The Darksteel Eye

by Jess Lebow

  Pontifex strode up to the dais, Geth in tow, and looked down on the defiant elf girl. “We meet again.”

  “Pontifex. What a surprise. You’re not still angry about that little incident in your pool?” said Glissa. She squirmed against her captor, but it was clear that Marek had a good grip.

  The vedalken lord brushed aside the comment. “No, of course not.” He stepped up much closer, putting his nose right in her face. “I have a much better reason to come find you.”

  Geth licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. Though he didn’t say a word, he was clearly enjoying this.

  “Oh really,” replied the elf. “What would that be?”

  “There are creatures on this plane—forces that you still don’t understand. You, my young elf friend, have attracted their attention.”

  “And you’ve come to do their bidding?” asked Glissa. “The ruler of the vedalken has become a petty thug?”

  Pontifex smiled. “No, Glissa. On the contrary, I’m here to make sure those forces never succeed.” He lifted his sword, testing the edge with the tip of his thumb. “I’m here to kill you.”

  Geth giggled.

  Marek turned his attention from the elf girl and the human wizard to stare at his lord. He meant to kill the elf. He’d been trying to do just that for some time. The real question was what would happen after?

  A huge crash and hum interrupted Marek’s reverie.

  “Let her go, Pontifex,” boomed a voice.

  From the fog rolled a squad of levelers.

  Lord Pontifex turned away from the elf girl. “Go away, Malil. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Malil rode up astride his leveler, his greatsword already out of its scabbard.

  Something looked different about the metal man. Marek had only seen him a couple of times before, but this time he seemed more … human, tired even, as if he suffered from the same ailments that inflicted the organic creatures of Mirrodin.

  Malil rode up to the foot of the dais, only a few feet from Pontifex. The other levelers formed up behind him—two rows deep.

  “Yes,” said the metal man. “Yes, it does. Now let the elf go, and turn her over to me.”

  Pontifex shook his head. “After all I’ve done to track her down, do you think I’m going to let you take her back and get all the credit?”

  “Memnarch wants her alive, Pontifex.”

  From the corner of his eye, Marek spotted a four-legged creature dart through the shadows. He didn’t so much see the creature clearly, only its movement and its outline as it crept from one spot of darkness to another.

  Pontifex zigzagged the head of his halberd through the air, making a whipping sound. “You’ll have to come take her from me.”

  Malil didn’t even blink. “If that’s what it takes.”

  The levelers lurched forward, cutting into the vedalken guards standing on the first step of the dais.

  * * * * *

  Her hands held tight behind her back by Marek, Glissa fished around on the floor with her foot. She’d dropped her sword when she’d cast her last spell, and since she’d been taken captive, she’d been searching for it.

  She shifted her feet and stepped on something hard. It skidded a bit, making a grinding metallic sound, dampened by the dense fog.

  I found it, she thought. The notion filled her with a brief glimmer of hope. Then the levelers attacked, and Marek’s grip on her hands loosened.

  Glissa lurched away from her captor, diving to the ground. Her hand closed around the hilt of her sword, and she climbed back to her feet.

  More than half of the vedalken had turned to take on the levelers. Marek was nowhere to be seen, and already Al-Hayat had a four-armed warrior pinned to the ground with each paw and another nearly eviscerated between his teeth.

  Bosh reached down to grab a couple of vedalken, but when he shifted his weight, the throne he stood upon tipped backward, and he lost his balance. The iron golem disappeared as the chair toppled. Fog and dust shot into the air, and Glissa bounded over the top of the dais trying to get to her fallen friend.

  A few of the remaining vedalken guards tried to bar her way, but they were overwhelmed by an icy magical blast from Bruenna, and the elf managed to skirt past. With her next step the floor seemed to disappear, and she fell.

  She shouted as she dropped, caught off guard. Her rump landed on something hard, and she rolled sideways, throwing her hands out to catch herself and stop her fall. The floor she landed on seemed lumpy and uneven. It moved under her and gave off a jingling sound.

