass execution of 
Mercadian guards. Lahaime marched his rebels to the upper 
market to quell rampant looting. Cho-Manno sent his water 
wizards to save merfolk from fires that ate away block after 
block. Orim tended citizens beaten by their own families and 
friends and neighbors, who sought to settle old scores by 
turning revolution to riot.
    In destroying their ancient oppressors, the oppressed 
people had ceased to be. They lost their single defining 
characteristic and turned upon each other. So vicious and 
voracious was this new monster that it ate itself away from 
the inside out.
    Hatred is no fit spine for heroes or nations.
    "Cho-Manno! We have to do something!" Orim shouted 
desperately where she knelt beside a dying man. The white-
haired fellow had been stabbed by his own grandson, the one he 
had willed everything to. Orim had done her best to cleanse 
and close the wound, but the old man's guts had been multiply 
severed. Death by sepsis was inevitable. "The people are 
killing each other! You must speak to them!"
    The leader of the Cho-Arrim stood silhouetted against 
cloudy skies. His coin-braided hair dripped rainwater on 
strong brown shoulders, and his once-grand robe hung 
bedraggled. He stared down from a rise in the tower garden. He 
had established his command center here amid slender trees. 
Skyscouts and warriors came and went below, dispatched on 
missions of mercy.
    "My people already do all they can to save the city," Cho-
Manno said with quiet helplessness.
    "Speak to the rest of them!" Orim said as the old man 
breathed his last. Giving a ragged sigh, she sat back on her 
heels. "Not just the Cho-Arrim. Speak to the Mercadians, the 
Rishadans, the Saprazzans-all these people must be your people 
now."
    "1 do not even speak their languages. You speak to them."
    Orim shook her head. "They will not listen to me. I am not 
even from this world." She blinked blearily, thoughts 
retreating inward. "But were you to truth-speak with me, you 
would know all their languages. You could speak your thoughts 
in my words."
    Cho-Manno heaved a sad breath. "It brings you such pain."
    "This is worse," she said, flinging her hands out toward 
the rioting city. "This is worse."
    The leader of the Cho-Arrim caught her hand in his strong 
grip and lifted Orim to her feet. He brought her to stand 
before him and released her fingers.
    "Are you sure of this?" he asked gravely.
    Orim's eyes were rimmed with tears as she said, "If there 
is no Uniter, perhaps you and 1 must become the Uniter. We 
must be united to bring the people together."
    Cho-Manno nodded. He gazed deeply into her eyes. A gentle 
chant began on his lips. It tangled with the sharp air of the 
dissipating storm.
    The song entered Orim's ears and washed away all else.
    She had been braced for agony, but it did not come. There 
was no stark violation, no bursting open of hidden memories. 
The true-speaking chant flowed into Orim like a healing 
stream. When last Cho-Manno had suffused her, he had sought 
scenes of murder and treachery. Now he sought only peace and 
beauty, truth and life. His thoughts didn't rifle through 
hers, stripping away barriers, but caught hers up in a glad 
dance. Together their minds mingled and turned and stepped and 
turned....
    Cho-Manno's entire life poured into Orim's consciousness. 
She felt his joy at seeing her again. She knew his resolve in 
riding the storm clouds to the city. Her heart was swelled 
with his courage as the revolution began, and was quelled with 
his regret as the victorious people turned to slaying each 
other. He felt no more than that, defeat and despair.
    Orim felt more, though. Into Cho-Manno's aching emptiness 
flowed her warm, bright hope. It changed him. It renewed him, 
and with it came the Mercadian words he needed to convey hope 
to the hopeless city. The lovers' minds remained entwined in 
dance as Cho-Manno spoke. A simple spell carried the words out 
into the mists and clouds above, filling the whole of Mercadia 
with Cho-Manno's voice.
    "My people, let the killing be done. The lambs have slain 
the wolves. Let us not become the wolves ourselves. Let the 
killing be done...."
    His words echoed prophetically through the city. Riots and 
executions and atrocities paused, if only in amazement.
    He repeated the words in the tongue of the Saprazzans and 
the Cho-Arrim, and then went on.
