The Darksteel Eye

by Jess Lebow

“Not ready?”

  “You did not believe Master Chunth. Now that you know your destiny, you are ready.”

  “I still don’t understand what it is I’m destined to do.”

  The troll smiled. “One step at a time,” he said. “Your journey will be long. Do not try to do it all in one day.”

  A loud boom echoed through the Tree of Tales, and for the first time since they’d arrived, the trolls in the bleacher seats stirred. Lumbering up from where they were seated, the entire troll clan separated into four groups, filing from the room in an orderly fashion.

  “What is that? What’s happening?” asked Glissa.

  Drooge placed the casket back inside the cabinet and shut the door. “The Tree of Tales is under attack.”

  * * * * *

  Malil stood atop his personal leveler. The power of the serum still held him tightly in its grasp. The world had coalesced, and he had come back to Mirrodin just as Memnarch had told him he would. But the world to which he returned was different now. He understood better the way things worked, but that wasn’t what had changed.

  Before him, arrayed and ready for battle, were nearly a hundred other levelers, each of them under his command. He looked out on them with a measure of pride. It was odd, this sensation. Many times before Malil had stood in just this place, but never once had he felt … anything.

  Now his mind raced. They had tracked the elf to the Tangle, to this very tree. The leveler army had surrounded it. Malil had had the foresight to bring along two crushers—mammoths with curved horns on their heads and a single huge cylindrical wheel in front, capable of rolling over nearly anything and squashing it completely flat. In the past, he’d used these creations mostly to level human villages or flatten patches of razor grass. Now these behemoths were both assaulting the tree. Each of the artifact creatures took turns backing up and rolling forward, smashing headlong into the base of the tree. The pounding noise they made sounded musical to Malil.

  The first crusher clanged into the tree again as the other pulled back for another run. The vibrating note of the last attack had almost fallen to silence when a flood of green oozed from the tree.

  At first Malil thought it might be some sort of organic fluid. He had seen Memnarch bleed before, had even seen the humans and elves bleed when they were caught between the scythe blades of a leveler. Maybe this tree was bleeding.

  The green fluid began to strike the levelers and the crushers, and Malil knew this was no fluid after all.

  “Trolls.”

  Levelers were hurled away from the advancing green tide. The crushers stopped their attack, covered by a host of trolls.

  “Kill them,” shouted Malil, and the rest of the leveler army moved in, tightening the noose around the tree and the trolls.

  “What we do?” shouted Slobad. “Levelers have us trapped, huh?”

  “We’re going to fight,” said Glissa. She gripped the hilt of the Sword of Kaldra and took a step forward, but Drooge’s crutch bared her way.

  “Your path does not lead out this door,” said the troll chieftain, indicating the arched front entrance to the tree. “It leads to the center of Mirrodin.”

  “Wherever I’m supposed to go, I can’t get there if I don’t get out of this damned tree. We have to fight. We have no choice. Besides, your trolls could use the help.”

  The elf pointed out to the battle raging just a few yards from them. The forest beasts had torn many of the artifact creatures to bits. Piles of metal parts littered the ground, but among them were the fallen forms of several trolls.

  “My trolls can take care of themselves,” replied Drooge. “Now you must take care that you do not too easily play into Memnarch’s hands.”

  “You think this army is here to find me?”

  “I do not think,” replied Drooge, “I know. Now, follow me.” Despite his missing leg, Drooge moved faster than she’d ever seen a troll go, and Glissa struggled to keep up.

  Glissa looked down at her sword. “Wait! Where do I find the last piece of the Kaldra Guardian?”

  The troll did not turn, continuing to lead Glissa, Slobad, and Bosh from the Tree. “You must find Geth. He has what you are looking for.”

  Glissa looked to Slobad. “Geth again.”

  “Crazy troll can’t find ’nother shield?”

  Glissa shook her head. “You’re the one who was so excited about a new artifact to tinker with.” She shrugged. “Guess we head back to the Vault of Whispers. If we’d only known last time, we could have saved ourselves a trip.”