  Glissa tumbled once then came to rest on her feet. The room around her was dark, illuminated only by a beam of light coming through the hole she had just fallen through. She could see that the ceiling was only three or four times her height, not far in comparison to the fall she had taken into the underground lake. The hole she had fallen through was perfectly round, as if it had been put there intentionally or made by magic. Above it, Glissa could make out the toppled legs of the throne Bosh had been standing on.

  “The hole was under the throne,” she said. That thought made her feel a little bit better. It seemed as if in the past day she had managed to fall into nearly everything that an elf could fall into on Mirrodin.

  At least there was a reason I didn’t see it when I walked in, she thought.

  Climbing to the point closest to the hole, Glissa tried jumping. She thought if she could catch the edge of the hole, she could pull herself out, but her leap wasn’t nearly high enough to reach, and each time she tried, the ground shifted below her, making the same jingling sound it had when she had landed.

  Above she could hear the sounds of battle.

  Giving up on the idea of getting out by herself, Glissa spun in a circle, squinting to help her eyes adjust. She could just make out the shadows marking the corners and walls of the room. It was small, nothing fancy, and it appeared as if she was the only one there.

  She chuckled. “That’s what I thought about the lake.”

  Bending down, she grabbed hold of a handful of the shifting, jingling ground and lifted it into the light. It sparkled.

  In her hand she held several dozen gold disks. Looking down she could see that the floor was covered with stacks them. She was standing on the largest pile, right under the hole in the ceiling.

  Walking down to the floor, she examined the other piles. It looked as if larger objects had been buried under the smaller ones. Letting the metal disks in her hand fall back to the floor, she bent down again to examine some of the other objects.

  Pushing aside large handfuls of the jingling metal, Glissa uncovered a large, intricately designed metal plate. Made from a dark gray metal, the protective piece just seemed to go on and on. It wasn’t just big, it was huge. She could just make out the edge of a symbol that appeared to cover most of the front half of the shield. Clearing away the metal disks as fast as she could, Glissa uncovered the rest of the marking.

  It was the same circular sigil as on the ring the trolls gave her.

  “The Kaldra Shield.”

  Suddenly, something fell from the ceiling, landing on the big pile of disks with a shriek. Glissa took a step back, picking up her sword and getting ready to fight.

  The falling creature rolled and came to a stop right at her feet.

  “Slobad.” Glissa lowered her blade.

  The goblin rubbed the side of his head with his hands. “Slobad tired of falling, huh?”

  Glissa helped the goblin to his feet. “How did you find me?”

  “Crazy elf run toward Bosh then disappear, huh? When you not stand up, Slobad look. Goblin fall through hole.” He looked up, pointing at the ceiling, and stuck his tongue out. “No goblin make this room, huh? No goblin cut hole in floor where people fall through. Who make such a place, huh?”

  “One who’s trying to hide this.” Glissa grabbed Slobad’s arm and turned him toward the shield she had found.

  The goblin’s eyes grew as big as his head. “Is that …?” Slo
bad walked over to the rune-inscribed artifact, touching it lightly with his fingers.

  “The last piece of the Kaldra Champion,” finished Glissa.

  Slobad licked his lips then looked over his shoulder at the elf. “You still have helm, huh?”

  Glissa nodded. Fishing around inside her pack, she pulled out the helm. Slobad reached out both of his hands, taking it from her.

  “You’ll need this as well.” The elf lifted her sword, admiring the sharpened edge. Turning it around, she offered the hilt of the Kaldra Sword to Slobad.

  The goblin took it but scowled. “If Slobad take your blade, what crazy elf fight with, huh?”

  Glissa bent down and picked up a dark-bladed sword stuck in the piles of metal disks. “I’ll find something.”

  The goblin nodded then turned and began digging out the rest of the Kaldra Shield.

