Reports from Dominarian agents—the sleepers, negators and seekers who came into contact with many of the weaker races—had spoken of such humans. Meat creatures with a dark affinity and a special strength building within that drew the Phyrexians toward them. Croag had considered such reports in error, confusing the nature of humans born in black mana environments with true Phyrexian purity. The Vec and others now living in Rath knew such empathy.
Croag had changed his opinion when he had walked Davvol’s new settlement. Most of the people there had fled in terror, but one did not. Donning chain mail and mounted on a similarly armored horse, he came at the Phyrexian, intent on destroying Croag—no fear or hesitation showing in his steel-blue eyes. Croag had felt that connection then, as if both beings recognized in the other that which was black—that which was Phyrexian. It brought the human strength enough to resist and to fight. Spurring his mount, he thundered in at the alien creature with furious hatred. The Inner Circle member destroyed the human with very little conscious effort. He plunged his talons deep into the lesser creature’s brain to draw out what final information he could. Delicious in its intensity, Croag reveled in the sensations that only meat could know.
In light of this attack Croag had come here, to the home of a Benalish nobleman serving as village magistrate. Here a seeker had recently sensed that spark of dark matter in the soul of a human. Again Croag knew the pull toward one not of his kind—but similar.
With a gesture from the Phyrexian, Davvol placed the artifact Croag had ordered him to carry near the human’s head. A braided metal cable uncoiled and slithered across the pillow to set itself into the old man’s ear, whispering a series of tones and noises. At normal volume, issuing forth from one of the larger Phyrexian war engines, the sound would frighten and confuse. At sufficiently high levels it might even be enough to interfere with the nerve processes. Here, at such a muted volume, it would merely induce a deep slumber. The human would not awaken, though he might remain aware of the nightmares that Croag would subject him to. The Phyrexian rested his left hand over the man’s face, first and fifth talons rotating inward to burrow through flesh and bone above the temples and into the soft brain matter beneath. It was not enough for permanent damage, not yet, but meant to draw upon memories of the sleeping man. Croag was searching for answers.
The old man’s eyes opened. Alarm and then terror flashing through them, quickly replaced by a furious hatred. This was not supposed to happen. His hands came out from the covers to fasten around Croag’s wrist. Blood ran down his arms and splashed against his face as the skin on his hands split against the razor-sharpness of Croag’s construction. Still he did not let go and actually budged Croag’s hand, forcing the talons to cut laterally through sensitive brain tissue. His hands locked as the seizures took him, and he thrashed in the bed. Croag dug deeper, pulling out what information he could.
His name was Jaffry Capashen, son of Steffan and distant cousin of his current clan leader Thomas. The concepts and context of family and clan and caste all flooded the Phyrexian’s mind. There was no time to enjoy the sensations, the knowledge pulled deeper to be reexamined later as the frail body faded into death.
Croag drove inward, cracking bone and squeezing the gray meat for more. He sensed the other’s affinity for Phyrexian methods and manners, the reason no doubt he had resisted the artifact. Dim images of years spent in a large clan manor swam at the Phyrexian. He saw brief memories of a battle fought in service to Benalia, an arranged marriage and the birth of two children, the death of his wife Myrr, and the taking of this assignment to the local village where he dispensed justice and collected taxes for his clan.
Croag withdrew his razored talons, leaving behind a pulped mess of bone fragments, brain and blood. He turned to find Davvol waiting patiently, but the seeker was no longer in the room.
Davvol did not wait for the question. “I sent the seeker away,” he said calmly. “The old man was certainly never supposed to wake up and defy you. I thought it better for the seeker to not see a failure here. It might cause,” he paused, “problems.”
Immune to the embarrassment of feelings, Croag still knew of the respect due his status and that in Davvol’s eyes he was now being subject to very careful ridicule. The Phyrexian hunched down, not to diminish himself but in preparation of attack, though Croag restrained himself. Davvol remained too useful a tool to dispose of at this time.
“Yes,” he said in a metallic screech. “At this time.” It was not an answer to Davvol’s comment but a reinforcing of his own thoughts.
