Bloodlines

by Loren L. Coleman

  Faster, Rofellos decided, a spark of his own mind flaring in their shared consciousness. The quick-growth acorns needed to sprout and develop faster. It would be even better if nearby trees could throw the little missiles themselves. He felt the twinge in the back of his brain as Yavimaya heard him and agreed.

  The Llanowar leapt forward from the brush to race the moa around to a new side, his staff unfurling leaves which sharpened again into massive blades. He had other ideas. The elven mounts handled well enough, but Rofellos would prefer greater jumping ability so as to leap over an enemy line or onto the backs of their war machines. How about increasing the size of a dart-throwing plant for less range but more stopping power? Rofellos’s thoughts separated again from the shared mind, briefly. He was surprised Yavimaya had not thought of such tricks on its own, but then the forest, while sentient, was not omniscient, and certainly not experienced at war, though it was learning.

  * * *

  In the shadow of the Stronghold’s volcano a small section of Rath and Yavimaya overlapped, but the raging sea of chaotic energy between planes worked to separate them. Davvol fought the Stronghold’s machinery to retain control. Never before, not even at the edge of Rath’s boundary curtain of swirling energies, had he known such a trial. Here, so close to the seat of power and control, the transference should have been easy. Not even the Soltari wailing could distract him here. Yet the weight forced on his mind slowly squeezed at his sanity, threatening to crush him for his temerity in challenging the laws of reality.

  After so many years of receiving information from remote probes, Davvol required a first-hand account of how his warriors fared in the dangerous forest. Certainly he was not about to risk himself in that hostile setting.

  He felt the lands, the very nature of Yavimaya, shifting. Nothing seemed to remain static. Trees swayed, conforming to no natural patterns of growth or behavior. They even uprooted themselves, just to spite his efforts at holding the bridge. Now a new stand of oak, thick with intertwining boughs, erupted up from the bowels of his one war engine, decimating it and causing yet a new ripple of pain as a piece of the pattern slipped away and had to be rebuilt again. He felt as if he were in a contest against another mind for control of the machinery. Yet Croag was nowhere near strong enough to upset Davvol’s designs, and the strange Soltari could hardly raise a distraction so close to the Stronghold.

  Whatever the problem, it kept him distracted to the point of being unable to properly evaluate the assault. He had time to note only a few points. Fire was, of course, a deadly weapon against plant and animal both, though the sap that boiled out of the bark of the trees squelched the flames rather than feeding them. While the compound released by his war engine would dissolve the wood eventually, these growths were proving resistant to immediate effect. At least the animals and elves still fell to blade, claw and tooth. If only the land itself were not so treacherous. How the elves had found mages of such caliber was beyond Davvol—for now.

  As with anything, though, he had the time to observe and evaluate. His forces would improve for this battle, while nature was limited to such a slow progression that it could not hope to compete. It was a good thing, since the Phyrexians were not faring as well as he’d hoped. Davvol imagined the rage Croag might feel if he were to witness such a defeat in the making.

  There was the elf warrior again, riding atop the large bird that he controlled with a skill that bordered on the two being somehow of one mind. This elf was different from the others Davvol glimpsed in those rare moments he devoted toward the battle. Apparently he was the only one of such size and marking. The elf rode deeper into the Phyrexian formation—a nimble dance frightening in its lethal grace. Davvol winced in pain as the Stronghold’s control machinery fed back its effort in adjusting for a large stand of brush that finally succumbed to fire. That brush had separated Rath’s evincar from the deadly elf commander. The dark-haired warrior glanced sharply in Davvol’s direction.

  Then with a blood-chilling cry, the elf spurred his mount forward and stepped out onto the flowstone of Rath itself!

  Davvol recoiled in shock, never before suspecting that as his own troops moved back and forth across the threshold so could others make the transference of their own volition, though it made sense. Stronghold’s machinery held the bridge, reacting to the presence of any life in the area but not ultimately controlling who might pass through. This was not knowledge Davvol would want an enemy to return with.

