The Thran

by J. Robert King

  Since then, it had been only agonizing headaches, dizziness, nausea, groans on air so thin and cold that it would hardly carry sound. Yawgmoth had stayed on the flying bridge all the while. Peering past Yataghan’s wreath of sails, he watched the faint ring of engines widen—pale red stars among cold blue constellations.

  Dawn approached, gray below the east. Halcyon cast a dim shadow westward over the head of the Thran army. The Thran fleet drifted in a slow ring far below, just where they should be. If any Thran looked up, looked straight up, they would see the Phyrexian fleet glinting quietly among the fading stars.

  The fourth-watch flare appeared over Halcyon.

  Yawgmoth’s crews lifted ramps that held the gleaming implosion bombs. The devices tumbled overboard, one at bow, one at stern, and one amidships. Next, payloads of powder bombs rolled free, and then loads of gravel.

  The first implosion bombs exploded below, an awesome ring of perfect gray circles appearing where decks and rigging had been. Smoke from the powder bombs followed. At last, the sound arrived—a small racket here—caving hulls, staved timbers, failing plates, screaming soldiers. Those sounds were borne away by the manifold popping of smoke powder bombs, and they in turn by the roar of rock hailing down.

  Sound lags. Yawgmoth watched the Thran fleet die. Ships rolled over. Fires belched from their decks. They spun, collided, ground together, splintered, plunged. As they spiraled toward the sands, doomed crews stared skyward.

  “Yes…Look at us!” Yawgmoth shouted, though every breath was precious. “See the…gods who slay you!”

  Ship after ship crashed on the sand. Their power cores cracked. They imploded with a new series of blasts. Sand and splinters, bone meal and blood belched up. A red cloud enveloped the whole fleet.

  It was easily enough done, Yawgmoth thought.

  From the cloud emerged Thran ships. Somehow vessels had escaped—many vessels. Perhaps one in three. A hundred warships converged toward the city. They were sheathed in smoke from the vents at their prows.

  Every ray cannon on the wall fired. Streamers of death jabbed from Halcyon. They struck the tightening ring of Thran craft. A few exploded or straggled downward. Most plunged on in their protective sheaths of smoke.

  “Down!” Yawgmoth shouted through the speaking tube to his communications officer. “Every ship, down! Descend to engage!”

  The prow of Yataghan dipped. The great caravel creaked in the thin, frigid air as it nosed toward the ground. Seams stressed open. Hisses sounded. Ghosts of steam emerged from the sealed chambers below. The stern pivoted up, and the ship began a heady plunge toward the Thran ships below.

  “Range?” Yawgmoth shouted as he gripped the rail.

  “Four miles and closing!” the navigator called.

  The rest of the Halcyte ships banked from their positions and soared downward.

  “Speed?”

  “Eighty knots and accelerating.”

  “Intercept?”

  Spokes of orange fire stabbed out from the city. They broke across the Thran ships. Most of the beams tangled with smoke sheaths, dissipating. A few cracked hulls, waking fire and new smoke.

  The Halcyte fleet converged on the tightening hub of Thran fighters.

  “If they get over the city…” Yawgmoth muttered to himself. He shouted, “Time to weapons range?”

  “Three minutes.”

  “Increase speed!”

  The engineer’s voice came hollowly from below, “I’d have to give the engines full power—”

  “Do it!”

  “We might not be able to pull up in time—”

  “Do it!”

  Yataghan leapt down toward the Thran ships.

  “Weapons range?”

  “In thirty seconds.”

  “Increase speed! Ready bow guns. Fire! Fire!”

  Twin beams of orange radiance lanced out from the prow. The bolts seemed to struggle to escape the plunging prow. They roared out, twining in air, and fused into one great blast of energy. The bolt neared a Thran ship. A white puff of smoke rose lazily from the craft and spread thickly above it. The shot struck the cloud, sparking and leaping. It punched through the top layer of smoke, but the tiny particles plucked the radiance from the air. With a bright flash, the smoke cloud was spent, and the beam with it.

  “Fire!”

