                       Loren L. Coleman
                        "Bloodlines"

        (Magic: the Gathering. Artifact cycle. Book IV.)
                          
    
                           Preface
                         THE LEGACY

    Barrin paused in the classroom's open doorway, his 
charitable mood fading.
    Barely an hour returned to the Tolarian Academy, the 
master mage had decided to walk a quick tour of the main 
building before retiring, a habit he formed over his many 
years as the academy's chief administrator. Tonight it 
possessed the added benefit of giving Rayne a chance to finish 
her own unpacking. Her private apartment was not far down 
Scholar's Row from his own, and when she finished, he thought, 
they might linger over a second exchange of goodnights
    Seeing light spilling down the tiled hallway, Barrin 
decided to offer assistance to what was certainly tutors up 
late preparing the next day's lessons. Students, of course, 
obeyed a strict curfew, and the academy's full scholars 
rarely, if ever, required such late-night preparations. Rayne 
was likely to be waiting for him-a slight twinge against his 
conscience-but he knew that in his place she also would be 
checking in to offer advice. Besides, adding his personal 
touch helped to keep Barrin in contact with the daily 
functions of the academy. This had been, after all, his first 
real leave of absence.
    The first thing Barrin noticed was that someone had 
punched a new door into the classroom. The rough hole in the 
previously complete wall stood open, not even framed, and at 
odds with the smooth plaster and elegant woodwork finishes put 
on academy facilities. A curiosity turned slightly alarming 
when he recognized the room beyond contained Urza's primary 
laboratory. That alarm lasted mere seconds, as Urza himself 
walked from the back room followed by the silver golem Karn. 
Both of them carried books and scrolls which they added to a 
growing pile surrounding the lectern. Barrin frowned over the 
activity. His scowl deepened as he realized that Urza was too 
distracted to have yet noticed the mage's presence-a fact 
which should have been instantly registered by the 
planeswalker's preternatural senses. A distracted Urza could 
be a most dangerous thing.
    The man standing in front of Barrin was known throughout 
history as the defiler of Argoth and the harbinger of the Ice 
Age, though Urza himself could not-or would not-admit with one 
hundred percent certainty that the global catastrophe resulted 
from his efforts. Barrin was inclined to give the planeswalker 
the benefit of the doubt, especially since his track record 
had improved since coming back to Tolaria after the last major 
disaster, but benefit of the doubt was one thing, careless 
blind faith was another. The master mage was feeling a bit 
unnerved by the sight of the deeply focused Urza. As he 
approached the lectern, Barrin recognized in the 'walker's 
intense stare and disconnected manner that same fanatical 
drive that motivated and created the last set of cataclysmic 
events. He knew that Urza was again obsessing on his personal 
crusade: Phyrexia.
    Those creatures had once been the ancient Dominarian race 
of the Thran-who at the height of their achievements had 
mastered a level of artifice unknown to anyone since-save 
perhaps Urza himself. Then some kind of war tore the Thran 
from their advanced ways and sent them hurtling down a darker 
path toward wicked corruption. They were forced to leave 
Dominaria for an artificially created plane-nine spheres 
nested inside one another turning blacker and more torturous 
the closer they get to the center-and after a time they 
emerged from their exile as the twisted, hideous abominations 
that have plagued Urza for millennia. For the loss of his 
brother, for the death of his one-time traveling companion 
Xantcha, for replacing that which was human with corrupted 
artifice the realm of Phyrexia had earned its place as Urza's 
enemy, one planeswalker against nine nested spheres of 
malignant, venomous force. His vendetta had nearly cost him 
his life-existence rather-several times over. So far, others 
had paid that price for him.
    Though obsession was doubly dangerous in a being so 
powerful, Barrin could understand Urza's pain and nearly 
forgive the planeswalker his costly mistakes. Barrin believed 
in Urza's war on Phyrexia, believed that they would return to 
Dominaria (had seen them with his own eyes), and that without 
Urza and the efforts of the Tolarian Academy there would be 
little in the way of stopping them. For that reason Barrin had 
helped create the
    Weatherlight, the skyship that would presumably be the 
ultimate weapon against the day of invasion. Barrin always 
doubted the veracity of such an assertion, but Urza had stood 
adamant-convinced.
    If this weapon was capable of defending Dominaria from 
invasion, why was Urza again demonstrating the distracted 
intensity which Barrin had learned to recognize and fear?
    Karn noticed the mage's approach first, his deep-set eyes 
widening with recognition. The silver golem certainly would 
have spoken a greeting if Barrin had not been prepared and 
spoke first. Seldom it was that Barrin could take Urza by 
surprise, and usually he learned something from it-never too 
old to be a student.
    "I had not heard of your return, Urza. Welcome back."
    Urza had disappeared six months ago, after helping to 
settle the refugees from Serra's Realm across Dominaria and 
returning only once with a handful of new students and three 
new scholars, including Rayne.
    Urza did not bother to turn around. He simply reformed the 
patterns of energy which made up his body so that suddenly he 
faced Barrin. He was obviously too preoccupied for the more 
subtle nuances which gave the illusion of his still being of 
normal mortal flesh.
    "Barrin," he greeted neutrally, "I expected you back three 
days ago."
    How are you? How was your leave? Such courtesies were left 
as far behind the planeswalker as normal life.
    "My chances for time away from the academy come seldom. 
We-I decided to take a few extra days at Angel-wood. It's not 
difficult to lose track of time on Tolaria."
    The planeswalker did not even bother to feign chagrin at 
the reference to the island's temporally-shattered areas where 
time flowed at different speeds, by-products of the 
catastrophic failure of Urza's earlier experiments with time 
travel. Angelwood was a moderate slow-time environment where 
the enhanced sunlight and frequent but gentle rains created a 
paradise of lakes and shaded glades. It was a favorite among 
academy staff for sabbaticals, though the time differential 
worked against those desiring an extended term away from work. 
Meeting Rayne during his vacation had seemed to shorten it 
even more, the time passing so quickly in conversation and 
shared meals.
    She was a rarity in many ways, not the least of which 
being that she was one of perhaps a few dozen adult scholars 
ever admitted to Tolaria. Phyrexians planted sleeper agents 
all over Dominaria but always as adults- never children. 
Security at the academy usually demanded that new students be 
admitted when they were in their young teens. Senior students 
were promoted to tutors, and then they could advance to 
scholars and eventually might serve as chancellor, one of the 
eight academy administrators. Rayne's natural talent for 
artifice had won her admission and instant status as a tutor. 
Four months later Barrin had signed papers promoting her to 
full scholar, but it wasn't until their chance meeting at 
Angelwood that the mage had truly learned to appreciate her. 
She had long black hair that accented her delicate features, 
and she possessed an impressive mind and commanded a strong 
yet subtle presence. Barrin couldn't explain such feelings to 
the planeswalker. Urza, Barrin doubted, would not understand. 
Caught up in his obsession, the 'walker barely recognized the 
civilities of friendship.
    Not so Karn.
    "It is good to see you again, Master Barrin," the silver 
golem rumbled out of his cavernous chest, putting an end to 
the awkward pause that followed Urza's lack of response.
    To Barrin, Karn still sounded a bit despondent. Ever since 
Jhoira's decision to leave Tolaria, the golem had been unable 
to hide his melancholy. Jhoira had been the golem's best 
friend for several decades, and even though the silver man 
claimed to understand why she left, time did not heal his 
wounds.
    "Did you enjoy Angelwood?" he asked.
    Barrin smiled, as much for Karn's courtesy as for the fond 
memories of the last few weeks. "Very much, Karn. Thank you."
    "Good," Urza said brusquely, "because we have some hard 
work ahead of us, important work." He waved Karn off. "I will 
need several new desks, Karn, and a large worktable."
    The silver golem nodded perfunctorily to Urza, offered 
Barrin a grim smile, and then trudged off to fulfill Urza's 
request.
    "So important that it could not wait for tomorrow?" asked 
Barrin, now resigning himself to a long evening.
    "We have delayed too long already." Urza glanced toward 
the classroom's main sketchboard, covered with a script Barrin 
recognized as a meld of ancient Thran and the modern Argivian 
used as the Academy standard. "I've proceeded as far as I am 
able alone. Completing the Legacy will require the facilities 
of the entire academy if we are to have our defenses readied 
against the Phyrexian invasion."
    Urza paused, nodded as if agreeing with himself, and then 
turned away from Barrin and the conversation. He picked up a 
large roll of plans and moved to the wall, unrolling and 
pinning them up against a fresh sponge-wood board. They 
described an apparatus of titanic size and complexity.
    "I will annex this room until the new labs are built." He 
studied the plans with a critical eye. "I wish I could find 
Serra and ask her some more questions."
    Thrown off by the abrupt changes of topic, Barrin stared 
at the planeswalker for a moment, then just shook his head. 
"New labs?" he asked. "Urza, why should we-"
    The planeswalker interrupted without turning. "The 
existing ones are fine and will certainly be utilized, but 
cannot accommodate the needs of the Lens and Matrix."
    So much for clarification.
    "Urza?" Barrin began but was again cut off.
    "I know that the auxiliary lenses will capture ambient 
mana." Urza traced a long finger over one area of the plans he 
studied. "Filters, perhaps? To separate the mana before 
focusing?"
    "Urza."
    "Filters, yes certainly. She must have used them. Even 
Serra's Realm was not purely white mana. She mentioned that 
total purity was not possible. The question is can the Matrix 
focus one source of mana in alteration of the more basic-"
    "Urza!"
    In the large open classroom, designed with an ear toward 
acoustics, Barrin's shout rang out like a thunderclap. Urza 
turned slowly from the board and his new plans, whatever they 
were for, to face the mage. The planeswalker's eyes sparked 
with fire, and Barrin recognized them as the twin powerstones 
over which Urza had fought his brother over three millennia 
ago. They surfaced in times of weakness or intensity (when the 
planeswalker was too distracted to maintain the illusion of 
normal eyes). Barrin possessed no doubts that this was one of 
the latter.
    "The Weatherlight," Barrin said simply, naming the sky-
borne vessel the academy had worked so hard to create, a 
warship capable of traveling between the planes of the 
multiverse. "The Weatherlight was supposed to be your ultimate 
weapon. It is the core of our defense, the one thing that the 
Phyrexians will be hard-pressed to match."
    Urza smiled, a bit sadly. "I was overconfident," he said. 
"The Weatherlight can inspire hope with the wondrous feats 
already at its command, and it will hurt Phyrexia badly in 
limited engagements, but it will not win the war on its own." 
He paused, his eyes regaining their illusion of being still 
human. "Barrin, you were there-in Serra's Realm. That was one 
battle, and we nearly lost it. Alone, the Weatherlight would 
have fallen. We still have work to do."
    "It was under powered," the mage said, playing at 
contrariness and defending the Weatherlight to keep Urza 
talking.
    "It was inadequate," Urza said with great weight, putting 
an end to the argument. "The Weatherlight is the core of the 
Legacy, not its entirety. Indeed, it may buy us the time we 
need to complete our defense. As you once pointed out, we 
cannot assume I will always be present to direct the battle 
against Phyrexia. The Phyrexians still hunt me with their 
negators. Other planeswalkers present a threat as well, and 
there are always unforeseen .. . occurrences." Urza possibly 
alluded to the years he spent as a prisoner of Yavimaya. "Fate 
might yet intervene, and though I tend to believe that even 
fate will not dare gainsay my claim to oppose this evil, I 
will not rely on that fact. Plans must be set down against the 
future to finish the Weatherlight."
    Barrin considered the Weatherlight as she already sailed. 
The airship had fantastic speed, powerful armaments, and the 
ability to travel between planes. What more was there? True, 
Barrin concentrated on magic over artifice, but in the decades 
he had spent with Urza he'd picked up a feeling for the craft. 
The Weatherlight was, in his opinion, already the ultimate 
artifact, with design mated to purpose. Perhaps they could add 
a few trappings-install some minor features. Wouldn't it be 
better to begin looking elsewhere for answers?
    When he put those thoughts into words, Urza readily 
disillusioned him. "The Weatherlight is more than any regular 
artifact, defined by its purpose and static in its function. 
It lives." As if realizing the implication of his words, he 
quickly amended the concept. "Not as you live, of course, nor 
even Karn, but it shares one thing in common with you both-the 
ability to evolve, to grow beyond its current form and 
ability. The Legacy will be a series of artifacts, crafted 
over the years, that can be introduced to the Weatherlight at 
a later date. Before you ask why we did not incorporate such 
features into the vessel from the beginning," he said, 
forestalling Barrin's question, "it is because of time 
constraints and secrecy. There are features I have not even 
conceptualized yet that will eventually be crafted, I am sure. 
Even were we able to add all possible features to the ship 
now, its power signature would stand out like a blinding 
beacon, drawing Phyrexia after it. As it is, the Weatherlight 
will be hard to track until nearer the moment of its final 
purpose."
    The scope of the project left Barrin nearly dumbfounded. 
"What is that purpose?" he asked, caught up in the vision and 
expecting now the grand revelation.
    Instead, Urza admitted, "I don't know."
    Barrin blinked back his surprise.
    "The Weatherlight is the grandest artifact ever 
conceived." Urza flapped his arms, once, in a very human 
gesture of frustration. "As I envision it, the vessel will be 
able to evolve and do almost anything imaginable. What is that 
to be? Who will imagine it? When will the invasion come? 
Where? What will be the key to its ultimate defeat?" His voice 
rose, its edge of frustration and frenzy cutting apart 
Barrin's earlier confidence. "Questions! Only questions. I 
have no answers, not yet." He took a few seconds to regain 
control of himself. "This is why the bloodlines will be so 
important."
    Again, Urza had jumped three steps ahead in his thinking, 
apparently assuming Barrin to be gifted with sight that 
allowed him to peer into another's mind.
    "'Bloodlines'?" the master mage asked, doubt touching his 
voice as if unsure he had heard correctly. It was not the kind 
of term to encourage confidence and peace of mind.
    "Of course, bloodlines," Urza said, exasperated. "The 
second half of the Legacy. A human component. Haven't you been 
listening? We can't say for sure that I will be present for 
the invasion. There must be someone for the masses to follow 
who will understand how to beat Phyrexia, someone who will 
know how to use the
    Weatherlight in order to save Dominaria." He gestured back 
to the sketchboard where flowing Thran script mingled with 
Argivian. "Within the bloodlines we will discover the 
inheritor of my Legacy, and in the meantime the project will 
provide us with warriors with which to stand against Phyrexia 
and its agents." He stepped closer to the board, his voice 
softening and taking on messianic tones. "They will be 
Dominaria's soldiers. One among them will be its salvation."
    "You expect to train a successor then?"
    The administrator within Barrin took over, considering the 
years, decades perhaps, that it would take for Urza to even 
locate enough suitable candidates, especially if he wanted to 
form an army from such a program's detritus. The sheer 
logistics for such a limited return did not seem prudent.
    "Not train," Urza said, dismissing the idea with the 
easiest shake of his head. "Not as such. What I have in mind 
will require of a candidate too many specific traits that 
could never be learned, even in the time given some mortals 
here on Tolaria." He turned from the board, fixing his hard 
gaze on Barrin. "Our new army and the heir to the Legacy must 
be bred."
    
                           Book I
                    THE HUMAN COMPONENT
                      (3385-3571 A.R.)

    The difference in designs between demon and man is often 
that razor-thin line which divides the intentions of one from 
the other. No one has demonstrated that principle to me better 
than Urza. When forced to descend to the level of one's enemy, 
that fine blade may be the only path remaining back to sanity.
    
                               - Barrin, Master Mage of Tolaria
    
                         Chapter 1

    Gatha gazed out one of the nearby teardrop windows, his 
arms crossed defiantly over his chest as Barrin answered 
questions for a batch of new students. Smoke-tinted glass 
stained the outside world a dull gray, physically expressive 
of Gatha's own darkening mood as Barrin continued to make him 
wait. Rain spattered off the window's upper curve, at times 
hard and insistent and then fading to a light drizzle. The 
latest buildings for Urza's new laboratories had been 
completed just in time. Tolaria's stormy season had begun.
    "We've been over this before," Master Barrin explained in 
answer to a question Gatha had ignored. The mage's voice 
remained patient, though at a glance the senior student 
noticed a tightening around Barrin's hard green eyes which 
forewarned of a darkening mood. "The magic presents no direct 
influence on the developing child. It is a procedure used 
prior to conception, to accent the traits which the child 
already stands to inherit from its natural parents."
    He was still discussing the Bloodlines project: Urza's 
controversial plan to develop some kind of master warrior.
    It was now six years into its first generation of 
subjects. Gatha shrugged aside concern for Barrin's argument 
and began tapping his foot to illustrate his impatience.
    Like sheep with their shepherd-in Gatha's judgment-the new 
students flocked around Barrin at the front of the workshop. 
The space had been cleared and cleaned by the senior student 
in preparation for this orientation class. Except for the 
half-built gestate cradle pushed into one forward corner, it 
was the same as every lecture hall in the main academy 
buildings. Gatha might have found better uses for his time, 
though a request from Barrin was never to be ignored, and 
there was something to be said for any recognition by the 
academy's chief administrator. The senior student held his 
silence and his place, occupying himself by studying the 
latest arrivals to Tolaria. The group was one short of a full 
dozen. Their eyes burned brightly with interest over the tour 
of the new labs and the information imparted by the master 
mage. Many of them aspired to be the next prodigy, of course-
the next Teferi or Jhoira-or like Gatha himself. At the island 
academy such visions of personal grandeur were expected, even 
encouraged, if one owned the talent. A few students fell 
outside such a generality, though. They glanced about, 
troubled and nervous. Gatha labeled these ones right away as 
the next set of 'able hands.' They might work on the major 
projects, even on the Legacy itself, but always under the 
exacting direction of others, tools in the hands of masters 
like Barrin, Rayne, and one day soon, himself.
    One such student raised a nervous hand. He was whipcord 
thin with hair the color of rhubarb and a nose which battled 
and defeated the rest of his face for attention.
    "The plans for these 'Metathran' we've heard discussed in 
the hallways and amphitheaters." His reedy voice grew in 
strength and confidence as he progressed. "Simulacra given 
true life through focused mana? Forced development, probably 
through overlaid patterns cloned off desired predecessors?" He 
glanced around for support, found it wanting. "A slave race?" 
he asked, confidence finally waning and telling in his 
restless stance.
    Gutsy, Gatha decided at once, awarding the junior student 
credit for calling Barrin on the morality of Urza's newest 
plans. Strong opening, near-brilliant supposition but 
ultimately dumb.
    The senior student looked back to the window, catching a 
light reflection of his own face in the tinted glass and of 
course unable to ignore the triangular tattoos decorating his 
forehead. It was a debatable honor to be given an artificial 
set of the Keldon triple widow's peaks. The marks were placed 
on his entire family after his father served as military 
liaison to a Keldon warhost hired to fight for Argive.
    He turned his attention back to the group of new students. 
Gatha looked at the gutsy inquisitor who had engaged Barrin. 
The younger student dwelled too heavily on the methods, not 
enough on the potential. He would amount to little. Urza 
Planeswalker supported the plan, and therefore it would 
happen. It became now, to Gatha's way of thinking, a question 
of who would lead and so be recognized by the chancellors for 
promotion to tutor status. Anything else was a waste of a 
student's time.
    Barrin, however, seemed able to dip forever into a well of 
patience when it came to the newer students. "Timein, isn't 
it?" he asked, favoring the student by remembering his name.
    Gatha shrugged off any concern for competition. The 
other's scarecrow build guaranteed some measure of easy 
recall.
    "We were speaking of the Bloodlines project, dealing with 
human generations. These 'Metathran' you ask about are, as you 
said, simulacra" Barrin continued. "Still, I won't disagree 
with the idea that we are raising new philosophical issues at 
the academy," he said, switching his address to the entire 
class. "You've all had your first classes in Phyrexian 
physiology and psychology by now, so you have some idea of 
what we are up against. We'll need the Metathran to fight 
them, and no," he returned to Timein on a more personal note, 
"they will not be slaves. Gatha," he called out, "what is the 
second criteria of Metathran psychology?"
    Caught in the midst of his personal reflection, Gatha 
started. A hot flush raced from the back of his neck up over 
his scalp-a discomfiture which lasted all of three seconds. He 
swallowed away the dryness in his mouth his brief 
embarrassment had brought. Eyes were upon him now, and he 
managed to look both contemplative and studious as he turned 
back to the assemblage. Gatha did not mind an audience.
    "To restrict their mental functions to areas of personal 
survival and martial ability," he recited verbatim from Urza's 
text, adding his own dramatic touch to the quotation, "with a 
limited concept of self and society." He traced one finger 
along his jaw, then smoothed a pleat along the front of his 
white robes. "In effect, they are a type of golem."
    Nodding his approval of Gatha's conclusion, Barrin's 
steady gaze still conveyed a measure of warning to the senior 
student that he should pay more attention. "Like any artifact, 
the Metathran will obey its programmed instructions. As with 
the Weatherlight, they are instruments of our defense."
    No one raised another question, though the shuffling 
gestures of several students-Timein among them-suggested that 
the issue was not completely answered to their satisfaction.
    Barrin seized upon the opportunity to end the session. 
With one hand he tugged at the golden mantle to his robes, 
straightening it, and with the other he waved toward the 
workshop's door.
    "That will be all for today. Return to your regular 
classes." They moved toward the door. "Gatha, you will remain, 
please."
    As the students filed out, Gatha caught mixed looks of 
curiosity, admiration and jealousy from the new students. He 
drew strength from those stares and glares. Such expressions 
meant that his name was known, as he wanted it. Only Timein 
offered nothing for him at all, glancing over with a simple 
expression of frank appraisal, as if he were weighing Gatha's 
worth by observation alone. Gatha smiled back, tight-lipped 
and challenging.
    "What do you think?" Barrin asked when the room cleared 
and Gatha had shut the door.
    It was a purposefully vague question, meant to elicit more 
than basic information but also something as to how Gatha 
himself thought. The student did not mind, confident in his 
own ability.
    "A verbose way of saying that the ends justify the means," 
he said, immediately seizing upon the earlier drama in which 
he'd had a part. "Most of them are still trying to untangle 
the argument."
    The hints of a smile tugged at the corners of Barrin's 
mouth, though not necessarily one of encouragement or humor. 
"You think you see more clearly than they do?" No hints of 
approval or disapproval in his tone.
    In place of answering, Gatha walked over to the half-
completed gestate cradle. One of the new modular designs that 
Urza had requested, its sledge-shaped body would be capable of 
full growth support for the Metathran soldier created within, 
if the artificers worked out the majority of the design 
problems, that is.
    "I've read the academy histories," he finally answered, 
circumspect. He reached out to place a hand upon the slick 
metal casing, noticing a touch of oil to its surface. Being 
able to touch a thing always made it seem more real. "I have 
yet to find even one project that has advanced this far along 
that was not carried through to completion." A polite way of 
saying that arguments were pointless at this late stage.
    Barrin nodded and then headed over toward the door. He 
paused, hand on the knob. "Coming?" he asked.
    Gatha quickly fell into step behind the mage master.
    "Your achievements have not gone unnoticed," he said as 
they walked down a long hall, past doors leading off to other 
workshops. The labs still smelled of new construction, raw 
wood and finishing paint. "You have made certain of that. 
Still, self-promotion aside, you excel in your studies of the 
magics and your natural grasp of artifice is impressive as 
well." He pulled a key from within the folds of his robes and 
used it to unlock a door at the end of the hall.
    This new workshop had been modified and outfitted for 
immediate use. Blue metal file drawers had been mounted into 
one wall. Metal tables sat in the center of the room with 
trays of instruments, some obviously magic in nature but most 
of pure artifice, arranged on top of it. The room was well lit 
and spotless, but it was very cold. Their breath clouded in 
front of them. Gatha shivered involuntarily, one hand 
clutching at the front of his blue tunic trying to draw it 
tighter against his skin.
    Barrin closed the door behind them and locked it. He gave 
Gatha another frank look of appraisal, eerily reminiscent of 
Timein's earlier expression. The student bore up under the 
scrutiny, for the first time feeling a bit awkward. Finally, 
Barrin awarded him with a reluctant nod.
    "I'm adding to your duties," he said, moving to the file 
drawers. The master mage threw a catch on one of them, then 
leaned his weight outward as if pulling it open against great 
weight.
    Gatha sucked in a cold breath and held it. Resting in the 
drawer, on a long plate of metal, was a blue-skinned humanoid 
of impressive height and elongated skull. Dark blue glyphs-
magical sigils perhaps?-decorated the naked body, reminding 
Gatha of his own tattoos. There was an elegance to the 
sexless, lean-muscled creature. The master mage did not need 
to tell Gatha that he looked upon his first Metathran. Part of 
Urza's newest labs were obviously functional.
    He looked to Barrin, found the elder man staring at him 
levelly.
    "What do you think?" the mage asked again.
    What did he think? Gatha recognized immediately that he 
had achieved the next step in his education here on Tolaria. 
He was being trusted with a new responsibility and his next 
break would come from his own ingenuity and his ability to 
make things happen.
    Gatha let out his breath and smiled. "Where do I begin?"

                          * * * * *

    Rayne bent farther forward, leaning far out over the lens 
to inspect for flaws. Tall and lithe, she reached nearly to 
the middle of the four foot radius device. The muscles along 
the backs of her legs tightened and quivered, holding her from 
smashing through the delicate item. Silk bands tied back the 
wide sleeves of her flowing robes to prevent even their light 
brush on the lens's surface. Hardly daring to breathe, wary of 
fogging the area over which she worked, she continued her 
search.
    The sapphire tint to the material partly reflected her own 
image, making detection of a flaw harder than if it had been 
clear crystal backed by a deliberate pattern. She studied her 
own raven-black hair, her thin nose, and her long slender 
eyebrows in the reflection. There, near the single curl of 
hair that tucked down in front of her ear was a mar in the 
lens's otherwise perfect reflection.
    She rotated the special magnifying glass that a student 
had created for her over into her field of vision. The glass 
clipped comfortably to her forearm and moved about on a 
pliant, telescoping arm. It was light enough to almost be 
ignored and left both of her hands free in case they were 
needed. She couldn't be sure if Gatha had put a touch of magic 
into the glass or not, but it cut the glare and allowed her to 
focus on the most minute object.
    Now it showed her the lens's flaw in great detail, a large 
irregularity in the lattice structure.
    "Ruined." She straightened up cautiously, still treating 
the lens with extreme care. It represented too much work to 
rate anything less.
    Karn moved forward, the silver golem's massive frame 
dwarfing Rayne. He had waited quietly against the wall for 
three hours. "The crystal lattice again?" he asked, his voice 
soft and deep.
    Rayne smiled at him, recognizing his regular attempt at 
courtesy now that she had disengaged from her study.
    "Yes, Karn. Over five hundred student-hours, all told, 
ruined by a microscopic defect." A flawed artifact, she turned 
her back on it. There was no wishing it to perfection. "Place 
it on the rack, please. Urza will want to inspect it himself, 
though I know the flaw is too large."
    A scholar of artifice at the academy, Rayne normally 
commanded enough authority on such projects to make her own 
decisions-but never when it came to Urza. The planeswalker 
always double-checked her work when it involved his own 
projects.
    With a delicate care belying his great strength, Karn used 
a large, grooved fork to grasp the lens securely by its edge 
rather than the plane. He hefted it, pivoted and slid it 
carefully into a storage rack next to two others that had also 
failed to meet standards.
    Rayne had already moved on to a new activity. Her private 
shop always held at least three different ongoing projects, 
not counting students' work that she had to check over in 
order to gauge and track their progression. The room smelled 
of oiled leather and metal. Tables appeared cluttered with 
tools and parts; though in truth, the clutter was actually a 
complicated but well-ordered system of easy access sorted by 
probability of use. Most residents of the academy failed to 
grasp the concept. A few of her better students had picked up 
on the system. It was also the one time she believed that 
she'd impressed Urza Planeswalker. On his one visit after her 
assignment to a Legacy artifact, he had walked in and actually 
said, "Very nice," in reference to the layout. He never 
touched one tool, but four of his assistants were sent over 
that day to study the shop design.
    At a table, Rayne puzzled over a new clockwork engine 
built from Thran metal. The living metal kept growing, binding 
up joints and gears if not perfectly balanced for the 
expansion. She flipped the magnifying glass back into her line 
of sight, staring through it while working on the smooth, 
intricate pieces. Behind her, Karn finished moving the lens 
and then resumed his patient vigil
    "Barrin will be late again, will he not?" She paused to 
correct her own Argivian. "Won't he?"
    "I do not know, Mistress Rayne." Rayne stopped working and 
glanced back at the silver man. With a slight hitch to his 
shoulders, surely a learned trait, Karn elaborated. "He did 
not communicate such to me, but he did seem very involved in 
studying Gatha's recent accomplishments."
    Gatha was one of Barrin's best pupils. "But as much a 
curse, that one," she said aloud, a touch of dry humor to her 
voice. First there was Teferi and Jhoira, and now Gatha. "Why 
do the brightest ones always bring with them so much trouble?" 
She glanced back to Karn. "What did he do this time?"
    The golem cast his gaze away. "There was an incident at 
the labs, something to do with enhancing certain traits among 
the Metathran. Gatha experimented with the Eugenics Matrix 
without the permission of Urza or Barrin. The facts bore him 
out, but the result was," the golem paused, "messy."
    Rayne shook her head, as much over the trouble surrounding 
Gatha's lack of caution as the problem the engine presented 
her. Everything rests on the details, she thought in relation 
to both problems. It would help if she knew what the engine's 
ultimate purpose was, but Urza had left her in the dark. Part 
of the Legacy, perhaps, or another refinement to the Metathran 
labs. Rayne felt frustrated working like this. It would be 
more frustrating, she imagined, to be saddled with Barrin's 
problems.
    "Bring me a stool please, Karn. It will be another late 
night."
    Conversation waned as she worked further into the delicate 
engine. What more was there to say? They both knew Urza to be 
a hard taskmaster at times. Barrin followed because he 
believed in Urza, in the 'walker's vision for defending 
Dominaria. Rayne's vision was more limited to her own work, 
the creation and maintenance of artifice. In matters of 
greater scale, she trusted Barrin's judgment. If the master 
mage thought his presence elsewhere important enough to remain 
away, then she could do no less than keep working as well.

                          * * * * *

    The vault sat at the heart of Urza's labs, a domed room of 
titanic proportions devoted to the creation and full gestation 
of Metathran warriors. The grand arches that buttressed the 
lower walls allowed better than thirty feet of head clearance. 
Enchanted globes set into the walls filled the cavernous room 
with soft light. Conspicuously missing were the gestate 
cradles. Barrin had ordered Gatha and others to remove the 
devices before Rayne's students were brought in to fit a new 
lens into one of the mechanisms. The mage doubted that such a 
precaution was really necessary. Most students knew the labs 
were already functioning to some degree, but Urza's orders 
stood.
    The students worked high above the floor on scaffolding 
set next to one large pillar, junior students steadying the 
platforms or passing up tools as they were called for by their 
seniors. Voices and the sounds of work echoed around the 
vault. Rayne stood out in the open floor, her hands tucked 
into the opposing sleeves of her robes, supervising her 
students with a critical eye that missed nothing. Barrin did 
not approach her yet. An earlier nod and brief smile told him 
that she knew of his presence. Now he awaited some signal that 
her attention was no longer required on the work in progress. 
As he would with any scholar of the academy, Barrin allowed 
her full authority over the area in which she worked. Besides, 
the master mage needed a few extra minutes to muster his 
courage.
    Soon the students had finished their task, and they sealed 
the pillar where the lens had been placed. Rayne waited while 
the students disassembled the scaffolding and were beginning 
to remove tools and equipment from the vault, then turned 
toward Barrin and awarded him with a full, warm smile for his 
patience. Barrin's legs felt weak, but they managed to carry 
him forward. As always, he was struck by her delicate beauty, 
porcelain skin and slender frame-not the usual image of an 
artificer.
    "Hello, my dear," she said, reaching out with one hand to 
accept his embrace.
    He folded her into a quick hug, for a second oblivious to 
the nearby students. "Greetings," he paused, now a touch self-
conscious about the nearby onlookers.
    Rayne sensed more in the undercurrents of his voice, no 
matter that he had tried to hide both his distress and 
nervousness. She frowned lightly, curious.
    "There is news?" she asked, deliberately trailing off the 
question to allow him an easy time of response.
    Nodding, the mage met her searching, dark brown eyes. 
"Gatha completed the latest tests, and Urza is less than happy 
with the results." He took a deep breath, tasting the chill 
air of the large chamber. "All indications point toward forty 
generations, he says, in order to develop the heir to the 
Legacy. We are unsure, so far, how many subjects we can hope 
to raise in fast-time environments, but the island's shattered 
time streams might work for us. How Urza is calculating this 
is anyone's guess."
    Rayne gave the lightest of shrugs. "Numbers do not lie," 
she said simply.
    Barrin caught the implication: Numbers do not lie, but 
Urza might. The master mage pushed that disturbing thought 
from his mind. There was a time and a place to have that 
discussion, but the planeswalker who founded the Tolarian 
Academy was not the subject Barrin had come to talk about.
    "My new quarters in the slow-time area are complete," he 
said without further preamble. "Close enough to complete 
anyway, for me to take up residence."
    The possibility had been considered years ago, and 
preparations were made in case a large facility in extreme 
slow time was necessary. The Legacy, especially the Bloodlines 
project, required an overseer other than Urza-one whose 
presence was considered more dependable. Drinking of the 
island's slow-time waters, the proverbial fountain of youth, 
arrested aging, but forty generations demanded more extreme 
measures. The island's temporal anomalies offered the 
solution. Some of the best and brightest would move into slow-
time areas, those who would coordinate the various projects 
and keep the Legacy focused over the centuries. Barrin would 
be first among them. They would be in slow time for twelve 
hundred years relative to the rest of Dominaria but only 
thirty or so subjective to the person.
    "I've already ordered my assistants to begin moving my 
offices and labs," he finished weakly.
    Rayne stepped back, arms folding protectively across her 
body. "So soon," she said, hugging herself tightly. She looked 
up, apparently ready to say something but then shook her head. 
"This is goodbye then?" she asked calmly.
    "That depends on you." It bothered him, the idea of living 
out such an extended and isolated life in slow time. It 
bothered him more when he considered that this move could take 
him away from Rayne forever. It was that thought, more than 
anything, that had driven him forward on this course. "You 
could come with me."
    Was that a flash of joy in her eyes? Barrin couldn't be 
sure.
    "I could?" she said, part question, part statement.
    "Yes," he said, verbally stumbling forward. "I would like 
you-I am asking you to join me. I am asking you to marry me."
    Now Barrin felt the cold sweat standing out on his 
forehead. Rayne stared back as if not comprehending what he 
had just asked of her. He felt several long heartbeats marking 
the seconds.
    "There is nothing else for it then," Rayne said, smiling 
beautifully. "Of course I will."
    "Yes?" Barrin asked, marveling at Rayne's acceptance.
    He flushed suddenly warm in pleasant shock then smiled and 
gathered Rayne in for another hug. They embraced each other 
heavily, and Barrin counted himself fortunate to have found 
such a person to share his life. It was a good omen, perhaps-
certainly good fortune- which Barrin was not about to dismiss 
for all his other concerns.
    He felt immortal in a way that a slow-time life could 
never provide.
    
                         Chapter 2

    Croag began to awaken from a long slumber of rest and 
preservation, the member of Phyrexia's Inner Circle beginning 
to stir within his bath of soothing, glistening oil. The 
insinuating fluid seeped through microscopic ducts into his 
semblance of skin-gray-sheened and stretched tight over ropy 
wire-braided muscles and a cleft skull. Small on an otherwise 
large frame, the skull looked out with eye sockets currently 
capped by protective shields. Teeth bared in frozen maniacal 
grin, Croag consumed more of the life-sustaining oil through 
gaps in his sharpened teeth. One skeletal hand of razor-sharp 
fingers and corded with muscles of metallic fiber rose from 
the glistening oil. It screeched against the bath's metal rim 
and finally locked around a scarred lip. Oil ran down along 
the Phyrexian's arm, dripping back into the pool from the 
sharp spiked point protruding from what must have been the 
monster's elbow.
    In his state of semi-consciousness, Croag heard several 
thunderous whispers which reverberated through his skull and 
brought with them pleasant memories: the scents of smelted 
iron and fresh oil. A dark shape loomed out of his dreams, 
black against a night that lacked both moon and stars. The 
landscape was lit by sparks from the venting of countless 
forges, and far above, burning cinders rained down from a 
metallic sky. The shape grew in size, striding across the 
plane until all grew insignificant by comparison. The dark 
leviathan stopped, recognizing Croag among the infinite 
reaches of his mind.
    This night Yawgmoth had come to speak with him.
    It was the dark god of Phyrexia, creator of their plane 
and architect of their improved bodies. In all the multi-
verse, there was none so perfect in form as he. From his 
slumber over the millennia, the Ineffable spoke to the Inner 
Circle and made his will known. Croag easily recalled the one 
time the dark one actually woke, and the grand terror that 
physically shook the nine spheres of Phyrexia until all 
recognized his power and were bent to the task of remolding 
the Dominarian Nexus with Phyrexia at its center.
    A querulous rumble shook Croag, still locked in a dream. 
The council member trembled before the display of power. Urza 
Planeswalker lives, the dark god confirmed.
    Eyes of molten red flashed out of the darkness in anger 
and disapproval. Their searing heat threatened to cripple 
Croag's body. Compleat though they might be, even a member of 
the Inner Council could not stand before their enraged god. 
Report, thundered the Phyrexian lord.
    Croag understood his master's anger. Urza Planeswalker had 
been born in the shadow of Phyrexia, mastering the powers of a 
very unique powerstone left behind in the mountain portal of 
Koilos. He had also managed to somehow lock away the 
Dominarian Nexus, preventing any
    Phyrexian reprisal and thwarting the full inception of the 
Dark One's plans for over three millennia.
    Insult to this injury came when Urza launched his own 
attack on Phyrexia. Many members of the Inner Circle were lost 
in that attack, and many more were later returned to the vats-
rendered, decanted, and com-pleated again according to a 
better plan. Four Spheres Urza fought his way through, showing 
the Phyrexians where they were weak and nearly waking the 
Ineffable himself. Urza was eventually driven back and pursued 
by negators. They were to destroy the planeswalker and be rid 
of him forever.
    Somehow Urza managed to escape, time and again, always 
leaving behind the ruined corpses and burned out shells of the 
negators for the Phyrexians to reclaim and study for faults. 
He led the Phyrexians into Serra's Realm, an artificial plane 
constructed by another planeswalker and devoted to pure white 
mana which threatened the existence of any Phyrexian. 
Distracted by so tempting a target, here the negators lost 
Urza's trail. Serra's Realm fell prey instead. Assaults 
against the abominable plane finally drove Serra away, and 
then the Phyrexians' corrupting influence worked to turn the 
realm into a dark mockery of what it once had been, until Urza 
reappeared, challenging the corruption that had finally made 
the artificial plane habitable by Phyrexians sensitive to 
white mana.
    Not a single detail was forgotten or omitted in Croag's 
report to his dark lord. Indeed, the Phyrexian was powerless 
to withhold anything from his master. His mind was simply 
drained of all information-relevant or not. When finally 
finished, the member of Phyrexia's Inner
    Circle waited for judgment, knowing it could come either 
swift and terrible or prolonged and cruel-all at the whim of 
their god.
    The raging thunder that was the Ineffable's ire for Urza 
Planeswalker spent itself inside Croag's dreams. Tendrils of 
furious, molten energy slashed at his frame, and darkness 
squeezed upon his mind. The death scent of scorched oil 
permeated his body, but this was not punishment or 
condemnation, and Yawgmoth spared his subject his full fury. 
Then, under control once more, the Phyrexians' self-made god 
left Croag with other images from his own mind.
    The Inner Council member was shown plans for Rath. The 
ceaseless spread of manufactured tan flowstone as it swept 
over the limitless horizon and would one day sweep over 
Dominaria itself. It was to be the staging ground for the 
coming invasion. He was told of the evincar, the one who must 
one day rule Rath and work the will of Phyrexia. This one 
would come of its own time, and until then Croag would be 
responsible for administrating the duties of evincar or 
finding someone who could.
    Lastly, the half-conscious completed Phyrexian was shown 
the penalty he would suffer if plans did not proceed according 
to schedule. Interference from Urza Planeswalker would not be 
tolerated. If he failed, his flesh and metal components would 
be disassembled by the hunched-over, skittering creatures 
known as birth priests. The raw material of his artificially 
perfected body would be stripped down and reused. Nothing 
would remain of Croag, his name burnt from the minds of all 
Phyrexians.
    Croag chattered his understanding.
    The dark god retreated from Croag's mind. Smoke left in 
his wake dispersed on the hot winds of forge bellows, but the 
stench of burning metal never completely vanishing.
    Beneath the surface of the bath, Croag came fully awake. 
His eyeshields dilated open, revealing large sockets that 
immediately filled with oil. His vision glowed amber from the 
cold-burning lights above the surface of the pool. It 
swallowed large amounts of the fluid. Tightening his grip on 
the bath's outside edge, Croag hauled himself upright, 
breaking through the surface and immediately calling to his 
servants.
    The dark god had given him a task.

                          * * * * *

    The pain distracted Davvol. As best he could, the Coracin 
native compartmentalized the agony of the mechanically-taloned 
hand locked with vice-like strength around the back of his 
neck. He ignored the tremors of his own traitorous muscles, 
and with a focus of will, he cast his mind forward from his 
body. For a brief second he stood there, looking back into his 
own eyes- black orbs with just a touch of steel-gray in the 
center. He cringed away from their lack of compassion and the 
obvious signs of illness in his pasty, corpse-like flesh.
    The creature standing next to him, holding him in its 
grip, was hardly better to look at. Its body w3s a meld of 
machine and flesh, with one real arm and one of metal 
framework and corded muscle grafted back into place. Grillwork 
replaced its mouth and covered the bony ridges of what must 
have once been ears. Davvol extended his consciousness to 
touch the thoughts of the creature before him. Interspersed 
between the hate and contempt which ruled most of the 
Phyrexian's thoughts, it only knew of its own purpose. It was 
a speaker, one of the few who could speak Coracin's language.
    Free from his body's entrapment, Davvol's mind now drifted 
through the antechamber of his world's most sacred temple. 
Usually lit by torch alone, it now stood illuminated by 
strange smokeless lights brought by the Phyrexians. The temple 
was an ancient ruin of rough stonework with one set of metal 
doors that took up the entire northern wall of the 
antechamber. To Davvol's knowledge, and that was saying 
something, no one had been past those doors to view the Gift 
of the Gods in over three thousand years. Even the antechamber 
was forbidden to all except the most powerful of Coracin's 
leaders. Twelve years as his nation's historian had once 
allowed Davvol the right to visit this supposedly hallowed 
place. Here he had taken his mental powers to new strengths. 
Then his forced retirement stole that privilege from him, 
until today.
    Now he visited the temple again. Two score Coracin leaders 
were held in attendance by half as many black-armored 
soldiers. The speaker, the soldiers and another larger 
Phyrexian who appeared to be in charge stood across from the 
captive Coracin heads of state. This large Phyrexian was the 
one who could save Davvol's life-the one who could protect him 
from his own diseased body. The Phyrexians traveled across 
worlds. They could exchange the weaker flesh for metal and 
machine. They would do so because they needed him, could use 
him elsewhere, just like they relied on him today. Among the
    Coracin, even those rare ones with mental abilities 
similar to his own, Davvol was unique. Because his body had 
begun failing him so early on, he had spent the entirety of 
his thirty-four years of mature life developing his mind until 
none could match his strength. His mind was all he'd ever had.
    Flares of black and red energy sparked at the edge of his 
consciousness. He saw the wards that guarded the doors react 
to his disembodied presence. His mental intrusion however was 
not quite enough to trip any alarms or traps. He entered 
another chamber, and there it was, the so-called Gift of the 
Gods that had sat at the heart of the temple for millennia: a 
machine, spiderlike in that its slab body would move forward 
on six articulated legs was obviously made of metal.
    It gleamed as if age could not touch it in this vault. 
Davvol marveled at its physical timelessness. He studied the 
head, thrust forward from the slab body, savage in its 
likeness of natural physiology. The speaker had shown him a 
picture of it, calling it an engine of some kind-a Thran war 
machine brought here long ago. Yes, that is what it was, a war 
machine sitting at the center of Coracin's lip-service 
religion. This was what his leaders fought now to protect for 
themselves.
    "It's there," he said, returning to his body with the 
speed of a single thought. He winced from the painful pressure 
applied by the speaker's mechanical hand. "Two sets of doors. 
The engine sits in the second chamber approximately thirty 
paces inward from this point."
    The larger Phyrexian, the one showing less flesh and so 
obviously in charge of the situation, screeched something to 
the speaker-the sound of tortured metal and popping rivets. 
The hand released Davvol, and he slumped to his knees in 
weakness.
    "Which one can defeat the wards?" the speaker asked. Its 
Coracin language translation came out harsh and rudimentary 
but understandable,
    Davvol coughed wetly then rose shakily to his feet. The 
answer was already within his mind. Many people knew who among 
them was the keeper of that secret, and he felt no shame in 
giving that up. He had been a welcome member of the ruling 
elite once, before his physical appearance and health began to 
deteriorate. His perfect memory had been an asset, giving him 
a handle over administrative tasks few could match. He had 
given his mind over to his countrymen in hopes that they, in 
turn, could find a cure for his diseased body, but these 
people had been unable to heal him. They had stopped trying 
once he was expelled. Now they shunned him on the street as if 
his body's state was a fault he could control.
    The fault was theirs.
    "That one," he said, pointing out the correct man. The man 
shivered in fright, and the eyes of thirty nine other Coracin 
leaders cast venomous daggers at Davvol.
    The speaker chattered and hissed back to the other. After 
a moment, "That one we have interviewed before. He was most 
resistant. Remove the knowledge from his mind."
    A chill shook Davvol as the Phyrexian asked for the first 
thing he would be unable to deliver. "That may prove 
difficult," he began, and hastened when the speaker reached 
out for him. "What I mean is that my talent cannot root around 
in another's mind. I can read only surface thoughts, 
generalities." He swallowed hard, tasting a metallic sting at 
the back of his throat. "He would try to sabotage my efforts. 
He should open the wards himself."
    "He refused earlier even when tortured," the speaker said.
    Davvol pulled himself erect. "Yes, I'm sure he cherishes 
the solemnity of his position." He walked over to the other 
man. "It's only an artifact he guards-a machine." Something so 
easy to give up in return for life, thought Davvol. "I'm sure 
there is something he cherishes more, perhaps something he is 
more afraid for than his own life."
    The elder man stared back. His expression twisted between 
loathing and hatred, and then he spit into Davvol's face.
    Davvol did not flinch or move to wipe away the spittle. He 
felt it trail slowly down his left cheek. It didn't matter, he 
promised himself. The image was there in his mind-the other 
man's weakness. This insult only proved to him how little he 
still owed these people. He turned back to his Phyrexian 
masters.
    "He has a daughter."
    
