The Darksteel Eye

by Jess Lebow

  Glissa didn’t have time to even blink after that. Scratching, clawing, and digging into the ground with her sword, she still couldn’t slow her descent.

  Here I go, she thought. Then her feet hit the slime, and all went black as her head slipped under.

  Memnarch stood at the window of his laboratory. A light breeze rattled the jagged bits of glass, reaching in through where the window had been to brush against his flesh. The cool air felt good against his hot skin, and he breathed it in, calming himself.

  Out in the interior of Mirrodin, the mana core crackled and sparked. It was pregnant with energy, and soon it would release it. Already the blue-white sphere had begun to take on a greenish tinge. Time was getting short.

  When the mana core did finally erupt, it would shake the foundations of the world, unleashing terrible force and temporarily unbalancing the perfection of Mirrodin.

  The perfection of Mirrodin. Memnarch shook his head. The perfection of Mirrodin indeed. It was a myth. This world had never been perfect. Mirrodin had always had one fatal flaw—it wasn’t a natural world. This plane, like so many others around the multiverse, was a creation of a planeswalker. But for all their magic and wisdom, the most powerful beings in all of Dominia had never been able to create stable worlds.

  Many a day had Memnarch stood and pondered this conundrum.

  His creator, his god Karn, had the power to forge whole worlds from nothing more than a thought. Unless he stayed on his world, though, maintaining it through his own force of will, it would collapse, imploding like an overripe star.

  Karn had not been back to Mirrodin in a very long time.

  The stuff of perfection was unstable. Could something that did not last truly be considered perfect? Was there such a thing as temporary perfection? Memnarch hoped so. But what really boggled his much-enhanced mind was the thought of natural worlds. If Karn could not create a stable world, then who could?

  There were worlds beyond this one. Many, many worlds in fact. Memnarch had seen some of them. He had visited a few when the Creator had seen fit to take him along. These worlds did not collapse. They did not need a planeswalker to maintain their existence.

  That meant Memnarch’s creator had a creator. In fact, Karn had spoken of another planeswalker, a man named Urza, who had created him. But if Memnarch’s Creator had a creator, then perhaps that Creator had a creator as well. And that Creator likely had a creator and he a creator too.… Could it really go on and on forever? There must be a starting point—one true Creator who created all other creators. If that were true, then how did that Creator come to be … created?

  Memnarch’s head hurt. He’d been down this line of reasoning so many times, and each time he reached this very same point, the point at which he no longer cared to think about it any longer.

  That wasn’t why his head hurt. It had been a long time since his last serum infusion. His mind ached for the lift, the joy, the mental strength that an infusion gave him.

  He turned his enhanced gaze back out over the interior of the plane, trying to put that thought out of his mind. A giant blue-green spark arced through the air, hissing as it orbited the glowing orb. Then, with a popping sound, the energy dived back into the surface of the mana core.

  The super-charged interior sun of Mirrodin had erupted exactly four times since its creation. Each time it created one of the four moons. There was one for each color: white, blue, black, red—but not green.

  Green would be the next.

  When the time came, another lacuna would be created. The mana core would shoot out a glowing ball of plasma with such force and with such heat that it would burn straight through the mile-thick, solid metal crust of the plane. The new moon would breach the surface and rocket off into the sky, joining the other four moons and falling into its natural orbit around the plane.

  Once the moon punched through the crust and shot off into the atmosphere, it would find its place among the other moons. Each of them would push or pull on it, as if they were magnets. The moon would wobble back and forth, finally settling into its place among the others. Until that happened, the forces of nature would be terribly out of balance.

  First, the blinkmoths would disappear. There was nothing about the plane of Mirrodin the Memnarch did not understand—except where the blinkmoths went during that first moon cycle. He couldn’t explain it. After witnessing it the first two times, and being without serum for an entire moon cycle, he’d scoured the entire plane, inside and out. There was just no logical place for them to go. They simply left Mirrodin.

