When the mayhem in the streets was complete, when the storms above and below were in full fury, an elite squad of rebels marched on the center of the corruption in Mercadia-the Magistrate's Tower.

Cho-Manno was gone.

Orim lifted her eyes from the wounded skyscout she tended. In the streaming rain, she could see no more than ten feet in any direction, but she knew Cho-Manno was gone. She sensed it. There was only one place Cho-Manno would have gone.

First, Orim must heal this fallen scout…

Drawing a deep breath of the watery air, Orim set her hands on the man's severed side. Her fingers glowed with silver fire, fueled by cascading rain. Warmth suffused the wound. Water mingled with blood and knit tissue to tissue. Pressing her eyelids together in concentration, Orim felt muscles and skin fuse. In a few moments, the young man was whole again.

Sitting back, Orim helped the scout rise. "Go. Fight for the Rushwood. Fight for the Uniter. Fight for all of us." Orim rose with him. She gave his hand one last squeeze and then released him. As the man moved off toward the raging battle, Orim headed up the street, toward the Magistrate's Tower.

Toward Cho-Manno.

She ran across the gray lawn to the tower steps. She drew her sword and moved cautiously up the winding stair.

Storm clouds wreathed the tower. Cyclones battered its walls. Rain washed in a regular cascade down the stairs, making them treacherous. Lightning danced from cloud to ground and ground to cloud. Buildings burned with voracious fire, red flames rivaling blue bolts. Deep cracks appeared in the street, and from them emerged orange flashes and boomsexplosions in underground caverns. It seemed all of Mercadia would disintegrate in the clutch of this storm.

Orim climbed into the shrieking heavens. Through several doors, she could hear the sound of fighting, but continued on until she was near the top. At last, she reached the apex of the tower. The great doors to the chamber of the chief magistrate were broken open, and a clash of swords came from within.

Orim burst into the room. The chamber was in disarray. Tables and many of the low couches lay overturned. Before the throne were three goblins-advisors to the chief magistrate. They wielded short, crooked swords and were slashing at the figure who stood before them.

Cho-Manno.

His dark face was contorted in anger, and his blade- long, curved, and slender-flashed in and out in a gleaming curtain of steel. He parried the blows of the creatures before him. At least one of the goblin blades was stained with blood, but the Cho-Arrim leader did not appear to be wounded.

Someone cowered behind the throne-the chief magistrate. The white flesh about his throat jiggled in dozens of small pouches, and his great belly quivered with panting fear. In one fat hand, he held something long and slender- a goblin blowpipe. He lifted the pipe, pointing it at Cho-Manno's back.

Orim threw her sword. It left her hand, trailing silver magic. The blade sang through the air, revolving in a great circle. It struck.

The magistrate screamed. He stared stupidly at his severed wrist. A fountain of blood gushed from the wound. Blowpipe, sword, and hand thumped together to the ground. Orim gave him no time to recover. She rushed across the room and snatched up the blowpipe. Clapping it to her lips, she blew. The dart whispered as it left the pipe. It appeared in the magistrate's fat neck.

The Mercadian's eyes rolled up into his skull. He gasped, gurgled, and fell to the ground with a thump that shook the room. His remaining hand clasped spasmodically for a moment before it fell still.

Cho-Manno had made good use of the momentary distraction. With one stroke he slashed open the chest of the Kyren before him. His backstroke lopped off the head of the second. The third turned to run, but the Cho-Arrim leader made a tremendous cut downward. His saber clanged against the ground, and the two halves of the goblin fell apart from one another in a cloud of blood and bone fragments.

With a great bound, Cho-Manno sprang over one of the couches and bent over a figure lying on the floor. Orim joined him and gazed down at Lahaime. The Ramosan leader lay on his back, a blood-soaked cloth clutched to his left shoulder. His face was pale, and he was unconscious.

Orim pulled back the bloody cloth and pressed her hand to the wound. Silver fire emerged from her fingertips. Flesh slowly knitted.

Cho-Manno stroked her face. "I am glad you came. You saved the leaders of the Cho-Arrim and of the Ramosans, both."

Lahaime's anguished expression faded. He gently awoke.

Orim said to Cho-Manno, "I was only repaying the favor."

In chains, Hanna staggered up the engine room stairs. Her guards hauled her upward with an unusual brusqueness. Her shackles made such a clangor in the passage that she had not heard the explosions in the cavern until she gained the deck. Then, the blasts were omnipresent.

The cavern's mouth was collapsing in a shower of stone and sand. Figures rushed up the path, just ahead of the killing cascade. They ran from a crushing death toward a fiery one. In a regular line from the entryway, Phyrexian ships exploded. Red blasts awoke beneath their keels. They bounded up, hull carapaces cracking like eggshells. Ram-headed prows tipped forward. Horn-studded sterns flipped backward. Amid shattered glass and rent steel and scorched wood flew the crushed bodies of Kyren, Mercadians, Phyrexians… Where fire reached bomb payloads, the results were even more spectacular. In shattering succession, small blasts awoke large ones. Nearer and nearer the armory they went, until a blooming sun awoke on one side of the chamber. It was blinding, deafening, and for a moment it obliterated all. All.

The few guards who remained on Weatherlight ducked, covering their heads. Hanna shied back. On the cavern floor below, Volrath and the rest of the guard fell to their faces. As suddenly as the blast had begun, it ended. Blue smoke belched out across a cracking ceiling. The smell of lightning filled the chamber.

Hanna's guard barked orders. His shouts were whisper quiet after the blast. He hauled Hanna to Weatherlight's rail and forced her to kneel. Her chained hands struck the deck before her. The guard pressed her head to the wood.

Another Mercadian, tall and muscular, stomped up along the planks. His sword had a cleaverlike head, as heavy as an ax. His massive boots ground to a halt beside Hanna. "Put your neck on the rail," the man shouted. Without moving, Hanna replied, "What if the ship breaks down again? Who will fix it?"

"Put your neck on the rail!" The order was followed by a kick from one of those massive boots.

Swallowing, perhaps for the last time, Hanna lifted her neck into position.

The executioner's sword flashed firelight as it rose. With an almighty roar, steel descended. Razor-sharp metal cut through nape, and spine, and throat to emerge, streaming gore. The severed head vaulted free, bounced once on the rail, and tumbled in a sanguine spray toward the floor of the cavern.

But it was not Hanna's head. Nor was it the executioner's sword that had severed it. A bloody striva swooped harmlessly over Hanna's neck, and she gaped down at her executioner's blinking skull. Turning, Hanna saw her liberator. "Tahngarth!" she exclaimed in amazement. He did not return the greeting, too busy hoisting a guard who was impaled on his striva. Tahngarth hurled the struggling figure toward the rail. The body struck a pair of goblins and bore them overboard.

Nearby, Fewsteem and Dabis fought two more guards. Unmade by unison strokes, the soldiers fell. One of them landed atop the keys to Hanna's shackles. "Get the keys!" she shouted. Tahngarth finished a final guard and went to fetch them.