                         Chapter 3

    Gatha stood in the Grand Vault, as it had now been 
formally named, the focal point for the creation of Metathran 
warriors. It was also the central hub to the various labs and 
workshops in which the bulk of the work for the Bloodlines 
project-and to a lesser extent the ongoing Legacy project-was 
accomplished. He still could not help admitting to being 
impressed by its sheer magnitude-the arches, the central 
pillars that housed most of Rayne's mana-focusing lenses, the 
space-Urza certainly did not think small. Neither did the 
young tutor.
    Gatha paced a short path alongside one of the gestating 
cradles, its curved nose sticking out of the large socket into 
which it had been plugged until full gestation of the 
Metathran warrior was achieved. This one was his warrior, one 
of those which would owe its existence- not exactly a life-to 
Gatha. His hard-soled boots beat a slow rhythm against the 
polished stone floor. One hand trailed along the side of the 
cradle, over rough gear teeth and the alternating smoothness 
of polished metal and glass viewports that looked into a dark 
interior. He did not attend the "birth" of them all, but this 
one might be special. He would know soon.
    Timein found him there. "Master Gatha," the younger man 
said by way of address, voice devoid of any emotion. The 
senior student waited for acknowledgement before continuing.
    Gatha glanced over and nodded curtly. Six subjective years 
had done little for Timein except to sharpen the student's 
mind. Still a tall and gangly body that looked ready to fall 
apart in a strong breeze and an Adam's apple that almost split 
through the skin on his neck, at least his voice had lost the 
reedy tenor of youth. Timein began to bring him up to date on 
some of the minor experiments being conducted in real time, 
leafing through a stack of reports he carried in his knobby 
hands. As he listened Gatha compared and admired his own 
features in the reflection of a cradle viewport.
    Eight years, again subjective, had brought Gatha into the 
comfortable stages of manhood nearing thirty. He now wore a 
trimmed goatee that he reached up to stroke while listening to 
Timein's report. He had filled out physically, and his mind 
had never been so brilliant. A tutor, one of the youngest 
ever, though he fell shy of Teferi's mark by a solid two 
years. Master of time, he considered himself. He felt himself 
second only to the Master Mage Barrin and Chancellor Rayne, 
who lived in the more extreme slow time and rarely ventured 
forth. Eight subjective years, passing in between moderate 
slow-time environments and real time, while for Dominaria 
forty-two years had passed. In the moderate fast-time 
envelopes, where much of his actual work was accomplished by 
students, over seventy years of research and production had 
accrued. Preoccupied with their own relative immortality and 
the fate of Dominaria as real time progressed, most other 
tutors and scholars underused the fast-time outposts. Gatha 
prided himself on never wasting opportunity.
    "Results of recessive gene enhancements, post-birth, 
negative." Timein's voice barked out the word, bordering on 
disrespect and definitely capturing Gatha's full attention. 
"Surviving subjects show high rate of mutation, considered 
inadequate for further bloodline development."
    Wheeling, Gatha strode over to Timein and snatched the 
report. It still smelled of fresh ink, and his thumb smeared 
one of the red circles that highlighted various figures. 
Gatha's strong hands wrinkled the parchment, clutching it 
tightly. Teeth clenched hard enough for his jaw to ache, he 
read down the list of three years' relative work-wasted. The 
red circles were no doubt Timein's notations, calling 
attention to numbers that supported the student's own 
predictions of four months ago. Gatha spared the student a 
quick glance, but Timein had settled a careful mask into 
place. The preparedness of the student allowed Gatha to place 
an easier handle on his own rage.
    "What do you make of this, Timein?"
    Gatha had learned years ago that Timein did not volunteer 
information, not to him at least. Though a promising sorcerer, 
Timein made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of the 
Bloodlines project. The trouble he occasionally stirred made 
it easy for Gatha to sidetrack the younger man's own studies, 
keeping him junior through extended assignment in slow time. 
It helped, more often than not, having an assistant nearly as 
brilliant as himself. Also, Gatha was not about to let Timein 
remain in real time where the sorcerer could conceivably age 
and learn faster and be promoted over him. That wouldn't do at 
all.
    Timein merely shrugged. "I made my opinion known months 
ago, Master Gatha." A not-so-subtle method of reminding the 
academy tutor that Timein's opinion had also been right. "I 
imagine Masters Urza and Barrin will not care to hear that 
this tampering post-birth exceeded their guidelines."
    Ah, a threat-Gatha smiled at the challenge. As he had 
noticed years ago, Timein simply did not know when to stop 
while ahead.
    Waving over a junior artificer who worked on a nearby 
cradle, Gatha ignored his young charge. "This cradle," he 
said, kicking at the device that held his latest Metathran 
experimentation, "is to be unplugged at once and the subject 
delivered to my workshop."
    If the other experiments had failed as badly as the report 
suggested, a similar procedure used during this Metathran 
warrior's gestation would prove similar. Autopsy would provide 
that answer and perhaps a suggestion for new paths.
    The artificer turned back toward her workspace.
    "Do it now," Gatha ordered, though he knew standard 
practice for artificers as ordered by Chancellor Rayne was to 
always keep an orderly space. Likely, the girl was going to 
set about putting tools away or some such bother. "The subject 
is within hours, perhaps minutes, of full gestation. I do not 
want it brought to full term." Damn the standard procedures.
    Timein had evidently caught the nuances of Gatha's early 
termination of the Metathran gestation, connecting the tutor's 
displeasure with the report he now held. Gatha noticed the 
gaze of frustration and sorrow which his apprentice directed 
toward the failed experiment. He almost laughed, wondering 
what Timein's reaction would be if privy to Gatha's more 
recent alterations, most of those with the tacit permission of 
Urza Planeswalker. To recapture his attention, Gatha held up 
the report Timein had furnished and slowly ripped it down its 
length.
    "This report," he said with a quiet hardness, words 
underscored by the tearing sound, "has obviously been 
exaggerated to the point of error. I will visit these labs 
myself." The report was in two pieces now. Gatha folded them 
together and proceeded to tear again, this time across the 
shorter axis. "Timein, you will take the rest of the reports 
to my office and compile all data." He quartered, refolded, 
and tore the report again. "Let me know what Barrin's people 
are working on as well."
    The fragments of the report went into an outer pocket. 
Gatha frowned at the smudge of red ink staining his thumb. He 
reached over and rubbed it out against the dark blue border of 
Timein's sleeve.
    The student mage could only stare in dumbfounded silence. 
When Gatha nodded a dismissal, Timein blinked away most of his 
shock and then turned to do as he had been bid. In Timein's 
years on Tolaria, Gatha doubted the apprentice sorcerer had 
ever seen data purposefully destroyed. The shock value, seeing 
it wash over that gaunt face, had been exquisite.
    "It doesn't matter," Gatha whispered after the departing 
figure.
    The report concentrated on the past. Only the present, the 
now, mattered. Behind him, the echoing clangs of a cradle 
being unplugged from the central machinery ran out, echoing in 
the cavernous theater. Now, Gatha had other projects to begin.

                          * * * * *

    Karn discovered himself actually stalling. The silver 
golem had been asked to summon Gatha into the presence of 
Barrin and Urza and had already managed to be sidetracked by 
two other errands.
    In the timelock, passing into the slow-time area where 
Gatha had settled his own quarters and a modest workspace, 
Karn had paused to study the device. Without a cushioning 
effect a human body could not withstand the transition of 
extreme temporal changes. The instant alteration in blood flow 
that occurred on the cusp, one part of the body extremely 
slower than the other, made for radical embolisms and instant 
hemorrhaging. Here, in the timelock, slow-time waters were 
pumped out of the same well that served Gatha's facilities. 
They were then misted into a series of chambers, which stood 
just outside the radical change in temporal flux. The density 
of mist in each chamber stepped up the farther one penetrated, 
preparing the body for slow time. The water was then reclaimed 
and returned to the water table via another shaft. It was very 
efficient, a variation on the first device built by Jhoira, 
who had noticed water's tendency to retain the temporal 
qualities of its original environment and so could be used to 
alter time in small areas.
    Jhoira. She was rarely far from Karn's thoughts, his first 
true friend after the golem gained sentience. He had thought 
her dead once, only to regain her companionship and then lose 
it again as she moved on to a life that did not include 
Tolaria. He saw her occasionally, perhaps once every decade, 
but for Jhoira time had already mended the wounds of 
separation. Karn could expect no such relief. Ironic, that 
with Tolaria's ongoing mastery over temporal mechanics, he had 
yet to find a way to distance himself from a pain better than 
fifty years old.
    After his emergence into the slow-time environment, Karn 
stopped by the side of a small, fragrant flower garden to pick 
a chrysanthemum. Its deep purple reminding him of Jhoira's 
darker hair, and its sweet scent the light perfumed oil she 
had worn on occasion. Finally the golem admitted to himself 
that his delays were moving further from the realm of 
plausibility and toward the denial of his task. He abruptly 
handed the flower to a passing female student and set off for 
Gatha's tower without an answer to her look of surprise. 
Stopping to smell the flowers simply was not a cure for his 
pain or a fair delay in his mission.
    Still, memories of Jhoira were not so easily set aside. 
Drawn to make human contact, the golem could not help 
establishing relationships with those around him even though 
he recognized each one as another potential loss-more pain to 
deal with.
    Gatha had set up a stasis field in his small workshop 
where failed Metathran warriors could be brought and kept in 
isolation while he ran his own tests. Four subjects currently 
crowded that field, two of them so deformed as to look more 
animal than humanoid. A third was hunched over, misshapen but 
recognizable. The fourth looked perfect in every regard, right 
down to the blue skin and Thran script that appeared as 
tattoos but were actually natural marks-never two identical. 
These creations would remain in stasis indefinitely. The 
alternative was to destroy a failed subject since the regular 
stasis fields were used to store viable warriors for use 
during the time of a Phyrexian invasion. Karn couldn't say for 
sure that destruction wouldn't be preferable, and therein lay 
another problem. Gatha didn't care. The tutor was brilliant 
but reckless. Karn had compared him to Teferi at first, but 
Teferi had been a spoiled boy who grew out of his troubles and 
into a responsible wizard. This Karn did not say to Gatha but 
hoped it would be implied.
    "Don't look so glum, Karn," Gatha said as he noticed the 
golem's arrival. "You're too bright to be gloomy." Gatha 
chuckled at his own joke, then glanced back to the warriors. 
"I've been expecting you. Barrin's unhappy again, I take it."
    "He wants to see you right away."
    Gatha returned to his observation of the Metathran, 
shaking his head either at Barrin's summons or something to do 
with the fourth warrior subject. There it was again. A lack of 
any real concern for anything but what he focused on at the 
moment, and here every moment cost severe delays in real time 
where Barrin and Urza waited.
    "Look at him," Gatha said. "Perfectly formed. Beautiful." 
He ran one hand back over his head to smooth back his own 
hair. Karn had noticed in the recent years that Gatha 
preferred to display his own tattoos, as if this somehow 
related him to the Metathran warriors and their own markings. 
"And completely psychotic. It can attack when angry or 
pleased, or it might simply curl up and become catatonic for 
days."
    "And those others?" the golem asked, nodding toward the 
malformed warriors. He watched the young tutor's face for any 
sign of misgivings but found none.
    "Older subjects." Gatha dismissed them with a wave of his 
hand, then reached up to stroke his goatee. "No, this one is 
the closest I've come yet to my goal. My fast-time 
laboratories will be concentrating on data from its gestation 
for several subjective years."
    "No," Karn told him. "They won't." He hated to be the one 
to bring such news to Gatha, but Master Barrin had been 
direct: If Gatha did not respond immediately to a summons, 
Karn should deliver the news himself. "Your fast-time labs are 
being diverted to other projects. Bloodlines work, but under 
another tutor and this time overseen by an academy scholar."
    This grabbed the tutor's attention as nothing else could. 
"Barrin's orders?" Gatha did not bother to hide his anger, 
even when Karn confirmed it with a slow nod. "We'll see about 
that."
    He grabbed up his cloak and strode immediately for the 
door, leaving the golem to follow or not as he pleased. Karn 
trailed behind, feeling miserable. He received only slight 
justification in the obvious foresight of Barrin's orders. 
Apparently the only way to motivate Gatha was to deliver such 
blows.

                          * * * * *

    Barrin and Urza had commandeered a classroom which could 
seat one hundred students comfortably. It was the closest 
empty room at hand when Urza had reappeared. The planeswalker 
spent so little time on Tolaria these days, hounded by 
Phyrexian negators and not wanting to lead them back. The 
Weatherlight visited less often for the same reason.
    Occasionally, some cases at the academy still required 
Urza's presence, and Gatha was certainly one of them. The 
rogue tutor stood alone in the dead space that separated where 
Urza and Barrin sat from the first level of seating where Karn 
now waited. A thin, placating smile on his face, Gatha 
affected an air of someone wronged at great trouble and 
personal expense-a child, convinced in his own superiority and 
put upon only for his smaller size and fewer years.
    On the surface, the young tutor bore up under the rebuke 
admirably. Standing in silence, a slight flush to his skin and 
the hard cast to his eyes were the only signs of his inner 
feelings. Hands clasped behind his back, he simply nodded to 
every point made by Barrin and bowed to Urza's final demand.
    "You must adhere religiously to the guidelines as set down 
for the Bloodlines project and exercise more discretion when 
it comes to the presentation of your work." Urza waited, then 
prompted for a reply. "Is that understood?" he asked.
    "Yes, Master Urza. Of course." He was unable to hide the 
spark of anger that still smoldered behind his narrowly 
focused eyes. "My fast-time laboratories. Without them-"
    "Without them," Barrin interrupted, voice hard, "you will 
be forced to slow down and adhere to the guidelines we've set. 
Your third generation subjects tend toward anger and 
brutality, even in their early years, and your rate of 
mutations are far above the average."
    Urza rubbed at his chin with his right hand. "Anger and 
brutality are fine, each in its place, but these are 
unfocused." He shook his head. "Most third generation subjects 
show an increased lack of emotional focus. That's a step 
backward, and you're leading in that direction. We need to 
discover what is setting us back. We'll commit more 
generations to the fast-time pockets, try to generate data at 
better rates. If we solve this problem, you may get those labs 
back." He waited, and this time Gatha volunteered a curt nod. 
"That is all."
    Gatha bowed his leave from the two of them. He did not 
look at Karn at all on his way out, a fact the golem did not 
miss.
    The silver man made as if to leave, unsure of whether or 
not to follow. In the end he waited, and Barrin set Karn's 
obvious problems aside for now.
    "He will ignore us, Urza." said Barrin. "He'll be more 
circumspect, for a while, but nothing will slow Gatha down 
except to further strip him of resources."
    Urza, as was typically the 'walker's way, concentrated 
more on his own concerns. He shuffled a paper from out of a 
nearby stack, glancing over the report. "Why the step 
backward?" he asked again to the room in general. He glanced 
up. "You have more to say about Gatha?"
    "He's incorrigible," Barrin snapped, "drunk on power and 
his own genius and now bitter that we've interfered with his 
fast pace plans. We'll regret every day that we do not curtail 
him."
    "You once thought the same about Teferi." Urza actually 
allowed a touch of humor to his voice. He continued to scan 
the report.
    Barrin shook his head forcefully. "Teferi deserved a good 
switching, but he did not destroy lives. Urza, this man is out 
of our control, and it is affecting the work of other students 
and tutors, raising again the same moral issues I've wanted to 
avoid-we've wanted to avoid-in the past. Gatha takes too many 
chances."
    Urza evidenced no reaction, unimpressed by the dramatics. 
The mage sighed, feeling his years. He tried a new tack.
    "Do you know how many of his failures are stacking up in 
the stasis chambers? Some of our newest students, those born 
on Tolaria, are now trying to discover magical ways to cure 
deformities we've left for them as a Legacy."
    "Gatha is responsible for several of what few 
breakthroughs we've had augmenting the bloodlines," Urza 
argued calmly. He lifted his gaze to find Barrin's. "You know 
what he did to help bring the Metathran labs on schedule."
    Yes, Barrin knew. He had assigned Gatha the work, hoping 
that getting his hands dirty might knock the indifferent edge 
off of the boy. Instead, Gatha had acquired a taste for it. He 
dressed in dark clothing these days, not the precise Argivian 
uniform he had when he arrived at the academy, the better to 
hide bloodstains Barrin felt sure.
    "The Metathran are our own sin, but you've convinced me of 
their necessity. The bloodlines, though, involve and affect 
real lives." Barrin swallowed, trying to coax life back to his 
cotton-dry mouth. "Don't remind me that they are all 
volunteers, because this goes beyond that." He glanced toward 
Karn and then continued. "He's introducing Phyrexian material 
into the main Eugenics Matrix," he said matter-of-factly.
    Now Urza paid attention. "How did you find that out?" he 
asked sharply.
    Barrin stammered at the 'walker's reaction, his scalp 
prickling. The Eugenics Matrix was a Thran artifact that Urza 
recovered and modified and was the key to genetic 
manipulation. The Matrix and the simpler devices based on it 
offered the only real chance for success on the Bloodlines 
project. They also represented the opportunity for terrible 
abuse. All new procedures were supposed to be cleared by Urza 
or Barrin. The mage had heard unconfirmed rumors only but had 
hoped to shock a reaction out of the planeswalker never 
thinking that, if true, Gatha could be operating with 
permission.
    "You knew?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
    "How else would Gatha get hold of Thran genetic material?" 
Urza stressed the different name, though of course they were 
one and the same. Noticing Barrin's frown of confusion, he 
said, "Acquired from more recent incarnations, of course, but 
as descendents of the Thran we can hope to reacquire their 
better traits." He brushed the semantics aside with a quick 
wave. "Where did you hear this?"
    "Karn," Barrin answered, nodding to the silver golem. "He 
brought some rumors to my attention which led back to Gatha." 
He noticed the golem's start. Karn began to speak, and then 
with a confused expression, obviously decided against it. "I'm 
still investigating," the mage finished.
    "Then you may stop investigating," Urza said simply. 
Noticing Barrin's look of dawning horror, he continued. 
"Nothing is more important than the Legacy. We agreed to that 
years ago, yes?" He waited for Barrin's reluctant nod. "It 
does matter that they are volunteers. I would not burden you 
with such troubles here on Tolaria if they were not. I must 
have the heir to the Legacy." Urza's eyes burned away, and in 
his illusionary mask of a young face the twin powerstones 
shown out in their stead. "Someone who can empathize with the 
Phyrexians enough to outguess them-to understand how to employ 
the Legacy to defeat them, possibly inside Phyrexia itself. 
Once Karn has joined with-"
    "Speaking of whom," Barrin interrupted as soon as Karn's 
name was mentioned, talking over Urza's next few words. "Karn, 
would you mind finding Rayne? She's visiting some of the real-
time labs. Let her know I'll be late and help out if she needs 
anything."
    "Of course, Master Barrin."
    Karn bowed stiffly from the waste, the relief in his voice 
telling how happy he was to finally have an order. The golem 
exited through the same door Gatha had used.
    Urza had turned back to the report he held as soon as 
Barrin mentioned Rayne, his intensity of the moment before 
forgotten just as easily as it had come. This was not the 
first time Barrin had noticed that Urza seemed uncomfortable 
around the idea of the mage being married. It nettled him 
slightly and led him to wonder at the 'walker's odd manners.
    "She does worry, sometimes," the mage said by way of 
explaining Karn's mission.
    Looking up from the report, Urza nodded. "I'm sure."
    To the swamps of Urborg with Urza's indifference! This 
chance upon him, Barrin said, "I am married, you know. Her 
name is Rayne."
    "I know that." Urza's expression did not change.
    "Do you disapprove?" Barrin asked directly.
    "What makes you think I do?" Again no expression, but 
there was a hint of curiosity in his tone.
    Barrin leaned forward onto the table they shared. "You 
avoid her, even the mention of her. I've noticed before that 
you take special pains to prevent encounters." He paused. "I'm 
sure she notices too, though she will never say so."
    The 'walker nodded. "So you think I disapprove. Barrin . . 
." His voice trailed off as if he were trying to organize his 
thoughts or was deciding what not to say. "Barrin, my own 
experience in relationships does not... I do not claim to have 
a clear understanding of mortal events. I try to leave well 
enough alone where my concerns are not needed and my presence 
is possibly disruptive."
    It was a plausible answer-slightly evasive-but plausible. 
"You do approve?" Barrin asked, fishing for a straight answer 
for once. He held Urza's gaze, as if he could will the truth 
from the 'walker.
    "Life must endure, Barrin," Urza finally said. "That more 
than anything defines our purpose on Tolaria." He paused, 
then, "I think you have done well. I certainly would not have 
chosen any other mate for you."
    Barrin should have known better, hoping for an easy 
answer.
    Urza stood, gathering up the reports he had been reading. 
The perfunctory way he went about collecting his papers might 
have signaled an end to their conversation, and Barrin was 
willing to let it go. Ending a conversation on a positive note 
for once would be nice.
    Urza was of another mind. "Why did you want Karn to leave 
the room?" he asked, pausing half way to the door.
    The 'walker was not always obtuse to the mortal events 
around him. Barrin nodded. "You were about to say that Karn 
would be joined with the Weatherlight, weren't you? And right 
in front of him."
    The planeswalker stared back, waiting.
    Barrin shook his head. "Urza, he isn't a cog or a gear. 
Karn is a sentient being, capable of making decisions which 
affect his life. I doubt you've even noticed, but . . ." The 
mage trailed off, drawing a strange parallel between Karn's 
obvious personal troubles and the previously discussed 
problems with the bloodlines. Could one be too empathic? Or 
have too perfect of a memory?
    Urza shrugged indifference to Barrin, either missing or 
more likely not caring that the mage had interrupted himself. 
He hovered in the doorway. "The Weatherlight will require a 
governing mind when it comes time for its grand purpose, as 
directed by the heir. Karn is perfect for that task. He will 
complete the Weatherlight." With that, he walked from the 
room.
    The planeswalker's use of the term complete ran a chill 
through the mage. That was how the Phyrexians described the 
replacement of flesh with artifice, as the compleation of the 
body. Barrin slid into a nearby chair, his strength deserting 
him. In all the years he had known Urza, Barrin could not 
remember hearing the planeswalker use the term in a similar 
context.
    Ever.
    
                         Chapter 4

    Leaving the kingdom of Zhalfir in its wake, hardly a dark 
smudge set against the graying coastline, the Weatherlight's 
crew checked all horizons and called them clear. Karn glanced 
back toward the ship's stern. A colorful sunset framed the aft 
end of the ship. Ilsa Braven, the vessel's current captain, 
commanded from the quarterdeck, and she bellowed commands 
which would not be heard again on the Weatherlight for some 
time.
    "Rig the ship for sky. Take her up."
    Crewmen shifted the sail rigging, and engineers brought 
the ship's magical engines up to power. Slowly, the sleek 
vessel rose from the embrace of blue-gray waters and into a 
sky washed pale red by the dying sun. The skyship's sharp 
bowsprit whistled as it cleaved the air. The sails remained 
full-billowed by magical energies which wrapped themselves 
about the sky-borne vessel. Most of the sailors and students 
aboard would agree that this was one of the best moments-when 
the freedom the Weatherlight offered was palpable especially 
to those who rode the open deck.
    Karn did not revel in that moment, though this would be 
the final flight of the Weatherlight before security issues 
forced it to remain in the role of a simple ocean-bound 
vessel. He remembered other times well enough when he had 
enjoyed his time on the ship-pleasant moments on deck or down 
in the heart of the vessel where the silver golem could 
physically link with the Weatherlight's powerstone engine and 
command the ship's flight with a level of precision no human 
crew could hope to match. Those were heady times in the 
golem's life, good times indeed, now lost.
    Over the last ten years Tolaria had begun to feel like a 
prison to Karn. His constant movement between the different 
temporal zones made him uneasy, unable to really know any of 
the students anymore. They were lost in a mayfly life while 
the silver man stepped into slow time to assist Rayne, Barrin, 
or Gatha.
    Against his better judgment, Karn remained Gatha's friend-
the tutor's only friend, it seemed. Other academy staff 
avoided him. Many of the students who worked under the tutor 
were afraid of him. Gatha did not seem to mind the lack of 
human contact, content in his work and a periodic acquaintance 
with Karn. That Karn needed something more came to a head 
when, during one of those visits to slow time, the golem 
missed one of Jhoira's rare appearances on Tolaria. The silver 
golem did not hold resentment for Gatha's summons, but it did 
cast him into a personal depression which only Barrin and 
Rayne had noticed and finally worked him through with a few 
kind words and gestures.
    It was Gatha's continued use of Phyrexian material in the 
bloodlines that finally convinced Karn to seek a leave of 
absence from Tolaria. So many of his subjects were born 
malformed, and nearly all of them, so far, turned malevolent 
to some degree as they matured relatively quickly in fast-time 
environments. The golem had found himself unable to reconcile 
his friendship with Gatha and the revulsion he felt toward the 
man's practices. Karn remembered the years of fighting against 
the small Phyrexian community that had once infested Tolaria. 
He remembered the terrible creatures that repeatedly rose in 
newer, more hideous forms and the many good lives lost because 
of them. He easily recalled their grotesque features-artifice 
and flesh intermingled-and the caustic scent of the slime and 
oil that they called blood. He could still hear the screeching 
cacophony of noise that was their speech and screams. Worst of 
all, he remembered his own empathy for the black nightmares-
that tiny spark within him which recognized Phyrexians as 
kindred.
    Karn knew of the black powerstone which gave him true 
life-Xantcha's Heart. It had been first tied to the life of 
Urza's former companion, a Phyrexian newt who turned against 
her old masters and old world. It had retained its powers 
after she gave her life to defeat the Phyrexian Gix, and so 
Urza had bound it to the golem and brought about his first 
sentient artifact. The power-stone responded to Phyrexians 
still. The principle of similarity, Barrin had called it, 
trying to relieve Karn's anxiety with an explanation. Like 
must recognize like, but Karn had felt that same spark of 
empathy for Gatha's creations, and it frightened him. He did 
not want such feelings confusing his true friendships with 
good people like Jhoira, Barrin and Rayne. Upon hearing that 
Rayne and the forest spirit Multani would lead an embassy to 
Yavimaya on the Weatherlight's next tour, its final flight, 
Karn volunteered to help crew the vessel in hopes of reliving 
a few of those better days and so reclaim some hold on the 
present, except that hadn't worked.
    Karn heard the Weatherlight's call to him even now. That 
deep hum of power that bled up through the polished wooden 
deck-a sound so bass it was felt more than heard. It was 
different this time; missing were the other people who had 
made those times alive for the silver golem, mostly Teferi and 
Jhoira. Always back to Jhoira, for whom, Karn admitted now, he 
had made this entire trip. He wanted to talk to his first and 
best friend, but neither she nor Teferi had been in Zhalfir-
the ship's first port of call-and no one had been able to say 
where they might have gone off to and whether alone or 
together.
    There would be no absolution on this journey, only the 
hard, cruel truth the golem now faced standing alone on the 
ship's deck. He had tried to run away, but his past would 
never allow that. It followed him, tormenting and tireless. 
Right then Karn wished it all away.
    Never once did he consider what such a wish might cost 
him.

                          * * * * *

    Multani moved to the edge of the quarterdeck, away from 
the tight knot of academy observers whom Captain Braven had 
invited up into her domain for landing. The nature spirit 
gripped the rail. He could feel the life in the ship, a life 
which was still as much a part of Yavimaya as a being of its 
own essence, much like himself.
    Even from a distance, Multani would fail to pass for a 
human or one of the more humanoid races. His trunk exactly 
that, a medium-sized bole too thick and cylindrical to remind 
one of a body. His arms and legs were thick branches, very 
knobby at the joints and his fingers and toes rootlike 
extremities. Barklike skin covered the backs of his hands, 
forearms, and the tops of his feet, and his face seemed to 
sprout from the top of his trunk. Hair the color and texture 
of spring moss fell back from his scalp and upper shoulders, 
the mane tumbling halfway down his back. He had chlorophyll 
eyes, green irises staining veins into the white, and a leaf-
shaped pattern tattooing the left side of his woodgrain face. 
He was created from the essence of Yavimaya, the sentient 
forest packaged in humanoid form.
    Now, after better than a century away, he was leading a 
Tolarian embassy and Llanowar ambassador back to his homeland.
    Blue-green waters rolled up to a thin outer arc of beaches 
which alternated between light yellow to reddish browns and 
the intermittent green of coastal growth. The beach territory 
quickly faded toward pale washes of rainbow color as the 
Weatherlight moved inland. That was new. The forest green had 
once stretched from one side of the island to another, before 
Yavimaya had begun some ... changes. The interior remained a 
dense canopy of greens, interrupted only by a few dark 
mountain peaks. The canopy rippled in places, as if by an 
intense wind that no one else could feel.
    He felt the forest's anticipation and just a trace of 
concern for allowing so many outsiders access to its lands. 
The nature spirit sent back a soothing call.
    "It's wondrous," Rofellos said, the Llanowar elf bounding 
up to the rail beside him.
    The young warrior's dark, unruly hair fell in a tangled 
cascade down his back. He leapt up onto the narrow rail, 
leaning far over with one arm looped casually through nearby 
rigging. The bottom hem of his leather tunic waved in the 
moderate breeze created by the ship's passing. His sword 
dangled from a rough leather belt-an item he never set aside 
no matter the company or situation.
    Multani had moved aside to avoid the others, especially 
Rayne with whom he had already spent so much of this voyage in 
conference, but Rofellos, for all his energy and rough ways, 
was welcome. He was one of Gaea's forest-born, though more 
violent than most, but then the same could be said of most 
Llanowar elves. That was the reason Yavimaya had asked the 
Llanowar warrior clans send an ambassador. Perhaps the 
Llanowar might learn from Yavimaya something more of 
harmonious living.
    Respectful as always to Multani's slightest comment or 
movement, Rofellos jumped back down to the deck. "I'm sorry, 
Multani. I didn't mean to disturb you."
    So close to home, Multani doubted that much could truly 
disturb him. Soon, he promised himself, he would know the 
forest's soothing touch again.
    "Do not worry, Rofellos, Yavimaya welcomes you.
    Rofellos drew himself up proudly at the recognition, 
whether from Yavimaya or Multani himself the nature spirit 
couldn't be sure. In reality, it didn't matter. Perhaps 
Rofellos could not fully appreciate the unique creation which 
was Yavimaya yet, but certainly he stood in slight awe of the 
nature spirit. Multani watched the elf carefully as, still 
racing the wind at a good clip, the Weatherlight flew over the 
island perimeter.
    The elf started only slightly. "No beaches?" He grinned, 
obviously enthralled by the prospect. "No sand or rocks," he 
said in wonder, "only Yavimaya."
    "You will find no sand," Multani promised. "None safe."
    Below them the beaches had been consumed by a tangle of 
thick, thorny rootwork. The roots extended out from the small 
copses of coastal growth, then curled and bunched as they ran 
across the open space and finally dived into the ocean 
shallows. A few last tips stuck out like huge spikes, as if to 
impale landing ships. When Rofellos mentioned this, the nature 
spirit nodded.
    "They are meant to do just that. You see years of patient 
growth at work here. Though Yavimaya's defenses will tend to 
spread from the heart outward, an initial perimeter guard was 
deemed of great importance."
    The elf forced on himself a moment to consider this, a 
sign of extreme patience in a Llanowar. Finally he asked, 
"Does Yavimaya tell you this?"
    "I simply know it to be true. Yavimaya speaks through me. 
It has no need of speaking to me."
    As the coastal root network and isolated copses fell away, 
the Weatherlight crossed over what had appeared at first to be 
painted desert. The air chilled and quickly turned to an 
intense cold. The nearby humans chattered excitedly, and 
Rofellos continued to stare over the side, oblivious to the 
temperature. Multani shivered in his physical shell, turning 
his face upward to stretch toward the sun's warming rays.
    "More roots, thinner ones, blanketing the ground." The elf 
fell silent for a few seconds. "Writhing over . . . are those 
dunes?"
    "Trees," Multani whispered without looking. "The boles of 
ancient trees, centuries old, which Yavimaya shaped and then 
recently fell here in perfect order so that no gap remains. 
The ground here reflects no heat. The warmth is pulled into 
the decomposing trees so that the root desert may grow 
faster." The spirit looked ahead, at the high cliff of wood 
that barred their path. "Captain Braven, you may rise above 
those trees, but slow your speed. Your landing area is near."
    The captain barked out the appropriate orders.
    "We are not traveling into the Heart of Yavimaya?" 
Rofellos asked.
    Multani tensed at Rofellos's choice of words. He obviously 
knew nothing of what he asked, merely reflecting some of 
Multani's earlier statement. The true Heart of Yavimaya would 
never be known to the Llanowar. Likely, it would never be 
known by Multani, so protected it was by the sentient forest. 
Though it was forbidden even to him, Multani knew a slightly 
jealous protection of his homelands.
    "For our purposes," he said simply, "the borderlands will 
be close enough."

                          * * * * *

    The vessel settled down in a clearing of dark grasses 
dotted with small, lavender-cupped flowers. The field rippled 
under the same unfelt breeze that had earlier shaken treetops 
in the distance. Trees which reached hundreds of feet into the 
air surrounded them, visibly impressing many of the students. 
Multani recognized it as new growth raised in the last few 
years. Several of the larger hills around would be partially 
decomposed trees from the ancient growth, brought down by 
Yavimaya for the raw material.
    The Tolarians went about their routine of making the 
vessel fast. Sails were reefed, and the telescoping circular 
gangplank hauled out and dropped down over the side.
    Multani winced at the harsh clanging sounds as the 
staircase unfolded. He move toward it once secured, but 
Rofellos ignored it completely. With a wild shout for his own 
bravery, the elf vaulted over the lower gunwale and slid down 
the outer curve of the hull. At the last moment he kicked 
outward, breaking his fall with an easy tumble across the 
grass. He rose only to one knee, though, suddenly transfixed 
by the rippling motion of the sward. Multani could only guess 
at the other's sense of wonder as he descended to the ground.
    The air was vibrant with life, singing Gaea's song as wind 
shook the tops of trees and whistled past sharp grasses. 
Pollen, which Multani had never scented before, distracted 
him, every taste calling an instant explanation from Yavimaya. 
The earth felt spongy beneath his bare, rootlike feet, and he 
found it hard to control the urge to dig his toes down into 
the rich soil and taste his homeland again. Yavimaya withheld 
him, waiting on the others.
    The elves appeared as if by magic. One instant they were 
absent and only the forest sounds surrounded the clearing. In 
the next, all forest sound but the distant fall of a tree 
disappeared, and a dozen lithe bodies appeared at the 
clearing's edge. They moved into the clearing with cautious 
grace, as if unwilling to leave the protection of the forest. 
All were of fair hair and skin, with features so delicate they 
appeared fragile. Rayne moved up to Multani's side, and the 
nature spirit stepped away to distance himself from her.
    "Yavimaya welcomes you," a female elf said in traditional 
greeting to Rayne and the other humans. Her voice was light 
and musically cast.
    Rayne smiled warmly. "We are here on behalf of the 
Tolarian Academy-"
    "To request some rare hardwoods for the crafting of your 
artifacts," the elf completed for her. "For Urza 
Planeswalker." She smiled with shy amusement at Rayne's 
apparent confusion. "Yavimaya was present for all your 
discussions with Multani, of course."
    Multani nodded his own greeting. "Long life, Shahira," he 
answered: A typical elven salutation. Yavimaya stirring at the 
edge of his mind, Multani turned back to Rayne. "The forest 
will provide you with your request for materials. Some of the 
hardwoods will take a few days' effort to grow."
    As if to underscore his statement, the rolling creak of 
twisted wood resounded about them followed by the staccato 
snapping of limbs being stripped away. Within the forest, only 
much closer this time, one of the trees toppled, then another, 
this one at the edge of the clearing. Multani did not bother 
looking, having expected the priming. Three more trees fell in 
quick succession, the canopy rippling with movement.
    Frowning in thought, Rayne studied the surrounding forest. 
"Decay?" she asked.
    Multani looked sharply to Rayne, insulted but tempering 
any outward show. Surprisingly enough, though, it was Rofellos 
who answered first.
    "The cycle of life," the young warrior elf said, brushing 
the back of his hand across the rippling grasses. 
"Accelerated, but natural."
    Rayne's dark eyes widened with amazement. Bending low, she 
examined the strange movement of the field. "The grass and 
flowers, they are dying off and regrowing so fast they sprout 
from the withering shell of their former incarnation. It 
creates the illusion of wind."
    Multani had never doubted Rayne's intelligence. "Decay 
implies failure," he said formally. "Nothing happens here that 
Yavimaya does not approve and control." He nodded in the 
direction of the latest felling. "The forest is in a state of 
accelerated growth cycles," he explained. "Building up the 
forest's store of raw matter from which we may draw new 
strengths. Phyrexia is not the enemy of Urza Planeswalker 
alone."
    The Tolarian artificer nodded her agreement. "It is good 
to know we have allies," Rayne said, "and tell Yavimaya we 
appreciate the offerings."
    Smiling tightly, Multani reminded himself that Rayne could 
not be expected to learn of the forest's ways as fast as she 
might learn about artifice. He allowed himself a light laugh 
at her expense.
    "You should have listened more closely to Shahira, 
Mistress Rayne," he said. "You just told the forest yourself."

                          * * * * *

    Rofellos glanced about quickly, still feeling eyes upon 
him. The thrill had worn off hours ago-the persistent gaze 
that followed his every move, crawling over his skin with a 
gossamer touch. His hand stayed near his sword hilt, fingers 
twitching as he scanned trees and ground and sniffed the air. 
Danger surrounded him, stretching his nerves taught.
    The young elf had taken to the treeline with Multani's 
permission, eager to explore the land that would be his home 
for years, maybe decades, to come. He'd rolled in leaves far 
different from those he'd ever seen, raced miles of near 
invisible trails never before run by a Llanowar, and used some 
crushed berries to paint a simple hunting mask across his 
eyes. It was the way Llanowars claimed land, making it theirs 
through intimate knowledge. A warrior race, Llanowars often 
lived or died on the honing of their instincts. Rofellos was 
not about to allow his stay in Yavimaya blunt those senses. 
Ambassador he might be, but first and foremost he was a 
warrior. Yavimaya, he felt certain, recognized that in him and 
approved.
    Right now his instincts warned him of a threat-a watcher-
someone dogging his tracks and a better tracker than he. 
Multani? Possibly. If so the humor of the situation was now 
lost on the wild elf. His grin was feral as his eyes darted 
among possible hiding places. Always the feeling that he 
merely had to turn a bit faster, look slightly harder, and the 
presence would resolve into the figure of his tormentor.
    Now came a brush at the back of his neck. Rofellos spun 
about, sword drawn and flashing in a high-lined attack. He 
checked himself a split second before slicing into the tree 
that stood behind him.
    "Who's there?" he called loudly, instantly regretting it. 
You never gave yourself away so easily, except this was 
supposed to be friendly land. Silence greeted him.
    Rofellos backed up a step and then another. He glanced 
frantically into the canopy above him and deeper into the 
undergrowth-nothing. Spinning about again, he set off at the 
strong pace he could keep up for a day and night and half a 
day again if need be. He would run this presence into the 
ground.
    With every step the disembodied gaze followed, nagging at 
the back of his mind.
    
                         Chapter 5

    Davvol stepped through the doorway of dark energy, 
followed closely by the speaker sent to summon him from his 
work. He quickly fell to his knees as the heat rolled over 
him, and scorched air burned down into his lungs a caustic and 
oily brand. Flaring eruptions from the mile-high furnaces lit 
up the eternal night sky of Phyrexia's Fourth Sphere a hellish 
red-orange, spewing tons of ash into the air. High above, a 
tangle of pipes and mechanisms which formed the underside of 
the third plane rained down a light mist of oil. The metal 
rooftop on which Davvol rested radiated a near-blistering heat 
of its own, working its way through Davvol's armor and forcing 
him to stand or roast against the oven-temperature plating.
    Another Phyrexian moved nearby in the shadows cast by a 
large gout of flame and oily smoke. It looked the part of a 
monster of Coracin fable-skeletal arms and skull, and that 
terrible grin of sharpened metallic teeth. Its clothes fell 
over it as a funeral shroud, seemingly tattered and ruined. 
When it moved closer, Davvol noticed the cloth's writhing 
movement as the tattered ribbons constantly shifted to cover a 
new portion of the Phyrexian's body. Instantly he knew that 
cloth to be alive and integral to the Phyrexian. No doubt this 
was the most powerful creature he had ever stood witness to. 
What a magnificent creation! Davvol trembled, his strength 
giving out, and he fell to his hands and knees before its 
power.
    The new Phyrexian hissed and screeched something in its 
own tongue to the speaker. "I am Croag of the Inner Circle," 
the speaker translated into Davvol's language, though with a 
tortured squelch behind every word. "You do not approve of our 
world, Davvol?"
    Davvol forced himself to his knees alone, hands already 
blistered with burns imparted by the searing metal floor. Pain 
can be controlled, he thought, cursing his weaker flesh. Fear 
can be controlled.
    "I look upon your world as perfection," he answered, "but 
my body is weak." He remembered the Phyrexian term that would 
describe flawed meat, not yet augmented by artifice. 
"Incompleat."
    At least his body was no longer dying. The Phyrexians had 
done that for him, though little more in his forty years of 
service. They gave him only enough to keep him alive, allowing 
him to live out a Coracin native's full years while he helped 
seeker teams find and uncover treasure troves of lost 
artifice.
    More hissing and screeches. "I have chosen you to serve 
the Ineffable's plans. You will come with me."
    Croag lifted his thin arm, braced with metal straps and 
cords, and summoned another Phyrexian from the shadows behind 
him. The new beast carried another portal, its fingers already 
setting stones into place to direct the channel that could 
step between worlds. It placed a rod upon the ground, and a 
doorway rose from it.
    Davvol swallowed against the dryness cutting into his 
throat. The Ineffable had summoned him? The Phyrexian dark god 
himself? Never before had Davvol been allowed past the Second 
Sphere of Phyrexia, and here the Fourth almost killed him. Was 
Croag leading him to the next sphere? If his death was sought, 
why not rend him down into the vats? How had he earned such 
torture? Davvol rose on shaky footing to stumble after Croag, 
the last vestiges of his courage prompting him onward. There 
was nowhere to run, not here and never from the Phyrexians. 
They owned him and had made that clear from the start, though 
they had yet to honor any part of their promises to compleat 
him. They kept him alive but only that. Croag disappeared into 
the new doorway, and Davvol followed, nearly passing out with 
the final step he took in between portals . . . and planes.
    By comparison, Davvol stepped from the Fourth Sphere of 
Phyrexia into paradise. He, Croag, and the speaker stood on 
what appeared to be the rim of an extinct volcano. A sharp 
wind billowed out Davvol's smoldering cape and rustled Croag's 
living garments with a rasping sound. Its chill touch brought 
back to mind the blistering pain in his hands, but Davvol set 
his teeth against the agony while surveying the alien 
landscape. No sun stood in these overcast skies and likely 
never did. Blanketed from one horizon to the other, the gray 
cloud cover glowed evenly with a muted light. Red and orange 
lightning crackled and leapt in the skies, cavorting to the 
accompaniment of booming thunder.
    The ground around them was a dull, tan sandstone, fused 
and smooth as if from intense heat. It flowed out for as far 
as he could see, interrupted only by the mountain chain that 
trailed back from the volcano. In a few places nearby, Davvol 
saw the facsimile of boulders, noticing they were little more 
than sculpted bubbles in the seamless flow of ground. Down 
inside the caldera, as if raised up from an old eruption, 
stood a magnificent tower fortress.
    "What is this place?" he finally asked.
    "This is Rath." The speaker waited for more of Croag's 
grinding screeches. "It is the instrument of the Dark Lord, a 
new plane, set in the Dominarian Nexus, from which we will 
complete his task."
    Davvol stood on a new artificial plane, still in its 
infancy by the look of it. He brought his hands together in 
contemplation, fingertips almost touching but mindful of his 
burns. Turning about, Davvol contemplated the entirety of 
Rath. His eyes, steel within black, searched the horizon for 
further signs of life but found none.
    "I am required here?" he asked.
    "You will oversee and accelerate the schedule of Rath's 
expansion," the speaker said for Croag. "You will hold it in 
stewardship until the Ineffable names an evincar to rule." 
Croag must have seen something in Davvol's face, for another 
series of noises spat from the speaker. "This does not please 
you ?"
    Davvol studiously blanked his face. No matter his personal 
feelings, he knew better than to try the Phyrexian's humor. 
"It pleases me greatly," he said, lying only slightly, wounded 
that they had not simply named him evincar. With greater 
authority might have come stronger steps toward his own 
compleation. Still, what they offered impressed him, and 
hadn't his memory for details proven its worth long ago in an 
administrative position? "By expansion, you mean-"
    Croag's chattering interrupted him, and the speaker 
quickly translated. "Rath is still growing." It pointed down 
to the caldera fortress. "The Stronghold taps into Rath's lava 
furnaces. Flowstone is created which continues to expand the 
borders of this plane, pushing back the energy envelope. 
Flowstone production must increase, and you must control any 
dissident troubles."
    Davvol glanced around. "Dissidents?"
    "A city of slave labor beneath the Stronghold." The 
speaker pointed to the smudge of forestland Davvol had noticed 
before. "They were brought over from Dominaria long ago."
    The Coracin native thought to ask more about this but then 
realized that it no longer mattered. The situation would be as 
he observed it, time enough for questions later. What truly 
mattered would be the resources at his disposal. Already his 
mind worked at several plans for optimizing production.
    With a strong gust of wind snapping his cape out behind 
him, he folded his hands carefully together and asked, "What 
may I draw upon to complete this job?"
    "The flowstone," was Croag's first, not entirely helpful, 
answer. "Also Phyrexian troops, for keeping order, and the 
negators."
    He would have negators at his command? Davvol had seen the 
terrible powers wielded by Phyrexia's elite hunters only once, 
and that had been enough. Terrible, sinister designs, 
compleated for the hunt and destruction of Phyrexia's enemies. 
Negators, troops, and slave labor, the power swam in his head. 
He glanced down into the caldera. The Stronghold was his to 
occupy. The Phyrexians withheld the merger of flesh and 
artifice he craved, but here they had given him a world to 
rule. Certainly that could only bring opportunities later. He 
nodded to himself, eager to get to work. The Phyrexians would 
know his worth; nothing would be left to chance.
    "Negators," he said. "I wouldn't have thought the locals 
strong enough to warrant them, but they are most welcome."
    There was a pause for translation, and then Croag shook 
his cleft skull in a human gesture of the negative. He 
chattered a new flurry of squeals and hisses. A clammy hand 
clutched at Davvol's heart, forewarning him that whatever the 
negators were for, the problem would not be so simple as he'd 
wished.
    "The negators are not for you to control the Vec," the 
speaker said. "They are for the protection of Rath itself, for 
the destruction of the only one who might upset the Dark One's 
plans.
    "You, Davvol, are to assist me. You will hunt down and 
destroy Urza Planeswalker."

