There was a strange parade through the city streets that night. Mercadians surrounded a pair of pathetic figures. Both were shackled at ankles and wrists, prodded forward by a swarm of tridents. The woman, thin and blonde, stared unseeing as she hobbled up the street. Her face was wan, her eyes empty, her soul dead. Beside her clomped a massive man of silver. His arms hung hopeless at his sides. His head draped forward in defeat.

Before them capered the strangest figure of all. His muscular frame and gleaming gray armor showed that he was a warrior, and yet tonight, he seemed a taunting jester. In his hands, he held a pair of gleaming crystals, which he waved in front of the unseeing eyes of his captives.

Orim saw it all. Her heart broke to see Hanna and Karn captured this way. Spies had told her that Squee, too, was a prisoner within the city. Had she been within reach of her Ramosan allies, she would have mustered them to fight this regiment. Her heart broke for her friends, but it stopped altogether when she recognized the one who tormented themVolrath.

He could not so openly parade through the streets unless he ruled them, and all of Mercadian. He would not so openly parade through the streets unless he did it to flush out Orim and her rebel friends.

As much as her heart ached, Orim would not be drawn into Volrath's trap. No. Her despair and anger would not make her weak. She would not bring out her allies now. She would only better prepare them for the coming revolt.

It was a horrible night for Hanna.

First, there was the awful news of Gerrard's death- graphically described-and Sisay's death, and Tahngarth's. Then, Takara herself did worse than die. She transformed into Volrath. The villainous creature paraded Hanna and Karn through the streets, taunting them with his destruction of Gerrard, with the ways he manipulated the crew to gain Weatherlight, the Power Matrix, the Bones of Ramos. He regained them all, and then he captured the two crew members who would know how to bring them together.

All the while that they marched through the dark, twisting streets of Mercadia, Hanna watched the rankling roof line. She hoped at least that Orim and Cho-Manno would not be drawn into this latest trap of Volrath's. In dark archways and from shuttered windows, many eyes watched, but no one emerged to help.

Volrath led them to ground. As snaking as were the ways above ground, the caverns beneath were a mesmerizing labyrinth. Endless spirals, dipping shafts, shambling stairways, coiling corridors-the tread of the soldiers' boots echoed over blind and seeping stone. At least Volrath's taunts ceased the moment that they entered the caves.

Hanna staggered along as if descending into a delirious dream. At last, the passage opened up, and Hanna felt her heart leap in hope.

There, before her on a wide cavern floor, stood Weatherlight. She was beautiful. The ship's sleek rails gleamed like gold in the murk. Her spars jutted in solid newness. Her twin airfoils raked boldly outward. Her helm glimmered in torchlight. The once-shattered hull was smooth and whole, a vast black bulk on the floor of the great hangar. The ship was beautiful, and now with the Power Matrix and the Bones of Ramos, it was only hours away from flying again.

Hanna and Karn halted before the great airship, guards hurrying to surround the pair. Volrath walked up beside Hanna, resting his arm on her shoulder as though he were an old friend. The twisted evincar took a deep, contented breath, and his black plate armor crackled quietly.

"A glorious vessel, isn't she?" Volrath asked.

"Yes," Hanna replied reflexively. She shied beneath his arm but couldn't escape the clawlike grip on her shoulder. "But she isn't your ship. She's Gerrard's."

"My brother never deserved his Legacy. Not this ship, not Karn, not the Thran Tome-none of it. He is a toad dressed up to be a king. Weatherlight was never his, and now she is mine."

Hanna glanced at the Phyrexian armada that filled the hangar all about, receding into vast distance. "You have all these ships. Hundreds. Most are larger than Weatherlight. You want this ship only because you are jealous of Gerrard, only because it is his."

Volrath's hand struck her cheek with such force it flung her to the ground amid the chains. "The Legacy is mine. I have every piece of it. And now you will put those pieces together for me."

Looking up in anger, Hanna dragged a shackled hand over her bleeding mouth. "You can torture me, but you can't make me repair Weatherlight for you."

"Can't I?" Volrath asked with a smile. He gestured toward the spars raking out beside and behind the ship. A chain connected the ends of the two spars, and something dangled on that chain. Not something-someone.

"Squee!" Hanna gasped out.

"Yes," Volrath replied. "Are you familiar with this form of execution? It is gradual and agonizing, a type of crucifixion. Squee's whole weight is held aloft by the shackles that bind his wrists. At first, the pain isn't too bad, but every moment, muscles and tendons grow weaker. Circulation ceases in the hands. Shoulders slowly pull from their sockets. Viscera stretch out the diaphragm. Chest muscles grow so weary they can no longer force air outward. Squee will eventually suffocate because he won't be able to exhale. He'll suffocate though his lungs are full of air."

"You bastard."

Volrath blinked placidly at that. "If, however, you repair the engines, you can use them to lower the masts and save your friend. You see? I impose no time limit on you. Only Squee does. And if you allow him to die, I'll simply have to bring your friend Orim down here and do the same to her, and Tahngarth, and Sisay, and Gerrard. It's up to you how many crew you'd like to kill as you repair this ship-my ship."

"So, they are alive!" Hanna said, hope rising in her.

"For the time being," Volrath said. "Let Squee die, and you'll see the others, one by one."

Karn's joints grated massively as he stooped to lift Hanna. "Come. Let us do this quickly. We haven't much time."

"We haven't much time," Orim shouted to the vast assembly gathered in another subterranean chamber.

It was a motley group-Ramosan rebels assembled by Lahaime; Cho-Arrim skyscouts and water wizards who had arrived on the night of the great storm; an elite contingent of Saprazzan warriors sent by the grand vizier; a Rishadan ship crew converted to the cause during Cho-Manno's sea crossing; and bull-men, boar-men, griffins, and other non-humans and nongoblins disparaged in Mercadia-a ragtag, rebel army. These few hundred would hardly be a match for the Mercadian guard with its cateran mercenaries-and its master Volrath.

"We have a new enemy," Orim continued. "This rebellion began against the corruption of the nobles and the vicious manipulation of the Kyren. We have felt ourselves mere pawns in their great game. Now it is clear that even these great enemies are pawns of a much more malevolent master. The Phyrexian steward, Volrath, is here in Mercadia. He rules the city through Kyren and nobles. He has captured the airship Weatherlight, the national treasure of

Saprazzo, and the very Bones of Ramos. In mere days, perhaps hours, he will combine these weapons and train them upon us and slay us. We haven't much time."

A voice rose from among the Cho-Arrim skyscouts. "How can we fight if the Uniter has not risen?"

Cho-Manno stepped up beside Orim and declared, "We can no longer wait for the Uniter to rise. The Uniter is in the hands of our greatest foe. We must be our own uniters, our own saviors. If we do not fight now, the Uniter will rise to fight against us."