Bloodlines

by Loren L. Coleman

  “You bring a full meat body to replace me, no. I do not think that is ssso.”

  From the floor to both sides of Croag the flowstone softened and bulged up in two large cylinders. These quickly hardened into spears and drove unerringly toward Croag’s body. They were too slow. Koralld’s mastery over the flowstone, while impressive for its control, lacked any real power. Croag’s skeletal arms flashed out in blurring speed, smashing aside the lances that shattered into stone fragments and chips.

  This was only the prelude to an attack, however. The chamber lights flickered out, plunging the throne room into darkness as Koralld sprang for Croag. The Inner Circle member slashed out blindly, his razor-tipped fingers slicing easily into Koralld’s carapace even as the overseer smashed into him.

  Croag’s robe of steel bands absorbed a great deal of the impact, allowing him to keep to his feet and slip away from the enraged Koralld. Croag’s eyes burned brightly now, filling the normally empty eye sockets of his skull with an unfocused, reddish light. The darkness retreated before his compleated eyesight. There was the actual throne of Rath and the doors, he picked out the broken cylinders of flowstone and the broken pieces scattered about but no Koralld.

  Where would he go? Croag turned a slow circle, his steel bands rubbing together. He had to be here. Koralld’s only opportunity was to kill Croag here and now and so prove his superiority—earn his ascendance.

  Ascendance!

  Koralld fell from his overhead holds even as Croag snapped his attention to the ceiling. The member of Phyrexia’s Inner Council saw the handholds crafted into the stone above, prepared no doubt for this occasion. In the same blinding motion he had shown himself capable of before, Croag shot his arms up to bear the brunt of Koralld’s attack. The other Phyrexian’s claws ripped past the steel bands this time, digging down into the wire-cord muscles. The overseer bit in with mandibles to pierce his victim’s shoulder. Croag’s right arm fell useless, the shoulder flaring in a deep pain as Koralld’s venom disrupted the mixture of glistening oil and serum that all members of the Inner Council relied upon for blood. The overseer’s attack then turned against him, as his own weight tore the mandibles from Croag’s shoulder. He scrambled to get his feet beneath him, landing awkwardly.

  Here Croag struck back, snapping forward to sink his own polished steel teeth into Koralld’s. No poisonous discharge, but it held Koralld fast and left him unable to use his best weapon. Croag’s left hand flashed outward and then in, talons piercing the overseer’s right arm and driving farther into his body to pin it in place. Steel bands snapped at Croag’s mental command, some whipping out to wrap around legs and the overseer’s one free arm. Others snapped back and forth, flailing at the trapped Phyrexian, their razor edges methodically scoring and slicing past Koralld’s armored skin.

  The lesser Phyrexian screamed his rage and pain, thrashing about desperately for release. Croag’s eyes burned more sharply now, their unfocused fire coalescing into twin coals that began to sear into the side of Koralld’s head. There was a second pulse and a third. Each time the searing rays burned deeper. On the fourth, Koralld quit struggling and simply hung in Croag’s deadly embrace, feeble tremors shaking his body. On the sixth pulse, the overseer’s scream gave out, and the tremors stopped.

  Croag was not finished. The Phyrexian kept up his efforts, fiery pulses boring into Koralld’s head while the razor bands sliced deeper. He waited until his artifice-bonded cells repaired themselves and he regained use of his right arm. Croag brought up both hands to crush Koralld’s carapace skull. Flesh brains pulped out.

  “You did not think, Koralld,” the Phyrexian finally said, responding to the overseer’s comment before the attack.

  He threw aside the ruined skull and walked toward the throne while the steel bands of his robe reknitted themselves. No, Rath needed something else besides an overseer’s hard-handed rule. Davvol? Was he the key to the upkeep of Rath and the destruction of Urza Planeswalker? Perhaps. Davvol’s mental powers suited him for administration, and perhaps a fresh outlook might solve the puzzle of how to kill the planeswalker. Croag certainly needed to find some answers. He had not forgotten his master’s commands or the punishment that awaited him if he failed. At least Davvol would be much easier to control.

