It was a simple spell, known by every novice green wizard. Gathering potent magics into her hand, she blew a cloud of mana spores upon the wind. They tumbled out before her, twining like a ribbon in air, and wrapped around the first metal serpent.

Motes of power sank into supple scales and fine-mesh skin, into the cable-taut muscles beneath and the metallic bones that they moved. The dragon grew, parts expanding with disruptive force. Joints ground together. Wings seized up. Limbs grew too heavy to hold aloft. The dragon plunged from the skies as surely as if it had been slain outright. All twisted metal and tortured welds, the beast tumbled twice before it struck a building below. It cracked through the roof as if it were an eggshell and sent up an explosion.

Lord Windgrace took on the second dragon. The panther warrior powered his spell with the black side of the spectrum. His mind summoned a thought, a simple but powerful thought discovered by the liches of Urborg. Their necromancies had captured the final idea that arose in every mortal mind as it winked from being, a thought that stilled flesh and awakened rot. Vultures, it was said, could hear that thought, and knew the moment to begin to feed. Had Lord Windgrace allowed the idea to come fully formed into his own mind, even he would have been slain. Instead, he brought it into being in the mind of the dragon engine. Its eyes went dark. Its limbs curled in death. It fell from the sky.

Commodore Guff squared off against the third dragon engine-and nearly died. The thing swooped down on him and breathed a red gush of flame. In the moment before Guff was engulfed, he racked his brain for a form that would be impervious to fire. He thought of nothing, only the fire itself. It broke over him, consuming his flesh-no, not consuming it, for his flesh had in the last moment become fire. It was a hot but otherwise comfortable body. He felt like a man swimming in a large tub. Better still, he realized he could gather the flames into his body and thus increase it. In a moment, the holocaust that spewed from the dragon's mouth took on the shape of a gigantic Commodore Guff. Eager to become even larger, the planeswalker shoved his burning hands into the dragon's mouth and dragged himself down the serpent's throat. He sought the white-hot source of all that flame and, reaching it, expanded hugely. There came a terrific popping sound, and the fiery Guff jetted out the back of a burned-out dragon husk.

The last dragon engine belonged to Bo Levar, who had just finished washing away all the cement. He'd nearly depleted his mana reserves by moving that mountain, but a clever trick needed little mana. Glancing from the now-exposed bomb cluster beneath him to the hurtling figure of the dragon engine, Bo Levar made a series of mental calculations. He cast a simple summoning, the simplest summoning of all-to bring nothing into being. Directly in the dragon's path, he summoned an inviolate singularity, a point in space that could not be occupied by any matter.

The dragon crashed into the point, smaller than a pinprick. It clove through the creature's metallic brain, folded up its neck like a limp chain, and ripped out its mechanistic heart. The dragon fell, the singularity remaining intact behind it. Bo Levar floated off to one side, giving room for the corpse to plummet atop the bomb cluster.

The bombs went off. White energy blossomed below Bo Levar's feet. It formed a set of new domes. Each expanded exponentially. Each pulverized everything it swept over. They spread with such blinding fury that in the first moment they swallowed a square mile. In the second they swallowed nine square miles. In the third, thirty-six. Then a hundred. Then two hundred twenty-five.

Bo Levar and the others rose away from the explosions. They soared up from Gamalgoth, which disappeared forever.

Blasts leveled the forests and reamed away the bedrock. The white, killing cloud boiled outward even as it sank through the devastation. A landmass the size of a small continent-the size of Argive of old-simply turned to nothing. All around the cracked edge of the blast, where the shell of the first sphere struggled to hold together, chunks of ground broke free and plunged into the second sphere.

We've done it, came Freyalise's thought in all their minds. We've destroyed Phyrexia.

Even as she said it, the explosive cloud shifted enough that they could see down through the first sphere and the second to riven pipes in the third, and boiling blackness in the forth. Phyrexia was cut in cross-section like a half-demolished building.

It's not destroyed, Bo Levar replied. But it surely is gutted. It will take Yawgmoth aeons to rebuild it.

