The Darksteel Eye Page 7

  “Thank you.”

  “No, Glissa, it is I who should thank you.”

  * * * * *

  After several long rotations of travel, the trees of the Tangle rose up tall before Glissa, Bosh, and Slobad.

  “It’s good to be home,” said Glissa. “It’s been a long time.”

  Bosh lifted the pair off his shoulders and set them gently on the ground. “Where will we find the trolls?”

  “In the Tree of Tales,” explained Glissa, “deeper inside the Tangle.”

  Elf, goblin, and golem made their way through the metallic forest. As they went, Glissa ran her eyes over familiar ground, bringing back a flood of memories.

  She saw clearly her mother, father, and sister, their faces calm and comforting. They drifted away, replaced in her memory by the horror of the leveler attack that had killed them all. She would never forget the terrible sound their scythe blades made. And the blood. Everything was slick with blood.

  * * * * *

  Her memories faded, replaced by visions of trees—trees with leaves—and of a world with soft things and a sky of deep blue. A wind slipped lazily through the trees, and Glissa looked to the ground. Patches of green wavered in the breeze. She reached down, and her fingers ran over the edges. She pulled her hand away, expecting to see blood where the leaves had cut her flesh to ribbons—but there was nothing, just smooth, soft skin. No cuts. No blood.

  She examined her hand more closely. There was no metal. The blades that extended from her knuckles were gone. She checked her shins. They too had no metal. Her whole body had transformed. Everything was flesh: soft, warm, and forgiving.

  She was filled with panic. She reached for her sword, but it too was gone. She was defenseless, with no weapons and no claws. A crash made her look up. Two huge trees cracked in half, each falling away from the other, tumbling into the other trees, smashing away limbs and scattering branches as they hurled toward the ground. Between them towered a gigantic construct. Its gleaming metal chest stood out in stark contrast to the forest and soft plants all around. Its head, arms, and legs were a glowing blue, as if they were formed completely from magic.

  The creature stared down at Glissa. She felt very small and tried to turn away. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The creature took a step toward her, and the ground trembled.

  Glissa tried to scream, but no sound came from her mouth. She drew a breath and tried again—still, nothing. The construct took another step then bent down, reaching out. Its huge, glowing fingers wrapped around Glissa’s body, and she was lifted from the ground.

  * * * * *

  Glissa came to on the ground, Slobad’s face right above hers.

  “You okay, huh?”

  Glissa nodded. She had these visions from time to time. They were called flares, and she dreaded them. They were flashes really, pictures that ran in her head. All elves had them, but Glissa’s were stronger, more vibrant, than most. No one knew for certain what they were. Glissa thought of them as waking dreams—the possibilities of her mind showing themselves in brilliant colors.

  The elders in her tribe had claimed the flares were visions of the future. Most elves did not believe that. Who could really see into the future?

  Sometimes the visions blinked in and out, as if she were opening and closing her eyes while she spun in a circle. Each time her eyes focused again, a different scene filled her vision. It was only for a split second, then it was as if her eyes closed again, and she moved on, looking moments later upon something entirely different.

  “No golem,” Glissa said.

  “No golems?” Bosh seemed concerned. “Are there no golems allowed in the Tree of Tales?”

  The elf shook her head, dazed. “Uh … no. That’s not what I was talking about. I’m sure they’ll allow you in.” She stood up. “They’d had better let you in.”

  “What you talking about then, crazy elf?” asked Slobad.

  “I had another flare.”

  Slobad stood upright and looked at her with wide eyes.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “What did you see?” asked the big golem.

  “I saw a different world again. A world without metal.”

  “A world without golems?”

  “No. There was a golem, or at least what I thought was a golem.” Glissa shook her head, trying to clear it.

  “It mean something, huh?”

