The Darksteel Eye

by Jess Lebow

  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.”

  Slobad narrowed his eyes, looking deeper into the green-lit swamp. “Crazy elf think them lights are bugs?”

  Glissa shrugged. “Could be.”

  Slobad grabbed his chin then, after a moment of thought, shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “Slobad don’t want beetles, huh? Happier out here.”

  Glissa laughed. “Okay then.” She unhitched her sword from her belt and sat down on the ground. “This is as good a place as any.”

  Bosh sat down beside Glissa. Al-Hayat curled up not far away and began licking his wounds. Slobad found a soft spot in the wolf’s fur, rolling into a ball and falling asleep. Within a matter of seconds, the goblin’s soft snoring could be heard over the rustling swamp wind.

  Bruenna placed her hand on Glissa’s shoulder. “We will set some wards to warn us of danger.” The wizard smiled. “Better to get a good night of rest knowing that we won’t be eaten while we sleep.”

  “Good idea.” Glissa nodded. “Thank you, Bruenna.”

  Bruenna and her wizards took off into the darkness.

  Glissa turned to Bosh. “I haven’t heard much from you lately. How you holding up?”

  Bosh looked down at the elf. “I have been better.” He held out his hand. Several long wounds criss-crossed his palm and knuckles. Scabs were forming on the older ones, but a few still seeped blood when he moved his fingers.

  “Bosh,” she said, grabbing a hold of his hand. “Do they hurt?”

  “Some,” replied the golem.

  She touched one of the scabs, and Bosh winced. Glissa pulled in air through her gritted teeth, sympathizing with his newfound pain. “You’ve got to learn how to avoid getting hurt so much.”

  “I am trying,” he admitted. “When the vedalken attacked, my first thought was to pick you all up and run through the razor grass.” He pulled his hand away to poke at a new fleshy patch along his chest and down where an elf would have a ribcage. “I remembered, so I stayed put. We had nowhere else to go, and we had to fight.” He gave his hand back to the elf. “What should I have done differently?”

  “Well, to begin with,” she said, “you need to avoid their weapons as much as possible. Part of fighting is learning to defend yourself. You can’t just rely on your metal hide to keep you safe from harm. You have to move, make yourself less of a target.”

  “What else?”

  Glissa thought for a moment. She had to put herself in his place, think like a metal golem, then she could tell him how to think differently. “Okay,” she said, having thought of something else. “Smashing stuff.”

  “I like smashing stuff,” said Bosh.

  “I know, but that’s a problem.”

  “But I like smashing stuff.”

  Glissa laughed. “Yes, I know. You don’t have to stop altogether, but you need to make sure that what you smash isn’t going to hurt you.”

  “Nothing hurt me before.”

  “That’s the difference. Vedalken who are carrying weapons will hurt when you smash them.”

  Bosh shook his head. “I do not like being fleshy.”

  “No.” Glissa examined a fresh wound across the top of her hand. It was scabbing up. “Sometimes neither do I.” She looked back at Bosh’s hand. “But there is one good thing.”

  “What?”

  Glissa pointed to the scabs on the golem’s hand. “Now you heal.”

  Bosh lifted his palm to his face. He examined the dried blood for a long time. “What does that mean?”

  “Well,” explained the elf, “before when something got broken, Slobad had to find new parts or repair the old ones in order to fix you up.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Bosh slumped. “But he cannot do that now.”

  “No,” said the elf, “but now he doesn’t need to. You fix yourself.”

  Bosh looked puzzled.

  Glissa pointed to the scabs again. “That dried blood is your flesh repairing itself.”

  Bosh looked at it again and fingered the oldest scar. “That was from several days ago,” he said. “This healing takes a long time.”

  Glissa nodded. “Yes, it does. That’s why you’ve got to be more careful about what you hit and what you let hit you.”

  Bosh shook his head. “I do not think I will ever get used to flesh.”

  Glissa laid her head on Bosh’s lap. It felt as if she had just barely touched her ear to his hard metal leg when the magical wards sounded, and she was on her feet again.

  The moons were still down, and the sky was pitch black. The same dull green glow issued from the swamp, but now, instead of there being hundreds of tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the swamp, they were collected together in a tight cluster—standing at the edge of the swamp.

  A tingle ran down Glissa’s spine, and goose bumps formed all down her arms. “Nim.”

  There before her stood the decaying husks of nearly a hundred undead creatures. Hunched over, their mouths agape, their knuckles dragging in the muck, the zombies shambled toward the shore. No two looked exactly alike. Each had been a unique human, or possibly elf, during his normal life. What they had now couldn’t be called “life.” They moved, were animated, but to Glissa these creatures suffered a fate worse than death.

  On their backs, in the hunch where their bodies had nearly collapsed from leaning forward, each of them carried a glowing green orb. It was these devices that had lit the swamp, giving it the eerie glow Glissa had seen when they first arrived. Now, with so many collected in one place and with one purpose, the light had intensified—leaving the far end of the swamp in total darkness.