Commodore Guff chuckled internally and thought, Ha! Little do these poor bastards know he has no plans to rebuild.

What? chorused the other three planeswalkers.

The commodore stared, shocked, at them. Did I think that out loud?

Bo Levar fixed him with a level stare, quite a feat as the thinning atmosphere of Phyrexia whirled around him. What do you know, Commodore?

Huffing into his mustache, the commodore said, Nondisclosure, my boy. I make it a habit not to discuss future events with those destined to live them out- Break the habit, interrupted Bo Levar. Why wouldn't Yawgmoth want to rebuild Phyrexia?

Why, it's simple, the commodore said, blinking. Dominaria will be his new home.

The four destroyers of Phyrexia traded heartsick looks. Bo Levar spoke for them all. Then all we've done is drive him irrevocably into our world. When the commodore nodded grimly, Bo Levar said, Great. Let's get out of here and get back to Dominaria- or shall we call it New Phyrexia?

Chapter 23.

The Eyes of Urza.

Gerrard watched with seething hatred as Stronghold troops poured into the ruined throne room of Crovax.

Ten, twenty, thirty: il-Vec, il-Dal, Phyrexian.... The warriors seemed to note the absence of the room's usual defenders and did not charge Gerrard. Instead, they fanned out along the rumpled walls. Or perhaps they grew wary after glimpsing what Gerrard held, the severed head of Urza Planeswalker. They all knew and hated that visage. Most likely, though, they hesitated when they saw the two halves of Crovax's corpse. Anyone who could single-handedly slay Crovax and his retinue was a formidable warrior, was perhaps the new evincar.

Gerrard sensed their thoughts-any true commander could read warriors' eyes-and he knew the next moments would decide if he lived or died. Even with tenfold strength, he could not defeat a company such as this. There were easily sixty warriors now and more in the corridor. He could not defeat them, but he could cow them.

Gerrard lifted his bloodied halberd blade toward the doorway and made a sweeping gesture.

"Come in, all of you! Come pay fealty to your new lord!" He hung the blade at his waist, strode heavily toward the black throne and leaped up onto it. Grasping the high back with his free hand, he raised the head of Urza Planeswalker like a lantern. "Behold, my prey. First, I slew the greatest, most ancient foe of the Ineffable-Urza Planeswalker. In payment, the Ineffable granted me the power to destroy Evincar Crovax, and to take his place. Kneel before your new lord. Kneel before Evincar Capashen!"

They did not. Glaives and cudgels gleamed in their hands, and defiance in their eyes. The il-Vec lieutenant who had gathered the other warriors spoke for them all through a mouth formed by facial wires.

"Until we see proof of Yawgmoth's favor, we will not kneel."

Eyes blazing, Gerrard stared at the lieutenant-or just past his shoulder, to the flowstone wall. A hand formed from the malleable stuff, mimicking the motion of Gerrard's free hand. He shoved, and it shoved, striking the cocky lieutenant in the solar plexus and sending him to his knees.

"Kneel! All of you! Or must I wrap your necks in flowstone fists!"

They complied-reluctantly. Each dropped one knee to the floor.

Gerrard had hoped for more, but this was a start. He hadn't the power to subdue them all with flowstone. Nor, yet, did it seem he had the power to subdue them with words. This was only token obedience, quickly spent. Still, it was better than open rebellion.

He gestured toward the riven shell of Crovax. "This man, who had been a terror to you, had been merely a nuisance to me. This man, who had reigned in awful glory aboard the Stronghold skulked below decks on Weatherlight. You've learned to obey the madness of Crovax, but his madness was only lunacy. The madness of Gerrard is fury!" He thrust the head of Urza high, and his roar echoed through the black vault. The stalactites resonated, like bells drawing an overtone from the air.

Then came a deadly pause, a silence where there should have been the sound of faces kissing the ground. The kneeling guards did not lower themselves. They seemed ready to rise and bear forward.

Words failed Gerrard. He was ready to go down fighting, to kill as many as he could before he himself died.