  “I don’t know, but it seemed like a nice place.” She looked at Bosh. “All except the part about the golem. I’m not sure it was a nice golem—” she touched Bosh’s arm—“like you.” She shrugged. “There were soft things there, like the blankets and beds we stayed in at Bruenna’s village. Even the grasses and bushes were soft.”

  The goblin gasped. “Soft razor grass?”

  “It wasn’t really razor grass. It just looked like it.” She straightened and headed deeper into the Tangle. “It was nothing. Get going.”

  The trio walked on in silence for some time. The closer they got to the Tree of Tales, the more memories crept into Glissa’s mind. She thought of Kane, wearing the armor of the Tel-Jilad Chosen. A deep sadness filled her chest. It felt heavy, as if a vorac were standing on her chest. A knot in the bottom of her stomach moved and fluttered as if she’d swallowed a live bird.

  A voice brought her from her reverie. “Glissa.”

  Glissa looked up from the ground. The figure before her wore the red ceremonial armor of the Tel-Jilad. For a moment, Glissa saw a different face.

  “Kane?”

  The elf looked at her sideways. “No.”

  Glissa looked around. While she had been thinking of her best friend, she had walked right up to the front of the Tree of Tales.

  The guard stepped to one side, indicating the side of the tree with a sweep of his hand.

  Glissa stared at him, confused. “What’s this? You’re just going to let me inside the Tree.”

  The Tel-Jilad nodded.

  Slobad sidled up to her. “You sure ’bout this, crazy elf? Last time we here, they think you kill old troll, huh?”

  Glissa nodded. “They haven’t attacked us yet,” she said. “Besides—” she looked up at Bosh—“we’ve got a golem.”

  Slobad threw up his hands and the three of them headed toward the tree.

  Glissa stepped between the roots, pushing through the rounded vines that hung down, obscuring the entrance to the Tree of Tales.

  Inside the tree, the trio were greeted by a large, imposing troll. His face was round and covered in warts, and his shoulders were slouched forward, as if his head were too heavy to be held up by his thick neck.

  “Young Glissa,” said the troll in a deep rumble, “we were expecting you.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No,” said the troll, “but Master Drooge knows you. He is awaiting you upstairs.”

  The elf eyed the troll. His manner was controlled and introspective, the exact opposite of threatening, and he appeared harmless—harmless for a troll. He carried no visible weapons and moved with a swiftness that belied his great size.

  “Who is Master Drooge?”

  “He is the eldest,” said the troll. “The newest leader of the trolls.” With that, he bowed his head and stepped aside, indicating with a flourish of his hand the stairway leading deeper into the tree.

  Glissa looked at the other two. Slobad sighed but nodded, and they headed up.

  The steps were cut from from the tree itself. Circular scoring, covering every inch of the tarnished steps, formed a pleasing pattern. It almost seemed as if someone had polished the shape of the stairs into the metal, leaving a series of tiny circles. None of the circles was complete, each having a vague beginning and ending that seemed to flow into the one beside it. At the top of each step, the linked swirls bent at the edge and continued up, wrapping from the side of one step onto the top of the next. The interconnected circles formed a collection of chains that led up and around the spiral staircase.

 
The surface of each step was rough, not magically honed like the scythe blades of the levelers or the wings of the hover guard. These had been made by hand. It made Glissa’s back hurt just thinking of the amount of work it would take to scratch out such a feature in a solid metal tree. Judging by the obvious wear and tear and large patches of heavy tarnishing, this had been done a long, long time ago.

  The group moved on in silence, finally reaching the top where the stairs opened into a large room. A set of rising bleachers edged the chamber, and sitting on them, three rows deep, were perhaps a hundred or more trolls. All of them resembled other trolls Glissa had seen. Their skin was green and loose, their hands and shoulders covered in warts and scars, and each was dressed in tattered woven-metal fabrics. Even to the elf, who had grown up in the Tangle living near such creatures, she couldn’t tell them apart. Now, seated here, they looked like the fungus or verdigris that grew on the base of fallen trees.