  Croag knew complacency to be a common downfall of even the most powerful Phyrexians. Could Davvol be dangerous? The Phyrexian Inner Council member could not see how. Davvol had yet to show any ambition except in the matter of his compleation. That could never be allowed to happen—not fully. Davvol would be kept alive so long as he proved useful, so long as he was kept motivated, and what mortal did not fear death?

  In the darkness of the Stronghold, Croag seated himself upon Rath’s throne.

  Barrin stepped into the workshop, noticing first the disarray of tools left out on the workbenches. Timein stood nearby, staring out one of the gray-blue tinted windows. A slight chill crawled over the nape of the mage’s neck. Timein’s posture and position reminded Barrin of a time eight subjective years ago—sixty-five in actual Dominarian years—when he had first offered Gatha a position in the Metathran experiments. Barrin doubted it to be coincidental that Timein had requested their meeting here in the very same workshop Barrin had then held his orientations on the bloodlines. Timein had specifically wanted this room—wanted Barrin to remember.

  “I’m here, Timein.”

  The student sorcerer turned around slowly, awarded Barrin a bow of respect. “Thank you for your time, sir. You will find the papers on the edge of that first table.”

  The mage did not look immediately. He instead met Timein’s placid gaze and tried to discern what could be so important that the senior student had deliberately bypassed the usual administrative chain to come directly to the academy’s chief administrator.

  “If you wish to register a complaint, you should do so through proper channels. Working under Gatha can’t be easy for any—”

  “I will register no complaint concerning Tutor Gatha,” Timein interrupted, though his voice remained respectful, “but I do have a discovery I believe should be placed directly into your hands.”

  Barrin thought he knew Timein better than to expect grandstanding, so he shrugged him the benefit of his doubt and picked up the stack of papers set nearby. The top page looked to be pasted back together from several pieces that had been deliberately ripped. Barrin did not recognize the report and glanced back to the young sorcerer.

  “Who did this?” he demanded.

  Timein stood mute. That told Barrin enough. So much for the idea of accurate records. He began reading.

  The first page was not the only one that looked as if it had been pasted back together or fished from the trash. By the time he had read a fourth of the way through the pile, Barrin was seated and arranging certain papers over the cluttered desk for ease of referral. All told, the stack covered about forty years of real-time research into the problem currently facing the bloodlines—the growing lack of empathy for Dominaria and an embrasure of their darker…elements.

  “You can prove this?” were Barrin’s first words.

  Timein nodded. “In the next room.”

  A few junior students waited there, escorts for a sullen, elderly man who frowned at Timein’s entrance and glared hostility at Barrin. The man’s head had an elongated curve going back over his shoulders.

  “This is Rha’ud. He’s a bloodlines subject raised in fast time.”

  That explained the skull’s elongation to Barrin. Several subjects had evidenced a few unusual physical characteristics after some of Gatha’s experiments. They were also known for a natural hostile approach to anyone associated with the academy.

  “Why are you here, Rha’ud?” Barrin asked softly, feeling for the other man. “You were not compelled?” Barrin ignored Timein’s wounded glance.

  Rha’ud shook his head once. “This one,” a nod to Timein, “said he might be able to help my little girl. She don’t get along so well with others.” He
swallowed. “With anyone.”

  The mage let it go, not wanting to parade over the man’s pride. “Let’s hope he can,” he said.

  Timein brought out a small box and removed from it a stone streaked with cobalt and milky white. Some areas sparkled green or red from less obvious mineral deposits.

  “A Fellwar Stone,” Timein explained. It was a naturally occurring stone capable of channeling the five types of mana.

  He placed it on the table, close to the elder man, and cast an incantation over it. The stone rolled toward Rha’ud, once, twice, then fell still. The young sorcerer picked it up and placed it closer to one of the escorts. The stone began rolling at once and was prevented from falling off the table only by Timein’s quick grab. He nodded to the students.

