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  "Thank you," he gritted.

  "We're almost there," Greven replied. "Shouldn't you open your eyes?"

  "I can see better this way."

  Without the hum of the engines, Predator was alive with seldom-heard sounds-the creak of the masts, the pop of the hull under stress, the odd metallic twang of cables automatically adjusting themselves to changes in tension. In his mind's eye, Ertai saw the yellow cone of the Stronghold loom before him. The magical beam pierced the center of the airship tunnel. Predator entered it at high speed. The slipstream from the interior of the crater blew warm on Ertai's cheek.

  With a whoosh, Predator burst into the hollow center of the Stronghold. Crew members cried out, and Ertai opened his eyes.

  They were hurtling toward the broad column of energy passing between the Hub above to the Citadel below. Greven laid a hard hand on Ertai's shoulder.

  "Steer wide of the beam," he said. "If we hit it, we're dead."

  Ertai closed his hands to fists and tried to will the invisible stream away from the energy column. The stream was strong, and it liked flowing into the beam. Veins stood out in Ertai's neck as he wrestled with the channeled power.

  Bend, bend, he thought furiously. Go where I will you!

  The conjured stream bent to starboard until it was just clear of the energy column. Predator roared past in a full 20 degree dive. The port main boom brushed the glaring energy field and sizzled into instant oblivion. Ertai held the turn, and the airship rocketed into a downward spiral toward the landing dock, located at the highest point of the Citadel.

  "Better slow down," Greven said.

  Here was the point Ertai had contemplated, even in the extreme duress of his conjuration. Rath was his prison, Greven his jailer, and Predator was an instrument of oppression to thousands of free people. Why should he save it? Why not let it crash into the Citadel, doing as much damage as possible? At least then he could strike a blow for the oppressed.

  "Slow down," Greven repeated, more urgently.

  Dying is easy, his old teacher once told him. Dying is passive-living is active. A true mage must live in order to accomplish the goals of his art. What have you accomplished in your short life, Ertai?

  "Slow! Slow!" Greven roared.

  Predator was just one ship. Greven, just one commander. The coils of Phyrexian domination would scarcely tremble at their loss. He, on the other hand, might accomplish great things-if he lived long enough.

  Ertai flung his arms wide. The magical stream, visible only to him, spread out in front of the plunging airship. It piled up against the tower in waves, and each rebounding crest struck Predator a hammer blow, slowing her. The already smashed prow struck the mooring ring and demolished it. The great ship slammed into the platform and skidded sideways, shearing off its ventral landing blade. Greven was catapulted from the bridge to the deck below. Only Ertai, rooted in place by the power flowing through him, kept his feet.

  Predator came to a hard stop against the flowstone carapace. Greven leaped to his feet amid the tumbled-down wreckage.

  "You! You wrecked my ship!" he said, pointing a thick finger at Ertai.

  "It was already a wreck," Ertai said weakly. He staggered to the slanting rail. "We're alive. What are you complaining about?"

  That said, he slumped to the deck. Where he'd stood, two blackened footprints were scorched into the planking.

  *****

  Dorian il-Dal, chamberlain of the evincar's palace, awaited the arrival of Greven il-Vec with trepidation. Everything was in chaos-the Citadel had been breached for the first time in history, the garrison was in disarray, the mighty airship Predator was a steaming wreck, and worst of all, Evincar Volrath could not be found.

  Dorian paced up and down outside the evincar's private chambers, unsure of how to proceed. Greven would no doubt be in the foulest mood, given his failure to catch Weatherlight. The shocking debacle at the Citadel would not salve his conscience either. What Dorian feared most was what might happen when word spread that Volrath was missing. Would the evincar's subjects revolt? Would the rebel elves and their allies attack again? What of the moggs-would they obey their overseers without Volrath's authority to back them up?

  The tramp of heavy feet brought Dorian out of his gloomy reflections. Greven il-Vec descended the spiral ramp from the airship dock, followed by the remnants of his crew. Two crewmen carried a limp body between them, a young man clad in foreign clothes.

  "Dread Lord!" Dorian began, bowing hastily. "We are blessed you've come back to us unharmed!"