  Memnarch was fully aware of the power of magic. He considered himself an accomplished spellcaster. But there were no spells to his knowledge that could move a creature from one plane to another. Only planeswalkers could do that.

  He doubted very much that the blinkmoths were planeswalkers.

  Wherever they went, it was a mystery to Memnarch.

  The next noticeable change after the new lacuna would be the irregular moon orbits. As the green moon worked its way into it natural rotation, the others would be pushed and pulled in and out of their own orbits. Days and nights would blend together. At first there would be two short periods of light followed by two equally short periods of darkness. It would be a relief to the surface dwellers after having endured the long, hot days and the pitch-black nights of the Convergence. Still, the constant rising and setting of the moons would make sleep hard to come by, and it would put all of the wild animals in a frenzy. Their mating, hibernating, and hunting habits would be confused.

  That all would pass.

  Eventually, though, things would settle back into their normal rhythms. It always amused Memnarch to see how regular and predictable the organic creatures were. They loved their patterns and their rituals. Everything needed to be just the way it always had been for the past generations. Of course, it never really was exactly the same. Things changed, slowly—imperceptibly to the mortal folks. That was the beauty of evolution. Things improved, much like Memnarch had improved himself.

  There was devolution as well.

  Whatever had caused the mycosynth growths had also caused what Memnarch referred to as the “Spore.” The Spore was a virus. It attacked metal, got into places it shouldn’t be, and it broke things down. The Spore tarnished what little perfection Memnarch had to hold onto. It caused flesh to evolve into metal.

  It caused metal to devolve into flesh.

  Memnarch suspected that the Spore existed for a very long time, but he couldn’t be sure. He assumed that it appeared after Master Karn had left Mirrodin. A planeswalker would have noticed such a virus in his own plane and eradicated it. He also knew that the Spore either originated in the mana core or was fed by the waves of energy it gave off. The mycosynth only grew on the interior of the plane, and each of the towering chrome spires reached toward the glowing blue-white orb, grabbing for it like greedy fingers.

  As time passed, Memnarch had ever so slowly become more fleshy. He could only hope that when he ascended, found the spark and became a planeswalker, that he would be able to overcome the effects of the Spore and destroy them before they destroyed the plane.

  That was where the elf girl came in.

  She had the spark—that vital piece of a person’s soul, the one in a million difference that made her capable of becoming a planeswalker. Given the right circumstances, she could ascend herself.

  Master Karn had once spoken of ascending. He had told Memnarch of how it had happened during a terrible fight on another world. Before the Creator had become a god, he had been a metal golem—a creation just like Memnarch.

  In the story, Master Karn spoke of an invasion of his home world by a sickness. He called it the Phyrexian Plague. Memnarch knew nothing more about it, but he imagined it was much like the mycosynth and resulting Spore here on Mirrodin.

  This plague had taken hold of the world to such an extent that Karn and his master had been forced to build a last-ditch weapon—one that required them to sacrifice them
selves in order to use it. Both creator and creation willing sacrificed themselves for the good of those left on the plane.

  While the blast of the weapon vaporized the planeswalker creator, it did something different to the metal golem Karn. Maybe it was the trauma of being seared by a beam of holy light so powerful it could cleanse an entire planet of a virulent plague in one blast, or maybe it was the heroic action the metal golem had chosen. Whatever the cause, Master Karn ascended. His metal golem body was destroyed in the blast, but a new body was formed—one of quicksilver, one that with just a thought could walk among the stars.

  Memnarch smiled at the thought. That was what he was planning to do, vaporize his own body and become a planeswalker. He did not have a super weapon, but he had something just as good—the mana core.

  When the green moon was birthed from the surface of the interior sun, it would strike the shell of the plane and burn its way out. Using the information he’d collected from the other moons, Memnarch had pinpointed the exact location of where the eruption would occur.

  He had built Panopticon precisely on top of this spot.

