The Darksteel Eye

by Jess Lebow

  Drooge turned and limped past his seat. “As I said, when the time is right, the trolls will come to your aid.” When he reached the far wall of the chamber, he placed his crutch aside. Flattening his palms against the metal, he spoke a single word, and a cabinet appeared.

  It was a square box, about the size of a small goblin, the same color and texture as the surrounding wall. If Glissa hadn’t been watching, she might have thought it had been there the whole time. It blended with the rest of the chamber as if it had been carved from the tree, just like the steps. Drooge reached into this cabinet and pulled out a small casket.

  “Do not think that I would send you away empty handed.”

  The troll waved the trio forward.

  They approached, and Glissa put her finger out to touch the casket. It was of exquisite workmanship, carved in patterns she did not recognize. She didn’t want to stop touching it.

  “You like that?” asked the troll.

  “Yes,” said Glissa. “What is it?”

  “It is from the wood of a tree not of this world. Many thousands of years ago, it is said that my people, the trolls, lived in these trees.”

  Glissa’s eye’s nearly bulged from her head. She couldn’t even imagine another world. Just running her fingers over the wood calmed her nerves and made her feel … feel … happy.

  “You’re giving this to me?”

  The troll laughed. “No,” he said. “I am giving you what is inside.”

  Glissa was disappointed. “Oh.”

  “It is nice,” said Drooge, his eyes lit up with amusement, “but I doubt this casket will help you along your path. No, I am giving you this.” The troll lifted the lid and drew forth a helm. Inset along its rim in a brilliant circle were five gemstones, each one a different color. At the top, carved deep into the metal surface, was a sigil or rune. It was a circle, broken into five wedge-shaped pieces by five different lines—like a wheel with five spokes.

  Drooge handed the helm to Glissa.

  “It’s beautiful.” The elf ran her finger over the stones—a diamond, an emerald, a ruby, an onyx, and a sapphire. Each of them sparkled.

  Bosh waddled over, and Slobad lifted himself up on his tip toes to get a better look.

  “What does it do?”

  * * * * *

  Pontifex paced outside the door leading to the Grand Assembly Chamber. Inside, the other members of the Synod waited. The lord of the vedalken knew what to expect when he entered. He knew what they had planned. The whole scheme had unfolded in less than a cycle.

  Despite the very real power he now wielded over the vedalken people, and for that matter the Synod itself, he had been powerless to stop this. Sometimes the game of politics is simply more powerful than the politicians who play.

  Pontifex steeled himself and stepped forward. The doors before him slipped silently aside, and he entered the chamber. No one spoke, but the room was filled with the shuffling sound of bodies trying to get comfortable. The assembled vedalken went still upon seeing him, and the room fell completely silent.

  The Grand Hall, as it was often referred to, was nothing more than a giant spiraling pit dug deep into the ground. Wider at the top than it was at the bottom, the room itself had been designed by a vedalken architect who had taken his inspiration from the swirling storms and whirlpools of the Quicksilver Sea. A narrow platform, just wide enough to fit two vedalken guardsmen in full uniform side by side, wound down the edge of the pit, running in a spiral from the very ceiling to an open floor far below. To Pontifex, it looked like a corkscrew, winding its way down into the bowls of Mirrodin. That image amused him, and he smirked.

  A railing skirted the edge of the spiraling platform. The original designer had wanted the room to feel—and be—dangerous. One false step and a vedalken could find himself on the floor in a big hurry. Down lower, that wasn’t much of a problem, but from this height, a body falling that far would be smashed into jelly.

  This room is dangerous, thought Pontifex as he looked down at the collected vedalken, even with the safety precautions.

  Gathered on the spiral, the assembled citizens of the vedalken empire stood against the outer wall or leaned up on the railing. Where Pontifex stood at the top of the winding platform he could see down on everyone, including the other two members of the synod who awaited him at the bottom. Beside them stood a third figure. Pontifex did not know this man, but he knew what his presence here represented.

