Bloodlines

by Loren L. Coleman

  As per his standing orders, the supervisors were punished in watching their people die. Then he was running again, his steam-sodden cloak trailing behind him, and his armored boots ringing against steel decking. The bulk of his Phyrexian escort followed. They found stairs and spiraled down into the depths of the machinery—into the main gears room.

  The room curved about the central shaft, immense in the open space contained within the walls but made confining by an array of steam pipes, clockwork gears and various machinery. A hideous screeching filled the space, machinery worked too hard and tearing itself apart under the stresses applied. The room was out of a nightmare—awash in an orange glow, the light cast through large portals in the shaft’s shielding by lava as it spilled upward, driven by the spinning blades. Yellow steam spilled from cracked valves and warped piping. The scent of sulfur was heavy in the room’s jungle dampness.

  Dozens, possibly scores, of Vec leapt from overhead concealment or from under deckplates suddenly loose and sliding over hiding holes built into the flooring. They had been driven to the limits of their endurance, and now with the Stronghold apparently collapsing about them, they did all they had left in them to do. They struck out at their tormentor. As other doors opened to admit more into the large theater filled with steam pipes and an incredible array of clockwork gears, they numbered better than a hundred.

  Against a dozen Phyrexian troops, such ill-trained warriors were at the disadvantage. The black-armored soldiers hewed their way through the wave of bodies. Blood spattered the floor and machinery, drying quickly into rustlike streaks against the dark metal. The floor trembled and continued to shake longer than it had previously with the earlier tremors. Machinery tore loose of mountings, tumbling about the floor and indiscriminately crushing Vec and Phyrexian alike. A gear arm shattered and came crashing down in a ringing clatter. The screeching wail grew louder until it seemed tangible. This was likely the cause of the violent vibrations. The great complex machinery—Davvol’s design—was tearing itself apart under high speeds and stresses.

  The evincar screamed his frustration, attempting to find some way to bring it back under control. He didn’t know the machinery like the Vec, had relied on them to maintain it, and this group was beyond even acknowledging his demands. They would need dispatching, and new workers brought in to shut down the system. Except there was no time for such a change out of personnel. He spared one thought for the workers in chambers above, before remembering he had ordered them slain. Events had conspired against him in a way even Croag could not have. Davvol made up his mind then to flee—able to recoup his losses another day.

  Barely was the decision reached, however, when the floor suddenly pitched up sharply as if struck from below with a mountainous fist. Walls bowed and crumpled, and the ceiling caved downward raining shafts and toothy gear wheels. While still airborne, Davvol felt a metal pinion impale him. He came down hard, spitting blood from between thin, pale lips. Another gear fell across the backs of his legs, crushing them and pinning him into place. Pain flared in his mind, cloaking any thought of saving himself with a panicked desperation. A hideous rumble of stressed and avalanching metal overrode the noise of the overhead gears, still spinning wildly and trying to complete their function. The floor dropped out from beneath them all, as the entire bridge and shaft collapsed down into the lower caldera.

  Davvol, evincar of Rath, fell with it.

  * * *

  Scorched metal and molten rock, the scents of hell., Davvol knew only those scents and pain, never-ending pain, as the mountain of collapsed metal struts and supports, machinery and gearwork, continued to shift and grind. The molten glow of the lava had faded some time before. He could not say when. He didn’t think it had touched him, the scent of charred flesh being that of others and long since cleared from the scalding air. Now darkness reigned, broken only by the occasional spark as metal shifted and struck against metal and flowstone. It was light enough to show him that his head and one arm remained free in a small space. The rest of him had been caught under an avalanche of gearwork—toothy wheels, pinions and shafts.

  He faded into and out of consciousness, praying for rescue, rescue or death—either one after so long. This was the curse of near compleation. His body was simply unable to die, keeping his mind alive but not strong enough to allow him to free himself. With no voice for calling out, his restricted air intake was not enough for speech. It was barely enough to feed his brain and perhaps not even that. The veil clouding his thoughts threatened a slow torturous death of his mind. It was the only thing Davvol had ever possessed of true value, so he fought, trying to stay alive. He focused on the brimstone scents of his prison and the sound of grinding metal as the avalanche continued a slow fall toward entropy. He listened to the drip of water pinging against steel plates and the rasping whisper of steel bands rubbing together.