  That eruption would provide the catastrophic power needed to destroy Memnarch’s body. He’d have the elf girl with him when the blast hit his tower, and just like Master Karn, the planeswalker would perish—and the created metal man would ascend.

  “A perfect plan,” he said.

  Turning away from the broken window, Memnarch made his way over to the Darksteel Eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elf girl.

  * * * * *

  Marek walked though the curved corridors of Lumengrid, on his way to finalize his preparations to leave with Pontifex. Taking a sharp corner, he nearly ran straight into councilor Orland.

  “Whoa,” said the councilor, losing his balance. “Marek, where are you off to in such a hurry.”

  “Excuse me, Councilor,” he said. “Please forgive my haste.” He bowed and stepped around Orland.

  The councilor reached his arm out, blocking Marek’s path. “Must you go so soon?”

  Marek looked back over his shoulder, but the corridor was clear. “We should not been seen together,” he said.

  Orland smiled. “Relax, Marek. There is nothing odd about a member of the Synod talking to a guardsman.”

  Marek checked the hallway. “You know as well as I that Lord Pontifex did not get where he is by being careless and overly trusting.” He gave Orland a cold stare. “Even my years of service do not lift me above his scrutiny.” He looked the councilor over from head to toe. “You risk my life by detaining me.”

  Orland looked surprised. “It was quite by accident that I have run into you here, Marek.” The councilor flashed a winning smile. “I was just on my way to see Councilor Sodador.” He pointed behind Marek.

  “Yes, I am aware of where Councilor Sodador resides, Orland. Don’t treat me like a fool or waste my time. This meeting was no accident, so tell me what it is you want.”

  Orland nodded. “Yes, forgive me.” Lowering his forehead, the councilor looked up, past the ridges of his creased brow. “I have it on good authority that you, my friend, would like to see the Synod dissolve and the vedalken people rule themselves.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Orland smiled. “A little squid told me.”

  “Is that so?”

  The councilor nodded. “It is, but I don’t put much stock in rumors, so I came to find out for myself.”

  Marek straightened himself up, standing at attention. “You have the wrong vedalken, Councilor.”

  Now it was Orland’s turn to look Marek over from head to toe. “I don’t think I do.” He shook his head. “No, I think a man who has spent his life protecting the vedalken empire’s ruling class might have seen a thing or two. Someone like that might have his reasons to want to see a change in the way things get done.”

  Marek softened. “And?”

  Orland smiled. “And I need to know: When the time comes, can I count on you, Marek?” The councilor leaned in closer to the warrior. “Are you willing to fight for yourself as hard as you’ve fought for Lord Pontifex?”

  Slobad looked down the slope at the black swamp that had just swallowed Glissa.

  “What crazy elf do now? She think we follow her, huh?”

  Al-Hayat nodded. “Yes.” With his muzzle, the great forest beast gave the goblin a shove.

  Slobad slipped down the slope. Flipping over on his stomach, he scrambled over broken bones, treading the ruined flesh as if it were water. Climbing back to the top of the slope, the goblin scowled at the wolf.

  “Slobad not like so much, huh?”

  Al-Hayat shook his head. Grabbing Slobad by the back of the neck, the wolf lifted him in the air and turned him toward the battle taking place behind them. Nim swarmed over levelers. Bruenna and the few remaining wizards had all left the field and were making their way through the remaining undead toward the swamp, following the elf into the filth.

  “Behind, all that awaits us is death,” explained Al-Hayat through closed teeth.

  “Ahead only filth and rot, huh?” replied Slobad, dangling from the wolf’s fangs.

  Al-Hayat set the goblin back down on his own feet. “But in that filth lies potential,” he explained. “We may yet live to see another day—or even a world free of Memnarch. Isn’t that worth getting dirty for?”

  Slobad looked back over the battlefield. The nim had the levelers bogged down, but it wouldn’t take long for them to cut their way through. Turning around he looked down at the swamp. The swath Bosh had cut through the horde of undead was beginning to narrow as the shambling beasts closed ranks.

