"Can you abandon ship?" asked Ertai.
"That's not an option," Greven said, folding his arms across his chest. "What can you do? Remember, if you fail, you'll follow those clumsy fools over the side!"
"As you so eloquently stated, Captain, we're all in this bucket together."
Ertai closed his eyes and extended his hands. Power crackled from his fingertips. There was plenty of energy in the air here, even if it was primarily of a destructive variety. He drew in some of this harsh background energy. It felt bad and made his bruised body ache, but desperate times sanctioned daring actions.
"What are you doing?" Greven demanded.
"Making a road," Ertai murmured. He visualized a great rod of magical energy emanating from his hands to the distant tunnel entrance. That was simple enough, but then he drew the stream of force down his arms and pushed it through his body to his feet. By anchoring the power stream through the hull, he would force Predator to follow it. The sensation was akin to hugging a naming tree, but it had to be done.
Predator shivered and turned smartly toward the Stronghold.
"Prepare for a crash landing," Ertai gasped. "This will be rough."
Greven gave the order, and the surviving sailors and moggs hunkered down behind bulwarks fore and aft. Disdaining danger, Greven remained on the bridge with Ertai.
"Moron," Ertai whispered.
"What?"
"Uh, I'm more on course." His limbs began to tremble. Sweat soaked through the filthy rags he wore.
The bow sank, and the airship gathered speed. Here was the real danger, though Ertai didn't bother explaining it to Greven. His spell could easily keep the airship straight, but he didn't know if he would have enough strength left to stop the ship once inside the crater.
"Cut engines."
Greven sounded far away. Ertai struggled to keep his balance. Heat was building where his body touched the ship. The soles of his feet blistered. Under them the decking began to smolder. Someone-presumably Greven-threw a bucket of water on Ertai's feet.
"Thank you," he gritted.
"We're almost there," Greven replied. "Shouldn't you open your eyes?"
"I can see better this way."
Without the hum of the engines, Predator was alive with seldom-heard sounds-the creak of the masts, the pop of the hull under stress, the odd metallic twang of cables automatically adjusting themselves to changes in tension. In his mind's eye, Ertai saw the yellow cone of the Stronghold loom before him. The magical beam pierced the center of the airship tunnel. Predator entered it at high speed. The slipstream from the interior of the crater blew warm on Ertai's cheek.
With a whoosh, Predator burst into the hollow center of the Stronghold. Crew members cried out, and Ertai opened his eyes.
They were hurtling toward the broad column of energy passing between the Hub above to the Citadel below. Greven laid a hard hand on Ertai's shoulder.
"Steer wide of the beam," he said. "If we hit it, we're dead."
Ertai closed his hands to fists and tried to will the invisible stream away from the energy column. The stream was strong, and it liked flowing into the beam. Veins stood out in Ertai's neck as he wrestled with the channeled power.
Bend, bend, he thought furiously. Go where I will you!
The conjured stream bent to starboard until it was just clear of the energy column. Predator roared past in a full 20 degree dive. The port main boom brushed the glaring energy field and sizzled into instant oblivion. Ertai held the turn, and the airship rocketed into a downward spiral toward the landing dock, located at the highest point of the Citadel.
"Better slow down," Greven said.
Here was the point Ertai had contemplated, even in the extreme duress of his conjuration. Rath was his prison, Greven his jailer, and Predator was an instrument of oppression to thousands of free people. Why should he save it? Why not let it crash into the Citadel, doing as much damage as possible? At least then he could strike a blow for the oppressed.
"Slow down," Greven repeated, more urgently.
Dying is easy, his old teacher once told him. Dying is passive-living is active. A true mage must live in order to accomplish the goals of his art. What have you accomplished in your short life, Ertai?
"Slow! Slow!" Greven roared.
Predator was just one ship. Greven, just one commander. The coils of Phyrexian domination would scarcely tremble at their loss. He, on the other hand, might accomplish great things-if he lived long enough.
Ertai flung his arms wide. The magical stream, visible only to him, spread out in front of the plunging airship. It piled up against the tower in waves, and each rebounding crest struck Predator a hammer blow, slowing her. The already smashed prow struck the mooring ring and demolished it. The great ship slammed into the platform and skidded sideways, shearing off its ventral landing blade. Greven was catapulted from the bridge to the deck below. Only Ertai, rooted in place by the power flowing through him, kept his feet.
Predator came to a hard stop against the flowstone carapace. Greven leaped to his feet amid the tumbled-down wreckage.
"You! You wrecked my ship!" he said, pointing a thick finger at Ertai.
"It was already a wreck," Ertai said weakly. He staggered to the slanting rail. "We're alive. What are you complaining about?"
That said, he slumped to the deck. Where he'd stood, two blackened footprints were scorched into the planking.
Dorian il-Dal, chamberlain of the evincar's palace, awaited the arrival of Greven il-Vec with trepidation. Everything was in chaos-the Citadel had been breached for the first time in history, the garrison was in disarray, the mighty airship Predator was a steaming wreck, and worst of all, Evincar Volrath could not be found.
Dorian paced up and down outside the evincar's private chambers, unsure of how to proceed. Greven would no doubt be in the foulest mood, given his failure to catch Weatherlight. The shocking debacle at the Citadel would not salve his conscience either. What Dorian feared most was what might happen when word spread that Volrath was missing. Would the evincar's subjects revolt? Would the rebel elves and their allies attack again? What of the moggs-would they obey their overseers without Volrath's authority to back them up?
The tramp of heavy feet brought Dorian out of his gloomy reflections. Greven il-Vec descended the spiral ramp from the airship dock, followed by the remnants of his crew. Two crewmen carried a limp body between them, a young man clad in foreign clothes.
"Dread Lord!" Dorian began, bowing hastily. "We are blessed you've come back to us unharmed!"
"Save the oil for someone who needs it," Greven said. He directed his men to lay the unconscious man on the floor. "Where is His Highness? I must report."
"His Highness Volrath is, uh-"
"Yes?"
"He's not here."
Dorian thought sparks would fly from Greven's tooth grinding. The warrior seized Dorian by his elaborate sleeves, lifting him until his toes danced on the mosaic inlay.
"Where is he?" Greven demanded.
"I-I don't know, Dread Lord! After the intruders were expelled from the Stronghold, he was nowhere to be found!"
Greven's anger vanished. He set Dorian on his feet. ''Nowhere? Have you searched?"
"Yes, Dread Lord."
Greven stared at Dorian. From the base of his skull to the small of his back the warrior had a Phyrexian control rod implanted in place of his natural spine. This rod gave him enormous strength, but it also obeyed the mental commands of the evincar of Rath. To disobey brought instant retaliation in the form of unendurable pain. Greven had been so busy saving Predator, he'd not noticed the empty sensation left by Volrath's lack of control. Now he swept all points of the compass for his hated master and felt nothing. If Volrath were on the plane of Rath, Greven should have been able to sense him. Yet Volrath could not be dead, for the sudden severance of the evincar's control would have struck his spine like a thunderbolt.