  Croag.

  Twin sparks of flame, hovering in the black, artificial night, flared up to offer a dim light to see by. Davvol noticed the dark doorway of an open portal behind the Phyrexian. There were no Vec laborers, no guards, just Croag, making his way carefully to Davvol’s position. No humping walk or raspy breath, the nightmare had been reborn. Davvol remembered the way in which Croag had dismantled the negator set to protect the steward. The Phyrexian could likely free Davvol from this misfortune. Davvol would do anything for release. If he’d been able to speak, he would have promised whatever was asked of him—would have pledged the rest of his life to Croag’s service.

  Except, the rest of his life was exactly what Croag intended to take.

  Extending one clawed hand, Croag set a single finger against Davvol’s black armored skullcap, right where the circular depression would be, the evincar knew with a sudden wave of fear. He felt the sharp stab of fresh pain as Croag physically dug into his mind and began to drain the steward’s memories, sifting knowledge from experience and taking both for himself. The Phyrexian was heedless of the damage this procedure caused, never planning to release Davvol and always having planned to drain the other in this way. Davvol felt his mind slipping away, leaving only the knowledge that he remained trapped, alone, and in pain. He had been given a long existence of suffering, robbed of the one thing he had ever treasured.

  Croag was gone, having taken what he had come for—finished with Davvol, once and for all.

  * * *

  Croag paced the small plateau, feeling with every step how the surface might bend and reshape itself to his will, his will, but bent by the skill of Davvol.

  Never before had the Phyrexian drained so much from a single subject. Several lifetimes worth of experience and accumulated knowledge were all at Croag’s disposal now: the ability of flowstone, the evolution of negators, the trials Davvol had fought in Yavimaya, and the hatred, undeniable and uncompromising, for Croag. Everything was there, including how Davvol had planned to dispose of the Phyrexian, and when Croag circumvented those plans by destroying the negator, how Davvol would have used the death of Urza Planeswalker to elevate his position in the Dark God’s gaze.

  Urza Planeswalker had found Rath. There was no denying the evidence. The ruined shell of a negator lay upon the flowstone, tortured metal and some desiccated and petrified flesh was all that remained. Croag could see the creature fighting Urza and then escaping back to Rath, leading the ‘walker right back to Phyrexia’s most secret plan. Why not? Davvol had never thought to instruct them against such a feat. Urza had tracked the negator back, finished it off, and then escaped with knowledge of Rath’s existence. Urza would have recognized the nature of this plane—and its ultimate purpose—at once. It was the staging ground for the coming invasion. The planeswalker would sense it, and in the voices of the Vec or one of the other races brought across he could find confirmation if necessary. There were no doubts. In the back of his mind, where Croag had stored the mental essence of Davvol, the Phyrexian heard the evincar’s dark laugh.

  Could Urza Planeswalker be killed? Davvol had thought so
, but Croag no longer felt sure. Perhaps only the Dark One would be able to destroy the ‘walker, but no doubts remained now that Croag would have to try. He would have to do it himself personally, and that required drawing the planeswalker into the open, a feat not accomplished in the assaults on Keld or in any fighting since—but Benalia—that seemed so much more likely. Benalia or Yavimaya, either should do. Both of those would have to be dealt with before Croag could ever face the Dark Lord again, even in his dreams.

  The negators and troops would be called into battle then—a preliminary strike to herald the coming invasion. The planeswalker would show, and he would fight. Croag would be ready to meet him—to kill him. He would do the job himself rather than continue to trust failing subordinates. He would test his own mettle and metal, as he had once already, proving that he remained Croag, favored of the Ineffable among the Inner Circle of Phyrexia.