Words did not fail Squee. "Ahem!" he began in a high-pitched stage cough that drew all eyes, including Gerrard's. Squee posed before the throne in an imperious posture he had learned from the goblins of Mercadia.

"Behold likewise Lord Squee, magic man of dat dere black throne." He thrust his claws forward in emulation of spell-casting, though he looked more like a cat batting a ball. "Ha-cha-cha!"

Gerrard's eyes flared. The soldiers got a glimpse of his real fury.

Undaunted, Squee strutted in front of the throne and crowed, "Just like Gerrard kilt hisself a Crovax, Squee likewise kilt hisself a Ertai." He nodded deeply. "Yep. An' just like Gerrard's screamin' at you for bein' dolts, so youse got Squee mighty pissed too."

The lieutenant laughed through stainless steel teeth. "If you're a mage, show us your best spell."

Squee pawed the air again and tried to look fierce.

Gerrard surreptitiously kicked him in the backside and said, "He doesn't need to show you a spell. He killed Ertai. He is mightier than Ertai. Disbelieve to your own peril!"

"I disbelieve," said the lieutenant as he rose, his battle axe rotating eagerly in his hands, "but to your peril."

The others stood as well.

Before they could advance, Squee shouted, "Squee's gonna do his best spell. His lovely assist-er-evincar's gonna swing his blade, and Squee's head's gonna shoot off his body an' plop right down. Then, he's gonna put his head back on an' stand up."

Whispers of awe leaked from the soldiers.

"A resurrection spell!"

"He's gonna kill the toad."

"Wait, let's see this!"

Gerrard's glare had a beseeching edge to it, and he muttered, "It may not work ... with Crovax dead."

Squee's eyes grew wide for a moment. His brow rumpled in concentration. He turned toward the warriors.

"Maybe Squee try a card trick-"

"Rise from the dead," demanded the lieutenant, his axe shining, "or descend .. .. It's your choice."

Squee gazed at the soldiers, considering. He turned toward Gerrard and pursed his lips. He threw his arms out to his sides, drew a deep breath, and said, "Watch close. Squee's got nothing up sleeve."

"Soon he'll have nothing up his collar," one warrior joked.

Squee swallowed once visibly. "Draw blade!"

Gerrard complied, lifting the halberd high. He muttered, "Not again."

"Swing blade!" cried Squee shrilly, closing his eyes and plugging his ears with long, bony fingers.

Drawing a ragged breath, Gerrard clenched his teeth and swung. The blade moaned in air, cutting straight and true. It entered the back of Squee's bony neck, severed bone and muscle, and exited the front, rolling the loose head as it went. There could be no doubting the stroke for the red fountain and the tumbling skull and the crunch as it smacked the floor. The body went over next in a limp, almost disappointed slump. Gerrard finished the follow-through, the halberd only drawing his eye to the head he held in his other hand. At last, he stopped the momentum of the wicked blade. It dripped. He didn't want to hang it again at his waist. Every thought went to the two hunks of flesh and the pool of red on the floor.

There was silence. This time, every eye was on the dead Squee.

"Nothing's happening," said the lieutenant unhelpfully.

"Shut up," advised Gerrard, staring. "Give it time."

The lieutenant was right, though. The blood did not boil and vault back into emptied vessels. The flesh did not reweave itself, as it had so many times before.

Blinking, the lieutenant growled, "We've given you imposters enough time." He took a step forward. "You're going to wish you'd died as quickly as your court mage."

Gerrard stared an incredulous moment longer at the green wreck of flesh that had once been his comrade, his friend. Perhaps the halberd had truly slain him-a soul-killing weapon.

The circle of warriors tightened.

"Get back!" Gerrard shouted, waving his halberd and brandishing the head of Urza. "Get back, or die."

"Who's going to kill us?" asked the lieutenant. He was almost in range to strike with his axe. "Your wizard?"

In deadly seriousness, Gerrard growled, "No, I'll kill you."

