INVASION mtg-1

by J. Robert King

  The feast spread through the eight treetops where once the

  Staprion Elfhame had extended. Every last bit of corruption had been scoured away. Many boughs were bared to their quick. Tender new bark struggled to close exposed sections. With the aid of Multani, branches budded, leaves fanned into air. Vine networks sent tendrils to the ruined reaches. Sunlight streamed into the ancient heart of the wood.

  What remained of the former palace was pulled down and fashioned into an altar and shrine for those who had fallen. Elves whose hollows were destroyed wove hanging nests of aerial roots. Giant spiders lent their spinnerets to string gossamer highways through the canopy.

  Perhaps Llanowar would never be the same. Perhaps it would be better. All of it was because of three foreigners- one from a different forest, another from a different nation, and a third from a different world.

  Multani, Gerrard, and Eladamri stood side-by-side on a lofted curve of high bough. The noontime sun warmed their shoulders. Below, in the broad lap of the tree, thronged the survivors of Staprion. On thread-ways to either side lingered the faithful of Jubilar. Other elves, farther out on the adjacent trees, had arrived from as far away as Kelfae and Hedressel. All had come to glimpse the elf rumored to be the Seed of Freyalise and to observe his strange and powerful comrades from afar. All had come to cheer and revel.

  The adulation had given the men little chance to trade words. Since reaching this overlook, they had been busy with hand-waving, smiling, and nodding.

  Gerrard was unwilling to delay longer. He reached out to Multani, a hand of flesh grasping a hand of vine. The crowd loved the gesture, their roars vaulting gladly up.

  Over the uproar, Gerrard said, "I am glad, after all these years, to know that you live, Master Multani."

  The green-man smiled, snail-shell teeth showing between rose-petal lips. "It is no easy thing to kill a marosorcerer. We don and doff our bodies as you do your clothes. I will not die, not truly, while Yavimaya yet lives."

  Nodding in realization, Gerrard said, "Very truly, then, the last months brought you near to death."

  "Yes," Multani replied. His eyes-twin fish swimming in socket-pools-flickered in remembered pain. "The Battle of Yavimaya is won, as is the Battle of Llanowar, thanks to you and Eladamri."

  Eladamri turned to his comrades, clasping their hands. Again, the revelers cried out gladly.

  "I am only a tool of higher powers," said Eladamri humbly.

  "As are we all," Gerrard said with a laugh.

  "As are we all," Multani agreed. "Still, Llanowar owes you both a great debt."

  Drawing a deep breath, Gerrard said, "I would like to collect on that debt." His two companions looked surprised, but Gerrard waved away their concern. "It is the smallest of prices for you and the forest but the dearest treasure I could beg."

  Eladamri stared seriously at his friend. "Whatever you ask."

  "Whatever is in our power."

  "It is in your power," Gerrard said. "Take us to Weatherlight. I will explain there."

  Without a moment's pause, Multani's viny arms reached out around his companions, encircling them. More stalks and stems insinuated themselves through the framework of the nature spirit. His body grew. Long arms branched from his shoulders. Tendrils reached up to encircle boughs overhead. Multani pulled free of the overlook where they stood. Brachiating beneath the overhanging branches, Multani carried the two saviors of Llanowar over the head of the crowd.

  Below, the people cried out in thrilled amazement.

  Multani seemed a spider dangling from his thousand legs and picking his patient way across the canopy.

  Ahead, Weatherlight rested in the broad crook of a quosumic tree. Even at midday, the ship gleamed like a jewel box. In addition to running-lanterns, she had been decked with festive lights for the celebration. The prison brigade thronged the deck, quaffing elven wine and cheering. A contingent of once-xenophobic Steal Leaf warriors had joined them, trading war stories. Above it all, in the noontime skies, the Benalian aerial armada swarmed. They seemed almost living fireworks, circling joyously.

  With strange solemnity, Multani bore Gerrard and Eladamri toward the festive folk.

  As they approached, the cheers and oaths quieted. Wine jacks ceased rising to lips, which in turn grew respectfully still. Everyone aboard Weatherlight knew the weight on Gerrard's heart. They knew the boon he would ask of Multani and Eladamri. The crowd separated as the green-man arrived.

  Multani lowered himself into the midst of the people and released his passengers.

  Gerrard set his boots to the familiar planks. "Below," he said simply. He gestured toward the hatch and led the way downward.

