J. King: INVASION

"Tell them about the monsters," urged the blind seer. "Tell them about the monsters!"

"Quiet!" Gerrard shouted. It didn't matter. The guard captain was already gone.

Flinging up his hands in resignation, Gerrard turned and set his back against the bars. "Why did I think I needed to warn them?" He sank down to sit on the ground.

"A familiar complaint," the blind seer replied. He felt his way forward. "How did you find out about the monsters?"

Gerrard waved a dismissal. "It's a long story."

The old man sat down. His face was fully shadowed by the broad-brimmed hat he wore. "We have time."

Drawing an angry breath, Gerrard said, "I've known about them forever, even before I knew what to call them. I used to blame the 'Lord of the Wastes' for everything the Phyrexians did to me. Now I know better."

"Everything they did to you?"

"Yes," Gerrard replied. "I know this sounds crazy, but everything I've lost in my life, the Phyrexians have taken from me: my true parents, my foster parents, my brother Vuel, my Legacy, my friends… Now they want to take the rest." He grasped Hanna's hand and drew her toward him, wrapping her in an embrace. "They would take Hanna, here, and my crew- Weatherlight, Benalia, Dominaria. I won't let them. I'll fight for every last one. I would rather lose myself to the Phyrexians than lose anything else to them."

"Don't be too eager to lose yourself," the blind seer warned.

Gerrard turned his gaze on the old man. "So, you really see visions?"

The old man's mouth was grim beneath the bandage that wrapped his eyes. "There are two kinds of blindness- not seeing anything and seeing everything. I am blind because I see everything."

"You see everything?" Gerrard snorted. "How come you don't know anything about me?"

"If I focus, I could probably tell you all about yourself."

"Right," Gerrard replied. "How about you focus on whether we're going to win this war?"

The man took a deep breath. "There are some things even I cannot see."

Like gnats swarming dragon-flies, Metathran hoppers buzzed Phyrexian cruisers.

Fast, maneuverable, light-hoppers were spheres of glass and polished metal that shrugged off ray cannon fire and plasma bolts. Small metallic wings jutted from all sides, hinged to fold against the craft except when needed. Hoppers could turn in midair, could fly sideways or toponward and could fire exploding quarrels from any of twelve ports. A well-placed shot from a hopper could gouge a ten-foot hole in the outer armor of a cruiser. Hopper pilots were strapped to the central node of their craft, allowing them to pivot through two hundred ninety degrees. They used their fingers and toes to access the controls that filled the cockpit. Pilots divided their attention between strafing runs, vector targeting, and chamber reloads. Short, wiry, fearless, and focused, they were bred for this task. Unlike Metathran ground troops, fliers were not towers of muscle. If Urza had time, he would have given them hollow bones like birds.

"Form up!" Barrin shouted, signaling from the back of his dragon engine.

A swarm of hoppers responded eagerly to his signal.

Trailing these frenetic ships were angel platoons. Their long white pinions carved the air with a slow grace that the hoppers lacked. Still, these creatures were anything but slow. With one surge of their wings, the Serran angels overtook the hoppers. Magna swords-halfway between sabers and cleavers-glinted in their hands, and featureless metal masks covered angelic faces. These otherworldly creatures were refugees of a collapsed plane. They owed their very lives to Urza and Barrin and would likely repay that debt today.

Barrin signaled for a strafing run. Clutching the wire mane of the dragon engine, he crouched above the creature's neck and sent it into an arrow-straight dive.

The hoppers and angels flocked afterward.

Below, a dozen Phyrexian ships cruised above the Benalish plain. A dozen more lay in wreckage amid burning grasses. If even one craft landed safely, more than grass would burn. Each vessel carried an army of Phyrexians. The huge ship in the midst of the armada carried something even worse-plague. In gray, putrid clouds, contagion cascaded slowly from the craft. Disease ate every living thing in the wake of the ship.

Barrin's dragon engine tucked its wings. It dived. Air shrieked about the plunging beast. Angels and hoppers bobbed in its slipstream. Wings of feather and metal clung tight to their sides. Angels readied their magna swords, and Metathran pilots whirled in a frenzy of preparation.

The Phyrexian fleet seemed to swell outward, eclipsing the plains. Webs of black energy leaped up from the machines.

Barrin signaled for the hoppers and angels to execute a topside strafing run on the plague ship. He himself would fly below.

As the attack squadron approached, hoppers spread their wings. Angels began a piercing song. Their voices woke white magic from the very air. It enveloped them as they shot outward in a long attack.

A wall of black energy and red plasma rose dead ahead.

Hoppers punched through, the stuff spattering from polished metal. A few caught the plasma in weak seams or intakes. They disintegrated in midair or gummed up and tumbled from the skies.

The angels were untouched. They sang the music of the spheres, which burned away all that was impure. Joining their gleaming comrades beyond, they swarmed down on the plague ship.

Hoppers sent exploding quarrels into the side of the ship. Crimson fire scooped out sections of hull and engine. Phyrexian limbs and skulls hailed from the blast sites. Angels severed power conduits, bringing geysers of energy spewing from the ship. White smoke belched out all around.

For all their success, though, the hoppers and Serrans were merely bees stinging a mammoth. They could nettle it but not kill it.

Barrin lost sight of the squadron. His dragon engine swooped beneath the plague ship. He prepared a spell. White energies crawled down his arms. Drawing them through the air, he garbed himself in a suit of scintillating lightning-and only just in time. Clouds of plague rolled up around him. The air crawled with contagion. It pressed upon the envelope of energy around Barrin and hissed on the metal skin of the dragon engine.

Barrin stared up through the death cloud. It grew more dense ahead. He was approaching the main plague port beneath the ship. Its shaft would lead directly to the disease banks. It was Barrin's target. If he could send a blast up through the main plague port, he could purge the disease. What blast, though? A fireball or lightning strike would only spread the contagion. Barrin gathered white power from the vast plains below. He had intended these spells for the wounded after the battle, enough for a thousand Metathran warriors. Better to use them to save millions of civilians.

A ball of white power filled his hands. It grew incandescent there in the midst of the plague cloud. Sensing the spewing port above, Barrin hurled the sphere upward. It disappeared. A bright flash pierced the cloud, showing up the lip of the port. Moments later, the healing spell smashed within the plague channels. Another burst of light showed mana energy scouring the knobby mechanisms within.

"I've still got it," Barrin croaked wearily as the dragon engine carried him out from beneath the plague ship. They broke from the cloud.

Healing magic gushed from the plague ship. White energy overtook black disease. The spell that had sterilized the ship now cleansed the air beneath it.

Barrin clung to the dragon engine. That vast conglomerate spell had exhausted him, but it had worked. It had saved millions.

As the metal dragon soared out into clear sky, the plague ship dipped. Smoke poured out of it. The hoppers and Serrans had done their work. Wounds gaped across the horn-studded flanks of the ship. Listing slowly, the vessel slumped. It spiraled, a log in a whirlpool. Phyrexians were flung from its deck. They fell, writhing in air. The ship also fell. It keeled over, the empty plague port yawning one last time. A pair of bony masts struck ground first and dug deep furrows before snapping off. The fuselage followed. Decks cracked away. Engines exploded in long lines. Twin pillars of smoke shot up into mushroom clouds.