Bloodlines

by Loren L. Coleman

  A large room surrounded the spot where the encased blades penetrated Rath’s flowstone crust to bore down into the lava beds far below. One hundred Vec worked furiously over controls, their blunt features bathed in sweat and soot. The heat pulsed at near-insufferable temperatures, the air hot, sulfurous and hardly breathable. Still, the machinery appeared to be well maintained, the joints greased with black sludge and most metal surfaces oiled for protection. He checked what few gauges he himself knew how to read and found the bladed dials rotating at full capacity, perfect, too perfect, in fact.

  “Vec,” he called out to the supervisor, ordering his presence. The humanoid ran over. “This facility is pulling up lava at the same rate as the main attractor,” Davvol said, tapping the gauge. The supervisor nodded, eyes a pale but furious green and saying nothing. “But these facilities are better cared for!” Davvol shouted his fury into the smaller man’s face. “Why are you not outperforming the main attractor by now?”

  He flicked one hand toward a random worker, and immediately his negator leapt from the nearby shadows to seize the hapless Vec. With a violent motion it broke the Vec’s back in three places. The worker was left laying on the blisteringly hot metal floor, crying in pain.

  No Vec moved or spoke. Only the clanging and grinding of machinery spoiled a perfect moment of fear and loathing, then the supervisor barked out quick orders, and everyone fell to work with renewed energy. The noises intensified—a cacophony of metallic protests. The throb that shook the floor quickened perceptibly. Walls shook, and in places a few gauges cracked for the additional stresses. A sudden leak of sulfurous, yellow steam shot out from a ruined piping joint. Under such pressure, the thin stream sliced deep into one worker’s leg like a fine blade and nearly amputated it. Everything else held, as Davvol had known it would.

  “Better,” he said aloud but not with anything resembling satisfaction. The increase in output would barely be felt in flowstone production. Rath’s borders stretched out so far that to achieve a constant rate of growth was now impossible. The violence he had just committed had been simply a show of power, but it didn’t help him shake the feeling of uncertainty he carried around with him. Casting a deformed shadow over Davvol’s work here was Croag. The self-proclaimed evincar strode imperiously from the room, grinding his anger beneath metal-shod heels.

  Davvol knew that he should have waited, not tipped his hand so soon to the Phyrexian, but the meeting had not been planned. That Croag had returned to the more active sections of the Stronghold did not bode well for the steward, who had hoped for another half-century or better. Five more decades of progress and Davvol might have accomplished just a little bit more. Perhaps he might have killed Urza Planeswalker by then, and Croag could have been safely disposed of so that Davvol alone reaped the rewards of such a victory.

  Croag had returned now, and upon learning of Yavimaya he had ordered—to Davvol’s mind—a poorly considered plan. Croag had pushed for obedience, so Davvol pushed back. He knew he could kill the injured Phyrexian, but he kept him around. If Croag were gone there would be another. It was better to have the devil you know—especially the one you know that you can defeat.

  Even now Davvol sensed his personal guardian keeping pace behind him, the negator stalking shadows with deadly fluidity, ready to leap to Davvol’s defense in a fraction of a second. It was of simple construction, very durable, and able to tangentially threaten Croag. Was it too soon? Would Croag now worry enough to move against Davvol or consider the idea that Davvol instead made a better ally than enemy?

  It was a question with no easy answer. His echoing footsteps and those of his negator drove home the reality of exactly how alone he was here on Rath. Davvol stalked the Stronghold’s lower levels and considered the possibility that today he had chosen wrong. Today, the first time in better than six hundred years, he had made his first major mistake.

  Mistakes were not tolerated, not by Phyrexians.

  Lyanii hosted the meeting in Devas’s cathedral, not a place of stringent religion—the Benalish definition of cathedral—but certainly a place of reflection and spirituality. An incredibly high vaulted ceiling rose overhead, alabaster arches opening up to covered balconies on the third and fourth stories. The Marshal wondered how many of her guests noticed that there was no access from the ground to those balconies.