  "Save the oil for someone who needs it," Greven said. He directed his men to lay the unconscious man on the floor. "Where is His Highness? I must report."

  "His Highness Volrath is, uh-"

  "Yes?"

  "He's not here."

  Dorian thought sparks would fly from Greven's tooth grinding. The warrior seized Dorian by his elaborate sleeves, lifting him until his toes danced on the mosaic inlay.

  "Where is he?" Greven demanded.

  "I-I don't know, Dread Lord! After the intruders were expelled from the Stronghold, he was nowhere to be found!"

  Greven's anger vanished. He set Dorian on his feet. ''Nowhere? Have you searched?"

  "Yes, Dread Lord."

  *****

  Greven stared at Dorian. From the base of his skull to the small of his back the warrior had a Phyrexian control rod implanted in place of his natural spine. This rod gave him enormous strength, but it also obeyed the mental commands of the evincar of Rath. To disobey brought instant retaliation in the form of unendurable pain. Greven had been so busy saving Predator, he'd not noticed the empty sensation left by Volrath's lack of control. Now he swept all points of the compass for his hated master and felt nothing. If Volrath were on the plane of Rath, Greven should have been able to sense him. Yet Volrath could not be dead, for the sudden severance of the evincar's control would have struck his spine like a thunderbolt.

  "He's gone," Greven announced. "The evincar is not on this world." Having spoken the words, he made the leap of logic and deduced the truth. "Volrath was on Weatherlight!"

  "What?" Dorian said tremulously.

  "Gerrard might have captured the evincar. No, that's not right. Why would he flee if he had Volrath as hostage?"

  "Then His Highness willingly went on the enemy ship?"

  Greven fingered the control rod where it entered the base of his skull. "Yes, that's what he did." The fool! Greven raged to himself. He used his shapeshifting powers to stow away on Weatherlight! What did he hope to gain?

  "Ah, Dread Lord?" Dorian was whimpering now.

  "What is it?"

  "What are we to do?"

  "About what?"

  "Everything. Who will rule in His Highness's place?" His pudgy face brightened. "You're the evincar's second-incommand. You must take over, Dread Lord! Let the people know a firm hand still holds the reins of Rath!"

  The airship sailors cheered and loudly urged Greven to assume the governorship. He glared them into silence.

  "This is not a robber band-we don't elect our chiefs here," he said. "There's an order in things that must be observed. Evincars have died before, and new ones were found. Our distant masters must be notified, and their will obeyed. I will consult them."

  Dorian and the sailors blanched as one.

  "Do we dare?" asked Nasser, Predator's veteran sergeant.

  "You do not dare. I do," Greven said. Inwardly, he was not so eager. For the first time in many years he was free of domination. He could take the Stronghold as his own, but he knew he couldn't keep it. The overlords would not allow it, and his punishment at their hands would make Volrath's casual brutality toward him seem like a child's game.

  He strode from the evincar's antechamber to the nearest lift. There were four of these large square platforms, each supported by a flowbot arm, passing through the many floors of the Citadel. Dorian and the airship crew followed reluctantly.

  "Bring the prisoner," Greven reminded them.
Ertai was carried along.

  The lift lowered them smoothly to the throne room. The oval chamber took up an entire floor. The decor was a mishmash of earlier evincars' tastes, from the brutal efficiency of Davvol to the mechanistic fetishism of Burgess. Volrath had seldom used the throne room. He had preferred the larger convocation hall, deeper in the Citadel, for his state functions.

  High above the throne of Rath hung a large, inverted, three-sided pyramid made of some translucent gray Phyrexian alloy. It was cradled by an intricate, multi-armed flowbot carriage. This was the "Window" to Phyrexia. A voice and image portal only, it could not send or receive artifacts or travelers.

  Word of Greven's return and Volrath's disappearance brought out the evincar's court. Chosen from the cooperative families of the Dal, the Vec, and the Kor, the courtiers of Rath were servants, sycophants, and spies of the evincar. Their stock in trade was gossip and treachery as they jockeyed among themselves for honors and privileges. During the two-pronged attack by Weatherlight and the army of the elven rebel Eladamri, Volrath's collaborators had taken refuge in their Citadel apartments. The danger past, they emerged in their court finery, ready to be seen and counted when the Window to Phyrexia was opened.

