MERCADIAN 
MASQUES 


MASQUERADE CYCLE • BOOK I 

Francis Lebaron 

®

Fancis Lebaron 

Book I 


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Mercadian Masques 

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 

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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 

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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?" 

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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— 

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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." 

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"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 

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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?" 

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"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." 

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"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. 

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"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 

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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. 

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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, 

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"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. 

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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 

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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. 

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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. 

17 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

18 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

19 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

20 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

21 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

22 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

23 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

24 



Fancis Lebaron 

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, 

25 



Mercadian Masques 

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." 

26 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

27 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

28 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 

29 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

30 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 ... 

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Mercadian Masques 

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 

32 



Fancis Lebaron 

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...." 

33 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

34 



Fancis Lebaron 

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?" 

35 



Mercadian Masques 

"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 ?" 

36 



Fancis Lebaron 

"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—" 

37 



Mercadian Masques 

"—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. 

38 



Fancis Lebaron 

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—" 

39 



Mercadian Masques 

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 catcreature'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. 

40 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

41 



Mercadian Masques 

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." 

42 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 

43 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

44 



Fancis Lebaron 

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?" 

45 



Mercadian Masques 

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." 

46 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 

47 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

48 



Fancis Lebaron 

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." 

49 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

50 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

51 



Mercadian Masques 

"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 

52 



Fancis Lebaron 

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." 

53 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

54 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 

55 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

56 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 

57 



Mercadian Masques 

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 ... 

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Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

59 



Mercadian Masques 

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 

60 



Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

61 



Mercadian Masques 

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, 

62 



Fancis Lebaron 

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." 

63 



Mercadian Masques 

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. 

64 



Fancis Lebaron 

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 

65 



Mercadian Masques 

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." 

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"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 

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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." 

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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." 

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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, 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." 

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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 

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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 

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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. IsShada'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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 IsShada'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 

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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?" 

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"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 

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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." 

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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, 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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." 

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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. 

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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 

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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 headhunters. 
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 

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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." 

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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. 

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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?" 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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." 

* * * * * 

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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?" 

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Mercadian Masques 

"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 

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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. 

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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." 

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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." 

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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


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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, IsMeisha'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 IsMeisha'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 

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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?" 

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"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 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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. 

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"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." 

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Cho-Manno cupped her chin in his hand. "I was about 
to say the same of you." Their kiss warmed the chill 
morning. 

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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 

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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. 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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"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. 

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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. 

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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." 

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"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.'" 

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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. 

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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." 

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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. 

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"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...." 

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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 

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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?" 

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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!" 

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"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." 

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"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." 

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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." 

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Book II 


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Mercadian Masques 

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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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?" 

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"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 

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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. 

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Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

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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. 

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"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? 

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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— 

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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!" 

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Mercadian Masques 

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!" 

* * * * * 

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Fancis Lebaron 

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 

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Mercadian Masques 

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. 

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Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

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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." 

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Fancis Lebaron 

"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." 

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Mercadian Masques 

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. 

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Fancis Lebaron 

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. 

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"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. 

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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. 

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"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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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?" 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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, 

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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." 

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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." 

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"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?" 

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"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. 

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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?" 

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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." 

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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." 

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"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 

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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." 

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* * * * * 

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 

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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 

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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. 

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Tahngarth was massive, but Gerrard was quicker and 
lighter on his feet. The Benalian had trained in hand-tohand 
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." 

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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, 

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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. 

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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 

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above or swim the streets below. Hanna stood on dry land, 
yes, but it was dry land poised atop—and beneath—everpresent 
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. 

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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 

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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." 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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"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 

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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 

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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. 

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"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. 

* * * * * 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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!" 

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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 

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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." 

* * * * * 

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"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?" 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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." 

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"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 ..." 

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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." 

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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. 

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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 

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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. 

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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, 

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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 

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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—" 

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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. 

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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. 

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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 

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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." 

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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 

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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. 

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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. 

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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?" 

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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 

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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. 

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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, 

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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. 

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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-toface. 
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." 

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"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. 

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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. 

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"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-tohouse 
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 

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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." 

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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 

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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 ChoManno'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. 

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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 ..." 

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Book III 


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Mercadian Masques 

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 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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." 

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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. 

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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 

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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. 

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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. 

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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." 

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"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. 

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"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—" 

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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 crewman, 
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 

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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." 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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, 

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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. 

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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. 

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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 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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." 

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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 

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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. 

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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, 

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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, 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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." 

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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 

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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 

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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." 

* * * * * 

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By morning, the pack, the bones, and Takara all were 
gone. 

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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. 

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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. 

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"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 

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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 

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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." 

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"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. 

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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?" 

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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!" 

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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 

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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. 

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* * * * * 

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 

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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. 

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"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 

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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." 

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"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." 

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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!" 

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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 

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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." 

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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. 

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"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. 

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"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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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!" 

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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 

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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 payloads. 
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 

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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 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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!" 

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"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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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!" 

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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-toback 
with Gerrard. The old friends warily watched the 
circle of soldiers tighten. 

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"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. 

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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. 

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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 
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. 

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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. 

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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." 

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"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. 

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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


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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 

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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. 

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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. 

* * * * * 

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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. 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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 ChoManno'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. 

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"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—" 

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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— 

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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!" 

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"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. 

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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. 

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"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. 

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"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 

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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. 

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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." 

* * * * * 

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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 

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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 

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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-overhand 
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." 

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"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. 

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