INVASION mtg-1

by J. Robert King

  "Peace!" Gerrard shouted in a voice that sounded like war.

  With massive grace, the ship edged out over the elegant turrets of Benalia City. Pennants snapped above hipped gables. Among colonnades of limestone stood gaping dignitaries, their robes hanging in mute amazement from their arms. The whole city blinked in wonder and a little fear.

  Gerrard drew a deep breath and listened for the sound of hull-staving bolts. No such traumas came from beyond, but from within… a great blast from the engine room sent a jet of fire out of the manifolds.

  Folk in the marketplace below shouted. A single anxious quarrel leaped up. It cracked off the rail beside Gerrard and tumbled away. It was the only shot fired. The other archers held their attacks, and the white-garbed civilians in the marketplace held their breaths.

  Weatherlight had found her haven, uneasy though it was. Landing spines jutted from her hull and reached for the cobbled courtyard. She cast a deep shadow over the stones. An apple seller scrambled to wheel her cart out of the way. Apples hopped off the shuddering conveyance like children leaping from a hay wagon.

  The courtyard, once thronging with buyers and sellers, was now empty of everyone except a single, wizened madman. Shabby in gray robes, he had been proclaiming death from the skies. The great, smoky airship nicely fulfilled his prophecies. That was not why he remained. Eyes wrapped in a kerchief, the blind man simply did not realize Weatherlight was about to settle atop him.

  From beneath a broad-brimmed hat, the man continued his lament, "… monsters more hideous than creatures in a child's nightmare. Ancient, evil, twisted, bent on destroying all that is fair and beautiful. They think this world is theirs. They think we are the usurpers. They want to kill us, every last one. They think they save us, but they will kill the weakest and enslave the strongest and change us into monsters. They will change you! And you! And you!" The blind man pointed accusingly. His gnarled fingers failed to indicate anyone in the empty courtyard. "Arm yourselves, Benalia! Arm yourselves! Each of us shall have to fight, even the aged, the blind, the mad-and I am all three!" He laughed dryly, the sound ending in a hacking cough.

  Only then did the blind man notice the huge ship, hissing as it settled on its landing spines. He didn't seem to hear it but rather to feel the sudden shade it cast on his shoulders. A look of puzzlement puckered his old lips. The hull gently shoved his back. He staggered forward as the ship stopped just short of crushing him.

  Turning angrily, the old man pushed at the side of the ship. "Watch your wagon, good sir! Give me room!"

  Grim-faced soldiers marched up in a line behind the man. Boots cracked smartly against the stones. Cocked crossbows set an uneasy whine in the air.

  The blind seer turned, lips white with anger. "What is this? You come to haul me away? My warnings are disbelieved? The truth teller goes to prison?" He held out his arms in melodramatic surrender.

  The captain of the guard glared past the madman to the rail of the airship. "Ho, there! Give account! Who are you, and what is this… thing? What is your purpose?"

  A wry laugh came from above. Gerrard set one booted foot on the rail, leaned on his knee, and smiled. "I am Gerrard Capashen, scion of the first house." He rolled up his left sleeve, displaying the Capashen tattoo-a tower with seven windows. "I learned to fight there, in the lower yard, and I learned to tryst there, in the grotto. This is Weatherlight, ancient airship and Benalia's greatest defender. My purpose is to defend you in the coming war."

  "Defend us? Against whom?" asked the guard captain.

  "The monsters from the skies!" the blind man cried. "I have told you over and over, but you will not believe."

  "Shut up, old man," the guard advised.

  Gerrard snorted. "He's right, in fact. This blind man does see something. Yes, there is an invasion underway- beasts falling on us from the skies. Return to your homes. Arm yourselves. Every house must become a fortification, every person a warrior."

  The guard captain spat into the dirt. He glanced at the blind seer. "Is this sky-flying lunatic your son?"

  Patting Weatherlight's hull, the wizened man said, "Well, why not?"

  "I demand an audience with the chief of the Capashen Clan. I demand to address the chiefs of the seven clans."

  "All right, come down here, Gerrard Capashen," the guard captain said, motioning. "And bring your command crew."

  Gerrard called into the speaking tube, summoning his crew. Sisay, Hanna, and the others left their posts, heading fore.