  The elf appeared just as confused for a moment, surveying his surroundings with a blank expression, then the warrior’s fierce gaze locked onto him, dark eyes burning with hatred and rage. Davvol placed his mental touch upon the elf’s mind, sensing for any connection to a leader or the mage who opposed the bridge into Yavimaya.

  The elf, Rofellos and Yavimaya. The names came to Davvol, bleeding out of the elf’s mind.

  His concentration divided, Davvol was unable to hold the bridge between planes. Rofellos was torn between following the retreating presence and killing the stranger before him.

  Like an artifice puzzle of gears and axles, the last piece was snapped into place, and Davvol understood. Yavimaya was part of the elf because Yavimaya was alive and aware. The forest manifested itself through its creatures and plantlife, and it controlled the very land over which it grew. Yavimaya opposed the evincar in holding the bridge. Even as Davvol challenged Yavimaya with the troops and machines under his control, so the forest was sensing at the boundaries of Davvol’s control over the machinery holding the threshold. Davvol mentally recalled his warriors, reached out and pulled back what lifeless bodies he could quickly locate and grab. A quick hand motion summoned his negator guard from behind him and set it toward slaying the elf.

  The elf was just fast enough to save his own life. Kicking off from the mount, placing the large bird between himself and the advancing blur, the elf pitched backward and rolled into the flowstone jungle that overlapped onto Yavimaya’s forested land. Cursing, Davvol snapped after the elf, determined to sink mental teeth into him and drag him back over, but he was gone, cloaked no doubt by the blanketing intelligence of the forest.

  His troops faded back across the threshold. Bodies of the fallen formed back up from the flowstone. As he severed the channel between worlds, Davvol cursed his pause, which had gifted that elf his life.

  It wasn’t until later, remembering the blood and oil dripping down from the elf’s green blades, that Davvol wondered what else might have been—if the elf had not been given pause as well.

  * * *

  One half of the way around Dominaria, Multani had felt the changes take root. At the time, he was in the Burning Isles, where the renowned Shipbuilders’ Guild was systematically destroying forests through logging. He worked among the villages and city-states who sold their timber off to the guild without thought to the future, teaching them care of the lands and trying to prevent their coming troubles. Already the rains fell less, drying up streams and smaller rivers on which many hamlets depended. Wind erosion cut scars into the land and dropped dust storms over some cities.

  Multani’s own work consumed him, distracting attention away from the happenings back in his parent forest. He had known of the Phyrexian incursion of years back, of course, feeling the forest’s pain reflected as aches within his own body and mind. Alterations were to be expected, and as they progressed his appearance changed with the forest’s. The nature spirit’s bark skin already possessed the strength of ironwood armor. Multani recognized his improvements and approved as Yavimaya approved. Except the nature spirit did not take into consideration the involvement of Rofellos.

  One day, Multani noticed the odd looks given him by his latest congregation. He followed their gaze back to his own shoulders. Growths extended from them in spiky fashion—ridged armor. The same growths sprouted near every major joint. He had gained length in his limbs, his toes thickening into sturdy stands and fingers extending now into the beginning of hardwood claws. Never before particular
about his appearance, the nature spirit now looked and did not care for all he saw.

  It was then he had heard the first whisper of Rofellos’s voice entwined with the thoughts that were Yavimaya’s. Multani mentally pushed his mind more in parallel with the forest’s sentience to better understand the changes. It was a simple endeavor, usually, to bury his thoughts and intellect back into the stream of consciousness from which it had sprung, only this time he felt a resistance, so he pushed harder.

  Rofellos pushed back.

  Even as Multani felt at the boundaries now set within Yavimaya’s consciousness, the nature spirit heard the forest’s call to return. The nature spirit walked into a nearby stretch of forest—and disintegrated.