                          * * * * *

    In the Stronghold, Croag walked unattended through the 
wide hall that led to the throne room. The lower steel bands 
of his robes brushed the flowstone floor on occasion, smearing 
a glistening band of light oil wherever they touched. A set of 
pipes followed the corridor at shoulder level, radiating heat. 
His hidden footfalls, eerily silent, left behind only 
scratches and pits in the floor. The doors to the throne room 
were of thick metal, set on tracks that led back into the tan 
walls. They rolled away to the accompaniment of a dry metal 
grinding. A sound which angered Croag, telling of the neglect 
by Rath's current steward.
    Davvol, he had left behind, the member of Phyrexia's Inner 
Council preferring to come alone. The Coracin native would be 
singularly useful in the administration of Rath, but he was 
weak-meat-and would only be a liability in this encounter. 
Nothing could be allowed to threaten Croag's newest plans, not 
even Koralld.
    "I have been expecting you, Croag, yesss," Koralld hissed 
when Croag stepped into the dimly lit throne room.
    A Phyrexian overseer, Koralld had been brought to Rath to 
steward the expansion of the artificial plane-he had failed. 
The overseer sat on the room's large metal throne, hunching 
back into the seat of authority as if physical contact would 
improve his ability to hold the position. His legs remained 
tensed, the fibrous muscle that showed between the gaps of his 
armored skin coiled and bunched. His articulated hands grasped 
the arms of the throne, each finger ending in a razor-sharp 
talon. He had mandibles instead of teeth, and each one dripped 
a viscous substance that would burn meat and pollute blood. A 
single eye stared out from the middle of a large, armored 
skull.
    Croag worked his way farther into the room but kept an 
appreciable distance from Koralld. The overseer was not about 
to go easily.
    "Rath is still behind schedule. You failed."
    Failure carried only one sentence with Phyrexians. Failure 
implied imperfection. Imperfection had to be corrected.
    Koralld tilted his head to one side. A serpentine tongue 
flicked out to clean the metal tipped mandibles.
    "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 straggling 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.
    
                         Chapter 6

    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.
    Inside the island's protected harbor, rocking in the hard 
wind, the anchored Weatherlight sat with gangplank extended to 
the nearest dock. A few final supplies were carried onboard-
the ship's schedule not to be interrupted by mere acts of 
nature. The crew loaded on provisions for the voyage, slow-
time waters to be delivered to those few academy alumni 
allowed a return to the real world, and Legacy artifacts to be 
hidden away in other cities until needed again one day.
    Gatha stomped his way up the gangway, working his fury out 
on the iron grillwork. He ignored the purser who was 
responsible for all stores loaded and passengers brought 
aboard. The man was currently debating the additional 
equipment being brought up the ramp by two of Gatha's 
assistants. Bypassing formalities, Gatha instead presented 
himself to the captain, who stood in a small sheltered 
overhang while supervising the last of the cargo being secured 
aboard his vessel.
    "Help you, master?" she asked, using the title clearly out 
of habit than any awe for the academy insignia on Gatha's 
cloak.
    She certainly did not move out into the rain so that Gatha 
could stand protected from the elements. Twenty years 
commanding a vessel might inure anyone to the regular 
formalities, Gatha supposed. Still, the tutor loathed her for 
his dry position, the buttons on her foul-weather coat done 
only halfway up while Gatha squirmed from the cold water 
leaking in at the neck of his cloak.
    "I've been added to your passenger list," the tutor lied, 
presenting the forged papers stamped with Barrin's own seal-
"borrowed" during one of the master mage's few classes he 
still taught.
    Gatha could have more easily laid his hands on the seal of 
a chancellor but had decided against it for various reasons. 
Though Gatha despised Barrin for the other's weak stomach and 
lack of vision, there was no doubting the master mage's 
formidable powers. Since Gatha considered the other man a 
peer-even if he was a rival-only Barrin's seal would be used. 
Shut down Gatha's primary labs would he?
    "So I see," Captain Braven said after a cursory glance at 
the seal. "And that?" she asked, nodding toward the commotion 
at the head of the ramp.
    "My equipment and some supplies. All papers are in order." 
Gatha tucked the documents back into the relative dryness of 
his dark cloak. "You are to transport me and my equipment. I 
will leave the ship at your first port of call." His tone left 
little room for arguing, and the captain seemed ill inclined 
to do so anyway.
    "Erek, check the seals on that equipment and get it 
secured below," Captain Braven bellowed, ignoring Gatha's 
flinch at the volume of her order. "It's too wet to be arguing 
their timing."
    Nodding an insincere thanks, Gatha backed away from the 
captain and returned to his assistants. The purser scrawled a 
brief description of each piece to his master inventory, 
estimating weight when necessary.
    "Ether Mixer, what's that?" he asked, stopping a female 
student at the head of the gangway.
    Gatha spoke up before the student could answer. "Lab 
equipment," he said. "For mixing ether, of course. Light, very 
durable. Store it wherever." It was his own private joke. How 
did one mix ether? By stirring around empty air. It was a 
reference to speaking without knowing of that which you spoke.
    Naturally, the purser did not understand the reference. He 
nodded, grunted, and jotted a few notes. "Forward hold," he 
said.
    Gatha fell in beside her for a few steps. "Remember, I 
count on you." The female student glanced over, rain plastered 
hair laying between her eyes and down over her face. Gatha 
nodded his support.
    "You are my eyes and ears back here on Tolaria, in case I 
ever need to come home."
    Not very likely, unless Barrin ever stepped down. Still, 
Gatha might eventually need access to slow-time waters if he 
were to run out of the supply he'd stolen and information on 
the latest academy breakthroughs when they happened. She 
nodded reluctantly.
    "Master Gatha," the captain called out before he could 
bolster his student's confidence more. The rogue tutor stopped 
by the captain's alcove, bracing himself for discovery and the 
quick, violent action that would necessitate, but Ilsa Braven 
posed no true concerns of that nature. "You may take the first 
passenger cabin" she said simply. "You are our only guest."
    The tutor nodded. "Where is you first port of call?" he 
asked.
    "Argive."
    Gatha smiled. "Argive," he said, repeating the name. 
"Well, well." After seventy-five years, Gatha would apparently 
be returning home.

                          * * * * *

    The academy slept. Only a night watch roamed the real-time 
areas of the island. A few assistants monitored critical 
projects which required twenty-four hour surveillance, but for 
the most part, silence gripped Tolaria.
    Karn never slept. His body did not require it. Though in 
times of decreased activity he could suspend his higher brain 
functions and enter a kind of hibernation-just to pass time 
until he was with purpose again. In years gone by he had done 
just that, but not tonight or any night in the past year since 
his alteration. He vowed he would never sleep again, though of 
course in time even that vow would be lost.
    No bed ate up space in the golem's room. It simply was not 
required. There was a table and several reinforced chairs, but 
the most functional pieces were the shelves where Karn placed 
the memorabilia he had collected over the decades-the 
centuries-books and pictures, keepsakes and souvenirs. The 
aggregation of a lifetime. Nothing in this room was without 
meaning, without a memory attached, but there soon would be. 
All of it would become meaningless to Karn as his memory 
faded, except one thing.
    A picture of Jhoira, sketched for him by a student of 
artifice also gifted in art.
    It was all he had left of her, his best friend. Karn 
couldn't bear the thought of Jhoira returning to the island 
and him not remembering her. Karn stared at the picture and 
quietly spoke to himself. "Jhoira is my friend-my best friend. 
We met in the original academy, before the accident drove us 
from Tolaria. She named me. Karn, from an old Thran name. She 
said it meant strength." His voice sounded heavy in the 
confines of his small room of memories.
    A wave of intense anguish rolled over the golem. All this 
for a person he had not seen in better than a century. There 
were events from as little as four days prior which he could 
no longer recall with exacting detail, fading for their lack 
of emotional significance as they would in a human mind. How 
did they stand it? Karn could not remember ever feeling 
frightened, and these days his lack of a memory no longer 
meant that it was true, but he felt frightened now.
    Standing there, his memories arranged around him like 
trophies of the past, Karn started again. "Jhoira is my 
friend. My best friend . . ."
    
                         Chapter 7

    Gatha leaned heavily on a staff of dark ebony, its 
headpiece a pair of ironwood crescent blades stained a deep 
crimson. Picking his way over the slide of rubble that 
obstructed the mountain trail, one of the larger rocks rolled 
underfoot and the mage earned a new cut against his lower 
shin. His quality calfskin boots- bought in the lowlands and 
assured of rugged wear- were nearly at an end to any useful 
life, scarred and scuffed against the sharp rock they'd 
clambered over these last several days. The thick wool coat, 
however, held up admirably, and it was a good thing. The sharp 
wind that whistled down from the snow-drifted peaks cut 
through anything lighter. As it was, the wind found its way 
past cuffs and collar to keep him always on the verge of 
freezing. The sweat from the climb stood out cold on his face. 
Gatha considered magicking himself warm again, but that was a 
draining use of power, and it never lasted long enough.
    His guides, a Keldon trader and his son on their return 
from the lower port city of Agderisk, plodded on steadily and 
without complaint of the rugged terrain or cold climate. The 
shaggy colos hides they wore kept them warm. They did not 
bother to check on the young mage's progress. They showed the 
same disregard for the slaves who were leading a caravan of 
large colos- something between a war elephant and a shaggy 
mountain sheep, to Gatha's eye-loaded down with their wares 
and the mage's equipment. The slaves would follow because to 
disobey apparently meant a lingering death. Gatha would keep 
up or he would be left behind, likely to die.
    The Keldons were apparently not big on alternatives. They 
were, however, the largest men Gatha had ever seen. Drahl, 
nearly fourteen and still two years away from entering 
military service, stood nearly six feet with a build to match 
his fathers, heavily muscled, the two of them, with forearms 
and lower legs longer than upper arms and thighs. They had 
grayish skin, networked with scars, and thick, dark hair with 
the triple widow's peak that Gatha's tattoos simulated. They 
also tattooed themselves, filling in the skin around their 
eyes with a dark ink that lent a fearsome appearance. The 
elder trader sported a pike in the place of his lower right 
arm, the limb lost in battle at the age of eighteen he'd said.
    Gatha understood so little about these people, even though 
his father had once served as the Argivian liaison to a Keldon 
warhost. He knew the basics of course, that the Keldons based 
their society almost completely on the waging of warfare. They 
existed as mercenaries, their mountainous lands effectively 
one large armed camp. Other nations paid for their services 
and paid well, since Keldon negotiation techniques were fairly 
straightforward and violent when opposed. Try to bargain down 
the price and the warhost was just as likely to claim the 
balance by force on their way home. Worse, they would simply 
claim the full price from your nation and then head home 
anyway. They carried back to Keld their blood price as well as 
pillage and slaves taken from the land invaded. Glancing back, 
Gatha counted at least three different nations among the human 
slaves. Benalish were easily placed by their cast markings and 
the Surrans by their ritual scarring of the face. He returned 
his gaze to the trail. Slaves were of little use to his 
efforts here except as potential subjects for experimentation 
if all went well.
    Farther on, Gatha saw his first example of Keldon 
architecture, high enough into the mountains these hard people 
began to feel at home. The buildings sat on a small cliffside 
plateau half-buried into the mountain slope. Constructed of 
stone, several of the structures were three stories high, 
tiered as they rose to a steeply pitched roof of tan-colored 
wooden planks. They looked incredibly solid, as if called up 
from the ground on which they sat. The windows were dark.
    "Stopping here?" Gatha asked in simple Argivian.
    He had heard the trader speaking Keldon with a few others 
in the lowlands. A rough language that would be hard to learn. 
The Keldon people knew the basics of many languages, though, 
from their constant campaigning.
    "Nah. At war," the trader said. He pointed toward the red 
banner spiked into an upper wall of one of the buildings then 
looked back. He made a gesture of butting his one fist into 
the sharp end of his pike. "Battle. Fighting." He bared his 
teeth enthusiastically.
    Gatha nodded his understanding, wiping sweat from his 
forehead and pulling his greatcoat closed tighter at the neck. 
Soon, he hoped, they would rest.
    The rogue tutor had discovered it more difficult than he'd 
thought, trying to set up a lab outside of Tolaria. His work 
was not looked upon favorably by most nations. Argive, in 
fact, had been merely the first of several nations to refuse 
him. His experimentation did not allow for a secret 
laboratory. The room required and indelicacies of the 
operations themselves were certain to attract attention sooner 
rather than later, twelve years of wandering, twelve real 
Dominarian years of work, lost, before his arrival in Agderisk 
and a talk with the local traders.
    Everyone the world over knew something of Keld and its 
aggressive ways. Learning more of them now, in the shadow of 
their mountains, Gatha had been intrigued to hear of the 
rituals surrounding the creation of the Keldon warlords. The 
largest and most violent of the young, still several years out 
from entering military service, were sent on a pilgrimage 
through the deep mountains' frozen wastes. Those who survived 
were then enchanted to further their growth into larger, 
superior warriors. They became capable of extraordinary 
battlefield prowess that also worked to excite the troops 
being led into a frenzied state. To Gatha, this sounded very 
much like a eugenics program, if a bit crude in its 
methodology.
    His trader guide, when Gatha first found him, had not been 
inclined to talk with the mage. Noticing Gatha's tattoos had 
changed his mind. Apparently they won him the courtesy of an 
interview, if that's what one might call
    Gatha's simple speech and the trader's even simpler 
grunts. In the end, Gatha simply paid the man as a guide to 
the Keldon Necropolis, their capital where the doyens of the 
Warlord Council met.
    The Keldons were a people very interested in anything that 
could improve the way they waged war and had already worked 
with the early stages of enhanced genetics. It had sounded too 
good to be true, Gatha remembered, then stubbed his foot 
against a sharp rock and nearly fell-too good to be true, 
until he had started this treacherous climb.

                          * * * * *

    The Keldon Necropolis crowned a mountain peak, the 
fortress capital rising up out of the hard land. Frost and 
snow lightly dusted some surfaces but drifted deep in the 
several large crevices where sun never struck ground. Homes 
rose up from the dark gray stone-single dwellings lower on the 
slopes, and higher up, loose clusters were tied together by 
trails worn into the hard earth over centuries. Nearer the 
summit the buildings suddenly sprang up in thick numbers with 
little room for trails, most paths winding through caves 
carved into the mountainside. Above this mountainside city 
towered the great tombs themselves.
    Here the Keldon warlords were finally laid to rest. This 
majestic vault defied gravity and earth as it challenged the 
sky. It was almost two hundred feet high with steeply sloped 
sides, and one entire mammoth wall was open to the thin 
mountain air. When he had seen it from a distance, it had 
reminded Gatha of the great Surran burial pyramids. Only these 
were steeper pitched and the top carried away to make room for 
the living witch kings' council chambers-the Necropolis, where 
Gatha now waited to address the Keldon ruling body.
    The cold, thin air sat heavy in Gatha's lungs, as if 
reluctant to give up any oxygen. The mage had to work at 
breathing after his long climb. Waiting for his audience, 
Gatha's muscles burned in silent protest. He felt a poor 
excuse for an ambassador, especially one representing himself. 
He gave his wool greatcoat to the trader who had guided him up 
the mountain in exchange for a pair of tough coloshide boots 
and thick furs. He felt in need of a hot bath and smelled of 
the large animal that had given up this particular set of 
hides. At least he would appear more presentable, or so he 
thought. A footsoldier escorted him through a set of large 
bronze-plated doors and into the main council hall.
    The same magical architecture that held up the great tombs 
below must certainly have been used for the hall. Like a giant 
cylinder it rose five stories straight up, with galleries set 
about each level for observers. Flags and banners from other 
nations had been crudely spiked into the walls. There were 
hundreds, thousands perhaps. Likely these were brought back 
from every war ever fought by Keld. The meeting area itself 
was actually an inverted amphitheater, a tiered pedestal 
carved out of the gray bedrock. The uppermost platform stood 
empty, possibly awaiting a speaker. On every ring after that 
sat the chairs of the council, each one different and again 
with some designs clearly belonging to nations represented on 
the walls. On those chairs sat the doyens-the warlord elders 
of Keld, half a hundred at least. The trader and his son, who 
had seemed so humongous to Gatha, could not begin to touch the 
smallest of these men, a great number of them easily topping 
seven feet. They wore thick leather clothing, ceremoniously 
studded and colored. No one wore furs or hides that might 
provide warmth. Many tunics bared chests and arms to the 
frigid air, scars standing out whitish on gray skin. The cold 
was a long-vanquished enemy of these people. Some carried 
weapons at their sides, those lower down the platforms. Those 
higher up carried short staves or rods of carved bone. A mist 
from warm breath haloed the great room, and from out of that 
mist fiercely tattooed eyes stared at the mage who suddenly 
felt very small and alone.
    It was a state Gatha was not too familiar with and, secure 
in his own power, he quickly rallied from. He knew what he 
needed, and he would have it, somehow.
    "Warlords of Keld," he began slowly, speaking Argivian. He 
had already been informed that Argivian was a language most 
knew, and that they would not speak with him unless he 
presented a subject suitable for their notice-or offered a 
direct challenge. He had decided to offer a little of both. 
"Into your lands I bring a gift, knowledge, which can help you 
and your nation grow mighty. Magics, which will make your sons 
stronger on the battlefield, your warlords more fierce and 
your victories more complete."
    A few stirred at that, possibly taking Gatha's words as a 
slur against their own prowess. The mage waited for a 
challenge, but none rose immediately. He stepped farther into 
the council hall. Briefly he considered making his way up the 
platforms to the empty spot where all could easily see him, 
and then he decided against it. He possessed no way of knowing 
yet what the local rituals might demand. There was an obvious 
pecking order implied in the seating, and Gatha did not want 
to challenge anyone's pride, not yet. So he instead circled 
the tier slowly, explaining the basics of his studies and 
experimentation. No details, he doubted anyone here would 
understand. He couched the more unpleasant facts in vague 
references or dismissed them completely, concentrating instead 
on how his own work mirrored that which the Keldons already 
employed in the creation of a warlord.
    "I only need a lab, support, and time," he finished. 
Always time, the devourer of his accomplishments that had 
stalked him for twelve years now.
    A warlord on the lower tier near Gatha rubbed at his 
coarse beard. He growled a reply in broken Argivian, "Why puny 
one think we need his strength? Who is he?" There followed 
something more, this in the Keldon tongue that could only be 
derision from the laughter barked out by a few others.
    Debate the mage would tolerate, but not even Barrin had 
ever insulted the tutor's genius. Gatha speared the large man 
with an angry gaze, eye contact being a challenging gesture in 
any culture.
    "One who is strong enough to be able to think, before I 
speak," he answered with scathing disdain. Only in 
afterthought did Gatha wonder at his rash action.
    The warlord sat forward abruptly. Muscles bunched and 
twitched, and one hand strayed toward the short stabbing sword 
he wore.
    "You speak to me? Varagh? You, lowlander?" His dark eyes 
flashed dangerously.
    There was nothing for it now but to establish himself in 
some form of ritual duel, a test of strength. Gatha walked 
slowly toward the warlord, carefully drawing mana from the 
lands he had touched in his recent travels. He remembered the 
river delta of Agderisk, its chaotic channels of muddied 
waters. Power swelled within his mind, begging for release. 
Eyes never flinching from the hostile warlord, the mage 
stepped up onto the first tier with calm and deliberate 
motion.
    Varagh stood abruptly, one hand darting for his sword as 
the other clamped down hard on Gatha's shoulder, pinning the 
mage in place. Such deliberation in killing saved Gatha's 
life. The mage brought up one hand in a twisting motion. 
Energy danced from his fingertips and into the warlord's eyes. 
The giant man stumbled, sword falling from nerveless fingers, 
blinking away the sudden confusion. Gatha gathered himself up 
and physically forced the larger man from the platform so that 
he now stood at the same height, eye to eye, as if physically 
dwarfed.
    The warlord rounded on Gatha, spinning in a fluid, catlike 
motion. Gatha thrust his left hand forward, sparks of blue 
energy dancing around his outstretched palm. Snarling, Varagh 
clawed his own face with his thick fingernails and then 
charged forward. It caught the mage, who had expected the 
Keldon to take more time to recover, off guard. He dodged to 
one side, releasing another blast of mind-numbing energy. This 
time the sparks danced outward . . .
    . . . and glanced off the warlord's bared chest.
    Gatha was picked up by his shoulder and hip then slammed 
down onto the tier. Darkness swam before his eyes. He felt 
detached, as if this could not possibly be happening. Battle 
magic! This is not how I die, he thought. Even so, he saw 
through the haze as Varagh reached one hand back and clench it 
into a hammer-like fist.
    A dark blur landed heavily behind the Keldon, grabbed the 
raised fist and pulled it back. The pressure eased from 
Gatha's shoulder. He sat up and scrambled backward until he 
found the next tier. Another warlord had pulled Gatha's 
attacker away. Now the two circled each other, crouched low 
and barring teeth. Varagh shouted, attacked, and was dealt a 
cruel clawing across the face. The answering punch was weak, 
and the new warlord caught it up, snapping the arm at the 
elbow as easily as matchwood. Varagh never uttered a sound for 
the pain. He simply stood there with a snarl of anger on his 
face while the other warlord held onto the wrist of his broken 
arm. He glanced down then bowed his head at the neck.
    The victor released the wounded arm, turned his back on 
Varagh, and stepped back onto the first tier, looking down on 
the mage. Gatha came to his feet slowly.
    "I Kreyohl," the new warlord said in Argivian. He reached 
out slowly, placed a hand on Gatha's chest, and shoved him 
from the tier.
    The mage stumbled and nearly fell to his knees. Anger 
welled inside Gatha, but he held it in check. This one might 
know battle magic as well, and there was no fighting them all 
at any rate. He broke eye contact and bowed his head as he'd 
seen the other warlord do. Both doyen retook their seats, 
Varagh below and Kreyohl on the next tier higher up.
    Kreyohl studied Gatha in silence for a moment. "You alive 
because I hear you more. Not want you dead."
    Yet, Gatha finished for him. Still, he recognized now the 
procedure he had witnessed, the stronger male disciplining the 
inferior. They respected strength and little else.
    "I can make you stronger," he said cautiously, not wanting 
to offend but not ready to give up. " I have special magics, 
and I need only time and a little help."
    No one answered right away. Gatha saw Kreyohl glance from 
the side of his eyes, obviously reading the body language of 
his neighboring warlords.
    "You make many promises," he said slowly. "Maybe keep, 
maybe don't." He paused. "What can you show us now?"
    Now there was a sentiment Gatha could understand. 
Unfortunately, it was also one he had not decided a ready 
answer for. Few were those who thought of the present first 
and future later. It was that thought, of the present, that 
prompted a solution.
    "I can scry the world of Dominaria." How to say that more 
simply? "Magic sight. See troubles and wars. Today and any 
day, where the Keld might find the best employment." No, not 
correct. "Take the best plunder."
    That appealed to the assembly. Subtle nods were passed. A 
warlord on Kreyohl's tier spoke the group consensus. "Prove 
it, and your work supported."
    Gatha smiled, breathing out between white teeth a cloud of 
frozen vapor. Proving himself was not a difficulty. It was, in 
fact, one of his favorite pastimes.

                          * * * * *

    Two years and Gatha still could not stand the smell. The 
small room stank of the peat used for walls, corrupting the 
crisp scent of new snow which had fallen in the night. The tan 
wooden planking laid directly over earth shifted slightly 
beneath Gatha's feet as he crossed the temporary laboratory. 
He slapped his hands together for warmth and held them over a 
barrel of slowly burning animal fat. The sharp, final tock of 
a clockwork timer drew his attention to another table, but the 
sound of rock being quarried distracted him from checking 
results. He paused at a window cut into the southern exposure, 
looking downhill on the site of his permanent labs. His labs.
    A winding trail cut down the snowy mountainside toward an 
area roughly leveled by natural erosion. The site was large, 
befitting the importance of the work Gatha intended to do 
there and the efforts he had already put forth on behalf of 
the Keldon people. A doyenne, one of the Keldon matriarchs, 
strutted imperiously around the site overseeing the project. 
The females oversaw everything which was not associated 
directly with warfare.
    Slaves worked to burst away some remaining outcrop-pings. 
The dark gray rock was collected and then moved by colos to 
the building pile used by the Keldon builders. Among that 
small percentage of Keldons ill-suited to war-dishonored and 
sent to live as general laborers, traders or farmers-these 
outcasts would rate master builders in many nations Gatha 
could name. They worked slowly and methodically, building to 
Gatha's specifications but following their own designs when 
practical. In his fourteenth year of self-imposed exile from 
Tolaria, Gatha could finally hope to begin soon a serious 
continuation of his earlier work.
    The Keldon armies were constantly on the move these days, 
preying on Dominaria wherever Gatha's scrying and a nation's 
coin brought them. The mage's commitments called for a great 
deal of his time and efforts, especially when the council 
preferred his presence at the Necropolis higher up the 
mountain. Those efforts were now being scaled back in favor of 
his experimentation. Permission had been granted to begin his 
work on slaves and second-class Keldon citizens.
    He had already begun setting up his Matrix and the rest of 
his equipment in this shack the doyenne had built for his 
temporary use. The first trials on native Keldons showed 
incredible response. Slaves were not quite as easily altered, 
but they served as good subjects for initial experiments. The 
colos were even more so, their tough nature adapting to his 
changes and giving Gatha more ideas. He used the colos as 
testing boards for his more radical ideas, moved up from there 
to slaves, and then to the Keldons to observe an end result. 
No one complained of his few setbacks. Many of his Keldon 
subjects actually expressed appreciation that the mage had 
found a way they could serve their nation one final time. 
Gatha drank in the heady results as each day brought him 
closer to resuming a full work load. His work had certainly 
found a home here in the bloodlines of Keld.
    
                         Chapter 8

    Urza was unprepared for the Phyrexian attack. One moment 
the planeswalker had been studying a cliff face for traces of 
Thran artifice, and in the next, a stream of hellish energy 
had slammed into him from behind and pinned him to the rock 
wall. It had required of the 'walker every ounce of his 
willpower to hold together his form in the face of the 
surprise attack. The second negator hit him from the side, a 
flurry of rending claws and razor-sharp fangs. Only by 
throwing the second Phyrexian into the energy attack of the 
first did Urza manage to break away and recapture a portion of 
his strength.
    Now the three danced about wildly. Urza moved with 
preternatural speed. His attention divided between two 
negators, they came close to matching him. Lightning crackled 
at Urza's fingertips, striking out like some kind of whip, 
keeping the negators at bay. Where the energy touched the 
creatures it split the armor, exposing black, corrupted flesh 
beneath. He couldn't seem to reach anything vital in these 
robust creatures, and the energy cannon that replaced the arm 
of one Phyrexian continued to strike at him with dangerous 
effect.
    Wherever the reddish stream touched him, the equivalence 
of mortal pain ate into his concentration. The more he devoted 
to keeping his form intact the less he had to deal with the 
his own offense. Urza settled into a defensive pattern, 
gambling that the Phyrexians could not come up with another 
surprise while he built up his own power.
    The negator predisposed to physical assault uttered a long 
and piercing shriek that threw a disrupting ripple throughout 
the 'walker's entire form. A wisp of fiery energy from the 
cannon caught Urza in the arm, and for the briefest second he 
recalled the mortal pain of a burn as well as the disruption 
to his immortal form, a sensation he would have been happy to 
live without remembering.
    Drawing power from his memory of the Hurloon Mountains, 
calling forth the powerful mana they offered, Urza cast 
lightning from both hands which began piling up in front of 
him. The collection pulsed and grew, spitting out arcs of 
snapping energy. No more time left to him, Urza cast the large 
ball of lightning forward. It sped toward the negator 
brandishing the cannon. It dodged the first pass but was 
caught up trying to shake the inexorable advance.
    It gave Urza all the time he needed. Bringing his staff to 
bear, the planeswalker triggered one of its many functions: a 
sonic attack, one that he had devised decades before to deal 
with the Phyrexian infestation of Tolaria. The sound 
interfered with the composition of glistening oil-the 
lifeblood of Phyrexian living artifice. The high-pitched 
harmonics slammed into the second negator with incredible 
force, throwing it back and pinning it to the earth. Sprays of 
gray-black liquid gushed from the negator's open wounds, and 
it trembled and shook. Urza moved forward, the head of his 
staff pointed directly at the creature. With a final spasm the 
negator fell still, its fluids leaking into the ground and 
staining the soil black.
    Only then did Urza notice that the second negator had 
ignored the attack of harmonic sound. It still dodged about 
nimbly, evading the pulsing collection of energies that 
trailed after it relentlessly. There would be no escaping the 
strike, only delay, but the 'walker couldn't be sure of it 
being enough to kill the negator. Tapping the mana as he had a 
moment before, Urza quickly built up another such electrical 
storm and flung it toward the cornered Phyrexian. Weak from 
the attacks against him and concerned that the remaining 
negator might have sent a summons to others, Urza cast his 
form into the chaos that existed between worlds and 'walked 
away.
    While the pain of the burn had long faded, its memory 
continued to worry the back of his mind.

                          * * * * *

    Flanked by four of the armored Phyrexian soldiers, their 
black armor gleaming dull orange in the fiery glow of the lava 
tubes, Davvol toured the main facility concerned with the 
production of flowstone. The massive, bladed dials spinning in 
their housing above generated most of the mechanical power 
required. Giant corkscrews pulled up the lava in black-crusted 
tubes from the geological furnaces of Rath far underground. 
They would be cooled by waters siphoned off a nearby lake and 
then fed farther up into the processing machinery. Yellow 
steam escaped the joints of nearby pistons, scalding and 
sulfurous. The machinery this far down had turned rust-red 
over time, standing exposed to the sulfurous steam.
    Davvol filed away a mental note that the machinery should 
be overhauled as soon as the secondary additions were built 
and in full production. The megalithic proportions of two new 
attractors demanded an incredible investment of labor and 
time-another fifty years of work before the new facilities 
would be ready, this as the Vec and the Phyrexians measured 
time, both referring back to the old Dominarian calendar of 
their ancestors. The Coracin native measured years a bit 
longer. It didn't matter either way. Davvol never forgot a 
detail he had committed to memory. It was now one hundred 
thirty-three years since the Phyrexians brought him away from 
Coracin, and he could review notes made to himself over a 
century back that had still not come due.
    So far beyond his normal lifespan, the Phyrexian 
collaborator still resented being trapped in the weak and 
diseased body for which Coracin physicians had once predicted 
an early demise. Now he had certainly outlived those 
physicians and any other Coracin living then. The Phyrexians 
kept him alive and offered a few improvements-when it suited 
their needs-but little else. They guaranteed him virtual 
immortality so long as he kept the machines running here on 
Rath, so long as he completed whatever task was set before 
him-so long as Croag decided that he was useful.
    The Vec workers, a humanoid race with blunt features and 
knobby joints, stood nearby during the inspection. Their pale 
skin-from so long trapped away from any sun-flushed in the 
room's heat. They despised him. He knew that, but they would 
never do anything so long as the Phyrexian troops stood guard. 
Any one of the spindly limbed warriors could kill them all, 
easily, before Davvol was put in any mortal danger that the 
Phyrexians could not repair. That was the trick, to beat the 
Phyrexians' ability to remake and improve. Davvol was learning 
something of this in his attempts to kill the hated Urza 
Planeswalker.
    "I want production increased," he said to the Vec 
supervisor in charge.
    Nothing indicated a difference between her position and a 
common laborer, but Davvol still knew. It paid to single out 
those who should know that their lives would answer last if 
any trouble should arise. His policy was simple. If a 
supervisor failed to accomplish the tasks given to him, he 
would watch those who reported to him die. The policy was 
quite effective, and the Vec policed themselves to keep 
supervisors who would not throw away their lives needlessly.
    "The borders must be pushed back faster with enough excess 
for my special use. See that it happens."
    The Vec nodded, sullen but compliant. Sweat ran down her 
face. Her face a mask, only her brilliant blue eyes spoke her 
hatred.
    Davvol departed, leaving behind two guards. The others 
came with him back down a long corridor lined with corroded 
metal pipes that ended in a large balcony open to the outside. 
He stepped up onto his flying disc.
    Traveling around the Stronghold was no easy feat. From the 
caldera rim he had been unable to accurately judge its size. 
It was better than three kilometers in height as measured from 
the lower machinery to the top of Stronghold's cyclone funnel 
tower and twice that in width, its entirety filled with 
Phyrexian artifice or denizens over which he had authority.
    His guards joined him, and Davvol mentally commanded the 
disc to rise and move through the open wall. The immense 
cavern, almost a second caldera beneath the first, knew a 
perpetual twilight. Some lights issued from the bottom side of 
the Stronghold, while the Vec city below offered slightly 
brighter areas where its thinly arrayed neighborhoods 
clustered together into shared warrens. The air was warm and 
very humid, with condensing steam eventually falling down onto 
the city as a caustic rain. The disc rose rapidly toward the 
sculpted ceiling and then through one of the holes that 
dilated open and allowed a vent to the upper caldera. Davvol 
noted that he must-in the next year or so-look into the 
sulfuric rain, not that he cared for the Vec's troubles. The 
escape of so much mineral content in the steam spoke of 
inefficiency in the machinery, which must translate into 
slower production of flowstone.
    Flowstone, a wondrous substance. He had discovered its 
merits almost immediately upon assuming responsibility for 
Rath. Reaching into the wide sleeve that covered his right 
arm, he removed from a hidden pocket the sample of flowstone 
he carried with him always. Warmed by the trip into the bowels 
of the Stronghold's machinery, the fist-sized hunk of tan 
stone still seemed unremarkable, as plain as it had been when 
the steward had torn it from the barren landscape that 
stretched between horizons. It was so much more. Without much 
effort, Davvol mentally shaped it into a series of rough 
figures- a cylinder then a cube. The tan substance would 
soften under his command then melt like a candle in an oven, 
except, the stone would not run out of his hand but toward 
whatever new shape he desired-a ship, an egg, a short staff. 
It was much harder than any regular stone and apparently had 
no limits on what it might accomplish. He concentrated a bit 
more, and the short staff melded into a knife with a fine bone 
handle and a very sharp edge. A touch more thought and the 
handle softened as if wrapped in leather. Davvol had made such 
weapons with blades so fine as to be able to score the hardest 
Phyrexian metal.
    Flowstone apparently obeyed those with power over the 
plane of Rath, both in small portions like he held or in 
massive plains of the material. An evincar, named by Phyrexia, 
would possesses full mastery. Now Davvol and Croag shared that 
power, the member of Phyrexia's Inner Circle a permanent guest 
of the Stronghold and constantly looking over Davvol's 
shoulder. Davvol did not doubt with whom Rath's final 
authority currently rested, but Croag showed little interest 
in manipulating the flowstone, and it was control of the 
flowstone that might end up being the deciding factor of who 
truly ruled Rath. The knife softened and changed shape in his 
hand.
    The disc exited the upper vent and flew over the 
Stronghold's lower surfaces. Black metal gleamed as lightning 
cascaded in the sky high above and bathed the caldera in an 
unnatural and beautiful red wash. Davvol sent the disc on a 
long glide around the main tower to the throne room. In his 
hand he held an exquisite flowstone crown. Yes, flowstone was 
one of the two paths into full power here on Rath, power 
Davvol meant to have.

                          * * * * *

    Urza Planeswalker guarded Rath's second path into power. 
The Phyrexians despised Urza as no single other entity in the 
known multiverse, and an unimaginable reward awaited the one 
clever enough to rid the dark race of him. Despite Davvol's 
best efforts through the six decades so far-planning traps and 
instructing negators on new tactics-the planeswalker kept 
right on existing.
    Something had to be done-not just planned, but physically 
accomplished-not exactly one of Davvol's strengths.
    He paced the floor where a seeker had brought the latest 
negator corpses after their discovery on another plane. Two 
this time, smaller than most but very deadly and extremely 
fast. Rath's steward had hoped that their augmented reflexes 
would offset Urza's defenses. Not so, obviously. Their armored 
carapaces had been melted open in a dozen places. The 
blackened flesh of the first corpse appeared thoroughly 
disrupted, and Davvol found it desiccated of glistening oil. 
The second negator arrived in three pieces, having been caught 
in a maelstrom of energies that Davvol could only begin to 
guess at. This one leaked oil in a spreading pool, the room's 
light flashing over it in a filmy rainbow. The area stunk of 
charred meat, scorched oil, and hot steel. He stood, watching 
the oil spread over the polished metal floor, and thought.
    He heard the rasping of metal fibers sliding over each 
other-Croag.
    "Urza Planeswalker lives," Croag said, not a question. The 
Phyrexian stopped beside Davvol, his cleft skull staring down 
at the ruined negators. Davvol nodded. "Obviously."
    The council member's voice still sounded to him like a 
series of chattering squeals and hisses, but the Phyrexian had 
found it convenient to compleat Davvol's inner ear, so those 
sounds actually made sense to him now. Removing the language 
barrier had also mellowed Davvol's fear of the Phyrexian, who 
was no longer quite so alien. Besides which, living in the 
shadow of death for better than a century would harden anyone 
to its presence.
    Croag turned in Davvol's direction. "What do you do now?" 
it asked. "I am thinking."
    Davvol prodded at a severed arm with the toe of one 
armored boot. The arm was actually a cannon of sorts, capable 
of delivering a stream of hellish energy that could disrupt a 
planeswalker's energy patterns. It rolled over, leaving behind 
a trail of soot and oily sludge. They were fortunate to have 
the corpses to examine. Quite often they were never recovered.
    "They did not perform as I'd hoped," Davvol admitted, not 
that predictions could be made easily.
    Negators did not conform to any particular design. These 
Phyrexians ranged from short, bulky creations to large dragon 
engine war machines. Bigger did not always mean better, except 
at times a better target. For Davvol, who relied upon an 
ability to organize and categorize, such maverick functions 
made for difficult evaluations.
    "Urza Planeswalker must be killed," Croag hissed. "He must 
not interfere again." A skeletal arm reached out toward 
Davvol, razor-sharp fingers raking slowly through the air 
before the steward's face. "You are failing."
    Davvol's wide-set eyes stared at the talons hovering 
inches from his face. Swallowing against the knot in his 
throat, he kept any waver from his voice. "I am doing the best 
possible. Urza has lived for over three millennia. He will not 
go quietly into the void." That gave Croag a moment of pause, 
possibly reminded of the failure of so many others. The arm 
lowered a fraction.
    Davvol sidestepped away, crouching down to closer inspect 
the desiccated negator. Croag expected some kind of action. 
The steward would find something. The easiest excuse would be 
to blame the negator's design. Obviously they were flawed, 
though perhaps Croag would not care to hear him maligning more 
perfect Phyrexians. Against any regular form of life the 
negators were fearsome assassins, but a planeswalker called 
for a new outlook-and innovation. There Davvol met an impasse. 
True innovation, the ability to make radical leaps forward, 
would be beyond him. He had a feeling that Croag understood 
that-that his immersion in the details and inability for 
radical thinking was an important reason he'd been selected 
for this position in Rath. It made him the perfect steward, 
able to be trusted so much as the Phyrexians trusted anyone 
not of their own race.
    He did see areas in the Phyrexian negators that might be 
improved upon. The difficulty lay in his lack of understanding 
for the planeswalker's strengths and weaknesses.
    "It will take time," he said after some thought. He 
reached out and traced a scar melted into the negator's armor. 
His pale fingers came away with just a smudge of black. "More 
time than I first thought," he said, stalling with careful 
words, "but I believe it is possible." He stood. "Urza 
Planeswalker can be killed."
    Croag was not one for easy conversation. "How?" he 
screeched, and Davvol caught the hint of intensity behind that 
one word.
    For the first time, Davvol wondered if Croag somehow had a 
personal interest in the death of Urza Planeswalker. Did the 
Inner Council member, too, live under the shadow of death? 
Punishment by the Ineffable-the Phyrexian Dark Lord? A chill 
trembled his pasty skin. It made sense, looking back on the 
last six decades of Croag's presence and constant 
interference. The data had been incomplete until now. Davvol 
had been unable to place a mental touch upon this Phyrexian, 
his mind too alien, and relying on speakers for so many of 
those years.
    He answered Croag with his own question. "Can negators be 
compleated to my own specifications?"
    Metal cloth writhed, wrapping itself up and about Croag's 
face for a second, leaving a glistening sheen over the 
Phyrexian's taught gray skin. "This can be done," he promised.
    With such infrequent contact between negators and the 
planeswalker, it might take decades merely to enhance the 
negator's sensory abilities so that recovered corpses could 
provide better data on their observations of Urza as well as a 
negator's own ability to fight him. It could be centuries more 
before Davvol could hope to improve on their design. It was 
how he worked best, though, able to organize and manipulate an 
infinite array of details to find the most efficient path. His 
plan would show constant progress, purchasing an existence for 
him that would stretch out several times over the natural 
lifetime of a Coracin native. Also, this evolutionary process 
would allow him to create an army of negators the lethal 
ability of which Phyrexia had never known. With this 
presentation alone, Davvol might be brought to compleation 
himself and named evincar of Rath. Wasn't that the Phyrexian 
way, after all, to improve in the current generation that 
which failed in the previous?
    Davvol felt the planeswalker's death was assured. The 
power of numbers was on his side. Eventually, Urza would be 
overwhelmed, but under a slow program of constant refinement 
to the creatures that hunted him that could stretch out 
perhaps another five centuries. Davvol would have his monsters 
and eventually the life of the 'walker as well.
    With any luck, Urza would take a long time to die.
    
