The Darksteel Eye (19 page)

“These creatures, the poor pathetic vermin who populate this plane, your plane, they are nothing to Memnarch. There is no hope of finding a companion among them. They are incapable of love, incapable of providing Memnarch with what he needs.”

The guardian sighed. “Memnarch has even tried to build a companion. You have seen Malil.” Memnarch chuckled. “Yes,
he does look as Memnarch once did—a tribute to you, Lord Karn—and a hope that Memnarch could get what he lacked from a creature just like himself. But it did not work. Though Malil looks like Memnarch, Malil is not Memnarch. No, no. He is a good servant, but he does not suit Memnarch. True. He will do whatever we say and without argument.

“Perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps Memnarch needs conflict in his life.” The Guardian shook his head. “No, there is plenty of conflict on Mirrodin. Memnarch has seen to that. It is something else, something lacking.”

Memnarch stopped talking as the serum hit the inside of his brain. The fires spread through his skull, and all capacity to speak was taken from him. Then the burning turned to a throb, and he resumed his conversation.

“Forgive Memnarch,” he said, feeling a wave of exhilaration run up his spine, making him stronger, smarter, more confident. “But your creation needs you. Memnarch needs your attention, your companionship—your love.”

The articulated arms withdrew, and the infusion device reset itself, unlatching him.

“Why do you stay away? Why do you not give Memnarch what he needs?” Memnarch pushed aside the arm straps and stepped from his device. “Why do you not talk to Memnarch when he asks for you?”

The Guardian blinked his eyes. Several of them cleared of tears, and the ghostly image in the middle of the laboratory faded. Memnarch closed the eyes with the clearest view. The image of Karn returned through the blurry eyes, but only partially.

“Do not go, Master,” he said, ambling forward on his four spindly metal limbs. He squinted, trying to bring the vision into focus. But by squeezing his eyes closed, he forced the remaining tears from them, and the image of Karn vanished.

“No!” he shouted. “Do not leave Memnarch. You have been gone too long, and you
will
return at once!” Memnarch spun, looking all over his laboratory for signs that the creator had returned. “Do you hear me? I said, ‘Do
you hear me?
’ ”

There was no answer.

Memnarch let out a wail. Inside he was alone. In his laboratory, he was alone. On all of Mirrodin, he was alone.

Sadness welled up in his chest. It felt as if a heavy weight had been placed on top of him, one that he couldn’t see or ever remove. He had chased the Creator away. Today it had been his harsh words. Before it had been his devotion to his mission, his blind loyalty to do whatever it was that the Creator had asked. He would have done anything for Karn. He
did
everything the master had asked of him. But when he had done those things, it had been because he wanted the companionship and attention from his Creator. When he had been given the role of guardian, he had thought it would bring him praise and acknowledgement from Karn.

Instead, it had left him alone, stranded here on a dying Mirrodin, as his body devolved into flesh.

The sadness in his breast turned to anger. With his powerful legs, he kicked over a table, sending beakers and scientific equipment skidding across the floor. Those items that didn’t break in the fall Memnarch hunted down, stepping on each and every one of them until they were all broken into tiny shards. Those things he couldn’t break he crushed, smashing them down under his weight until they were flat. Next he turned to the window that looked out on the interior of Mirrodin. Lifting the turned-over table into the air, he hurled it with all of his might. Its four legs collided with the glass. The entire pane shattered, turning the window into a billion slivers, each one looking like a diamond. They fell like raindrops—some of
them following the table as it plummeted to the ground far below.

Even this did not satisfy the anger in his heart.

Memnarch spun and grabbed one of the articulated arms on his infusion device. His own arms were small and scrawny in comparison to his enhanced legs, but they held much strength, and he reeled back, ripping the appendage from his device. Sparks cascaded from the broken limb. Bits of broken metal dropped to the ground with a metallic ring.

Without hesitation, Memnarch lifted the shorn arm over his head. It bent at the joint, no longer held in place by hydraulics, and the Guardian whipped it forward, thrashing at the control unit of his infusion device.