  Grim jawed, Eladamri followed. On legs of twining wood, Multani shuffled after. They descended into the ship's deserted companionways, down to a single room that glowed with lantern light. Though it held numerous bunks, all were empty save one. In a chair beside the bunk, Orim the healer lingered. Her eyes were tired beneath black, coin-coifed hair. Tawny hands moved fretfully along the sheets.

  Another woman lay beneath those sheets-this one a seeming skeleton. Her face was drawn and bone white. Her closed eyelids were gray. Even her thin lips were taut with pain, making a death's-head grimace.

  Gerrard went to his knees as if his legs had been cut from beneath him. He clutched her hand-as light and curled as a dead twig.

  "Hanna. Can you hear me? I've brought some friends, a savior and… and a god."

  Eladamri's eyes were dark beneath his lifted eyebrows. Multani lingered in silence just behind him.

  "They are going to take you to a place where you can be healed. Caves beneath the forest. Thousands were healed there, healed with a touch. They're going to take us down where you'll be made whole again."

  Swallowing grimly, Eladamri said, "You must understand, Gerrard, it is a matter of belief. The caves make belief real."

  Gerrard's gaze was bright with anger. "I'll believe you. I'll believe anything. Just make her well."

  "Yes," Eladamri replied heavily. "If there are greater powers at work in us, she will be healed."

  There were no more words to say after that. Multani stooped. Every fibrous stalk grew a sudden silky down across it. His fingers opened in milkweed pods. His arms became a cottonwood blanket. Tenderly, he reached beneath Hanna's still form and lifted her in her draping sheets.

  "She is so light," Multani murmured before he could stop himself.

  Gerrard's eyes clouded. "Take her ahead of us. Eladamri will lead us-Orim and I-down to the caves. Take her and let the caves work on her. Let them begin their work." A tragic hope lit his face. "If there is justice in the multiverse, she'll greet me herself when I get there."

  Wordlessly, Multani bore Hanna from Weatherlight's sick bay. He climbed to the deck, followed by Gerrard, Eladamri, and Orim.

  Silence surrounded them. If the three men were the saviors of Llanowar, the woman they bore in their midst- skeletal within her pure white sheets-was the martyr. The ravages of plague were painted plain across her, and yet her former beauty shone through. That she was Gerrard's love was whispered among the prison brigade and the Steel Leaf elves. One by one, the revelers went to their knees-one by one and then ten by ten. They saw on Hanna's face the daughters and sisters and mothers they themselves had lost.

  Tendrils sprouted from Multani, catching hold of a nearby network of vines. Without pause, he drew himself and Hanna smoothly over the rail and began his descent.

  Gerrard watched, his gaze dipping lower and lower until she disappeared from sight. A shuddering breath moved through him.

  A hand settled on his shoulder, startling him. He turned, seeing Eladamri's solemn face-prominent nose and chin, eyes profound and piercing. It was no wonder the elves saw a leader in this man.

  "Choose the ten who believe most in you. I will take Liin Sivi and the nine who believe most in me. Their faith will help."

  Nodding numbly, Gerrard leaned on the rail, staring.

  "I would
be… honored to be included in the company," came a solemn rumble at his side. Gerrard looked up to see Tahngarth, no more than a looming shadow in that bright company.

  Once, the minotaur had considered Gerrard a spoiled, selfish, and angry young man. Somewhere along the line, the bull-man's opinion had changed-perhaps because Gerrard had changed.

  He clutched the minotaur's four-fingered hand. "I would be honored."

  "You'd have to drive me off with a stick," Sisay volunteered, coming up behind the minotaur.

  "Squee too," the goblin said on his other side. He crouched back from Gerrard's desolated stare, lifting his hand as though he expected a stick to fall any moment.

  "Sisay, Squee, Orim, Tahngarth-yes, thank you all," Gerrard said gratefully.

  Something massive moved among the kneeling soldiers. They scurried up and back. A gasp went through the group. In their midst rose a steaming specter. Hissing heat peeled away from muscles of silver.

  "Would anyone like a shoulder ride?" Karn asked.

  * * * * *

  Gerrard, Eladamri, and their comrades descended within the Palace Tree. They gradually left behind the sounds of festival. First came the creak of growing wood, then the slosh of subterranean seas beyond the root walls. At last, only stone silence remained.