                         Chapter 9

    Multani dug his toes down into Yavimaya's soil, enjoying 
its warm, moist touch. He felt young and energetic, 
revitalized. From halfway around the world he had felt 
Yavimaya's strength build, his body reflecting the sentient 
forest's state. As older trees fell to make room for newer 
growth, his own limbs grew more supple and strong. His size 
increased, and the mosslike growth from his head and shoulders 
that served for hair grew in thicker and more luxurious. Here, 
actually standing in the shadow of Yavimaya's coastal trees, 
his feet buried beneath the soil, Multani could almost forget 
Rofellos's greeting.
    "Yavimaya welcomes you," he'd said as the Weatherlight had 
come aground.
    To hear the words spoken even as Yavmaya's greeting was 
made known to his own mind felt strange to the nature spirit. 
It was unsurprising that Yavimaya had initiated contact with 
Rofellos. In the absence of Multani, what other way could the 
forest and the Llanowar elf directly communicate? Through the 
dual greeting the nature spirit felt the forest's casual use 
of the elf-its hold over him-and the elf's uncertain knowledge 
of his own place. Multani also sensed that Yavimaya had relied 
on Rofellos for some time now to also act as its voice, an 
ability the sentient forest had apparently grown to miss in 
the seventy-three years since Multani had last been called 
home.
    In that time Yavimaya had also stepped up its accelerated 
mulch cycles. Even within the less dense coastal forests the 
creaking sway and final, limb-tearing crash of falling trees 
never quite ended these days. It would fade, as a distant tree 
toppled, and then rebound as a nearer growth bent to 
Yavimaya's will. One could actually see the trees growing, 
their limbs stretching upward and out as boles thickened and 
root systems swelled the ground around them. The grass 
continued to mulch itself too, new shoots growing up within 
the decaying green blades. Farther back in the forest's 
shadows the underbrush writhed, thinning itself and then 
growing back with slight changes to flowers and leaves in a 
never-ending process of forced evolution.
    One student had exclaimed sharply, noticing that even the 
insects along the ground were growing and dying at an 
accelerated rate.
    "Of course," Multani had answered. Rofellos took the 
opportunity of the distraction to slip away, back into the 
forest. "They are as much part of life's cycle as any plant. 
In so many cases, one can not exist without the other. Many of 
Gaea's creatures will follow the same pattern, though in some 
the changes will be brought about without actual rebirth." 
This had excited several of the student mages for some reason.
    As natural as the process might be, however, Multani 
couldn't help now but wonder about his absence during the 
accelerated growth cycles, whether or not it could be another 
reason for Yavimaya's greater empathy with Rofellos. In the 
last seven decades how many generations had he missed in the 
forest? Sharing his thoughts with Yavimaya, Multani still had 
no good answer. The forest, for all its intelligence, had 
never undergone such a treatment either. It knew mistakes, 
trying to direct the evolution of its plants and creatures. It 
feared mistakes, worried at losing any life forever. That was 
the nature of the forest, to live in a ceaseless cycle where 
the living died but new life could always hope to be born from 
such loss. Multani wanted to stay this time, to remain with 
his parent forest, but he knew that Yavimaya had decided his 
work to be elsewhere. He was an ambassador and teacher, the 
forest's voice among other nations and peoples.
    "Enjoying the day?" a voice behind him asked. Rofellos 
stepped from behind a large bush. His arrival had been silent. 
The Llanowar had truly made this his home.
    There was no denying the undertone of challenge to his 
question. Multani opened his mind with that of Yavimaya, 
sharing the sentient forest's consciousness with Rofellos. As 
on the beach, he could feel the turmoil roiling within the 
elf-the relationship between he and Multani, between he and 
Yavimaya. Rofellos now saw the nature spirit as something of a 
rival. It cast Multani into an uncertain position with 
Rofellos, and the adversarial nature of the Llanowar was 
winning over memories of the awe he had once felt for the 
nature spirit. Multani recalled those times, and with the 
memory he realized something else about the elf-Rofellos was 
not aging!
    Not as he should be-Yavimaya had obviously taken hold of 
the elf's lifeforce, binding Rofellos to itself.
    While the sentient forest built its strength, Rofellos 
tapped into it in a way similar to Multani. The Llanowar 
looked to be only in the early stages of an elf's middle 
years, the long period that accounted for so much of their 
extended lifespan.
    "You're happy to be back," the elf said.
    It was not quite a question, that last. Multani could 
sense the elf merely reflecting many of the feelings Yavimaya 
already shared with him. The Llanowar simply put them into 
words, at times apparently unable to fully distinguish his own 
thoughts from the ambient feelings of the forest.
    "I enjoy returning to Yavimaya," Multani answered in 
voice, sparing the elf any trouble in understanding "Yes."
    The nature spirit moved closer toward Rofellos, stopping 
on his way to feel at the bud on the new grenade flower. He 
sensed the violent energies stored up within, energies that 
would eventually burst the pod open, raining seeds farther out 
so that the plant could spread. In later evolutions those 
seeds would grow larger and might be thrown so far as to cross 
rivers or rocky surfaces. The burst of strength now might also 
hope to discourage any of the larger herbivores from making a 
meal of the plant. That defense, too, would grow.
    "A fascinating new growth," Multani said, testing the 
Llanowar.
    "I have not had the chance to inspect it," Rofellos 
admitted.
    An echo of his words, truer perhaps to his original 
thought, filtered through Yavimaya's consciousness to the 
nature spirit. Multani knew that Rofellos had plenty of 
opportunities these many years but failed to take full 
advantage of them. If the plant did not provide food, 
clothing, or any other practical use, the Llanowar could not 
be made to pay attention. How sad, Multani thought, to keep so 
limited a view of nature.
    "You should try," he said to the elf, encouraging on his 
own behalf as well as Yavimaya's.
    Rofellos stepped forward hesitatingly, his features so 
obviously clouded with doubts. Multani tried to feel for the 
Llanowar's spirit, but it eluded him. Rofellos was not a true 
part of Yavimaya, not yet, at least. The elf reached out, 
gripped the stem roughly. The pod burst with a light snapping 
sound, as if sensing an attack, and dozens of tiny, 
sharptipped seeds exploded outward. A few stuck into 
Rofellos's arm, enough to catch but not enough to even draw 
blood. Still the Llanowar jumped back as if attacked, hand 
darting to the sword at his side. More of Multani's gentle 
words of encouragement died unspoken as the nature spirit 
noticed Rofellos's wild-eyed expression of shock and 
confusion. The Llanowar was under more pressure here than the 
nature spirit had ever thought.
    Then, swiftly, silently, Rofellos faded back into forest 
shadows and disappeared as easily as Multani himself could 
have done.

                          * * * * *

    His feet hardly seemed to touch the forest floor, its soft 
bed of earth unblanketed by grass this far under the canopy. 
Thin branches whipped at his face as Rofellos allowed instinct 
to lead him, the roll of a hill pushing him toward easier 
paths, the warning creak of a nearby trunk as Yavimaya took 
hold and wrestled it toward the ground detoured him back 
toward the clearing but did not slow him. He clenched at the 
empty air.
    Landing in a natural ditch formed between two gentle 
hills, Rofellos pulled up sharply and tested the air. He 
scented only the perfume of nearby flowers, grenades and 
poison mothers, their fragrance belying what would eventually 
be a dangerous effect. He heard no sound of pursuit, nothing 
but the distant echo of a felled tree and some birdsong 
overhead. He crouched to place one hand against the earth, 
feeling for vibrations of silent movement, and searched the 
nearby shadows for Yavimayan elves. Nothing. Even Yavimaya had 
retreated from his mind, for now, the forest's language 
forgotten in his mad dash. It would be back, slow and 
insidious, taking root again within his mind.
    Rofellos had hoped that somehow Multani would help him-
explain how the nature spirit coped with such a pervasive 
presence. The Llanowar should have known better than to place 
trust in anyone not of his home. If the forest spirit had 
tried, if there had been some hidden meaning in their 
discussion of the grenade, the elf did not understand it, so 
he had fled. It was the second rule of a potentially hostile 
situation, the first being immediate violence. Yavimaya had 
not allowed him that, so he ran and escaped Yavimaya. For a 
moment he was simply Rofellos, though already he felt the 
insinuating return of Yavimaya, felt it reaching into his 
mind, calling him. Soon it would simply be there, but for now 
the choice remained.
    The Llanowar ran.
    
                         Chapter 10

    A large fire blazed over the hearth in Gatha's main 
laboratory, holding at bay the freezing air outside. Snow 
drifted against the northern window, protected by stone and 
shadow far longer than the drifts that had begun to melt last 
week with the thaw. The labs smelled of smoke but were 
otherwise kept spotless by the slaves assigned to Gatha. The 
slaves were courtesy of the more influential warlords who were 
in the mage's debt. Keldons always paid a debt, whether for 
good or ill.
    So far, in better than forty years of experimentation, 
Gatha had balanced out the good over the ill. It was not that 
he hadn't made mistakes, just none lethal to date. It was a 
simple matter of counterbalances. If he made an enemy of a 
warlord, he simply had to befriend a more powerful one. As 
he'd noticed early on, the pecking order was well established 
in Keld. Body language could tell you at a glance who was 
dominant between any two warlords or any two doyenne, except 
that those positions could change at any time through design 
or simple misfortune. Gatha knew that one of these days he 
might choose wrong, but that was something to worry about 
later, when it happened, not now. Now was for his work.
    The voices of his slaves rose in the hall, interrupting 
him as he placed a tray of colos muscle on the table and 
reached for his sampling tweezers. There was a heavy thud, no 
doubt the body of one of them hitting the wall, and then the 
door was thrust open. Trohg stomped into Gatha's lab kicking 
snow and mud from his thick leather boots. Seven feet plus, 
the Keldon dwarfed the mage by a good sixteen inches and over 
one hundred pounds. Immune to such size differences anymore, 
Gatha did not flinch from the hard stare. He scowled at the 
interruption to his work but nodded for a slave to remove the 
tray he had been about to sample from. There would be no work 
while Trohg remained inside.
    The Keldon grabbed one of the chairs near the fire and 
pulled it farther back into the room, away from the warmth. He 
sat then nodded toward the hearth.
    "You put it in a good place," he said, speaking in the low 
Keld tongue for Gatha's benefit.
    It was a language relying more heavily on words, fit for 
ordering around slaves and non-warrior Keldons. He pointed to 
the ripped standard that hung down from the large iron spike 
driven in between the mortared stones. The other half hung in 
Trohg's manor near the Necropolis, and a second banner of the 
same kind also decorated the council hall. Trohg had shared 
the standard he'd brought back for himself from a victorious 
campaign. Such was a sign of rare admission that a warlord or 
witch king owed someone a debt for that victory.
    Grandson of Kreyohl, the Keldon warlord who had saved 
Gatha's life, Trohg had been brought to the mage at the age of 
ten for augmentation. A runt birth-as the smaller Keldons were 
often called-Trohg had no chance of selection for the warlord 
trials. His father preferred to see his son dead in the frozen 
northland wastes or by the mage's unpredictable magic-and said 
as much to Gatha-than be bypassed for selection. For most 
Keldons this would not be so disastrous, but as the first son 
of a mating between a strong warlord and an influential 
doyenne, Trohg's failure would directly affect the position of 
both his progenitors. His son would not be passed over and 
indeed hadn't been. Trohg not only responded to the genetic 
alterations, but he was also one of the rare warlords now 
referred to as a witch king. In battle he excited his troops 
to a furious, fanatical pitch and could then draw off their 
combined strength to legendary effect. Young as he was, Trohg 
sat on the highest tier in council, a warlord with few peers.
    Moving over toward the fire, Gatha took the more 
comfortable and therefore weaker position. Familiarity only 
went so far in Keld, and he never forgot the delicate niche in 
which he lived here. His mastery of their language and the 
Keldon cut of his clothes would never make up completely for 
his lack of a warrior's background. A warlord could take his 
life at any time, provided Gatha could not first maneuver a 
stronger one into his path.
    "I am honored to share in your victory," he finally said, 
staring at the torn standard rather than be tempted to make 
eye contact with Trohg. Argivian-his birth nation.
    The witch king grunted in agreement. "I take strength from 
the warhost," he said, voice strong and deep.
    "Nothing hurts me. I stomp out the lives of my enemy as if 
they were snowbound, slow and weak." His dark eyes sought out 
Gatha. "You did this for me, and I remember." He paused. "You 
will do same for my son."
    Gatha glanced back to the warlord, courtesy forgotten in 
the shock. What he had thought would be a social visit, such 
as they passed for in Keld, had turned suddenly to business. 
The magical ability of the witch kings created incredible 
demand for Gatha's work, no matter that fewer than one in ten 
survived the process in any shape to fight. He had even begun 
cutting Phyrexian genetic material back into the Matrix, using 
it as he used colos genes-the adaptable material working to 
fill in the "gaps" his own work left behind. Still, a stable 
process had yet to emerge. Gatha did not want to make an enemy 
of this man.
    He averted his eyes, swallowing against the dryness that 
had suddenly parched his mouth. "I did not know you had a 
son," he said, stroking the rough goatee he maintained in 
nervous habit. "Congratulations on your new warrior." Even as 
he answered with the standard salute for a son, Gatha was 
estimating the boy's chances: not good.
    Trohg shook his massive head. "I have no son, yet. You 
will help me make him a witch king too."
    Preconception? Gatha had done very little of that in his 
four decades in Keld except with captured slaves. Keldons 
wanted things done now. They worked for the day, never next 
year or into their children's lifetime. The future took care 
of itself. Trohg must have a strong dose of his grandfather's 
genes to look so far ahead for himself. Gatha had given up 
trying to convince a warlord or witch king to allow 
preconception adjustments years ago. Why should they suffer 
his unpredictable magic before they see the result of their 
labor?
    "You will do this," Trohg repeated, hard voice on edge 
now.
    The mage nodded. "It is possible," he said, the Keldon 
language thick in his mouth, "but not easy, and there is no 
way to predict if magical ability will be passed on to your 
son." Basing the new life off Trohg's genetic makeup, a 
successful subject, would dramatically increase the chances. 
It would take additional resources in equipment, the 
development of some new procedures, and time of course. He 
cursed silently. There was always a cost in time. "You have 
doyenne who will agree with this?" No small concern there. 
Trohg had two mates that Gatha was aware of, and he couldn't 
see either of them trusting the mage enough to allow 
preconception magics.
    Trohg nodded. "I have a new manor and a new doyenne. She 
is eager."
    Meaning ambitious. "It may take a few tries," Gatha warned 
him, "but I believe I can do this."
    Standing abruptly, Trohg saluted with a clenched fist held 
in up in front of his face, the hand blocking part of his 
vision. Gatha was sure to return the salute but not hold it 
nearly so long. The inferior could never afford to impair his 
vision for as long as a superior. It implied insult to the 
stronger warrior.
    "You will make my son a witch king," Trohg said, "and his 
son. For as long as you do this, Gatha, you will need nothing. 
If you ask, you will receive. If you need, we will supply it." 
He paused, then in high Keld continued. "You will sit on the 
Warlords' Council. This I pledge to you." This was the highest 
praise, both the switch of tongues as well as the message. 
Gatha took a chance and replied in similar fashion, with a 
grunt of thanks and slight bow at the neck to signify his 
unworthiness before a superior warrior. Trohg grinned, baring 
his teeth, and the mage bowed again as the witch king took 
leave of the labs. The strength fled his legs and Gatha 
stumbled for a chair. An impressive pledge Trogh had made him, 
though Gatha knew it to be a false promise. No one sat in the 
presence of the Warlords' Council atop the Necropolis.
    However, with a witch king and Keldon warhost at his back, 
Gatha would never fear for his life again and would never want 
for anything again. That was power the mage knew how to spend. 
Labs to rival Tolaria? Done. The Tolarian academy itself? 
Done. Barrin's head on a Keldon pike? Done. The future was 
opening up before him. Gatha only had to seize upon the course 
he favored, and if it did not quite suit his liking, then the 
mage would remake it to his desire.

                          * * * * *

    "I don't like it, Urza." Barrin threw the pages of 
material down onto his desk. They spread across the marble 
slab top, a few sheets drifting to the floor with a whispered 
flutter. "We-I-curtailed Gatha's work because it represented a 
danger to morality as well as the lives of his subjects. His 
defection proved that he was never to be trusted, though you 
later defended his right to leave. Now he has set up his own 
labs? With one of our minor Eugenics Matrices?" Barrin rocked 
back in his chair, shaking his head, voice plaintive. "Urza, I 
wanted him stopped, not set loose on Dominaria."
    The planeswalker stood on the other side of Barrin's large 
desk. He appeared the Urza of his youth again, years numbered 
in the teens instead of the thousands. His seamless face was 
too serious and intense for his apparent age. "It's not as if 
the Keldons are suffering him involuntarily," the 'walker 
said. "They gave him a home and labs because they want what he 
is offering. They've practiced selective breeding and 
magically enhanced evolvement for far longer than you or I, 
Barrin. Why debate their choice, especially when it gives us 
the chance to observe such useful events?"
    Barrin rubbed at eyes red and scratchy from late nights at 
work. He stood, fingers sifting among the loose pages that had 
spread over the desk until finding one of the rough sketches 
Urza had provided.
    "There," Barrin said, drawing the page out from the 
others. "Have their breeding cycles ever turned out something 
like that before?"
    Roughly man sized, the creature was a misshapen excuse for 
a Keldon-monstrous in size with an exaggerated bone structure 
that hunched it over and built an almost domelike carapace 
across its broad back. Sexless. It had malformed hands and 
feet with webbing between what few fingers and toes had 
formed. Bony barbs protruded from its heels and elbows.
    Urza shook his head, his appearance aging a few years as 
Barrin cut into his excitement. "We've had similar 
catastrophic failures here on Tolaria," he said. "I think that 
one was from Gatha's cutting colos genes into the Eugenics 
Matrix."
    "That thing was not borne from a faulty experiment," 
Barrin said, exasperated that Urza would compare the two 
programs. "That was created out of a living being in 
retroactive manipulation, something we have never done except 
when Gatha broke the guidelines."
    Urza slammed an open palm down against Barrin's desktop. 
"It is possible. He has created from under-strength subjects 
viable warriors worthy of the high criteria Keldons hold for 
warlord selection." He sat back into a chair, calming himself 
obviously by force of will.
    "Barrin, I'm not saying we should adopt Gatha's methods, 
but they might be used to temper our own. What if they would 
allow us a higher success rate? No radical mutations but 
simply to nudge and guide a subject into the pattern we tried 
to establish prior to conception. Preventative therapy, 
Barrin."
    As much as he wanted to resist the idea, Barrin could not 
help considering it. Though deformities were rare after a 
century and a half of relative real-time work, they still 
occurred. Many of those born normal still exhibited signs of 
personal maladjustment later. Those were nightmares the mage 
could do without. He gripped the edge of his desk.
    "In that light, I am forced to agree that there might be 
some benefit to review of this matter, but why should we allow 
Gatha to continue his work?"
    "You've seen the latest reports. Most bloodlines have 
entered cascading failure because of earlier fast-time growth. 
We can treat them, but they will never be viable generations 
leading to the heir. Of the Tolarian generations, only the 
ones raised strictly outside of fast-time environments are 
looking strong enough, and Tolaria's ambient blue mana is 
beginning to influence their heritage too strongly. We are 
facing a serious setback. I'll need the kind of data Gatha is 
generating to start again and make up for lost time."
    Barrin slowly stood, an eerie chill shaking the mage. 
Tolarian generations? Urza was not one to qualify a statement 
unless necessary. He swallowed dryly through a blocked throat. 
When he spoke, his voice was little better than a hoarse 
whisper.
    "How many?" he asked. "How many bloodlines exist off this 
island?"
    "A few," Urza admitted as if the subject bore little 
consequence. "Nothing different from what we have done here on 
Tolaria. Dominarian, raised in heavy white mana-rich areas, 
most influenced by Thran genetics." The planeswalker frowned. 
"My first generations were much more stable as well, though 
later generations did not degrade nearly so badly as the ones 
here on Tolaria because they stayed in contact with the white 
mana lands most likely."
    A second program carried out by Urza alone. Barrin sat 
back into his chair, numb. "Why didn't you tell me?"
    Urza shrugged. "They were not part of Tolaria's program, 
and you already had so much to worry about. If you recall, I 
worried from the start about using Tolaria's mana to make 
adjustments to plains-dwelling subjects, and then with 
Timein's work-"
    "Stop, Urza." Barrin held up his hand in a gesture of 
submission. "Just stop."
    He massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling a throbbing 
headache building. He remembered once, so many decades ago 
relative time, when all he had hoped for was a simple life. He 
did not want virtual immortality or to be in control of so 
many lives other than his own. He did not want to be caught up 
so intricately in the insanity that was Urza's program against 
the Phyrexians.
    Even threatening to walk away now, though, would 
accomplish little. Urza Planeswalker could not be argued with 
and certainly couldn't be controlled. All Barrin could do was 
attempt to mitigate the collateral damage. Like it or not, 
Barrin was responsible for those lives, not the least of which 
were his wife's and-eventually he hoped-his children.
    "Do you have data on your outside experiments?" he asked, 
hating himself for the question.
    Urza visibly paused then nodded slowly. "Of course, with 
arrangements that all data would be delivered to you in case 
anything ever happened to me."
    "I want it now," Barrin said. "I'll put Timein on it. 
Tutor or no, he is still one of the best-most reasonable- 
minds we have." Even to his own ears, the mage's voice sounded 
tired-defeated. "I'll put the academy on it, Urza. We'll see 
what might be done to correlate all the data-yours, mine and," 
he couldn't keep the disgust from his voice, "Gatha's. I'll do 
what I can."
    "I never doubted that for a moment, Barrin." Urza stood. 
"You are the best I could have ever hoped to find for this 
work." He started to say more, hedged, then continued on 
anyway. "Go home and rest," he suggested. "Visit with your 
wife." He was gone, with a step between worlds.
    Barrin sat alone, his work prior to Urza's arrival 
forgotten and absolutely no enthusiasm for the new work laid 
before him, but he would do it, he knew. Not today, not until 
he had completely assimilated it into his brain, but he would 
do it because it needed to be done, and because there was no 
one else who could.

                          * * * * *

    Timein met Barrin on the hill overlooking the Colony- the 
small hamlet of bloodlines subjects who had moved to this far 
corner of the island to distance themselves from the academy 
and the project into which they had unwillingly been born. A 
few people were in evidence, a couple still bearing evidence 
of the bloodlines legacy. A man with a withered left arm 
worked a sparse field of vegetables. One large woman, her 
upper body swollen out of proportion to her lower, lifted a 
large rock out of the way of a plow.
    "Don't they know that we can fix most of the gross 
deformities?" Barrin asked, the light wind pushing the front 
hem of his cloak back against his legs.
    Timein nodded. "They know." He reached up and tucked back 
a stray lock of hair. "I'm not sure why they don't come in." 
He spread his hands expansively. "Look what magic has done for 
them so far."
    Barrin glanced over sharply at the sarcasm. The student 
met his gaze easily, secure in his own ability though he still 
refused anything resembling promotion.
    "You brought me out here for a reason, Timein. What is 
it?" He looked down on the Colony again. "I know you don't 
pick your meeting places casually."
    "I'm leaving the academy."
    Barrin's face hardened into a mask at the declaration. "I 
don't have to allow that you know. Only scholars are allowed 
access back into the world, and you are not yet a tutor."
    The sorcerer smiled thinly, sensing Barrin's bluff. They 
both knew how much was owed to Timein.
    "I didn't say I was leaving the island."
    The master mage caught on immediately. He glanced 
downhill. "Here? Will they let you in?"
    "I'm hoping so. I'll need help to build any kind of home 
before the storms arrive."
    Barrin shook his head, in frustration more than denial. 
"Timein, you could be reassigned. Other projects . . ." he 
trailed off.
    "Not so long as the academy supports Urza's Bloodlines 
project," the sorcerer promised, folding thin and spindly arms 
over his chest. "I've gone as far as I can. Now I need some 
distance. The Colony is about as far as I can get and remain 
on Tolaria." He paused, uncertain. "Maybe I can do something 
here to help these people. Master Barrin, I'm tired of 
fighting an enemy I've never even seen and with questionable 
tactics at that. It's over."
    The look of despair that flashed briefly on Barrin's 
strong face nearly bent Timein from his purpose. He knew that 
in a way he was running out on the academy, on Barrin and 
Rayne and especially Urza, but the truth was in his words. He 
had gone as far as he was able, and by Barrin's slow nod, 
Timein knew the other man understood that. He watched as 
Tolaria's master mage braced himself up, shouldering that much 
more of the burden himself.
    "When you are ready to come back, Timein, the academy will 
be there."
    Timein watched as Barrin turned away from the Colony and 
headed back along the path. With the decision made and 
accepted, there was no longer any hesitation to the mage's 
step. He would go forward because there was no one else, and 
Timein respected him for it. As the sorcerer marched downhill 
in the opposite direction, he only hoped the feeling was 
returned. Entering the Colony, he put such debate from his 
mind. There was work to be done.

                          * * * * *

    Urza's lab holding the Thran Eugenics Matrix was one of 
the most secure sites on Tolaria. Two chancellors were 
required in attendance for any work. No one adjusted the 
complex machinery except Urza or Barrin. Rayne stood near the 
device cradling a massive leather-bound volume in her arms, 
her husband next to her. Marking her place in the Thran Tome, 
she studied the intricate artifact. A complex design built 
from delicate-looking components of Thran metal, it had lasted 
underground over many millennia awaiting Urza's discovery. The 
Matrix also had a touch of magic to it, very rare to find in 
Thran artifice, and in Urza's belief, an inadvertent addition.
    "In all probability," the 'walker had once said to an 
assemblage of the scholars, "the Thran never realized the 
significance of magic, and so even they did not know exactly 
how their Eugenics Matrix worked."
    If that was supposed to make them feel better for their 
tampering in a science they only half understood, it failed to 
do so. Rayne was one for the more straightforward work of 
artifice-clear established relationships and predictable 
results, yet the order of accomplishments of the Thran empire 
suggested greater understanding than Urza suggested. Rayne 
couldn't be sure that the planeswalker was correct in his 
theory.
    "Can it be done?" Barrin asked, impatient and unable to 
help the question.
    Rayne glanced up, sighed a frustrated breath. She gathered 
up her long, dark hair with a quick twist around her hand and 
tossed it over her shoulder then bent back to her task.
    "Thirty generations," the mage whispered, shaking his head 
and pacing off to one side.
    Rayne sensed her husband's weariness and wanted to console 
him, but she also needed to concentrate on the work at hand. 
She hadn't seen Barrin so despondent since the day Karn's 
memory had been capped.
    She certainly understood his concerns. Newly promoted to 
chancellor herself, one of the administrative leaders of the 
academy now as well as a head scholar of artifice, she had 
reviewed the final results from Timein's research. It would 
take approximately thirty generations to approach the empathic 
mixture Urza required of the heir to his Legacy. Better than 
six hundred years and it all had to be in real time. No more 
shortcuts could be taken, not in the actual rearing of 
bloodlines subjects, and all needed to be raised off of 
Tolaria in virtually uncontrolled experiments. In the end, who 
could be sure that the empathic mixture would produce an heir 
with the exact qualities Urza desired? The person he wanted 
was strong and willful with as much empathy for the enemy as 
for the world of Dominaria itself-the ability to understand 
and so defeat the Phyrexians, without turning to their dark 
purposes.
    Rayne set the large tome on a nearby table and allowed it 
to fall closed with a quick, dry ruffle of pages and a heavy 
slap from the binding. She breathed a heavy sigh, rubbing at 
her temples as if trying to massage into place within her mind 
all the information she'd just absorbed.
    Barrin was back at her side in three quick strides. "Can 
it be done?" he asked.
    She smiled wearily at his impatience. "Never bet against 
Thran artifice," she said. "There wasn't much they apparently 
couldn't accomplish." She placed one hand on the tome. "I even 
found some references to the idea of binding artifice with 
flesh on the most basic cellular level. I wonder if that 
remained theory?"
    Her husband shook at that thought. "Having seen the 
monstrosities of artifice bonded to flesh, I can only imagine 
the horror of artifice blended with flesh."
    Frightening shadows stirred at the back of Rayne's mind. 
Still, the thought would not let go. There was potential 
there.
    "We only want to be able to make subtle alterations to a 
living being," Barrin said, as if reminding his wife of their 
current goal, "but they will have to be applied throughout the 
entire biological system to prevent genetic rejection from 
causing rapid breakdown."
    This was a vague way of saying that a change must seem to 
be naturally present from birth to prevent what could be a 
terrible death. Rayne nodded, her eyes dark with the strain of 
reading into the late hours. She glanced around, suddenly 
uncomfortable to be in one of Urza's workshops.
    "I think we can do this," she said, "and with greater 
effect than Gatha's crude experiments since we'll rely more on 
the precision of artifice over his unpredictable magics." She 
looked to Barrin with a frank openness. "The question is, 
should we?"
    "A question I ask myself every day, my love," Barrin 
answered after a moment's pause, "but after learning from 
Multani and others about Yavimaya's forced evolution, Urza 
believes more firmly than ever that we are on the right track, 
as if our work here reflects nature's own course. Urza will 
proceed with or without the academy's assistance."
    Rayne glanced over at the Thran Matrix, the ancient 
artifact so compact and precise and utterly devoid of malice 
or empathy. That would come from its user. "I believe it would 
be better with," she said.
    To that Barrin simply nodded.
    
                           Book II
                      THE SPARK OF LIFE
                      (3655-3863 A.R.)

    There is a point-some might say a moment-in scientific 
experimentation known as the complexity cusp. Whether artifice 
or magical in nature, this is a dangerous area where the 
procedure or process reaches such a complex stage that it can 
no longer be controlled by scientific method. We, the 
progenitors, begin to react to the experiment rather than the 
reverse. The larger or wider the scope of the experiment, the 
easier for the cusp to be reached and surpassed without 
immediate notice.
    
                                - Barrin, Master Mage of Tolaria
    
                         Chapter 11

    The sun rode low in the west. Lyanii doffed her helm as 
she approached the caravan's merchant leader, holding the 
visored headgear in her right hand in a display of neutrality-
not quite peace. A few long strands of her chestnut-brown hair 
drifted next to the high cheekbones of her face, the majority 
of her long tresses caught up in the tie she used to keep it 
out of the way while in armor. Merchant swordsmen took ready 
positions at the sides of the caravan wagons. She carried no 
weapons herself, but the phalanx of archers backing her by one 
hundred paces argued her strength. The merchants would only be 
able to guess at what forces remained behind the gates of the 
newly-built village of Devas. It left her in the superior 
position, where she would remain. As a former marshal of 
Serra's Realm, the artificial plane fallen in the war between 
Phyrexians and Urza Planeswalker, it was what she knew best.
    Still several paces out, she began to gauge the merchant's 
measure. He looked to be sharp of mind but soft of body, 
commanding through his purse. The merchant displayed the tan 
of a traveler. His clothes were fine silks threaded with spun 
silver. He had an earring in each ear, large rubies both, and 
a gold tooth, which flashed in the sun when he smiled. He 
returned her interest, finding no help in her unsmiling face 
but obviously impressed with the quality of her armor. The 
opalescent finish to the light steel promised well-guarded 
wealth. The Serrans' ability to blend in was one of the 
reasons Lyanii had chosen Benalia for her people, second only 
to its affinity for the ambient white mana of sun and plains 
and open sky.
    Lyanii spared barely a second for the merchant's personal 
guard of four pikemen, unconcerned with their presence. "I am 
Marshal of this village," she said in greeting, neither 
challenging nor welcoming.
    The merchant would have to make the first effort. The 
Serran people were too new to make assumptions. Assumptions 
had hurt them before as well.
    "Trader Russo," he said, smiling wide. His Benalish accent 
rode his voice in softened vowels, though the heavy-scented 
oil he wore spoke of trade with foreign lands. "I travel 
through here once a year, usually stopping at the river bend 
where your village is being built. It is beautiful work and 
erected with impressive speed."
    White stone was favored in Benalia. Their village used it 
in abundance, polishing each wall until it shone like 
alabaster. Fluted columns rose to impressive heights to either 
side of the gates, ending in platforms far above like those 
which might carry statues but currently remained empty-the 
lookouts having winged back down into cover. Inside the gates, 
rising over the few finished clay-tiled roofs, were the 
beginning walls of what would be their cathedral fortress.
    "This is our land now," Lyanii said, speaking for her 
followers as well as herself, "but Devas welcomes trade. You 
may camp nearby."
    The trader allowed the touch of a frown. "Capashen or 
Ortovi?" He spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. "You 
sit between their ancestral lands, but I can't place you by 
the architecture."
    Lyanii had hoped to brush over the heritage of her people 
and the method of their arrival, but clearly some explanation 
would be warranted. "We are refugees," she said, and that was 
true. "We hold no allegiance to the Benalish clans." His frown 
deepened. "Surely they would not object to the presence of a 
new village?"
    "One that raises solid walls and employs its own guard in 
the same custom and fashion as a proper clan manor?" The 
merchant ran fingers back through his curly black locks. "They 
just might." He glanced back to the line of archers, and again 
at her crest, as if trying to place them. "Refugees from 
where?"
    "A land devoted to Serra," Lyanii said, measuring out 
truth with a careful hand. This trader was obviously well-
traveled, so he might have heard of those Dominarian sects 
that knew of Serra and worshiped her as a goddess. "On the 
continent of Jamuraa," she said, pretending to relent. "We 
were attacked. The invaders drove us away, despoiling our 
lands ..." Her explanation didn't even begin to touch upon the 
whole story. The destruction of their homeland and how the 
Phyrexians had found the Serrans was left out. Now the 
surviving refugees from Serra's Realm were scattered in small 
groups, hiding. "Armies of the dark lord with no name." Russo 
tried a tight grin. "Ah. Another Lord of the
    Wastes," he said with false solemnly, trying to recapture 
a lighter mood. When Lyanii did not respond he flushed in 
embarrassment and explained. "I hear a lot of old tales in my 
travels. There is one about a dark figure and his armies of 
evil minions who will one day sweep whole nations from 
Dominaria. I've heard everything from the Ice Age to the small 
wars in Efuan Pincar blamed on him." He laughed, hollowly. "Of 
course, who actually believes that?"
    Lyanii found no humor in the idea. "Who indeed," she said 
simply, voice tight with her loss and upset with herself for 
the momentary loss of control.
    The merchant stumbled through an apology for his bad 
humor.
    "No matter," she said finally. "I will have to contact the 
local clans then to make them aware of our presence and our 
preference for solitude."
    "Yes," Russo agreed, "but do you know which to approach? 
Such procedures can make all the difference in Benalia."
    She didn't see why, but then ignorance was not to be 
ashamed of-only corrected if possible. Russo might have 
suggestions, but then he could not appreciate the Serran 
refugees' position. As marshal she must choose. "Where are you 
bound for next?" she asked.
    "I've just come from Ortovi and am on my way to Capashen 
Manor and the Capashen villages west of there. That doesn't 
matter. You need Clan Blaylock. They're the ones overseeing 
foreign diplomacy, until the next moon of course."
    Lyanii nodded her agreement, but frowned at that last. 
"Next moon?"
    "You did fall from the sky," he said, trying to recapture 
some of the mood lost earlier. "How did you travel so deep 
into Benalia and not hear of the Clans' lunar rotation?" 
Lyanii only shrugged. "On the glimmer moon's lunar year, two 
months from now, the ruling clans all rotate their duties. 
After that it'll be Clan Capashen's turn at diplomacy for a 
year, while Blaylock moves to the ruling clan." He grew 
thoughtful. "You could, I suppose, hold on until the moon's 
change. Then you are dealing with a local Clan. The Blaylocks 
would want to enforce the caste system on you sure enough. The 
Capashens are more tolerant of outside ways." A glance to the 
ranks of archers. "Your warriors will be a sticky point, 
regardless. It might be better if you formally adopted their 
system to begin with."
    "That will not happen," Lyanii said, head swimming with 
all the new information.
    She was marshal because Serra had decided it so, just as 
others were archers or guards. They were suited for their 
positions because they had been created as such. Why should 
they let an outside force determine their roles? Still, the 
trader had been more helpful than she'd at first thought.
    "Thank you for the advice, Trader Russo."
    Russo shrugged, neatly separating himself from the matter. 
"Advice is free. Here's hoping you do well, Marshal Lyanii. In 
the meantime, shall we see what my caravan can offer you and 
yours?"
    Lyanii nodded for him to lead then turned and signaled for 
administrators from Devas. They would better know what was 
needed and what could be traded away. She would accompany the 
administrators and later perhaps invite Russo into the village 
for a discussion on Benalish customs. This land was their home 
now, and Lyanii would need to know everything possible if they 
were to survive.

                          * * * * *

    The formal reception took place in Capashen Manor's 
ballroom. Gold flake had been mixed into a sealant and brushed 
over the white stone walls, leaving a smooth golden-glitter 
finish. Stained glass windows along two walls offered multi-
colored views onto the impressive grounds in the back of the 
estate. A cathedral ceiling arced majestically overhead, 
rising up to the stained glass dome heavily trimmed in gold. 
The open space muted the soft music that rained down from an 
overhead musician's balcony, the perfect volume to enjoy while 
also engaged in discussion.
    Karn walked into the room at the side of Nathan Capashen, 
leader of his Benalish Clan. Around them the Capashen nobles 
mingled cautiously with those of Clan Ortovi-their guests. 
Karn noticed that a strained cordiality had settled over the 
assembly as everyone carefully skirted the purpose of the 
state visit. By custom, it wasn't until the second day of a 
visit that business could be discussed. Of course, everyone 
already knew from the guests in residence what that business 
would be. Now they merely awaited the final member of the 
convocation- the third party that tradition demanded put the 
question forward, though certainly it would be rejected-again.
    "This race of lizardmen, the Viashino, they actually live 
over a live volcano? Amazing, Karn." Nathan
    Capashen looked sideways at the silver man. "Almost 
incredulous."
    He shook his head, obviously trying to compare such a life 
with the open plains of Benalia. Nathan was an avid audience 
for news of the larger world.
    It was Karn's turn for a question about Benalia, trading 
his knowledge of Dominaria for more intimate information on 
this land. He found it interesting, as his journals were 
mostly filled with memories of Tolaria until only thirty years 
back. He began to accompany Urza in frequent travels about 
Dominaria. The golem knew some pain for those he saw so little 
of these days-Barrin, Rayne, and Timein. Delving into the 
details of new lands helped to ease that sense of loss. His 
question was interrupted by the sudden heightened pitch of 
conversation in the room as people passed along a single name 
and then fell into an expectant hush. Malzra.
    Urza Planeswalker strolled with intent across the large 
floor, bearing down on Karn and Leader Nathan Capashen. He 
wore a closed-collared garment of royal purple and a blue 
leather vest. Urza stopped, glanced about as if just now 
noticing the silence and smiled at the surrounding people. 
Conversations picked back up but at a much more subdued level, 
and many crowds edged in closer to Nathan and Karn's location. 
Three others broke from their own groups and moved in for the 
official matter, one taking up position behind Nathan and two 
joining Urza.
    Nathan nodded a friendly greeting. "Master Malzra, you 
honor us with your presence here. Am I to understand you wish 
to put forth a formal proposal?"
    "I do," Urza said. The 'walker's blue eyes were sharp and 
bright, and Karn followed his gaze past Nathan to the clan 
leader's young cousin Jaffry.
    The young clansman was nervous, acutely aware of the 
attention focused on him. He was also just as obviously 
smitten with the woman who trailed Leader Trevar Ortovi, his 
eyes always coming back to her.
    Urza nodded to the young noble lady, Myrr Ortovi. "I am 
honored to invite both clan leaders present today to consider 
accepting Myrr Ortovi as wife to Jaffry Capashen."
    Benalish law stipulated that leaders of each clan had to 
consent publicly and in the same forum before a marriage could 
take place between clans. In this match, Clan Ortovi gained 
most of the advantages. Though she would live among the 
Capashen, Myrr would forever be Ortovi-clan affiliation was 
determined by birthdate and nothing else. Her loyalty to Clan 
Capashen would always be secondary. So on those years when the 
Capashen ranked higher than the Ortovi in Benalish government, 
she might hope to use her influence in favor of her clan.
    Nathan Capashen didn't even look to his cousin. The 
feelings of the couple came second. "This match was denied 
last year, Master Malzra. Why should I reconsider now? Your 
sterling recommendation notwithstanding, of course."
    "Leader Trevar offers as dowry control of the lands and 
both villages bordering the river Larus. Also, in his position 
as head of taxation this year, a reduction to only one part in 
ten of all crops." Urza turned to look at the young girl.
    Myrr nodded, showing that she was a willing participant in 
this ritual and stepped forward, offering Urza her hand.
    Nathan shook his head sadly. "I cannot agree." Several 
gasps of disbelief erupted across the room. "In two months the 
Capashens take over foreign policy while the Ortovis handle 
trade. After that, the Capashens shall rule Benalia, and the 
Ortovis will be in place for diplomacy. I would be a fool to 
ignore the serious advantage given Clan Ortovi by placing Myrr 
within our manor." He paused. "I might consider such a 
marriage in the year after, of course."
    Of course, then the Capashens would be back at the lowest 
position while Ortovi ruled. Karn looked to Urza, as did all 
others, knowing that the matchmaker would not have brought 
forth the invitation without something new to offer. Urza did 
not disappoint.
    The 'walker had not released Myrr's hand, pulling her 
forward gently to stand next to him. "It saddens me to see two 
people kept apart over a trivial matter of dowry. I'm certain 
Trevar Ortovi would offer more to see Myrr's happiness if it 
would not be a detriment to his own clan. So in his place, I 
would like to add to Myrr's dowry."
    An allowable custom, though Karn doubted anyone could 
remember the last time a neutral third party had done such.
    Urza nodded to his golem. "I offer Karn as part of Myrr's 
dowry, his services devoted to their family in specific and 
Clan Capashen in general for no less than fifty years."
    All eyes speared the silver golem. Karn dwarfed all 
present, but at the moment he felt very small under those 
piercing gazes. Fifty years! Better than twice his memory 
span. Forgotten would be Tolaria and his friends there. He was 
shocked that Urza would simply make such a decision without 
first warning the golem, but then something also spoke up 
inside of him that warned that this was not the first time.
    Urza's offer had struck the right target in Nathan. The 
clan leader couldn't help the smile that followed his initial 
surprise, but then he sobered, looking at the silver man 
carefully.
    "Karn, is this what you want as well?" he asked his 
friend.
    Did it matter what the golem might want or decide? If Urza 
was to be believed, nothing else mattered but the threat of 
Phyrexian invasion. The golem had seen one battle already, a 
negator catching the 'walker and golem as the two traveled to 
inspect the mana rig under the Viashino's care. He could only 
imagine the horror of an army of such creatures. If Urza 
believed Karn's service to the Capashen was warranted, could 
he gainsay the planeswalker?
    "I will stay," Karn said slowly, feeling out the words.
    Nathan nodded once, abruptly, then turned back to Urza and 
Trevar. "It is a good match," he said. Nathan motioned Jaffry 
forward, and Urza joined his hand with Myrr's, then said 
loudly, "We welcome Myrr Ortovi into our manor."
    It was a signal for the others in attendance to flock in 
and congratulate the newly engaged as well as each other for a 
fine bargain struck.
    Urza found the golem quickly. "I will be off, Karn. I will 
bring the balance of your personal effects on my next visit." 
He paused a long moment, giving the golem an evaluating stare. 
"I had hoped your travels about Dominaria would give you an 
appreciation for its lands and people. It's good to see that I 
was right."
    Karn read into that a reluctant admission that Urza might 
actually consider the golem a being of his own, not that it 
mattered in the larger picture of course. Still, it helped to 
reinforce Karn's resolve that his choice had been the right 
one. So long as he-and Urza-believed that the golem could make 
a difference in the preparations against Phyrexia, Karn felt 
compelled to answer that higher calling. What else was there 
in any life- human or artifact, mortal or immortal-beside a 
useful existence?
    