  Again, the bolts jagged out. Again a puff of smoke dissipated them.

  That’s how it will be then, Yawgmoth thought. His teeth were clenched in an expression half grimace and half grin. That’s how it will be, then.

  “Increase speed! Prepare to ram!”

  A hatch flung back. The engineer—a gray-bearded merchant-turned-warrior—emerged. He stared levelly at Yawgmoth. “We will all die. You cannot order this.”

  “You are relieved of duty,” Yawgmoth said. He clamped down on the engineer’s collar, lifted him, and with one swift and impossibly casual motion, flung him overboard.

  “Increase speed! Prepare to ram.”

  * * *

  —

  Rebbec and a passel of goblins sorted among powerstones in the mana rig’s charging chamber. There would be no other orb cracked while the invasion took place. The mirror arrays were needed to burn away Thran ground troops. Perhaps the stone Rebbec needed would be in this chamber.

  “No, no, that’s a dodecahedron,” she said to the goblin beside her, who held a head-sized stone in his hands. “A control stone has to be an icosahedron—twenty sides, not twelve. Besides, that one is too small.”

  The goblin casually let the stone drop among the others, scratched his head, and clawed through more shards.

  The regular solids were the rarest shapes to come from a crystal orb, and large stones were the most rare of all. The floor was filled with pyramids, obelisks, lozenges, and daggers, but there was not a single icosahedron.

  Sighing, Rebbec let her hands flop. “Let’s try the storage chambers. They wouldn’t use a stone like that for an implosion device. Yawgmoth would have kept it aside.”

  The goblins echoed her sighs.

  “Look, I know this is a chore. I know if we get caught, we could be executed as spies, but if we don’t do this, the whole city could die.”

  Nodding their scabby heads, the goblins followed her into the dark vastness of the mana rig. Rebbec led them between smoldering furnaces in the towering darkness. This place had once been her husband’s sanctuary. Volcanism and the heat of suns, scuttling goblins and artifact creatures—this place had given birth to every great device in the city and to the phthisis. All the torments Halcyon had begun here, and here all the torments of Halcyon would end. The stone she sought was here somewhere—a control stone that could fly the Thran Temple out of this inescapable trap—

  Rebbec fondly patted a goblin on the head.

  “It will be here. We will find it. And I will take you with me.”

  * * *

  —

  Yataghan fell like a meteor on the Thran corsair. The crew looked cringingly upward.

  Yataghan struck. Its steel-edged keel clove through rail and deck and hold. The Thran ship cracked open like an egg. There was a shrieking moment when the sundered decks were even with those of Yataghan. Foes stared levelly into each others’ eyes. Then Yataghan plunged on through the corsair. The two halves of the ship spilled away from each other. The thunder of shattering wood gave way to an eerie quiet. To either side of Yataghan, shorn sections of corsair tumbled.

  “Level out! Climb!” Yawgmoth shouted.

  The engines surged. Groans came from the hull. Yataghan slued sideways, dipped slightly, and then rose again, through the rain of debris and smoke. An exultant whoop rose from the crew.

  “Increase speed. Prepare another ram!”

  Through the speaking tube, the navigator asked, “How did you know our ship would hold together and
theirs break apart?”

  “Simple physics,” Yawgmoth said rapidly. “The hull is a dome. A dome can withstand great pressures on its convex edge but not its concave edge—”

  His explanation was cut short by an orange blast from the city walls above. A cannon ray raked across Yataghan. The speaking tube and the navigator at its other end ceased to be. Amidships flashed away in a roar of flame and smoke. Charred remains—bow and stern—spun crazily, spilling cargo and crew into the whirling air.

  Even as Yawgmoth was thrown from the flying bridge and tumbled into empty air, all he could think was that he would find the gunner who did this and rip out his eyes.