  Barrin watched as the last student filed from the slow-time end of the timelock. They would be carting out records and other files today, cleaning out the last of his personal effects on the morrow. The final evacuation of the buildings might take weeks, cataloging every scrap of paper, but nothing would be lost in this move. Eventually the buildings would be torn down for their raw materials. Even the paving stones would be pried out of the ground, and the fresh soil possibly excavated for healthy landfill.

  The necessity of such scavenging only underscored his resolve that Tolaria had been left unmanaged for too long. The master mage paused at the timelock entrance for one last look about his home, at the slow-time envelope that had been his world for so long. It was just another lie or a half-truth, once believed for the sake of convenience but no more. Dominaria was his home, his world, and he would not remain isolated in his self-inflicted exile any longer. Recent events had finally driven through the need for his return, the need for Tolaria’s return.

  The misted slow-time waters were damp on his skin as he passed into the first chamber, the fog seemingly alive in the blue glow of mage-lit stones. It swirled about him reminding of monumental events in his life, and Barrin’s mind formed patterns out of the chaos. He could see—constructed of tiny beads of water—the fortress compound of the First Academy, torn apart by magical upheavals brought on by their temporal experiments, the same catastrophe that had shattered Tolaria’s temporal fabric and created the pockets of slow and fast time. There in the corner, formed out of mist, was the New Tolaria, the ship that had hosted the academy in those years following the destruction of the first school and crashed through the waves until making landfall once again on the island shores. Above his head, near the ceiling in a swirling spire of fog, was the rise of the second academy and the mist wraiths which were of course the Phyrexians come to tear down all they had built. One larger swirl of misted waters sparkled against a mage stone—the Weatherlight—smashing through the rest just as it had helped to carry the day on Serra’s Realm. Yes, he remembered those years well enough—the dark and the light of them.

  The breeze of his passage shredded the mist images. He remembered back on times and events that stood out visibly in his memory. He recalled the early days, acting at times as surrogate father along with Urza and Gatha in creation of the Metathran warrior simulacra, even as he started his own family and locked both he and Rayne away behind temporal doors. He thought about the bloodlines, in their many incarnations, tearing at the unity of the academy and then moving in force out into Dominaria. He saw Keld cast into ruins, its people only now recovering from their several centuries of Phyrexian testing. He felt for the Capashen Clan of Benalia—desperately wounded, along with a half dozen other strong centers of the bloodlines. And now, Karn was missing. The master mage shook his head, so many lives disrupted, so far yet to go.

  A warm tropical sun shook the chill from Barrin’s skin as he passed from the final chamber and back into real time. The deep-blue sky might have been a reflection of the ocean waters except for a few snowy clouds that drifted lazily overhead. He blinked against the bright day and took a deep draw of the salt-tang ocean breeze. No more mistakes, he promised himself.

  “Care for a stroll about the island?”

  No mistaking that soft, beautiful voice, though Barrin still noted its hesitant approach. He turned to one of the stone benches that sat to either side of the timelock. Rayne sat there, her silk robes gathered about her, each hand tucked into the opposing sleeve. Long, raven hair cascaded down over both shoulders. Brown eyes studied him in a mixture of concern and hope.

  “Been waiting long?” he asked.

  “Not long,” she admitted. “A few hours. I heard that you were closing down all the slow-time offices and labs. I saw the students go in earlier and hoped that you might be coming out with them.” She stood, as graceful as ever, though she kept her arms crossed protectively in front of her.

  Barrin nodded. “However long we have left,” he said slowly, “I’d rather spend it on Tolaria, the real Tolaria.” He paused, at a loss of where Rayne intended to take the conversation. “The Weatherlight has not left, has it?”

  “No, though Multani and Rofellos hope to continue on their way soon. Did you want to talk with them? I already arranged for a group of scholars to interview them on what happened in Yavimaya.”

  “I wouldn’t mind speaking with Multani. I also want to send the Weatherlight toward Argive. I hope to arrange a new trade of scholars with the Argivian University. They might have knowledge of ways to repair some of the damage we have done to Tolaria. It might give us a chance,” he said, the various meanings warming the mage.

  Rayne smiled then, bright and wonderful. Her eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. She took his hand in hers, guided it to the slight swell of her abdomen. “Give us all a chance, then. I’m pregnant.”