                         Chapter 12

    Gatha's colos pens were heavily reinforced. Extra thick 
walls were tipped with spears of valuable iron pointing inward 
and down to keep the beasts from getting too aggressive. Now a 
head reared up, the colos butting aside one spear. It had 
learned to use its protective scale already.
    From his viewing platform, Gatha studied the single 
incredible beast for the results of his latest experiments. 
The massive colos-larger than most by five hands at least-
clawed at the ground with razor-sharp split hooves. Its rank 
breath frosted in the crisp morning air. Gatha found no 
physical deformities except the one he had given it-the same 
hard bone armoring its horns now grew in plate-sized scale 
over half of its hide. It was patchwork still, spaced in 
between large areas still shaggy with the usual coat, but no 
longer suffering degradation problems. His attempts at 
developing a superior war beast were hitting closer to the 
mark. Another three trials and he might try cutting the 
armored scale into the Matrix and use it on some Keldons 
crippled by earlier testing and now good only for 
experimentation, perhaps after one more trial.
    Though occupied with studying the beast, Gatha still kept 
a wary eye on the party being led carefully down the trail 
toward his labs. In Keld, it never paid to be unobservant. 
Gatha knew his visitor would be no descendant of the long-dead 
Trohg. All warriors with a pedigree from the witch king had 
been given the safe routes and passes to his lab. Even now, a 
pair of Trohg's descendents, six times removed, stood guard at 
the laboratory's main door with wickedly barbed halberds. 
Twelve years old, the both of them were already standing above 
six feet and taking early warlord trials the following year. 
Gatha considered them mild successes.
    The approaching party passed beneath the crude arch 
erected over the path. He recognized Varden, a minor witch 
king and-lately-a troublemaker in council. His escort was none 
other than Kreig, another of Trohg's descendents and Gatha's 
best subject ever. This would demand his personal attention, 
and he scaled back down the short ladder to the frost-bitten 
ground below.
    He doffed his fur-lined cap and gloves and tucked them 
beneath his armored breastplate. The armor of Keldon design 
was made of thinly beaten, overlapping steel plates trimmed in 
red leather and gold. It was one of many rich gifts presented 
him by Kreig's two doyenne. He ran a hand over his oiled hair, 
slicking it back so that his tri-widow's peak tattoos stood 
out prominently. On the back of his right hand the personal 
sigil of Trohg had been tattooed. It bound Gatha to Trohg and 
the witch king's lineage and signified his acceptance in Keld 
with all rights and privileges. More, it shielded him from any 
immediate danger-by tradition any dispute with a protected 
person must be taken to the senior warrior of that line. 
Kreig, with Gatha's latest help, that would forever and always 
be Kreig.
    "My friend," Kreig greeted, a high Keld salutation rarely 
offered inside the Keldon nation and never to an outsider. 
Gatha steeled himself to prevent a wince as Kreig squeezed 
down on his shoulders. "Varden demands an audience with you," 
he said dropping back into the lower tongue. He shot a glare 
back toward Varden who averted his eyes from the more powerful 
witch king. "I took his manor and mate hostage to insure his 
good behavior."
    This meant that Varden came with an argument and possible 
challenge. Kreig may have overstepped himself slightly-
certainly Varden thought so, his nostrils flaring with pent 
rage-usurping what was traditionally the censuring power of 
the council. Gatha doubted many would argue with his witch 
king.
    "I will hear him."
    Varden wasted no time. Though several inches shy of Kreig, 
the smaller warrior showed no fear of the other's presence. 
"You," he thrust a thick finger toward Gatha, a fighting 
offense between any regular Keldon males, "you refused my 
request for The Gift." The Gift was how Keldons referred to 
the preconception process Gatha had started with Trohg and 
applied judiciously depending on his own needs and whims. 
Usually, the effort was not worth potential returns-not with 
the strong line already backing him. "I desire another son, 
one who deserves warlord trials."
    Varden's first son had been born lame, guaranteeing him a 
position in Keldon society barely more than slave labor. At 
least with a battlefield injury, one might expect to live out 
life as a craftsman.
    Gatha had expected something like this. "No," he said.
    Hands balling into sledgelike fists, Varden barely 
controlled his fury. "No? What do you mean, no?" he yelled.
    "No," Gatha replied with quiet strength, his low Keld 
tongue perfect these days. "I refuse your request. I thought 
it was clear from the message I sent. If you need to hear it 
from my lips, then so be it." He shrugged. "No."
    "Lowland fodder," Varden stormed, spittle flying from his 
lips. "You will change your mind," he said, more a command 
than a threat.
    Carving his place within Keld had taken Gatha better than 
four decades. He still remembered those early years, always 
self-effacing and at times cowering because it was expected. 
Trohg had changed that, first ever to name the mage a friend 
after the successful advancement of his own son to warlord and 
then witch king status. Gatha had over a century since to grow 
into his new power, and he knew how to wield it. Varden 
neither frightened nor even worried him, and the warlord's 
lack of understanding of that only proved the legitimacy of 
Gatha's refusal. He was genetically damaged in body and mind-
in the mage's opinion.
    "I will not change my mind." Gatha folded his arms across 
his chest, resolute. "Your son is not fit for enhancement." He 
dug the barb in deeper. "Though perhaps I will request him 
for," and he had to drop back into Argivian for the word, 
"experiments. I will never use your blood in my work again. I 
expect your diseased line to die out." Gatha turned to Kreig. 
"This interview is over," he said. The message was apparent-
Varden no longer mattered.
    Varden shook with rage. One hand fastened onto the hilt of 
his broadsword. His darkly tattooed eyes glared fiercely down 
on the smaller man. "You do this to us," he yelled, "To me. 
Your work over the years, deciding who travels on and who 
falls. It will stop soon, little one. I vow it."
    Varden stomped away, his terrifying exit made comical when 
he realized that he would require Kreig or another escort to 
pass him safely through the snares that warded Gatha's labs. 
Gatha waited for him to bluff it through alone, but in the end 
Varden waited just past the arch, fuming.
    "You have made an enemy for us," Kreig said, careful to 
keep their conversation from Varden's ears. "Varden will 
summon his warhost. Other warlords might stand against me now. 
I had hoped this wouldn't happen for another year."
    Left unspoken but implied with his last statement was the 
fact that Kreig had anticipated such a day, Gatha had merely 
accelerated the timetable. It left the mage feeling confident 
in his greatest subject, who would grow greater yet with the 
slow-time waters being given him the last several years. His 
initial supply kept preserved in a stasis field, the both of 
them could easily live another century, then, if necessary, 
Kreig's warhost could visit Tolaria and request more.
    Gatha was not about to see his work ruined now by 
something so easily overcome as chance. "Give me the names of 
those who might stand against us. I will entice them to stay 
away from Varden." The easy offer of withholding of his magics 
could influence most warlords. Kreig cocked his head to one 
side, considering, then grunted a simple acknowledgment. The 
mage smiled. "You then only have to crush Varden."

                          * * * * *

    Even as breath came in frosted clouds, the battle cries of 
the Keldons warmed the air and stirred bloodlust. There were 
screams of challenge, personal conquest, and the bellowing of 
orders as commands of the opposing warlords were routed. Only 
a few shouts of pain were heard, except perhaps in the most 
tragic of cases where limbs were lost or backbones cleaved, 
allowing those final seconds of painful clarity before 
oblivion. No fearful shouts were called-not so much as a 
whimper-not from these men. They would bleed their flesh 
white, staining the frostbitten earth and stone dark with the 
red of their life before admitting to cowardice in any fashion 
or guise. It was a clashing of titans, marauders who would 
fight and die to the last man if so ordered here on this 
lonely plateau, no ordinary contest. Mist wreathed the land 
farther down, piling into a dense fog that cascaded down the 
mountainside to fill the lower valleys. It was as if the gods 
themselves had elevated the battleground above the ken of 
mortal man.
    A broken ridgeline split the plateau unevenly, the scarp 
of sharp rocks pushed up during a recent movement of the 
earth. The battle raged only on the larger side-a thousand 
warriors joined in ferocious combat. A few had claimed the 
higher ground for their fighting, loosing hand-pitched rocks 
and the occasional axe down on those below. Boulders large and 
small littered the battlefield, minor obstacles Keldon 
warriors dodged to get at their enemy.
    Leather-armored footsoldiers carried hooked longswords or 
wickedly spiked maces. Nearly all tied smokesticks of colos 
horn into their hair. The smoke drove many Keldons into a 
battle frenzy and was known for the nervous anxiety it bred in 
other races. They fought in single combat only where a blood 
feud was acknowledged between two warriors. Mostly they 
clumped together and dashed madly into enemy groups, bristling 
juggernauts of steel and sinew. Against any other foe, a 
Keldon warrior would have trusted the tough coloshide leather 
and his own strength to stand up to a blow, setting up a 
killing stroke of his own. Those who relied on such tactics 
lay among the fallen here. This was not a battle to be won on 
ferocious strength alone. Here strength and skill carried the 
battle only so far. It would be won by the warhost commanders, 
the Keldon warlords, the witch kings.
    Kreig held the inside flank of his warhost, turning his 
broad back to the sharp ridge as he slashed his way through 
the thickest fighting, well armored with metal gauntlets and 
greaves, interlocking plates covering chest, shoulders and 
hips. His helm allowed a narrow slit for vision, the opening 
guarded from a lucky sword thrust by twin crescent-shaped 
blades. A ridge of curving spikes stood out from his 
shoulders, each one vented to a cavity built into the neckline 
where smoldering embers had been placed to wreath his headgear 
and shoulders in fearsome smoke. The leather joints in his 
armor were made with the shaggy colos hair still in place to 
bring about the illusion that the armor concealed beast rather 
than man.
    Gatha's greatest witch king wielded his Keldon greatsword 
with both hands, the silvery finish of the blade now marred 
with gore and running droplets of blood. The bloodlust of 
several hundred warriors coursed through his veins, exploded 
in his heart, pounded at his temples. He drew upon the 
warhost's strength, their courage. His eighth opponent lay in 
two at his feet, cleaved from right shoulder to left hip. The 
warrior's stabbing sword had pierced the witch king's right 
thigh. The Keldon simply drew it out as if it was a mere 
annoyance and tossed it aside with a howl of derision for 
Varden's warriors.
    "Varden!" he called out, challenging the other witch king 
to stand against him.
    His own warriors, those close enough to hear the 
challenge, called out his own name in a chant. "Kreig! Kreig! 
Kreig!" It left little question from where the great witch 
king commanded. Sporadic calls of "Varden" were little more 
than half-hearted answers to the general chant, not a reply to 
his challenge. None could stand against this witch king. No 
being of Dominaria could hope to match him.
    Another warrior came at him, this one slashing with a 
halberd. With a spinning cut, Kreig took the head of the 
polearm off just behind the blade. He continued his spin, 
coming back around in a straight-armed attack that took the 
warrior's head easily from his shoulders. Kreig picked up the 
head and tossed it into a knot of Varden's men who were trying 
to protect the lower slopes of the scarp. A sickle-axe sunk 
into the ground near his foot. Kreig picked that up as well. 
His return throw found an enemy warrior halfway up the slope 
of sharp rocks. Even throwing upward, his strength punched the 
point of the weapon through armor and chest to stick out the 
other's back. No one would be protected from him.
    Where Kreig walked the battle turned in his favor. His 
closest warriors fought and died to keep abreast of him, which 
pushed the witch king forward all the harder. They were lucky 
to simply trail back from his lead in a deep arrow, leaving 
behind a field littered with dead or dying men and a few 
scattered fights. Kreig could see Varden now, leading his men 
from behind-ordering them forward while he and his private 
guards advanced much slower. A thick line of Varden's 
supporters separated Kreig from his enemy-but not for long.
    His greatsword flicking like a dragon's tongue, Kreig 
forced his way into a knot of mace-wielding soldiers. He left 
amputated limbs, shattered bone and cleft armor in his wake. 
Two heavy-spiked clubs stuck into him, abdomen and elbow. A 
downward slice took the arms off one man. The other he 
dispatched with an easy thrust through the chest. The weapons 
still sticking in him, he felt no pain and never slowed from 
wounds which would have killed a mortal man. He was more than 
mortal at this moment, the energy at the core of his being 
multiplied several hundred-fold. He was Kreig. He was Keld.
    Kreig looked over the field at two Keldon warhosts joined 
in battle. Each one, by himself was a superior warrior. 
Together they were a proud and fierce nation. Where each 
warrior fell to a brother the nation diminished. His nation 
diminished.
    He chopped the head off a war sickle aimed for his neck, 
his sword edge slicing through the wooden shaft with ease. 
Instead of a return stroke, taking another life, Kreig 
fastened one gauntleted hand onto the other's long hair and 
pulled the warrior to arm's length to stare into the witch 
king's dark gaze.
    "Keld!" he bellowed a new war cry, taking the nation's 
name for his own.
    He shouted it into the warrior's face, turned him with an 
easy roll of the wrist, and set him facing against his former 
comrades. He could feel the man's loyalties swaying on the 
field, caught between the powers of two witch kings. Kreig 
took up a stabbing sword from a fallen warrior of his own host 
and thrust its hilt into the warrior's hands.
    "Keld!" he yelled again, a cry the warrior took up for his 
own.
    Kreig swept forward-invincible in his power. Any warrior 
brave enough to meet him was converted with the call of home 
and nation and set back on the side of Kreig. With each 
convert Varden's power waned. More rallied to Kreig, in 
singles, then pairs and then trios. Finally the remaining 
enemy forces fell back, regrouping around a solid center. 
Varden pushed his way to the fore, broadsword in one hand and 
his personal crest in the other. Kreig summoned his own 
colors, taking the greatsword one-handed despite the awkward 
grip.
    "Varden," the smaller force called out, summoning the last 
of their strength in a mad rush at the opposing center.
    "Keld," the warhost of Kreig answered.
    Led by their mightiest, the army swarmed forward and over 
Varden's group. The witch kings came against each other. 
Kreig's greatsword punched through metal plating to slice into 
Varden's left leg. Varden's own stroke slipped into an 
unprotected space and stabbed deeply into Kreig's side. 
Powered by their greater strength, each witch king felt the 
pain of near-mortal wounds. Kreig rebounded faster. He swept 
his blade down and then around in a grand overhead sweep while 
Varden barely had time to bring his own sword up in an attempt 
to parry. Varden's broadsword shattered under the vicious 
stroke, and Kreig followed through to split open the witch 
king's head. His blade turned slightly by Varden's spine, 
Kreig's stroke finally died when it stuck into the other man's 
left hip.
    Kreig stood over the fallen witch king, the battle over. 
He wrenched his weapon free, held it aloft with blood dripping 
down in a christening shower. No more challenges were called 
forth, only the victory bellows of his followers. Keld was his 
now. He would lead its greatest armies into the field, and 
here in the mountains he would rule. He saw a tiered throne in 
his vision, decorated with bodies of his fallen enemies. He 
looked his nation in the eye, challenging it, and it glanced 
away, subdued.

                          * * * * *

    Gatha remembered a time when he had stood in Council, 
ready to address the assembled doyen, and had deliberated 
taken the uppermost tier in order for all to look on him as he 
spoke. He had demurred then, unsure of protocol. This day, 
standing with Kreig as the witch king set forth to claim that 
empty spot, the mage could only think back on that moment and 
count himself fortunate to be alive for even considering the 
idea.
    Kreig carried the tattered and blood-stained colors of 
Varden. The other witch king's warhost no longer existed, all 
survivors having pledged their loyalty unto death to Kreig. He 
had come to the council as the greatest warrior-the greatest 
witch king-ever known. Dressed simply in ceremonial leathers, 
his chest and arms bared to the cold, he walked over to the 
wall, withdrew a spike from his belt, and used it to stab 
through the heavy cloth and into the wall. Never before had a 
warlord's crest been displayed here among the spiked standards 
of every nation the Keldons had ever fought against. It was 
both proof of victory and threat to those who would stand 
against him. Kreig nodded to Gatha, and the two walked 
straight over to the lowermost tier. Kreig mounted it first, 
staring down those nearby, and then turned to offer Gatha a 
hand in aide.
    Where the mage may have come into his own power here in 
Keld-able six months ago to stand up before a furious Varden 
and believe himself sacrosanct-here his nerves sang tightly 
for the role Kreig expected him to play. The witch king did 
not need to include him but did so for an old promise made by 
Trohg himself. Shrugging aside the offer of assistance, Gatha 
mounted the tier and stared directly at the warlord to his 
immediate side. The Keldon stood, his massive frame towering 
over Gatha, but after a quick glance to Kreig he averted his 
gaze and stepped back, leaving room for Gatha to stand as an 
equal-as doyen, one of the leaders of Keld.
    Gatha swallowed a tight knot in his throat, his mouth dry 
and scratchy for lack of spit. For the first time ever the 
council hall did not seem cold, a full-body flush warming him.
    Kreig, however, was not finished. He stepped upon the next 
tier, then the next, again meeting no challenge.
    On this third tier a crippled warlord rose, his age 
impressive and showing in the weathered face and slightly 
stooped shoulders. One arm had been replaced by a stabbing 
sword, his left leg a sharpened stump of metal.
    "I do not speak against you, Kreig," He thrust the bladed 
hand toward Gatha, "but he does not belong there."
    Gatha knew that those warlords crippled in battle still 
retained their place. The council of the aged was given weight 
in all deliberations, but in the end the strong ruled. Kreig 
locked gazes with his elder.
    "He is here because my great sire, Trohg, promised that 
one day Gatha would sit on the council. I am keeping that 
promise. Gatha has proven himself as the greatest ally of the 
Keldon nation. My victories are his victories."
    Kreig's death would likely be Gatha's own as well. The 
mage was again thankful for his hoard of slow-time water. Now 
he was merely gambling on Kreig's martial prowess. His entire 
life in Keld had been a gamble. At least here he had loaded 
the dice.
    The elder glanced away first. For his challenge, he 
decided to step down a tier rather than be thrown down later. 
The warlord next to his abandoned seat, though, rose and drew 
a dagger. No words passed nor needed to. Kreig leapt for him 
at once, taking a savage slash to his side but fastening his 
hands about the other man's neck. Muscles bunched on his 
shoulders. A sideways twist and the other man's neck snapped 
with a bone-crunching sound. It echoed in the chamber. Kreig 
threw him from the tier.
    A warlord doyen-no witch king this one-rose beyond him. 
Kreig moved forward, and the other dropped back into a 
defensive stance. The witch king paused, then walked forward 
slowly and with great deliberation to each step. He stopped 
barely a foot from the other warrior, hands at his sides and 
eyes boring into the other man's face as if daring him to 
strike first. Brutal seconds passed, and then the warlord 
broke away his gaze and bowed his head in surrender unable to 
bring himself to follow through on the challenge. He also 
demoted himself to the second tier. Kreig continued to stare 
down at him. Still there were no words spoken but some subtle 
body posturing that Gatha could not quite follow. The warlord 
stepped back down to the first tier, and Kreig turned his 
attention back to the final level.
    Behind Kreig, the doyen shook themselves into a new 
structure of power. With three vacancies now on the third 
tier, a witch king from the second tier stood and moved up 
next to Kreig. Toward the dominant witch king he kept eyes 
averted and head slightly bowed. To his right he stared his 
neighbor in the eye and then sat. No one challenged. Another 
rose from the first tier and took a seat in the second. A few 
of the younger but stronger witch kings replaced older 
warlords higher up as well. To Gatha's eye, it became apparent 
who supported Kreig and who was simply bowing to his greater 
strength.
    Kreig ignored it all. With deliberation he stepped up to 
the fourth tier, holding only six chairs-one of them his usual 
seat on the council. One witch king stood in challenge. At 
this level none carried weapons, considering it beneath their 
martial prowess. The fighting was brutal and silent. Kreig 
held up under a stiff-hand blow to the throat and a rib 
cracked by a knee body blow, giving as good as he received. 
Finally he managed to catch his opponent on the jaw with his 
elbow, Kreig picked the stunned man up by shoulder and crotch 
and threw him from the tier, his skull caving in when it 
dashed against the hard floor below. The witch king then 
picked up his own chair and threw it down after the body, 
leaving him no actual seat. He stepped up into the open space 
where no chair had ever been placed and where, by his action, 
none ever would. This place of power was his by right if no 
one challenged.
    No one did. The four remaining doyen who sat on the high 
tier averted their gaze, and Kreig's power was assured. Again 
the doyen maneuvered around to fill vacancies. No fights 
marred the quiet. The others did not presume to compare their 
ability with Kreig's glorious rise. They recognized and 
honored Kreig's strength-and Gatha's, the mage realized, 
remembering how Kreig had shared all victories past and 
future.
    It was a feat never before managed, an event out of 
legend. Kreig had taken the uppermost level. From before 
recorded time the promise had come down: When the Necropolis 
below the council hall filled with the warlord dead, they 
would all rise in an invincible army and sweep Dominaria. The 
warlord who sat the final tier would lead that army. Gatha had 
never understood if that warlord would be one of the dead, the 
greatest of them all through history, or whichever warlord had 
seized the position for the great event. Here, with the mage's 
help, it seemed that Kreig might be able to await that 
rapturous time.
    
                         Chapter 13

    Davvol stood on a small rise that he'd shaped up from the 
mountainside's easy slope of dull tan flowstone. His flying 
disc rested upon the ground behind him-a black altar guarded 
by two Phyrexian soldiers standing a silent guard. On the 
horizon the great volcano that held the Stronghold thrust its 
imperial presence into that chaotic sky. It dwarfed the 
mountain on which he currently stood and reminded Davvol of 
that which he ruled.
    A cutting wind sliced through the gaps in his armor, 
breathing chills against his grayish flesh and billowing his 
cloak out behind him like the leathery wings of a giant bat 
out of nightmare. The cold also gripped at his head, squeezing 
it in an invisible vise, except where the black Phyrexian 
skullcap armored and protected it even from the elements. A 
Coracin physical characteristic- in his mind, a defect-was 
that the bone plates in their wide skulls never quite closed 
and so left a vulnerable spot over the brain, a vulnerability 
that Croag had agreed to remedy, as Davvol's mind was of 
importance to both Davvol and the Phyrexians. Only one feature 
to the skullcap bothered him: The small circular indentation 
high over his forehead. Phyrexians did not adorn their work 
with art or meaningless design. That indentation had a 
purpose, which Croag had not seen fit to pass on and Davvol 
preferred not to draw attention to by asking.
    "You intend to attempt a transfer." Croag's voice squealed 
and cracked behind him. This was not a question. Croag 
obviously knew.
    Davvol looked over his shoulder, his black eyes guarded 
against his surprise at being interrupted here. The member of 
Phyrexia's Inner Circle stood next to the steward's disc, a 
portal still opened behind him and flashing as Davvol's 
soldiers passed through and away-back to the Stronghold, no 
doubt. Now Davvol frowned. The soldiers were a precaution 
since the Vec had been known to roam far from their 
underground city searching the landscape. Of course, Croag 
could easily handle anything a common soldier could, but those 
guards were his, to be dismissed only by Davvol himself.
    "I am considering it," he finally admitted.
    "It would be better if your troops did not see a failure." 
Croag glided forward slowly, the metal bands that formed his 
semblance of clothing rasping against each other. Croag 
carried his staff today, a twisted metal creation with no 
apparent purpose. Davvol knew better than to assume such was 
true. "Failure is too often the genesis of recycling. You 
might weaken their loyalty to you."
    Croag had done him a favor? Perhaps. Davvol did not blind 
himself to the possibility that Croag might be concerned that 
the guard witness his success. The centuries were stacking up 
behind the steward of Rath, and with each passing year he 
accumulated more data through which he better understood his 
position and that of those around him. Davvol smiled, thinking 
that none of his race could ever have hoped for such a long 
life holding the power he did. He would gain more so long as 
he maintained appearances and worked carefully.
    "My appreciation, Croag. I hadn't considered that." 
Because he truthfully hadn't considered failure as an option, 
"What would happen to the subjects if a failure occurred in 
mid-transference?" Would the Phyrexian even know?
    "They would be gone," Croag said simply. "Lost between 
worlds. It has happened before, yes. During the first 
steward's reign."
    That told Davvol quite a lot that he hadn't known before, 
the most important, of course, being that Rath's rulers had 
changed in the past, and by extension could easily be changed 
again in the future. The thought bred hope and concern both. 
He turned to the task at hand, staring down the slope at the 
smooth wash of flowstone.
    Davvol mentally reached back to the Stronghold. There the 
great control machinery for transference currently lay 
dormant, though it, like the flowstone, was attuned to the 
mental commands of both Davvol and Croag. The machinery 
sparked to life with his mental touch. When Rath was complete, 
ready to provide access to Dominaria for the armies of 
Phyrexia, this great machinery would overlay one to the other, 
the mutable quality of flowstone bridging the gap between 
planes in one final expenditure. Until then, the ease of a 
transference was limited by many factors, the closer to Rath's 
final form, the better. The size of the attempted transference 
and physical distance from the Stronghold's control machinery 
made a difference as well. The only variable was apparently 
the strength of mind of the steward or evincar. As always, 
Davvol trusted his mental abilities.
    First in the valley, he sensed the machinery powering to 
life, softening the flowstone over an area measuring in square 
miles. Pressure built within his mind, an avalanche of 
malleable stone poised overhead, threatening to engulf him. 
Just beyond the promontory the land sank as if undermined by 
some great cavern beneath. Edges to the valley appeared as 
flowstone sloughed downhill.
    As the flowstone continued to evacuate, the machinery 
built up the lower sides and generally shaped the valley into 
the picture Davvol held for it-slightly crescent shaped with 
weathered southern slopes and a steep cliff face to the north. 
His consciousness plunged into the land, following the forces 
at work. The pressure eased, the incredible raw weight of the 
flowstone falling away as the valley took its basic form. The 
machinery then began to pull details from Davvol's thoughts-
from the memory of his trip to Dominaria. The seeker opening 
the portal for him had promised the perfect site, enclosed and 
isolated, and such had been delivered. Davvol spent days 
memorizing the finer detail, from the spicy pine scent to the 
cool touch of dew-laden fern. Now he transferred that detail 
to the Stronghold's control machinery, and again his mind 
strained under the weight of his undertaking. Flowstone leapt 
up in columns and spikes, filling out to become trees and 
bushes and grass. They stood in frozen relief, a true-to-life 
forest valley apparently sculpted from simple sandstone.
    Only it was not so simple. It was an incredible display of 
power, both from Davvol and from the flowstone itself.
    The process continued, memory becoming reality in this 
artificial valley. Now buildings rose up, adding to a renewed 
mental weight. Never before had Davvol felt his mind so 
completely at work, the machinery simply taking all he 
allowed. He saw animals in the forest and people on the 
streets and walks between buildings. They moved- were alive-
and many stared up into a sky turned suddenly dark. Voices 
cried, shouted, and screamed. Davvol stood on the threshold of 
worlds and planes, looking between the chaos of the multiverse 
as the great machinery folded one into the other. The people 
were aware of Rath, of him, and many fell to the ground out of 
abject fear for what they could not understand.
    Several hundred lives, the town residents, were but tiny 
sparks within his consciousness. The true life carried across 
the hole he had opened in the void, their sobs and screams of 
terror piercing the background roll of Rath's eternal 
thunderstorm. Their tormented cries distracted Davvol, forcing 
the machinery to pull stronger at his mind. Slowly Rath's 
steward sank to the ground, his hands splayed down against the 
flowstone promontory as he came to his knees under the stress. 
Still he did not take his eyes off the valley, then the 
pressure receded, and the forces raised by the machinery 
brought Davvol back from the threshold. The tortured wailing 
faded. He felt a few small sparks of life evade his final 
grasp. Some were lost in the chaos between Rath and Dominaria.
    It was done.
    A deer sprang nearby, jumping from verdant valley to the 
lip of Rath's unnatural flowstone landscape. It froze in 
fright then scrambled back to the safety of trees and 
undergrowth. Far in the distance, carried to Davvol by the 
final vestiges of his connection with the Stronghold's control 
machinery, came the terrified cries of people now gazing into 
an unfamiliar and hostile sky of dark clouds and vivid 
lightning. These were the newest residents of Rath.
    Davvol smiled fully. These people would be taken as 
slaves. Davvol planned to accelerate the schedule and bring 
Rath closer to the point of final convergence, then Rath 
itself would cross the threshold and merge with Dominaria, 
bringing with it the armies of Phyrexia. Davvol would rule 
Rath and open the way for Phyrexia. He saw no other future. 
Even Croag would admit this now.
    When he turned back Croag and the portal were gone. Davvol 
stood alone over his valley, left with his creation. The 
steward laughed, his harsh voice carried away on the sharp 
wind. That was fine by him. He felt no desire to share the 
moment, preferring the solitude of his success-his first 
success, but certainly not his last.

                          * * * * *

    Storm clouds over Benalia hid stars and the blurry 
reflection of the Glimmer Moon. The Null Moon, a hard point of 
light often mistaken for a bright star, had recently cleared 
the overcast horizon. Only one being in the Capashen village 
of DeLatt knew the Null Moon's exact position, no need of 
direct sight to sense the satellite. Its lips curled back 
revealing a feral smile of sharp, gnashing teeth. Thunder 
crashed, shaking clay tiles and rattling window panes.
    The blackness that formed inside the small courtyard had 
little to do with the dark Dominarian night. Pale gray 
flagstones reflected a cascade of lightning into the most 
remote corners. The bright wash bathed everything in a 
preternatural glow for one split second, except the round 
portal of pitch dark that sat tucked behind a wall of hanging 
plants. The home of the village magistrate framed three sides 
of the courtyard, the fourth opening up onto a wrought-iron 
fence with a gate offset on the right-hand side. An engraved 
metal shield over the gate offered a welcome to those who 
passed within. Though the gate remained locked, three figures 
moved among the shadows of the courtyard. Lightning flashed 
again, the scar standing out in the dark sky for a long second 
as violent thunder assailed the earth.
    Croag already felt at home here. The electrically charged 
air felt invigorating, reminding the Inner Circle member of 
Rath and certain portions of Phyrexia-and something more, a 
sense pulling at Croag's mind in a way that more closely spoke 
of home and kindred. He could detect the barest scent of 
glistening oil-the scent exuded by meat once bathed in the 
vats. Croag chattered a brief acknowledgement to the seeker 
who had found this place. The minor Phyrexian stepped back 
with a groveling bow, taking a subordinate position to Croag 
and Davvol.
    Davvol studied the surroundings, no doubt committing every 
last detail to his extraordinary memory. Croag did not mind-
encouraged it, in fact. Davvol proved ever more useful as the 
centuries played out. Though he had yet to kill Urza 
Planeswalker, his improvements to negators could not be 
gainsaid, and his management of Rath was adequate, if 
uninspired. He had surprised Croag those months ago, able to 
guide a transference between Rath and Dominaria. That was not 
to say that the Inner Circle member considered the other 
dangerous. Davvol displayed no real aggression or ambition, 
not in any way the Phyrexian could gauge at least. Perhaps in 
another century or two he could be trouble, but who could plan 
so far ahead when today there was so much to accomplish?
    A twinge, more direct this time, centered Croag's 
attention toward a pair of glass-paned doors. "There," he 
said, a simple screech of sound. It pointed one skeletal 
finger.
    Rath's steward squinted in the direction, unable to pierce 
the gloom so deeply as Croag with his uncompleated eyes. 
"Where?" he asked as more lightning streaked across the sky. 
"The doors?" He moved off, his armored boots scraping against 
flagstone.
    Croag moved quietly, making only his usual metallic rasp 
and the occasional scrape of metal bands against stone. With 
the booming thunder and a damp wind rattling the metal gate, 
the sounds of their passage should go unnoticed. If not, there 
would be one less Dominarian. Davvol tried the door latches, 
and they opened easily on well-oiled hinges. Croag was the 
first through, shredding the diaphanous white curtains as he 
passed. He moved directly to the side of a bed on which an old 
man slept. Weak and frail looking, as were most Dominarians, 
Croag found it difficult to reconcile the dark call that 
pulled him toward the human. He was not a sleeper but 
something very similar.
    Reports from Dominarian agents-the sleepers, negators and 
seekers who came into contact with many of the weaker races-
had spoken of such humans. Meat creatures with a dark affinity 
and a special strength building within that drew the 
Phyrexians toward them. Croag had considered such reports in 
error, confusing the nature of humans born in black mana 
environments with true Phyrexian purity. The Vec and others 
now living in Rath knew such empathy.
    Croag had changed his opinion when he had walked Davvol's 
new settlement. Most of the people there had fled in terror, 
but one did not. Donning chain mail and mounted on a similarly 
armored horse, he came at the Phyrexian, intent on destroying 
Croag-no fear or hesitation showing in his steel-blue eyes. 
Croag had felt that connection then, as if both beings 
recognized in the other that which was black-that which was 
Phyrexian. It brought the human strength enough to resist and 
to fight. Spurring his mount, he thundered in at the alien 
creature with furious hatred. The Inner Circle member 
destroyed the human with very little conscious effort. He 
plunged his talons deep into the lesser creature's brain to 
draw out what final information he could. Delicious in its 
intensity, Croag reveled in the sensations that only meat 
could know.
    In light of this attack Croag had come here, to the home 
of a Benalish nobleman serving as village magistrate. Here a 
seeker had recently sensed that spark of dark matter in the 
soul of a human. Again Croag knew the pull toward one not of 
his kind-but similar.
    With a gesture from the Phyrexian, Davvol placed the 
artifact Croag had ordered him to carry near the human's head. 
A braided metal cable uncoiled and slithered across the pillow 
to set itself into the old man's ear, whispering a series of 
tones and noises. At normal volume, issuing forth from one of 
the larger Phyrexian war engines, the sound would frighten and 
confuse. At sufficiently high levels it might even be enough 
to interfere with the nerve processes. Here, at such a muted 
volume, it would merely induce a deep slumber. The human would 
not awaken, though he might remain aware of the nightmares 
that Croag would subject him to. The Phyrexian rested his left 
hand over the man's face, first and fifth talons rotating 
inward to burrow through flesh and bone above the temples and 
into the soft brain matter beneath. It was not enough for 
permanent damage, not yet, but meant to draw upon memories of 
the sleeping man. Croag was searching for answers.
    The old man's eyes opened. Alarm and then terror flashing 
through them, quickly replaced by a furious hatred. This was 
not supposed to happen. His hands came out from the covers to 
fasten around Croag's wrist. Blood ran down his arms and 
splashed against his face as the skin on his hands split 
against the razor-sharpness of Croag's construction. Still he 
did not let go and actually budged Croag's hand, forcing the 
talons to cut laterally through sensitive brain tissue. His 
hands locked as the seizures took him, and he thrashed in the 
bed. Croag dug deeper, pulling out what information he could.
    His name was Jaffry Capashen, son of Steffan and distant 
cousin of his current clan leader Thomas. The concepts and 
context of family and clan and caste all flooded the 
Phyrexian's mind. There was no time to enjoy the sensations, 
the knowledge pulled deeper to be reexamined later as the 
frail body faded into death.
    Croag drove inward, cracking bone and squeezing the gray 
meat for more. He sensed the other's affinity for
    Phyrexian methods and manners, the reason no doubt he had 
resisted the artifact. Dim images of years spent in a large 
clan manor swam at the Phyrexian. He saw brief memories of a 
battle fought in service to Benalia, an arranged marriage and 
the birth of two children, the death of his wife Myrr, and the 
taking of this assignment to the local village where he 
dispensed justice and collected taxes for his clan.
    Croag withdrew his razored talons, leaving behind a pulped 
mess of bone fragments, brain and blood. He turned to find 
Davvol waiting patiently, but the seeker was no longer in the 
room.
    Davvol did not wait for the question. "I sent the seeker 
away," he said calmly. "The old man was certainly never 
supposed to wake up and defy you. I thought it better for the 
seeker to not see a failure here. It might cause," he paused, 
"problems."
    Immune to the embarrassment of feelings, Croag still knew 
of the respect due his status and that in Davvol's eyes he was 
now being subject to very careful ridicule. The Phyrexian 
hunched down, not to diminish himself but in preparation of 
attack, though Croag restrained himself. Davvol remained too 
useful a tool to dispose of at this time.
    "Yes," he said in a metallic screech. "At this time." It 
was not an answer to Davvol's comment but a reinforcing of his 
own thoughts.
    Davvol apparently sensed some of the danger he stood in, 
turning back toward the ruined mess of a man who slowly soaked 
the white linen dark red. "Anything useful?"
    Use would be determined later, but certainly Croag had 
been given a measure to pause and consider. "There are two 
offspring," he said slowly.
    A plan formed, reflecting Davvol's efforts with the 
Phyrexian negators. Perhaps Croag could guide the development 
of a few Dominarian natives who showed affinity for the 
Phyrexians similar to Jaffry. Such an empathy was rare enough 
to justify further investigation at the least. If such 
affinity could be manipulated . .. this he would not speak of 
to Davvol. It was not truly the steward's concern. This was a 
matter which demanded Phyrexian attention, and hope as the 
steward might, Davvol would never be of Phyrexia, never 
compleat.
    "Urza," Croag said, remembering one other image. "Urza 
Planeswalker was known to this human. He has been here." Croag 
could not afford to take chances wherever Urza might be 
involved. "I want an account of everywhere Urza Planeswalker 
has been tracked on Dominaria, everywhere humans with a dark 
affinity have been noticed. Seekers must be sent to 
investigate those areas." If there was a relationship between 
the two he would find it. A taloned hand slashed at the air 
between them. "You will kill Urza Planeswalker, soon."
    Davvol nodded slowly, obviously unable to help a look of 
resignation. "This can be done," he said, echoing Croag's 
words of so many years before.
    The Phyrexian did not wait for further conversation. With 
one final glare, eyes burning like hot coals within his 
cavernous sockets, he stalked from the room and back toward 
his portal. He had had enough of Dominaria, but he would 
return soon.
    
                         Chapter 14

    Fire rained down in a burning cascade, washing over Urza's 
arm and scorching the golden finish on his staff as the 
planeswalker failed to move in time. A flaming, gelatinous 
substance which stuck even to his form of energy seared into 
him at a dozen places now. Each wound drew off that much more 
of his strength, leaving him more vulnerable to the negator's 
next attack. Urza's options were rapidly decreasing in direct 
proportion with the waning power left at his command.
    The planeswalker had come back to Efuan Pincar to see 
after the bloodlines in this small nation. He hoped to mix the 
best results from here into a weak Femeref line, rejuvenating 
it. Though marriage and preconception treatment of the parents 
with the Eugenics Matrix was preferred, the 'walker was 
prepared for more drastic methods as necessary. With a few 
genetic samples from the local subjects, he could cut in 
appropriate traits and qualities-postconception. As a rule, he 
tried to avoid such procedures, but with the strange loss of 
the bloodlines in Femeref, Urza lost one of his best. The 
people simply vanished, by all accounts just over ten years 
ago, and only a few insane tales of a night of storms were 
left to offer any explanation. This was a matter of needs 
versus means. Dominaria's safety required it.
    Urza still couldn't be sure what had drawn him back to his 
old home in Efuan Pincar-the remote cottage he once shared 
with Xantcha now falling into ruin. In this place the two of 
them worked on ways to defeat Phyrexian incursions into 
Dominaria and later, with the help of a local boy Ratepe, had 
finally won the battle against Gix. Nostalgia? Not likely. 
Maybe he came to remember Xantcha whom he'd traveled with for 
so long. She would've understood the necessity of the 
bloodlines, he felt certain. The Phyrexian couldn't have 
simply been waiting for him. Either this location was checked 
often, and Urza had simply chosen the wrong time, or the 
negators were getting better at tracking him without giving 
away their own presence. The planeswalker preferred to believe 
the former, so he did.
    Now the cabin burned, having caught a spray from the 
negator's fire-throwing weapon. Small trees sprouting up in 
the clearing were also afire. A sooty smoke trailed the area, 
the gritty clouds having trouble escaping into the sky and 
beginning to wear on Urza's visibility. The large creature-
construct appeared to have little trouble tracking the 
planeswalker. A long arm snaked past a blazing pine tree, the 
crackling flames of little bother to it, swiping at Urza's 
side and scoring bloody furrows from ribs to hip. Such an 
attack would rarely have shown blood, the manifestation of 
energy bleeding away from Urza's consciousness, but on top of 
the burning wounds the 'walker was simply unable to regenerate 
the illusion after clawing.
    A large dark shape loomed through a hazy black cloud, 
standing twice as tall as Urza. Its incredibly bloated body 
expanded and contracted with an over-exaggerated breathing 
motion. One arm nearly dragging the ground ended with razored 
claws. The other looked stunted, but in actuality it had been 
replaced by a type of slender cannon that spewed the dangerous 
substance. Urza swept back, avoiding a new stream of fiery gel 
and focusing mana into a lightning strike. A blue-white arc 
leapt from his fingers and smashed into the negator's carapace 
of hard, glossy black skin. The energy danced over the outer 
form, all of it drawn over to the Phyrexian's left hip where 
it entered. The glossy carapace split down the outside of the 
left leg. Corrupted flesh sizzled and burned as the lightning 
was somehow channeled down into the ground and away from 
anything vital.
    This negator was immune to natural fire and resistant to 
lightning. The two creatures Urza had found time to summon 
early on had met with fiery deaths, and now the 'walker was 
losing too much mental strength to tap more mana. It was a 
hard realization for Urza Planeswalker to admit. He was losing 
this fight.
    When one understands the nature of a thing, one knows what 
it is capable of-a saying once passed to him and his brother 
both from Tocasia, the old Argivian archaeologist who first 
taught the brothers about the recovery and restoration of 
artifacts. His attention was divided between an attempt to 
build his powers up and searching for the Phyrexian he had 
lost again among the thick gritty smoke. It took Urza a moment 
to understand why he had dredged up that old memory, then 
transposed it. Once a person understands the capabilities of a 
thing he might also know its nature! The creature was 
disgorging an incredible amount of burning fluid, but even the 
Phyrexians could not violate the laws of conservation. That 
substance had to be stored or somehow produced by the negator. 
The bloated body and its bellowlike breathing suggested a 
combination of both.
    As a planeswalker, Urza was capable of casting all colors 
of magic, but his first love, his initial rise to power, had 
been with artifice. He thumbed a stud on his staff's contoured 
grip. One of the crescent-shaped tines on the staff's head 
reversed itself on a clockwork gear, bringing a special edge 
to bear. Another switch triggered the harmonics that attacked 
glistening oil. The 'walker had made adjustments to the sonic 
device after its failure with the one negator decades before, 
hoping for an improvement. This he received, but not much.
    The Phyrexian screeched in pain and anger, wading forward 
through fire and smoke to reach the hated device. The fire 
cannon tracked in, but a slight tremor in its musculature gave 
Urza all the edge he needed. The planeswalker swung his staff 
around, slicing the blades into the creature's shoulder joint-
the one that held the slender cannon to the negator. The 
blade, magically sharpened, cut through reinforced skin and 
metal supports. The cannon fell to one side, a gush of 
glistening oil and burning gel vomiting forth before the 
negator's body clamped down on the wound. Still, the escaped 
gel burned into the Phyrexian's outer flesh, distracting it 
even more.
    Urza was already moving, circling about the negator and 
trying nothing fancier than slicing at its bloated body. Now 
the Phyrexian suffered the same problem as Urza, deciding 
between the strength and attention necessary to deal with its 
physical wounds and how much to spend on the 'walker. It 
became a race to see who could strike a fatal blow first-a 
race the Phyrexian lost. Urza sliced long and deep across its 
wide back and then quickly swept back to avoid the unstoppable 
gush of gelatinous fluid.
    There was no stanching this wound, and once the substance 
was exposed to air the negator apparently lost the immunity it 
possessed that allowed it to store the material. It screeched 
in agony, high pitched and actually painful to Urza's hearing 
as the gel continued to eat away at it. The planeswalker 
picked up the severed arm carefully and moved back from the 
conflagration. The scent of scorched oil and burnt meat 
followed him.
    He stood back and watched his old cottage burn.

