J. King: INVASION

"Nothing will be as you had planned it," rasped Barrin. To soften the comment, he said, "Thank you for anchoring me."

"I was only returning the favor." Urza hitched his goatee skyward. "Enough observation. We had best wade in ourselves."

"Yes," Barrin replied.

The two rose into battle. Azure crystals embedded in their power armor lifted them with the silent alacrity of bubbles through water. This was not so much flight as levitation, keyed directly to the minds of the suits' wearers. Soon the wind set up complaint at their passage. It tore at shoulders and wrung cloaks. No one was supposed to rise this quickly, not even a mage master and a planeswalker.

They had planned greater affronts to nature.

Barrin swept his battle staff through three arcs. Blue energy formed a sphere of protection around him. It was barely complete when a great tarry fist of black mana struck the shield. Dark energy spattered the sphere and crawled around it.

Pressing his lips together in irritation, Barrin whirled his staff again. It peeled back the shield as though it were an orange rind. He gathered the black-dripping shards of blue energy, mixing the colors. Swinging the staff in a final wide arc, he flung the glittering ball up to impact the belly of the third cruiser.

The ball tore through plates of metal to rip open a barrack. Out tumbled Phyrexians, cockroaches from a rotten log.

Urza meanwhile dodged red blasts from a ray cannon as he approached the cruiser.

The shots grew more precise. The gunners worked with frantic fury. One gunner had once been a human. Now it was a tortured thing of crisscrossed cables and gearwork implants. It caught Urza in its sights and fired. Red fury belched from the smoldering barrel of the cannon.

Urza lifted leathery gauntlets and deflected the hot plasma as if flinging away globs of wax. Heedless, he neared. Another volley spewed from the machine. This time, Urza caught the killing stuff and hurled it back at the gunner.

Gaseous plasma struck its tortured face. Its head collapsed like a balloon. It slumped in the straps of the machine.

Urza was glad to see that the ray cannon itself was unharmed.

The other gunner had never been human. A vat-grown monster, its body configuration was arthropodal. Beneath a red skull piece lurked a round mouth set with in-curved fangs. Its four forward appendages were poison barbed, and they lashed out to strike Urza. The reach of those things told of their unnatural origins.

The first jab caught Urza in the side. He had been too distracted, admiring the weapon. Now he was focused. Stingers the size of bull horns cut through power armor, sank into his side, pierced viscera, and met in the middle of him. Their fangy tips pumped venom.

Any man would have been killed. Perhaps that was why the O-shaped mouth wore a leering grin. Urza, however, was no mere man.

He ripped the stinger from his flesh. It was agony but an agony he could survive. He yanked the creature's arm out by its roots. Poison jetted from one end and bug-gore from the other. Urza jabbed the stingers into the Phyrexian's astonished mouth. Poison pumped. The gunner thrashed briefly before slumping beside its partner. Urza flung the dead arm away.

Almost as an afterthought, Urza reshaped his flesh, squeezing the venom out of him. His viscera and muscle regrew. Even the power armor repaired itself, now a mere projection of his mind. As long as the planeswalker could think, he could heal.

With a single almighty yank, Urza broke the ray cannon from its mounting. The huge weapon cracked loose from the walkway. It weighed an easy ton. Clutching the gun, Urza floated away from the cruiser. He slowly turned the cannon about, so he could engage its fire controls.

With a mere touch, Urza understood this machine. His eye glinted in the crosshairs. His hand compressed the trigger.

Red plasma blazed from the barrel, first taking out others guns like it. Next, Urza aimed at engine banks, at power stations, at stabilizers. It was short work with the single cannon to cripple the third cruiser. The massive ship began to sink.

Urza set his feet on it and paused to breathe. He did not need to breathe, but it helped him think. This ray cannon would prove very helpful. He would ride the cruiser to the ground and see what else he could salvage.

A cry came from overhead. Urza looked up. A huge dragon engine hovered there, its scales limned with blue motes of magic. From the back of the engine, a familiar figure called down.

"I requisitioned a ride. Where are you going?" Barrin asked.

"I'm riding this one down to see what else I can salvage," Urza said, happily hoisting the ray cannon. "Then I have pressing business elsewhere."

"Pressing business?" Barrin echoed incredulously. He gestured over his shoulder, where two more ships emerged, spraying flack. "This is pressing business."

"Yes," Urza replied. He pointed beyond the cruisers. Small white figures descended out of the sky-Metathran warships and flights of Serran angels. "But you have some new help. This battle is well in hand."

Barrin could only stare incredulously as Urza slid away atop the plunging cruiser. With anger meant for his old friend, Barrin savagely dug his heels into the sides of the dragon engine.

"Get up there, now. We've got a battle to win."

The dragon could not resist the blue thrall of Barrin's magic. Its wings surged, and it climbed into the sky.

Barrin patted the metallic neck. "You and I are the same, dragon. Enthralled. Driven into someone else's battles. One of these days, if we last long enough, we will awaken."

Weatherlight was a fine ship-and more than a ship. Part machine, part organism, part miracle, she fought with all the nerve and innovation of a great warrior. When the battle was done, also like a great warrior, she staggered to the nearest haven to make a controlled crash.

"There!" Gerrard shouted where he stood in the prow. He jabbed a finger beyond broad grasslands to a walled metropolis. "Benalia City!"

He would always remember the gleaming limestone of that place- thin white towers with conic hats, tall windows with elegant tracery, larger-than-life statues gazing over endless grasslands. Gerrard had trained there, had become a master-at-arms in the Benalish military. Benalia City had taught him the deadliness of blades and politics. He would still be among those sword masters except for Sisay's abduction. He had left his division to help save the ship's captain.

"Karn," Gerrard called into the bow speaking tube, "can you get us there?"

There came no response from below decks except a shudder of exertion that jiggled the whole ship. Sisay's voice came through.

"He's already drawing on his inner reserves to keep us aloft. He'll get us there."

"How bad is the damage?" Gerrard asked.

Hanna replied, "She'll heal herself. There's lots of heat stress- worn contacts, overworked parts. Give her an hour or two, and she'll be ready for another fight."

An alarm rose from the grand walls of the city.

"Speaking of a fight," Gerrard hissed under his breath.

In marketplace stalls, citizens looked up and pointed skyward. Soldiers clambered up the walls to reinforce the guards. Crossbow archers cranked bolts into place. Swords glinted in the sun. These were among the best-trained warriors in Dominaria. Ballista crews wheeled their siege engines about, loading them with thirty-foot spears of spruce. The iron-tipped bolts could rip their way through Weatherlight's hull. Just now, ten such machines targeted the ship's bow.

Gerrard raised his arms in the Benalish signal for alliance and parley. The ballistae and crossbows remained trained on the smoldering ship.

"Peace!" Gerrard shouted in a voice that sounded like war.