Davvol apparently sensed some of the danger he stood in, turning back toward the ruined mess of a man who slowly soaked the white linen dark red. “Anything useful?”
Use would be determined later, but certainly Croag had been given a measure to pause and consider. “There are two offspring,” he said slowly.
A plan formed, reflecting Davvol’s efforts with the Phyrexian negators. Perhaps Croag could guide the development of a few Dominarian natives who showed affinity for the Phyrexians similar to Jaffry. Such an empathy was rare enough to justify further investigation at the least. If such affinity could be manipulated…this he would not speak of to Davvol. It was not truly the steward’s concern. This was a matter which demanded Phyrexian attention, and hope as the steward might, Davvol would never be of Phyrexia, never compleat.
“Urza,” Croag said, remembering one other image. “Urza Planeswalker was known to this human. He has been here.” Croag could not afford to take chances wherever Urza might be involved. “I want an account of everywhere Urza Planeswalker has been tracked on Dominaria, everywhere humans with a dark affinity have been noticed. Seekers must be sent to investigate those areas.” If there was a relationship between the two he would find it. A taloned hand slashed at the air between them. “You will kill Urza Planeswalker, soon.”
Davvol nodded slowly, obviously unable to help a look of resignation. “This can be done,” he said, echoing Croag’s words of so many years before.
The Phyrexian did not wait for further conversation. With one final glare, eyes burning like hot coals within his cavernous sockets, he stalked from the room and back toward his portal. He had had enough of Dominaria, but he would return soon.
Fire rained down in a burning cascade, washing over Urza’s arm and scorching the golden finish on his staff as the planeswalker failed to move in time. A flaming, gelatinous substance which stuck even to his form of energy seared into him at a dozen places now. Each wound drew off that much more of his strength, leaving him more vulnerable to the negator’s next attack. Urza’s options were rapidly decreasing in direct proportion with the waning power left at his command.
The planeswalker had come back to Efuan Pincar to see after the bloodlines in this small nation. He hoped to mix the best results from here into a weak Femeref line, rejuvenating it. Though marriage and preconception treatment of the parents with the Eugenics Matrix was preferred, the ‘walker was prepared for more drastic methods as necessary. With a few genetic samples from the local subjects, he could cut in appropriate traits and qualities—postconception. As a rule, he tried to avoid such procedures, but with the strange loss of the bloodlines in Femeref, Urza lost one of his best. The people simply vanished, by all accounts just over ten years ago, and only a few insane tales of a night of storms were left to offer any explanation. This was a matter of needs versus means. Dominaria’s safety required it.
Urza still couldn’t be sure what had drawn him back to his old home in Efuan Pincar—the remote cottage he once shared with Xantcha now falling into ruin. In this place the two of them worked on ways to defeat Phyrexian incursions into Dominaria and later, with the help of a local boy Ratepe, had finally won the battle against Gix. Nostalgia? Not likely. Maybe he came to remember Xantcha whom he’d traveled with for so long. She would’ve understood the necessity of the bloodlines, he felt certain. The Phyrexian couldn’t have simply been waiting for him. Either this location was checked oft
en, and Urza had simply chosen the wrong time, or the negators were getting better at tracking him without giving away their own presence. The planeswalker preferred to believe the former, so he did.
Now the cabin burned, having caught a spray from the negator’s fire-throwing weapon. Small trees sprouting up in the clearing were also afire. A sooty smoke trailed the area, the gritty clouds having trouble escaping into the sky and beginning to wear on Urza’s visibility. The large creature-construct appeared to have little trouble tracking the planeswalker. A long arm snaked past a blazing pine tree, the crackling flames of little bother to it, swiping at Urza’s side and scoring bloody furrows from ribs to hip. Such an attack would rarely have shown blood, the manifestation of energy bleeding away from Urza’s consciousness, but on top of the burning wounds the ‘walker was simply unable to regenerate the illusion after clawing.