    "We came here to fight for justice, and we have won it. 
Let us fight no longer, or we will win back injustice."
    Those thoughts echoed not only in streets, but in minds. 
Blades ceased cutting the air, lest they sever the words that 
lingered there.
    "We came here seeking more than justice. We came seeking a 
Uniter. Old myths mixed with new hopes to make us believe that 
Ramos soared in fire across the sky, that he brought new 
children among the old. These new children gathered his soul 
and mind and body together, his spirit and heart and bones to 
resurrect him, to raise the Uniter. We flocked here to rally 
behind Ramos, to throw out evil, and be borne into a new 
world. We came here seeking a Uniter, but we found none."
    A new strain of doubt had entered Cho-Manno's hopeful 
words. A lesser man would have feared to speak such words to 
mobs on the verge of riot, but Cho-Manno did not plant doubt 
in their minds. He merely expressed what already lurked there. 
His words struck all the deeper for it.
    "Perhaps we can blame our ancient foes-nobles, Kyren, 
Phyrexians. Perhaps they have prevented the Uniter from 
rising. Rumors tell they captured Ramos-soul, mind, and body-
to enslave or destroy him. Perhaps they have, and we fight 
each other in despair, believing we can never be one."
    Trident hafts grew sweaty in the hands that held them. 
Rebels and fanners, pirates and merfolk stared up toward the 
tower in wonder that a man could so honestly speak the doubts 
that plagued them all.
    "Or perhaps we should blame the old myths and the new 
hopes. They had the power to raise us and bring us here, but 
they did not have the power to raise the Uniter. There is a 
word for stories that tickle the heart of truth without ever 
grasping it. Lies. Perhaps we should blame the old myths and 
new hopes and brand them lies. After all, we must lay the 
blame somewhere-in foes, in lies ... or in ourselves-"
    Darkness came over every face. Sword tips grounded 
themselves in the soil-not in hope for peace but in the 
hopelessness of war.
    "-Unless there is no blame to lay. We say the Uniter has 
not risen, but here we are, united. We say Ramos has not 
driven evil from Mercadia, but evil is driven out. We say the 
old stories have not come true, but they have come true. Ramos 
the Uniter has risen, and brought us together, and driven out 
evil, and set us on the threshold of a brighter world. We need 
only recognize that all this has happened. We need only 
gratefully, reverently step across that threshold."
    Tears stood in many eyes. Tears of hope and despair. Cho-
Manno's words were true-they all felt it-but truth was 
insufficient.
    Truth is never as quick and sure as tyranny, and the 
tyranny of the mob is the surest and quickest of all.
    A cool hand touched Orim's forehead. She opened her eyes.
    Cho-Manno spoke. "They will not listen. We cannot save 
them."
    Tears streamed down Orim's cheeks. She embraced him. "Then 
we all are doomed-"
    A sudden, shrieking thunder interrupted her words. She 
looked up. The sky split in two. A god shot through the air-a 
fiery body with angel wings and a throat that sang as loudly 
and gloriously as a heavenly choir.
    All Mercadia fell to its knees. Even Cho-Manno dropped 
down.
    Orim would have too, except that she had ridden in the 
belly of that god and knew it to be merely a ship. 
"Weatherlight!"
    She seemed the only one to recognize the ship.
    "Ramos ... Ramos ... Ramos ... !" Every last creature-
    Mercadian, Cho-Arrim, Saprazzan, Rishadan; giant, boar-
man, griffin, goblin-knelt where they were and chanted the 
name of their god. "... Ramos ... Ramos ... Ramos ... !"
    Orim only stood, shaking her head in wonder. Weatherlight 
was beautiful and powerful in flight, grander than she had 
ever been, but she was only a ship. She was no god. Still, 
what did it matter? People needed gods. Better that they find 
them in old legends and flying machines than in tyrants and 
Phyrexians.
    The chants suddenly ceased. An audible cry of dread came 
from the city streets. It formed itself into a new word- the 
name of a very old god. "Orhop!"