  * * * * *

  Damn that stupid metal man. Pontifex turned aside the attacks of a leveler then laid his palm on the creature’s hide. With a thought, he released a flood of blue mana into the artifact beast, freezing its joints.

  Stepping around the now-inoperative killing device, Pontifex closed in on Malil.

  The vedalken lord brandished his halberd with a practiced flare. “I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time.”

  Malil stood motionless, his greatsword in his hand by his side. “You fail to see the bigger picture, Pontifex.”

  “No, Malil, it is you who fail to see.” Pontifex took a fighting stance one long step away from his opponent. “Do you really think Memnarch will recognize the sacrifices you made to bring him the elf girl? Do you think you will be rewarded for your hard work?”

  Malil stared back at the vedalken, unmoved. “Memnarch wants her alive. I am not here to quibble with you over who brings her to him. I do not care about your childish jealousies.” He lifted his sword. “I have my instructions, and I will abide by them.”

  His hand flew from his side. His blade flashed in the pale light of the Vault, but Pontifex was fast and caught the tip of the metal man’s sword with the shaft of his polearm.

  “As I said before—” a smile grew on Pontifex’s face—“I have waited a long time for this.”

  Tossing Malil’s blade back at him, Pontifex wove the head of his halberd in a lightning-fast pattern before the metal man’s eyes.

  Malil studied the moving blades. Pontifex watched his eyes follow the pattern.

  Lunging forward, Malil tried to take advantage of an opening. This was what the vedalken lord had been waiting for. As the blade came forward, Pontifex changed the pattern, catching Malil off guard.

  The metal man’s strike slipped past Pontifex’s halberd. The vedalken dodged, getting inside his opponent’s reach and driving the point of his weapon into the crease between Malil’s shoulder and arm.

  Malil pulled back, Pontifex’s polearm still stuck in his joint. His left arm had been immobilized by the strike.

  Pontifex released his halberd and retrieved a short sword from inside his robe. “You have only four limbs,” he said, showing off his own six-limbed body. “I have three more blades.”

  * * * * *

  Bruenna was in the fight of her life. Levelers swirled all around. She fought off a vedalken with each hand. Over the course of the past day, these odds had been common. Though she used every trick and skill at her disposal, the assault was overpowering, and all she could do was keep herself alive, never having the opportunity to counterattack. Without the chance to strike back, all would be lost. It was only a matter of time.

  The only other remaining wizard fared the same. He fought only to keep himself alive.

  She traded blows with the two warriors, wielding a sword in each hand, moving back and forth as if she and her opponents were involved in an intricate dance. Her foot caught on something on the fog-covered ground, and she nearly tripped. Checking the floor, she took a step sideways, trying to avoid whatever it was that she’d stepped on.

  When she lifted her eyes, the two vedalken were gone.

  Fighters all around her continued to clash, but she was now without an opponent. Scanning the battle, she saw why. A new challenger had arrived.

  “Well, well, well. Bruenna,” said a far-away, watery voice.

  The human prepared herself for a fight. “Marek.” The head of the vedalken elite guard had also been in charge of the human enslavement process inside Lumengrid. The sprawling vedalken fortress that resided below the waves of the Quicksilver Sea had been built on the backs of forced labor.

  Bruenna and her tribe had been enslaved by this monster. It had been Marek who had overseen the beatings and punishments meted out to those who did not work hard enough.

  “I should have known I’d meet you here,” she said, “in the bowels of Mirrodin.”

  The vedalken took a step toward the wizard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Bruenna began gathering mana. “Only that a creature like you deserves to die in a place like this.”

  “And what exactly is a ‘creature like me’?”

  Bruenna narrowed her eyes. “One who doesn’t understand the value of human life.” Lunging forward, she jabbed at the vedalken’s midsection.

  Marek dodged away, easily turning aside her attack with the haft of his halberd. This was what the wizard was hoping for, and she reached up, touching the warrior’s facemask with her open palm and casting her spell.