  Drooge, standing taller than any except Bosh, looked each of them in the eye then returned his stare to Glissa. “You must get to the Mephidross quickly. Do not stay here and fight, or the sacrifice of these many trolls will be in vain.”

  * * * * *

  Pontifex lowered his wide-headed halberd and lunged at Marek. “These are trying times, my friend.”

  The vedalken elite guard commander parried the blow then countered, pushing Pontifex back a step.

  “Well done,” complimented the vedalken lord. He steadied himself then began weaving his blade in a series of practiced patterns.

  Marek watched the tip of the halberd as it moved through the air.

  “I knew the probable outcome, but I hadn’t expected such a unanimous vote.” Pontifex continued moving his weapon, attempting to lull his opponent with its gentle motion.

  “Does that really matter, my lord? If the representatives vote with one voice, there is no difference between approval from most and from all. The outcome is the same.” Marek kept his guard up.

  “True, true,” replied Pontifex. He watched Marek follow the hypnotic pattern of the blade. “Still, this sort of thing could lead to very dangerous changes inside the empire.” The vedalken lord struck. His blade moved forward, but instead of moving back, following the pattern, he lunging farther, catching Marek off guard. The blade spanked off of the warrior’s shoulder pad, and Pontifex pulled back. Marek went down, trying to dodge too late.

  “Well done, my lord,” said Marek, looking up at Pontifex from the ground.

  Pontifex placed the butt of his weapon on the ground and extended three hands to Marek. “Thank you,” he said, and he helped the warrior back to his feet.

  The two placed their halberds in a rack against the wall, and Pontifex grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his gleaming, bald head.

  Marek scratched his chin. “Forgive my ignorance, my lord, but what sort of dangerous changes?”

  Pontifex took a deep breath. “If the representatives get a real taste of power, they may try to be part of the Synod on a more regular basis. If that happens, the council will lose some if not most of its power, and that we cannot have.” The vedalken lord stood up. “Perhaps more disturbing would be the possible erosion of my authority. If the representatives think they can challenge everything I do with a vote, I will be forced to take more drastic measures. And if they are successful …” Pontifex let out a laugh. “Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if every decision I made had to be voted upon before it could be enacted. Really! The damage caused to the empire by such a process would be an irrevocable disaster.”

  A knock came at the door, interrupting the vedalken lord.

  “I won’t have it,” he said to Marek in a whisper. He straightened his robes and turned to the door. “Enter.”

  The door slid open. Sodador and Tyrell stepped through, followed by a third vedalken—the newest member of the Synod.

  “Orland,” said Lord Pontifex, “what an unexpected surprise.”

  The third member nodded then stepped forward.

  Pontifex looked him over.

  The vedalken had a slight build, even for his relatively frail race. His four arms were long and skinny and seemed out of proportion to his short body. Pontifex drew himself up to his full height, noting that he overtopped the man by nearly an entire head.

  “Lord Pontifex,” said Orland, “it is my honor and privilege to stand before you as
your equal and colleague. Thank you for allowing us an audience.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” replied Pontifex. “Please, come, sit down.” He guided the other three councilors to form-fitting, high-backed chairs surrounding a sturdy table.

  When all of the men were seated, Pontifex cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  Orland opened his mouth to speak, but Sodador cut him off. “Forgive us, Lord Pontifex, but this is official Synod business.” He looked at Marek. “Would you be so kind as to excuse the commander?”

  Pontifex scowled. “Might I remind you, Sodador, that you are inside my personal chambers. Marek is an honorable man, and my trusted servant. While there are guests, I require a bodyguard.”

  “Oh, please!” spat Sodador. “We are no threat to you.”

  “This is official business,” interjected Tyrell. “How can we be expected to speak freely if we have an audience?”

  Orland looked at Marek then turned to both Sodador and Tyrell. “Gentlemen, please. Lord Pontifex has been gracious enough to allow us into his chamber. We should respect his wishes.”

  Pontifex looked at the new councilor. Perhaps this one could be of some use after all. “Thank you, Councilor Orland.” He smiled. “As you were saying?”

