It had nearly worked, but she had left him a back door. Yawgmoth would not relinquish the world, no, but he would send the core of his being back to Phyrexia. Gutted though it was, the spheres at least were safe from this radiant witch. While his soul dwelt there, his fists could still hold and strangle and kill Dominaria.

This was the best of all plans. He would escape through the Stronghold and destroy the portal from within. Then, in safety, he would finish off this world.

Bolts struck him, tore through him, destroyed his darksome flesh-painful, yes, like the bite of a scourge, but not deadly.

Rebbec was a hive of hornets. She sent white mana wasps down to sting him. Oh, she would pay. She would pay!

Yawgmoth gathered the core of his being. It coursed through the black cloud, well out of harm's reach. With the speed that had borne him around the world, Yawgmoth gushed up the mountainside. Rebbec still hadn't found the caldera-stupid girl! He poured himself into it like blood down a drain. His being sloshed over the edge of the central pit, and he rolled toward the Stronghold. Too easy- Except that there was no Stronghold. Where once it had been now stood a lake of lava, bubbling and red and rising quickly. Yawgmoth could not swim through this burning stuff. Worse, if it had flooded the Stronghold, it poured even now through the open portal in the throne room and into Phyrexia. Attacks from above and below! How had the bitch arranged for-?

He saw them, in a ring atop the lava flood. Rock druids! Dwarfs! It was absurd for the Lord of Phyrexia to be defeated by stone kickers. He might not be able to swim through lava, but he could easily enough obliterate a circle of dwarfs.

Yawgmoth gathered the core of his being into a dense black fist and lunged for that pathetic circle.

At the last, he shied back. One of the creatures was lit by a sudden, oracular light. A white beam broke over the dwarf. It widened into an arc that splashed across three of the beasts.

Peering toward the top of the volcanic shaft, Yawgmoth saw the source of the light.

Rebbec! She had lured him here to trap him! Her light struck and transformed these dwarf minions. No longer seeming crude piles of stone, the little folk became radiant creatures. Taller, more slender, with clothes and skin that shone. White dwarfs! What witchery!

Ah, but this changed nothing. There were a thousand vents out of these volcanoes. She could not trap him. The sealing of his portal meant only that he could not retreat from Dominaria, that he would remain here and fight with every fiber of his being. It only assured that Dominaria was his now and forevermore.

Gliding away from the light, Yawgmoth coursed along the wall. In easy moments, he found a network of cracks that breathed fresh air. He sieved through them and out upon the mountainside.

He fairly giggled as he withdrew the core of his being from Urborg. This was all the better. He would lurk just beyond her reach while his endless black arms lashed up to drag Rebbec from the skies.

Yawgmoth slipped away, just out of the carved perimeter. There, in safe darkness, he stared at the gleaming spectacle. With an almost casual gesture, he summoned a legion of tentacles in the cloud beneath Rebbec. She could sever many of the reaching arms, but not all. In time, one would lay hold, and then another, and a third, and she would be dragged down to utter oblivion. The last hope of Dominaria would die in a black fist.

Yawgmoth laughed lightly.

Gargantuan arms erupted from his black soul and lashed the beaming goddess.

Chapter 31.

The Choice of Heroes.

Gerrard was lost. Suffused in brilliant light, clutched in an implacable grip, immersed in the music of the spheres, he had grown insensate. The powers that battled above and beneath him were gods, and he a mere plaything. There was nothing left for a hero to do but wait until good won and evil died.

Hanna was here. She filled his memories. That's where he lingered, in memories. Karn was here too, the silver guardian who protected him. He protected Gerrard from the Lord of the Wastes, a bogeyman in countless stories. Those were glorious days, safe and happy and easy. Gerrard walked back through them with Hanna at his side.

Into his dreaming, something intruded. A great black tentacle lashed out of the sullen pit. It hadn't the slick substance of an aquatic limb. This was muscular darkness. It slapped up through the glad glow and lashed his leg and dragged at him. Something else pulled him the other way, something that held him around his shoulders and chest. They fought, this tentacle and the straps. They tore at him.

In that violent sensation, he surfaced from the oracular dream.

Gerrard did not open his eyes. Even with them shut, his head ached from the glare. Through his eyelids, he saw shapes and forms-the upended deck of Weatherlight, the dark bulk of his cannon, the tangle of gunnery traces holding him-and there, what was that? A long, black limb dragged at him.

Cold and biting, it slithered tighter around his leg and yanked.