  The nature spirit’s physical body was actually but a shell—pieces of wood and bark and moss, shaped into a humanoid form—that allowed him to more easily interact with the various races of Dominaria. Now it fell away, raining to the ground as sticks and twigs and scale flakes of ironwood bark. His mind, all of who Multani actually was, faded back into Yavimaya’s consciousness, but it was held distinctly apart from that which the forest now shared with Rofellos. Instantly the nature spirit was back within his homeland, the familiar feel of its high canopy and lush undergrowth. He sensed the incredible resources still buried in the land from the accelerated mulch cycle—so much strength yet untapped.

  Multani stepped from one of the massive trees of a coastal forest, a watchtower tree, standing as high again as the surrounding woods. He peeled away from the bole like some new fast-growth, whole again in his bark-skin form and mossy hair. What the tree itself could not provide grew rapidly from his large frame. Yavimaya’s incredible reserves fed him from the land through his contact with it.

  The Llanowar elf waited in the shadows of a grenade plant, its bulbous growths much larger than the one they had inspected together so many years before. “Yavimaya wishes our physical presence,” he said.

  Unnecessarily, as Multani received the same knowledge even as the elf spoke it aloud. The ground to one side split and opened, the immense root system buried beneath Yavimaya welling up to allow a cavern into the forest’s depths. The two moved toward it together.

  Dwarfed next to Multani’s larger frame, Rofellos never once showed any discomfort. His gaze had braced Multani immediately, as if sizing up a possible challenge and then turned elsewhere. He looked more the wild elf than before, as if in its latest cycle Yavimaya encouraged the reversion. Thin, thorny vines had been woven into a few of his braids. While not fully painted, the elf wore blue smudges under his left eye and a small circular design of red and blue decorated the right side of his neck.

  “It has been a long time, Rofellos.” Multani drew abreast of the Llanowar as the two moved along the dimly lit cavern. He noticed the bow, slung across the elf’s back. A quiver of ash arrows rode against his left shoulder. “You fought well against the Phyrexians.”

  “I live to serve.”

  Multani did not disagree vocally, though inwardly he knew better. The nature spirit lived to serve—working Yavimaya’s will in the world outside. Rofellos lived to war—the forest’s weapon against its enemies, subsumed by Yavimaya for his knowledge and expertise. Multani tried to push such thoughts over to Rofellos, make the Llanowar aware again of his identity, but the fracture persisted that separated their minds from each other.

  Seed torches lit the interior. Plants which sat high on a stalk and produced a phosphorescent pollen that burned cool to the touch. They sprouted along the wall as needed. Many were the color of Tolarian mage-lit stones, ranging from blue-white to lavender shades. Deeper, one burned a rare golden color that washed the wooden walls with an aureate shine. Rofellos and Multani paused here, knowing that the golden torch marked an end to their walk. A new chamber opened in the wall next to them, and they stepped into it as one.

  In the center of the chamber, growing up from the floor, a branch of white-ash wood stood alone. Seven feet high, it was topped with a tapered frond that Multani knew was as rigid and sharp as any human-crafted blade. In his presence, Yavimaya gave the weapon its final living force. A green membrane grew up from the floor to wrap the staff in leathery chitin. That membrane connected the weapon to part of Yavimaya’s force, making it able to bend itself into several different weapons such as the bow Rofellos wore or the double-bladed sword he had used to battle the Phyrexians. Multani knew this, though he still did not understand the barrier that now existed in Yavimaya’s mind. That knowledge remained outside of his grasp.

  “It is yours,” Rofellos said, his voice soft yet filled with a mixture of awe and pride as if the weapon was a great honor. To the Llanowar, perhaps it was.

  Multani, centuries spent working in harmony with the lands and people of Dominaria, did not look upon it with such reverence. “What if I do not wish it?” he asked, startled at his own words.

  His voice rang out stark in the chamber, alone. Rofellos glared coldly. Yavimaya did not answer, did not encourage him one way or another. When Multani thought to push for the forest’s mind he found it withheld, completely.

