Suddenly, the bare dunes all around teemed with Metathran soldiers. Pikes, swords, and axes gleamed in their hands as they topped the hills. They kept coming- hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. Their blue faces were grim, and their boots sent ominous dust clouds up to shadow the great airship.
"All right," Gerrard allowed as he pulled himself out of the tangled traces. "Maybe the bad part is still to come."
In all the surrounding ring of soldiers, there was a single clear avenue. The commander of the Metathran marched there, accompanied by his personal retinue. Garbed in silver battle armor and bearing a naked sword, the commander had a solemnity that bordered on belligerence.
Donning his most winning smile-though just now it was full of sand-Gerrard came to the rail and called out to the commander, "Hail, Friends of Dominaria. I am Gerrard Capashen. I have come to ally my forces with yours."
"I know who you are," shouted the commander curtly. "And I know why you have come. Where is Eladamri?"
"Eladamri?" echoed Gerrard blankly.
"Yes. Eladamri. The Seed of Freyalise. He is to take command of half my army."
Gerrard shook his head in astonishment but managed not to echo the words. "How do you know all this?"
"A god told me."
"I get a lot of that," interrupted the Skyshroud elf from amidships. "I am Eladamri."
"Come," beckoned the Metathran commander. "You must prove yourself to me and to my troops."
"I get a lot of that too," replied Eladamri. "What must I do?”
The commander replied with even steel. "Draw my blood before I draw yours."
It was a duel, like so many others. This had been an age of duels-Urza and Mishra, Xantcha and Gix, Gerrard and Volrath, and now Eladamri and Agnate. It seemed the whole world had come into being between pairs of adversaries squaring off on either side of some table, bringing every weapon, every spell, every ally they had gathered over the years and fighting a duel to the death. Agnate and Eladamri did not fight to the death, of course-but to first blood. There was little difference when both men were weapon masters and both fought with broadswords.
As the gladiators fought, Gerrard watched from a crowded port rail. Beside him stood Liin Sivi, Eladamri's closest companion. Her nostrils flared with every sword blow. In white-knuckled hands, she gripped the hilt of her toten-vec. It was clear she wished she could be down in that battle. She wasn't the only one. Steel Leaf elves watched avidly, shoulder to shoulder with Benalish warriors and Weatherlight's own crew.
Beyond the ship, Metathran filled the sand dunes. It was a natural arena, and Metathran were a naturally bloodthirsty crowd.
Eladamri rushed in. He was the quicker of the two. He knew the cuts and feints taught by wild men and scrappers. His blade lanced toward Agnate's gut. It would be a killing blow if it landed. It was well placed. If Agnate dodged or knocked the sword up, down, or to either side, the tip would catch his flesh and score first blood.
A cheer rose from the deck of Weatherlight.
Agnate did not try to knock the blade away or attempt to dodge. He merely caught the sword in a gauntleted hand. He was the stronger. His classical training made him keen eyed and efficient. With a powerful yank, he hauled the blade forward, just above his own sword. Eladamri must either let go or overbalance and sprawl onto his foe's sword.
The Metathran shouted their praise from the sand-dune coliseum.
Except that Eladamri vaulted over his trapped blade. He used Agnate's own strength to carry him in an easy arc above both swords. Eladamri flipped, landing on his feet behind the Metathran warrior and yanking his sword free.
On ship and sand dune both, the watchers cheered.
Eladamri swung his sword in a gutting stroke.
The Metathran commander was no longer there. One step carried him beyond the elf's blade. A second step brought him back during the follow-through, when Eladamri would be defenseless. Agnate's sword stabbed for his side.
Eladamri slid sideways. The stroke nicked armor but missed flesh. Eladamri kicked the weapon away. His foot trailing a swath of sand that temporarily blinded the towering warrior. Agnate staggered back. This would be Eladamri's winning stroke.
Cheers from Weatherlight's deck mixed with growls from the Metathran troops.
Both fell suddenly silent.
Eladamri stepped back, waiting for his opponent to clear his eyes.
In the hush, Agnate's words were heard by all. "You would be a fool to let a Phyrexian clear his eyes."
Eladamri's responded wryly. "You, friend, are no Phyrexian."
The roar of the crowd united ship and sand dunes.
Gerrard was glad. Eladamri was doing it again. He was bringing disparate people together.
A voice broke through the ovation, the voice of a very old, very tired man. "She is asking for you, Gerrard."
Applauding Agnate's escape from a back stab, Gerrard said distractedly, "Who is?"
"Hanna."
Wheeling, Gerrard stared incredulously at the blind seer. "Sh-she's awake?"
The old man nodded, his face shadowed in the wide brim of his hat. "But not for long."
Gerrard shoved his way across the deck. He reached the amidships hatch and descended. It took only moments to clamber down the stairs to the sick bay. It seemed hours.
Gerrard fairly vaulted across the room, falling to his knees at Hanna's side.
"You're awake! Hanna! You're awake!"
She smiled a wan smile through rictus lips. "The old man. He did something."
"He's healing you!" Gerrard gasped, though even he knew this hope was false.
"No. He is letting us say good-bye."
"Don't say that!"
Despite the plague's ravages, she was somehow beautiful in that moment. "I have to, and so do you."
Gerrard grasped her shoulders, felt only cold bones in his hands, and let go. "How can I live without you?"
"You lived without me for twenty-six years," Hanna said sadly.
Gerrard's smile was rueful. "We all remember how worthless I was then."
A loud cheer shook the sands beyond the ship.
"What's happening?"
"A duel," Gerrard said. "It's nothing. Someone lost his partner-"
"It's a new world being born, Gerrard," Hanna replied wistfully. "It's a new world, and the partners of the old must say good-bye."
"No." His eyes glimmered intently. "No. I won't say it."
"Then I will die without hearing it-"
"You won't die. You can't-"
"I can, and I will," Hanna said. Her lids slid slowly down her blue eyes. "The old sage's magic cannot last much longer. Goodbye, Gerrard."
"I'll say I love you. I'll say you're everything to me. But I won't say-"
She trembled once last. Her final breath left in a long, sweet sigh.
An ovation roared through the heavens, shaking the ship's vast beams.
"No, Hanna," Gerrard groaned. He leaned over, sliding his arms beneath her. A tear fell on the white sheets. He lifted her. There was nothing in his arms, nothing at all. She was gone. "No, Hanna. No. I won't say it. I can't say it."
A voice came at the door-loud and excited, with a clear Benalish accent. "He's done it! Eladamri has bested the Metathran!"
Clutching that lifeless shell to his breast, Gerrard whispered simply, "Good-bye, Hanna. Good-bye."
Chapter 30
Urza stood on a sand dune overlooking the duel grounds. His cloak billowed with the breezes of night. One hand clutched his war staff. The other fidgeted at the edge of his cloak. It was a momentous hour.
Below, warriors thronged the sandy arena and the deck of the mired ship. They shouted their excitement to the heavens. In their midst stood Eladamri, victorious above a fallen Agnate. The elf's broadsword dripped Metathran blood. He had cut a shallow slice along the warrior's biceps-the sort a human could heal in a week and a Metathran in a day. It meant nothing and yet everything. Eladamri would command half the Metathran army, leading warriors who believed in him. Perhaps more importantly, he would complete Agnate. Eladamri could never replace Thaddeus, of course, but he could bring fight back to these beaten soldiers. That would be enough.