The Darksteel Eye (13 page)

“Now’s our chance,” she said, turning around.

“Duck!” screamed the goblin.

Glissa needed no more encouragement. Crouching, she somersaulted away. The crisp ringing sound of a metal blade hitting a metal tree vibrated through the air, and the elf came up on her feet. Before her stood a trio of levelers, one of which had just tried to take her head off of her shoulders.

Glissa brought the Sword of Kaldra around her back and over her head. Grabbing hold with both hands, she brought it down on the offending leveler. The creature’s scythe blade came clean off, clattering to the ground.

Behind her, Bosh brought his fist down on another of the creatures, smashing it flat with a musical clang, but the third leveler was nowhere to be found.

“Where’d it go?” asked Glissa. She took a step back, wary of the fact that the artifact creature in front of her was still deadly even without its scythe claw. She scanned the near distance. “There!” She pointed deeper into the Tangle.

Heading away from them, through the trees, was the third leveler—and it had Slobad firmly in its grasp.

Glissa glanced up at the iron golem. Bosh lunged forward, bringing his huge fist down on top of her.

“Bosh—” she shouted, diving away to avoid the wrecking ball aimed at her head.

The golem’s fist bashed the crippled leveler to a pulp beside its already flattened friend.

“You should pay more attention,” said Bosh.

Glissa got up, dusting herself off. “I’ll try to remember that. Now, come on! We’ve got to stop that leveler before it rips Slobad to pieces.”

She took off at a run, jumping over fallen bits of metallic debris. Bosh clomped along behind her, moving slower but covering longer distances with each stride.

“Well,” she said, “at least we’re headed the right way.”

*  *  *  *  *

Malil looked down at a beaten and bloody troll. Unlike many others of his kind, this one seemed to have a quicker
recognition, a sharper intelligence that showed in his eyes. He had also held a staff, which led Malil to believe that this was indeed their chief.

“I don’t like to see you suffer, troll,” he said. “If you tell me where the elf girl is, I will leave here, and you and the rest of your tribe can go about your lives.”

The troll glared back. “I do not know of whom you speak.”

Malil leaned back then swung his leg forward with all of his might. His metal boot clanged against the creature’s hide, and the troll doubled over, spitting out a large glob of sopping red and black paste.

Over the course of the past few days, Malil had experienced much—new wisdom and strength, pride and pain. Now he was experiencing something else—anger.

“Tell me, troll,” he said picking up the creature’s staff. “Do you have a name?”

“I am called Drooge.”

“Drooge. That is an interesting name. Does it have any cultural significance?”

The troll chieftain nodded painfully. “It means ‘gift giver.’ ”

“Gift giver?” Twisting the staff in both hands, Malil swung it down on Drooge, hitting him squarely in the temple.

The troll staggered under the blow. He struggled to lift himself off the ground, but his hands slipped in a pool of his own blood, and his chin hit the floor of the Tree of Tales with an undignified slap.

“Well, Drooge,” said Malil, bending down to look the troll right in the eye, “I have a gift for you.”

Drooge looked suspiciously at the metal man.

“I will give back to you your life, which you have forfeited by harboring the elf girl.” Malil rose. “All you have to do is tell me where she is.” The metal man gripped the bone staff in both
hands. “However, if you are ungracious enough to refuse my gift …” Squeezing with all of his might, he bent the tips together, forcing the withered crutch to snap in half, shattering it, showering the prone troll with the shards.

Drooge cowered, protecting his face with his arm. Sharp bits of the staff embedded themselves in his tough skin, and he bled.

“I do not know who you are,” said the troll chieftain, “but I cannot help you.” He lowered his head.

Malil turned to one of his levelers, pointing with the sharp fragment of the staff still clutched in his hand. “Bring me three of the trolls,” he said then turned back to Drooge. “I’m sorry that you didn’t appreciate my gift. Perhaps this one will be more to your liking.”

Three trolls were herded into the open room, prodded forward by a trio of levelers.

“You creatures really are remarkable,” said Malil. “Your ability to heal is something to be envied. If I were capable of being wounded, I would covet what you have.”