  All the while, the party's lanterns bathed the tortuous descent in flickering light. Ragged splinters jutted from every wall. Giant cobwebs laced the spiraling way. The corpses had been removed, but still it was a haunted place.

  Eladamri abjured the company to banish doubt and embrace hope. He sang a cycle of elven songs. His folk joined him, all but the ever-watchful Liin Sivi.

  Gerrard and Weatherlight's command crew meanwhile traded stories of their travels-of Hanna steering the ship past the Rathi slivers, of her heroism inside the Stronghold, of her encyclopedic understanding of Weatherlight, of her pinpoint navigation, her shy wit, her laughter. They spoke of courage, strength, and wisdom, not illness or death.

  At last, the way opened. Eladamri's songs grew only louder as he progressed beneath a series of ribbed archways and down into the Dreaming Caves. Beautiful visions flowed from the singers' mouths and coiled in air around them.

  Eladamri lifted his lantern. The light reached out across the cavern and splashed tepidly over a figure below.

  Multani had formed himself into a great, woody altar, cradling the sick woman. Hanna seemed a figure laid on a pyre. It was clear she had not healed a whit.

  Gerrard stopped in his tracks, panting. He closed his eyes and stooped, setting hands on his knees as if he had been struck in the belly.

  Eladamri approached. "You must bring her back, Gerrard. Bring her into our minds-whole and healthy and happy."

  Breath hitching in him, Gerrard stood. A manic light came to his face. He smiled a cheerless smile. He raised the wick of his lantern so that his face glared brilliantly.

  "Have I told you, Eladamri, of the woman I love?"

  An approving look came into the elf's eyes. "No. Not nearly enough. Tell me about her."

  "She has the most beautiful hair," Gerrard said, blinking. "The color of wheat-spun gold. She doesn't ever do anything with it. She just pins it back out of her way. She doesn't have to do anything with it-"

  "She puts grease in it," Squee blurted.

  Gerrard laughed, a little too harshly. "Yes, bearing grease and engine oil and soot from a coal box-this is her makeup kit. She always looks great." Images of Hanna formed in the air-her smile, her glad eyes, her lithe figure kneeling beside some hunk of hardware.

  "Yes," Eladamri said. "I see her. Tell me more."

  Gerrard grasped Eladamri's shoulders and said fervently. "Did I tell you she saved my life on Mercadia? She pretended to be an elevator mechanic. Dressed up in Mercadian laborer's clothes. She tried to make herself look fat and grubby, but she's too tall, too statuesque, and even with grease and soot she's about the cleanest looking creature in the multiverse."

  Before Tahngarth's eyes swam visions of that bright day, Hanna and Squee and the boy Atalla plotting to free the captives.

  "More. Tell us more," Eladamri insisted.

  "She sabotaged that cage pretty well. She shut it down for a week. Fact was, next time we left the city, we flew out on wings of cloth, like angels…" Gerrard gagged on his words. He reached out to his comrades. "She's the smartest one on board, don't you think?-trained on Tolaria. Hanna's dad is the Mage Master Barrin, but she outstrips him in artifact knowledge. Remember her rebuilding the engine in Mercadia? Remember her threading the needle over Benalia? Remember?"

  Visions swam brightly before the eyes of the comrades.

  "Come!" Gerrard said. "See for yourselves. Look on her perfect skin, her blushing cheeks-the sweetest smile you ever saw. Come over here, let me show you. So thin and strong, perfect health! Let me introduce you."

  Dragging at Eladamri, Gerrard led the group rapidly, excitedly to the place where Hanna lay. The swarming visions followed them. Airy spirits encircled the woman, caressing her. They seemed at first to be holy raiments and then to be healthy flesh. The mists wrapped her atrophied muscles and filled them out. Belief cloaked her gaunt frame in strength. The grim set of her teeth became a smile, the sunken sockets became bright blue eyes. It was the old

  Hanna-strong and glad and whole.

  "Do you see?" Gerrard shouted. "Do you see?"

  "Yes!" Eladamri replied. "I see!"

  Gerrard slid his hands under Hanna and lifted her. "Do you see!"

  The glamour did not come with her. The delusion of health peeled away from her skin. Misty muscle dissipated to gaunt infirmity. The eyes that had seemed open were closed now, had never opened. Her loveliness was a skull.