The arm’s tip whipped over as the arm came down. The point connected with the controls, burying itself deep within the panel. Memnarch pulled it back for another strike, but the sharp edge, stuck inside the device, held firm. The Guardian let out a roar as he yanked again, and the arm snapped, half staying lodged in the controls, the other half coming away in Memnarch’s hand.

Again the broken limb came up over Memnarch’s shoulder, and again it came down on the device. The Guardian wailed as he pummeled and pummeled some more. Metal bent. Sparks flew, and the machinery withered and died under the assault. With another strike, the serum tanks exploded, flooding the floor of the laboratory with viscous, milky-white liquid. With the next, the power supply was torn out, and the device went dark.

Still Memnarch didn’t stop his attacks. Wielding the arm like a flail, he beat his creation until it was nothing more than a smoking pile of rubble. Standing over the ruined device, he looked down, catching his breath and contemplating the impact of his rage.

After a moment, he closed his eyes and let the arm drop to the floor.

“What have I done?”

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex entered the Synod chamber. Far below, Sodador and Tyrell paced the empty floor. Orland, by contrast, reclined on a padded lounger—a new addition to the council hall. The long, curved walls were silent. The packed crowd that had filled the viewing platforms, watching the previous proceeding, had not been invited to this meeting. Save for the four vedalken councilors, the room was empty.

“Lord Pontifex,” said Sodador, “we’ve been waiting for you for some time now.”

Pontifex leaned against the railing and looked down at the tiny vedalken below. The height made him feel bigger than life. How he wished he were really that large. He would reach out his boot and smash the others into jelly.

He shook himself from his reverie. “Yes, I’m sure you have.”

Orland stood up from his lounger. “Please,” he said, “come down and join us. We have much to discuss.”

Pontifex brushed aside the invitation with a wave of his hand. “I prefer to stand here, thank you.”

Tyrell tossed something to the floor in disgust. “Really Pontifex, your disrespect for this assembly—”

Orland put his hand on the councilor’s shoulder, silencing him. “Lord Pontifex has every right to stand where he wishes. We can accommodate his antics.”

Pontifex nodded his approval, though inside he bristled. He lifted himself into the most regal pose he could muster. Lord Pontifex had never committed an “antic” in his life.

“Fine, fine,” said Sodador, “but perhaps Pontifex would be so kind as to explain his actions to this council.”

Pontifex put his hand to his chest. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know full well what I mean,” said Sodador. “You threatened a member of this council.”

Orland looked away.

“I did no such thing,” said Pontifex.

Sodador slammed his cane into the hard floor. “What sort of fools do you take us for, Pontifex?”

Pontifex chuckled. “Are there different sorts of fools? I was under the impression that there was only one, Sodador.”

“This may all be very amusing to you, Pontifex!” Tyrell shouted. The chamber amplified the sound, making it boom off the walls and echo through the hall. “But we take the rulership of the vedalken people very seriously.”

“As do I,” said Pontifex in a calm voice.

“I think not,” said Sodador. “You’ve always been focused on your own personal gain, impetuously ignoring the will and well-being of the vedalken people.”

“The will of the vedalken people?” replied Pontifex. “Since when have the vedalken people had a will? Might I remind you, councilors, that the vedalken empire is not—” Pontifex paused as if the words he was about to say tasted bad in his mouth—“ruled by the people.”

“Ah,” interjected Orland, “but it could be.”

“Yes?” Pontifex laughed. “Then why stop there? Why not just dissolve the government all together?”

“One step at a time, Lord Pontifex,” said Orland. “One step at a time.”

Though the vedalken lord could hear every word spoken inside the meeting hall, he was too far from the floor to see the
look on Orland’s face. Pontifex felt certain that the newest councilor to the Synod was smiling from ear to ear. The empire ruled by the people? Were these buffoons serious?

“Are you mad?” said Pontifex. “You’re talking about vedalken ruling
themselves
.”

“Precisely,” said Orland.

“Do you have any idea what sort of mayhem would ensue?”

Orland went back to his lounger. “What you call ‘mayhem’, Lord Pontifex, others call freedom.”

Pontifex was flabbergasted. “Freedom? Aside from the members of this Synod, there are few creatures on this plain who could even handle such a responsibility.” He laughed. “Frankly, I have my doubts about you three.”