  A long, whitewashed oak table had been set for feasting. The delegation from Clan Capashen occupied one side. Representatives of Devas, most with the characteristic porcelain features that had been common to Serra’s Realm sat on the other. The Marshal had placed herself in the middle, her best lieutenants to either side. Administrative diems and valued clerks also sat in attendance. Two former Benalish also sat among the Serrans, emigrants who had earned trust enough to share the secrets of Devas and also the table here tonight.

  A table knife tapped on the side of a crystal goblet chimed a musical note repeatedly over the level of conversations. The low buzz faded, giving the man standing everyone’s attention. Clan Leader Rorry Capashen placed the knife back on the table, nodded his thanks to all, and then looked to Lyanii. His brown eyes spoke of a calm intelligence. His strong face promised leadership. A descendent of Ellyn Capashen, Rorry had proven himself on the battlefield and at the bargaining table both.

  Now he set his warm, steady gaze on Lyanii. “I was hoping we might discuss our business, now that we’ve finished your excellent repast.”

  Lyanii had wondered how long the Capashens’ patience would last. The Serran Marshal glanced once to Karn—seated on a large stone block two positions down from Rorry Capashen—and then nodded her acquiescence. “By all means,” she said calmly. But before he could begin, she shrugged and guessed, “You want our help in fighting the dark warriors.”

  Not one to be caught off guard for long, Rorry Capashen simply blinked his surprise while retaking his seat and then admitted it. “Yes. We’ve suffered their raids over years leading into centuries now, and they steadily get worse. This year it is particularly bad, and who knows what the next will bring? The Benalish court has refused our petition for organized involvement because most do not see a danger. Only Clan Blaylock is in agreement with us, having also met the raiders. But,” and his eyes tightened, “I understand that your forces once took arms against them.”

  She couldn’t help another glance toward Karn. He matched her gaze with a curious frown of his own, obviously not understanding the attention. He was certainly welcome in Devas and knew of the winged ones, though he retained no direct memory of the refugees’ original ancestry. Karn simply knew that Urza vouched for Lyanii and her people—every ten to twenty years—and the golem would not gainsay the ‘walker. More likely one of the students Lyanii accepted from time to time had let something slip. There were at least a dozen besides the silver man who had shared Devas’s secrets. Karn would never betray Devas’s trust.

  The golem’s presence, however, did speak for some pressure being brought to bear against them. A long-time associate of the Serrans, he often managed to win concessions that others might not have. Even if Karn didn’t remember—couldn’t remember—someone in Clan Capashen had noticed and likely wished to play off that connection here and now.

  “You support this request, Karn?” It was a simple way of asking if Urza supported the request.

  After a slight hesitation, the silver golem nodded. “I think you may want to consider it, Marshal Lyanii. People are being hurt.” His pause answered Lyanii’s real question.

  “The people are frightened,” Rorry Capashen spoke up again. “The legend that the Lord of the Wastes is returning has gained frightening acceptance among Clan Capashen.” He tried to scoff at the old legends, but he was unable to purge his serious concern for his people.

  “You don’t believe in the Lord of the Wastes?” Lyanii remembered the first time she had heard of it herself. The merchant who had come upon the refugees their first year settling into Benalia had told her the story.

  Rorry Capa
shen looked nonplussed at the question. “I do not,” he said easily. “Are you saying that you do?”

  Lyanii glanced to a few of her followers, noting their haunted eyes even now. “I think there is evil out there which we don’t necessarily understand or even know about,” she said cautiously. “Yes.” Karn was leaning forward attentively, no doubt recognizing Urza’s warnings in her vague statement. “There might be several so-called lords, and if I should someday find one, I would fight.” She shook her head, strands of hair brushing the side of her face. “But I see no evidence of there being one here, Rorry Capashen. I’m sorry.”

  The Capashen leader took the refusal with proud bearing, though he could not hide all trace of disappointment from his voice. “As am I. My grandfather spoke of the training he received at Devas. He held you in high regard, Marshal. It would have been an honor to fight at your side.” His brown eyes implored what he would not ask again in words. “I’m sorry you do not feel our cause is a just one.”