  "Make it fast," the guard captain barked.

  A line snaked down from the rail. Gerrard slid easily down it. Tahngarth, Sisay, Orim, and Hanna followed quickly afterward.

  "Don't forget Squee!" came a call from above. The green fellow followed his comrades down.

  "We won't forget you," the guard captain promised as his men seized Gerrard.

  Commander Capashen reached for his sword, but already it was raked from its scabbard. He tried to drag loose his thigh daggers, but three men held each of his arms. Next moment, irons clapped in place, and he was driven to his knees.

  Sisay, Hanna, and Orim were similarly overwhelmed.

  Tahngarth hurled back the men that swarmed him. He drew a curve-bladed striva from his shoulder harness and swung it around him, clearing space.

  Beneath the leaping blade darted Squee, who ran headlong into the minotaur's leg and clung there piteously. Tahngarth roared, shaking off the clinging creature. Gathering his courage, Squee turned and held up his hands in a pale imitation of a martial master. He even managed a small roar of his own.

  The minotaur kept the ship to his back as he eyed the soldiers. "What is the meaning of this?"

  The guard captain rubbed a clean-shaven chin. He seemed to take Tahngarth's measure. "This man here is a deserter from the army of Benalia. I am taking him prisoner. Perhaps deserters are not dishonored among minotaurs."

  A hissing growl was Tahngarth's only response.

  "Then surely you will not oppose the rightful arrest of this man."

  "What of the others?" Tahngarth rumbled.

  "Would your… people allow a fully manned warship to remain in the center of one of your cities?"

  Tahngarth changed the subject. "My commander speaks the truth of the coming invasion. We have fought these beasts. You must listen to him."

  "We will determine that. Gerrard Capashen will have his audience with his clan chief, but until then, he and his crew will wait in safety."

  The white cast of Tahngarth's knuckles on the striva handles told of his mood.

  Gerrard nodded to him. "Tahngarth, please. These are my people. You can't fight them. We'll sort this out, and I'll owe you." "You bet you will," said the minotaur as he surrendered his striva and submitted his wrists to be shackled.

  "Squee surrenders too," announced the goblin, lifting his hands and falling to his knees. Benalish soldiers chained him and then ascended to round up the rest of the crew.

  The blind seer growled as his own shackles clicked into place.

  "At least I'll have some company, for a change."

  * * * * *

  The Benalish military brig had the same grand reserve as the city above-slim but strong bars, efficiently arranged cells, guards as decorous as statues. It was a familiar place for Gerrard. The city had taught him to fight and tryst and defy authority. It also taught him the consequences.

  "It's urgent you deliver my message to Chief Raddeus!" Gerrard demanded.

  The guard captain smiled humorlessly. "Oh, he'll be notified." He clanged the doors closed on Gerrard and his crew.

  "It's urgent! Thousands of plague ships are descending even now!" Gerrard insisted as he clung to the bars.

  "Tell them about the monsters," urged the blind seer. "Tell them about the monsters!"

  "Quiet!" Gerrard shouted. It didn't matter. The guard captain was already gone.

  Flinging up his hands in resignation, Gerrard turned and set his back against the bars. "Why did I think I needed to warn them?"
He sank down to sit on the ground.

  "A familiar complaint," the blind seer replied. He felt his way forward. "How did you find out about the monsters?"

  Gerrard waved a dismissal. "It's a long story."

  The old man sat down. His face was fully shadowed by the broad-brimmed hat he wore. "We have time."

  Drawing an angry breath, Gerrard said, "I've known about them forever, even before I knew what to call them. I used to blame the 'Lord of the Wastes' for everything the Phyrexians did to me. Now I know better."

  "Everything they did to you?"

  "Yes," Gerrard replied. "I know this sounds crazy, but everything I've lost in my life, the Phyrexians have taken from me: my true parents, my foster parents, my brother Vuel, my Legacy, my friends… Now they want to take the rest." He grasped Hanna's hand and drew her toward him, wrapping her in an embrace. "They would take Hanna, here, and my crew-Weatherlight, Benalia, Dominaria. I won't let them. I'll fight for every last one. I would rather lose myself to the Phyrexians than lose anything else to them."