A large dark shape loomed through a hazy black cloud, standing twice as tall as Urza. Its incredibly bloated body expanded and contracted with an over-exaggerated breathing motion. One arm nearly dragging the ground ended with razored claws. The other looked stunted, but in actuality it had been replaced by a type of slender cannon that spewed the dangerous substance. Urza swept back, avoiding a new stream of fiery gel and focusing mana into a lightning strike. A blue-white arc leapt from his fingers and smashed into the negator’s carapace of hard, glossy black skin. The energy danced over the outer form, all of it drawn over to the Phyrexian’s left hip where it entered. The glossy carapace split down the outside of the left leg. Corrupted flesh sizzled and burned as the lightning was somehow channeled down into the ground and away from anything vital.
This negator was immune to natural fire and resistant to lightning. The two creatures Urza had found time to summon early on had met with fiery deaths, and now the ‘walker was losing too much mental strength to tap more mana. It was a hard realization for Urza Planeswalker to admit. He was losing this fight.
When one understands the nature of a thing, one knows what it is capable of—a saying once passed to him and his brother both from Tocasia, the old Argivian archaeologist who first taught the brothers about the recovery and restoration of artifacts. His attention was divided between an attempt to build his powers up and searching for the Phyrexian he had lost again among the thick gritty smoke. It took Urza a moment to understand why he had dredged up that old memory, then transposed it. Once a person understands the capabilities of a thing he might also know its nature! The creature was disgorging an incredible amount of burning fluid, but even the Phyrexians could not violate the laws of conservation. That substance had to be stored or somehow produced by the negator. The bloated body and its bellowlike breathing suggested a combination of both.
As a planeswalker, Urza was capable of casting all colors of magic, but his first love, his initial rise to power, had been with artifice. He thumbed a stud on his staff’s contoured grip. One of the crescent-shaped tines on the staff’s head reversed itself on a clockwork gear, bringing a special edge to bear. Another switch triggered the harmonics that attacked glistening oil. The ‘walker had made adjustments to the sonic device after its failure with the one negator decades before, hoping for an improvement. This he received, but not much.
The Phyrexian screeched in pain and anger, wading forward through fire and smoke to reach the hated device. The fire cannon tracked in, but a slight tremor in its musculature gave Urza all the edge he needed. The planeswalker swung his staff around, slicing the blades into the creature’s shoulder joint—the one that held the slender cannon to the negator. The blade, magically sharpened, cut through reinforced skin and metal supports. The cannon fell to one side, a gush of glistening oil and burning gel vomiting forth before the negator’s body clamped down on the wound. Still, the escaped gel burned into the Phyrexian’s outer flesh, distracting it even more.
Urza was already moving, circling about the negator and trying nothing fancier than slicing at its bloated body. Now the Phyrexian suffered the same problem as Urza, deciding between the strength and attention necessary to deal with its physical wounds and how much to spend on the ‘walker. It became a race to see who could strike a fatal blow first—a race the Phyrexian lost. Urza sliced long and deep across its wide back and then quickly swept back to avoid the unstoppable gush of gelatinous fluid.
There was no stanching this wound, and once the substance was exposed to air the negator apparently lost the immunity it possessed that allowed it to store the material. It screeched in agony, high pitched and actually painful to Urza’s hearing as the gel continued to eat away at it. The planeswalker picked up the severed arm carefully and moved back from the conflagration. The scent of scorched oil and burnt meat followed him.
He stood back and watched his old cottage burn.
* * *
Rayne slipped out of her usual work habit, donning instead the special garment she had designed for increased protection. A long jacket of blue cotton, thin pads had been sewn into its entirety and specially woven steel threads reinforced the chest and abdomen area. It was a bit heavier than she preferred, but when dealing with Phyrexian artifice it seemed better to be safe than comfortable.
Ehlanni assisted, an academy tutor who had proven herself very adept in disassembly and evaluation. An added benefit, Ehlanni was of a human tribe that shared the Hurloon Mountains with the minotaurs. Powerfully built, she could be counted on to help move the large objects and test equipment. Also, in terms Rayne had once heard Gatha employ, Ehlanni knew how to take a hit. A Phyrexian device had blown up in her face a year ago, and she had walked away from it, though Barrin’s best healer-mages spent a good week restoring her to full health. Again, this was just another precaution for dealing with Phyrexian machinery.