                          * * * * *

    Rayne slipped out of her usual work habit, donning instead 
the special garment she had designed for increased protection. 
A long jacket of blue cotton, thin pads had been sewn into its 
entirety and specially woven steel threads reinforced the 
chest and abdomen area. It was a bit heavier than she 
preferred, but when dealing with Phyrexian artifice it seemed 
better to be safe than comfortable.
    Ehlanni assisted, an academy tutor who had proven herself 
very adept in disassembly and evaluation. An added benefit, 
Ehlanni was of a human tribe that shared the Hurloon Mountains 
with the minotaurs. Powerfully built, she could be counted on 
to help move the large objects and test equipment. Also, in 
terms Rayne had once heard Gatha employ, Ehlanni knew how to 
take a hit. A Phyrexian device had blown up in her face a year 
ago, and she had walked away from it, though Barrin's best 
healer-mages spent a good week restoring her to full health. 
Again, this was just another precaution for dealing with 
Phyrexian machinery.
    "Only not quite machinery, this," Rayne said softly, 
bending down to examine the cannonlike device, a weapon which, 
according to Urza, had once sprayed a fiery, gelatinous 
substance that clung even to Urza's pure-energy form and 
burned ceaselessly.
    What the 'walker had not mentioned was its origin. Rayne 
first assumed that it had either been taken from an artifact 
creature like the dragon engines or was more of a handheld 
device. She swung her wrist-mounted lens over to peer at the 
destroyed mounting hardware. What could only be artificial 
fibers exuded from a steel coil and burrowed into a small 
blackened lump. She had wondered at this earlier, until 
cutting into it and discovering it to be a slice of tissue 
similar to human muscle. This close, she also smelled the 
charred scent of the flesh. The fibers were bonded to the meat 
by a process she had never seen before. It was at once hideous 
and wondrous.
    Ehlanni did not share Rayne's latter sentiment. "What is 
it, then?" she asked.
    Rayne squinted and readjusted her looking piece. "I would 
guess that it was once part of a Phyrexian negator." She felt 
at one of the fibers with a bared finger, cool and smooth to 
the touch. Flexible. "Some kind of special metal alloy, maybe 
a metal enhanced form of cloth." Who could tell? "Urza must 
have removed it after a recent fight. These fibers are 
actually fixed to the muscle as if they were large nerve 
endings. I've found three other cables with similar function, 
including the thick metal-braid tube that had residue of the 
fire-gel." She looked up at her assistant. "Do you think this 
creature could be biologically producing the burning gel?"
    "I think I'd rather not find out," Ehlanni said with a 
look of disgust for the artifact. "You're saying this was 
actually part of a living being? An artifice graft?"
    The chancellor nodded. "Far beyond anything we are capable 
of here at the academy." Rayne had serious doubts saying so 
about Urza. Master artificer that he was, Urza almost 
certainly knew how it was done, but would he ever attempt to 
duplicate it? Would she herself if she understood how it was 
accomplished? Her initial reaction said no, but then 
immediately her mind seized upon circumstances where such 
grafting might be desirable. It could be useful for 
replacement of an arm lost to misfortune or war or as a 
treatment for a birth defect. It was such a small step from 
there to improving on the natural order. Improved eyesight? 
Stronger heart? Faster reflexes?
    "Where would it end?" she asked no one in particular, 
bending back to work.
    The magnifying glass brought her a level of detail she 
could only have guessed at without it, and even so, the 
intricacy hinted that buried even deeper than she could see 
might be found a third level of complexity.
    "It violates the law of simplicity. At some point the 
construction of this device should begin to get simpler as we 
deconstruct it, not more complex, unless the
    Phyrexians are able to work on a scale we can't even 
observe much less touch." In the back of her mind she recalled 
the Thran Tome and its suggestion of artifice and flesh 
blended on the cellular level. Excitement touched her voice, 
warmed her skin as she considered artifice on such a level of 
mastery. "Urza never mentioned anything about this. I wonder 
if the Phyrexians are improving or just sending their better 
designs after him these days?" Or both?
    "Are you feeling well?" Ehlanni frowned her confusion and 
not a little shock. "The closer I study these creatures and 
their work the more I see that Urza was right in his pursuit 
of anything which might destroy them. What I can't believe is 
that others haven't noticed this as well." She shook her head. 
"I swear you seem to be admiring them."
    Lost in her observations, Rayne barely acknowledged the 
comment. "There is something to be said for the theory behind 
such accomplishments."
    Ehlanni reached out and tapped the device, her finger 
thick and blurry under Rayne's glass. "Would you like to see 
one of these grafted to your husband?"
    Rayne recoiled at the question, the horror of such an idea 
hitting her like a slap. She realized then that earlier she 
had considered exactly that. Shivering for a deathly cold 
touch caressing her back and scalp, Rayne pressed such 
thoughts from her mind. Ehlanni was right, this was nothing to 
be admired. No matter the potential for good, such artifice 
was only in the hands of those who used it in the birth of 
abominations and the support of evil desires. Improved 
eyesight and reflexes were nothing. Where would it end, she 
had wondered?
    The scent of the charred meat now suddenly stung at her 
sinuses and burned acrid in her throat. She swallowed dryly 
and removed the wrist-mounted magnifying glass as if it 
represented the same principle of augmentation. This type of 
procedure would create a never-ending process of replacement 
and refinement until. . . what? The word came to her at once, 
both appropriate and obscene in the same instant: until 
compleat.

                          * * * * *

    Timein had scheduled no meetings. He had, in fact, 
dismissed for the day those few students who had left the 
academy to join him at the Colony. He felt exhausted in that 
pleasant way which reminded someone of a full day's valuable 
effort. From the new well he helped dig to the students he-
hopefully-enlightened on a few of the finer points in 
thaumaturgic studies. He needed a warm bath and perhaps some 
time for private reflection. He was looking forward to an 
early retirement for the day.
    Why, then, was there a light on in his home?
    The sorcerer did not think to be worried. Nothing 
dangerous happened on Tolaria-not counting Urza's catastrophes 
of course. He paused a moment upon discovering the door to his 
home still locked. His mind still puzzled on this as he turned 
the key in the lock and swung the door open. Someone waited 
within. The man's back was to the door and he studied a shelf 
of books all written by Timein. Timein saw only blond hair 
trimmed at shoulder length and a coat of finely tailored 
leather.
    "Can I help you?" Timein asked, noticing the golden staff 
leaning nearby-its headpiece of joints, wires and gears-just 
as the figure turned. It was Tolaria's one recurring 
catastrophe-Urza Planeswalker.
    "Timein, it is good to see you again." The 'walker looked 
about the single-room home. He nodded approvingly. "You've 
done well here."
    Timein steeled himself against the false flattery, 
doubting Urza ever lived in such fashion. "It's simple," he 
said of his surroundings and the Colony both, "but it suits." 
He crossed his arms over a narrow chest. "It pales next to the 
academy, of course, but then we've had far less to work with 
in the way of material and resources."
    If Urza caught the reference to the island's slowly 
deteriorating state, the 'walker either did not care or was 
more concerned with other subjects. The two stared at each 
other for a silent moment before Timein reminded himself that 
Urza was not of true flesh and so would win any staring 
contest.
    "What is it you need, Urza?"
    The 'walker looked nonplussed. "You act as if I've done 
something against you, Timein. I can read it in your posture 
as well as your voice. Have I given you cause for anger or 
grief?"
    Timein unfolded his thin arms, relenting only a little. 
Pulling off his hat, the sorcerer tossed it over to his bed. 
"If you haven't you are likely about to," he said, loosening 
the drawstrings on his cuffs for comfort.
    This apparently amused the planeswalker. "Sorcerer and 
soothsayer?" He smiled, his face lined and careworn as a 
middle-aged man. "Do you think you know why I am here?"
    Nodding, Timein moved over to his desk and leaned back 
against its edge. Urza, he noticed, had a way of wearing 
people down very quickly. He wondered how Barrin stood up to 
it for all those centuries.
    "You're here to bring me and the others back into your 
program," he predicted. "Come to bring the strays home?"
    "I want your help, yes," Urza said, shaking his head. He 
picked up his staff and laid it in the crook of one arm. "But 
I've never forced anyone to do work he hasn't wanted or at 
least agreed to do, ever, Timein. Remember, you never 
complained about serving under Gatha's instruction. And so 
long as you didn't I needed you there."
    In Timein's view, Gatha had kept control of the younger 
man's life those early years. The sorcerer had never had the 
chance to complain. "You're saying I have the choice to refuse 
you or not?"
    Urza shrugged. "Of course."
    Timein almost said it then-refused without hearing the 
proposal to be rid of Urza Planeswalker. The Colony was 
Timein's home now. It was a place where occasionally Tolarian 
students sought refuge when they could no longer reconcile 
conscience with the work being done at the academy. Some 
returned to the school, eventually, but others were often 
ready to take their place here. So long as Timein hosted this 
refuge, he wanted it kept clean of Urza's influence.
    "What do you want of me?" the sorcerer asked.
    Urza accepted the invitation to speak with a simple nod. 
"I need more detailed processes for judging empathies-a 
person's connection to the lands of Dominaria and any 
predisposition toward ... other ... lands as well."
    Toward Phyrexia, Timein translated. He had no doubt that 
Urza could talk straight out about it but was hedging for the 
sorcerer's benefit. "Why not do it yourself?"
    Urza spread his hands. "No one is as adept at these magics 
as you are, Timein. You are a mage of the natural body, the 
near-physical spirit. By inclination and more than three 
millennia of work, I am still primarily an artificer. Not even 
walking the planes changes you so much that you deny your 
basic nature." He lowered his arms. "Nothing you develop will 
be-can be-used to change someone's nature, if that helps, but 
the Bloodlines project will continue, and the better my tools 
the fewer my mistakes."
    Now that admission rattled Timein's belief, if slightly. 
Urza Planeswalker admitting to mistakes had to be a rare sight 
indeed. His cynical side argued that the 'walker could afford 
to save such momentary admissions for just such occasions. 
Dealing with Urza reinforced Timein's admiration for Barrin.
    "Directly or indirectly, I would still rather not," Timein 
said, surprised that he did not say no at once. It felt more 
as if he was slowly talking himself out of it. Obviously, 
Urza's appeal on behalf of the bloodlines subjects had hit him 
hard. "I've worked hard to help this colony survive on its own 
and to make a small refuge here away from the madness of the 
academy."
    "I have no wish to disrupt the colony," Urza said. "I 
wouldn't think to spoil your exemplary work here. I'm simply 
asking you. Indirectly you help all the time, Timein. This 
refuge you've created gives students something we never 
thought to include-a place to escape for a time and so come 
back with minds fresh and unburdened by too many years of 
pressured work. Also, there's your silence. Barrin and I would 
trust you to leave Tolaria, but once away you could ruin the 
Bloodlines project by making it public. What local nations did 
not find out and interfere in, the Phyrexian sleepers would." 
He looked at Timein with frank interest. "If you are so 
opposed, why haven't you done this?"
    Timein couldn't help but wince at Urza's detailed 
evaluation of the sorcerer's work and life. He felt as if Urza 
had laid bare his mind and knew better the sorcerer's reasons 
and motivations than Timein did himself. Truth be told, Timein 
knew that so long as he remained on Tolaria he wasn't truly 
free of the academy and its work. He was still a part of the 
pattern and likely forever would be. Had he been waiting all 
these years for someone to arrive and offer him a reason to 
come back?
    "I'll do it," he said softly. "On my own time and without 
anyone else's involvement, but I'll do it." He shuddered, 
knowing the nightmares he would open himself to because of 
this. "I've often wondered, Urza, what my research would show 
me of your nature. Have you ever wanted to look into it?"
    "All the time, Timein." Urza nodded, slow and slightly 
sorrowful. "All the time." Then, with a final tight smile, the 
'walker was gone.
    Timein cursed both Urza and himself for the necessity that 
had drawn him back into the 'walker's plans. If his work could 
prevent the suffering of people in Dominaria, didn't he owe it 
to them to try? He sat behind his desk, leaning his lanky 
frame back in the padded chair as he stared up at the ceiling. 
Urza just might be right. That was the problem Timein faced 
anytime the 'walker came for assistance.
    If Urza was right, would Timein's years of inaction 
necessarily be proven wrong?
    
                         Chapter 15

    Summoned to the Stronghold's throne room, Davvol smothered 
his anger over Croag's blatant ploy to show the steward as 
subservient. His armored boots struck heavily against the 
floor, grinding his rage against the flowstone surface. Before 
entering the room he settled a neutral mask over his face.
    "You requested my presence, Croag?" The words were drained 
of any emotion, spoken between thin, humorless lips.
    The member of Phyrexia's Inner Circle seemed melded into 
the huge metal monstrosity that was the Stronghold's throne. 
Sharp edges gleamed dully in the cold lights of the room, and 
the ridged back shone with a light sheen of oil. Even as 
uncomfortable as it looked, Davvol craved it for his own-to be 
shared with no one.
    "You were inspecting the machinery?" Croag asked, voice 
full of rasps and squeals. "Down in the secondary attractors?"
    Not that Davvol needed the reminder because the summons 
had come while he was doing an inspection only added fuel to 
his ire. Flowstone production was up to levels never before 
known to Rath, pushing back the energy curtain that surrounded 
the artificial plane.
    "Yes," he finally answered. "Some structural supports gave 
way last week from poor calibration of the bladed dials."
    The screws turned easier now with Vec blood to grease the 
equipment, the responsible workers having been made a proper 
example of. Davvol wondered briefly how well the Inner Circle 
member would act as a lubricant. Very well, he thought-
glistening oil being so much a part of his body.
    "You have a request?" he asked, stressing the word. The 
summoning message from Croag had used "demand."
    Some bands wrapped up over Croag's face, trailing oil over 
the taught gray skin that surrounded his mouth. His voice did 
not sound muffled when he spoke, as if the sounds were not 
made by his throat or mouth but simply reverberated from his 
entire being.
    "I would like you to conduct a new transfer," the 
Phyrexian said.
    Davvol waited, but nothing more followed. He crossed his 
arms defiantly, deciding to risk a touch of Croag's 
displeasure by pressing for more information. "Why?" he asked. 
When Croag volunteered less, it usually meant the Phyrexian 
trod uncertain ground-like the night they both visited 
Benalia.
    The Inner Circle member waited a moment, as if deciding 
what or how much to say. "Our sleepers in Askaranton reported 
a skirmish with a large number of warriors. Some possessed 
heavy affinities for Phyrexia. These warriors were not acting 
on their own interests but for Askaranton's rival. Dominarians 
call such warriors mercenaries. Phyrexia might call them 
negators. I wish to assess their level of threat."
    Croag was admitting that the Coracin was needed for more 
than the simple stewardship of Rath-even needed for something 
other than killing Urza Planeswalker. That concession alone 
was worth quite a bit. It was a simple enough request, Davvol 
decided.
    "Where and when?" he asked.
    "The armies are traveling back to their own lands now. We 
will meet them once they arrive."
    "You want me to bring them here, to Rath," Davvol said, 
predicting the request.
    "No," Croag replied, the red embers burning dully in the 
dark recesses of his eye sockets. "I wish you to send an army 
there. To Dominaria. To Keld."

                          * * * * *

    War cries echoed off the steep passes that lead deeper 
into the Keldons' mountain nation. The grinding internal 
noises of immense mechanical engines roared, and massive 
treads chewed at these softer, lowland grounds. Fire spewed 
out of heads forged into the shape of dragons and demons, 
raining a burning substance over rock and earth and Keldon 
warriors. For a very few, it was all they could do to stay on 
their feet while the fire ate down to bone. Others, too caught 
up in their own bloodlust, ignored the pain and fought on 
until they finally dropped lifeless. Blades and armor were 
splashed with dark ooze and glistening oil which sprayed from 
engines. One massive engine rocked and then toppled, its 
treads ripped from heavy iron wheels and internal mechanisms 
so ruined that balance could no longer be maintained. It fell 
onto a knot of heavy fighting, crashing the black-armored 
warriors and Keldon footsoldiers alike.
    At the head of three warhosts, the battle fury gripping 
Kreig elevated the witch king to new heights. Filled with the 
strength of his followers, he stood a titan over the 
battlefield. The sun's corona licked at his temples, its fiery 
arms wrapped over his eyes coloring the field red as blood. He 
stood shoulders brushing mountaintops, raking down avalanches 
of white snow and gray rock. The cold touch of Keld anchored 
his feet firmly, and no creatures of Dominaria could shake 
them loose. He was the witch king, undisputed heir to the 
supreme army of the Necropolis. He was Kreig the Immortal-and 
in the histories of the Keldon people, nothing more need ever 
be written.
    Laden with plunder taken from the former kingdom of 
Askaranton, the army had shipped back to their own continent 
to begin the trek up into the mountains. An enemy encampment 
had held the main pass. Massive engines of warfare backed a 
legion of spindly limbed, black-armored troops. At their 
center stood such beings of grotesque shape and nature that 
Kreig had been reminded of Gatha's failed subjects. They had 
leathery black skin, some parts scaled with a natural armor. 
Some were carrying or melded with strange devices. One 
immediately leveled an arm at the combined warhost, a stream 
of hellish energies whipping into several Keldon warriors and 
burning them alive. Kreig did not know of this enemy or how 
they might have brought a small army into his lands, but such 
an act he understood perfectly.
    Yelling the war cry handed down his line from Trohg and 
Kreyohl before him, Kreig charged forward leading his host to 
battle.
    Three witch kings fought at his side, each in nominal 
command of a separate warhost. They held the center of the 
field. Their courage and savage nature excited the warriors 
around them to greater acts of ferocity, even as those same 
warriors lent back a portion of their strength to encourage 
their leaders beyond bounds. No witch king inspired Kreig. He 
drew from each directly, just as he tapped every warrior 
brought to the field, filling his mortal shell with their 
strength and lifeforce. In return he offered them the pinnacle 
of Keldon achievement to which they might aspire but never 
reach.
    Now even he was brought to a standstill against the black 
abominations that fought with a savagery most Keldons would be 
hard pressed to match. They shrugged aside lethal blows. 
Hooked claws, bladed fingers, and artifice weapons struck back 
with incredible force, enough to rend a regular warrior in one 
swipe. The enemy warriors in regular black armor were more 
easily dispatched, arms and legs cut or ripped from the body 
with ease. He learned after splitting one open that those 
limbs were merely mechanical extensions, and the true warrior 
was a stunted growth of a creature hidden away in the main 
armored shell. It took several sword thrusts through the 
armored body to finally kill one of the strange knights.
    In the fifty years since his ascension, none had stood 
against the witch king Kreig, not his own people and certainly 
no outside force. Unlike some doyen, Kreig took to the field 
nearly every year, constantly challenging the world to match 
him. That these creatures even dared step into his domain 
offered an insult that demanded punishment, and here they 
presented a challenge that so far matched the best fight three 
warhosts offered. In a lesser race this would certainly have 
raised fear-in a lesser witch king, perhaps doubts or 
concerns.
    In Kreig it engendered a near-blinding rage, lending new 
strength and stamina to his already terrifying nature.
    The caustic scent of his own charred flesh overpowering 
the smoldering colos horn, Kreig shouldered his way past a 
stream of burning energy and closed with the largest of the 
demon-spawn. Nine feet high where its curved back finally 
hunched forward, head and shoulders actually at a lower level, 
the creature might once have been humanoid. Its evacuated 
abdomen was ringed with bands of blackened metal. Several 
steel tubes sprouted from its upper back, wrapping down to 
connect where the base of the spine might be on a normal 
being. Its feral grin of steel teeth was stained with the 
green-glowing slime. Large crystals set into its upper body 
threw out searing waves of focused heat which shimmered in the 
air and burned through armor and flesh. Kreig leapt into an 
embrace with it, his greatsword held high and angled back down 
in front of him like a rock scorpion's striking tail.
    It moved impossibly fast. Serrated talons fastened onto 
the witch king's armor, points piercing through to flesh 
beneath. Its teeth clamped onto the hollow beneath his left 
arm, and the chest-mounted crystals flared with renewed 
assaults of scalding heat which seemed to strain at the very 
bones of his body. The viscous slime on its teeth burned 
through the wounds and into his blood, lighting his entire 
body afire. Kreig brought the point of his greatsword down 
into the muscled joint that held the creature's shoulder and 
thick, scaled neck. Reveling in his own pain, a sense he had 
not known for decades, Kreig drew hard upon the battle frenzy 
of his warriors and continued to place his full strength 
behind his sword. It drove through, spearing the creature 
along the length of its body. It shuddered, claws now removed 
from the witch king's body and flailing the air, but its teeth 
set in harder, crunching bone and rending flesh.
    It was as if a giant hand had reached down to swat at the 
Keldon who had thought to place himself on par with the gods. 
An eruption of flame picked him up and lifted him into the 
air. The roaring thunderclap deafened his ears to the shouts 
of his followers and the metal grinding of the war engines 
they fought. Acrid smoke clogged his nose, ran acidic down his 
throat and into his lungs, and then he was falling back to 
earth and into the charred ruin that had once been his 
opponent. The ground rushed up with bone-jarring speed, 
embracing him with crushing force.
    The witch king rose shakily to his feet. His armor gone, 
bare skin braced with blisters and angry burns, he barely felt 
the chill touch of the air. Blood trickled and then clotted as 
his wounds responded to the powers the combined warhost still 
engendered within him. Where the green spittle clung to him, 
those wounds did not close immediately and continued to pain 
him with agony like molten iron dripped into his veins.
    He could not remember coming so close to the threshold of 
death, ever, yet here he stood, in defiance of the
    Keldon Necropolis for eighty-six years of life and enough 
mortal wounds to slay a full warhost. Kreig pulled his 
greatsword from the foul remains of the creature, its length 
deformed from the explosion but still deadly in its weight and 
edge. Laughing his rage at the sky, the witch king stood bare-
skinned against the battle continuing around him.
    Whatever these things were, they could be killed, and he 
was still Kreig. He could not know defeat by mortal hands.

                          * * * * *

    Snow-chilled lands fell away to blankets of hoarfrost. An 
overcast sky of gray cotton, touched darker with pockets of 
rain, promised a storm. A light rumble voiced the heavens' 
discontent-answered only by the dull echoing of footfalls and 
shouted commands from within the mountain pass that led to the 
lower lands surrounding Keld.
    Warriors in full armor led the way from the pass, their 
red leathers and bright metal weapons standing out against the 
dark ground. They moved with military precision, anxious for 
battle but still wary of ambush. The lead elements finally 
trumpeted back an all clear with small instruments made from 
hollowed-out colos horn. Another band moved from the mountain 
pass. This was Gatha's personal guard, their armor bearing his 
adopted crest-the ancient Keldon sigil for life, from the 
times before Keld developed a true script for writing. The 
military procession was followed by a baggage train of three 
colos pack animals, slaves tending them or laden under packs 
of their own.
    Gatha walked at the center of his guard, nods of respect 
following his every movement. At times when he passed close to 
a warrior he received an awkward bow as the Keldon stepped 
aside. Despite his smaller size, Gatha felt the tallest among 
them, resplendent in finely designed armor of the best Keldon 
craftsmanship. He wore metal greaves, chestplate and shoulder 
mantle, trimmed in red leather and a black, heavy cloth cape 
with everything tooled in gold. He carried a riding crop-a 
leather-wrapped handle on a sharp, hooked piece of steel that 
might have been called a footman's pick back in Argive. The 
crop served more as a badge of rank. Gatha never attempted to 
ride the large colos beasts.
    The traipse down from his mountain labs caused a 
regrettable delay in many experiments, but it was necessary 
after reading the reports and then spending long hours with 
Kreig in honest conversation. The witch king's detailed 
description of the invaders sent chills through Gatha's spine, 
and then had come Kreig's reluctant admission of what had 
followed the battle-the enemy's method of retreat. Such an 
event Gatha would prefer to consider a bloodlust-spawned 
illusion.
    Bodies of the Keldon fallen, those that had not been 
taken, Kreig had ordered carried deeper into the mountains for 
burial beneath rocky cairns. One minor witch king had been 
interred in the Necropolis. One never returned. The Keldons 
were most distressed about that, one of their chosen denied 
the Necropolis and so eventual resurrection. In the Keldons' 
long history, not one warlord had ever failed to be brought 
home to rest.
    Signs of the battle were still obvious in the scorched 
rock and the scraps of blood-stained leather. All metal had 
been scavenged, including that of a fallen war engine-pieced 
down so Gatha never did get a fair look at its original 
design. The warming air, moist with spring's coming, held a 
touch of carrion in it. Gatha paused and knelt over one large 
patch of ground stained black. He pinched up some dirt between 
his fingers, rubbing it and then bringing it closer to his 
nose. It felt gritty but not as true soil should. It was a 
fine dirt ruined with the saturation of some foul substance. 
The scent gave it away. Oil. Glistening oil.
    "Phyrexia," Gatha whispered, naming the foe.
    He placed a sample of the soil in a metal container and 
moved on, his dark eyes sharply deconstructing the battlefield 
and missing no scrap, trail of blood, or splash of gore. He 
found some globs of dark flesh that no scavenging bird had 
touched set about an area of scorched, pockmarked rock. It was 
the remnants of the thing Kreig had destroyed. A negator? He 
gathered every last piece of the ruined meat. Genetic 
comparisons back inside his labs would confirm it as 
Phyrexian, and the rogue tutor actually considered this 
procurement of fresh genetic material a small boon to his 
work. Who could tell what advantages the Phyrexians had bred 
into their minions since the samples he had stolen from 
Tolaria, advantages Gatha would attempt to duplicate for the 
Keldon people, breeding them into the bloodlines he 
controlled?
    It was thought among most Keldons that there was little 
Gatha could not accomplish, but one must prove himself worthy 
of any requests and then more so if the magic was to take 
hold. Of course there would never be any recriminations, no 
resentment or rancor held, if the request was denied or the 
process failed. Not since Varden the foolish had anyone 
challenged Gatha's decisions. Never since Kreig's rise to 
power and the preternaturally long life that followed had 
another thought to criticize Gatha's presence in Keld. Such 
were the conveniences of deification, except that now the game 
had changed with the arrival of Phyrexians.
    Gatha did not actually require tests to tell him that his 
theory was correct. He knew, just as he felt sure that the 
force Kreig had fought was little more than a scouting party 
sent to investigate. How had they learned of his work? What 
more did they know now? He stood from gathering another sample 
and looked up into the blanket of gray clouds, expecting to 
see the "face of the sky" staring back down on him. Gatha 
would like to believe that Kreig's explanation had been more 
of the religious trappings that layered their lives these 
days, except that the witch king had always seemed to know the 
truth behind it all even if he did enjoy the benefits as Gatha 
did.
    That left the method of enemy withdrawal as a fact. That 
the sky had suddenly roiled with steel clouds broken only by 
cascades of lightning-red, green, and glaring white. Eyes of 
gray metal within black orbs stared down out of the chaotic 
sky like twin cold suns. A face of pale skin, sagging and 
without animation like the flesh of a corpse, appeared over 
the battlefield. It was cut only by a thin, cruel mouth that 
issued orders to the invading army in booming thunder. Kreig 
and others all reported feeling a pull tugging at them as 
enemy troops stepped away and simply faded from plain sight. 
Several Keldons surrendered to the arcane forces, vanishing 
under the gaze of those cold eyes and the call of its 
thunderous voice. Gatha did not want to believe it, but he 
did. Kreig had said something to him had made him believe.
    Kreig the warrior, the mightiest the nation of Keld had 
ever seen, had felt afraid.
    Dwarfed in power, the witch king had known his first 
moment of fear, but rather than be cowed, he railed against 
the forces tugging at him-challenged them. His warriors 
borrowed from his great strength, rallying. Fewer Keldons 
slipped away, as with a final scowl of displeasure the 
creature faded, and the sky cleared. Kreig's combined warhost 
had stood alone on the battlefield.
    With the Phyrexians defeated at the hands of the Keldons-
his Keldons-Gatha hoped for a reprieve. Perhaps they would not 
return, seeking easier prey elsewhere. Defeat couldn't sit 
well with them. Defeat never sat well with anyone.
    Croag threw the lifeless body to the ground, skull 
shattered, gray matter mingling with yellowish fluids, white 
splinters of bone, and red blood. Two weeks he had spent in 
interrogation of the prisoners Davvol returned with. One every 
day, no matter how tempting it was to rush through them. He 
savored the moments-the memories-but also took the time after 
each to consider the information imparted. Davvol had taught 
him something of patience, with the other's slow process of 
improving negators in the steady and relentless hunt of Urza 
Planeswalker.
    He chattered an order to a nearby guard who removed the 
corpse. The guard would add it to the others, Keldon and 
Phyrexian alike, for a seeker to later take the entire store 
of meat to Phyrexia for the vats. Resources were never to be 
wasted. Perhaps the Keldon matter would serve to make newts 
stronger and improve the com-pleated Phyrexians they would 
eventually become. In that way, the defeat today would only 
lead to a greater victory in the next generation.
    In a few of the Keldons there had been large deposits of 
the same essence that the member of the Inner Circle detected 
in the old man on Dominaria, recognizing in them that which 
was familiar to his own nature-that dark perfection of the 
Ineffable from which all else should and would be derived. 
Only in the old man-a white-mana creature-that dark core 
repelled Phyrexian influence. In the Keldons, it made them 
stronger and therefore a threat.
    So this was Urza Planeswalker's plan! An army of 
Dominarians with the physical resistance to meet the invasion 
on an equal footing. How broad the vision and yet so juvenile 
in the attempt. Of course Phyrexian substance made Dominarians 
stronger, bringing them closer to perfection. If the 
planeswalker had a thousand generations he might hope to 
spread such resistance over enough of Dominaria to make a 
difference. Here and now, with the scope Croag sensed, that 
influence would barely be felt, except, of course, in the Dark 
One's displeasure.
    Organized resistance to Phyrexia's plans for conquest 
could never be tolerated. The Dark God would see it as Croag's 
failure. His anger would consume the Inner Circle member and 
deny him continued existence.
    Croag must destroy such efforts-subvert them. Davvol would 
be encouraged to continue testing forces against Keld, so that 
Croag might receive a better idea of the effectiveness of 
Urza's current plans. Croag would then destroy the system 
perpetuating the danger, including the capture and consumption 
of this Gatha-surely a scion of Urza and possibly with 
knowledge of the 'walker's private retreats. Other large 
programs of such a nature must also be located and destroyed.
    
                         Chapter 16

    Passing through the gatehouse, its gleaming white spires 
thrusting upward into a blue sky, Ellyn entered the flagstone-
paved courtyard of Capashen Manor. She carried a collection of 
scrolls bundled loosely under one arm, occasionally dropping 
one and having to stoop for it. They were taxation estimates 
for local villages. No matter how important they might be, 
especially this year, she couldn't bring herself to invest 
much enthusiasm. Why should she care how well the crops came 
in, so long as the farmer caste supplied the manor with 
plenty? Instead of the scrolls, her hand itched for the 
comfortable feel of a sword hilt, for the chance to prove 
herself.
    Strange creatures stalked Capashen lands these days. 
Monsters, some called them, of black flesh and metal with a 
taste for devastation. Farms had been left in ruins, and the 
people were frightened. Some of the clan's best warriors had 
already taken to the field, leading bands of Benalish soldiers 
as they tried to protect harvests and clear Capashen territory 
of these things. Only "some" of the best, though, because she 
hadn't been considered.
    Even in the noble Benalish clans, one's position was so 
often determined beforehand.
    Since the marriage of Jaffry Capashen and Myrr Ortovi, her 
great-grandparents, Ellyn's family line had been relegated to 
minor status in an attempt to contain any attempts by Clan 
Ortovi to abuse the relationship. Ellyn's parents followed a 
similar course, as taxation officials and village magistrates 
and minor diplomats depending on the year and needs of the 
clan. Ellyn had been born .. . different. She challenged the 
rules whenever possible, stubbornly pushing forward. Whenever 
a person of higher stature made a mistake, they turned around 
to find her ready to assume the greater position. She learned 
the ways of the sword, drawn to weapons like a piece of metal 
to lodestone. Sometimes she felt that the metal called to her, 
a feeling she could not shake, as if a piece of her were 
missing.
    Ellyn heard a whisper at the back of her mind, felt a dark 
presence seconds before her sharp ears picked up the sound of 
booted feet hammering against the bleached flagstone 
courtyard. Shouts of alarm echoed through the manor followed 
by a screeching snarl. Ellyn turned away from the manor front, 
walking swiftly at first and then running for the corner, a 
trail of scrolls bouncing on the flagstones behind her. She 
slid around to the east side of the great building, where the 
manor's shadow fell, just as three guards raced up from the 
other direction to catch the creature between them and her.
    The semblance of a young dragon, it was like nothing Ellyn 
had ever heard described. Five feet at the shoulder, the 
creature's leathery wings stretched up another three feet over 
its mutilated back. Its head and neck were devoid of flesh or 
muscle, cleaned down to bone. Thin metal cables connected the 
eye socket to the base of the skull, and long, coarse hair 
sprouted from the thick scale armoring its shoulders. Its four 
legs and a long barbed tail were spot-covered with muscle and 
some skin, but in several areas ran uncovered down to bone or 
steel replacement. It screamed again, the chilling screech of 
metal knives scored against slate.
    Two nobles lay on the bleached flagstone, throats and 
chests clawed open, staining the ground with Capashen blood. A 
third figure was pinned up against the manor wall by the 
creature's bulk, robes tattered and bloody but obviously still 
alive as he tried to crawl past. The soldiers attempted to 
drive the monstrous form back. It struck out with its metal-
tipped claws, shredding the arm of one soldier who dropped his 
sword and staggered away, screaming shrilly for the pain. 
Ellyn's gaze flickered to the abandoned weapon, part of her 
eager to seize it and join the battle while another part stood 
immobile, unwilling. This creature was from one of her 
recurring nightmares from as far back as she could recall-
turned from imagined image to deadly reality in front of her.
    Ellyn might not have broken from her trance, torn between 
loyalty and a strange, unholy sense of fear and familiarity 
for the creature, but then the beast reared back, one massive 
back leg coming down on the fallen noble and pinning his leg 
against the ground. He cried out in pain, hands grasping at 
his leg to pull it free. Ellyn recognized him, even past the 
smears of blood masking his face.
    So did one of the guards. "Leader Purceon!" he yelled. It 
was the leader of their clan. The warrior didn't hesitate. 
"Capashen!" he yelled out in battle cry, rushing forward. The 
dragon beast's tail whipped around and impaled him, the tail's 
bladed tip driving through his midsection and thrusting out of 
his back.
    The danger to her clan leader and the sacrifice of the 
guard broke Ellyn's catatonic state. She dove forward, 
snatched up the fallen sword and rolled to her feet as the 
creature cast away the broken body. The leather grip felt 
strange, too soft, but the balance was familiar. She moved 
shoulder to shoulder with the remaining guard, adding her 
swordplay to his. Checking one slash, Ellyn almost lost her 
sword as it vibrated madly in her hand. It felt as if she had 
slashed her sword into a steel post.
    As one they advanced, forcing the beast back from their 
fallen clansman. So close to the creature, Ellyn could smell 
the reek of oil-at once foul and enticing.
    With a last swipe at the two sword-bearing humans, the 
dragon beast turned and held them at bay with violent slashes 
of its bladed tail. Its scream resounded with pure fury and 
hatred as it reared over Purceon. It slashed down once, twice. 
The creature's head bobbed in time to its clawing, always 
keeping its attention divided between the fallen noble and the 
two wielding swords.
    The guard standing next to Ellyn moved toward the beast, 
and she followed. The creature turned with incredible agility. 
Its claws struck out, rending long mortal furrows down the 
guard's face and chest even as its tail sliced deeply across 
both legs. Its attention diverted for a crucial second, Ellyn 
slipped past and ran her sword through the dangling loops of 
metal cable running from the creature's eye sockets to the 
base of its skull. She thrust downward with all her strength, 
pressing her full weight behind the stroke. The cables parted, 
and the metallic screech of the dragon beast's pain 
halfdeafened her. She stumbled forward, fell and rolled out of 
the way.
    A slashing breeze brushed at her hair. The creature's long 
tail, barbed with a dagger-sized blades, whipsawed the air 
over her. Ellyn tried to bury herself down into the 
flagstones, thankful the beast could no longer see her. The 
furious beat of wings buffeted her, digging grit out from 
between the flagstones and dusting it into the air. With a 
screech of rage the blinded beast took to the air as new 
guards ran around the comer, weapons drawn.
    Ellyn rolled over to Purceon's side, her breath coming in 
short, gasping fits. She felt as if she had passed a test of 
sorts, though to pick at the thought any more brought only 
confusion. Instead she checked her clan leader for life and 
found him staring at her with guarded eyes. One side of his 
face bore a parallel set of deep scars ripped through his 
cheek. He nodded a cautious greeting to her.
    "My thanks, Ellyn Capashen."
    She nodded back, not trusting her voice just yet. Ellyn 
stood up and walked over to a fallen guard. She stripped him 
of his swordbelt and buckled it on over her tunic. Ramming the 
sword home, the weight of its steel comfortable on her hip, 
she moved back to where soldiers were applying pressure to 
Purceon's open wounds.
    "More of those creatures are out there," she said simply, 
knowing it to be true. "I will take charge of a band and hunt 
them." Ellyn knew that further tests awaited her.
    Purceon paused, winced as a new bandage was applied over 
his leg, and then looked skyward for the retreating creature 
that had taken the lives of five other Capashen. He nodded to 
himself. "Yes," he finally said. "You will."

                          * * * * *

    The village of Devas spread along the river, the normally 
white stone bathed pink in the late afternoon sunlight. 
Stubbled fields lead away from the settlement as far as the 
eye could see. The harvesting season in Benalia had just 
ended. A few missed stalks of grain wafted in the warm breeze 
that drifted in off the western plains. The high fluted 
columns flanking Devas's gates cast long shadows east over the 
parade grounds established just outside the walls. Those 
shadows ended in winged silhouettes, the platforms up high 
occupied by a pair of sentries who watched the surrounding 
lands with a hawk's gaze.
    The bulk of Devas's martial force gathered outside the 
white oak gates for a training session. Archers tacked paper 
targets over bales of straw. They practiced long flights in 
which arrows fell from the sky in a thick, steel-tipped rain. 
The House Guard worked with sword and halberd, their dance as 
graceful as it would be deadly. By counterpoint, lancemen 
thundered by on the plains-bred eponaes. It was an impressive 
sight, and one the Serran refugees allowed few to witness.
    Lyanii gauged the sky, judging another thirty minutes of 
good light left. Raising fingers to her lips she blew a shrill 
whistle then circled one arm overhead and pointed toward the 
archers who would need more time to gather their equipment 
together. They set about picking arrows out of the bales and 
the ground. Lyanii looked back to
    her soldier under instruction and frowned lightly at the 
sword he rested, point first, into the ground.
    "That was not meant for you, Isarrk. Again. Another pass."
    The young Isarrk did not bother coming back to attention, 
but he rubbed the blunt point against his leggings to clean 
it. "Apologies, Marshal. It won't happen again."
    He grimaced his false contrition toward Karn. Lyanii hid a 
deeper frown at the youth's somber spirit. As he came back en 
guarde she focused her attention on his every movement, 
watching for a mistake. His body suddenly taught with lean but 
well-toned muscle, the youth nodded a reluctant readiness to 
his two sparring partners.
    As the two young Home Guard attacked with fluid sword 
strokes, Isarrk turned one blade into the other, fouling both. 
He checked his own answer cut short, leaping back to avoid the 
swift response of one assailant. All three paced an uneven 
circle, the two guards never allowing the young man a respite 
and Isarrk always wary of allowing them to split apart and 
trap him.
    "How is he doing?" Karn asked, the golem's deep voice 
reminding Lyanii of the rumble of distant thunder drifting 
across the plains. "Well, it would appear."
    Lyanii pulled a cloth from the belt of her training 
leathers and dabbed away sweat built up from her own exertions 
in practice. Her lips were salty with the residue.
    "Adequate," she said.
    Rarely did she take on a Dominarian. Isarrk's training 
came at Karn's behest, the marshal remembering the time when 
Urza Planeswalker had rescued so many of her people-herself 
included-from the decaying plane that had been Serra's Realm. 
Karn had been there, and Lyanii understood the debt owed all 
who risked their lives to bring them away from the Phyrexian 
infestation.
    Once she had tried explaining this to the silver golem, 
only to find that he knew nothing of the episode except from 
brief historical notes Urza left for him at ten year 
intervals. In fact, Karn's return to Devas every few decades 
always came in the same manner, as if he had never been to the 
settlement before. He would simply arrive with a new student, 
asking the Serrans to please instruct him or her in combat-
until now always a young noble. Lyanii remembered her sorrow, 
learning that Karn's memory had been capped. In a land of 
mortal humans, the Serrans were incredibly alone in that they 
outlived all around them. The first generation aged, but 
slowly-a human life but a splash of time to them.
    Here was Karn, as near immortal as the Serrans except that 
he simply relived a life of twenty years-endlessly. For a 
while he would become a bridge between Clan Capashen and the 
village of Devas. Karn could be counted on during these times 
to help allay suspicions, at least in regard to the Capashens, 
then the golem's other duties called him away, and when next 
Lyanii saw him they began again. It didn't matter that he 
couldn't remember the debt the Serrans owed him. She did.
    "No," she yelled when Isarrk overextended to score against 
one guard but left himself open to the striking sword of the 
second. "No, Isarrk, not a parry. A riposte. Riposte! You turn 
the one blade back against itself, and that leaves you still 
ready to defend against the second. Again. Do it again." She 
glared at the young man, daring him to make a remark. Isarrk 
blew out a long sigh of frustration and set himself back on 
his guard.
    "Is there a way to accelerate his training?" the golem 
asked after a moment's silent observation. "To make him," here 
the golem paused, trying to capture the words for what he 
meant, "better?"
    Lyanii had noticed that this time Karn's preoccupation 
with a student had taken an edge to it. "This boy is 
different, somehow, isn't he?" she asked. "More than just 
being a commoner's son?" She wondered if it had something to 
do with Urza Planeswalker's last visit to Benalia, or the 
unsettling tales of dark creatures preying upon the Benalish 
people.
    The silver man nodded. "He is different, yes, but not 
quite a commoner. One parent was a Capashen noble, though he 
died before it could be proven. That leaves Isarrk a farmer 
for the rest of his life, trapped by the caste system. Purceon 
Capashen asked me to look after his training this year."
    "He has the ability," she admitted, "but he must have the 
drive as well. You can't force a person's basic nature."
    "Don't be sure," Karn said softly.
    Lyanii glanced over, Karn studied Isarrk with a gesture of 
fondness. "Is it the Capashen Clan or is it Urza?" She felt 
certain now that the planeswalker might have more to say on 
this than Purceon Capashen.
    Karn stiffened, wary, but then whispered for her ears 
alone, "Urza."
    That was enough for Lyanii. Any debt she owed Karn was far 
outweighed by that owed to Urza. "He can be pushed to excel, 
Karn, but I'm not sure if it will help. A just cause isn't 
enough. He has to have the heart to defend it. If he cannot 
rise to my challenge, I may do more harm than good."
    On the field Isarrk skipped back, arm clutched to his side 
against the pain of a solid hit. He tossed his sword down in 
disgust, not for his opponent but at himself.
    "I can't do it, Marshal. It's not that either one is 
stronger than I am, but they aren't committing to probing 
attacks I can turn easily. When a sword comes in driven behind 
their full weight, how am I supposed to match that with the 
strength of my arms alone?"
    Lyanii looked over at the silver golem. She knew Karn 
liked the young man, and that he must be weighing that 
fondness against his orders from the Capashen noble and Urza. 
It surprised her how long he stood there, immobile, the sky's 
riot of sunset colors washing his silver sheen with a touch of 
red.
    Karn nodded. "Push him."
    Lyanii drew her longsword and stepped into the practice 
circle. She threw it to Isarrk, who caught it properly by the 
hilt. An easy flick of her foot and his abandoned weapon 
flipped into the air. She struck an en guarde position with 
it, anchoring her feet flat against the ground.
    "Come at me."
    Isarrk studied her with wide-eyed amazement. "This sword 
will break that one in two, Marshal."
    "If I let you do that, I deserve to bleed," she said, 
voice steel. "You'll come at me," and she quoted him, "driving 
with your full weight." She gestured with her weapon, and when 
he hesitated she slashed at the air and screamed in her best 
commanding voice, "Do it now!"
    Isarrk leapt forward, almost as if not by his own 
volition, the gleaming sword whistling a quick feint and then 
driving in with a slashing attack that would hope to overpower 
any defense the marshal could offer. Lyanii brought the 
smaller weapon up at an angle to the flat of Isarrk's blade, 
catching it in a spinning parry that she held into a full arc, 
until turning the blade back toward Isarrk's right shoulder. 
She kept her feet planted. Not wanting to drive the sharp 
instrument back into the young man. She released it and 
extended her arms to rap the side of Isarrk's head with the 
back of her closed hand. The youth crumpled to the ground, 
dazed.
    Lyanii stood on her guard, ready for another attack. 
Tossing the small sword down onto his chest, she stalked back 
to her place of instruction. Isarrk came reluctantly to his 
feet, one hand pressed to his new bruise.
    "Do it again," she ordered him. "Do it right."
    
