Eighteen of the twenty had bandoleers.
"Excellent. That will bury the mirror podium in a halfmile of rock. Downward."
The final word was not spoken before pikes bristled across the vanguard and axes gleamed at the rear. Thaddeus himself took to the right flank, knowing the first turn would cast him in a blind corner. Muscular and vicious, the strike force rushed to the gap. Pikes rounded the corner, intent on whatever lay beyond.
Flesh lay beyond-flesh and horns and fangs. Pikes sank into the shrieking wall of monsters. Impaled, they came on.
Jaws as large as a bear trap clamped the head of one pikeman. Triangular teeth converged, closing in an inescapable bite. With a crunch, they severed the man's spine. His body dropped away, hands yet holding the haft.
A man in the vanguard released his pike, drew his sword, and stabbed. The blade buried itself in a beast's belly. It sliced through scales and muscles and plunged into some black organ beneath. The Phyrexian shrieked. Acids sprayed from its stomach. They ate away the man's hand and arm to the elbow. He died beneath his falling foe.
The tumbling monster dropped sideways, crushing the third pikeman.
The fourth vaulted up the beast and drove his sword into the head of another. Steel cracked bone and brain. The monster- what seemed a giant ground sloth but could have been almost anything in that murk-was unimpressed. Its fist pounded its own head, crushing the pikeman and driving the sword deeper.
The vanguard was gone, and only ten feet gained into the cave.
"Forward!" Thaddeus commanded, taking the van.
His sword cut between two huge eyes. They peeled back on opposite sides of a split visage. Thaddeus kicked a foothold in the bisected sinus cavities and vaulted atop the hissing beast. He climbed the thing.
"Forward!"
Thaddeus's sword hewed a path through beasts. Slick with glistening-oil, his boots reached ground. He advanced into the dark.
Battle sounds suddenly hushed. Thaddeus whirled. Even the light of the entrance was lost. It was as though a door had slid silently closed behind him.
Thaddeus kept his sword at the ready. He reached to his belt, grabbed a flare, and broke the thing in half. A red flame shot from each edge. The light gleamed dimly off walls of smooth stone.
How did I get separated?
He spun, glimpsing movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning fully around, he watched for shadows against the dark wall. No one was there.
He should have looked up.
A metallic spider leg knocked his sword away. Crushing weight flung him to his back. His flare skipped angrily across the floor. Thaddeus struggled to grab a grenade. It was no good. His hands were pinned. He was trapped.
In the sulfuric half-light, a voice spoke. It was as omnipresent and alien as a cicada chorus: "Tsabo Tavoc wants you. Tsabo Tavoc will have you."
Chapter 27
Where once rot and death had filled the treetops, now music and life reigned.
Of course, the ravages of war remained-whole crowns had been eaten away, whole villages destroyed, whole families wiped from the face of Dominaria. The heights of Llanowar were gashed open to the skies. It would never be the same. Even after suckers grew to twigs and branches to boughs, the forest would forever bear the taste of glistening-oil. It was the curse of the cure.
The celebrants were not blind to all they had lost. That knowledge only deepened their joy. The disease had been stopped. One cure had come from below with the Seed of Freyalise, the other from above with the Scion of Benalia. Gerrard had granted immunity to those who were healthy, and Eladamri health to those who were sick. Between the two, they had saved Llanowar.
The feast spread through the eight treetops where once the
Staprion Elfhame had extended. Every last bit of corruption had been scoured away. Many boughs were bared to their quick. Tender new bark struggled to close exposed sections. With the aid of Multani, branches budded, leaves fanned into air. Vine networks sent tendrils to the ruined reaches. Sunlight streamed into the ancient heart of the wood.
What remained of the former palace was pulled down and fashioned into an altar and shrine for those who had fallen. Elves whose hollows were destroyed wove hanging nests of aerial roots. Giant spiders lent their spinnerets to string gossamer highways through the canopy.
Perhaps Llanowar would never be the same. Perhaps it would be better. All of it was because of three foreigners- one from a different forest, another from a different nation, and a third from a different world.
Multani, Gerrard, and Eladamri stood side-by-side on a lofted curve of high bough. The noontime sun warmed their shoulders. Below, in the broad lap of the tree, thronged the survivors of Staprion. On thread-ways to either side lingered the faithful of Jubilar. Other elves, farther out on the adjacent trees, had arrived from as far away as Kelfae and Hedressel. All had come to glimpse the elf rumored to be the Seed of Freyalise and to observe his strange and powerful comrades from afar. All had come to cheer and revel.
The adulation had given the men little chance to trade words. Since reaching this overlook, they had been busy with hand-waving, smiling, and nodding.
Gerrard was unwilling to delay longer. He reached out to Multani, a hand of flesh grasping a hand of vine. The crowd loved the gesture, their roars vaulting gladly up.
Over the uproar, Gerrard said, "I am glad, after all these years, to know that you live, Master Multani."
The green-man smiled, snail-shell teeth showing between rose-petal lips. "It is no easy thing to kill a marosorcerer. We don and doff our bodies as you do your clothes. I will not die, not truly, while Yavimaya yet lives."
Nodding in realization, Gerrard said, "Very truly, then, the last months brought you near to death."
"Yes," Multani replied. His eyes-twin fish swimming in socket-pools-flickered in remembered pain. "The Battle of Yavimaya is won, as is the Battle of Llanowar, thanks to you and Eladamri."
Eladamri turned to his comrades, clasping their hands. Again, the revelers cried out gladly.
"I am only a tool of higher powers," said Eladamri humbly.
"As are we all," Gerrard said with a laugh.
"As are we all," Multani agreed. "Still, Llanowar owes you both a great debt."
Drawing a deep breath, Gerrard said, "I would like to collect on that debt." His two companions looked surprised, but Gerrard waved away their concern. "It is the smallest of prices for you and the forest but the dearest treasure I could beg."
Eladamri stared seriously at his friend. "Whatever you ask."
"Whatever is in our power."
"It is in your power," Gerrard said. "Take us to Weatherlight. I will explain there."
Without a moment's pause, Multani's viny arms reached out around his companions, encircling them. More stalks and stems insinuated themselves through the framework of the nature spirit. His body grew. Long arms branched from his shoulders. Tendrils reached up to encircle boughs overhead. Multani pulled free of the overlook where they stood. Brachiating beneath the overhanging branches, Multani carried the two saviors of Llanowar over the head of the crowd.
Below, the people cried out in thrilled amazement.
Multani seemed a spider dangling from his thousand legs and picking his patient way across the canopy.
Ahead, Weatherlight rested in the broad crook of a quosumic tree. Even at midday, the ship gleamed like a jewel box. In addition to running-lanterns, she had been decked with festive lights for the celebration. The prison brigade thronged the deck, quaffing elven wine and cheering. A contingent of once-xenophobic Steal Leaf warriors had joined them, trading war stories. Above it all, in the noontime skies, the Benalian aerial armada swarmed. They seemed almost living fireworks, circling joyously.