Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel (52 page)

But neither was Liliana finished. As she peered through the smoke, watching Baltrice’s fire-shield crack and split in preparation for blasting another lance of flame her way, she whispered a litany of names, twisted her fingers in impossible patterns. She thought back to what she had seen of the mechanical monstrosity that Baltrice and Tezzeret called home.

With a final cry and a burst of unimaginably dark mana, Liliana slammed her arm down on a twisted hole in the metal wall, gashing her flesh horribly and spilling a torrent of blood upon the steps. And speaking through that blood as it coated the gleaming metal, she called upon the ghosts of every man and woman whose essence had been bound to empower the Consortium sanctum, and set them loose upon her foe.

Kallist would have been proud.

Channeling the last of his magics into keeping his exhaustion at bay, manablade clutched in a competent if not expert knife-fighter’s grip, Jace pummeled the artificer with a sequence of lightning-swift strikes. Tezzeret retreated before him, parrying frantically with his mechanical hand, lacking even the split second he needed to cast his spells or draw upon a more effective weapon.

The blade darted in and out, a striking viper of etherium and enchantment. A slash at the face, a stab at the chest, cross-step to keep pace with Tezzeret’s retreat; slash again, feint with the left fist, kick to the gut, another step; a twist and sudden spin, a backhand strike against the artificer’s temple, an underhand stab at the ribs, cross-step. For these few moments, Jace drew on everything Kallist had taught him, everything he could recall from several months of
being
Kallist, and allowed all his anger and all his guilt to flow through him. For those moments, he was a mage no longer, but a dervish of deadly edges and pummeling limbs, forcing Tezzeret ever farther back until the trees thinned and they found themselves slowed by the deepening swamp.

It was a punishing pace, however, one he couldn’t possibly maintain, and both combatants knew it. His face and tunic were soaked with sweat, and his breathing came in labored rasps. Tezzeret’s desperate parries grew smoother and more certain, his retreat more controlled, as it dawned on the artificer that all he had to do was hold Beleren off a bit longer, let him wear himself down, and he’d have the little bastard utterly at his mercy.

And indeed, mere heartbeats later, Jace’s attacks faltered. His arm swung wide, a strike took just an instant too long. With a primal cry, Tezzeret slammed an open palm into Jace’s chest, his own strength augmented by the magics and the mechanisms of his hand. A pair of ribs cracked as the blow lifted Jace from his feet and
sent him hurtling backward to land with a splash in the marsh. The manablade flew from nerveless fingers; even had Jace possessed the breath to stand, he’d have had to scramble to reach it.

“Pathetic, Beleren.” Tezzeret strode casually toward him, content now to take his time.

“I thought it was … pretty impressive, myself,” Jace gasped between coughs of pain.

“Oh, your blade-work was surprising, I’ll give you that.” Tezzeret crouched to meet Jace’s gaze and raised his hand to show the marring and scoring along the metal. “It’ll take me a good long while to repair the damage. But really, to what end? You should have known the moment your psychic attack failed even to materialize that it was over for you, that you were just delaying the inevitable.”

And Jace—Jace smiled through the pain, an eager gleam in his eye. “I wasn’t attacking, Tezzeret. I was
negotiating.”

With a shaking, unsteady finger, he pointed over Tezzeret’s shoulder. A sudden chill running down his spine, the artificer couldn’t help but turn his head to look.

Barely visible in the shadowed depths of the cypress trees, the treehouses of the nezumi ratmen rose like grasping fingers from the marsh.

“They’re
really
not happy with you just now, Tezzeret,” Jace taunted.

The artificer screamed, shooting swiftly to his feet. His entire body tensed in indecision as he struggled to choose between ending his enemy’s life while he had the chance, and fleeing before he was overwhelmed.

He had time for neither.

Beneath his feet, black roots and dead vines erupted from the shallow waters. From the many trees of the swamp they stretched through the muddy earth, only to rise and wrap tight about Tezzeret’s legs. They held
him fast, squeezing until the flesh tingled and the blood ceased to flow. Poisons fell from passing clouds and sprayed upward from writhing fungi, drenching him in toxic effluvia that burned the skin and seared the lungs. Any spell he might have cast was stolen from his throat as he coughed up tiny gobbets of flesh and blood, his whole body spasming in agony.

Ignoring his cracked ribs as best he could, Jace rolled to his feet, stooping to dig for his fallen weapon. The artificer watched with rage-filled eyes, struggling even now to break loose of his blood-soaked bonds. Jace held that gaze for two long breaths, then slammed the point of the manablade into Tezzeret’s arm, severing flesh and tendon, cracking bone. Tezzeret screamed as Jace worked the blade back and forth, pressing on it like a prybar. A loud crack, a flash of broken magics, and Tezzeret’s etherium limb fell to the earth, an inch of bloody bone protruding obscenely from the metal. Wincing in pain, Jace leaned down to retrieve his trophy, leaving Tezzeret to howl wordlessly in his bonds.

