Bloodlines

by Loren L. Coleman

  Frowning, the Llanowar concentrated on the question. “Ro—,” he began, then corrected himself, “I have been well.” He blinked hard, his brown eyes momentarily clearing of their indifferent gaze. By the mage-lit stones some students had set out on poles, burning with their own cool fire, those eyes seemed to broadcast a private pain. He blinked again and it was gone. “Yavimaya takes care of my needs.”

  He then walked over to a net bag of glowing stones set up on a pole, inspecting it at close quarters while Rayne continued to observe him. Technically their business was complete, having gained a new supply of special woods for use in developing artifacts. Rofellos, though, appeared to be in no hurry. Rayne couldn’t decide if the delay was on Yavimaya’s part or his. She waited, uneasy with the heavy forest scents pressing in from the dimming lands. Captain Pheylad waited near the longboat with a few crewmen. He shook his head in confusion.

  As before, during their approach, Rayne sensed her own unease with the sentient forest. There were no set relationships she could take apart and understand—no gears or cogs. The mechanisms that drove most people were so complex as to be unfathomable.

  “Excuse me?” she asked as Rofellos muttered a question. Something to do with Multani?

  The elf started, then turned back. “Yavimaya would like to have one of these glowing stones. The light is a good match for one of the forest’s needs.”

  To Rayne the light was too soft for proper illumination, a subtle white-blue inappropriate for working under, but then, she didn’t have the superior eyesight of an elf either. “Take it,” she said, certain that the request was not his original question. Rayne walked over and unhooked the net bag from the pole then handed the small bundle of glowing stones to Rofellos.

  Again there was a flash of pain in Rofellos’s brown eyes. He glanced about carefully, searching the shadows as if for dangers. “Have you seen Multani?” he asked, voice quiet and trembling.

  Rayne could only shake her head. “No, not for many years.”

  “I should like to see Multani?” The words came out as part question, part uncertain statement. His face tightened, a hard look of determination dominating his features. “You should not come back, Rayne. Yavimaya has become dangerous.”

  “Tolaria may need further supplies,” she said. “Without the Weatherlight—”

  “Not the Weatherlight,” Rofellos interrupted. “You, Rayne. You should not come back. The troubles in Keld make Yavimaya too uneasy.”

  To wonder what possible connection she had with Keld was Rayne’s first reaction. Other than her previous acquaintance with Gatha there was nothing else. Rayne dismissed the thought as the outright affront of the recommendation hit her. True that she’d wondered about the forest’s own unease, but to have that confirmed struck her with a cold slap of reality. She would’ve asked after such a dismissal, except that Rofellos now hurried to the path left for him and disappeared into the rootwork. Only the glow of the magicked stones marked his trail, and those too finally vanished as the coastal roots closed after him.

  Rayne stood on the beach, hugging her arms to keep back the sudden chill that had swept her, lost in her confused thoughts of Tolaria and Yavimaya, and not of Keld.

  * * *

  The Weatherlight’s departure was marked with a more rapid speed than its arrival. It danced over the rough swells, gaining headway until it hit the gentle roll of deeper water. Soon it was a pale smudge beneath the gray light reflected down from the Glimmer Moon.

  Where dark promontory jutted out into the ocean, the weathered rock able to grow no heavy plantlife despite Yavimaya’s relentless attempts, a black oval spread open. It grew in size. When viewed side-on it disappeared, the portal so impossibly thin because it did not actually exist but was more a hole in the chaotic energies that separated the planes. A leg thrust through, black armor gleaming as it reflected the Glimmer Moon. Arms and a body followed, the thin form stepping through and rising to its not-so-impressive height. Its compleation did not demand size but a compact, tough form that could visit countless planes and bring back detailed news to its masters. It required neither breath nor food, not anymore. The rush of glistening oil through its artificial veins was sustenance enough.