  Moments Later…

  The powerstone armor saved him. Cuisses clutched his legs as tightly as a bug’s carapace and kept them from shattering when his feet hit ground. Cuirasses compressed his torso in a deep exhalation as he rolled down the sandy slope. Helmet and boots flung up banners of sand in long looping swaths around him while he tumbled. Shrapnel followed him in a scouring rain. Bits of Yataghan bombarded the armor and fought to slice into the man within. Glacian’s designs were too perfect, and Yawgmoth was not destined to die that day.

  The tumbling roll ended at the bottom of the bank against a tangle of scrub. An ornate hunk of sextant pattered to a stop beside a complex section of nasal cavity. Among the larger pieces of debris was a Thran officer—likely the captain of the ship he had staved. The man was killed instantly on impact, but he kept rolling for some time, swathed in the white burnoose of the invading armies.

  Yawgmoth stared irritably at the man. He glanced up at the sparking wall of the city above.

  “Rip his eyes out….”

  Though the helmet had saved his life, Yawgmoth hauled the gritty thing from his head and flung it away. It spun atop the sand, took a hop, and landed in the broken arm of the fallen captain. Taking a deep breath, Yawgmoth stood. Dust poured from him. He seemed a ghost rising from the desert. Perhaps the Halcytes would think him slain. Perhaps he would see what they would do in his absence. He strode up the bank and looked back, hoping to see other survivors—enough to form a loyal band.

  Instead, he saw Thran soldiers swarm the mirror arrays. They were as thick as ants on the distant devices. Cudgels and battleaxes fell in the morning light, smashing reflectors even as the sun awakening across them. The array teams and their Phyrexian defenders were overrun, slaughtered. In moments, one whole array was destroyed. Shards of glass made a gaudy spectacle in the sand. Other arrays were falling. Two had been lost during the night. Now the other seven were smashed one by one. That meant no solar gun. That meant no more orbs charged until the war was done. That meant no new powerstone cores, no new implosion bombs, no new ray cannon batteries. It might have ended the war just then for a lesser commander.

  Yawgmoth had stockpiled powerstones, and his greatest weapons were even then being assembled on the second sphere of Phyrexia.

  The Thran bashers concluded their work. Gathering beyond the shattered mirrors, they began a steady march eastward, toward Halcyon. Toward Yawgmoth.

  He descended the sand bank. He would have just enough time to strip the Thran captain of his burnoose and insignias. They would fit well enough over Yawgmoth’s powerstone armor. The rest of the man could be buried, with only his helmeted head jutting from the sand. It would be enough to fool the Thran troops. Yawgmoth would accompany them to the base of the extrusion and begin the climb. He would destroy a whole contingent of the Thran army and rise, resurrected, into his city.

  “And tear the gunner’s eyes out.”

  * * *

  —

  “Lord Yawgmoth’s ship went down,” the breathless courier panted rapidly. She paused, calming her voice. “All hands—and our ruler—are presumed dead.”

  Commander Gix stared out at the garrison of his Phyrexian guard. It would take hours to deploy the ground forces, what with the ruined lift. The Phyrexian steeplejacks, though, could climb to the exit port in minutes. They were amazing fighters, folk with the general body configuration of sloths but the speed of horses. They could gallop across cliff faces as if they were plains. Steeplejacks were smart too. Their human intelligence was quickened by a cannibal wit. They only looked ignorant because of the simian spread of their lower faces, allowing a toothy jaw wide enough to bite off their victims’ heads.

  “Excuse me, Commander. Did you hear? Lord Yawgmoth is presumed dead.”

  “Never presume Yawgmoth dead,” Gix replied levelly. “He is not. I would know. I would sense it.”

  “I was told to await your orders,” the young woman said, dipping her head in apology.

  “My orders—?” Gix began, and then realized he was next in command. “My orders to whom? Who sent you with this message?”

  “The commander of the Halcyte guard, of course.”

  “The commander does not know how to deploy his forces, how to fire his guns, how to drop his bombs?”

  “Of course he does,” stammered the courier. “But he instructed me to ask if Lord Yawgmoth’s presumed…condition might cause a change in military policy.”

  Gix’s eyes flared. “Surrender? The commander of the Halcyte guard wants me to consider surrender?”

  “He only indicates that all options—every option is yours.”