The metal man walked over to the prisoners. A series of fresh wounds crisscrossed their bodies. But already, the dried blood and puckered skin was beginning to heal. They would still have scars from this battle, but they quickly shrugged off wounds that would kill a human or an elf.

“Even though you can heal so very quickly,” he said, lifting the remaining bits of Drooge’s crutch into the air over the first of the three prisoners, “you can still be killed.” He drove the shattered bit of bone into the back of the troll’s neck.

The creature’s eyes opened wide, and it let out a gurgle. Blood poured around the sides of its neck and down its chest. It grasped at its head, trying to pull out the broken staff, but Malil held firm, forcing it in deeper with another shove.

The troll looked up at Malil. A light of understanding crossed
its face, then it closed its eyes and fell lifeless to the floor.

The metal man released his grip on the bone as the dying creature fell. “If you don’t want to bargain for your life,” he said to the troll chieftain, “perhaps you will bargain for theirs.”

Drooge lifted one hand from the floor, showing Malil his exposed palm. “Enough,” he said. “I will tell you what you want to know.”

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex stepped from the blue lacuna into the blinding rays of the mana core. It was an inspiring sight—this tremendous sphere of power. He thought back to the first time he’d seen it, how awed and terrified he had been. The thought made the vedalken lord laugh. That day had changed his life. He had conquered that fear, used it to his advantage—now he sat at the head of the Synod and had the ear of Memnarch himself. The crushing terror that held other, weaker creatures back had transformed him.

He smiled.

He controlled an empire and had the ear of a god. He should be happy with his accomplishments.

His smile faded.

He was not.

Though he had worked hard to climb so high, he had to work even harder to keep what he had. The vedalken lord shook his head. Wasn’t life supposed to get easier? Wasn’t he supposed to reap the benefits of his labors as he grew older instead of defending himself against constant assault and ambush?

Pontifex glided over the mosslike ground, weaving in and out of the mycosynth monoliths as he headed toward Panopticon. He admired the strangely shaped towers that rose from the
ground toward the mana core. They seemed to reach for the light and power above, as if they were humanoid creatures, lifting themselves up on their tiptoes. The image was oddly beautiful.

The journey through this forest would have taken him an eternity on foot. Travel on the interior of Mirrodin was arduous work, made harder by the mossy ground covering that stuck to ones feet and the dense growth of chrome mycosynth spires. Covering the same distance here took twice as long as it did on the surface.

Pontifex’s trip was made easier, and swifter, by the aid of a new device. The vedalken lord now stood on a diamond-shaped disk. It hovered above the ground on a “cushion” that allowed the device to float and glide, touching nothing but air.

The most ingenious part of the artifact was the control built into the handlebars that Pontifex now gripped in two of his hands. By applying subtle pressure, the rider could increase his forward speed. The rider really only had to squeeze and lean in the direction he wanted to go.

This left Pontifex free to contemplate the recent turn of events and how he would deal with them.

The situation with Orland would be touchy. It was still too early to tell if he could be brought into the fold and turned into an ally. For now, it was better to not trust him. Having him along on the hunt for the elf girl would also prove tricky, but it did provide Pontifex with the ability to work on him—to discover his weaknesses and assets.

Better to have your enemies close, he thought. Easier to kill them.

The other part of this conundrum was Memnarch’s servant, Malil. The metal man could destroy everything the vedalken lord was working for. If Malil managed to catch this
elf, Pontifex would be without a bargaining tool. This upstart could conceivably drive a wedge between the vedalken lord and Memnarch. Indeed, he’d already managed to step in between on two occasions.

Pontifex knew that the metal man was on the surface, chasing the elf. This might be the vedalken lord’s last chance to get Memnarch’s full attention without Malil interfering. He could reestablish his connection with his god and perhaps deal a blow to Malil at the same time.

The Guardian’s observatory loomed up before Pontifex, and he eased off on his grip, bringing the hoverer coasting to a stop at the base of Panopticon. The gleaming fortress was a sight. Its polished chrome surface reflected the blue-white light of the mana core. The sharp corners where the walls came together intensified that light, bursting forth with a million tiny stars that were so bright they were painful to look at.