"Yeah, Evincar," the lieutenant said, taking a swing that Gerrard had to jump over. "You can't kill us all."

"But I can," interrupted a new voice-in fact, a very old voice.

It had not come from Squee or Gerrard, but from the head that Gerrard held aloft-the head of Urza Planeswalker. Red beams rolled from Urza's gemstone eyes. They splashed over the lieutenant and his nearest troops, bathing them in killing fire.

The lieutenant's wired smile melted. His skin cracked. Jerkied flesh curled away from bone. His neck burned through, and his skull fell toward ground but never struck, disintegrated. All around him, soldiers died the same way.

As Urza's eyes disgorged their killing gaze, his mouth moved in hoarse instruction. "Sweep the room," he told Gerrard, who complied. More soldiers turned to skeletons and then to drifting ash. "Kill them all."

It was an easy command to obey. Soon, the throne room battle had claimed another three-score victims. Like those who had died before, these left no trace of their existence-nothing but ash.

For the third time, silence gripped the throne room. In that hush, Gerrard turned the now-darkened eyes of Urza Planeswalker toward himself and stared into their strange black facets. "You're alive," he breathed, incredulous. The ancient face stared back with infinite sadness. "Yes, but only just."

Gerrard searched those dead eyes. "If you live, you can build yourself a new body."

"I cannot. No common axe could have slain me, for my body was only a convenience to house my soul ... but that halberd you wield ... it was forged by Yawgmoth himself. It has severed forever the greater part of my soul."

"How do you live at all?" Gerrard asked breathlessly. The head winced with some inner anguish and said, "There is but one planeswalking organ-the brain. While it, and these two power stones remain in my head, I will live."

Gerrard-who had downed dozens of Phyrexian cruisers, had fought in five separate battles on three separate planes, had even stabbed Yawgmoth disguised as his beloved-Gerrard blushed and looked away from the head.

"Well, uh-sorry for cutting off your-" "If you hadn't slain me, I would have slain you," Urza replied. "It is better this way. If I had won, I would have bowed in service to Yawgmoth. You not only escaped him, but you cut away enough of me that I could escape him as well. You cut away the Phyrexian part of me. I had become like Mishra, more machine than man. Now I am neither."

"Squee not machine, not man!" interrupted a squeaky voice. "Why you cut his head off?"

"You're alive!" Gerrard repeated, shifting his focus from the bodiless Urza to a whole, hale goblin. The severed cranium had regrown. Where there had moments before been only a lifeless body, there was now a squirming, talking goblin. It was as if Squee had never been slain. Gerrard glanced again at Urza. The two of them traded amazed looks. "How is it that you aren't killed by a soul-killing blade?"

"Perhaps he has no soul," whispered Urza.

"Squee the greatest magic man ever!"

Furrowing his brow, Gerrard lifted the head of Urza. "Here's the greatest magic man ever, Squee, and look what happened to him."

Crossing arms over his chest, Squee nodded, considering. "Well, dat magic man don't got his body back, and Squee do. Squee guess Yawgmoth don't want him dead."

"Maybe he doesn't want your company. You're alive because you're too irritating to die," teased Gerrard.

"Maybe that'll work for me, too," Urza interjected.

"Squee alive because Squee immortal!"

Gerrard laughed. "If irritation is immortality, yes, you will live forever. And if you can't die, you're leading us out of here."

The goblin looked suddenly fearful. "Oh, but Squee do die. It just don't stick."

A pensive look crossed the face of Urza, and his gemstone eyes seemed to darken bleakly. "What is it like to die, Squee? I have known every other thing in all the spheres, even the love of a woman." Gerrard and Squee both lifted eyebrows at this. Urza looked miffed. "Surely you have heard of Kayla bin-Kroog? Author of The History of the Brothers' War? She was my wife."

Gerrard and Squee shrugged.

"I have known all that a man can know, but I do not know what it is like to die, and I will be doing so soon enough. Tell me. What lies ahead?"

"A head?" It was more than Squee could bear. He doubled over laughing. "What lies a head?"