  It turned non-augmented eyes toward the ocean, but the Weatherlight was gone. The seeker’s gaze fell back to the forest-island. No dangers here, it seemed, but orders were to be followed. It would explore and observe. Others would evaluate. First it needed to return and provide a report on this location for Davvol and the Master, Croag. After a last scan of seemingly defenseless coastline, the Phyrexian left Yavimaya.

  Smoke from the burning granaries trailed up dark against Benalia’s clear-blue sky. To one side of the flaming structures, the hamlet’s soldiers had driven back nearly twice their number during the furious first moments of their counterattack. Other men worked beneath them, dumping grain into barrows and wheeling it quickly away, never concerned for their own safety. The flames, fueled by the incendiary mixture the strange enemy was using, could not be extinguished. Any moment the fire might lick through to one of the grain-dust filled voids which would then go up in a great explosion. Every barrow of grain removed fed a family for that much longer.

  Sweating from exertion, Isarrk pushed his barrow under an overfull load of grain. It had been twenty-three years, he figured, since he had last held a weapon in his hand—since Karn and Marshal Lyanii gave up forcing on him a life he didn’t desire. The memories hounded him as the now elderly man strained to lift the full barrow, choking on grain dust. He didn’t want to remember. He was afraid to.

  His arthritis bit into the joints of his hands, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the shift in the fighting. By sheer numbers alone the spindly-armed warriors in their black armor were regaining the edge. More than from their impossibly-thin arms and legs, Isarrk knew these things were not human. A gut sense told him they were fighting drones—better trained than the local soldiery though perhaps not so good at working together as a unit. However, the Benalish soldiers weren’t taking advantage of that, allowing themselves to be drawn away from each other—broken into several small fights where the enemy’s two-to-one advantage would spell immediate ruin. Isarrk knew the soldiers should be sticking to a tight line of battle, even a three-sided box, where the attackers would foul themselves if they pressed in with greater numbers. He also knew he should be keeping his mind on his own responsibilities.

  What good would saving the grain do if the battle was lost? The black enemy would only set upon it again.

  If they did, when they did, then he would defend it. They all would, but what would happen if all the farmers, now busy moving grain, placed aside their duty and ran to battle now? The enemy would be defeated and the grain lost to fire. That was the advantage of caste. Everyone knew his place and responsibilities. Almost everyone.

  One person broke away from the granaries. Grabbing a wide-bladed, curved hoe used to push the grain around, he set one foot against the head and another on the shaft and bent the blade out straight. With his improvised polearm, he ran to the side of the Benalish warriors yelling, “Capashen!”

  Isarrk stumbled, spilling his barrow over onto the ground, as he recognized the other by build and voice—Patrick. His son.

  “No!”

  Isarrk made it five paces before slowing to a confused halt, glancing between the fight and the workers who continued to rescue the grain. His instincts pulled him onward while his basic beliefs warned him to go back. Both sides needed him. He remembered Lyanii’s comment about having the heart to defend a just cause. He stepped in the direction of battle then quickly worked back up into a run. Right now, the warriors needed him more.

  Patrick was already in trouble, never having been trained for such action. He had also split the Benalish line with his presence, forming a weak link that two enemy warriors were pressing against. The young man, barely out of his teens, slashed about wildly with his device while yelling his defiance. One wild swing s
mashed the strange longsword from the grip of a black-clad soldier. It cost him, though, as the force spun him halfway around. The second enemy dealt Patrick a vicious slash across his ribs, parting the thin sleeveless shirt he wore and flaying back skin and muscle. The youth screamed in a mixture of his pain and the anguish for failing. He fell back as another swing aimed for his head missed by mere inches. Stumbling, he dropped against the ground as the enemy shoved aside its disarmed companion and came at him.

  Isarrk had one chance. Ignoring the fallen sword that lay next to Patrick, no time to snatch it up, Isarrk lashed out with his foot, aiming for the other’s wrist. He connected solidly, knocking the other’s stroke awry and falling to the ground next to his son as he lost his own footing. Pain flared in his hip for the rough landing. Still, not the worst move to make, he decided, grabbing up the sword that now lay between the two farmers.