    "Orhop?" Orim muttered in wonder. It was the name of 
Ramos's evil brother god-Ramos and Orhop, Urza and Mishra, 
Gerrard and ...
    Orim hissed as she saw the second ship^a Phyrexian ship, 
and she realized the one man who could be at its helm. 
"Volrath!"
    At last, Orim went to her knees.
    The Phyrexian ship, hoary in its huge magnificence, 
vaulted in the wake of Weatherlight. Atop the scream of its 
engines came the crackling sound of ray cannons unloading on 
the craft.
    "Volrath ..."

                          * * * * *

    "We can't shake it!" Sisay's voice echoed urgently through 
the speaking tube. "The ship's just as fast as Weatherlight, 
twice as big, and has three times the firepower!"
    "Outmaneuver!" Gerrard shouted back, clinging to the 
barrel of his ray cannon as wind ripped past him. "Turn 
broadside so we can draw a bead!"
    "Hang on!"
    Weatherlight sloughed suddenly sideways, air spilling 
across the deck. The Phyrexian ship came into view, just fore 
of Weatherlight's port wing.
    Beneath a breaking wrack of cloud, the ship seemed a 
soaring dragon skull. Its bridge was a sloping brainpan, its 
pilot a sinus bone between gaping eye sockets. From jutting 
tusks along what would have been the jaw of the thing, twin 
bolts of power emerged. They raked across the main deck of 
Weatherlight, vaporizing a section of rail.
    Gerrard squeezed off a pair of blasts. The shots bounded 
past Weatherlight's wing and cracked through the hull of the 
Phyrexian ship. Black smoke belched out, and debris fell, but 
the ship came on, heedless. It hurtled through the skies, 
intent on ramming Weatherlight broadside.
    "Get us out of here!" Gerrard shouted.
    Weatherlight leaped, surging from the space just as the 
larger ship soared through it. Glancing aft, Gerrard made out 
the ship's name-Recreant-and glimpsed a very familiar face at 
the helm.
    "He's alive? Volrath's alive?"
    Bolts lashed out from Recreant toward Weatherlight's 
unprotected stern.
    Almost unprotected. The stern ray cannon surged with 
sudden life. A certain green fellow flung ravening rounds aft. 
With the percussion of great hammers, blasts struck the 
Phyrexian beams. Energy tangled and riled and exploded in 
midair. A few of the goblin's charges even won through, 
striking Recreant's center sail and ripping a wide hole in it.
    Gerrard let out a whoop. "Nice shooting, Squee!"
    Weatherlight surged out away from its attacker.
    Recreant's batteries followed where its hull could not. 
Cannon fire ripped the air all around.
    "It's no good!" Gerrard shouted. "They've got multiple 
guns on every side. As long as they're aft, only Squee can 
return fire."
    Worse, Recreant was damnably agile. It banked violently 
and quickly closed the space, cannons blazing all the while. 
"Fast, agile, deadly," Sisay shouted through the tubes. "What 
now, Commander?"
    "Climb!" Gerrard replied. "Make Volrath haul that extra 
weight into the sky."
    No sooner were the words spoken than Weatherlight's prow 
swooped up toward the raveling clouds. Her stern swung down 
toward the muddy desert below. Engines surged. Intakes roared. 
Fire shot in twin columns out the rear of the ship. Squee gave 
his own whoop, watching the blaze. Weatherlight vaulted into 
the sky with the eager speed of a heaven-bound soul. Her wings 
flung clouds away from the lemon sky and the beaming sun.
    Recreant followed. It clung tenaciously to its prey, 
losing little ground despite its vast bulk. At least the 
furious ascent weakened the blasts from its cannons. Auxiliary 
power was diverted to the engines. The cannon rays still 
blistered paint and flash burned fabric, but no longer did 
they vaporize wood. Doggedly, the Phyrexian ship climbed.
    Gerrard gazed back, seeing his brother's mutilated figure, 
gripping the helm in rage. In ancient days, Mishra had been 
similarly mutilated, warped into a Phyrexian. Urza destroyed 
his brother in revulsion. It was strange how history repeated 
itself. Would this day end like that day? No. Gerrard's anger 
was gone. He no longer hated his brother. He felt only 
sadness. He would kill Volrath not in fury but in mercy.