  "Don't be too eager to lose yourself," the blind seer warned.

  Gerrard turned his gaze on the old man. "So, you really see visions?"

  The old man's mouth was grim beneath the bandage that wrapped his eyes. "There are two kinds of blindness- not seeing anything and seeing everything. I am blind because I see everything."

  "You see everything?" Gerrard snorted. "How come you don't know anything about me?"

  "If I focus, I could probably tell you all about yourself."

  "Right," Gerrard replied. "How about you focus on whether we're going to win this war?"

  The man took a deep breath. "There are some things even I cannot see."

  Chapter 5

  Losing Battles

  Like gnats swarming dragon-flies, Metathran hoppers buzzed Phyrexian cruisers.

  Fast, maneuverable, light-hoppers were spheres of glass and polished metal that shrugged off ray cannon fire and plasma bolts. Small metallic wings jutted from all sides, hinged to fold against the craft except when needed. Hoppers could turn in midair, could fly sideways or toponward and could fire exploding quarrels from any of twelve ports. A well-placed shot from a hopper could gouge a ten-foot hole in the outer armor of a cruiser. Hopper pilots were strapped to the central node of their craft, allowing them to pivot through two hundred ninety degrees. They used their fingers and toes to access the controls that filled the cockpit. Pilots divided their attention between strafing runs, vector targeting, and chamber reloads. Short, wiry, fearless, and focused, they were bred for this task. Unlike Metathran ground troops, fliers were not towers of muscle. If Urza had time, he would have given them hollow bones like birds.

  "Form up!" Barrin shouted, signaling from the back of his dragon engine.

  A swarm of hoppers responded eagerly to his signal.

  Trailing these frenetic ships were angel platoons. Their long white pinions carved the air with a slow grace that the hoppers lacked. Still, these creatures were anything but slow. With one surge of their wings, the Serran angels overtook the hoppers. Magna swords-halfway between sabers and cleavers-glinted in their hands, and featureless metal masks covered angelic faces. These otherworldly creatures were refugees of a collapsed plane. They owed their very lives to Urza and Barrin and would likely repay that debt today.

  Barrin signaled for a strafing run. Clutching the wire mane of the dragon engine, he crouched above the creature's neck and sent it into an arrow-straight dive.

  The hoppers and angels flocked afterward.

  Below, a dozen Phyrexian ships cruised above the Benalish plain. A dozen more lay in wreckage amid burning grasses. If even one craft landed safely, more than grass would burn. Each vessel carried an army of Phyrexians. The huge ship in the midst of the armada carried something even worse-plague. In gray, putrid clouds, contagion cascaded slowly from the craft. Disease ate every living thing in the wake of the ship.

  Barrin's dragon engine tucked its wings. It dived. Air shrieked about the plunging beast. Angels and hoppers bobbed in its slipstream. Wings of feather and metal clung tight to their sides. Angels readied their magna swords, and Metathran pilots whirled in a frenzy of preparation.

  The Phyrexian fleet seemed to swell outward, eclipsing the plains. Webs of black energy leaped up from the machines.

  Barrin signaled for the hoppers and angels to execute a topside strafing run on the plague ship. He himself would fly below.

  As the attack squadron approached, hoppers spread their wings. Angels began a piercing song. Their voices woke white magic from the very air. It enveloped them as they shot outward in a long attack.

  A wall of black energy and red plasma rose dead ahead.

  Hoppers punched through, the stuff spattering from polished metal. A few caught the plasma in weak seams or intakes. They disintegrated in midair or gummed up and tumbled from the skies.

  The angels were untouched. They sang the music of the spheres, which burned away all that was impure. Joining their gleaming comrades beyond, they swarmed down on the plague ship.

  Hoppers sent exploding quarrels into the side of the ship. Crimson fire scooped out sections of hull and engine. Phyrexian limbs and skulls hailed from the blast sites. Angels severed power conduits, bringing geysers of energy spewing from the ship. White smoke belched out all around.

  For all their success, though, the hoppers and Serrans were merely bees stinging a mammoth. They could nettle it but not kill it.