  Damn, Karn. Lyanii knew that last sparring attack was the golem’s doing. Karn knew them well enough to realize that such a charge would not sit well. She gripped her hands into tight fists, stemming an outburst. Her eyes found the golem, and Karn had the good manners to shift uncomfortably under her non-blinking gaze. This meant something to the golem personally. That carried weight as well, but in this case not enough. This was not a training session. It would risk her people’s lives. It might bring Phyrexia down on top of them again.

  “Try to understand,” she said, careful of how much she could safely say. “Our nation was once prosperous and content. Someone—” She paused, shook off that tack and started again. “We involved ourselves in a war that was not ours, and it cost us everything. That is not mine to risk again, not without better reason. We can’t afford to be wrong.” She slowly released her fists, wrapping her right hand instead around the stem of a crystal glass. “I’m sorry, Rorry Capashen. The heart to fight and a just cause are not enough.”

  The clan leader nodded, accepting her final answer.

  Karn frowned, his silver face clouded with a dark expression. “That is not what you told Isarrk.”

  The glass’s fragile stem snapped in her hand, cutting her palm and spilling dark wine onto the table. She fumbled with her linen towel but finally got it wrapped about her hand to stanch the trickle of blood. How had Karn remembered that? She had once told Isarrk that all a true hero needed was a just cause and the heart to defend it. Isarrk had eventually done so. Carefully she glanced to one of the Benalish humans sitting at the table on her side—a relative of Isarrk. The boy would not meet her gaze.

  “Excuse me, Karn?” Rorry Capashen looked over at the silver golem, confusion apparent on his handsome face. The question was also in Lyanii’s mind, and she silently thanked the Capashen leader for asking in her stead.

  The golem appeared confused. He glanced from the clan leader to the Marshal of Devas and then stared at his own silver hand as he concentrated. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. Something I thought I remembered.” His voice told of his own doubts. “A mistake.”

  The Capashen leader nodded, turned his attention back to their host. “My apologies, Marshal Lyanii, if Karn upset you.”

  Lyanii shook her head in response. “No, quite the opposite. He reminded…” she couldn’t very well admit the entire truth, “…reminded me of another event. Let’s say I will give your request further consideration, Rorry Capashen.” She held up a hand at the clan leader’s look of pleasant surprise. “Let’s leave it at that for now, please.” Not one to argue against a second chance, Rorry nodded at his fortune.

  The Marshal lapsed back into silence as normal conversation resumed. She had more than an aversion to making the wrong choice again. Here was also the very real fact that after so many centuries Lyanii was finally beginning to understand something more than fighting and leading others in battle. She might want to avoid such things for both herself and her people. Was that wrong?

  * * *

  “Jhoira is my friend, my best friend. We met in the original academy, before the accident drove us from Tolaria. She named me Karn, for the old name of Thran metal. She said it meant strength.”

  That evening, alone in his apartments, the golem repeated his nightly mantra while pacing the floors of heavy timber. In times where nothing made sense, the repetitive statements allowed him some measure of focus.

  Stopping at a bureau, the silver man placed one massive hand on the thick tomes he had filled with his own words over so many changing lifetimes. Why was he so preoccupied with the past when he knew that he could never hold on to it? Karn looked at the one portrait sketch he still carried with him in all his travels. Human she was, with dark hair and intense eyes. It was his oldest artifact from previous times, magically protected at some point in the past to preserve it. All he really knew was that her name was Jhoira, and that she had been a friend. He knew it from the nightly mantra he spoke. It was a promise to himself to never let the old memories completely fade, but they did, and they colored his current relationships, promising that they too would fade in time.

  Slowly, Karn turned the picture down on its face. Not tonight. Tonight was for his current relationships, to consider them individually and together, because even as Karn admitted how important these relationships were to him, how they touched and influenced his life, he knew that he also touched upon theirs. How he remained in their memories, even after they passed from his, was suddenly more important to the golem than anything else.

  The sound was of splintering wood, like a hundred tiny explosions strung into long creaking strains, mixed with the shouts of battle and the snarls and growls of woodland creatures. The beleaguered enemy responded with roaring gouts of fire, the screech of wounded metal, and a cacophony of chittering and hisses.