  Its long, metal handle felt strange in his hands, and his arthritis protested the angular grip, but the lethal weight seemed to suddenly add strength to Isarrk’s arms. He brought up the slightly curved, black-metal blade, parrying a quick backhand slash which would have opened up his own chest. The sword had an impressive reach, so he brought it around and bit deeply into the standing creature’s ankle. It screeched as it stumbled back, giving Isarrk the time he needed to climb back to his feet.

  “Pull in!” he ordered. “Don’t split apart. Form a solid line!”

  For the Benalish warrior to his immediate left, the advice came too late. A sword thrust snaked past his defense, skewering him through the heart. The withdrawn blade dripped crimson, and the man crumpled without a scream. Isarrk immediately bought a measure of revenge for his comrade. He lunged forward against the warrior Patrick had disarmed. He expected the blade to turn against the armored head, but he was surprised when it pierced metal and sliced through the faceplate. There was a stuttering screech, and the creature toppled. A jet of warm, black blood gushed out as Isarrk removed the sword, staining his lower arm and the front of his own sleeveless cotton shirt. The fluid was tepid, reinforcing his assumption that he fought something not quite human.

  The remaining guards were pulling back into line, but now Isarrk faced a pair of the dark-armored soldiers—his own remaining and the opponent of the luckless fellow who had dropped on his left. They hammered at him with their own weapons, pressing forward in staggered attacks trying to drive him back, except on the ground just behind him lay his son, hands pressed over his wounds in an attempt to preserve his life.

  Isarrk refused to give up one inch, turning back each stroke. He planted his feet solidly against the ground, waiting for the next disconcerted rush. It came, one of the enemy warriors leading the other by a long second. Isarrk parried with the circling maneuver Lyanii had demonstrated to him so long ago, using the attacker’s strength against itself as he twisted the blade’s tip around and led the cutting edge of his opponent’s sword right back into the creature’s own shoulder. It severed its own arm, the mechanical limb dropping off with a spray of foul-smelling oil. Isarrk spun around quickly, catching the second attacker’s stroke and again turning it, this time into its companion. The edge bit into the lame creature’s side, wedging the black metal blade. A quick backslash by Isarrk took the armored head off the second warrior. Dark slime and oil spewed out, drenching his sword arm and staining a dark swath across his body.

  At the far right, the last Benalish warrior in line traded a deadly embrace with one of the enemy. Both swords buried themselves in the other’s body, and they fell together in death. Still, the odds didn’t look quite so uneven now as five men faced off against seven attackers. There was no apparent communication, but the enemy warriors began to withdraw. The one Isarrk had crippled pulled the sword from its side and limped away on its own strength. They were heading out into the low hills surrounding the hamlet, wary but moving with purpose now.

  “What should we do?” one Benalish guard asked, nodding toward the retreating figures.

  He glanced around to his companions and obviously included Isarrk. The respect they showed the farmer as each looked to him for guidance spoke volumes.

  Isarrk avoided their gaze. His muscles screamed protest for the abuse he had put them to, and his joints felt as if on fire themselves. Panting heavily, he buried the sword he carried point first into the earth and then knelt at his son’s side. Patrick didn’t look well, but he might pull through yet. The first explosion sounded as a granary burst, raining splintered wood over the area. Men ran, those who could, knowing their time was up. The other two went in close order; brief gouts of fire swam through the sealed chambers, and then a ground-shaking explosion rang everyone’s ears as more wood fell from the sky. One burning chunk of wood landed near Isarrk, and he ignored it. It looked as if most of the grain had been saved, but he noticed at least three bodies lying near the granaries. Fire caught on the clothes of one. Isarrk looked down at his own hands, blackened by oil and foul blood.

  Silent tears fell against his hand and arms but did not wash away the stains.

  Kreig roared a defiant laugh, his deep voice echoing within the wide-open vaults of the Necropolis—his Necropolis. The bellows challenged the sleeping corpses of better than one thousand years of Keldon rulers. None answered. He growled a sharp oath, enjoying this moment among his ancestors.

