The Darksteel Eye Page 10

  “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.

  “So the mycosynth are killing Mirrodin?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “What does this have to do with the elf girl?”

  “She has something we need. Something inside her,” explained Memnarch. “We must have it.”

  “What does the elf girl have, my lord?”

  “A piece of divinity,” said Memnarch, not looking away from the window. “A gateway to another plane of existence. Memnarch wishes to cross over, to acquire this gateway.”

  “You wish to procreate with her, my lord?”

  “No, Pontifex,” scolded the Guardian. “We wish to make her part of our being. To use her to become more.”

  The vedalken’s jaw dropped. “Please, my lord, I beg you. Take me.”

  “What?” Memnarch turned to glare at Pontifex.

  Pontifex dropped to his knees. “Please. You must. I will do anything. I will sacrifice myself and all of the vedalken on Mirrodin if that is what it takes.” He grasped at his god’s crablike legs. “I am ready. My Guardian. Use me. Make me part of your being.”

  Memnarch stepped back, and Pontifex fell forward, landing on his belly without the Guardian’s limb for support.

  The Guardian looked down with a disgusted look on his face. “For all that you vedalkens cherish knowledge,” he said, “you have such a limited understanding of how things work.”

  Pontifex let his forehead rest on the ground. His world was crumbling. First the Synod and now his god had lost faith in him.

  Glissa was surprised by the speed at which the leveler made it through the trees. The heavy underbrush was making it difficult for her to run. She very nearly fell flat on her face a number of times. It seemed ages since she’d been on a hunting party.

  Even with her rusty recollection of how to move through the Tangle, she kept up a good pace. How then could this leveler outpace her?

  Deeper and deeper into the mass of metal trees they flew. As the canopy grew thicker, Glissa had been forced to let Bosh fall behind. He could take care of himself. Slobad was a different matter.

  For the past several minutes, Glissa had been steadily losing ground, relying on long clearings to give her a glimpse of where the metallic beast was heading. Here, though, near the deep center of the forest, such clearings were few and far between. The elf wondered if she’d lost the trail.

  Leaping over a stump and ducking around a tangled bramble of razor vines, Glissa stopped to listen. Closing her eyes, she slowly isolated all the sounds around her, tuning them out one by one as she had done while hunting with the other elves. The sounds of wind and rustling foliage went first. Then the scampering of vermin and small game. With an uncanny accuracy, Glissa pinpointed two larger creatures within just a few yards from where she was standing. From what she could tell, one was a vorac, walking on three legs with a limp. The other—

  Glissa’s eyes popped open. “A wolf.”

  Gripping the hilt of her sword, she slowly turned to stare into a pair of brilliant yellow eyes, slit down the center by brown, almond-shaped pupils. The creature took two casual steps toward her, coming up within an arm length.

  Glissa looked up at the beast. The bottom of its jaw started where the top of her head left off. Its shoulders, neck, and legs were covered in dappled brown and gray fur. Its face and shins were much like her own, covered in tarnished metal that ended in spikes, several of them broken or worn completely to a nub. Patches of pink skin showed through bare spots and along what Glissa assumed were the remnants of old, healed wounds. Four very large, very sharp tusks jutted from the creature’s mouth, each tipped in silvery metal.

  “Looking for something?” asked the wolf.

  Glissa was amazed. “Who are you? What do you want? You talk?”

  The wolf began to circle the elf, still keeping an eye on her as it moved. “Yes,” it said. “So do you.”

  “I’m an elf,” replied Glissa. “You’re a … a—”

  “A wolf.” The creature completed her sentence.

  “My father used to tell me tales about wolves, but I’ve never seen one. At least, not until now.” She followed the creature around as it circled, keeping her shoulders squared to the beast. “Are you real?”

  The wolf chuckled. “Yes. Very much so.”

  “I thought wolves were just made-up creatures. Things parents told their children about to keep them good.”

  “Well,” observed the creature calmly, “either you’re having some sort of hallucination, or I’m really here.”

  “Did Memnarch send you?”

  “Who?” The wolf continued to pace.

  “Or the vedalken?” Glissa gripped her sword, ready for a fight. “Did Pontifex order you to kill me?”

  “No one orders me to do anything.”

  Glissa narrowed her eyes. “I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to try to kill me, get on with it.”

  The wolf cocked its head. “I haven’t decided yet if you deserve to die or not.”

  Glissa drew her blade from its sheath. “That doesn’t help me.”

  “I don’t suspect it would.” The wolf stopped its pacing. “Why are you here?”

  Glissa’s fear and awe of the mythical creature standing before her gave way to another kind of terror. “Slobad! I’m trying to find my friend. A goblin who was abducted by a leveler.”

  “A leveler? You couldn’t catch a leveler this deep in the Tangle?”

  Glissa scowled. “Listen, I don’t have time to discuss with you the finer points of forest tracking.” She held out her sword. “If you’ve seen him, now’s your chance to tell me.”

  The wolf stepped back in surprise. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Onl
y if you’re threatening me.”

  The wolf tilted its chin, looking across its long nose at Glissa. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Al-Hayat.” The wolf made a shallow bow with its front legs.

  Glissa stared. “Al-Hayat. That was the name my father used to give to the leader of the wolves. You can’t be …” She shook herself. “My name is—”

  “Glissa. Yes, I am aware of who you are.”

  “Look, Al-Hayat, if that’s really your name, if you know where my friend is, then please tell me. If I don’t get to him soon, he’ll likely be dead.”

  The wolf nodded. “You know not how true are your words.” Al-Hayat pointed toward a mound of tangled brambles around a fallen tree. “The goblin has been buried. He is under that stump.”

  * * * * *

  Memnarch unhooked himself once again from his infusion device. Serum flowed freely through his body, and he was at peace again. This was the third time he’d taken the serum on this day.

  The Guardian crossed to where his scrying pool had been. The events in the recent past had spurred him to improve upon his viewing techniques. One pool would not be enough to keep track of the comings and goings of all the players.

  So far, everything was on track, but he needed to collect more data, so he had recently installed this new device—the Eye.

  Constructed from a magical alloy called Darksteel, the Eye was nearly indestructible. The device was the most technologically advanced and magically sensitive creation Memnarch had ever produced. Because of the impervious nature of Darksteel, it had to be created and forged in the very same moment. Once the metal solidified and the magical spell that fused the molecules together subsided, Darksteel was harder than anything in existence. It couldn’t be cut, carved, etched, melted, or even scratched. Consequently, Memnarch had found only limited uses for it, though weapons and armor for his servants could be forged from it.

  The Eye was the most complex item Memnarch had ever created from Darksteel. It had taken him several long moon cycles just put together the frame.

  In appearance, the Eye was very much like his scrying pool, but it provided six times the viewing pleasure. What was the sense of having six enhanced eyes if he couldn’t use them all at the same time?