  “Since you put it that way.” The goblin threw up his hands and jumped into the air.

  Landing on his rump, the rumpled, green creature slid down the slope. Beside him, Bruenna’s wizards charged down the hill. One hovered as he descended, using magic to slow his descent. Two more took the same way as Slobad, using the sloughing pool of liquefied flesh as a quick route to the bottom.

  The other three fought and died as they tangled with too many nim. Their bodies were slowly ripped to shreds, and their remains were devoured by the hungry undead.

  Slobad swallowed hard, trying to keep the contents of his stomach from coming up. He’d seen many unsettling things in his life, but this was by far the worst.

  Below him, the swamp came up fast. Looking over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Al-Hayat, slipping down the slope in the most awkward, uncontrolled fashion imaginable. Each of the wolf’s four legs went in a different direction, and his whole body spun as he picked up speed. Scrambling with his front legs, he managed to keep his head above the layer of rotten flesh—but only for a moment. Then his feet hit a slick patch, and they parted, each going the opposite way of the other.

  Al-Hayat’s proud muzzle slapped to the ground, sending a wave of black filth into the air. His rear end slipped sideways, and the wolf careened backward down the hill toward Slobad.

  The goblin laughed, seeing the majestic forest beast in such an undignified position. Then the cold, wet swamp hit his feet, and Slobad could see no more of the wolf, as he plunged under. His mouth filled with foul liquid, and his whole body seized up in disgust. Sinking quickly to the bottom, the goblin slid deeper into the swamp.

  No longer able to control his gag reflex, Slobad puked, the vomit forcing the swamp water from his mouth.

  Never before had the contents of his belly tasted so sweet on their way up.

  * * * * *

  In the Tangle, deep puddles of water collected under the biggest trees. All manner of creatures gathered there to drink or bath. When Glissa was young, she and Kane would climb up the tallest tree they could find and jump off into these puddles, scaring away all the other animals.

  Once her head slipped under the surface of the swamp water, she tried to pretend she was back in the Tangle, jumping into a puddle. The image worked, for a time. Unlike those carefree days as a youth, now she was in real danger
, and the water in the swamp was … like nothing else she’d ever encountered. Bits of debris touched her skin as she descended. At one point, it felt as though a fish were nibbling at the tiny hairs on her legs. Something told her that whatever it was, it wasn’t a simple fish.

  Her careening slide had been slowed upon impact with the swamp, and she had glided gently under the water. But where she thought she should reach a stop, she just kept going, sliding deeper and deeper with each passing second. Her breath began to run short, but she fought the urge to open her eyes.

  The last time she had been in the Dross, she and Slobad had found Bosh. He had been buried in the filth that was now sucking her down. When they had run across him, she had wondered how such a creature could be devoured by a swampy liquid. Now she knew.

  When she had hit the water, she felt her body twist. Stuck somewhere between the bottom and the surface, not sure of which way she was facing, she had no idea how deep she was nor which way was up. She’d hoped, like she had in the Tangle, that once she fell still, she’d start to float back to the surface. Without stopping, she wouldn’t know which direction to swim. Why wasn’t she stopping?

  Realization came to her in a flash, and fear gripped her chest. A current! The swamp, like the Quicksilver Sea, had underwater currents, and this one was pulling her down.

  Throwing her arms out wide, she reached in all directions, hoping to find the bottom or breach the surface—anything that could tell her which way was up. Her left hand struck something, but when she reached, it slipped away. All she could find was more of the viscous liquid that surrounded her and held her tight.

  The deeper she slid the colder the water grew. The current picked up, and she felt her body pick up speed as she sank even deeper into the swamp. The air in her lungs burned, and the pressure of the water on her ears increased. She felt as if a giant were squeezing her head between his two mighty palms, and sharp pains blossomed in spots all over the inside of her skull.