                         Chapter 17

    Rayne stood in the shadow of the captain's raised 
quarterdeck near enough to the gunwale that she could stare 
out past the peaked bow and watch Yavimaya's appearance. The 
tall forest grew slowly out of the horizon, like an immense 
wave suddenly frozen in permanent relief. As it spread across 
the horizon, color tipped the lower edge, a long pale strip 
promising fair beaches. It was a false promise, Rayne knew.
    Captain Pheylad brought the vessel in under topsails only. 
This was Pheylad's first and likely only visit to the sentient 
forest, and this without Multani to forewarn Yavimaya or 
direct their course. Multani was in the elven lands of 
Shannodin inspecting some forest sites where entire villages 
had supposedly gone missing. Rayne was here-needing a break 
from Tolaria and her study of Phyrexian methods in creating 
negators.
    Why she had thought a visit to the sentient forest might 
allow her the chance to reclaim some peace of mind, she could 
not now say. Yavimaya bothered her with its unnatural cycles 
and strange growths. There was a process at work here she 
could not understand. There were no set laws and relationships 
like she dealt with in artifice. Allowing for the forest's 
sentience, Rayne sometimes wondered if the feelings of unease 
were mutual. Yavimaya might be as uncomfortable with their 
presence-with her presence-as Rayne was with it.
    Rayne grasped the polished railing and stared down, 
watching as the first slender root tentacles reach out to 
brush against the Weatherlight's hull of living wood. The 
impaling points pulled back, and on the shore the root network 
writhed and split open, allowing a path of firm ground from 
beachhead to the magnificent coastal forest. Rayne breathed a 
short sigh of relief. At least Yavimaya still recognized the 
Weatherlight.
    It was a comfort which lasted only long enough to bring 
the longboat ashore. No elf met them. No sound of birds or 
even insects cascaded through the trees. Silence reigned 
except for a light breeze wandering the trees and rustling 
brush. Leaving the strange root network behind had helped to 
ease nerves, the students and crew present spreading out in 
the relaxed setting of calf-high grasses and flowering 
underbrush. Now they each shifted uneasily, suddenly nervous 
in their unannounced arrival with no welcoming party.
    "Too quiet," Rayne said, uncertain of what else she 
expected. Suddenly she put a name to it. "No falling trees."
    Rayne's previous visits had been during the advanced 
mulching cycle of the forest as it built up stores of raw 
matter. Now the sound of falling trees was absent, replaced 
with a simple whisper of the wind through treetops and 
interlocked branches rubbing lightly together. The tall sparse 
grasses rippled only with natural movement, their own fast-
growth cycle apparently complete. It was as if Yavimaya slept.
    "The forest must know we are here," she said. She nodded 
to Pheylad but wondered who she was trying to convince. "The 
elves will be along soon enough."
    The captain glanced uneasily at the dark shadows beneath 
the trees, his shipboard confidence lost on dry land. "They 
might already be here," he said. "Can't see 'em unless they 
want to be seen."
    One of Rayne's senior students pointed farther into the 
forest. "There, isn't that new?"
    Rayne didn't bother to point out that after fifty years, 
everything was likely to be new. The normal rules didn't apply 
to Yavimaya. "Yes, looks like a tropical flower of some kind."
    The new plant was extremely large, its finlike growth 
reaching ten meters high. Colorful winged bugs flew around it, 
some of them occasionally flitting out to fall into the grass. 
A caustic stench welled up over the meadow as several bugs 
were stepped on by advancing students and ship's crew. The 
offending crushers exclaimed sharply, trying to wipe the 
residue off against the ground.
    Rayne stood off to one side, indecisive as she waited for 
some form of contact. Rofellos, would he still be alive? The 
academy chancellor did not like the silence that continued to 
greet them even after these long first minutes. Rayne noticed 
beside another of the strange tropical plants some thorny 
vines and another plant with spikes standing out three inches 
like small daggers. Something off to her left rustled as with 
hidden movement, though she did not believe it to be the 
elves. Their passage tended to be silent and hidden.
    She had just decided that they would all return to the 
ship-to await the arrival of Yavimaya's emissaries- when she 
noticed the color shift in the nearby trees. It was subtle yet 
fast enough to be tracked by the eye as light green darkened 
and shifted to various blue hues. The trees closer to them 
were in advanced stages of the color change, while deeper into 
the forest the change was just beginning. From her previous 
journeys in the Weatherlight, Rayne immediately grasped what 
it would look like from an aerial view and how Yavimaya would 
no doubt sense it-an expanding circle of disturbance at the 
center of which was the Weatherlight and her people.
    "Back to the ship," she said, voice low with carefully 
concealed concern. Only a few turned to look. "Back to the 
ship!"
    Everything seemed to happen at once. A trio of wolves, so 
heavily muscled their shoulders blended in with their neck, 
sprang from concealment to suddenly encircle one of those 
crewmen who had protested the stench of a squashed bug 
earlier. Another offender found herself encircled by a cloud 
of stinging creatures. With a shrill scream she tried to 
plunge into a thick wall of brush, hoping to lose the winged 
insects in the heavier growth, and was caught in a tangle of 
vines covered in sharp thorns. Blood welled in cuts and 
streamed down her face from the crown of vines wrapped about 
her brow. Another creature, a sledge-headed beast, shouldered 
its way past the thorny brush to snarl a challenge.
    The chancellor took a step in the direction of the trapped 
crewman, whose thrashing drove thorns deeper into her skin, 
and the forest suddenly closed up in front of her. She saw a 
pair of vines leap up to opposing trees for support, animated 
like a pair of striking snakes and forming an immediate 
barrier. They suddenly sprouted enough thorny vegetation to 
create an impassable wall. The wall then sprouted jade-green 
blooms which Rayne recoiled from as if struck. The innocent 
looking blooms touched at her core and drew strength away.
    Acting from instinct, Rayne reached into a pocket for 
globe-bombs, an invention of Barrin's for those traveling away 
from Tolaria in case they should meet with Phyrexians. She 
tossed one into the wall. The globe shattered, its force 
automatically channeled away from the thrower, shredding the 
thinner plant life and scoring deep scars into nearby trees. A 
Tolarian student was not far behind Rayne's action, tossing 
one of his own globes at the wolves and careful not to throw 
too near the beset crewman. The wolf yelped as splinters of 
glass impaled its hind quarter. The wounded beast and one 
other companion streaked back for the safety of the forest. 
Rayne tossed another of her globe-bombs at a suddenly active 
bush covered in globular blossoms. The plant disintegrated 
under the force. Behind it, previously screened from view, an 
elf riding a great moa raced toward her, cradling a war bow in 
one hand and reaching back for an arrow. Rayne drew back for 
another throw.
    "Stop!"
    The voice sounded off trees and quivered in the branches 
and leaves surrounding them. It seemed to shake the very 
ground and was reflected back from the upper boughs of the 
great trees. The reflections echoed among the plantlife, which 
shook under the order. It was as if the forest itself spoke, 
except Rayne remembered that voice. Rofellos.
    The Llanowar elf stood nearby, just inside the forest and 
at the top of a grassy knoll. He carried what appeared to be a 
halberd, a long smooth pole of silver wood topped with a wide, 
green leaf that seemed to possess the rigid sharpness of a 
blade. He had changed little in the relative centuries since 
Rayne's last visit, except now he boasted a trimmed mustache.
    Rayne suddenly realized that her intended target was an 
elf-not the animate vegetation or even one of the creatures 
that had assailed them-but a sentient resident of Yavimaya. 
The elf's own wild-eyed glare of anger faded, his face going 
slack with a sudden lack of animation. He lowered his bow as 
Rayne brought down her own hand, returning her globe-bomb to a 
pocket. She noticed that the creatures had all retreated, and 
the vines released their grip on her student.
    "Everyone calm down," she said as easily as she could, 
heart pounding in her chest with the adrenaline rush. "Just 
stand where you are until Rofellos tells you otherwise. Don't 
worry. We are among-" friends? Not exactly- "allies here."
    Watching Rofellos's slow approach, his weapon still held 
tightly at the ready, Rayne could only wonder if that were 
still true.

                          * * * * *

    "The forest is," a pause, "distracted," Rofellos said. 
Standing on the beach as evening fell over the island, his 
polearm resting in the crook of one arm. The Llanowar focused 
on Rayne alone as he spoke. The coastal roots had closed up, 
allowing only a narrow path from the water's edge back into 
the forest. "Yavimaya is working to tailor its defenses before 
the Phyrexian threat finds its way here."
    Rayne had watched Rofellos treat the wounded with herbs 
and a jellylike salve taken directly from the folds of a large 
violet-colored plant. He moved with purpose, efficient in his 
every act but lacking the energy and enthusiasm with which he 
had once assailed life. Certainly this was not the same elf 
Rayne remembered from before. Now, listening to him explain 
the initial lack of contact, she couldn't be sure that his 
reference to Yavimaya came from an individual's view of the 
situation. It reminded her too much of the imperial we.
    "Are you saying Yavimaya is dormant?"
    Rofellos shook his head lightly. "Not dormant. The 
accelerated mulch cycle is complete, and Yavimaya is spending 
intense resources in the evolution of the forest and its 
servants."
    "And you, Rofellos, how have you been?"
    Obviously the elf had not aged much, but without slow-time 
waters even a long-lived elf should be showing signs of time's 
passage by now. She performed a quick review of the years, 
checking her dates. Rofellos should actually be dead, though 
here he was, looking still to be in the middle part of an 
elf's long twilight of middle age.
    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 
root-work. 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.
    
                         Chapter 18

    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 smashed 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.
    
                         Chapter 19

    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 such 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.
    Fingers wrapped into the iron bars of the crypt door, the 
cold metal sticking to his warm skin, Kreig ground his teeth 
in fury. One hundred fifty years of experience promised him 
that the enemy would come for him soon-for Gatha and he both. 
His warrior instinct drove him to fight, and he would, at the 
head of the largest combined warhost the Keldon nation had 
ever known. An event which would survive centuries of 
retelling, it would be known in the oral histories until the 
day when The Call to Return finally sounded.
    His muscles bunched and strained, his mortal limits set 
against metal and stone. Coarse-threaded screws set into a 
mortared jamb wrenched free. He yelled his anger and defiance 
in a guttural shout. The iron gate twisted and came away in 
his hands. He held it overhead and with another savage cry 
pitched it from the lip of the Necropolis out into the thin, 
frozen air. He heard it whistle away, fade, and be lost. It 
fell down far enough that he never heard it hit, and that sat 
well with Kreig. Let it be lost.
    If he was ever to be laid to rest here, it would not be 
within confines which could be built by man-not even Keldon 
man.

                          * * * * *

    Rough blankets draped most of the equipment in Gatha's 
labs, gray shrouds rank with colos sweat having been used as 
saddle blankets in the past. Gatha hated that scent, even 
after three centuries in Keld where the musk of that mountain 
animal seemed to permeate every facet of life. He wondered if 
the Keldons hated the large beasts as much.
    He shrugged and shook his head, dispelling his speculation 
along with any lingering aversion to the scent. It did not 
matter anymore. Kreig had been to see him at the first of the 
week, carefully talking around the very point the witch king 
had come to make. It was something that couldn't be put into 
words. What Gatha had feared for fifty years-the Phyrexians 
were coming, and this time there would be no stopping them.
    Standing still and silent, Gatha strained his hearing to 
catch the sounds of the battle being fought on the plateau 
below his laboratory. No fire crackled in competition. No 
slaves moved about doing his bidding, where their footsteps 
might have drowned out that distant ringing of metal against 
metal. There were only he and two guards who waited like 
motionless statues outside his main workspace while he 
prepared it. The fighting sounded as if it had moved closer. 
Gatha could hear the shrill cry of a wounded colos warbeast 
echoing up the mountainside, but it was drowned out 
immediately by the grating roar of a massive Phyrexian dragon 
engine.
    It was the sound of death knocking upon the gates, an 
Argivian saying which Gatha remembered from long before Keld 
or Tolaria. Strange, that deep down he had actually believed 
death would come politely, requesting admission rather than 
kicking down the barriers and falling upon its victim in a 
fury of fire and grinding metal.
    Well, Gatha did not intend to quit without a fight. Where 
he had been forced to flee Tolaria, betrayed by those he had 
called colleagues even when they did not deserve such praise, 
here he knew strong allies and the strength of his own powers. 
Kreig had never failed him, never failed the Keldon nation, 
and Gatha knew that any chance for victory would revolve 
around them both: warlord and tutor. Witch king and wizard. 
Gatha remembered much of the Tolarian histories, of the 
battles waged with the dark forces. He knew many of their 
weaknesses. He could help turn the tide of battle, perhaps. In 
case he could not, the lab required preparation.
    Moving around the room, Gatha continued to cover each 
piece of equipment with the rough, strong-smelling blankets as 
he wrapped them with magical energies drawn from the mountains 
of Keld. He pulled the mana from the land, feeling its raw 
power and knowing the destructive force such energies could 
bring about. Warmth flushed his skin pink, warding him against 
the room's severe chill, as he layered the magic into every 
device, every table, into each wall surrounding him. It pulsed 
at his temples, straining for release, but he held each strand 
tied into a simple knot at the center of his mind. He buried 
it down deep, and there he held it with an afterthought. So 
long as he lived his labs were safe, but at any moment he 
could bring them down. He would not allow his work to fall 
into the hands of such an enemy. Better that it go to Urza, 
who had appreciated Gatha's efforts for many years. He 
wondered at what Urza might be able to accomplish with the 
culmination of Gatha's three centuries of research- great 
things, certainly.
    His previous casting completed, the mage stepped over to a 
large iron-bound trunk. The dark ebony paneling had been 
carved with scenes out of classic literature, each one 
depicting the gift or acquiring of knowledge from the gods or 
through man's own effort. Gatha had been known for both in his 
years in Keld. Inside the trunk was every scrap of information 
he had collected: early theories and experiments, two hundred 
years of refinements, his book of questions, as he called it, 
new paths of exploration suggested by his work, and many 
problems he had run up against or simply considered but had 
never possessed the time to pursue. Always time, his hated 
enemy, working against him. What he might have accomplished, 
eventually. Gatha smiled in the face of that consideration. 
What he had accomplished, today.
    Thinking back on his time in Tolaria, Gatha felt for the 
magic inherent to the island and drew it for his use. It came 
in a cool, salt-laden breeze. He attached tendrils of the 
power to the trunk, and with a simple twist of his mind he 
transported the entire collection into a fissure deep within 
the ground. There it would await Urza, the only person Gatha 
knew who could possibly retrieve it and figure out how to 
unlock its contents without engaging the protective wards that 
would incinerate the research.
    The lab dead and warded, the trunk hidden away with only a 
tether held in his mental grasp, Gatha picked up his staff 
from its resting place by the main door. Made of dark ebony, 
as the trunk had been, its headpiece a pair of crescent-shaped 
iron blades stained a deep crimson, it was no longer the 
simple walking staff he had used to enter Keld. A magical 
device he had imbued with powers over his long stay, it would 
aid him today in defending his home.
    Passing through the door, he gathered his guards by glance 
alone and then added that final magical tendril, connecting 
his boon of knowledge to the knot of magical threads already 
tied within his mind. It was readied to search out and whisper 
a message to Urza Planeswalker. It would bring Urza here, 
eventually. What happened after, in the future, was not 
Gatha's concern.
    It never was.

                          * * * * *

    Kreig commanded his warhost from the left flank, near the 
edge of the plateau where the fighting was the most 
concentrated. Here there could be no quarter, no fallback-the 
opposing forces always aware of the precipice they could so 
easily be swept over. Already a number of Keldon warriors had 
plummeted to their deaths, dashed to crimson stains on the 
sharp rocks below. Kreig had led an assault which toppled a 
dragon engine to join them. His greatsword sliced apart treads 
while a white scar of lightning cast out from Gatha's 
fingertips slammed into the engine's enraged head.
    The stench of oil and blood, scorched ground and burnt 
flesh, assailed the normally chill mountain air now warm with 
Phyrexian fires. Kreig registered the pain of his healing 
right leg. The witch king's armor had been burned away from a 
gout of a burning jellylike substance belched from one of the 
larger black creatures, that creature now destroyed and left 
in his wake. Armor-clad warriors, those stunted growths with 
their mechanical arms and legs, he left shattered by the 
dozens. They annoyed him, so small and insignificant compared 
to his expanded boundaries. His was the personal strength of a 
thousand men, borrowed piecemeal from the legion of warriors 
under his direct control. When he swung his gore-streaked 
greatsword, it struck with force enough to rip through armor 
plating and shatter metal supports. Flesh and bone where he 
found it among the dark soldiers, he cleft with ease.
    How much more might he have become if he had brought the 
entire Keldon warhost under his banner? This was not the only 
battle being fought today. It was one of several, in fact, and 
the witch king never forgot his responsibilities. He was more 
than Kreig-immortal or not, the greatest of the witch kings or 
not-he was Keld. Even in the frenzy of battle the witch king 
never forgot his priorities. His nation would survive. The 
Phyrexians were here for him, testing themselves against the 
greatest warrior Dominaria had ever known. He and Gatha, they 
were the objectives. So long as Kreig did not put the whole of 
Keld in between the enemy and themselves, some-many-would 
survive.
    The warlord was able to easily recognize the Phyrexians 
battle philosophy. They had apparently little use for 
subterfuge with what seemed to be inexhaustible resources to 
draw upon, and they had their god of pale flesh and black eyes 
that could place them for battle or withdraw them as 
necessary. They wanted to rip out the strength-what they 
perceived to be the strength-of his nation. They would learn 
that the Keldon strength was inexhaustible as well. It didn't 
matter whether the Phyrexians won today or next year. They 
could take all of Dominaria, in fact. One day the Necropolis 
would be full, and then nothing would stand before his nation 
and him.
    A skeletal figure walked the battlefield toward him. Kreig 
knew of it immediately, sensing the approaching danger in the 
waning lifeforce of his warriors. It appeared only slightly 
more impressive than the spindle-limbed warriors in black 
armor-the only visible differences being its cleft skull and 
burning red eyes that sat back within hollow sockets. It 
carried a staff which looked to be a thin, twisted piece of 
wood, and it wore no more protection than a robe of tattered 
cloth bands, or so it seemed.
    One Keldon warrior charged the thing, and it moved with 
blinding speed to eviscerate the man with one swipe of its 
thin, taloned hands. Another met an end with searing bolts 
from the creature's eyes. The one blow Kreig saw the creature 
take was shrugged aside as easily as the witch king himself 
might have done, hardly scratching through the tattered robes 
that writhed with their own life.
    Rage gripped Kreig, watching his warriors so easily cast 
aside as if they barely merited a warrior's death. He kicked 
an impaled creature off his sword. The warlord shouldered his 
way past or through several skirmishes, trailing the smoke 
from smoldering colos horn back from his shoulder vents. A 
Phyrexian's clawed hand took off the bladed antler that 
guarded part of his helm's eye slit. He shrugged it aside, 
raking his armor's elbow spikes into the creature's midsection 
and tearing through several hoses acting as veins for thin, 
glistening oil.
    The other creature finally noticed his advance and paused 
to meet him. It screeched out an attack of tormenting sound. 
Waves of preternatural sound assailed Kreig with stunning 
force, as if he had hit an invisible wall which then toppled 
back over him. His armor shook, and small stabs of pain worked 
through his gut. He shouted his war cry, cursing his own 
muscles for their treasonous behavior, and then he was past 
the wall and set upon the Phyrexian.
    His greatsword rose and fell three times in rapid strikes. 
The first two glanced off the bands of metal that rustled and 
rasped over the creature like living snakes, but the last 
connected solidly to the side of the Phyrexian's head. A few 
metal bands fell to the ground, writhing a moment before 
falling still. The vicious slash to the creature's face caused 
it to stumble and opened up a large cut in the taught, 
glistening-gray skin. Kreig moved to make a disabling blow but 
found his sword deflected by a flick of the creature's hand. A 
stiff-armed stabbing motion followed from the Phyrexian, 
allowing a pair of talons to pierce his armor and dig into his 
ribs.
    Kreig backed off immediately, knowing to not press an 
attack after being taken unaware, and he watched the cut on 
the Phyrexian's face heal. Strands of fiber spun out from one 
side of the wound to the other, pulling the flesh tight again. 
Small spinning devices, fused right into the skull it seemed, 
spun and stitched the skin back together flawlessly. His own 
wounds burned painfully. He noticed a sludgelike black fluid 
dripping from the creature's two talons that had found his 
skin. Growling defiance, Kreig swung again. Another lightning 
flash of motion and the Phyrexian's poisoned claws scored 
again along his right shoulder.
    Burning, the substance continued to eat away at him 
regardless of how much strength his warriors lent him. Kreig 
stumbled, going down on one knee, his swordpoint stabbed into 
the earth for balance. He hated the Phyrexian for humbling him 
in such a manner. He couldn't draw a breath, the burning now 
in his lungs. Kreig wrenched his helm away, drawing in deeply 
the steaming, smoky air.
    Chattering a cacophony of squeals and hisses, the creature 
moved in to deal a death blow. A crackling, snapping arc of 
energy scored the air over Kreig. Gatha's lightning caught the 
Phyrexian in the shoulder, driving it back a step as two more 
warriors fell on it. One arm apparently fused into place, the 
beast clawed the throat out of one footsoldier and then threw 
him into his partner, driving them both over the cliff edge. 
It then worked at its shoulder, twisting it back into a full 
range of motion within seconds.
    With a struggle to control his pain, Kreig levered himself 
back to his feet and brought his greatsword back up in 
challenge. He could feel his own blood trickling down his 
side, the wounds failing to close as that burning sludge 
worked deeper into his body. The Phyrexian advanced, striking 
out with long, skeletal arms that moved with blazing speed. 
Kreig countered, giving back a step under each blow but 
holding off the deadly embrace. More of his warriors leapt in 
to the fray-only to be thrown back dead or dying-and then the 
creature advanced again. Kreig knew that the space behind him 
was limited. There would be Gatha and then open air as the 
plateau fell away to the lower valleys. He would have to act 
soon.
    The Phyrexian never gave him that chance. As if tired of 
the game, it simply grabbed his sword on a parrying stroke and 
wrested it from his grip. A razored claw shot out, piercing 
his armor and digging claws into his mid-section. It lifted 
Kreig from the ground, its hollow sockets only inches from the 
witch king's tortured gaze, as it pumped more liquid fire into 
him, then it tossed both Keldon warlord and sword aside as if 
broken toys. Kreig slammed into the ground, and there he lay 
in wordless agony. So easily discarded, the greatest witch 
king ever known rolled over enough to see the face of his 
destroyer. He stared into the skull's lifeless expression.
    The Phyrexian turned, no longer concerned with the broken 
Keldon, and its ember eyes found Gatha.

                          * * * * *

    Hellfire scents of burning flesh and scorched ground rose 
to choke Gatha. Metal clattered against other metal. The 
grinding of gears at times threatened to drown out the orders 
passed among minor warlords and their witch king masters. A 
haze hung over the plateau, smoky and wraithlike, and from 
that haze the Phyrexians kept advancing. Warriors went down 
beneath physical weapons and blazes of energies, and some 
simply fell sick as if by sudden disease.
    Kreig fell to the Phyrexian champion, and the shock value 
itself drove the Keldon army back several precious yards.
    Gatha could not wonder if he hadn't somehow been 
responsible. The more magic he expended, it seemed, the 
greater the opposition brought forward by the Phyrexians.
    His cast of lightning helping to topple a dragon engine, 
and then two more of the juggernauts rolled forward. He'd 
summoned a giant at one point, which had been quickly 
overwhelmed under a surge of black-armored warriors. Then came 
the particularly draining cast, drawing upon his entire store 
of mana to summon a rock hydra to block the lower pass, trying 
to limit the influx of more enemy soldiers.
    The Phyrexians countered with their god.
    The mage had glimpsed him in between castings while trying 
to marshal the energies at his control for another lightning 
strike. The image fit Kreig's description too well-pasty 
corpselike flesh and wide-set eyes of steel gray within black. 
The thin, hard line of his mouth grimaced under strain. Gatha 
did not believe the figure to actually be a god, no more so 
than he himself was, though the Keldons had for decades 
considered him and Kreig both as near-divine. He sensed the 
bridge form between worlds, saw briefly the dull tan landscape 
overlaid onto Dominaria. Planeswalker! The word shouted out in 
his mind from his earlier association with Urza. It was the 
closest he could come to naming the powers he saw 
demonstrated. From across the bridge stepped a new group of 
Phyrexian nightmares, the skeletal figure among them, 
bypassing the hydra.
    Urza help us, was Gatha's first thought at witnessing the 
crossover. If he could have hoped to shout for the 
planeswalker's attention, right then he would have done so, 
but he had spent too much of his stamina already, manipulating 
heavy magics as well as maintaining his hold on the wards that 
protected his labs. Now he could only try and recover, 
witnessing the horrible passage of the new Phyrexian as it 
slaughtered its way quickly and effortlessly across the 
battlefield to put down Kreig. Even a solid strike of 
lightning failed to do more than slow it- and draw its 
attention. Right then as it looked to him, before its final 
confrontation with Kreig, Gatha sensed the hatred it felt. It 
froze the mage in his place for a moment-long enough for Kreig 
to fall-and then the dark creature was past the dethroned 
witch king and facing Gatha himself.
    Backed against the plateau's precipice, his magical 
strength waning, Gatha began a sacrificial casting that would 
expend his own life in one final attack against the Phyrexian. 
One of the most powerful and dangerous spells he'd brought 
away from Tolaria, he held it in reserve for just such an 
occasion. With Kreig vanquished and the army poised at its 
breaking point, there was little else he could accomplish with 
his life. He could only hope to accomplish something more by 
his death.
    Time betrayed him. The creature's red eyes darkened, 
becoming twin orbs of dark power within cavernous sockets. The 
black mana swept from it in a mind-rending wave-a banshee wail 
that drove the mage quickly to his knees. The spell he had 
held in readiness was lost to the chaos, torn from him in a 
painful struggle. It left him weak and defenseless. He rose 
back to his feet on shaky legs, his mind numb. He stared into 
the orbs, and they froze him to his spot. The Phyrexian 
reached its hands out toward Gatha's head-razor-sharp fingers 
on hands of metal framework and cable. One finger on each hand 
opened up to allow a short length of braided wire to escape. 
The ends probing the air in front of his eyes, searching. 
Gatha realized then that all his preparations to keep his 
research from Phyrexian hands were for naught, and worse, he 
was about to give up Urza's best-kept secrets-Tolaria, the 
Weatherlight, the Legacy and the bloodlines. He understood 
now. The Phyrexian was here for his mind.
    In his entire life, Gatha had always lived by what could 
be done now, not tomorrow or the day next. Leaving his 
knowledge for Urza's recovery was in many ways an act of 
today, though it also prepared for the morrow when that 
knowledge might surface again. Seconds away from betrayal of 
Dominaria to Phyrexia, Gatha made the final commitment. 
Gauging his distance from the plateau's drop to a deep valley, 
Gatha released that buried knot of magical energy within his 
mind, collapsing the wards that protected his labs and held 
the call for Urza in place. Far up the slope from the plateau, 
fire blossomed as the destructive force of the mountain's 
stored mana welled up in a cataclysm of energy and raw power 
meant to destroy his labs completely. The roar of the 
explosion was matched with a magical shock wave which rode the 
recoil of such a heavy mana draw. The creature glanced away 
for a second.
    That was all the time Gatha required.

                          * * * * *

    Kreig had watched the Phyrexian advance on Gatha, his jaw 
clenched against the pain and refusing to give it justice 
through voice. His friend and advisor stood transfixed like a 
bird caught in the mesmerizing stare of a rock cobra. Kreig 
rolled to his stomach, ignoring the fire that burned within as 
he got his hands under him. His helm laying off to the side, 
Kreig's face pressed into the ground. It smelled of fresh 
dirt-no oil or blood to taint the ground of Keld here, no 
scorched earth, not yet.
    The sweat of exertion tunneling from his brow, Kreig 
levered himself back to hands and knees. He still maintained 
his hold on the warhost, still felt their combined strength 
and rage coursing through his veins as it warred with the 
foreign substance invading his body. He focused on the back of 
the creature that had laid him low. He saw the sky over the 
invader's shoulder deepening into purple as his bloodlust 
mixed with the normal blue. He rocked back to his feet as 
Gatha shrank to his knees-the two trading places. He stumbled 
for his greatsword, drawing it back from the dust where the 
Phyrexian had cast it. The Keldon nation was not finished. 
Neither was he.
    The powers of a witch king were never without their 
limitations, even in him. He drew from his warrior nation that 
which he needed to make himself stronger and gifted back to 
them, in his exploits and energy, a lust for life and battle 
which would carry them through and home again with the spoils 
of war. Only here the spoils were Keld itself. He could feel 
the dark matter killing him. It certainly would have killed 
any mortal man already. Kreig had never known defeat before, 
but if it must happen, it would happen on his own terms.
    The explosion of Gatha's labs did not distract the witch 
king's focus. He saw Gatha pitch himself backward, rolling for 
the cliff edge. The Phyrexian recovered quickly but not soon 
enough. Gatha was lost in the vast space that fell away from 
the plateau. Cheering his friend, defying death at the hands 
of Phyrexia, the witch king leapt forward sword reversed and 
poised overhead like a scorpion's stinger, the battle cry on 
his lips his own.
    "Kreig!"
    The skeletal creature spun quickly, arms flashing in on 
the attack. Kreig drove forward into the deadly embrace. 
Talons ripped through armor like a sword through old leather, 
digging deeply into each side. Pain blossomed- an agony unlike 
any he had ever known or imagined. Kreig retained hold of his 
weapon with a determination honed over one hundred fifty years 
of battle, and he felt his steel bite at the joint where the 
creature's thin neck met with armored bands covering its 
shoulder. Screaming his war cry, Kreig drove the blade down 
with his every ounce of strength and kicked forward.
    The blade worked in and plunged deep, driven by the 
strength of every warrior who still survived and the raging 
will of one mortal who would never surrender easily to death. 
The Phyrexian screeched in pain and fury and then caught him 
fast, trying to hold Kreig in a final embrace. No physical 
barriers held a Keldon warlord, not even after death. Kreig 
drove forward, bloody spittle flying from his lips as he 
screamed his own name. His vision swam, and he stood at the 
entrance to his crypt facing out into the world, the drop 
before him leading down from the Necropolis. With his final 
call to battle, rousing those who woke behind him, Kreig leapt 
out into the space.
    As he fell, he knew that somewhere, down below, Gatha 
waited for him again.
    
                           Book III
                      NATURAL SELECTION
                      (4013-4149 A.R.)

    Life must endure. Urza said that to me once, and as usual 
there is just enough truth in it to suit the planeswalker's 
purpose. What he failed to recognize is that life will endure, 
often despite the best or worst intentions of individuals, no 
matter how powerful.
    
                            - Barrin, Master Mage of Tolaria
    
                         Chapter 20

    Silence reigned in the Chancellor's Hall, the 
administrative work of the academy brought to a halt for the 
night and most offices locked up and darkened. Light spilled 
through the open door of the last occupied workspace. Timein 
approached it slowly.
    Though he only held the official academy rank of senior 
student, Timein had passed through security with little 
trouble. The sorcerer had free access to Barrin or any 
chancellor on the master mage's own order. The island's night 
watch had not challenged him. The final doorway, however, was 
daunting enough to stop him cold. It stood open, inviting, and 
Timein could see Barrin working at his desk within. That last 
step across the threshold was one of Timein's most difficult 
accomplishments in all his time on Tolaria, precisely because 
it would signify the end of that time.
    He stepped through into Barrin's office. The mage glanced 
up from his work, from reviewing the material he and Urza 
would be discussing no doubt. The mage had put out the word 
that he would be meeting with Urza for all those who might 
have business that needed to be brought to the planeswalker's 
attention.
    "Timein," Barrin said in surprised greeting. His 
expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. 
"It's been a long time since you've visited the academy."
    In Barrin's presence, Timein removed his cap and shoved it 
into a pocket. "The academy is on my way to the docks," he 
said, mouth dry. He knew Barrin didn't need to be told that 
one of the academy's security-cleared trader vessels had 
docked there this week-and was leaving on the tide tomorrow 
morning.
    The mage settled back in his chair, hands flat in front of 
him on the marble-topped desk. He studied Timein with guarded 
green eyes. "I see," he said. "You want papers for leaving 
Tolaria," he said. It wasn't a question. "What about your 
students? Your fellow exiles?"
    "The colony refuge will sustain itself without me. But my 
own studies ..." he trailed off. How much did Barrin know 
about the work he had done for Urza?
    Most of it, apparently.
    Barrin rose and offered the sorcerer his hand. "Your work 
these last years has been of extreme importance and help, 
Timein. Your refinements to the empathy magics couldn't have 
been accomplished by anyone else." Tolaria's master mage 
nodded slowly. "Are you certain you cannot be persuaded to 
stay?" he asked, a note of resignation present.
    "Yes, I'm certain," Timein said.
    The sorcerer had too much to work through on his own. 
While he'd begun to admit to a certain validation behind 
Tolaria's purpose-behind Urza's purpose-it was hard to balance 
that out against his lack of understanding for the lands and 
lives his work affected. Barrin might be able to make those 
hard decisions, balancing lives against the sometimes harsh 
necessities of the future. Timein did not yet possess such an 
outlook.
    "I do hope to return, Master Barrin, someday, but I've 
gone as far as I can with the Legacy and Tolaria." He smiled a 
sad smile. "As far as I can, for now."

                          * * * * *

    "It's been better than a century since the deaths of Gatha 
and Kreig, Urza. Still the Keldons haven't fully recovered." 
The mage shook his head. "I don't care for the idea that we 
may see that same kind of devastation in Benalia."
    Barrin paced the Weatherlight's deck, trying to work off 
some of his nervous energy but feeling that in fact the 
reverse was true. Though the ship remained sea-bound, sailing 
emerald waters beneath a brilliant summer-blue sky, the mage 
sensed the large powerstone that was the vessel's heart 
pulsing from its protected vault. The magic charged him, a 
reminder of his part in the ship's design and construction, 
and of course, in its maiden voyage to Serra's Realm. That 
felt so long ago, the battle now just one more footnote in his 
never-ending life. Barrin's world seemed to shrink with each 
new year added to that span, lost among the incredible 
history.
    Standing near the forward mast, pennants snapping in the 
rigging above him, Urza glanced upward for a long moment, 
possibly remembering the time he'd spent on ship climbing into 
the sails and mastering the ocean's temperament.
    "I trust that Keld will survive," the 'walker said with 
regard to Barrin's first statement. "It has always been a 
strong nation. I doubt they will ever see another of Kreig's 
status, though certainly the witch kings wish for it."
    The master mage conceded that point. Urza was right in 
that the Keldons had asked for Gatha and the rogue tutor's 
experiments, had embraced them. Their current difficulties, 
now that Phyrexia had moved on, stemmed from the witch kings 
trying to hold onto the power Kreig had once brought them all. 
Yes, that struggle would work itself out, eventually, but this 
was not the issue at hand.
    "The Phyrexians stumbling over Gatha's work was 
unfortunate but not devastating," continued Urza.
    Barrin disagreed. "It pointed the Phyrexians in our 
general direction. We have reports of infestations in Femeref, 
Sardnia, and especially in Benalia. They know of the 
bloodlines, Urza."
    "Something of the bloodlines," Urza corrected. "But they 
seem to be focusing on them as warriors only and not on their 
future potential."
    Barrin shook his head, then drew in a deep breath of the 
tangy sea air. "It doesn't matter. They know, and that's 
dangerous. It means they will keep looking, finding more of 
your bloodlines and placing the project in jeopardy."
    Urza shook his head. His voice turned hard. "I will keep 
ahead of them. We will keep ahead of them. Even should the 
Phyrexians try, they couldn't find all of the bloodlines. Not 
near enough to make a difference, in fact." His voice 
softened, even as his expression followed suit. "We're getting 
so close, Barrin. There are so many promising lines, scattered 
all over Dominaria." He nodded a brief concession. "Yes, I'm 
concerned that the Phyrexians are stepping up to such an 
obvious level of interference. The invasion may not be far 
off, but I still need at least six generations. The Legacy is 
complete but for an heir to wield it." His eyes glinted hard 
against the overhead sun. "Barrin, I need that time. The 
infestations are being controlled. I expect that the Benalish 
can hold out a bit longer."
    "We both know that if the Phyrexians want to take down 
Benalia or any other nation they will. Right now they are 
toying with the bloodlines, trying to gauge their 
effectiveness. You owe whatever time you have to Phyrexia, 
Urza, and betting on them is not a pleasant gamble to make." 
Barrin sighed in frustration. He knew he wasn't getting 
through. "We're lucky they have not discovered Tolaria," he 
said with a sharp glance to the planeswalker. "What's left of 
it," he added. The island was no longer holding up well to the 
centuries of mining and farming and general use by so many 
people.
    "Gatha kept that from them," Urza said softly, ignoring 
the latter remark. "To the end, he was a loyal student."
    Barrin could not allow that to go by unchallenged. "Loyal? 
If he were loyal he never would have left Tolaria. His work 
was a beacon to Phyrexia. We never should have allowed it to 
continue."
    Urza slashed the air before him with a knife-edge hand, a 
human gesture of frustration, certainly chosen from the memory 
of his physical life and used now only to influence Barrin. 
"It had to continue. I needed the insight of his generation to 
accomplish sooner what might have taken me centuries of trial 
and error. I don't always have the answers, Barrin, and we 
don't have the time it would take me to find them myself."
    His ears warm with the rebuke, the world swam in Barrin's 
vision as one particular turn of phrase stuck within his mind 
and set his hackles rising. The insight of Gatha's 
"generation." An eerie, prickling sensation crawled up 
Barrin's spine and spread over his scalp, squeezing in at his 
brain, which throbbed in painful response against his temples.
    "Not possible," he finally said, voice hoarse with doubt. 
"You gave me the information on the bloodlines. Gatha was 
nowhere among them, and he's too old."
    The mask frozen over Urza's face admitted to Barrin that 
the planeswalker had indeed given something away he hadn't 
meant to. His entire form an illusion of energy patterns, Urza 
could look as he wished. Gestures and expressions were 
entirely affectations he assumed for dealing with mortals. He 
simulated emotional responses as it suited him, most often 
preplanned to generate the effect he wanted. Caught unaware or 
in the grip of intense concentration, those were the first 
signs to slip away.
    "I gave you the information on all continuing bloodlines, 
not every single bloodlines subject, and Gatha is not too 
old." The human mannerisms returned, and Urza allowed himself 
a small sigh of concession. "I began my first experimentation 
outside Tolaria not long after we discovered the mana rig in 
Shiv, when I knew the Weatherlight would fly, several decades 
before bringing the Legacy and bloodlines to your attention."
    There was an uneasy pause, and then Urza continued. "I 
told you then that I had taken matters as far as I could 
alone."
    The mage performed some quick math-thirty years! Just 
enough to raise one generation and breed the next, subjects 
that, if left unchecked, might have bred thousands, even 
millions, of descendents by now. Of course, theory never 
matched reality, but it was still staggering to contemplate.
    "So you haven't kept track?" he asked. The 'walker shook 
his head. "No need. These were prior to our official 
Bloodlines program, and the procedures were imperfect. I also 
relied on a heavier mix of Thran blood in the Matrix. Most of 
those early lines sickened, and I allowed them to simply breed 
my work back out. Only a few lines prospered, but they showed 
remarkable talents. Those I brought to Tolaria for their 
genius. I turned them over to you better than three hundred 
years ago."
    For their genius. Barrin wondered at all those students 
over the years. Not Jhoira and Teferi, they fell outside the 
proper time frame. Gatha for certain, and how many others? How 
many remained in his classrooms and labs? In his life?
    Barrin looked at the planeswalker. He remembered Urza's 
words spoken so long ago. "I certainly would not have chosen 
any other mate for you." He locked gazes with the true 
immortal, but Urza simply looked on, curiously now, which 
meant either he had no idea as to the question so close to 
Barrin's lips or was not about to volunteer the information. 
Barrin blinked, glanced away, and focused his gaze on the far 
horizon ahead. The wind cut sharply over the bow and welled 
tears in the corners of his eyes.
    "Take me home, Urza."

                          * * * * *

    It was a waking dream-a nightmare, actually. It was a 
clockwork world-a series of them-one shell world nestled 
around the next one. The ticking and grinding of gears sounded 
always at the edge of one's hearing, deep and pervasive as it 
threw the barest tremor into the ground. The air filled with 
the scent of hot metal and fresh oil, scents which Rayne knew 
well from her life as an artificer.
    Rayne fought the vivid images, trying to clear her mind 
and concentrate on her work. A gyroscope belonging to a 
mechanical dervish rested in the clamps before her, held to a 
comfortable height such that she could inspect it while 
sitting on a workshop chair. She leaned in again, checking the 
wear and searching for tolerance deviations. Her gauge 
trembled in her slender fingers, and her wrist shook just 
enough to continuously spoil the focusing power of her wrist-
mounted glass. Biting her lower lip in frustration, she tore 
the glass off her wrist and hurled it across the room. Hearing 
the glass shatter against the wall brought an instant of 
immediate gratification, followed quickly by a sense of loss 
and guilt for having taken her turmoil out on an inanimate 
tool.
    "Rayne? Is everything all right?" Hurried footsteps came 
down the corridor and then the door of her workshop swung 
open.
    Startled, Rayne stood quickly in the surprise of hearing 
Barrin's voice. She expected her husband to be gone for 
several hours yet. Catching her stool before it overturned, 
she set it carefully against a table as he entered.
    "You're back early." Watching him scan the shop with his 
quick, green eyes, she noticed their haunted look. Frowning, 
she clasped her hands together. A gesture of concern and meant 
also to hold them steady. "The meeting went as you suspected, 
I see." Rayne knew her husband too well. There was no missing 
his look of fear, quickly smothered under doubting eyes.
    "I had Urza 'walk me back to Tolaria," he said in answer 
to her first statement. Taking passage back to the island 
should have cost him several days time, though only hours 
subjective to Rayne.
    She noted the despondency in his voice, the too-casual 
shrug. Barrin was her entire world, always more important than 
her artifice. After so many years she could read him as she 
could no other, and she remembered better than he. She could 
compare her husband's moods and attitudes with previous years, 
and she noted the failing pattern. Something was wrong or 
going wrong. So far, though, Barrin had been unable or 
unwilling to share it.
    Now he tried to change the subject. "What happened to your 
glass?" he asked, nodding toward the twisted frame and pile of 
glittering shards.
    "A mistake," she said. That was truthful enough. "I will 
have to fix the frame later and order a new lens."
    "I'll take care of the lens," he promised quickly.
    Too quickly. He was definitely avoiding some problem. "Is 
something the matter?" she asked, knowing full well there was 
and wanting to draw him out-wanting also to avoid her own 
personal nightmares.
    She noticed a glistening bead on her husband's forehead 
and reached out slowly to dab at it with delicate fingertips. 
Moisture. She almost expected the scent of glistening oil but 
shoved such thoughts back into the darker recesses of her 
mind.
    "Something is the matter."
    His eyes met her gaze, softened under the warm concern. 
Almost, she thought, he was ready to blurt it out. Slowly, 
almost sadly, he reached over and took her hand in his. 
"Rayne," he began, voice trembling only slightly. "Rayne, are 
you happy on Tolaria?"
    An odd question, deserving perhaps an inconclusive answer. 
"I think I have been getting too close to my work," she said 
openly, her voice tight with the tension but feeling some of 
the strain draining away by speaking of it. "It does not hold 
the allure it once did. Not since ..." she trailed off, 
uncertain.
    "The negator?" Barrin asked, finishing the sentence. He 
asked it as a question, but something more rode his voice.
    She nodded, feeling better for the admission. "Silly, I 
know, but we have been at this for so long." Her words caught 
as Barrin winced. "What is it, Barrin?"
    Her question was insistent this time-worried. She couldn't 
remember seeing her husband so concerned. So vulnerable, that 
was the word. His fire was missing. Was the rock-solid 
strength that had guided the academy for over six centuries of 
relative time finally eroding under natural stress and the 
very unnatural pressures of dealing with Urza Planeswalker?
    Barrin raised her hand to his lips. Kissed it hard, once. 
"It's not important." He called up a smile, tight and 
humorless but there nonetheless. "You're right, we've been at 
this for too long. But I don't think it will go on much 
longer, Rayne. Tolaria can't hold up forever. Urza's plans are 
near fruition, and the enemy grows bolder. Something is going 
to give and soon, then we can take à hard look at where the 
academy is and what we want to do." He nodded. "Then." The 
smile sparked briefly in the corners of his bright green eyes. 
"It's not important," he said again.
    Wanting to trust her husband and believe in a brighter 
future that could arrive of its own accord, Rayne almost 
believed the lie.
    
