Apocalypse (Magic the Gathering: Invasion Cycle, Book 3)
J. Robert King
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The end is near!
Phyrexian plagues and shock troops have taken their toll. The final stage of the invasion has begun, and the dark lord Yawgmoth himself plans to cross over into Dominaria to claim his prize. With time running out, the battered heroes’ last hope to save their home lies in an ancient, untested weapon, a jumble of artifacts known as the Legacy.
Bear witness to the apocalypse.
in vain. We go in reverse order, back to the bombs we each planted. We go in twos. One will be a pathfinder, locating each bomb and signaling the other to approach. The other will be the detonator, who will finalize the blast sequence before planeswalking away. Both jobs are perilous, the latter from the bombs and the former from whatever welcoming parties Yawgmoth has sent out for us. The commodore gaped with the sudden realization. Yawgmoth knows what we are planning! We have to assume he knows
bringing both comfort and sadness. His eyes, magnigoth knotholes within a face of shaggy bark, gazed out at Urborg. Bodies littered the tormented ground. Soot reached its tentacles to the sky. Air keened with ceaseless demon shrieks. It was an inauspicious moment for the great warship to come into 79 Apocalypse being, and yet Weatherlight had been shaped toward this final hour, this darkest hour. Only the greatest calamity could call into being so great a miracle. Weatherlight would be used up
and floor all around them. They seemed equally oblivious to the 127 Apocalypse Phyrexian monsters that scrabbled into the far end of the passageway and bolted straight toward them. "Vampire hounds!" Eladamri growled. He remembered the beasts from his first assault on the Stronghold—ponysized canines with shaggy fur and teeth like poniards. "The dwarfs haven't a chance." Blinking, Liin Sivi said, "Better look again." The first vampire hound, its jowls painting the ground in drool, leaped at the
the next sword 169 Apocalypse that pursued him. It struck the flowstone, sank in, and stuck. Gerrard caught a foothold on it and turned a back flip. His boots came down on the head of his second attacker and crushed it like a melon. Even while he was suspended there in midair, Gerrard whirled his halberd around to decapitate a third guard. Its head bounded free and arced up into the air. Gerrard landed astride the messy body, got his footing, and swung his blade broadside. Steel and skull
only the more tightly to hide her glad tears. "To the throne room," she echoed. ***** What a bloody lane they paved, Eladamri and Liin Sivi and Grizzlegom. Sword, toten-vec, battle axe, they turned bones to gravel and muscles to tar. Down that red-gold highway came sure-footed Metathran and surer-footed minotaurs, Keldons, and elves. Once a band of forty, they were now a band of twenty, but each of the fallen warriors had slain ten monsters before he or she had died. Each of the warriors who