  Sailors deposited Ertai at the foot of the empty throne. Greven planted his fists on his hips and declaimed, "Overlords of Rath, hear me!"

  The pyramid remained dim and inert. Greven repeated his summons. The surface of the pyramid began to sparkle.

  Encouraged, Greven said, "I am Greven il-Vec, commander of the armies of Rath! Our evincar has left us, and we request that our overlords restore him to us or send another in his place."

  A slender red beam lanced out from the mechanism perched atop the pyramid. It raked harmlessly across Greven's face, tracing every contour and comparing it to images of the warrior stored in its memory. When it was satisfied Greven was who he claimed to be, the flowbot flexed its limbs and lowered the Window. The brass-yellow machinery whirred and squeaked until the pyramid reached head height over the throne. The Window came to life with an ominous crackle of power, sending skittish courtiers shrinking back in alarm.

  "Be brave," Greven sneered. "It's only a machine."

  Dark colors ricocheted through the pyramid, corner to corner to corner. It stabilized in the center and assumed a bluish tinge. Greven squared his broad shoulders and awaited his masters' command.

  "Greetings." The Phyrexian voice sounded slurred and mechanical. "Greetings, our loyal warrior, Greven il-Vec."

  He knelt on one knee. "Humblest greetings, Great Lords. We have a grave problem-"

  "The matter is known to us. The Hidden One is not pleased with the evincar's desertion or your soldiers' failure."

  "Shall we track down Volrath and punish him, Great Lords?" asked Greven.

  "That is not necessary. It is more important for you to strengthen your forces on Rath and crush the rebellion brewing among the elves."

  "Yes, Great Lords."

  "To this end, we are sending a special emissary who will find a new evincar, reorganize the government, and improve the schedule of flowstone production."

  A murmur circled the room.

  "Would it not be simpler to appoint a new governor to do all that?" Greven said. Fatigue made him more blunt than usual.

  The red beam returned, but this time it was not harmless. It struck Greven in the chest, and the powerful warrior groaned and collapsed. He twitched on the floor several seconds until the beam relented. Courtiers at the rear of the room quietly slipped out lest the overlords' displeasure spread.

  "Do not question, only obey," the pyramid intoned. "Expect the emissary in seven intervals. She will appear in the Dream Halls at that time. All will obey the emissary or be punished."

  Greven winced as he stood. "We'll obey without question, Great Lords."

  The light within the pyramid began to swirl and dart about again, then became inert once more. The flowbot retracted the device back to its former position near the ceiling.

  Ertai hobbled on burned feet to stand beside Greven. "Seems we're in the same boat again," he said.

  "How so, Runt?" the warrior rumbled.

  "There's always someone bigger around who expects you to bow and scrape just to get along, isn't there?"

  "Some of us are bigger than others."

  "And some of us stand to fall from a greater height," the young man replied. "Now, where can I get some salve for my feet?"

  *****

  Life is sweet.

  This was Crovax's conclusion as he stood at the extreme end of the Dream Halls, gazing down on the royal laboratory and prison tower, the map tower, and the chaotic mogg warrens. Below, the minions of Rath scurried about their tasks like the residents of an anthill. Each life could be his, to take and savor. He smiled, and the dark face in the flowglass smiled back at him. Why not take them all eventually? The value of cattle was as food for the lion.

  With a wave of his hand, the flowglass parted. Crovax stepped up to the sill and stood on the edge, hundreds of feet above the laboratory roof. He raised one foot and was amused to see the flowstone sill rapidly extend to support him. He lifted the other foot, and the nanomachines swiftly advanced under that one, too. Crovax repeated the process until he was standing on a spindly flowstone platform six feet out from the ledge. He stood with his arms outstretched and laughed at the absurdly great power that was now his.