"Something's got me!" Gerrard called. His voice echoed meekly in his head. It could not batter past the storm of sound. Even his enhanced muscles could not match the power of that limb.

Another tentacle lashed across the deck and wrapped around a baluster. It pulled so hard, the support came loose along with half the rail.

"Something's got us!" Gerrard shouted toward the speaking tube.

A voice answered, not from the tube, but from a corner nearby. "Yawgmoth. He drags us downward."

"Urza?" Gerrard called out. "You can see? Of course you can see, with those damned eyes."

"I can hear too."

Kicking his leg to try to break the tentacle's hold, Gerrard said, "Use your eyes to blast this!"

"Killing moggs and killing Yawgmoth are two different things."

Gerrard nodded, "Yeah. I'm figuring that one out. How can he get past the white mana beams?"

"Wherever there's a hole, he reaches up. Whenever one tentacle gets severed, he grows a new one."

Gerrard bellowed toward the speaking tube. "Sisay! Sisay! Roll the ship!"

Sisay responded, groggy with a fever dream. "What?"

"Roll the ship!" Gerrard shouted, shaking his leg.

"What ship?"

A shout from across the forecastle told that Tahngarth had just gotten lashed too. Weatherlight slipped downward.

"Karn! More power!"

"There is no more power. We can't hold out!" came the silver golem's rumbling voice. "Not against the mana cascade and the tentacles." The ship foundered as three more tentacles took hold of the main deck. "Weatherlight is dead, Gerrard. The cascade has destroyed her. I can barely keep the engines running."

It was like waking into a nightmare. Dead. The ship was dead. Gerrard's throat grew raw. "Damn it, Squee! You're the only one who can draw a bead! Shoot these things!"

The goblin's answer was so vitriolic that Gerrard could make out only a string of profanities followed by the word "butts."

Squee's gun spoke. It shouted. The ship jiggled with the discharge. It shook more strongly as the volley cut through two of the tentacles. Squee shouted more epithets. Another tentacle popped, and another.

"Sisay, you with us yet?" Gerrard yelled.

"I had the strangest dream-"

"Just roll the ship!" Gerrard interrupted.

Weatherlight spun about her axis. The mana that poured across her wings whirled and sliced through the last of the tentacles. The ship lurched upward.

Gerrard would have whooped, though he hadn't the throat for it.

Karn's voice came from below, "We're losing the shift envelope!"

"Take us out of here, Captain," Gerrard shouted. "High and fast!"

"Aye!" she called back.

Weatherlight corkscrewed up out of the column of white mana, keeping her silvery hull toward the killing stuff. It splashed in radiant waves from her gunwales, as if the ship rode atop a geyser. Only when she had cleared the cascade did Sisay roll her upright. Everyone was glad to feel the deck rise up beneath their feet. Gunnery traces creaked as their occupants stood.

Gerrard opened his eyes. Here, beyond the storm of mana, blackness ruled. The sun had set. Even the stars seemed reluctant to shine. Yawgmoth filled the world with ink. Only the column of fire shone, and it cast Weatherlight's shadow, huge and spectral, across the darkness.

Panting, Gerrard went to his knees beside the speaking tube. "Status reports, everyone, from the top down."

Sisay was the first. "We're played out, Commander. The ship's sluggish. We've got a damaged rudder and a bent airfoil."

Tahngarth reported from the starboard gun, "Our cannons are down too." He gestured toward the barrel tip. The last of the energy drooled out. "Mana overloaded the systems."

"It's worse than that," Karn added. "Mana overloaded Weatherlight herself. There's nothing left. The ghost is gone from the machine. I can do my best as engineer, but I'm just moving the parts of a corpse."

From sickbay, Orim reported, "I don't need to tell you what standing the ship on end does to the crew. A little steadier flying for a while would help me get some of these bones set." "We've got no choice except to fly steadily," Karn said. Gerrard rubbed his forehead and muttered, "Of course, we have another choice-crash." Out loud he said, "Planeshift is out too?" "Yes."

After that one word, the speaking tube went dramatically silent. The only sound that came was the sputter of damaged engines and the restless whuffle of the wind.

Gerrard couldn't seem to get a breath. Everything was dark, the sky and the world both. Everything was quiet. He'd awakened from a dream of Hanna to find himself alone in the darkness. Yawgmoth had taken over Dominaria, and Gerrard's ship could no longer even escape the doomed world. She'd have to land sometime, and then Yawgmoth would have them all.