  “Thank you.” They got up and left the room, Rha’ud between them.

  “That doesn’t prove much, Timein.” Barrin waited, sure the student would explain himself.

  “Just a quick demonstration,” the younger man said. “The stone will roll slower and turn less often depending on the generation. It barely trembled for Rha’ud’s daughter.” He placed the Fellwar Stone back in its box. “I’m using a variation on the laws of contagion. If a person has memories for the lands of Dominaria they are drawn to anything of a similar type. Using wood, the spell will work only for those with an affinity for nature—green mana. A hot coal or piece of obsidian likewise for the mountains or red mana. I promise you, Master Barrin, that the bloodlines are developing without an affinity for any part of Dominaria. The fast-time labs we are using to accelerate the turn of human generations do not allow them to gain memories of the land.”

  “These are not mages,” Barrin said, troubled and looking for an argument, “and if they were it is a matter of bringing them outside—”

  “A person’s connection to the lands of Dominaria means more than his ability to draw upon the mana he possesses,” Timein interrupted again. “I can prove to you that that connection directly affects the person’s natural empathy for the world around him. How far back a lack of such ties causes irreversible harm is uncertain, but theory suggests that it could be at birth or even conception or over generations.”

  Barrin stood speechless. He paused, his gaze meeting Timein’s, while considering the implications. “The entire project could be in danger of permanent contamination. Is that what you are saying?”

  Timein simply nodded.

  The mage sighed. “All right, Timein, I’m convinced, but we’ll have to turn this over to a larger workforce at once for independent verification and study of possible treatments, and I’ll have to tell Urza.” He was certain the ‘walker would not be pleased about these findings or the destroyed reports. Barrin would not tolerate such blatant disregard for protocol, especially when lives were affected.

  The sorcerer braced himself up at the mention of Urza Planeswalker. “He will be back to Tolaria soon? I heard he had just visited.”

  “Yes, but we have another problem that requires immediate action. In fact, it’s ironic that the bloodlines problem is so similar to Karn’s.”

  This appeared to catch Timein off guard. The younger man frowned. “Karn? How can he suffer from a lack of memories of the land?”

  “His problem is just the opposite. He suffers from an infinite memory. It is paralyzing him, though slowly, over the course of decades.” Barrin shook his head in implied pity. “Rayne and I have noticed it affecting his performance in any task requiring human interaction, and he will continue to grow increasingly inflexible as time passes.”

  “Did Urza have any ideas?” There was no questioning Timein’s concern.

  Barrin shrugged. “I don’t think so, not yet. He simply said that the situation would have to be dealt with ‘decisively.’” The mage braced Timein with his gaze. “I’m telling you because I’ll want you to work with Rayne and myself on this. Perhaps your empathy research can help.”

  Timein nodded gravely, accepting the charge. “If it can’t?”

  “The solution will be entirely in the hands of Urza Planeswalker.”

  * * *

  The workshop was one of the larger ones, with an overhead gallery for students to observe the progress below. Several tables stood upon the floor. Racks of tools and equipment lined the walls. The room smelled of aged wood, leather, and oil. Rayne thought the room much bigger than required for so simple an alteration, and the gallery remained clear, which surprised her; the academy was still a place of instruction, for all its preoccupation these days with the Legacy. Only Barrin stood solitary in attendance above, and she suspected her husband of turning away the idle curious for the sake of the patient. Rayne approved and nodded her support to Barrin.

  She stood at Karn’s left shoulder; the large silver golem lay down upon the centermost and largest table in the shop. Turning her gaze back from the gallery, Rayne placed a gentle hand on Karn’s thick arm.

  “It will be all right,” he said, his voice a soft rumble, stealing her thought for him.

  No one else in the room cared for nor actually needed Karn’s comforting assurances. Urza stood at the table’s other side, discussing some finer points of Thran metal with Gatha who managed to at least look curious whether or not he actually was. Rayne doubted it. Gatha was here on the order of her husband. He had helped design “the cage” and consulted with Urza on the magics that would be employed.