  The zombies moved very slowly, a thick, green smoke pouring from open cavities on their shoulders. Their methodical march toward Glissa and her friends was unnerving. It felt like a force of nature. It was so big, so slow moving that you knew it was coming, but there was little you could do to try to stop it. When they entered the ring of magical wards that Bruenna had set, they triggered a loud noise like a huge gong being slammed by a mallet. The alarm went off three times then fell silent.

  Glissa pulled her sword and was relieved to see that Bruenna and her wizards were awake and alert. The elf chuckled to herself. Apparently their wards were loud enough to wake the dead.

  To her right, Al-Hayat was on his feet. Slobad had taken to his shoulders, his vedalken pike held under his arm like a lance. To her left, Bosh towered over her, rubbing his hands together, the same somber look on his metal face that he always had.

  The human wizards were the first to strike. A cloud of wisping blue smoke poured out over the edge of the swamp. It mixed in the air with the nims’ poisonous green gas then settled on the advancing monsters, engulfing nearly a dozen of the tattered nim. Where the smoke touched them, whirling person-sized tornadoes emerged, enveloping their victims in cones of spinning wind. The miniature storms lifted the swamp muck into the air, obscuring the nim from view.

  As quickly as they started, the tornadoes disappeared, losing all of their momentum and simply falling away. The swamp muck spun on once or twice more before falling to the ground as well in great wet circles. The nim inside were gone.

  “Where’d they go?” shouted Glissa.

  “Returned to where they came from,” replied Bruenna.

  “Will they come back?”

  “Perhaps,” r
eplied the wizard, “but that is something we can worry about when it happens.”

  Glissa nodded. Better to spread them out, she thought.

  Despite their slow march, the nim were now almost upon the group, and the elf gripped her sword tight. The sight of these torn, worn-out creatures unnerved her considerably, and the sooner she could cut them down, return them to their natural place of rest, the better.

  Al-Hayat must have agreed because the wolf let out a tremendous snarl and leaped forward, grabbing three nim in one huge mouthful. The forest creature champed down, and Glissa could hear the harsh snapping of bones and the wet slogging of rotten flesh. The wolf shook his head as he had when they fought the vedalken. Only this time, his foe was not so sturdy.

  Without a sound, the nim came apart under the assault. Limbs went flying. Arms came off at the shoulders. Legs came apart at the knees, and heads went rolling off into the darkness. Al-Hayat spit out the filth. A mash of rotten flesh and ruined organs covered the inside of his mouth, and he rubbed his tongue against his front teeth trying to dislodge the foul goo.

  Meanwhile, atop his back, Slobad rode into battle valiantly, like a knight on a steed. Holding his pilfered vedalken halberd under his armpit, the goblin braced the weapon with both hands and all the muscle he could muster. As the wolf charged in, the goblin skewered a nim on the end of his pike. The magically charged head ripped through rotten flesh, coming cleanly out the other side. With a swift yank, Slobad managed to pull the weapon from the undead soldier’s body before it fell, once again lifeless, to the ground.

  But when the wolf began shaking his head, the goblin had no way to hold on. Both of his hands firmly gripped around his polearm, Slobad slipped sideways. Refusing to give up his weapon, the little guy allowed himself to slide off of the wolf. Al-Hayat was so large that Slobad had time to gather his feet below himself before he reached the edge, and with a push he leaped, landing safely on the soggy ground, his halberd still gripped in both hands.

  Glissa watched the goblin land, could see the streak the head of his blue, charged weapon made as it flew through the air. Then the elf had other things to consider.

  The first of the nim made it to her. Having planted her feet, preparing herself for the charge, Glissa let out a whoop and swung down on the first of her attackers. Soft flesh parted, and a zombie came apart right in front of her. A sticky black paste clung to her blade, and she barely had enough time to shake it off before she was cutting into another of the shambling undead.

  Beside her, Bosh was testing out the strength of the nims’ bodies, gingerly squashing them with his huge thumb. Their soft flesh must have passed the test, because the golem reared back and brought his fist down full force, sending a wave of liquid in all directions.

  Glissa felt something cold hit her face. She hoped it was swamp water. The alternative was far too gruesome, and she didn’t have time to investigate or get the willies just now. Her blade flashed out before her again and again, taking off limbs and cutting out chunks of flesh.

  Nothing short of cutting these foul beasts into tiny chunks stopped them from coming. If they had legs, they would walk. Without legs they would crawl. The squirming mass slowly made its way closer and closer to Glissa, Bosh, Slobad, Al-Hayat, Bruenna and all her wizards. And with each step, they crowded in, forcing the companions to step back.

  Behind them was the sharp hill they had come down to reach the edge of the swamp. Moving back up it was difficult, but it provided height—an advantage in this battle. The nim reached out, grasping at the live creatures. Their bony claws were torn from their wrists by blades, halberd, and magic.

  Still they came.

  The ground turned quickly to a soupy mess of rotten entrails. Fallen nim hit the sloping hill, hydroplaning down the slime, slipping back into the swamp to be gobbled up by the liquid—only to be replaced by more just like them. It seemed as if there was a limitless supply.

  Glissa took another step back up the hill. This wasn’t the direction she wanted to go. “What do we do?”

  “What can we do?” replied Bruenna. “We cut them to shreds. Smash them to bits, but still they come.”