  Opposite the stairs, in the center of the curved bleacher seats, a single troll perched on a stool. All the others had their bodies turned toward him and their eyes focused on his large frame. This one, unlike the others, wore newer clothing. He held himself more erect and seemed to have more energy than the others. His eyes darted around the room. This was not a contemplative examination or the sluggish struggle by a slow mind to understand. This was the intelligent look of a decisive creature.

  The troll at the head of the room held a bone staff in one hand. With the other he waved the trio forward.

  “Come in. Come in.”

  Glissa and Slobad did as they were told, stopping amid the throng of trolls just before the bone-wielding chief. Bosh, though, had a difficult time getting inside the room. At his full height, his head was much taller than the ceiling. The golem tried to bend at the waist, but ducking didn’t provide enough room for him to bring his massive frame into the carved-out chamber.

  After several attempts to fold himself in various different ways, each of which proved more ridiculous and less useful than the last, Bosh finally collapsed his legs and head half-way, telescoping them inside his body. The truncated golem waddled as he walked, but he managed to fit, if tightly, inside the room.

  The troll looked them over. “We have been awaiting your arrival.”

  “So we’ve been told,” said Glissa. “That disturbs me.”

  “Why would that disturb you, young Glissa?”

  “Well, to begin with, the last time I was here, Elder Chunth died in my arms.”

  Drooge nodded, his eyes to the ground. “A tragic blow for us.” He took a deep breath. “You should know that we do not blame you.”

  “You don’t?”

  The troll chief shook his head. “No. The elder council has found you innocent, and the traitors among us have been purged.”

  Glissa looked around at the trolls on the bleachers. They all hung their heads. “Traitors? You mean there was more than one?”

  Drooge nodded. “I am afraid so.”

  Glissa stood in silence. She was relieved that the trolls didn’t think she had killed their chief, but she was saddened as well. All of this treachery and infighting was due to her. If she had been at home that night, if she had been killed along with the rest of her family, none of this would have happened to the trolls.

  The troll chief tapped his staff on the floor. “You have other reasons for being disturbed by our welcoming you back?”

  Glissa swallowed then nodded. “Well, yes. Everyone seems to know where I’m going and what I’ll do before I even do it.”

  “Yes,” replied the troll. “I see your point.”

  “And since they know where I am at all times, I seem to be everyone’s favorite target for ambush.”

  “A role none wish to play,” said the troll, “but one that falls upon the shoulders of a hero.”

  “A hero?” Glissa stopped to think about that word. “Why would you call me that?”

  The troll cocked his head, looking at the young elf. “Because your efforts are not just focused on yourself.”

  “Wait a minute.” Glissa shook her head. “How do you know what it is I want or even that I was coming here?”

  “A simple deduction,” replied the troll. “The last time you were here, you wanted to know about the Guardian. You did not believe us then. You have returned. Thus, I suspect that you have seen proof, that now you are beginning to believe that which Chunth believed, and you wish for answers.”

  “What did Chunth believe?”

  “That you have a destiny beyond the borders of the Tangle. That your path is far longer than you know.” The troll smiled, his stained, ground-flat teeth poking from his wart-covered lips, looking menacing yet warm at the same time.

  Slobad pulled on Glissa’s arm. “Who this guy, huh?”

  “That’s a good question,” said Glissa. She looked up from the goblin. “Who are you?”

  The troll bowed. “Forgive my lack of hospitality. I am Drooge, chief teller of tales. These—” he waved his arm to indicated the collected trolls—“these are all that’s left of my kind.”

  Glissa scanned the room. There were a lot of trolls here, more than she’d ever seen in one place at one time. Still, the thought saddened her. This was all of them. Every last one.

  The group no longer seemed so large.

  She laid her gaze again upon Drooge. “So you figured out that I would come back, but that still doesn’t answer my question about why you called me a ‘hero.’ What makes you think I’m not just looking out for myself?”