                         Chapter 21

    The seemingly endless plains of Rath were, in fact, not. 
There was a limit to the amount of flowstone the Stronghold 
had been able to produce in its millennium of operation. Here, 
at the edge of Rath, the sky boiled as if alive with fire-a 
riot of red and orange distorted ever so slightly like flames 
reflected from polished metal. It was a sight to twist the 
most sane mind into a terrifying shadow of its former self. 
The physical boundary of a plane was not meant for 
contemplation by mortal man.
    Davvol, however, could hardly count as such anymore. He 
had been compleated to the point where he lived indefinitely, 
if at the sufferance of his Phyrexian masters. Six centuries 
of life, one in waiting and five more here on Rath as steward-
evincar really, for in the last hundred and twenty years of 
his stewardship it could be said that he had truly ruled this 
plane. Since Croag had fallen beneath the sword of Kreig the 
witch king, the Phyrexian had been forced to slowly heal over 
the past twelve decades. He was in no shape to challenge 
Davvol, whose mastery of flowstone and the machinery of the 
Stronghold made him powerful. Davvol was finally powerful, out 
from under the shadow of the Phyrexian Inner Circle member. 
Croag rested in a place of darkness few knew of and where none 
could wonder at how the Phyrexian had almost been destroyed at 
the hands of a mortal Dominarian. Such was their new 
relationship. Croag was able to delay and heal rather than 
return to Phyrexia and face possible rending, and Davvol ruled 
Rath as evincar, with an unspoken but present guarantee that 
Croag's reports back to Phyrexia would never endanger either 
of them.
    Davvol had come to this point today, the farthest reaches 
of his realm. Here would be the most difficult spot to attempt 
a transference, the forces controlled by Rath's great 
machinery at their weakest and so relying more on his own 
ability. Armored troops waited in formal ranks behind him, 
silently menacing.
    Flowstone rippled as he made mental contact with the 
control machinery under the Stronghold, focusing it against 
the nearby ground. Tan-colored waves rose in the landscape, 
shallow troughs running between them, as the machinery first 
worked the larger features into the surrounding plains. It was 
a slow process and the pressure within his mind built to a 
steady ache. Simple vegetation followed in the transference, 
and then the homes and utility buildings so common to every 
Benalish village.
    This was a Capashen settlement, the clan that had long 
occupied Croag's attentions until his accident. Davvol had 
decided to usurp those duties as well, the constant testing 
and probing, now that Keld was a forgotten experiment.
    The village formed as he recalled it, the control 
machinery pulling it from his memories. The two worlds 
overlapped as the chaos that existed between planes was 
feathered aside and the final barriers weakened. He felt that 
final moment of transference. His mind lay open to the people 
of the Benalish village who now beheld the chaos storming 
about them as Rath intruded into their lives. Hundreds of 
humans-each a tiny flare within his mind as the great 
machinery seized his consciousness- heard the terrible wailing 
that encroached upon Rath from the chaos between worlds. He 
felt that moment, and held it.
    On his gesture, the armor-clad troops raised their weapons 
high and moved into the village, fighting- slaughtering-at 
once on Rath and also Dominaria. Davvol felt each one's life 
added to the pattern the machinery forced upon his mind, a 
tangible weight pressing down on him. The tiny flare 
extinguished as another Dominarian fell before his troops. The 
warriors traveled dim streets, now only half-lit by sunlight. 
Davvol directed his soldiers toward specific people, wanting 
to bring over those who would represent a good cross-section 
of the village. Dominaria was his hunting ground. No one could 
hide from him.
    Only, he was not about to get all that he wanted. The 
attack faltered in places. He found himself distracted by the 
rising wail of disembodied voices. He was distracted by the 
press of new wills acting against his own. The intruders 
interfered with his control over the Stronghold's machinery. 
This presence took on a luminescent, humanoid form within his 
mind as it wrestled into the pattern of transference in his 
mind. Davvol's mind swam, his train of thought barely able to 
hold control over the great machinery.
    He tried to bring warriors against these apparitions 
plaguing his mind, but they possessed no physical form to 
attack. As he searched for ways to win the battle in his mind, 
he found the assault in front of his eyes going not as well as 
he'd hoped. Some Benalish held their own against the Phyrexian 
troops. Usually it was a single, leather-clad soldier, caught 
in the village during the attack or perhaps on permanent 
assignment, but others joined in as well. Here a blacksmith 
wielded his hammer and crushed through Phyrexian armor and 
skull alike. Over there a farmer employed his scythe to great 
effect, knocking legs out from under Davvol's troops and 
leaving them helpless upon the ground.
    There was no meeting such challenges to his troops, not 
while the haunting cries continued to threaten his control. As 
his warriors began to drag back victims, stepping from 
Dominaria to Rath and leaving those Benalish no hope of 
return, Davvol slowly released the barriers and allowed them 
to drift back into place. He had his subjects, though not as 
many as he would have liked. They would be sent to live among 
the Vec, the Dal, or the Kor. His final live warrior returned. 
Straining, an acute pain shot through his mind with each 
strange haunting voice. Davvol reached out to the places where 
he had felt Phyrexian lives harmed or destroyed and latched 
onto their physical forms. He pulled them back to Rath even as 
the last barrier came crashing into place.
    The intrusive forms slipped away as well, melting back 
into the chaos that existed between planes. The strongest of 
them faded away last, and Davvol reached out after that final 
alien presence trying to wrestle his mental touch over its 
mind. There was an intelligence there. He could feel it-a 
whisper just outside of his range of hearing. He pushed 
harder, rage over his partial failure today lending him 
strength.
    Soltari.
    Then it was gone.
    A name? A place? Davvol had no way of knowing and no more 
strength left to pursue it. He stumbled to one knee, his 
weakness betraying him. Darkness swam over him, almost laying 
claim to his consciousness. He fought it off, refusing such a 
pitiful display in front of his warriors. Then he rose on 
shaky legs, dark eyes glowering at any Phyrexian watching him. 
Without a command given, he turned and walked with determined 
stride to the portal waiting several paces behind him. The 
gateway back to the Stronghold. He'd been given a lot to think 
about, and now he simply needed some time to put it all 
together.
    If Davvol had any two resources on his side, they were his 
ability to think and the time to do so.

                          * * * * *

    Shuffling out from the shadows with an odd hunching 
motion, Croag made himself known to Davvol with a screeching 
whisper. "You have news of Urza Planeswalker?"
    Croag preferred to announce himself in such a way. It was 
better than allowing the steward to guess Croag's presence by 
the dragging foot he kept hidden beneath his banded metal 
robes or the rasping wheeze of his artificial lung breathing. 
Davvol appeared to take pleasure in the Phyrexian's damaged 
state, but like it or hate it-and Croag certainly hated it-the 
Inner Circle member was in need of Rath's first evincar. Croag 
required time for self-repair. Certainly he could not return 
to Phyrexia in such a state.
    No, that would not do. Rath certainly was ahead of 
schedule now, but Urza Planeswalker still lived, and more, he 
was preparing Dominaria against the day of invasion. He was 
doubtful that the planeswalker could affect any meaningful 
widespread change before that glorious event, but admission of 
the attempt would be enough cause for an end to Croag's 
existence. Gix's failure had been nowhere near so severe, and 
he had still been cast into the furnaces of Phyrexia. Croag 
was of the Inner Circle. He was superior. At such a high 
pinnacle, second only to the Dark One, the fall would be all 
the more long and merciless.
    He suffered the time spent away from his plans and power. 
Croag's body contained meat at such a minute level that every 
cell could repair itself or rebuild its neighbor, given time. 
However, without the use of Phyrexian devices and assistant 
operations the cells first returned to their simpler meat 
form. As interesting and at times as sublime as the return of 
pure meat might have been, Croag did not appreciate the 
feelings of helplessness and danger which had accompanied 
every moment. Davvol might have killed Croag, easily so, and 
claimed a right to further compleation through such an 
impressive act as to slay a member of the Inner Circle, except 
Davvol was apparently not so ambitious or was too infatuated 
with his self-proclaimed title of evincar.
    Croag still could not be sure if Davvol was too simple, 
too stupid, or just more patient and crafty than the Phyrexian 
had ever credited. He had spent decades in consideration of 
such ideas while his body mended, unable to carry out previous 
designs with the strange subjects in Benalia or even attend to 
routine on Rath. Even Croag's temporary return to the state of 
being meat did not bring with it an understanding of Davvol's 
mind. Later, though, he would have such an answer. He would 
know Davvol's mind, all in its place.
    He asked again. "You have news of Urza Planes-"
    "No, Croag," Davvol interrupted, looking up from the 
newest batch of rained corpses that lay at his feet. "No news 
of the negators currently hunting Urza. The 'walker has been 
very cautious these last several years." He glanced back, his 
lips pulled into a tight, wide-mouthed grimace. "I can't 
decide if Urza is worried for his own life for a change or if 
he has gone to ground in protection of his plans." He paused. 
"These," pointing at the mess in front of him, "were not sent 
after the planeswalker."
    "If this is not Urza's work, who else has destroyed 
negators? Not the Vec." Rebellious they might be, but the Vec 
even in large numbers should not be able to kill a negator.
    "Trees and flowers were mostly responsible for this," 
Davvol said, a frown pulling down the edges of his wide mouth. 
He brought his hands together, fingertips touching. "Animals. 
A few elves. The place is called Yavimaya, and it's dangerous, 
Croag, perhaps more so than Urza Planeswalker."
    Nothing could be worse than Urza Planeswalker. Croag 
looked carefully at Davvol, searching his pale-skin face for 
signs of duplicity. The black skullcap Davvol wore still 
offered its inviting eye, the depression Croag had seen fit to 
design into that protective cap. That would be the only way to 
be sure, but Croag was not ready to dismiss Davvol yet. He 
shuffled closer, the few metal bands left on his covering robe 
rasping dryly for lack of glistening oil. Closer, Croag saw 
that the corpses had mostly been crushed or blown apart by 
explosion. Very little suggested magic, though perhaps 
artifice.
    "Trees and plants do not stand in the way of Phyrexia," he 
screeched and hissed.
    Davvol folded arms over his chest. "They do now. Yavimaya 
is completely hostile. The land itself attacks."
    "Urza." The name escaped Croag before he bothered to 
consider. "This must be the 'walker's doing."
    A shudder trembled through Croag's under-developed joints. 
How many ways could the planeswalker find to interfere with 
Phyrexia's return? Too many. Even once was too many.
    "I don't believe so, Croag. A seeker found this place, and 
there is no evidence that Urza is involved. Plants that 
explode? Trees which turn suddenly supple and smash warriors 
between them?" Davvol kicked at the mangled leg of a negator, 
its hardened flesh shredded to the metal by some kind of 
shrapnel. A few wood splinters still protruded from the 
negator's areas of pure meat. "Too alien for the 'walker," he 
shook his head. "No, this is something different."
    "Different is bad," Croag hissed, Davvol's soft speech 
beginning to wear on his patience. Croag should order
    Davvol's voice compleated, able to speak in proper 
Phyrexian. "Different must be Urza. Destroy tbis place, 
Yavimaya."
    Even the name caught in Croag's throat. A moment of 
silence stretched out, marked only by the irregular timing of 
Davvol's blinking eyes and Croag's rasping breaths.
    "No," Davvol finally said, without preamble or 
qualification, a straight denial of Croag's order.
    The Phyrexian drew himself up to his full height, cleft 
skull at a higher level than Davvol's head. His eyes glowed 
with the passion of molten steel as he leaned close to Rath's 
evincar.
    "You will do as ordered." There was no room for denial 
here, or so Croag thought.
    Croag didn't account for the negator that suddenly 
appeared at Davvol's side as if summoned by magic. Small and 
compact, it moved with fluid grace. It was one of the faster 
creations Davvol had developed over the centuries. Faster, 
perhaps, than Croag, even at the Phyrexian's strongest, which 
this time was not. It carried a saw-toothed shield. The other 
arm ended in a hand of oversized fingers all metal-tipped and 
backed by corrosive-fluid plungers. It had no armor to bind 
joints or slow its incredible response time. Croag noticed 
suddenly with a tremble of something akin to fear-it had no 
compleated ears. Would this creation even understand the 
Phyrexian language? Croag was certain it would not. This 
negator took orders in Davvol's meat-tongue language. This 
negator was present to kill Croag, and at this point it could 
do so. The Phyrexian never doubted that.
    Davvol, to his credit, never bothered to threaten or even 
imply that the Phyrexian should feel threatened. Secure in his 
power, he simply repeated, "No." Then, only after a slow step 
away from Croag, he continued. "If you want to attribute every 
threat to Urza Planeswalker, Croag, you may, if you are that 
afraid of him. But we do not know enough of this Yavimaya to 
risk incredible resources. Yet. I refuse to underestimate an 
opponent. I will continue tc press at this Yavimaya and find 
its weaknesses much as we did in Keld. And when I have its 
measure, then I will destroy it. As a present for the Dark 
Lord."
    Croag shook, every fiber and component screaming for 
Davvol's death, but buried in the steward's refusal was a 
truth the Inner Council member recognized. Davvol was correct 
in that the Phyrexians had a habit of blaming Urza for any and 
all failures, because in three millennia of time, only Urza 
had orchestrated the defeat of Phyrexian plans. It could be 
possible that Croag now overlooked a new threat, and the 
Phyrexian could ill afford another mistake. That did not make 
his defeat here any easier to accept. He would know 
satisfaction, but not yet, not until he had healed.
    Eyes blazing fiercely, casting red flickers before them, 
Croag turned away and moved from the room with his odd 
shuffling motion. His teeth clicked in exasperation. He still 
needed Davvol, and Davvol obviously believed that he still 
needed Croag, or the Phyrexian would have been killed. Croag 
would rely upon that for just a bit longer, then they would 
discover who was the true master of Rath.

                          * * * * *

    Perhaps a visit to the newer attractors had not been the 
best of Davvol's ideas, not after the meeting with Croag, but 
his schedule called for monthly visits to inspire greater 
production of flowstone and that meant today. Rath's steward 
toured the complexes with brutal efficiency, executing workers 
if standards appeared lacking at all. By the time he reached 
the lower levels where the massive spinning blades drew 
glowing red lava up from Rath's molten underworld, the Vec had 
been alerted to their master's fury and were found climbing 
over machinery and coaxing every last ounce of effort from the 
devices-as it should be. Davvol took limited pleasure noting 
the steady rumble shaking the floor, his equipment holding up 
to stresses which would have caused the supports of the main 
attractors to buckle and give way.
    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.
    
                         Chapter 22

    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 Capashen 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.
    
                         Chapter 23

    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 freedom 
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.
    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.
    
                         Chapter 24

    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 back-field. Them 
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 Them'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.
    "Of any one?" she asked, changing the question. "Of every 
one. All of them. From Rorry all the way back to Jeffrey's 
first son. They're all in her and more." She felt a moment of 
pity that Karn could not remember Therri's progenitors, but 
then a spike of curiosity wondered at how he had come by 
asking such a question regardless. How many could he remember 
and compare her to?
    There was no time to ask as Karn stepped forward into a 
new hole broken in the Serran line. A small, stoop-shouldered 
creature, more artifice than flesh, sprang for the opening and 
was slammed back hard by the golem's shield. It scampered 
back, hiding behind the legs of a guard elite. The golem 
thrust his mace forward like a spear, the large spike on its 
top piercing the slender ribcage area and winning only a thin 
trickle of oil.
    The creature's slender arm shot out, raking scratches 
across the golem's near-invulnerable silver form. Its other 
arm, covered with a variety of blades, tubes and strange 
artifice, slashed inward as well but was fouled by a spear 
thrust from one of the Serrans. The Phyrexian turned against 
this new opponent, tearing past spear and shield and through 
the Serran's chain mail. It ignored Karn's attacks, determined 
to put an end to one of its enemies. Lyanii leapt forward, 
shouldering aside her own man and taking his place before the 
onslaught of fast, lethal metal. Karn continued to rain 
sledgehammer blows against the Phyrexian's back and side. 
Lyanii's sword kept time with the creature, turning aside its 
hard-hitting blows with inches to spare. Then the Marshal 
missed.
    The beast's slender arm sneaked past her guard, piercing 
the armor that shielded her right hip and digging slender 
talons in bone-deep. Lyanii fell back, rolling away from the 
creature's grasp. It bought her time, seconds only. She knew 
she wouldn't rise back up on the wounded limb. The Phyrexian 
followed, ready to finish her off. It would have, except for 
Karn.
    The golem cast away his shield, wrapping his large hands 
about the reinforced shaft of the spiked mace. He came at the 
Phyrexian with an overhead rounding blow that caught the 
armored creature at the upper curve of one shoulder. The guard 
stumbled to its knees. Karn spun around, placing his weight 
and incredible strength behind another blow that buried 
several points into the Phyrexian's small face mask. It 
toppled back, screeching in a sound that reminded Lyanii of 
sharp claws drawn over a board of slate.
    Karn helped the Marshal back to her feet, lifting her one-
handed. Lyanii winced putting pressure on her leg. "Can you 
stand?" he asked.
    Can we stand? That was the question haunting Lyanii's mind 
through the shroud of pain. For the second time in her long 
life-the first being on Serra's plane when her people had been 
subverted by Phyrexians and led against their own-the Marshal 
felt doubt in battle. This was what she had been created for 
by Serra. It was all she knew, and it wasn't enough.
    Lyanii shrugged off the golem's help, anger at her own 
weakness making her abrupt. "I'll be all right." She exhaled a 
short exclamation of frustration. "We'll make it," she 
answered her own question, regaining control of her emotions.
    Shouts of confusion and fear now erupted from the center 
of the Capashen lines. Lyanii grabbed up her main standard, 
planted nearby, ready to signal her next order.
    Her battlefield experience whispered the reason behind the 
upset even before word finally reached the Serrans. Gavvan 
Capashen had fallen! Slain by a monster, the word said. The 
Capashen middle sagged, Phyrexians pressing forward. Lyanii 
paled, recognizing the beginnings of a rout and knowing the 
slaughter that would follow.
    She remembered that she had sent Therri straight into its 
middle.

                          * * * * *

    Therri Capashen had been close enough to see her brother 
fall, his personal guard holding the center of the Benalish 
line, the Capashen standard driven into the earth while Gavvan 
lent his own sword to the fight. Never one to sit back, he 
shared the danger and inspired those around him with his 
heroics. With sweeping arcs he took the spindly, mechanical 
arms off a Phyrexian warrior, the edge of his sword striking 
sparks against the black armor. Spraying oil, the creature 
fell back and one of the ornate-armored guard moved up into 
its place.
    Gavvan wasted no time with this one, pulling the short rod 
from his belt and thrusting it forward. An ancient gift from 
Master Malzra, artificer and matchmaker, the rod was a 
Capashen heirloom. Malzra had promised it a defense against 
violent artifice, though it should be used sparingly. One of 
the Phyrexian guards, so much metal crafted toward lethal 
intent, seemed close enough to the old artificer's 
description. The creature's slender arm, slashing in toward 
Gavvan's throat, froze immediately as if the metal joints 
suddenly fused. The abomination shuddered to a stop. It became 
a frozen statue on the battlefield, and her brother simply 
shoved it aside. As it crashed to the ground, its animation 
stilled forever, the clan leader's personal guard shouted out 
a cry of, "Gavvan!"
    Except her brother had not noticed the malformed, black-
flesh creature stalking the lines and moving against his 
position. If he had, he ruled it a minor warrior due to its 
lack of metal armor. Its bloated chest rippled and pulsed as 
it moved forward on thin legs. Large, hook-shaped claws 
trailed near the ground at the ends of long arms. Glistening 
crystal eyes glowed a dull orange as it riveted its gaze on 
Gavvan. Therri simply knew that this creature needed no armor 
and that it hunted her brother.
    "Gavvan!" she yelled in warning, pushing frantically past 
other Capashen warriors and laying about with her sword when 
the enemy pressed in too close. One long Phyrexian blade 
snaked through to slice away part of her leather armor, 
scoring a shallow cut along one arm. Therri ignored it. 
"Gavvan, no!"
    In the other shouts of the Clan Leader's name, Gavvan 
missed the warning. The creature leapt forward over the last 
twenty feet, legs driving out as if it was some kind of 
titanic insect. Before landing it already began to spew a 
dark, sludgelike substance that stuck to Gavvan's arm and 
chest. The chain mail protecting his body held up, but the 
leather strips on his arm began to smoke at once. Gavvan had 
time for a single backhand slash at the monster. His blade 
hardly cutting the tough, wrinkled flesh over one shoulder, 
and then it stuck fast. Twisting violently to one side, 
Gavvan's sword was torn from his grasp.
    The Phyrexian craned its head forward. Its chest heaved, 
and its throat expanded. A torrent of black sludge belched 
over Gavvan's face and shoulders. The young clan leader 
screamed, hands clawing at his own face as exposed skin began 
to blister and smoke. Blinded, thrashing about in pain, he 
made an easy target. The great, hook-shaped claws seized 
Gavvan, lifting him from the ground, and with a violent 
scissorslike motion left him in two large pieces, dead.
    Therri stood in shock, the battle forgotten as she stared 
at the rain of her brother's body. So close-she'd been so 
close to helping. If she'd taken a horse from Lyanii's flank . 
. . if she hadn't wasted valuable seconds in any of four 
different fights along the way.
    The Phyrexian army pushed forward, now spearheaded by the 
monstrous beast that killed Gavvan. Suddenly, Therri realized 
how close they were to a full rout as news of her brother's 
death swept the lines and demoralized the Capashen. These 
black creatures, never skilled in working as a coherent unit, 
were pushing forward singly to exploit the sudden shift. 
Beneath Therri's doubts and recriminations she found a spark 
of rage, which she fanned until it warmed her entire body. She 
knew these things for the evil they represented, preying on a 
moment of weakness engineered by some kind of special monster.
    Springing forward into the monster's path just as it set 
upon one of Gavvan's personal elite, Therri parried an attempt 
to fasten those hooked claws into the soldier and watched for 
her opportunity. She had recognized the nature of the 
creature's movements necessary to call up its terrifying 
weapon. There again was the bellowlike force of its bloated 
chest and expansion of the throat as it craned its head 
forward. Gavvan's sword was still stuck in its shoulder, a 
warning against any slashing attack. Instead she ducked into 
the creature, risking its claws as she drove her sword forward 
with all her strength into its throat. She left it there. 
Sludge leaked out down the blade. She danced back, avoiding 
the claws that suddenly flailed about as if possessed of their 
own mad intelligence. No weapon, Therri wrenched the nearby 
Capashen standard free of the ground. Reversing it, she bore 
it back at the Phyrexian like a spear, its ornate tip aimed 
unerringly for one of its crystalline eyes. The dull orange 
gem shattered, and she drove through into the head. Leaping up 
behind the attack, she rode the creature backward and into the 
middle of the Phyrexian line.
    Therri counted herself dead. Perched atop the creature's 
bloated chest, disarmed and surrounded by the enemy, she 
expected a finishing stroke any time. She didn't care, having 
avenged Gavvan, having blunted the Phyrexian advance. Then a 
black-armored warrior to her right stumbled and fell-one arm 
missing and its chest pierced by a sword. The sword was still 
held by the Capashen warrior she'd saved seconds before. Only 
a fraction behind were two more of Gavvan's personal guard, 
driving in on her left and pushing the enemy away from her. 
She took quick stock of the battle. The four of them were a 
tight knot in the midst of the Phyrexian line.
    Wrenching Gavvan's sword free, her own covered by too much 
of the burning sludge, Therri also took hold of the Capashen 
standard and pulled it from the creature's head. She waved it 
crisply back and forth, the white and gold ensign fluttering 
and snapping. Three men to her force and clan still in danger 
of rout, Therri accepted the only option left to her.
    She led them forward, on the attack.
    
                         Chapter 25

    A sea of raging energies broke over Urza in a 
kaleidoscopic wash. It permeated his mind and nearly drowned 
his consciousness. As certain as Urza was that there must be a 
fundamental pattern to this chaos, underlying everything, it 
remained of such a magnitude that even the planeswalkers could 
not comprehend it. Propelling his mind through the chaos on 
will alone, the 'walker was trailing a Phyrexian. He followed 
a dark beacon-the characteristic pattern left by a Phyrexian 
portal device. He pursued a trail left by the creature he now 
pursued- and would destroy.
    The negator had ambushed him. Its teeth were blunt, 
unusual for a Phyrexian, and set at wide irregular intervals. 
With every breath those teeth rang out with energy-disrupting 
force. The hisses and screeching that made up Phyrexian speech 
formed partially translated in Urza's mind, drawing a shadowy 
lethargy over the 'walker's thoughts. Urza still remembered 
how he had stood there, only vaguely aware of the mounting 
problem.
    With a voice able to whisper a numbing darkness into his 
mind, the thing had been on him with little chance to prepare. 
Except for that strange new power, the negator had relied on 
physical assaults and an old system of burning fluid. The 
storage tanks were not even protected by the desiccated flesh 
covering the rest of its deformed body. The skin was simply 
split open in three places, and tanks were buried partway into 
its frame. Metal-braided tubing connected the tanks to a 
shoulder-mounted weapon. It was an older negator, set after 
him long ago. Hardly a match, especially once Urza had used 
his staff to knock away half of the creature's lower jaw. 
Without its siren's sound, the negator had chosen flight-to 
report its partial success back to its masters, no doubt.
    Urza was not about to allow that to happen. His mind 
piercing the veil, Urza drew his body into form and set foot 
down upon a strange plane. For a moment he thought he remained 
partway into the chaos between worlds, the steel-gray skies 
cascading with the same energy as did the void. The clouds 
were real enough, roiling in strange winds, and the ground 
firm beneath his feet-though he sensed its potential for 
treacherous footing. The dull tan stone stretched in seamless 
perfection over a rough plateau and then fell down an 
impressively long and steep mountainside into the deep valley 
below. The mountain ended only a few hundred yards above him 
at a sharp ridge. Halfway up that slope the negator had 
paused, dark eyes staring back at the enemy who had trailed 
it.
    Urza drew in the winds, striking them by will to fit his 
own pattern. The wall hammered into the Phyrexian, driving it 
back downslope. Its progress thwarted, the creature spun and 
leapt for the 'walker-and died mid-flight, a summoned phantom 
snatching it up in a large mouth of teeth and shredding 
desiccated flesh away from a metal-reinforced skeleton. Black, 
decaying meat clinging to few metal cauldrons and a few dull 
gray bones rained to the ground.
    Yes, it was an older creation of Phyrexia, not too 
dissimilar from what he might have seen in the days he 
traveled with Xantcha. So many worlds traveled then, he 
explored the planes of the Dominarian Nexus and out to the 
fringe of the multiverse itself. Now this world-a world he had 
never 'walked before. The chaotic sky lacked a sun, and the 
ground, this strange stone, was not true soil but 
manufactured. Welcome to Rath, planeswalker.
    Distracted at the importance of his discovery, Urza did 
not immediately question the appearance of a new voice. This 
was a created plane, like Serra's Realm-like Phyrexia.
    "Rath is an artificial plane," he said, answering aloud. 
That is correct.
    Urza now realized that the voice sounded within his mind, 
not his ears. He guarded his thoughts, wary once again. His 
expanded consciousness identified the intrusive thoughts as a 
simple voice, unable to read his mind but "heard" through the 
same function that allowed him to speak in anyone's language. 
"Where are you?" he asked, finding no places a body could 
hide.
    Lost. And not even you can redeem our bodies, Urza, if 
Urza Planeswalker you are. Look above you. Look beyond. Above 
him Urza saw only the sharp ridge and heard the cut of wind 
slicing over it. "Look beyond," the voice had said. The 
powerstones burned within his eyes, replacing the illusion of 
mortal blue as he concentrated his preternatural senses. He 
saw their outlines, spectral dances of energy, sometimes 
twisting into a simple globular pattern but more often holding 
a humanoid shape with arms and legs and head. There were three 
of them, then ten, then fifty. Similar to his own form of pure 
energy, but they were so much more basic in nature. They swam 
along the ridge, unthreatening.
    "I am Urza," he admitted cautiously, continuing to tap the 
mana of traveled lands should he require the power. "How do 
you know me? And who are you?"
    Who else would bring war to Rath rather than await Rath to 
bring war to him? We are the Soltari. One of the patterns of 
energy pulsed. I am Lyna.
    The Soltari. From the depths of his memory Urza recalled 
the name, a small city-state of Dominaria, which mysteriously 
disappeared back in the days when he and Xantcha had worked to 
free Efuan Pincar from the Phyrexians, over two hundred years 
before his founding the first Tolarian academy. Lost, Lyna had 
said. Lost between worlds!
    Urza had no need of bending to the ground. His contact 
with it allowed his consciousness to work against the strange 
stone-to test its properties and sense its purpose within the 
plane of Rath. He could feel the movement far below, spreading 
outward to the distant horizon. It was a flow of malleable 
stone, able to hold back the energy curtains and force a new 
plane into existence- able to penetrate the veil and rip 
pieces of Dominaria away. What had Lyna said? Rather than 
await Rath to bring war to him? The planeswalker leapt into 
the air, flying above the ground as he rushed for the summit- 
the direction from which the strange stone flowed.
    He found himself on the volcano's rim, staring down into 
an incredible caldera. The base of which was spanned by an 
incredible fortress tower. Dark metals gleamed beneath eerie 
lightning. This place was obviously Phyrexian in architecture, 
and it had to be the nerve center of Rath in that the stone 
radiated outward from it as it continued to push in all 
directions. Urza reached down through the fortress, testing 
the production of the strange stone. He felt the tremors 
shaking beneath.
    It can overlap Dominaria. Lyna again. Such has been done 
many times. We were the first, and the only failure that cost 
so many lives, though with any transfer some are lost. They 
wander Rath or their own lands, always apart. You will destroy 
this place?
    Though he had contemplated just that, now the 'walker 
shook his head in a silent negative. "No," he finally said. 
"It doesn't feel as if I can." He looked hard at the fortress 
below. "Different from Serra's Realm," he said, thinking 
aloud. "It will not collapse so easily. The stone holds the 
curtain back-it would take massive destruction of the land 
itself, of the world." Then the purpose of Rath hit him-a hard 
cruel blow to his mind. "This is their staging area for the 
invasion. No portals. From here they hope to set entire armies 
across the world."
    You must destroy this place-the Stronghold. We have worked 
to distract the overseers here. We have pushed at the 
equipment over great amounts of time, but our work is too 
slow. They will finish soon.
    "No," Urza said, offering a grim smile. "Not soon. I felt 
your work beneath the fortress. The equipment is weakened and 
being run too hard. Artifice requires more care-a lesson the 
Phyrexians will learn without my help. It would be better if 
they never knew I was here."
    You will simply leave then? This was no judgment, just a 
clarification from Lyna.
    "I will, but you are welcome to return with me." Urza felt 
again at their energy forms, certain his strength could pull 
them across a short 'walk between planes. "I cannot give you 
back form, but I can return you to Dominaria. And when the 
time is right, I might be able to give you revenge." How many 
years had these people waited? A millennium?
    We would like that. Phyrexia has much to answer for.
    Urza couldn't have agreed more.

                          * * * * *

    The lingering scent of dinner, grilled swordfish from the 
leftovers that Barrin had walked past in the kitchen, told the 
mage he hadn't missed the meal by more than thirty minutes. 
That was subjective, of course. Having just come through the 
timelock, Rayne would have actually finished hours before 
Barrin ever left real time for their shared home. The wonders 
we have done here on Tolaria, he thought, not a little 
bitterly. For the sacrifice of one meal, Barrin had been able 
to spend a full day with Urza.
    A poor substitute, he decided. If only there wasn't so 
much to do and now so much more, after Urza's revelation.
    The house was silent except for a crackling fire, which 
warmed the main room, occasionally tossing out a small spark, 
which glowed dull red on the hearth before fading to a cinder. 
Rayne waited on the couch, legs tucked beneath her and lost 
under the folds of her silken robes as she stared into the 
dancing flames. His wife did not greet him.
    "You are still not working?" he asked, lacing concern 
heavy into his voice.
    Barrin couldn't remember the last time Rayne had gone into 
her workshop. He was concerned, of course, but he also did not 
want Rayne to hear the doubts crowding his thoughts-doubts for 
her, for them. Every day he hoped she would solve her 
problems, uncertain how he might help.
    "I didn't want to get involved in a new project just now." 
Rayne put little feeling behind the excuse. She studied her 
husband with haunted eyes. "I had hoped you would be home 
early, that we could talk ..." She trailed off, waiting.
    Barrin paced over to the couch and sat wearily on the 
opposite end. Usually Rayne would have asked after Urza's 
reasons for an emergency meeting, especially since the 'walker 
had simply shown up this morning and pulled the mage away. She 
was obviously beyond caring about academy business this night. 
The short stretch of fabric and cushion that separated Rayne 
from him seemed at once a great chasm with sharp rocks waiting 
below. He ventured a foot toward the edge, dreading where it 
might lead.
    "We can always talk, Rayne." His spirits lifted slightly 
as he discovered he actually meant it. The shock of Urza's 
news, about the artificial plane of Rath, left the mage with a 
new perspective. Suddenly he saw the avoidance of their 
problems over the last few years, and he felt the worse for 
it. "We should've talked some time ago." He heard the regret 
in his own voice, hoped Rayne read into it as well. "If ever I 
wished that Urza's time travel machine was still functional to 
be able to relive a period of my life, this is it."
    The time machine. How many problems could be traced so far 
back? The shattered temporal zones, the constant threat of 
Phyrexians discovering Tolaria, then Urza's second academy, 
and the projects developed- when was the last time Barrin had 
truly considered any of those projects?
    Rayne shifted uneasily. "The world has passed us by, 
Barrin. And we're," she paused and then put it in terms more 
familiar, more comfortable, "we're winding down. This is a 
problem we've avoided for too long. Yes or no. Stay or go."
    "Easily asked," Barrin said with a heavy sigh, feeling 
every day of his eight relative centuries of life. Rayne had 
started with the one problem on which he knew he would have to 
fight her. "I walked around Tolaria," he said by way of edging 
into the discussion. "All around it, which is why I'm so late. 
The island is not in good health." It was a euphemism for the 
ruined lands now blowing dusty tendrils out over the ocean, 
the failing crops, and now worries over the water table. "The 
island is suffering but still the academy goes on, teaching 
and learning and building. How much more might we have 
accomplished, Rayne, without the Legacy, the bloodlines and 
Metathran wasting so many valuable resources?"
    "Were they wasted?
    "I don't know. And maybe that's the trouble." Barrin 
smoothed his cloak flat, ran fingers back through his graying 
hair. "It cost us Gatha, Timein, and dozens of others over the 
years. The Phyrexians claim their price, even when they aren't 
attacking, and the Legacy ..." He paused. "It finally seems 
we've put all our hopes into one plan, into Urza. If he's 
wrong, again, or if he simply makes too many mistakes along 
the way, then it's all over."
    Rayne wiped at her eyes with the heel of one hand. "I have 
to leave," she said simply.
    "I know, and I have to stay."
    There, it was said. Her admitting her decision freed him 
to admit his. Living in slow time for so long with only brief 
vacations back into the real world had left them both drained, 
but where everything else paled, still Barrin could hang onto 
his duties. Those duties would be impossible to run from 
anywhere but here-for now-for as long as it took to complete 
the Legacy and discover its heir. Urza's revelation had 
convinced him that he must see this through to the end. He was 
always the outsider, never at peace with the world, his family 
or himself. He breathed a heavy sigh and proceeded to slowly 
tell Rayne about the meeting with Urza-about Rath and why he 
was needed in slow time now more than ever before.
    Rayne had her own private demons to dispel-he knew-from 
listening in on her nightmares some nights. He knew from the 
truth Urza all but admitted at their meeting the subjective 
year before. Trapped inside a slow-time cage with the 
darkness, her every moment suffused with Phyrexia or the 
preparations against them, she could never come to terms with 
that black side of her nature. She could never come to terms 
with being a child of Phyrexia-whether she recognized it as 
such or not it was true. She was one of the bloodlines-Urza's 
child- one of the thousands touched unknowingly by the 
'walker.
    To his surprise, Rayne shook her head. "Then I stay as 
well." Not the same emphatic statement she might have made at 
the project's beginning, but a weary acceptance of the 
circumstances.
    Barrin hadn't expected that, though inwardly his hopes 
sparked that the two of them could see this through to the end 
together. "Are you sure?"
    "No." She stretched a tentative smile over her face, 
apparently found that it didn't cause her any new pain. "I 
can't leave you behind. I refuse to let Tolaria, Phyrexia or 
even Urza separate us." She stood, one hand catching Barrin's 
and pulling him up after her. Standing there, both his hands 
around both of hers, they stared into each other's eyes. "I do 
not want you lost to me, Barrin, my husband. Do what you must, 
what needs doing." She released his grip, stepping away in a 
whisper of silk and the light whisk of leather sandals against 
the wooden flooring. "I'll be waiting. Always." She backed her 
way from the room, eyes tearing only slightly but her 
confidence in her husband never wavering. In that, Rayne 
obviously possessed no doubts. She turned at the entry-way and 
walked toward their private chambers.
    How long he stood there, lost in his own thoughts, Barrin 
wasn't sure. The fire hissed and popped, the flames offering a 
small measure of company and solace though never so warm as 
the touch of Rayne's hands against his. His conscience and 
sense of duty both nagged at him, finally prodding him from 
the room and moving him along as far as the long hall. There 
he paused, staring in the direction of his private offices, 
knowing there was work to be done, but putting off Rayne who 
had sacrificed again for their common good. He turned away 
from the offices, heading instead toward their chambers. 
Perhaps he couldn't solve Rayne's problems, but he could be 
there for her as she so often had been for him.
    His work could wait one more evening.
    
                         Chapter 26

    Croag had waited for this day.
    A tremor rumbled through the floors of the Stronghold, and 
in places metal bracing squealed under new stress. Such quakes 
were commonplace these last several years, the result of 
running the machinery so hard for so long. With each day the 
purpose of Rath came so much closer to being fulfilled, then 
only the task of the Dark Lord would remain, and Dominaria 
would belong to the Ineffable. Pushing for that day, Davvol 
had decided on another inspection. He would try to find a way 
to silence the tremors, but at the same time he pushed the Vec 
and the machinery all the harder. Guards in tow, he started 
his routine. He left his negator behind.
    For better than two centuries now, Croag had worked to 
heal himself, a slow and even painful process, though at times 
the pain had been rather exquisite to feel: the culture and 
growth of new meat, the slow infusing with artifice, mixing 
his blood with fresh glistening oil. His strength had taken 
decades to rebuild, bringing back his powers even as he 
learned to alter and improve on his old design. Now came the 
time of testing himself-of reversing the shift in Rath's power 
that occurred the day he had been struck down by the witch 
king Kreig. Today he would destroy the first of Davvol's 
supports.
    The negator waited in its alcove near the throne, a saw-
toothed shield in one hand and its other tipped in both claws 
and corrosive-fluid plungers. It shifted when the Inner Circle 
member entered the room, setting itself into a state of 
preparedness. Croag would not allow it to turn more on guard. 
The Phyrexian's eyes blazed a hard red, and searing beams of 
energy lashed out to split the hardened, wrinkled flesh that 
covered the negator's face. This would be Croag's second 
battle for Rath's throne room, and he had every intention of 
victory.
    The negator's movement was a dark blur. Springing from its 
resting place, shield blocking Croag's attack as it swept in 
with its claws. Croag could never be so fast, though he came 
close. The Phyrexian master relied on his armored bands to 
make up the difference, the metal strips fully repaired as 
well and equal to the task. They turned the claws of the 
beast, though a few were spattered by the corrosive sludge. 
Croag struck back, but already the negator was past and 
pulling up short on the other side of the room. It stalked 
back carefully, watching for its opening.
    Sampling the corrosive material the negator used had been 
part of Croag's plans. Knowing his body capable of 
withstanding any of the older chemical attacks, he had doubted 
Davvol's latest was too different. Radical leaps were not part 
of the Coracin's way. He preferred slow, methodical 
improvement. Such was the case here. The sludge burned into 
Croag's bands but failed to cause much more than a mild 
distraction. A rasping slide of metal and new coat of 
glistening oil, and the annoyance was gone.
    Now it was Croag's turn. He leapt for the negator, 
offering it a deadly embrace. The saw blade shield slammed 
into his side, cutting past several metal bands and damaging 
the compleated flesh beneath. More of the claws scored deep 
wounds, but now Croag had the measure of the corrosive and his 
body was already working to negate its effect. One of the 
Inner Circle member's skeletal hands shot out to dig razored 
fingers into the negator's chest. They cut deeply then began 
to vibrate with a new life.
    Where Croag's artifice-blended flesh pierced the negator a 
new process began. The negator's flesh reacted with Croag's, 
merging. The Phyrexian master's entire hand slid into the 
negator, then his arm up to the elbow. The negator began to 
twist violently now, feeling the invasion but unable to react 
as its own flesh and artifice turned against it. Croag reveled 
in his triumph, knowing instantly that he could consume the 
negator's entire being in this way. Such an expenditure of 
power for so simple a creature was not necessary. The negator 
was fast, deadly in its own right, but could never stand 
against a fully operational member of the Inner Circle. It 
would add so little to him, and Croag could wait for a better 
opportunity.
    With a wrenching pull, Croag ripped his arm free and so 
brought with it the negator's flesh and machinery already 
consumed. He left behind a hole that bled oil and thick black 
blood.
    The negator was well built, keeping to its feet though all 
the fight had gone out of it. Croag lashed out with both 
taloned hands, raking off large swaths of flesh and gouging 
into bone and metal support. The shield came up, and Croag 
ripped it from the other's grasp, hurling it with all of the 
Phyrexian's force so that it actually stuck into the armored 
walls of the throne room. The clawed hand rose sluggishly, and 
the member of the Inner Circle caught it and used searing 
whips of energy from his eyes to severe it at the wrist. Still 
the negator remained standing.
    Just how long could it stand up under such damage, Croag 
wondered. With something very much akin to physical pleasure, 
the Phyrexian set to work.

                          * * * * *

    A violent quake shook the Stronghold, as if the plane's 
flowstone foundation had shifted under the weight of the 
towering fortress and its processing equipment.
    Davvol slowly paced the short aisle that ran between both 
lines of negators. Four of the Phyrexians to a side, each was 
a deadly instrument. They were the result of his centuries of 
effort, tailoring the best of the negator abilities into ever 
more-efficient creations. If not for the unknown strengths of 
planeswalkers, Davvol might have thought any one perfectly 
suited for the task of killing Urza. As is, they were his 
best-and last-gamble.
    A particularly sobering thought, Davvol was now forced to 
gamble his hard-won power in this bid against the 'walker's 
life. Still fresh in his perfect memory was the day of several 
months prior when he came into the Stronghold's throne room. 
The oil mixed with blood was pooled in the middle of the room 
and splattered in streaks and splotches against the walls. He 
remembered the scent of flesh-meat-spoiling in the fortress's 
warmth. He found his own guardian negator shredded, fouling 
the throne room. It was not defeated, not dead, but shredded-
rent down into pieces so small that it could only be done with 
a deliberate and determined effort. It could only be credited 
to Croag. It was a message, no subtlety at all, that Davvol's 
immunity from the Phyrexian Inner Circle member had expired.
    For the first time in many centuries Davvol remembered a 
trace of the fear he had once felt for the Phyrexian-the cold 
touch along his back and the metallic taste of a mouth 
suddenly dry in nervousness.
    Fear, as would forever be the case, was a wonderful 
motivator. Davvol brought the production of flowstone up yet 
again, pushing his workers and the machinery well past their 
limits. The secondary attractors shook with constant tremors, 
at times twisting against the Stronghold itself, but the 
counterbalancing torque built into their design allowed for 
such abuse. Today's earlier visit, in fact, set a new 
threshold for the equipment. He also stepped up other 
projects, readying a private army capable of killing the land 
of Yavimaya once and for all.
    Of course, he bent himself strongly to the task of killing 
Urza. Destroying the 'walker was the one act Davvol knew could 
assure his continued position as evincar of Rath. It could 
bring him closer to the compleation he desired. His body was 
already strengthened to the point where aging and routine 
damage could not hurt him, yet Davvol still knew many of the 
physical limitations of flesh: Heat and cold, pain and 
discomfort. The evincar looked only toward protecting his 
mind, allowing it an immortal existence free of such 
encumbrances.
    For now, however, he could only imagine the benefits of 
such a form while the threat of Croag hung over his pre-sent 
life. That threat colored everything darker in an already 
black land. It interfered with Davvol's ability to think 
straight and to plan.
    One final nod completed the inspection. Nothing seemed 
amiss, and the evincar could think of no other refinements 
that might make the difference-none he had time for at any 
rate.
    "Find Urza Planeswalker," he ordered. The floor shook 
again, causing him to stumble to a wall rather than be cast to 
the ground. Cracks showed in one flowstone wall, then reformed 
to a smooth surface under his mental direction. "Find and kill 
him. Go."
    Each negator turned away, stepping for their own portals, 
which already stood open at the back wall, then they were 
gone, tracking. Davvol stood alone in the throne room, trying 
to sort through so many mental notes and decide on his next 
action. Another quake worked its way up through the floor and 
along the walls, a grinding tremor that seeped up past the 
armored soles of his boots to churn inside his stomach. This 
time it did not fade immediately, setting off a sympathetic 
shaking that reflected back from other directions.
    Something was wrong. Davvol sensed it. The Stronghold was 
by no means a sentient entity, but he had known it for so long 
that he sometimes felt a connection to it that had nothing to 
do with the flowstone properties or the great machinery at his 
command. That connection spoke of danger.
    Now the walls shook but not the floor-decidedly 
unsettling. Davvol called for guards, led them toward one of 
the bridges he had ordered built in his first century as 
steward, a construction which held one of the secondary 
attractors. Even through half a kilometer of flowstone and 
metal, Davvol felt the grinding of metal tearing into metal, 
of gears stripped or screeching as the joints threatened to 
bind. Before he had crossed the bridge's expanse Davvol was 
running. Why this day of all others, he wondered briefly, 
allowing his emotions to color his thoughts. Why not tomorrow 
or the following year? More precise logic returned. Why not 
last week or the last decade? Whatever the problem, it 
happened now. To solve the problem was paramount, not to make 
matters the more difficult by dwelling on his own 
frustrations.
    The upper chambers were frantic with workers running about 
trying to bring machinery back under control. The sealed shaft 
that housed the large driving screws twisted against its 
mountings. Machinery rattled, and a pipe ruptured to pour cold 
lake waters over the floor. The water flashed to steam where 
it washed up against hot steel, raising an instant steam bath. 
Davvol ordered the local supervisors captured by his guards, 
stopping them to put questions forward. Frantic work degraded 
into chaos with the workers suddenly bereft of leadership. 
Davvol grabbed one by the shoulders, lifting it off the floor 
and shaking it like he might a rag doll.
    "What is happening?" he yelled at it, not thinking to 
place the touch upon its mind. In this hectic environment, he 
likely would have failed regardless. The entire bridge shook, 
throwing half the workers and even a few Phyrexians to the 
ground. "What is it?"
    One worker leapt for Davvol's face, its gaze wild and 
panicked, swinging a sharply-tapered tool. A Phyrexian soldier 
skewered him on its sword, held the Vec dangling in the air 
while blood seeped out around the edges of the blade, and then 
cast it down to the floor. The Vec supervisor waved down other 
workers who looked about to snap under the stress and sudden 
violence. The superviser then pointed down, jabbering at 
Davvol in its own speech. Whatever the problem, it came from 
below, in the complex mechanisms of the bladed dials that 
pulled lava up from the furnaces far underground.
    Davvol wasted no more time with questions. He kicked at 
the lifeless worker, venting rage and frustration. "Kill 
them," he ordered two guards. "All but that one."
    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 gear-work-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.
    
                          Epilogue
                          THE HEIR

    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 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 versus 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.
    This one Karn would keep safe, so that in his own life, 
Gerrard Capashen might hope to make a difference, the mark of 
a true hero.
