He wriggled the hook loose and drove it into soft flesh above the spider woman's collar bone.

Spitting black bile, Tsabo Tavoc yanked Gerrard and the gaff away. The hook snapped through her collar bone. She flung Gerrard brutally to the deck.

He landed in a roll and smashed into the far rail.

The spider woman, with Tahngarth in tow, crept over the rail, preparing to leap.

"Oh, no you don't," Gerrard growled.

He hurled himself across the ship just as Tsabo Tavoc slipped below the side. Gerrard swung the gaff. It pierced flesh. He clutched the rail and braced himself. Only then, through the rail posts, did he see that the gaff had impaled Tahngarth's shoulder. The minotaur's whole weight-as well as that of the spider-hung from that single hook.

"Do you kill him," Tsabo Tavoc purred in a voice like summer cicadas, "or do I?"

Winds tore sweat from Gerrard's brow. He stared down into Tahngarth's eyes. Despite the obvious agony, there was no fear, no resentment in the minotaur.

Segmented mouth parts worked. "Either way, I win. I have killed your land. I will kill your world."

Gerrard felt his own shoulder pulling out of the socket. He clenched his arm. Bone ground against ligaments.

"Even if you win," he panted out, "we won't stop fighting."

Tsabo Tavoc's compound eyes became inky black. "Fool." She lifted her stinging abdomen, curling it up toward Gerrard's clenched fist. The trembling stinger oozed white poison. It drew itself up to strike.

A gash of red light tore through the air. It curled the hairs on Gerrard's arm. The blast struck two of the great spider's legs. They vanished in the crimson gush. More energy raked across her belly. The hook wound was immediately cauterized. She shied back from that blast, letting go of Tahngarth and dropping. Her remaining five legs balled about her. Landing, Tsabo Tavoc rolled amid her troops. Warriors were unmade by her lashing metallic legs. At last, she came to a stop and stood.

Meanwhile, Gerrard hauled Tahngarth up over the rail. Despite the minotaur's mass and the tearing winds, Tahngarth felt suddenly very light. Gerrard caught him in his free arm and laid him on the deck.

"Now, I'm a… bull-fish," Tahngarth growled out.

Gerrard smiled grimly. "I thought I'd got that leggy thing, not you."

"But… who shot the… ray cannon?"

They both looked up to see the blind seer, white knuckles clinging to the fire controls of Gerrard's gun. Gaseous plasma dripped from the muzzle.

Gerrard gabbled at the man, "H-how did y-you know tto shoot?"

Beneath his dark hat, the man spoke simply, "I know things."

Orim emerged from the hatch and rushed to kneel beside Tahngarth. She set her hands on the gaff hook, sending an enchantment down into it. With a slow, smooth motion, she pulled the hook forth and stanched the flow of blood.

"Another thing I know," said the blind seer, descending the forecastle steps, "is that you're wasting your energies here. There is only vengeance here-and death."

Gerrard stared grimly down at Tahngarth's clenched teeth. "Yes, old man. I think you are right."

"There is a better Battle of Benalia. There is another army- heroes after your own stripe. An easy thousand of them. You must go lead them."

Arching his brow, Gerrard said, "Another army? Who? Where?"

"The Atrivak Mounds-Benalish Penal Colony."

"Military prisoners?"

"An easy thousand. Powerful warriors, but incorrigible."

Gerrard gave a dry laugh and shook his head. "Heroes after my own stripe."

Chapter 9

Barrin soared through the skies over coastal Zhalfir. The day was sultry. Clouds stood in steamy stacks all around. Lurking among them were three more portals, newly opened. Soon drifting black racks of Phyrexian armor would appear. Then there would be death in Zhalfir as there was in Benalia.

Barrin's Metathran fleet had been crushed in Benalia. Only a small squad of hoppers had survived. The rest had sacrificed themselves downing cruisers and debilitating plague ships. The Serrans had fared better, though one in two angels had been killed. At last, Barrin and his troops had fought near enough to the portal that he could send his healing magic into the wound in the sky. He sealed it and ended the air battle but was utterly spent in the effort.

He and his last fighters had withdrawn to the next aerial rendezvous. The Serrans soared to their aeries to regroup.

For Barrin, there was an all-too-brief night of study and sleep before the next battle opened above distant Zhalfir- another powerful source of white mana. He teleported to a western point that he knew well. The battle of Zhalfir would unfold just as the battle of Benalia had-too few defenders flinging themselves in suicidal fury against too many attackers. Such had always been the model for Urza's battles. For Urza, survivability was not as important as victory.

One of these days, Urza will orchestrate a battle that even I cannot survive, Barrin thought grimly.

Topping a long slope of saw grass, Barrin glimpsed the battle on the fields beyond. A portal gaped wide in the sky. It was black and ragged among the clouds, as though some jealous god had gripped the heavens and ripped a hole in them. From that black tear emerged cruisers, plague ships, dragon engines, and a new class of sleek-bowed vessels- dagger-boats. Fighters filled the air like wasps, buzzing beside the droning hulls of larger ships.

"Urza and I against an armada," Barrin said, clucking.

He had spoken too soon. Someone had brought defenders to the field-amazing, powerful, glorious defenders. Figures played on the wide plains amid shrubs and fruit trees. In their draping white robes, they seemed children, hands and heads upraised as though guiding kites through the skies. In fact, they were archmages. Above them moved gossamer, streaming sorceries. Mistmoon griffins and giant eagles, angel warriors and armored pegasi-these were summoned creatures, ideals made material. Alabaster dragons and duskrider falcons, winged paladins and flying unicorns-they were guided in their battles from below.

White talons tore dagger-boats to shreds. Angelic swords clove ray cannons from their embrasures. Griffin beaks plucked ballista bolts from the sky and rammed them back into the swarming ships. Even unicorn horns were put to their original use, the merciless goring of the despoiled. Phyrexians died in their thousands. So, too, did these summoned creatures, but they were not true beings.

They were ideas given flesh and blood for a time, granted the will to fight, and ideas never died.

Barrin smiled. This was the battle of a fairer mind than Urza's. White ideals clashed against black realities and steadily won. On a ridge overlooking the savanna stood Urza and that fairer mind-Teferi.

It was a strange tableau. Teferi stood to the fore, gazing out at his sorcerous army. In his manifold blue robes, the black-skinned man seemed taller than Urza- bolder, more powerful. One of Teferi's feet was poised on a stone. He leaned avidly toward the battle and spoke in rapid, exited tones. Urza meanwhile stood behind. He never stood behind. His feet were planted like fence posts. His hands hung empty and idle at his sides.

Barrin allowed himself a laugh at his old friend's expense. Urza was never so miserable as when someone else was in control.

Spreading his war cloak like the wings of a settling hawk, Barrin swooped down to light on the arid hilltop. The rustling robes drew the eyes of the two men upward. Urza's gaze was both nettled and pleading. Teferi's was triumphant.

The tall, ebony-skinned man smiled broadly and extended his hand to shake Barrin's. "Ah-a pleasure to see you again, and so soon-"