    "Divert all power to Squee's gun. Cut engines," Gerrard 
ordered.
    "What?" came the incredulous response through the tube.
    "Divert all power to Squee's gun and cut engines."
    "We'll fall from the sky. He'll ram us."
    "No. We'll ram him."
    Reluctantly-"Aye, Commander."
    There was sudden silence. The roar of Weatherlight's power 
plant ceased. Air stilled in the intakes. Even the wind that 
had raged over the bow grew calm.
    Weatherlight hung for an instant in air, a pickax hovering 
before it falls.
    In the hush, only Squee's gun spoke. It unloaded bolts so 
hot they shot clear through Recreant.
    Then Weatherlight fell. Its long, strong stern pierced the 
bridge, shattering glass and helm. Volrath shrieked and dodged 
aside before it could slay him. The stern drove deeper into 
the ship and might have gotten mired but for Squee's cannon 
fire. Bolts of white-hot energy ripped away wood, metal, 
crystal-all. Nothing remained to foul Weatherlight's stern.
    In moments, the aft of Recreant was completely vaporized 
and with it a hundred tons of engine. Only the prow of the 
ship survived. It tumbled away, with Volrath clutching its 
severed hull.
    "Engage engine!" Gerrard shouted. "Full power!"
    Gerrard's command was ended by the roar of Weatherlight's 
power core. The great ship pulled from its listing dive and 
rose again. Intakes filled with air, and foils hoisted the 
vessel toward the sun.
    "Where to, Commander?" Sisay said happily.
    "Take her up higher," Gerrard replied, staring over the 
rail at the plummeting wreckage that held his brother. 
"There's another ship approaching the city. Prepare a diving 
attack!"

                          * * * * *

    Gerrard had done it, again. Gerrard had killed him again. 
Volrath knew he should die this time. It would be cowardly not 
to. He was utterly defeated. To live on now would be to live 
on as a worm. That would be a miserable life.
    It would be a life, though-a life Volrath could endure.
    Even as the prow of his battleship plunged in smoky ruin, 
Volrath clawed his way into his personal quarters. All was in 
disarray, tumbling loose in a deadly hail-but not the portal 
mechanism. It was fastened to the wall, behind a locked hatch.
    Despite the chaos all around, despite the plunging death 
below and the utter defeat above, Volrath calmly worked the 
lock and opened the hatch.
    Afraid to face me ... coward ...
    They were no longer his brothers' words. Now they were 
Volrath's own.
    He stepped into the portal device. That single simple 
movement took him out of death, out of Mercadia. He returned, 
a whipped dog, to his throne on Rath.

                          * * * * *

    Orim had watched the two ships climb into the sun. Gerrard 
and Volrath ... Urza and Mishra ... Ramos and Orhop-all were 
overlaid in her mind as the vessels disappeared in the radiant 
sun.
    The Separi story had told it all-two brothers battling 
each other, tearing down hunks of the sky to slay each 
other.... But that story had ended in devastation and death. 
How would this one end?
    Cho-Manno pointed to a tiny meteor that streamed smoke as 
it tumbled down across the eastern sky. It was too small to 
have been even one of the ships, let alone both. "What is it? 
Do you suppose your friends-?"
    "No," Orim said with a finality she did not feel. She 
struggled to see some sign of Weatherlight against the beaming 
sun. "No, it can't be."
    All this while Orim had resented the intrusion of Gerrard 
and the crew in her new life. Now, faced with the possibility 
they were gone, she was staggered. As much as she loved Cho-
Manno, as much as the Cho-Arrim had changed her life, her life 
still lay aboard Weatherlight.
    "I don't know what that smoking thing is, but it's not 
them." She watched the spinning wreckage impact on the distant 
plains and then peered back toward the sun, where the warring 
gods had disappeared. "It wasn't them."
    "What is that?" Cho-Manno wondered, pointing out another 
form behind them. It was much larger than the smoking wreck, 
and it approached from the west. "A ship ?"