  “Lord Pontifex,” said a voice from far below, “so nice of you to join us.”

  The round, lifting design of the chamber allowed every word spoken to be heard by all. It mattered not if the speaker were on the floor or along the railing near the ceiling, all had a voice here. However, any citizen who spoke out of turn or without being recognized was removed by force and thrown into hard labor for two full moon cycles. Many who had been punished in such a fashion didn’t live long enough to be released back into society. Consequently, while inside the assembly chamber, very few spoke at all.

  Pontifex recognized the voice. “Hello, Tyrell,” he said, looking down to the floor at the vedalken. “It’s always a pleasure to be in the esteemed company of my fellow Synod councilors—” he circled his finger in the air, indicating the collected vedalken in the assembly hall—“and the elected citizen representatives.” He descended the long spiral platform toward the floor. “Welcome.”

  Quiet clapping filled the room, and the vedalken representatives bowed their heads as their lord moved past.

  Pontifex loved this. He loved that these people loved him. He had experienced nothing quite like it, and he relished every moment.

  “Now that you have arrived—”

  The vedalken’s clapping stopped.

  “—may we proceed with the inauguration ceremony?”

  These were the impatient words of Sodador. The younger, more hot-headed of the other two councilors, Sodador walked with the aid of a cane.

  Yes, thought Pontifex, looking at him with narrowed eyes. You are anxious to lead the Synod.

  But the councilor’s overzealous demeanor hadn’t won him the political power to challenge the previous leader, Janus. The latter had had too many allies.

  Ascending to the head of the Synod was a nasty business. Assassinating one’s predecessor didn’t cast one in the most politically flattering light. It would be some time before Pontifex could overcome the negative image his rise to power on the body of Janus had gained him.

  Pontifex smiled to himself. They might win this battle, but he’d make them pay.

  “Oh, my, this is embarrassing, Councilor Sodador,” said the vedalken lord. “Don’t you think you’re forgetting something?”

  Pontifex was nearly half way to the floor at this point. Sodador’s features cleared.

  “I am most certainly not. We have followed every parliamentary procedure in calling this special assembly of the elected representatives.”

  Pontifex stopped his descent, stepping to the railing between two representatives. He raised his finger. “Forgive me, Councilor Sodador, but isn’t a vote of the council required before we can bring a fourth member into the Synod? Certainly before we have an inauguration, we must have a vote. I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember voting on the inclusion of this person into our council.” Pontifex pointed down at the third figure on the floor. “In fact, I’ve never even been introduced to this man.”

  There was a slight gasp from several of the collected representatives, and both Sodador and Tyrell seemed to squirm. Pontifex smiled. Their scheme hadn’t been covert, but now their motives for arranging the special assembly were called into question.

  “Well,” he said, resuming his downward spiral, “am I wrong?”

  “As you will recall, Lord Pontifex,” replied Tyrell, “this meeting was called in accordance with the law, which very specifically states there must be four members seated on the Synod at the start of each new moon cycle.” Tyrell ran his hand over his bald scalp. “It is dark o
utside, my friend. The moon cycle has begun, and we have an empty seat to fill.”

  “Fill it we will.” Pontifex smiled wide. “However, I think you’ll agree just because we’re slightly behind schedule doesn’t mean we should abandon our long standing traditions and procedures. Our laws, Tyrell, were written to protect us from hasty decisions. Let us interview your candidate and bring him before a vote of the representative—as is the mandate for the Synod—before we swear him in.”

  A light clapping followed.

  “Our laws,” shot back Sodador, “were written to protect us from a council chair who abuses his power.”

  Pontifex looked hurt. “Are you accusing me of something, Sodador?”