  “Learn some compassion for the lives he touches,” was Barrin’s private comment to Rayne, though both doubted it would happen. Even after two years, Gatha still chafed at the new restrictions to his own work. He complained about the “insignificant duties” placed upon him such as teaching classes and filling out extra paperwork to ensure that no more research was “misrouted.” His single appeal to Urza had met with stony silence, and there was no higher court.

  Urza moved to Karn’s head and without preamble reached beneath the neck to unfasten the clasp. Even for the planeswalker this took some doing, trying to manipulate the intricate lock hidden inside a small cavity. It was designed to be difficult, and the combination was known only to six people, including Karn himself. The lock released with an audible snap. Urza lifted, and the golem’s entire head swung forward to rest with his face touching his chest. Rayne noticed that the assembly was not hinged, but the silver metal itself seemed to bend and fold to allow the movement. Karn shuddered once and then went completely stiff as Rayne reached in and removed the black powerstone that gave the golem life.

  The Heart of Xantcha. Rayne never before had the chance to examine it. It was the size of a grapefruit and perfectly black, where most powerstones were constructed of a clearer crystal. Rayne thought that she could feel the power that resided within the stone, imagined it as Karn’s spectral voice asking for help. A single tear welled up in the corner of her eye, but there was nothing she could do for her friend. Urza Planeswalker had decreed it would be so—Karn’s recallable memory would be capped at twenty years, to prevent the golem’s slow failure toward compelled dormancy.

  Rayne glanced back up to the gallery, wondering how her husband must be feeling over the results of his insight. She saw that a single person had joined Barrin. It was Timein, the sorcerer whose latest work had suggested that a subject’s empathy for Dominaria was better than ninety percent based on the ties developed over the first eighteen years of life. His evaluation of Urza’s plan—before discovering the use it would be put toward—could find no reason why a “floating memory” of twenty years would not adequately duplicate the formative years repeatedly over the lifetime of a subject. She wondered if foreknowledge of Urza’s plans might have changed his answer—if only in presentation.

  They all shared responsibility, everyone now present. Rayne possibly the more so as it had been her initial theory that the increasing pressure of growing Thran metal against the powerstone might somehow be used to restrict memory recall. That theory had held up despite numerous student attempts to break it, despite her own best attempts as well,
once she realized the single flaw that Urza had decided Karn could live with and probably be the better for. Despite the research, no one could say how this procedure might affect the golem’s mind.

  In the meantime, design of the cage had gone forward. The planeswalker now lifted it from a nearby box. A two-part shell, it looked delicate but was stronger than any other known metal. The basket had been fashioned from a pattern of whorls and segmented braces which perfectly enclosed the heart of Xantcha. Rayne set the powerstone inside one half, and when Urza closed the basket it magically fused into a solid piece. A full-year’s growth of the metal would squeeze the stone and begin to suppress Karn’s older memories. Over two centuries of accumulated experience and knowledge would be lost to time’s press in as little as a single decade, after which Karn’s memories would fade as any regular person’s might, locked away but with a full recall capacity of only twenty years. It was hardly a young man’s lifetime, but according to Urza, “More than adequate.”

  Rayne winced as Urza replaced the powerstone—no more concern showing in the ‘walker’s eyes than for any other artifact. Rayne glanced away. There were worse things than death, certainly, and so far Urza Planeswalker seemed capable of them all.

  * * *

  Rain pounded Tolaria, the first heavy fall of the year’s stormy season. Special covers went up over the academy’s tended grounds, protecting flower beds and in some cases the food gardens on which the students and staff relied upon for fresh produce. The deluge pounded against paving rock, clay shingles, and wooden slat roofing. Over fast-time areas the water was wicked away so quickly that the downpour simply appeared to lighten or even stop. The slow-time envelopes, as seen from without, appeared as strange bubbles, the water building on the surface until it began sheeting off the sides. It might be hours or even weeks before the first drop hit the ground as seen from real time.