Ertai fell screaming into a tangled mass of rigging suspended from the side of the pursuing vessel. In the last second before certain death, a giant hand of rope snatched him from the empty air.
The airship Predator, reeling under accumulated battle damage, scarcely noticed the addition of one to her complement. She had an eight degree list to starboard, her speed had fallen to a scant four knots, and her steering gear was so damaged the ship could not maintain a straight course. Dead sailors and mogg goblins-Predator's boarding troops-sprawled everywhere. Smoke billowed from hull scuttles along the battered starboard side, filling the deck with choking black streamers. Into this chaos strode Greven il-Vec, Predator's master.
The crew-what was left of it-dashed about in ratlike frenzy, each man pursuing his own task. Greven shook his head in disgust. Not a brain to be found in any of them! He spied four sailors by the starboard rail, hacking at tangled rigging with cutlasses.
"Never mind that!" he roared. Leaning against the slant of the deck he shouted, "All free hands to the port side! Can't you feel the list? Do you want to capsize us?"
"But Commander-" said one, blade poised.
Greven seized the man by the throat. The sailor's face purpled; his cutlass clattered to the canted deck.
"Question me, will you?" Greven said, seething. The choking man could not reply. "Worthless meat! Lightening the ship will solve two problems!" So saying, he hurled the sailor over the side. The remaining three scampered for their lives to the port side of the ship.
Predator trembled, and a forward hatch cover blew off. A jet of flame erupted from the hold. The heavy hatch cover passed within a finger's breadth of Greven's head-the wind of its passing cooled his cheek-but he never flinched. The shrieks of men burning in the engine room below had as little effect.
"Engineer, dead stop! Direct all power to lift! Firefighters to the forward hold, now! The rest of you, form a work party and clear the decks!" His voice cut through the terror and confusion, and Predator's crew fell to saving their battered ship. Thanks to Greven and the fearful discipline he instilled, the airship slowly righted itself and maintained its altitude.
Stepping over deck wreckage, Greven reached the forecastle. Here the ship had taken most of its punishment. Bulwarks were shattered, the alloy casing peeled back like gray flower petals. Colliding with the closed portal had caused the worst damage. The ship's prow had been crushed backward to the fourth hull frame. The serrated ram had broken off and was lying at the bottom of Portal Canyon somewhere. The forward harpoon gun had been dismounted, the barrel jammed into the upper boarding mandible overhead. It would be days, maybe weeks, before such extensive structural damage could be repaired.
Greven stood with his feet braced widely apart on the twisted deck and stared at the ancient portal through which Weatherlight had vanished. He'd lost a battle, something he seldom did, and he'd failed in his pursuit of the enemy, something that had never happened before. High atop the portal structure, the great Phyrexian control center, styled like a fiercely staring face, mocked Greven's failure.
"Someday, Gerrard," he muttered. "Someday you'll bleed for Greven. I swear it."
Far below, clinging to the rigging draped over the starboard side of Predator, young Ertai debated his chances. From this height he would never survive a fall to the ground. He knew a flying spell, but it required calm and the utmost concentration-not very likely conditions at the moment. He briefly considered hiding in the wreckage until Predator landed, but the Rathi airship was still hovering and gave no sign of an intention to land. Ertai's arms ached. He couldn't hang on forever. The only sane choice was to climb to the ship above. Talent like his should not be wasted on a meaningless death.
He'd just begun to climb the skein of lines when a body hurtled past. A sailor hit the rigging a few feet from Ertai, and the back of his shirt snagged on some wires. He hung helplessly for a moment, then his clothing slowly began to tear. Ertai and the sailor's eyes met, and for a few seconds, Ertai saw the approach of death in the man's eyes. The sailor clawed at the rigging, but he could not find a handhold. As he tore free, the only sound the man made with his mangled throat was a horribly muted gurgle. Ertai watched him fall.
With renewed purpose, Ertai resumed climbing. The wire rigging tore his hands. What a shame, he thought. Such wellshaped, expressive hands he had. The old masters who had trained him in the nuance and gestures of spellcasting always complimented his fine hands. Now they were being cut to ribbons. A great-and painful-shame.
The shouting from the hull above him abated. Predator climbed slowly. Ertai was a few yards below the keel when he heard a voice boom out, "Prepare to clear away the fouled rigging!" His heart contracted into a hard knot when he saw axes and swords glinting above the rail. They were going to chop his lifeline off!
He tried to climb faster, but his feet kept tangling in the rat's nest of metallic rope and wire. When speed failed, he fell back on his greatest asset, his magic. With one arm wrapped around a thick bundle of lines, Ertai used his other hand to begin the gestures of a spell.
The sailors at the rail awaited Greven's command to cut away the downed rigging. With a nod, he set them to work. The first sailor raised a heavy ax, but before he could bring it down on the mass of lines, it flew backward from his hand. Despite the strain of battle and their fear of Greven, the men laughed at their comrade's apparent clumsiness. The next sailor wielded a cutlass. It tore out of his grasp and hurtled over the side. More laughter. The third man had a hatchet. It left his hand and struck him between the eyes. Down he went, bleeding from a serious gash in the forehead. The laughter died.
Greven approached. He turned his head from side to side as if sniffing the wind.
"Magic? Who dares to cast spells on my ship?" he said aloud. Sailors stood by with blank looks. "Haul up the rigging," Greven commanded.
Ertai almost fainted from fatigue. No one ever expected a sorcerer to cast spells one-handed while dangling a mile in the air, he mused-no one but Ertai could have done it! The last one was particularly satisfying, seeing that yokel get his own hatchet back on his thick skull.
The rigging trembled and began to rise. They were drawing him up. It was about time!
Rough hands grasped his arms and collar and hauled Ertai over Predator's rail. He would have liked to have arrived on the deck in a civilized manner, but the angry sailors threw him on his face. Ertai gathered his wits for a suitable response, but before he could do anything, a pair of massive booted feet appeared in front of him.
"What's this?" Greven said. To Ertai, his voice sounded like the scrape of a dull knife blade on a whetstone.
The young sorcerer got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. He drew a breath to announce himself, but it caught in his throat when he saw who-and what-he was facing.
Greven il-Vec bore little resemblance to the man he once was. Head and shoulders taller than anyone else on Predator, he towered over Ertai. It was impossible to tell where his armor ended and his body began. Grafted muscles coiled around his limbs, shoulders, neck, and chest. The unnatural patterns of sinew and armor plate lent Greven a reptilian look, a resemblance heightened by the waxen gray cast of his skin. Add to that the cuts and scars of countless combats, and Greven was a forbidding sight to the newly saved young sorcerer.
"You're from Gerrard's ship," Greven said.
Ertai bowed. "Ertai's the name. You made the right decision, pulling me aboard." So saying, he stood back from Greven and folded his arms across his chest-mostly to conceal his bleeding palms.
Greven's brow arched ever so slightly. He pointed at Ertai and said, "Kill him. And take your time."