The shaman of the Nezumi-Katsuro emerged from the trees, hunched more sharply and scarred more ornately than the last time Jace had seen him. Fanned out behind came a quartet of lesser spirit-talkers and a dozen nezumi warriors, naked blades glittering in their hands, their tiny eyes glinting in the midday sun. As they passed, the branches curled from their path and the fungi bowed in reverence. The shaman gestured, spoke in the voice of leaves rustling in the wind, and Tezzeret could only scream again as half a dozen branches shot from the trees, stretching impossibly long, to puncture the flesh of his arm and shoulders.

“Greetings, Metal-Armed Emperor of the Infinite Consortium,” the ratman hissed as he neared. Only Jace’s spell of translation—which he’d cast even as he made mental contact with the shaman—allowed him
to comprehend. “I have waited long to meet you in person.”

Tezzeret might not have understood the words, but there was no mistaking either the tone or the intent. “Go to hell, ratman!” The artificer ripped his remaining arm free, leaving chunks of flesh behind, and hurled a handful of metal shavings to the earth. Instantly they rose into a towering golem of steel skin and iron gears—and just as swiftly an elemental of swamp-water and cypress trees like the one that had eaten Baltrice’s soldier of fire so long ago appeared once more, bursting from the thickest copse. It fell furiously upon Tezzeret’s construct, crushing it like a cheap toy before it could take a second step.

Watching every moment of Tezzeret’s struggles, Jace staggered to the shaman’s side, clutching his ribs as he walked. “Thanks,” he wheezed.

The nezumi bared his dirty, jagged fangs. “We do not do this for you, mind-reader,” he said with a distasteful glance at the artificial limb in the mage’s hands. “You have delivered our true enemy unto us, and for that we excuse you your own part in what was done to us. But we do not forget it. This is justice for the Nezumi-Katsuro, not for you.”

“Works for me, either way,” Jace told him.

“Go then, mind-reader. None of us will stop you. Should you disturb us again, though …”

“Yeah, yeah. Get in line, shaman.”

Jace cocked his head, turning his attention as the artificer was lifted bodily off the ground by the wooden shafts. They ground against Tezzeret’s bones and began to drag him back toward whatever final fate awaited him at the hands of the nezumi.

“Beleren!” Tezzeret screamed through the pain, each word bringing another bubble of crimson-flecked foam to his lips. “I swear to you, I’ll survive this! I’ll find you, and when I do—”

“You’ll do nothing.” Jace allowed the lingering mana in the etherium arm to flow through him, and thrust his mind into Tezzeret’s own. Exhausted, wounded almost unto death, and without the stores of magic in his artificial arm, the artificer might, just might, be vulnerable to …

Yes!

For long moments, Jace found himself in the agonized, infuriated hell that was Tezzeret’s mind. He winced at the images that assailed him, recoiled from sensations he never wanted to know, as he sifted through the artificer’s thoughts. And there it was, finally, the knowledge he would need, the knowledge that would allow Jace Beleren to rule the Infinite Consortium as thoroughly as Tezzeret ever had. Names, locations, artifacts, all of it.

And Jace … Jace sighed once and let it go, leaving that knowledge to fade with the man that held it. Taking an unwholesome glee in every mental scream, allowing Tezzeret a full awareness of what he was doing, Jace reached out and crushed the artificer’s mind.

Jace felt a great weight lift from his soul—not his only burden, nor even his heaviest, but a palpable respite all the same. He sighed in relief, drawing a puzzled glower from the shaman.

Jace ignored it. He turned and strode into the trees, leaving the beady-eyed ratmen and the drooling, babbling artificer behind him.

A
t the top of the stairs, Liliana stood in what could only be called the beating heart of Tezzeret’s home. A few surviving specters flitted about her waist, ready to drink the life from any who dared approach. Scattered across the floor lay a handful of arrows, each of which matched the single shaft that currently protruded from a bloody wound in her thigh. Splayed out beside them were the corpses of a dozen Consortium guards, partial remnants of the first wave that had attacked once Baltrice had finally fallen at her feet.

None could reach her now. She had sealed the door to the inner sanctum, a door of solid steel that would hold them at bay for many days. All she had to do now was wait.

With a grunt she jerked the projectile from her flesh, hissing in pain as it tore free. A few moments to tie a makeshift bandage around the wound, and then she was limping across the chamber, eyes skittering over her—well, her and Jace’s—new prize.

Wiping a handful of sweat-and-ash paste from her forehead, she examined the gleaming metal ring, the glowing gems and æther-filled tubes, the switches and runes, and of course the great throne that sat in its
center. From here, the leader of the Consortium could rule an empire of worlds.

If he knew what those worlds were. If he knew who served him. If he knew how to answer the calls of his lieutenants, and how to construct the devices Tezzeret had given them.

But that was fine, because they
would
know. The plan would work; it had to. Any moment now, Jace would return with the information they needed—and already indebted to Nicol Bolas, to boot. She hoped he would be amenable to her needs, that they could rule the Consortium together in the dragon’s name.

And if not? Well, Liliana cared for Jace Beleren, but she had done ugly things to those she cared about before. She would, as always, do what she had to do.

For now, all she had to do was wait.