    "That's them," Orim said hopefully even before she caught 
sight of the object. As soon as she saw it-metallic wings of 
gold shimmering with each vast stroke-she knew the thing was 
not Weatherlight. "No ... that's not them. It must be another 
... another Phyrexian ship...."
    It was huge, and it grew larger every moment. Its metal 
frame was undeniable, its power and speed inescapable. Even 
from this distance, its Phyrexian design shone clear. Where 
was Weatherlight? What defense could the city have except 
Weatherlight? Everything the rebels had accomplished today 
would be undone by that singular ship.
    Except that it wasn't a ship-too lithe, too living. The 
thing flew with surges of its metal wings. Before it, a 
slender neck coiled, and behind it, a lashing tail.
    "A dragon engine!" Orim said, astonished.
    Cho-Manno stared up in wonder. A smile spread beautifully 
across his face. "The metallic serpent! Ramos and Orhop fought 
once again in the sky, though this time, they were united into 
this creature-into the Uniter! For eons, this metal serpent 
has filled the dreams of my people!"
    Orim stared upward, nodding absently.
    It could not have been true. Gerrard and Volrath could 
never have been united, just as Dominaria and Phyrexia could 
never become a whole. One would destroy the other. For these 
people, though, it was true. For them, the evil unleashed by 
Urza and Mishra was at last ended.-Ramos and
    Orhop had been reconciled, and the dragon engine-the 
Uniter-was the symbol of that reunion. Evil had been driven 
out and the people of Mercadia brought together. It was all 
true. Cho-Manno's myth had no fact but all truth.
    "Yes, Cho-Manno. The Uniter has come," Orim said in joy.
    The enormous, beautiful, ancient dragon engine circled the 
city once, looking for a place to land. It spread its wings 
and settled lightly in the garden beside the tower. It folded 
metal mesh and stared down. Before it bowed Saprazzan merfolk, 
Rishadan pirates, Cho-Arrim warriors ...
    In a voice as ancient as the races, in a dialect as old as 
Urza and Mishra, the dragon engine spoke, "Children of Ramos, 
your protector has returned."

                          * * * * *

    Two days hence, Gerrard and Orim stood on the distant 
plains and gazed up at the looming mountain.
    Once Gerrard had realized it was the dragon engine, Ramos, 
below and not another Phyrexian ship, he had called off the 
diving attack. Instead, Weatherlight had risen high into the 
sky to slip away unnoticed. Better that the folk of Mercadia 
think their deliverer a dragon engine rather than 
Weatherlight. Gerrard had just gotten his ship back, and he 
wasn't about to sacrifice it again. Once Weatherlight had 
landed in the distant plains, Gerrard had sent Fewsteem and 
Dabis to the city to gather Orim and the rest of the crew and 
buy provisions for the ship. Meanwhile, Gerrard, Hanna, 
Tahngarth, Karn, and Squee repaired the battle-scarred vessel. 
Fewsteem and Dabis had returned from Mercadia with every 
surviving member of the crew, three cartloads of supplies, and 
a pair of dignitaries.
    Beside Gerrard and Orim this morning stood Cho-Manno of 
the Cho-Arrim and Atalla, the newly elected Warden of Plains 
Farmers. Though Weatherlight hovered to one side, ready to 
depart, none of the four watched it. All gazed toward the 
strange, inverted mountain of Mercadia.
    At length, Gerrard asked Cho-Manno, "What will you do 
now?"
    Orim translated the question and the reply.
    "We will work to join forest, mountain, plains, and sea- 
to make them allies instead of enemies. Perhaps in time we can 
find a way to unite all the peoples of this world. Until then, 
I'm content to heal the wounds the Mercadian nobles and their 
Kyren masters inflicted."
    "What have you done with the goblins?"
    "Most of them perished in the uprising. Some few were 
captured. We will take them far from here to where another 
ridge of mountains rises in the west. There, perhaps they can 
make a home for themselves. But we will not allow them near 
Mercadia for a long time." Cho-Manno smiled. "Some things 
about Mercadia we will not change, I think. It will always be 
a place of buying and selling. But we will buy and sell goods, 
not souls, and with coin, not treachery."