  Barrin lost sight of the squadron. His dragon engine swooped beneath the plague ship. He prepared a spell. White energies crawled down his arms. Drawing them through the air, he garbed himself in a suit of scintillating lightning-and only just in time. Clouds of plague rolled up around him. The air crawled with contagion. It pressed upon the envelope of energy around Barrin and hissed on the metal skin of the dragon engine.

  Barrin stared up through the death cloud. It grew more dense ahead. He was approaching the main plague port beneath the ship. Its shaft would lead directly to the disease banks. It was Barrin's target. If he could send a blast up through the main plague port, he could purge the disease. What blast, though? A fireball or lightning strike would only spread the contagion. Barrin gathered white power from the vast plains below. He had intended these spells for the wounded after the battle, enough for a thousand Metathran warriors. Better to use them to save millions of civilians.

  A ball of white power filled his hands. It grew incandescent there in the midst of the plague cloud. Sensing the spewing port above, Barrin hurled the sphere upward. It disappeared. A bright flash pierced the cloud, showing up the lip of the port. Moments later, the healing spell smashed within the plague channels. Another burst of light showed mana energy scouring the knobby mechanisms within.

  "I've still got it," Barrin croaked wearily as the dragon engine carried him out from beneath the plague ship. They broke from the cloud.

  Healing magic gushed from the plague ship. White energy overtook black disease. The spell that had sterilized the ship now cleansed the air beneath it.

  Barrin clung to the dragon engine. That vast conglomerate spell had exhausted him, but it had worked. It had saved millions.

  As the metal dragon soared out into clear sky, the plague ship dipped. Smoke poured out of it. The hoppers and Serrans had done their work. Wounds gaped across the horn-studded flanks of the ship. Listing slowly, the vessel slumped. It spiraled, a log in a whirlpool. Phyrexians were flung from its deck. They fell, writhing in air. The ship also fell. It keeled over, the empty plague port yawning one last time. A pair of bony masts struck ground first and dug deep furrows before snapping off. The fuselage followed. Decks cracked away. Engines exploded in long lines. Twin pillars of smoke shot up into mushroom clouds.

  Barrin allowed himself a tired laugh. It had been an unconventional salvation but a salvation still.

  His silent satisfaction ended too soon. Above the laboring wings of the dragon, he glimpsed another plague ship emerg
ing from the portal. The Phyrexians were evidently shifting their forces from the portals Gerrard had shut down.

  "Where's Urza?" Barrin hissed under his breath. "What business could be so pressing elsewhere?"

  He knew he should not have been surprised. Urza had often left him to fight overwhelming odds. There was a time on Tolaria when Barrin had led an army of young students and old scholars against hordes of Phyrexians-all without Urza's aid. He had nearly lost that war. It was as though Urza would not fight a losing battle. He left those to the capable hands of the mage master.

  Barrin thought of his wife, Rayne-another losing battle. Her death had ripped his heart out. It was almost a relief to fight Phyrexians. It was easier to close a hole in the sky than a hole in the soul.

  Barrin stood in the saddle, signaling for the Metathran hoppers and Serran angels to form up behind him. They came with their customary alacrity. He drove his dragon engine up toward the plague ship. Perhaps he could muster another set of healing spells. Perhaps he could clog the contagion channels.

  Perhaps it didn't matter. The Battle of Benalia might well be a losing one.

  While Barrin fought to close the hole in the heavens, Phyrexian cruisers soared out across the ground, heading for distant Benalia City.

  * * * * *

  Beyond waving heads of grain rose columns of smoke. They vented from new mountains, hulking on the horizon. Those steaming peaks were not volcanic but Phyrexian- mountains that had fallen from the sky.

  More mountains still soared there. Twelve Phyrexian cruisers glided above the grasslands. Stalks of grain trembled in their vast shadows. The underbellies of the ships were flat and plated, almost crocodilian. As quiet as predators, they coursed over the plains, seeking a spot to deploy.

  Twenty miles beyond the portal, the cruisers fanned out across a wide field. They hovered until each of the twelve craft had reached its place in the giant arc. Sending forth sudden jets of steam, they eased themselves to ground. Grasses bent and crackled. The final impact of each ship shook Benalia. It was as though twelve gods had set foot on the world. Gigantic doors dropped outward, forming ramps. At the top of them were poised Phyrexian legions, ready to deploy.