“Only not quite machinery, this,” Rayne said softly, bending down to examine the cannonlike device, a weapon which, according to Urza, had once sprayed a fiery, gelatinous substance that clung even to Urza’s pure-energy form and burned ceaselessly.
What the ‘walker had not mentioned was its origin. Rayne first assumed that it had either been taken from an artifact creature like the dragon engines or was more of a handheld device. She swung her wrist-mounted lens over to peer at the destroyed mounting hardware. What could only be artificial fibers exuded from a steel coil and burrowed into a small blackened lump. She had wondered at this earlier, until cutting into it and discovering it to be a slice of tissue similar to human muscle. This close, she also smelled the charred scent of the flesh. The fibers were bonded to the meat by a process she had never seen before. It was at once hideous and wondrous.
Ehlanni did not share Rayne’s latter sentiment. “What is it, then?” she asked.
Rayne squinted and readjusted her looking piece. “I would guess that it was once part of a Phyrexian negator.” She felt at one of the fibers with a bared finger, cool and smooth to the touch. Flexible. “Some kind of special metal alloy, maybe a metal enhanced form of cloth.” Who could tell? “Urza must have removed it after a recent fight. These fibers are actually fixed to the muscle as if they were large nerve endings. I’ve found three other cables with similar function, including the thick metal-braid tube that had residue of the fire-gel.” She looked up at her assistant. “Do you think this creature could be biologically producing the burning gel?”
“I think I’d rather not find out,” Ehlanni said with a look of disgust for the artifact. “You’re saying this was actually part of a living being? An artifice graft?”
The chancellor nodded. “Far beyond anything we are capable of here at the academy.” Rayne had serious doubts saying so about Urza. Master artificer that he was, Urza almost certainly knew how it was done, but would he ever attempt to duplicate it? Would she herself if she understood how it was accomplished? Her initial reaction said no, but then immediately her mind seized upon circumstances where such grafting might be desirable. It could be useful for replacement of an arm lost to misfortune or war or as a treatment for a birth defect. It was suc
h a small step from there to improving on the natural order. Improved eyesight? Stronger heart? Faster reflexes?
“Where would it end?” she asked no one in particular, bending back to work.
The magnifying glass brought her a level of detail she could only have guessed at without it, and even so, the intricacy hinted that buried even deeper than she could see might be found a third level of complexity.
“It violates the law of simplicity. At some point the construction of this device should begin to get simpler as we deconstruct it, not more complex, unless the Phyrexians are able to work on a scale we can’t even observe much less touch.” In the back of her mind she recalled the Thran Tome and its suggestion of artifice and flesh blended on the cellular level. Excitement touched her voice, warmed her skin as she considered artifice on such a level of mastery. “Urza never mentioned anything about this. I wonder if the Phyrexians are improving or just sending their better designs after him these days?” Or both?
“Are you feeling well?” Ehlanni frowned her confusion and not a little shock. “The closer I study these creatures and their work the more I see that Urza was right in his pursuit of anything which might destroy them. What I can’t believe is that others haven’t noticed this as well.” She shook her head. “I swear you seem to be admiring them.”
Lost in her observations, Rayne barely acknowledged the comment. “There is something to be said for the theory behind such accomplishments.”
Ehlanni reached out and tapped the device, her finger thick and blurry under Rayne’s glass. “Would you like to see one of these grafted to your husband?”
Rayne recoiled at the question, the horror of such an idea hitting her like a slap. She realized then that earlier she had considered exactly that. Shivering for a deathly cold touch caressing her back and scalp, Rayne pressed such thoughts from her mind. Ehlanni was right, this was nothing to be admired. No matter the potential for good, such artifice was only in the hands of those who used it in the birth of abominations and the support of evil desires. Improved eyesight and reflexes were nothing. Where would it end, she had wondered?
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