  “He is a coward and a traitor unworthy of his post.” A keen smile filled Gix’s face. “Yes. Every option. My orders are these. The commander of the Halcyte guard must resign immediately. I am taking command of his forces.”

  The courier had nothing to say to that.

  “I am leading my Phyrexian guard into the city. You will accompany us as we ascend. Deliver your message to the commander in my presence. I want you to have a weapon ready. If he does not surrender to my custody, I want you to slay him. He will not be expecting it from you. Understood?”

  “Yes, Commander,” the courier said, eyes lowered. “Permission to speak?”

  “Granted.”

  “What will happen to the commander, sir?”

  Gix’s smile deepened. “Perhaps he can be rehabilitated here in Phyrexia. Perhaps he can become a great Phyrexian warrior. If he does not surrender, you will kill him.”

  “Yes, Commander,” the courier replied, hand on the dagger at her waist.

  “Lord Yawgmoth is no longer presumed dead. My steeplejacks will recover him.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Gix tenderly lifted her head. His own fingers were tipped now with clawlike nails. In her innocent eyes, he saw his reflection—menacing and inhuman. At least there was that smile.

  “Perhaps the commander has no merit, but if you do, my dear, you may well have a place among us.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  * * *

  —

  Yawgmoth climbed among an elite team of elf invaders.

  The elves were accustomed to scaling magnigoth trees, not walls of cold stone. The morning sun cast the west cliff in shadow. These elves would have withered on the east cliff. Here they swarmed like lice. They hoped to reach the summit before midday, when the sun would overtake them and turn the cliff into a skillet.

  Of course, some had no hope of reaching the summit at all—

  “Let go of my ankle! What are you trying to do—?”

  They were rather paltry last words for an elf. These long-lived folk should die with epic poems on their lips. This was the third who died whining. Actually, he didn’t die whining. He merely lost his grip of the rock and fell, whining. Then came a sustained wail with an abrupt end. Whining or wailing—it seemed a poor way to die.

  Yawgmoth paused to watch. The elf became a puff of dust and a little red mark on the ground. Yawgmoth climbed again, using the handholds the elf had used. Good holds were critical. The cliff face leaned outward, which made it difficult climbing but prevented defenders from dropping rocks on their heads. Even the
road that rose up the extrusion avoided this face of stone for lack of footing. It was the obvious choice for a vertical assault, but a difficult climb. Yawgmoth was glad for the powerstone armor breathing deeply for him beneath the burnoose. He was also glad these elves had thought him merely clumsy, stupid, inept—merely human. Otherwise, the three slips that had happened while he was nearby might not have seemed accidents.

  “Dare I attempt a fourth?” Yawgmoth wondered to himself as he climbed a slanting crack. “Why not?”

  His foot dislodged a jagged hunk of basalt. The rock bounded down, catching an elf squarely in the forehead. The impact made a wet crack. Wide green eyes closed. Attenuated fingers slid loose. The elf peeled away from the cliff face just like a leaf from a wall. He tumbled most beautifully of all, laid out fully. The killing stone rested like a rakish crown on his staved forehead.

  “Enough!” came a shrill voice above Yawgmoth. It was an elf warrior woman. She had looped a length of silken rope about a jutting stone and wrapped it around her wrist. Her legs were folded in a crouch against the rock wall, and she glared down at Yawgmoth. “Enough! Move away from us! Ally or not, you humans are so stupid you might as well be agents of—” Her rant broke off. Wide lavender eyes grew wider still. “What is that? Under your burnoose—what is that?”

  Yawgmoth glanced down to see the powerstone armor gleaming beneath the open neck of his robes. He drew the throat closed, sensing other elves climbing up around him.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a souvenir. A trophy, really. I got it from that crashed ship back there. They say this stuff stops arrows and swords and everything.”

  The elf woman’s eyes narrowed, and the emotion behind them shifted. “Souvenirs! Grave robber! Human scum! No wonder you are such a clod. Wearing fifty pounds of armor. Who needs armor on a climb like this?”