To Pontifex, the most impressive things about the tower’s exterior were its perfect lines and unwavering straightness. Panopticon rose into the air nearly to the same height as the mana core, yet its walls were unmarked by blemishes, bends, dents or even seams. The whole fortress was perfectly straight, with no signs of wear, no indication that its gargantuan frame was made from anything but a single, contiguous piece of metal. Its structural perfection was astounding.

Pontifex pulled himself away from the sight and stepped through the portal.

Inside, the tower seemed eerily quiet. The regular humming of levelers and other beasts was noticeably absent, and the silence unnerved Pontifex. As he stepped onto the lift, he was grateful for its whirring and buzzing.

The vedalken lord traversed the observation room, wound up the spiral walk, and reached for the blood-red crystal in the
pedestal. Before he touched it, the door opened. Pontifex took a deep breath, straightened, and entered the chamber.

“What can we do for you, Pontifex,” said Memnarch.

“My lord,” he replied, dropping to the floor to bow.

“Please, spare us the irritation of listening to you mumble into the floor. Get up off your knees.”

Pontifex looked up at Memnarch. The Guardian was standing before him, gazing down intently with all six of his enhanced eyes, each now covered in a dark blue lens. Pontifex nodded and stood up.

“Thank you.”

“Now what brings the vedalken lord to see Memnarch?”

Pontifex had rehearsed a speech, but standing here, before the Guardian of Mirrodin, his words failed him. Somewhere his relationship with Memnarch had gone awry. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment in time when Malil had interceded, taking away from Pontifex the attention of his god. Nonetheless it had happened, and though he ruled the vedalken empire and was the father figure to an entire race of people, right now, before this divine being whom he loved with all of his heart, Pontifex felt like a child.

“I … I …” stuttered the vedalken. He looked up into Memnarch’s eyes. “I have come to ask for your blessing.”

“You want Memnarch’s blessing? For what?”

“To seek the elf girl.”

Memnarch shook his head. “We do not understand. Have we not already charged you with finding her and bringing her to Memnarch?”

“Yes, my lord, you have.”

“What is the problem?”

Pontifex closed his eyes, unable to look the Guardian in the face. “You have sent your servant Malil to find her.”

“Yes, Memnarch has sent Malil to capture the elf girl,” affirmed the Guardian.

Pontifex, his eyes still closed, took a deep breath. The fear he had so many times before conquered now gripped his chest, threatening to hold him back, keep him from saying what he needed to. Finally, he spoke.

“Does Memnarch not believe I can catch the elf?”

Memnarch placed a hand on the vedalken’s shoulder, and Pontifex opened his eyes.

“We understand.”

The vedalken lord smiled. Only after hearing these words did he realize how tense he was. His shoulders were near his ears. His heart was racing, and his four armpits were damp with sweat.

“Memnarch needs the elf girl before the green lacuna,” continued the Guardian. “You and Malil must look for her at the same time.”

Pontifex nodded.

“It is a simple matter of mathematics,” explained Memnarch.

“But—”

The Guardian cut him off. “There is no room for pride here, Pontifex. We must have the elf girl.”

“Why is she so important?”

Memnarch turned and pointed out the window. “Can you see the disease growing within Mirrodin?”

“Disease?”

“We can. We see the degradation of perfection.” The Guardian sidled over to the window. “Come.”

Pontifex followed.

“Can you see the mycosynth?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know what causes these blemishes?”

Pontifex thought for a moment. “Why do you call them that?”

“Because that is what they are. They were not here when Mirrodin was created.”

“No?”

“No, indeed. At first we thought they were no more than a little tarnish, nothing that a good polishing could not fix, but they have grown to what you see now. Towering monoliths of disease. They are a symptom of Mirrodin’s sickness.”

Pontifex had always thought of the mycosynth as something much like the trees in the Tangle or the razor grasses of the plains. They were simply part of the plan. But if they weren’t … The vedalken lord followed back the path he had taken from the blue Lacuna to Panopticon. It was littered with mycosynth.

A chill ran up his spine.