  Icicles formed on the metal frame of Marek’s helmet, and the serum inside turned bitter cold then froze solid. As the liquid turned to ice, the glass plates, which enabled Marek to see out, shattered.

  Marek thrashed about, dropping his halberd and grabbing hold of his head, now trapped inside a block of frozen serum. Bruenna took advantage of the blinded, frantic slaver and drove the tip of her sword deep into his body.

  Marek fell back and disappeared into the fog.

  * * * * *

  Malil pulled the head of Pontifex’s halberd from his arm. The vedalken’s petty jealousies were getting in the way. For the love of Memnarch, all he wanted was another dose of serum, another burst of enlightenment. Surely that was not too much to ask for.

  Malil’s life on this plane had been relatively short in comparison to Pontifex’s. He’d had the opportunity to see many strange and interesting things. He’d also had the occasion to fight. Most of the time it was in doing Memnarch’s bidding, and never had it been against a skilled opponent. So he’d never really had the opportunity to fully test his own capabilities as a warrior.

  Until now.

  Tossing Pontifex’s blade to the ground, Malil took three quick steps. His metal body had been made to react to emergency situations by making him thrice as strong and thrice as fast—but only for a short distance. This had been Memnarch’s way of making Malil capable of getting himself out of trouble, should the situation arise.

  Malil had never needed this function before, but it seemed as good a time as any to try it out.

  His body moved in a blur. In three steps, the metal man managed to get around and behind Pontifex.

  The vedalken lord tried to spin, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough. Malil punched the four-armed lord squarely in the back, sending Pontifex to his knees. Raising his greatsword into the air, the metal man looked down on the back of the vedalken’s bent neck. He could cut right through it and be rid of this childish fool.

  The Vault of Whispers rumbled, and dust cascaded from the ceiling.

  “Stop this fighting, and bring me the elf girl.” The words filled the cavernous chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once.

  Malil lowered his sword. “Yes, my lord.”

  Pontifex too seemed unnerved by the command. He stood up, his eyes darting this way and that. Then he looked at Malil, and the metal man looked back.

  Both men stared into the other’s eyes for a long, tense moment.

  Pontifex broke the silence. “We will finish this later.”

  Malil nodded. “After the elf gir
l is captured and returned to Memnarch.” He squeezed the hilt of his sword.

  The vedalken looked away. “Agreed.”

  Bosh stood up.

  One minute everyone was fighting everyone else, then a booming voice filled the chamber—a voice Bosh recognized as Memnarch’s. Now it seemed everyone had turned to fight the metal golem.

  Levelers and vedalken swarmed over him. They poked his fleshy parts and pounded his iron ones. He fought back. With each wave of his hand, he bashed back the advance of a half-dozen attackers. Still more came on.

  They climbed up his arms, swung at his head, made him bleed. Again he crashed to the floor.

  * * * * *

  Blue blood dripped from Al-Hayat’s muzzle.

  Tossing his latest victim aside, he lashed out, trying to catch another. His teeth closed around the scythe blades of a leveler beast, and the razor-sharp edge cut right through his lip. Yowling in pain, his own red blood mixing with that of his foes, the wolf retreated a step.

  The leveler charged in, and it wasn’t alone. Six other levelers were right beside it, and a dozen vedalken added their halberds as well. Their blades cut into him, tearing off fur and reaching straight down into flesh.

  He swatted at them, growling and barring his teeth, but something made these combined foes more aggressive, less afraid. And in moments they swarmed him.

  Al-Hayat backed off the dais. His rump bumped into the back wall of the chamber. Looking around, all he could see were four-armed warriors and scythe-bladed levelers. Not a single one of his friends was in sight.

  Cornered, trapped like a common animal at the end of a hunt, the great forest beast crouched down and bared his fangs.

  If he was going to die here, then so were they.

  * * * * *

  Bruenna turned away from Marek. He might live, but she didn’t have time to finish him off just now, not while the other wizard who had accompanied her into this hellhole was fighting for his life right behind her.