  The revelation shook Barrin to his core. A smile in answer to Rayne’s own spread across his face, a reflection of the warmth he felt inside. “What better omen to begin with than the start of a new life?”

  “Shall we head for the new offices then?” Rayne asked. “There is so much to get done.”

  Barrin shook his head, enjoying the brief spark of confusion that flashed on his wife’s face. “I’ll take you up on your first suggestion, a stroll about the island.” No more mistakes, he had promised himself. No matter the demands placed on him, Barrin would not—could not—allow himself to ignore the very reasons for which he fought. No one could, not if they were to believe in a better life after the battle.

  “The Legacy and the heir—if there ever will be one—can wait until tomorrow.” Someone else would simply have to watch over Dominaria today.

  * * *

  Jamuraa’s mountain peaks were barely a smudge over the line of the horizon—a promise of the distance still to be traveled. Behind Karn, the sun fell low over the Voda sea. Sunset crimson splashed against the heavens. A sailor’s good omen, Karn had learned in taking ship across the Voda, but it reminded the golem of nothing more than the blood spilled behind him in Benalia. The lives lost in protecting Urza’s plans were not lost for nothing. Karn made sure of that.

  A wind touched already with evening’s chill raked the grass. The full Glimmer Moon rose low on the eastern horizon, promising some gray light by which to travel this night. One heavy step followed another—the same tireless pace that had carried the golem away from DeLatt and finally out of Benalia. He had stopped at villages only when necessary, once to engage a silversmith for repairs to his body, four more times to complete at least part of his mission as tasked by Urza Planeswalker. In the water crossing he kept to his cabin and away from prying eyes. He had been brought ashore by longboat, away from any port city, and of a necessity, far from his final destination.

  Therri’s face still haunted the golem, pale and drawn after the narrow battlefield victory that cost her her brother and landed the responsibilities of Clan Capashen upon her shoulders. Karn had not forgotten her, but again his conflicting loyalties called for compromise. Stay with her or follow Urza’s order. Life ve
rsus Legacy.

  The planeswalker still worried more for his collection of clockwork, sculpting, and magical devices than he ever would the people whose lives he touched. His only words to Karn, after the death of the Phyrexian incursion in Benalia, had been to direct a recovery of Legacy items.

  “The Legacy,” he’d said to Karn. “Collect what you can and take it away from Benalia. You will find protection in Jamuraa. I will locate you there,” and he grimaced, “when I can.”

  He had smiled with a grim sort of self-satisfaction, and winked from existence—stepping in between worlds. Perhaps it was better that Urza kept his words so simple. The ‘walker would never be convinced of anything other than his own genius—his own plans for the future of Dominaria.

  Life versus Legacy. For Karn, the choice came easily. Therri Capashen would remain in his memory—for as long as Karn could keep her there. Karn might not even remember this day when the invasion came—if the full invasion ever came—but he would live the next two decades at least secure in the knowledge that the Capashen heroes lived on through at least one child. One more life, then, might someday make a difference. Carry the Legacy from Benalia, Urza had charged him. Protect it until found again by the planeswalker. Karn did carry several artifact pieces of the Legacy, and in his arms, swathed in new, thick blankets, he carried another part of the Legacy—what might well be the last surviving Capashen hero—the infant, Gerrard, Therri’s orphaned grandson and her final request of Karn that the silver golem take him somewhere safe.

  Urza Planeswalker focused on his human components as his path to an end product rather than for their own special talents and abilities. Living among them, caring for them as children and often befriending them as adults, the golem instead recognized in each the spirit that defied Phyrexia and promised any form of salvation. Urza had been wrong in that. Perhaps they would not wield the Legacy in its final form and discover how to defeat Phyrexia once and for all time, but one of them survived. How many more might be critical to the future? This was a simple truth, which Karn in his limited memory had recognized where Urza Planeswalker and his millennia of experience had not. Every one of them, bloodline subject or not, was a separate hope for Dominaria—could make a final difference that might stand between life and loss.