    He looked at the ship hovering above them and sighed. When 
he spoke next, the words were for Orim alone.
    "I understand that you must leave, chavala. Your place is 
among these fine people, on this ship that has brought the 
Uniter to our world. This ship has battles yet to fight in 
defense of your own world, battles that you must aid in. Even 
so, I wish you would stay. I love you. Every day, I will think 
of you. When the battles for your world are done- when your 
Ramos and Orhop are united and the evil is driven out-return 
here to me. I will be waiting."
    She nodded, a tear forming in her eye. "Of course I will, 
Cho-Manno. I love you."
    Gerrard asked, "What did he say?"
    Smiling through her sadness, Orim replied, "He said that 
my destiny lies with Weatherlight for a time, but that I will 
return to him. This he has foreseen."
    When she translated the question, Cho-Manno drew from his 
robe a small vial. He dripped a few drops of clear water onto 
his palm. Then he lifted his hand and touched Gerrard's 
forehead.
    The Benalian felt a small, cold shock.
    Cho-Manno withdrew his hand. "This," he said, and Orim 
relayed the words, "is water from the Navel of the World. Of 
this, Orim may have spoken to you. I do not know your destiny, 
Gerrard. Your future stands at a place where many paths cross, 
and I cannot see which way you will take. But in dark moments, 
think of the Navel of the World, and you will find comfort."
    "I will. Thank you," Gerrard said. He turned toward 
Atalla. "And what of you? I understand your courage has earned 
you enough money for your own flying ship."
    Atalla flashed a ready smile, and he shrugged. "I'd rather 
use the money to help the farm. With the coming reforms, we 
should be able to bring back the forest and reintroduce water 
to the plains. With money, hard work, and courage, we can turn 
these dust flats into rich farmland."
    Gerrard laughed. "And I thought you were so much like me-
an adventurer at heart."
    "I am," Atalla replied without guile. "I just choose to 
find my adventure here."
    "Excellent," Gerrard said, extending his hand.
    Atalla looked puzzled for a moment, and then took his 
hand. Cho-Manno added his grip, and Orim hers. For a moment 
they stood still and silent.
    Gerrard broke away. He turned and grasped a rope that 
dangled from Weatherlight's rail. With an easy, hand-over-hand 
motion, he drew himself up onto the deck of Weatherlight.
    Orim lifted her hand as well. With a single, lingering 
kiss, she bid farewell to Cho-Manno. Turning, she grasped the 
rope and rose with the same rapid ease as Gerrard. She climbed 
to the deck next to him. Side by side, they lifted their hands 
in a gesture of farewell to the two figures standing below.
    "Well, I had best get to the sickbay," Orim said, her 
voice heavy with regret. "Squee is still not fully recovered 
from his ordeal."
    "Or perhaps he's milking it for all it's worth." Gerrard 
chuckled. He noticed Orim's tears. "Ah, well, he's earned it."
    She gave a sad smile and said nothing, only staring down 
toward Cho-Manno.
    "You will return," Gerrard said seriously. "I have 
foreseen it."
    Orim nodded. "Thanks." With a last look, she strode toward 
sickbay.
    Gerrard meanwhile made his way to the bridge. As he 
entered, Hanna smiled from her place at the navigation desk. 
At the helm, Sisay gave a brief nod. Tahngarth lurked nearby.
    Gerrard nodded. "Let's go."
    Sisay spoke into the tube, "Full ahead, Karn. Stand by to 
planeshift."
    "Take us home, Sisay," Gerrard said. "Take us to 
Dominaria."

                          * * * * *

    Atalla watched the great ship slowly lift away from the 
hillside. It shrank as it accelerated. The air before it 
seemed to shimmer and bend. Then, as smoothly as a fish 
gliding through a still pool, Weatherlight disappeared into 
the clear heavens, which closed behind it with a boom.
    Atalla smiled and remembered the night when he first saw 
the ship that flew.