  “Yes. We have come to you at my urging. I realize the circumstances surrounding my appointment to the Synod were unorthodox. I want to make sure that my presence in the decision-making process is not seen as an invasion.”

  “My dear Orland,” Pontifex said, “whatever would make you think such preposterous things? The representatives voted in a legal assembly. The outcome is indisputable.”

  Orland nodded. “Precisely, but if I were in your position, I might feel as if I’d been fooled.”

  Sodador and Tyrell squirmed in their seats.

  “I’ve come to you on a mission of diplomacy,” continued Orland, “to make available to you my services—as a token of my respect and dedication to the greater good of the vedalken people.”

  Pontifex was puzzled. “What do you have in mind?”

  Orland smiled. “Helping you catch the elf girl, of course.”

  Glissa followed Drooge through a winding passageway inside the Tree of Tales. As they ran, they descended. The clank of Bosh’s feet on the metal ground filled the passageway, drowning out the sounds of battle from above.

  The tunnel twisted and turned then abruptly ended around a corner at a set of stairs leading up.

  “This is where I must leave you,” said the troll chieftain. “Good luck to you, and good speed.” Drooge nodded to the three, then ducked back down the passage.

  “So we go up again, huh?” said the goblin.

  “Guess so,” replied Glissa. “Any idea where we are?”

  Both Slobad and Bosh shook their heads.

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Glissa pulled her sword from her sheath and climbed the stairs.

  The goblin and the golem followed.

  The stairway led up into a dark cavern. At the opposite end, a small opening let in light, and with it the sounds of battle.

  “Come on,” Glissa led the others to the opening and looked out. They were near the edge of the Tangle inside a narrow cave at the base of a very large tree. The army of levelers covered the ground before them, but their attention was focused the other direction, on the Tree of Tales. Near the middle, riding on a leveler, was the metal man Glissa had seen inside Mirrodin.

  “Memnarch,” she said.

  Slobad jumped. “Where?”

  “Right there,” replied the elf. “Riding that leveler in the middle.”

  The goblin squinted. “How do you know, huh?”

  Glissa shrugged. “We saw him on the interior. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Goblins never seen Memnarch before,” replied Slobad. “You tell Slobad this tree him, Slobad believe crazy elf, huh?”

  Glissa turned to the golem. “You’ve seen Memnarch, right Bosh?”

  The golem nodded. “Yes, I remember the Guardian.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Is that him?” Glissa stuck her arm out, pointing to the metal man riding atop the leveler.

  “It looks like him.”

  Glissa punched the goblin in the arm. “See, I told you.”

  “But it is not,” finished Bosh.

  The elf let her jaw drop open. “What? You just said it looked like him.”

  “It does. It looks as he did when he was first created,” said the golem.

  “But?”

  “But he does not look like that any more. At least, he did not when I saw him last.”

  Glissa was frustrated. “Well, if it’s not Memnarch, then who is he?”

  The goblin and the golem both shrugged.

  “Not matter, huh?” said Slobad. “Metal man introduce himself soon. Slobad not want to meet him. Not here, huh?”

  “Good point.” Glissa examined the open field before them. The fighting was taking place only a few yards from the opening to their cave. “Everything is focused on the Tree of Tales,” she said back over her shoulder. “If we sneak out and head back into the Tangle, we might be able to avoid them.”

  “That wrong way, huh?” said the goblin. “Mephidross that way.” He pointed out over the battlefield.

  Bosh’s booming voice filled the cave. “That way gets us killed.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.” Glissa took a step forward.

  The goblin’s tone turned sulky. “Lots of danger in the Tangle, huh?”

  “There’s lots of danger everywhere.” Glissa pointed to the Tree of Tales. The trolls appeared to be in retreat, backing away from the levelers up into the Tree of Tales. Memnarch’s army followed. “This isn’t the time for argument. The battle will be over soon, and we will lose our chance.” She waved her companions forward. “Follow me.”

  The elf snuck out into the light of day. Crouching, she slipped up next to the huge tree and peered around. She watched as the trolls disappeared from the battlefield. Most of the levelers followed them in, and finally, the silver man who looked like Memnarch entered the Tree.

  “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 w
ith 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.