  With an ominous crack, the thin flowstone structure bowed under his weight. Crovax's euphoria disappeared. He leaped back to the Dream Halls, just as the feeble platform crumbled away. Crovax hit the sill square in the chest, driving the wind from his lungs. Gasping, he heaved himself over the ledge and rolled back inside the hall. The window flowed shut behind him. Crovax lay on the cold stone floor, heart hammering. Then he laughed.

  *****

  At the far end of the Dream Halls, the delegation led by Greven had just arrived. Normally only Volrath could have opened the flowstone locks on the doors to his sanctum, but when the group arrived, the massive twin doors were already mysteriously apart. Greven entered boldly, as if he were a frequent visitor. Behind him came Dorian il-Dal and a select group of courtiers, an honor guard drawn from the palace garrison, and Ertai. Dorian had voiced a concern over bringing the captive wizard along.

  "He's an enemy," the chamberlain said. "Surely he belongs in prison?"

  "All in good time," Greven answered. "For now, let him see the power he opposes."

  Ertai slipped along quietly on bandaged feet. The honor guard was close behind him, so he had no chance to slip away. He only considered escape for a moment. The prospect of meeting an emissary from Phyrexia was far too interesting to miss.

  The Dream Halls were their widest where the structure joined the main part of the Citadel. None of them had ever seen the interior before, and the austere monochrome reliefs, starkly stylized images of Volrath, and weird flowbot machinery kept the delegation in a tight group, heads turning in all directions. Only Greven kept his dignity and strode straight on. He drew ahead of the rest until Dorian called to him.

  "Dread Lord, wait for us!"

  "Stop dawdling. You've lived in the Stronghold most of your lives, and you act like you've never seen such sights before."

  Ertai sat down on the polished black floor. "Might as well wait here," he said.

  "On your feet!" said a shocked Dorian.

  "My feet hurt. Ask Lord Greven why they do." "Leave him," said Greven. "When the emissary arrives, he'll stand like everyone else. How many intervals has it been?"

  Dorian consulted the time meter he wore around his neck. The dial was as big as a dinner plate but as thin as leather. In between ordinary numbers, intricate runes and sigils-Phyrexian numbers-appeared and disappeared irregularly.

  "Six intervals and a half," he said when the yellow symbols appeared on the meter's face.

  "Stand at ease," Greven said to the honor guard. The guardsmen, led by Sergeant Nasser, slouched in their stiff, conical suits of
ceremonial armor.

  No one spoke for several minutes. Ertai amused himself by reading the auras of the courtiers. Their strongest components were fear and greed. The honor guard was a different story. They all wore haloes of violence, and their leader, Nasser, had a powerful aura that spoke of great personal ambition. Ertai looked back at Greven and wondered if he knew.

  Poking at the floor, Ertai discovered the marble was just another variety of flowstone. He concentrated as he pushed with his finger, and for a fleeting instant, he thought he felt the substance soften. Surprised, he lifted his finger. There was no sign of any indentation-but the sensation must have been genuine. He was far too practiced to mistake a thing like that.

  The silence was broken by a far-off whistling. Everyone in the delegation pricked up their ears. Ertai stood. The honor guard snapped to attention.

  "The emissary!" said Dorian breathlessly.

  Greven peered down the dim, cavernous hall. "Don't be an idiot. Do overlords whistle like steam kettles?"

  Dorian sidled up to the towering warrior. "Who-or what- is it then?"

  The trilling grew steadily louder. It didn't sound like a person whistling, more like a pipe or a tin whistle.

  "Could it be Volrath returned?" Ertai asked.

  "That sound is not Volrath," Greven replied.

  A voice filtered down, distorted and sourceless in the odd acoustics of the hall. As everyone strained to hear, the noise grew more distinct.

  Greven ordered the guards forward. They formed a wedge in front of Greven and leveled their spears. The whistling was louder and clearer, but there was still no one in sight.

  "Whoever you are," Greven shouted, "show yourself!"

  The whistling stopped and was replaced by quiet, eerie laughter. All eyes rose, and they beheld Crovax in his new Phyrexian finery, standing on the vertical wall of the hall, twenty feet above them. His position defied reason and gravity, for he was standing at a ninety degree angle to the floor with no more support than the soles of his boots.