  He was alone.

  Yavimaya’s nature spirit suddenly understood then what it meant to be his own creature. He would not be compelled, where once the choice would have been made by Yavimaya and simply accepted by him without question. Yavimaya was of two minds now. Rofellos and Multani would be allowed to choose their own paths, and if necessary, Yavimaya would then share a separate path with each. The nature spirit almost declined the weapon and left Rofellos to share such experiences with Yavimaya while he concentrated on healing and teaching, which had been his life for so long.

  He almost declined, except he recognized that Rofellos required his help and healing more than any. Somewhere deep within the Llanowar elf’s mind a tiny spark that was wholly Rofellos still burned. That part of the elf, Multani knew, likely struggled against the oppressive presence of Yavimaya’s mind. It was the same spark that had pushed back, resisting Multani’s efforts to share Yavimaya’s consciousness. If the nature spirit was ever to reach in to help the elf, the two would need a common link through Yavimaya’s consciousness.

  Multani moved forward, slowly. He grasped the staff, accepting it into the crook of one arm as the base separated cleanly from the floor.

  For an instant the barrier fell away. Multani felt it slip, brought down by Rofellos’s own feeling of companionship as Multani accepted the weapon. That tiny spark still burned within Rofellos’s mind. Multani breathed air to that spark in encouragement for the individual of Rofellos. He sent encouragement for the young Llanowar who had relieved the nature spirit of a portion of his burden and was now lost because of it. Personal identity was just as important as a sense of greater belonging. The nature spirit was just beginning to recognize his own balance between the two. He could only hope to do the same for Rofellos.

  The artificial thunder of hooves pounding the ground stormed across the battlefield as Devas’s cavalry tore through a thin advance line of black-clad warriors. Sword and mace and lance rang against each other and glanced off metal armor. The screams of dying men and women, the shrieks of a wounded horse, all added to the cacophony of chaos that enshrouded the field. The air stank of sweat and blood and the gore spilled upon the ground. Beneath it all was the hated scent Lyanii remembered all too well from centuries before. It was the scent of glistening oil—the stench of Phyrexia.

  Lyanii parried a slashing attack directed at her by one of the tall, spindle-limbed warriors. She turned its sword with ease, spinning into a riposting arc that severed the head and part of a shoulder from its body. Slime splattered onto her own armor, spotting its opalescent finish with inky foulness. She kicked over the creature and paused to catch her breath. A century ago she would not have even registered the fatigue—One more sign that age was finally claiming her.

  “Therri!” The Marshal called out for her aide, a wary eye on the large engines moving in the Phyrexian backfield. Therri Capashen swam up through a
thick knot of fighting, moving with a grace that belied her relative newness to the field of battle. “Message to Gavvan,” Lyanii ordered, naming Therri’s brother whose Capashen forces held the center of the field. “We’re holding the flank, but the enemy has moved both war engines opposite our position. If we are going to break the line, it will have to be done from his position. Go!”

  Therri was off, but rather than race for the rear lines where she might hope to grab a mount, the young warrior peeled away at a tangent and fought past a number of Phyrexian guard before breaking into open field where her legs carried her toward her clansmen. Lyanii could not help being torn between pride and frustration for the reckless maneuver.

  “Remind you of anyone?” Karn asked, his voice easily carrying over the sounds of battle.

  The golem carried a large shield in one hand and a huge mace in the other, his normally bright silver finish streaked with black foulness. Two armored Phyrexian warriors clawed and cut their way past one of the Serran Guard, bringing their long swords in at the silver man. The golem took one slash against his shield, stepped back from the other and then brained one warrior with the mace. The polished helm caved under Karn’s great strength, and the warrior dropped lifeless.

  The Serran officer ran the second Phyrexian through, her blade flat to the ground in proper fashion as it burst through the neck joint. The creature inside died with a gurgling screech. She stepped up next to Karn to take advantage of the natural shield the large golem presented.