  Sodador opened his mouth, but Tyrell raised his hand to stop him. “Our young councilor accuses you of nothing, Lord Pontifex. He merely speaks of the conventions of balance.” The elder statesmen turned to the assembled vedalken standing above him on the spiral. “As you all know, good citizens, the Synod is a council of four members. Though there is rarely a conflict of opinion, from time to time it becomes necessary to break ties when the council members do not agree. It is at these times that the council chair casts a second vote.” Tyrell spun as he spoke, making eye contact with each and every one of the elected representatives as he did. “Currently, there are only three members on the Synod. That is why you have been called here for this most unusual meeting. Many of you have never before set foot in this assembly hall. Many of you will never again be compelled to do so, but today is different. Today you must fill the fourth seat by wielding a single collective vote that will be cast in the event of a tie.”

  Pontifex spoke in turn. “Because of the unusual circumstance which has brought you all here today, you have been given a rare glimpse into the workings of the Synod, and how we—” Pontifex indicated the other members and himself—“take into account the concerns and needs of the entire vedalken empire.” He nodded his head, smiling up at the representatives. “I, for one, am most excited. It is not every day that you get to witness the governing council at work, much less participate in the ruling of your own sovereign body. I’m sure you all are as excited by the prospect as I am, but I must take this opportunity to speak to you of the grave importance of the decision we are all about to make.”

  Lord Pontifex stood up straight, his smile fading into a look of stern seriousness. “Weigh your vote very carefully, for whomever you chose to fill that empty seat will rule on the Synod for life.”

  * * * * *

  Memnarch ambled from his laboratory. The work he did outside Panopticon was easy enough, but the journey to the soul trap fields and back would take him considerable time—time he would have to spend away from his infusion device.

  With serum storage tanks attached to his frame, it would take him even longer. The contraption kept him fully lubricated, but its bulk and weight slowed him down. No matter. He enjoyed his trips to the soul traps. Better to enjoy the work than to try to finish it in the least amount of time.

  Besides, the metal tanks made Memnarch feel as he had before, when his body had been all metal. Perfect, the way it had been created.

  “Do you think Memnarch has forgotten?” The Guardian shook his head. “Of course you do not.”

  The lift stopped and the doors slipped open. Memnarch was greeted with silence as he looked across the empty staging area at the base of Panopticon. Before, there had been a hundred levelers arrayed here.

  “Malil has taken them all,” he said. “He takes his duty seriously.”

  The bulbous, crablike Guardian of Mirrodin scuttled from the lift then from his tower. The dimly lit interior was replaced by the blinding blue-white light of the mana core. High above the floor of the interior, the power core of the entire plane hissed and crackled with energy.

  “Sometimes Memnarch misses the darkness. Yes. Yes. It is much easier to work with a constant source of light. Still, the convergence of the moons was a spectacular event, a spectacular event.” He stopped for a moment, putting one of his fingers to his lips. “There is a minor convergence happening now,” he said. “Do you remember when the first moon shot from the core of the plane?”

  Memnarch moved on, shaking his head. “No, I suspected you would not. You were not here for that. Or for the next one.” The Guardian scowled. “Or for the next one. Or for the next one after that. Come to think of it, Mirrodin was always dark when you were here. Oh, how things have changed.”

  Memnarch could see the tall chrome spires of mycosynth up ahead, touched at their bases with tarnish. They reached high into the sky, climbing from the ground up toward the mana core. Forests of these pointy towers dotted the interior of Mirrodin from one side to the other. From Panopticon, Memnarch could actually see how they curved with the slope of the round plane.

  The Guardian wasn’t interested in these structures. They represented all that was wrong with Mirrodin now.

  “True,” he said as he approached the nearest of the columns, “they are not the problem, but they are a symptom. Memnarch does not like the symptoms.”

  Inside the forest of mycosynth, Memnarch stopped and knelt. Below him, dozens of little furry creatures scurried around, stopping when they encountered the large, diamond-shaped boxes, covered in mossy verdigris, spaced several meters apart.

  “You would be proud of these, Master Karn,” he said, reaching down to examine one of the boxes. “These devices are Memnarch’s own creation. His own creation. We call them soul traps, and they keep Mirrodin populated.” Gently brushing aside several of the furry little creatures, the Guardian probed the sides of the diamond. It was soft, fleshy to his touch.