  "Oh!" Gerrard said in sudden shock. "Oh!"

  Eladamri clasped his arm. "It's all right. It's all right."

  "No, it's not all right! Nothing is all right!"

  "You did all you could," Eladamri soothed. "Our belief can't heal her-I realize that now. It is only her belief that could heal her. If she could awaken from this coma, she could save herself. Otherwise… You did all you could."

  "Oh!" Gerrard repeated, falling to his knees. He looked up piteously at his comrades. "She is so light!"

  Chapter 28

  Why Heroes Fight

  Thaddeus awoke, pinioned beneath the spider woman Tsabo Tavoc. Her compound eyes gleamed like twin gemstones in her pallid face. Her mouth segments twitched in concentration as she stared down at him. The massive weight of her body pressed on him in eight spike-tipped feet. Above her head, a smooth rock ceiling gleamed with myriad lanterns. They sent tendrils of smoke up across the wall to gather and coil in the vault. The swirling soot made a black halo above the spider woman's head.

  "He awakens," she said in Phyrexian.

  From birth, Thaddeus had learned languages both human and inhuman. He was fluent in Thrannish and so could parse out Phyrexian.

  A seeming smile formed across the segments of Tsabo Tavoc's mouth. She withdrew slightly from him. Her fingertips were gory. A scalpel in her hand ran with blood. The red stuff steamed in the cold, wet air of the cave.

  Again came her buggy voice. "How admirable."

  The Phyrexian commander gathered her legs beneath her and shifted away. Her horrible weight remained on him. Only then did he realize it was not she who held him down. Spikes did. Driven through wrists and ankles, shoulders and hips, they pinned him to an examination table.

  Thaddeus bucked on the steely block. Joints pried hopelessly against the heads of the spikes. None budged.

  Thaddeus hissed. He should have been able to rip the spikes out. His arms were somehow unresponsive. An aching weakness filled his chest. Lifting his head, Thaddeus glimpsed the reason.

  His blue flesh lay open to red innards. From the notch in his throat to the ring processes of his pelvis, he had been sliced open. Each layer of living flesh-skin and muscle and tendon-had been meticulously flayed back one by one. Pins identified important structures. Simil
ar tags rested on his organs. Numbered slips of paper clung to his liver, his spleen, pancreas, stomach, viscera. Tsabo Tavoc had even sawn away one after another of his ribs, revealing gray lungs and flailing heart.

  "Do you see how quickly he discerns his condition?" Tsabo Tavoc asked, her voice buzzing. She approached. The gory scalpel twirled deftly in her grasp. "Awake but moments, and he understands what we are doing here, understands he will never again be whole. He will die, and he knows it. See how quickly he calms? Truly, he is the pinnacle of humanity."

  Thaddeus tried to respond. All that emerged was a red spray across his throat. He could produce no sound, could feel no breath between his lips.

  Tsabo Tavoc loomed up above him. "Are you missing something?" she asked, holding up a larynx. "Quite a costly contrivance, this. A descended voice-box allows you to speak, but at risk of choking. It is too bad your master felt so tied to human physiology, retaining such weaknesses as this. Of course, you needn't worry about choking anymore."

  Approving hisses rose from figures packed around the edges of the cavern.

  Turning his head, Thaddeus peered past dissection carts and experimental apparatuses to glimpse the watchers. Red-robed vat priests stood five rows thick around the cavern. They leaned avidly toward Thaddeus. Their eyes gleamed beneath the folds of their hoods. Desiccated flesh clung to skull-like heads. Scabrous hands hung loose beneath priestly sleeves.

  Tsabo Tavoc made a long slice in Thaddeus's thigh.

  He twitched as each successive neuron was severed. His eyes rolled in his head. He would not have cried out even if he had the vocal cords to do so, but a raking sigh emerged from the stoma in his throat.

  "Here, though, is significant improvement," Tsabo Tavoc said, neatly drawing back folds of skin to reveal muscles and their neural networks. "Do you see the myelin sheaths on these nerve bundles? They speed impulse. This nerve cluster travels to the base of the spine, where lies the cortex that processes sensory and motor information for the legs. At the base of the spine rests the innovation- a second cerebellum encased in the coccyx. It speeds response time, allowing Metathran extraordinary agility. It also prevents paraplegia. A Metathran can fight on, despite a broken back. A similar though smaller node controls the arms."