  Three exterior walls banked inward as they rose majestically overhead to a ceiling of polished, dark-gray stone. The entire fourth side was open to the thin mountain air—as no mortal walls could hope to contain the warlords and witch kings of Keld. The scent of new snow carried in on cutting winds, the frigid grip tugging at Kreig’s long, dark braids and brushing an icy touch against his bare chest and arms. Thousands of tombs lined the walls, each no larger than the slab of marble on which a warlord would some day rest. Many of these were already bricked up, sealing fallen warlords into place until the final battle.

  A faded mural painted over the ceiling’s wide expanse depicted that promised legend. The Call to Return—the moment that marks the end of the world—that would sound of a thousand battle cries after the Necropolis filled. The warlords would rise again to be led by the greatest of their number. An army unto themselves, they would lead the rest of the Keldon nation to war. The mural depicted the great army sweeping down from the Necropolis to conquer all of Dominaria, a bright sunrise over the Necropolis bathing the land red as with blood.

  Kreig walked among the several hundred sarcophagi that rested upon the vault’s floor, each trimmed in a varied measure of silver or gold depending on the fame and prowess of the warrior within. The greatest of the Keldon leaders were these, placed lower down in the Necropolis and so ready to lead the way out once the dead rose. Only here did Kreig walk among peers. Even the greatest war lords eventually came to rest here, all warlords. Except Kreig?

  It was not a question he felt able to answer with any degree of certainty. Not anymore.

  In a century and a half of life and warfare, Kreig had never felt the mortal coils settle about him as in the last decade. Since the dark invaders began pushing at the edges of his nation he felt it. Gatha knew something of them as the mage knew about nearly everything. They were beings of another world. Phyrexians, he had called them—born of nature and made over again with machine. Such ideas confused Kreig’s sense of the natural order where the strongest led and others followed. These Phyrexians bled and died the same as other races. They were innumerable, perhaps, but not invincible.

  In twenty-three battles against them, Kreig had yet to personally know defeat. Four other witch kings with their warhosts had, though. The Keldon warhosts no longer traveled out into Dominaria except on the very rare and highly paid expedition. It was only enough to support the nation, if barely, as the majority remained home and continued to fight the dark ones. Kreig tracked the battles over fifty years, at first beginning only with minor raids and probing maneuvers. Those attacks gradually stepped up in strength until no other nation on Dominaria could have matched su
ch an enemy. The Keldons remained battle-ready, even in their own homes, their lands having always served as a large armed camp. The mountains were known to them, comfortable to them. No one could hope to fight as well in this territory.

  And they were losing.

  The Keldons were not in danger of being completely overrun, though Kreig believed that the invader could do so if they wished. He understood warfare like nothing else, and he recognized a purpose in the enemy attacks. They had spent decades learning the Keldon strengths and weaknesses, as if a thousand dead—even ten thousand—meant nothing while probing at those depths. They turned heavier strength against the foundations of Keld, destroying the best of the witch kings—those on which Kreig relied and whom Gatha had named as his superior bloodlines. This was a purposeful campaign to isolate the two, slowly dismantling the work of a century and a half. One by one the witch kings finally succumbed until only he was left to hold the nation together: Kreig the witch king. Kreig the Immortal, Kreig, who had come to the Necropolis to visit his own crypt.

  Made of obsidian, it was glassy and mirrorlike in its thousands of facets. The small building was trimmed in heavy gold with weapons adorning outside and inside walls both. A gate of wrought iron barred entry but allowed for viewing within. A hanging rack for his armor occupied one corner, and the sarcophagus waited with lid half-drawn as it had for one hundred years. No similar structure decorated the vaults, just as there had never been a warlord such as he. It had been built a century before, on his order, right at the very lip of the vaults, built where Kreig knew he could hurl a spear out over the edge and have it not smash into ground for a good half mile drop or more, depending on the winds. The warlord had never thought to occupy that crypt, knowing within himself that no Dominarian could ever hope to kill him. He had been right—the Phyrexians weren’t Dominarian.