Biting his lip, Gerrard looked out at the black heavens. A few stars, tiny and distant, winked into being. Once, Gerrard would have given anything to stand on a tall ship and feel her heave beneath him and watch the stars. He had never wanted to save the world. Now it looked as though he wouldn't.

Gerrard's gaze fell from the stars to those starlike eyes of Urza Planeswalker. "I suppose it's too late to try your plan."

Urza's head stared back. "It is too late to turn Weatherlight into a bomb, yes. It is too late to save half the world at the expense of the other half. Too late."

Gerrard shook his head. "Karn, how long can you keep us up here?"

"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps less."

Gerrard nodded. He took a deep breath. The air was cold and clean this high up. He spread his hands, feeling the sweat steam away. "I guess I am out of tricks."

Urza stared levelly at him. "Close the speaking tube."

Irritated, Gerrard said, "What? Why?"

"Close it."

The commander snapped the lid closed over the tube. "What?"

"There is one more chance. I don't know if it will even work. Whether it does or not, it will cost us everything."

All hesitation was gone from Gerrard. He leaned forward and said, "Tell me."

After Gerrard had ordered the command crew to assemble, Sisay was, of course, the first on the bridge. She stood at the helm of the foundering ship and stared beyond the windscreen. The sky was filled with blazing stars. The pillar of fire stood to port, joining the sky and the ground. All else was black.

The aft door to the bridge flew open and slammed against the inner wall. A rangy goblin entered. Squee rubbed his hands together to try to return warmth to them. His feet slapped the tiles as he headed to the helm.

"Why'd Gerrard call a meeting, do you think? Squee hopes it's for dinner. This ship ain't got enough bugs."

"I don't know, Squee," said Sisay levelly. "I hope it's got more to do with a safe landing."

The fore hatch opened. Up through it ascended Orim. Unlike the chilled goblin, she had been sweating in the crowded sickbay. She mopped her forehead with one dangling edge of her turban before tucking the end in place again.

"So, what's Gerrard got up his sleeve this time?"

"You mean up his craw?" asked Tahngarth behind her. "He and Urza were talking. I asked what they were discussing. They told me I could hear with everyone else."

"You can hear with everyone else, First Mate Tahngarth," Sisay interjected with mock disapproval. "If Gerrard is going to keep me in the dark, he'd damned well better keep you in the dark as well."

Gerrard arrived next, seeming suddenly old. Over his customary leather vest, he wore a long woolen greatcoat to keep out the stellar chill. One hand rested on his sword hilt, and the other clutched the head of Urza Planeswalker. All in all, Gerrard seemed more a spectral shaman or necromancer than a ship's commander. Still, he smiled to see his friends.

"Hello, all of you. Thanks for coming. I told Karn to stay with the engine so we don't plummet." He flashed a brief smile that was returned by no one on the bridge. Taking a deep breath, Gerrard said, "Anyway, Urza and I have worked things out. I can't promise you our plan will work. All I can say is that if it does, you all should be just fine, and Dominaria too. If it doesn't work, at least we will have died trying."

Tahngarth grunted. "What is this plan?" Gerrard waved off the question. "It's a lot of mumbo jumbo, if you want to know the truth. Suffice it to say that we'll keep the ship circling up here as long as we can, and when we can't any longer-which I fear will perhaps be before we're done meeting here-Urza and I have a little surprise for Yawgmoth." Sisay lifted an eyebrow. "If you're not going to tell us, what's the point of calling a meeting?"

Gerrard reached out his free hand and took hers. "I just wanted to tell you what a fine crew you've been. The best.

It took me a long time to take my place among you, and a longer time to deserve that place. Once this is all over, let's lift a glass to this damned fine crew."

Sisay took her hand off the helm and embraced Gerrard. She knew what this was. "I forgot to pass on a message. One from Multani."

Gerrard pulled back from the embrace and looked into her eyes. "Multani?"

"Yes," Sisay said. "When he left for his homeland, he asked me to tell you good-bye."

Gerrard smiled tightly, and wrapped her in another embrace.

Orim was next, her coin-coifed hair jingling beside his ear.

Afterward, Gerrard clasped Tahngarth's hand. The two traded a grave, respectful look and a nod.

Last of all was Squee. He crouched by the back door, his hand on the knob in preparation for flight. "Squee know what you up to! Squee not let you do it!"

Gerrard spread his hand innocently. "What are you talking about?"