  “This too,” he said poking the soft sides of the contraption. “This is a symptom. If only Memnarch knew what caused the symptoms, we could study it. Understand it. Cure it.”

  Memnarch looked down at his own arm. The flesh there was soft and supple, just like the sides of the trap and the furry beasts running around on the floor of Mirrodin.

  “It infects us all. It corrupts perfection.” Memnarch gritted his teeth, squeezing his fists together until this arms turned bright red. “It makes a mockery of all that the Creator built.”

  Memnarch’s body began to shake. “This is not how Memnarch is supposed to be. You created Memnarch in your image, and now Memnarch is … is.” He held his arms up, opening his whole body to the rays of the mana core.

  “This!”

  The bright blue-white light seared into Memnarch’s eyes, and tears ran down his face. Except for the electrical hiss the mana core gave off, the rest of the interior of Mirrodin was silent.

  Finally the Guardian let his hands fall to his sides. A floating patch of orange filled his vision. For a moment Memnarch lost his connection to the solid world. Vertigo filled his head, and the Guardian lost his balance. He stepped back to catch himself, and his foot landed on something soft. He heard a popping noise and slipped.

  Memnarch fell. All four of his legs folded underneath him, and his serum tank made a tremendous clang as it hit the ground.

  “Why is Memnarch being punished so?” he moaned.

  The Guardian rested on his side, not moving. The burning orange sphere obscuring his sight slowly drifted away, and Memnarch looked out at a puddle of red fluid covering the ground around him.

  “Blood? Do we see blood?”

  Lifting himself to his feet, he examined his body. His entire side was slick with blood, but he felt no pain. Poking and prodding his partially fleshy limbs, Memnarch searched for wounds, but found none.

  On the ground, near his feet, the furry little creatures scuttled around, avoiding the bloody mess as best they could.

  “Our grendles? Have our grendles turned completely to flesh?”

  Memnarch bent down and picked up one of the crushed, furry creatures. A feeling of overwhelming sadness crept over him, and he shook his head as he looked down at the dead creature in his hands.

  “Is this what will happen to Memnarch?”
<
br />   * * * * *

  Drooge held up a finger. “By itself, the helm will aid you in battle. Your blows will strike harder. Your moves will be faster. In concert with the Sword of Kaldra and the Shield of Kaldra, it will do much more.”

  “The Sword of Kaldra? What’s that?”

  Drooge lifted his massive hand and pointed to Glissa’s hip. “The blade you took from Chunth.”

  Glissa pulled her hand back. “You mean it’s part of a set?”

  “Yes. More appropriately, it is part of a key.”

  Slobad’s ears perked up. “What does this key open?”

  “It is not so much a key to open something as a key to activate a powerful being.”

  Slobad’s ears picked up. “Artifact, huh? Where we find this powerful artifact?”

  “Not an artifact.”

  Slobad slumped, disappointed.

  “You must travel to the swamps of the Mephidross,” Drooge continued. “There you will find the Shield of Kaldra.” The troll held out his hand. “May I see your sword?”

  Glissa looked hesitantly at Slobad then at Bosh. The golem stood silently behind her, as he had during the entire interview, ready for anything. The sight of her hulking friend calmed Glissa’s nerves, and she pulled her sword from its sheath, handing it to the troll.

  Drooge ran his fingers over the blade’s hilt, examining the etchings and runes inscribed there. “You see this,” he said after a moment, turning the handle toward the trio and indicating a circular groove. At the center of the groove, the same circular rune broken into five parts had been inscribed. “This is where the sword’s hilt will attach to the shield when you find the last part of the Kaldra Guardian.”

  “The Kaldra Guardian?” asked Slobad.

  “Yes,” replied the troll. “The guardian is an avatar, a very powerful one. Once you have all three pieces, you must assemble them, and the guardian will come to life.”

  “Wait,” said Glissa. “If the trolls knew about this being before, why didn’t Chunth just tell me about it?”

  Drooge pawed his crutch. “You were not ready.”