  The troll placed his hand on his jaw, rubbing his bumpy chin. “Sometimes, a hero is not a hero by choice. Sometimes, a hero is just a hero because her actions make her one. Whether you know it or not, your quest is one that will benefit many people. Perhaps everyone on Mirrodin.” Drooge lowered his head. “Although the trolls have known about Memnarch, have known not only that he existed but also that he controlled the levelers and devices that plague the land, we …” His voice trailed off. The rumpled troll stared at the floor for a long while.

  Glissa looked at him, bending her knees and trying to get down close enough to the floor to get his attention. “Yes?” she said, trying to coax it from him.

  “We … We have been … afraid,” he said finally.

  “But when last I was here, Chunth was very reluctant to talk with me. He told me very little and seemed quite … guarded, almost as if he would be punished for telling me what I wanted to know.” Glissa paused, watching Drooge stare at the floor. “Now you rush me inside and greet me as if I were one of you. Why such a drastic change?”

  Drooge raised his eyes. “Chunth was the oldest among us and the wisest. Now he is gone, and a new fear has entered the troll tribe: the fear that we will all be gone, taken from this place as Chunth was. As you can see, there are only a very few of us left. We cannot face Memnarch and his armies of devices alone. We are too few.” Drooge paused, taking a deep breath. “We are too afraid.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Your destiny has been set in motion. There is no longer time to debate ‘if’ or ‘when.’ It has come. The time is now, and events will continue forward whether you are ready or not.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Drooge raised his bone staff. “We all have kin who have fallen to the Guardian’s armies. We want to see you succeed.”

  “Are you saying you’re going to help me confront the Guardian?”

  Drooge once again scratched his chin. “When the time is right. Yes.”

  Slobad pulled on Glissa’s arm. “When that be, huh? We come back then.”

  The troll laughed in the back of his throat. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you the future, only that the trolls will participate when all has been prepared.”

  “Prepared?” Glissa shook her head. “What are you talking about. You make it sound as if there is some sort of predetermined course that we’re all destined to follow—that I’m the one leading. Am I missing someth
ing here?”

  Drooge rose from his chair and ambled forward. The quickness of his words and the sharp intelligence in his eyes had distracted Glissa from noticing one important detail about the troll chieftain.

  He had only one leg.

  The bone staff he had been holding was a crutch, and he leaned on it as he moved forward. His steps were awkward and metered, very much as Glissa expected from a troll.

  When he came close enough to touch the trio, he stopped and smiled. “I am sorry, I do not mean to confuse you. I forget that all this information is new to you. For the trolls, it has been a way of life, a belief.” He leaned down, lowering his face so that he looked into Glissa’s eyes. “We do not belong on Mirrodin. The trolls—” he waved his hand around, indicating all the creatures seated in the bleacher seats—“we are not from this world. We do not wish to stay here any longer than we must.”

  “Wait.” Glissa sank down on the metal floor. “You’re from some other world?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is it that I can help you? It’s not as if I can lift you to some other plane.”

  “You can help us escape from the tyranny of the Guardian,” explained the troll. “That is the path you will travel. That is the destiny that has been chosen for you.”

  “You speak as if I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “You do not.”

  The elf snorted.

  “If all of you—” Glissa ran her gaze around the room, taking in the entire troll tribe—“with your big muscles and strong fists, can’t stand up to Memnarch and his devices, what makes you think I can?”

  “Because you are not afraid.”

  “Of course I’m afraid!” Glissa shouted. “In fact, I can’t remember more than a brief instant of my entire life when I wasn’t afraid of something.”

  The troll nodded, apparently unperturbed by her outburst. “Yes, it is something that transcends the racial boundaries. Fear binds us together and makes us all the same.” Drooge placed his huge hand on the petite elf’s shoulder. “What makes us different, you and I, is that despite that fear you go on.”

  Slowly Glissa nodded. Now she understood.