“Your objections have been noted,” said Tyrell, “but we are departing from the topic here.”

“Oh?” Pontifex rolled his neck, trying to relieve the frustration he felt from having to deal with such imbeciles. “And what
is
the topic of today’s meeting?”

Sodador slammed his cane into the ground once again. “Your inexcusable behavior toward another council member.”

Pontifex again feigned surprise. “My behavior? I have done nothing even approaching
inexcusable
.”

“Then perhaps you’ll explain your actions toward Councilor Orland,” said Sodador. “I believe you grabbed him by the collar and threatened him.”

Sodador looked at Orland, who was now looking at the floor. Then he turned his gaze back up at Pontifex. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Pontifex looked down on Orland. The young idealist had run to Tyrell and Sodador as soon as they’d arrived home. The newest councilor talked tough, but he had no temperament for real violence. This was a good thing to know.

“Why, Orland,” he said, “if the fighting out on the plain was going to make you so uncomfortable, I never would have agreed to bring you along.” He rolled his fingers over the railing, gripping it tight. “The battlefield is no place for a soft politician.”

Sodador and Tyrell looked at Orland. He shrugged.

“Lord Pontifex,” said Tyrell turning away from the other two councilors, “are you denying that you threatened Councilor Orland?”

“Threaten Orland?” Pontifex put both hands on his chest, appearing to be affronted by the notion. “Why, Orland, is
that
what you’ve been saying? That I threatened you? And to think all I was trying to do was keep you safe from harm’s way.”

“Don’t play your games with us, Pontifex!” shouted Sodador. “You’ve been opposed to having a fourth member of the Synod since you disposed of Janus. This council has always been ruled by fear and deception. But we’re not having that any more. The days of backstabbing and corruption are over. It’s time we did things a new way.”

“How very admirable,” replied the vedalken lord.

“Things are going to change, Pontifex,” said Tyrell. “Whether you like it or not.”

Lord Pontifex lifted his cape, wrapping it around his shoulder. “We shall see.” He turned and exited the assembly hall.

*  *  *  *  *

The rolling hills that had seemed to go on and on, as if they would never end, finally began to flatten out. The interconnected hexagonal metal plates of Mirrodin’s plains gave way to a mass of corrupted and tarnished tubes, pipes, and vines. To Glissa it looked like a much maligned and twisted version of the Tangle. Chimneys rose from the ground, belching smoke. Like trees,
they had branches and spikes reaching for the sky, but where these same sorts of growths would be whole and green in the Tangle, those in the Dross were riddled with holes and black with decay.

Here, too, everything was shorter. The first time she had been here, Glissa had felt very tall, but as she and her companions entered the darkened area, she realized that a viscous mucous covered the ground, gobbling up the first few feet of anything growing from the earth. Nothing here was shorter than in the Tangle. It just appeared that way because everything was partially covered by the swampy liquid.

The convergent moons of Mirrodin had gone down long ago, leaving the Glimmervoid in complete darkness. Bruenna and the few wizards who hadn’t returned to Medev had cast several small light spells to guide the way to Mephidross, but when they arrived, the magic was no longer necessary.

Inside the oily swamp, hundreds of tiny green lights flickered. The resulting ghastly glow didn’t light up the night sky, but it did illuminate the outline of the trees and brush. Eerie shadows played over the surface of the thick liquid as the pinpricks of light moved around, covering the Dross in a squirming veil of motion. It was as if the ghosts of all who had lived and passed on were haunting this place, and it set the small hairs on the back of Glissa’s neck on edge.

“What makes those lights?” asked the elf.

Bruenna shrugged. “I don’t know. Until now, I’ve made it a point in my life to stay out of this place.”

“Good thinking,” said Slobad. “Slobad don’t like Dross, huh? Gives goblins creeps.”

A gentle wind blew out of the swamp, bringing with it the rancid smell of rotting flesh and a light rustling sound.

Glissa stopped just at the edge of the goopy liquid. “I think
we should stop for the night. Who knows if we’ll find a dry place to camp once we enter.”

“Good,” said the goblin. “Longer we stay out, better, huh?”

Glissa bent down next to the goblin. “In the Tangle, there are bugs that give off a glow like that. We call them fire beetles.”