  Even Bosh retreated against the onslaught. Though his fleshy hands were not harmed by the soft-bodied creatures, the flood of nim was too ferocious, and he fell back with everyone else.

  Al-Hayat had taken to swatting the swamp monsters with his giant paw. His claws and fur were covered in filth. Between attacks, Glissa could see him still trying to work the rancid meat off of his tongue and out from between his teeth.

  Slobad stayed beside the great forest creature, keeping nim away from Al-Hayat’s flanks but also keeping the wolf’s body to his back to avoid being surprised himself.

  Never before had Glissa felt as if she had scored so many hits while at the same time she lost so much ground. Turning another nim into paste with the flat of her blade, Glissa took a moment to look over her shoulder. While the group retreated they had managed to climb nearly to the top of the sloping hill and back up onto the plains.

  The first of the moons was beginning to rise, and the outline of the razor grass fields in the far distance came into her view. Something was not right. Though it was still mostly dark, Glissa could just make out long narrow lines in the fields, as if something had cut its way through, leveling the razor grass to prickly stubble.

  Checking back briefly with the nim, Glissa allowed herself a long stare at the plain, trying to figure out what seemed so out of place. Was that a trick of the light or was something moving out there? Then her heart sank once again into the pit of her stomach, and a ripple of fear washed over her shoulders.

  “Levelers!” she shouted. “The levelers have found us.”

  * * * * *

  Marek stood before the door to Pontifex’s chamber. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Little bubbles appeared inside his face mask, and he drew in air through the serum.

  Forcing himself to relax his shoulders, the commander knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” came Pontifex’s voice from inside.

  The door slid on its tracks, and Marek opened his eyes and stepped through.

  Pontifex was sitting at the long meeting table in his chambers. He had several old, heavy-looking contraptions opened before him. Marek had never seen anything quite like them before. He was aware that such things existed, but they were not very common, and most people lived out their entire lives on Mirrodin without coming into contact with these “books,” as they were called.

  As Marek got closer, he could see that these books were comprised of dozens of thinly pressed metal sheets, each with different symbols and characters on them. To the vedalken guardsmen, it looked as if the text had been carved or etched into the surface of the metal with either a very sharp blade or a corrosive substance.

  On the left side of each sheet, holes had been punched, and bits of wire had been woven through them. It looked to Marek as if the pages had been purposely bound that way, so they would stay together no matter how you handled the package. The warrior nodded as he looked at it. Quite ingenious really.

  Marek pulled his eyes away from the contraption. Pontifex continued to look through the book.

  “You called for me, my lord?” asked Marek.

  “Yes,” replied Pontifex, turning the page and examining a new set of runes. “Where is the elf girl now?”

  “In the Dross, my lord.”

  This brought Pontifex’s attention away from the book. “The Mephidross? What would she be doing in the Mephidross?”

  Marek shrugged. “I don’t know, but perhaps Geth could tell us.”

  Pontifex nodded. “Yes, I’m certain he could.” He closed the book. “How soon can you and your men be ready to leave for the swamp?”

  Marek smiled. “We’re ready now.”

  Pontifex stood up and put his hand on Marek’s shoulder. “You are perhaps the last thing I can truly count on in the world, Marek.” He looked through the warrior’s helmet, l
ocking eyes with his lieutenant.

  After a long moment, Marek looked away. “Thank you, Lord Pontifex. I try.”

  * * * * *

  Malil sat atop his personal leveler as he and his squad of killing devices mowed through the razor grass field. His whole body ached—not a muscular ache, for Malil didn’t have any muscles that could feel pain or fatigue. What the metal man felt was desire. He needed something he didn’t have, and he was on his way to get it. But first, before he could have it, he needed to capture the elf girl.

  After his interrogation of the troll, Malil had come straight to the Dross, and here he had waited. He didn’t know how the girl had managed to elude him and his levelers in the Tangle, but she wasn’t going to be so lucky this time.

  Nearly three full days passed before Malil had gotten word that the one called Glissa had arrived. She was on the other side of the swamp, and she had accumulated more friends along the way.

  Some of the story was beginning to come clear. If she had taken the shortest route to the swamp from the Tangle, she would have arrived on the opposite side of Mephidross, the side where Malil had been waiting in ambush. Since she came in from the other side, it made sense that she and her companions had gone through the other side of the Tangle, which would also account for the long wait he’d had to endure.

  And a long wait it had been.

  In his relatively short life, Malil had never felt time the way he had over the past few rotations. Before he had taken the serum, he had been patient in all things. The movements of Mirrodin went on, and Malil stood his ground, blissfully unaware that there was anything he needed other than to serve his master. Now though, he felt a sense of urgency in everything he did. Time ground on him, taking its toll as the hours and minutes ticked past. Each moment was just another in a long line between right now and when he would taste the serum yet again.

  Now that wait was almost over. All that stood between him and capturing the elf girl was a patch of razor grass. His levelers had been designed to level entire fields of the sharp metal reeds without slowing down. That thought brought a brief wave of relief that flooded over his aching frame. The end was finally near. The waiting would be over, and once again he would be granted the clarity of the serum.