  For miles in every direction the canopy had shifted blue, a warning of intruders that continued to spread from treetop to treetop. The colors darkened the closer one arrived to the battle, the area of fighting shaded by trees—their foliage turned darkest black. Here Yavimaya’s defenders met the small but lethal Phyrexian probe.

  Leaves and thin branches whipped against Rofellos’s face. The Llanowar moved too quickly astride his war moa for Yavimaya to shrug the limbs aside. Eyes clenched shut, he tracked his prey by sound and the growing scent of crushed marker beetles. Where most outside creatures found the scent offensive to the point of distraction, the elves knew it only as another piece of Yavimaya. They trusted its guidance just as they would movement reflected in their own eyes. Everything in Yavimaya worked together for the betterment of the whole, from plant to insect to animal to elf.

  Now the elves were dashing in on their mounts to slash at the enemy flank, harrying the Phyrexians. They always withdrew before concentrated effort could be brought against them—only to show up in a new place on the offensive once again. Trees bent or shifted, twisting themselves atop their root system, to cover the elves’ escapes. Brush would shrug aside, allowing access where before had only been a dense thicket of thorny vines and hardwood brush. Phyrexians who attempted to use such openings were destroyed by sharp brush and dart-throwing plants.

  Yavimaya coaxed and guided so that not one of its woods-dwelling subjects was hurt by the forest’s own hand. It rooted deep in Rofellos’s thoughts, recognizing that here as nowhere else were the Llanowar elves supreme. The forest even allowed Rofellos to overrule a desire to recall Multani, the expenditure in resources and concentration unnecessary for so simple a battle. Their shared mind became the center from which Yavimaya structured its defense. His hand—their hand—clenched around the middle grip of his double-bladed sword. Rofellos sliced again at a footsoldier entangled in vines, splitting open its chest. The moa lashed out with its jet-black beak, taking an arm off at the shoulder. Then he—they—twisted about and leapt back into the gloom covering the forest. The stinging slaps of slender branches against Rofellos’s face were easily ignored in favor of the freed
om that came with fighting.

  The Llanowar were warriors, but where Rofellos’s natural urge to bolt and run free pressed too sharply, Yavimaya soothed him back into dormancy—a wild flower cultivated into a tamed garden. Rofellos found it hard to reconcile the different personalities that were now his: Rofellos the Llanowar, Rofellos the ambassador to—and of—Yavimaya.

  No matter, Yavimaya promised. This eve he was at least acting Rofellos the Llanowar, and the night was golden in battle.

  Rofellos yelled a Llanowar oath, taunting his enemies. The war moa he rode squawked a shrill call of its own, the warbling noise hard to track in the forests and hopefully leading to the enemy’s confusion. Brush swayed before him, and he tucked his head down behind the moa’s powerful shoulder as it leapt through a newly formed passage. He had circled to the Phyrexian rear, where their single, large war engine rolled forward oblivious to the trees shouldering into its armored sides. Its own demon head chewed at the roots of one tree, tearing through with mechanical efficiency. Rofellos rode along the flank of the juggernaut, taking the warrior picket by surprise. They barely knew he fought among them before his blade of living plantlife sliced deeply into armored carapace.

  He whispered to his weapon, and the blades circled inward to reform as his staff, enabling him to hold his mount with that hand without worry about hurting the moa. His free hand dug into the leather satchel that swung at his side. He drew out a handful of acorns, tossing the collection of sharp points and rough caps into the jaws of the war engine as he rode past.

  The mechanical leviathan shuddered, its internal gears grinding as they bent and bound. Armored plates, so impervious to outside attacks, split open as pressure from within surpassed its design tolerances. Roots worked their way out, digging for the ground and anchoring it in place. Limbs forced their way up through rents in the upper armor tree widening into thick boles. Rofellos paused in the safety of a thick steelthorn brush, his—their—eyes wild with delight at the run through the enemy force. They watched as—within less than a minute—a twisting stand of oak trees had burst from the innards of the giant machine. No mechanical animation left to it, its pieces littered the ground or were held in thick limbs high overhead.