The Darksteel Eye (34 page)

Glissa slid behind a different monolith, staying hidden and quiet.

The vedalken got down on his hands and knees, and peered into the middle of the mycosynth. Pontifex’s huge eye glared down on Glissa. Though she tried to scoot down, hiding between two of the metal formations, she couldn’t escape his gaze.

Reaching in with his enlarged finger, Pontifex poked around inside the cluster. He sneered, keeping his eye on her as he dug around for his prize, but the formation was too tightly packed, and he was too big. The sharp edges of the mycosynth cut his skin, and frustrated his attempts to get Glissa.

Finally Pontifex stood up. “Fine. We shall do this the hard way.” Waving his arms in the air, a wisp of blue mana flared from each of his four hands. The vedalken disappeared from sight.

Glissa stood up. She peered around the edge of the monolith. No Pontifex. Craning her neck, she looked the other way. No Pontifex.

Grabbing a handful of the mossy ground cover, she tapped into the flowing mana here in the interior and forced some into her hands. The sticky substance bent to her will, elongating and weaving itself into a long thin fiber. Folding over one end to make a thicker handle, Glissa gave her makeshift whip a quick flick. The end shot out and snapped with a loud pop. She nodded. It would do. She took a deep breath and burst into the open, guessing at where Pontifex must be.

Coming out from behind the cluster of monoliths, the elf lifted her whip for a quick, surprise strike—only there was no Pontifex. Spinning around, she scanned the area—still no Pontifex.

“Looking for me?” came a voice.

Glissa’s head darted. She looked up, down, side to side, but she couldn’t see anything. Dropping into a crouch, the elf spun a slow circle, trying to be prepared for anything.

Behind her, she heard the mossy ground shuffle, and she turned—too late. Something hard hit the back of her head, and the world spun. Glissa dropped her whip and fell.

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex stood over the incapacitated elf. She rolled around on the ground, holding the back of her head, finally turning over on her back and looking up at him.

“That wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be.”

Glissa’s eyes were nearly crossed from the pain. He’d hit her hard. It was a wonder the blow hadn’t killed her outright.

But he was glad it hadn’t. He wanted this to last a while. He wanted to torture her as much as she had tortured him.

Dropping to his knees, he straddled the elf’s chest, pulling her arms down and pinning them under his legs. Then he grabbed her chin in one of his hands and examined her face, holding his matched short swords near her throat with two others.

“What is it that Memnarch sees in you?” Pontifex roughly shoved her head from side to side. “What is it you have that I do not?”

Glissa remained silent, her eyes mostly closed, her lips curled in a grimace of pain.

Pontifex shook his head. “How is it that such an insignificant creature could take my place at his side? Look at you. Your body has yet to evolve past having only two arms. What use is a creature such as this?”

Glissa’s eyes were beginning to clear. Though she was hardly lucid, it was evident that the pain in her head was beginning to subside.

“It’s no matter, really. Once I’ve killed you, Memnarch will have no choice but to take me back. He’ll see that I was the only choice and understand the folly of his thinking.” The vedalken nodded, decidedly convinced of his own words. “The only question now is how swiftly will your death come.”

The glowing blue blade of a vedalken halberd slipped up under his chin. “It will not come at all,” said a voice.

A cold chill ran down his spine, and Pontifex lifted his chin as far as it would go, touching the top of his head to his back. Another vedalken came into view.

“Marek,” he said, relief replacing the fear. “You startled me.” He reached up and put his fingers on the halberd blade, pushing it away.

Marek pressed back, and the blade sliced into Pontifex’s fingers.

“What is this?”

“I won’t let you kill her, Pontifex,” said Marek, his eyes narrow.

Pontifex tried to lean forward. Marek held his halberd tight against Pontifex’s throat, unmoving.

“After all I did for you …” said Pontifex. “To do this to me now …”

“Yes,” said Marek, “I owe you my life.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I have a duty to the Vedalken Republic.”

“Vedalken Republic? Don’t tell me you buy into all that nonsense Orland is spouting about representation for the people.”

Marek nodded. “Yes, Pontifex. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Please, Marek, we were friends, partners.” Pontifex swallowed. “You helped me hunt this very elf. You, as much as anyone, wanted to see her head on top of that pike, and now you can have it. All that work. All that time we spent chasing this prize, and now she is within reach.” He looked back into Marek’s eyes, the back of his head still touching his shoulder blades. “Please. Release this blade and let us talk about this … as friends.”

Marek’s eyes focused on the distance, his mind somewhere else. Pontifex watched, hoping that his words had gotten through. His neck hurt from craning back so far, and the skin on his throat was tight against his Adam’s apple, making it hard to breathe. If he got out of this, he would kill the elf, and then he would kill Marek for this betrayal.

Marek’s glassy gaze came back to Pontifex, and he shook his head. “I owe you much, but if I let you go through with this, let you betray Memnarch in the name of the Vedalken Empire, you will doom us all. Your actions will cast a shadow on all that we have accomplished. Your greed and petty jealousies could be the downfall of the greatest revolution in vedalken history.” Marek’s eyes grew soft, sad. “I’m not about to let you do that.”

Pontifex rolled backward, away from Marek’s halberd, bringing his twin swords up and thrusting at his attacker as he tumbled. Each blade bit deep, puncturing skin, bone, and lung.

Completing his somersault, the one-time vedalken lord came up to his feet, the front of his robes drenched in blue blood.

Marek stood for a moment longer then dropped to his knees. The lengths of Pontifex’s matched blades were buried to the hilt in his chest.

“Mar—” Pontifex tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t work, and a sharp pain ran down his spine as he tried. Touching his throat, he felt a long gash where Marek’s halberd had been. Looking down at himself, he realized that the blood on his robes was not Marek’s. It was his own.

His head felt light, and the mana core seemed to grow brighter, nearly washing out all color, turning everything to a hazy white. Marek toppled forward. Pontifex could see the ends of his blades protruding from his back.

The head of the vedalken elite guard shuddered once then fell still.

Pontifex slumped down beside his one-time friend, his vision narrowing, his thoughts drifting away before he could finish them. A warm, soft buzz filled his whole body. It seemed to brush aside the pain in his throat and the anguish in his heart.

What have I done?

Slowly, the last leader of the vedalken Synod lowered his head to rest on his friend’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

Glissa awoke to someone poking at her head. The elf sprang to her feet, spinning on her attacker, mana already drawn.

“Whoa, crazy elf!” shouted Slobad. “Take it easy, huh?” He waved his hand in front of her face. “Slobad.” The goblin flashed her a toothy grin.

Glissa relaxed, funneling the mana into a rejuvenating spell that immediately found the throbbing pain in the back of her head.

On the ground beside her lay Pontifex and Marek. Their blood mixed and pooled together below them.

“What happened? How did Marek get here?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” said Bosh. “They were both dead when we arrived.”

Glissa shrugged, feeling the back of her head. Her spell had significantly reduced the bump, but it hurt when she pressed on it. “I had a fight with Pontifex. The last thing I remember was getting hit on the head.”

“Maybe Marek saved you?” said Slobad.

Glissa smiled. “Not likely.” She looked around. The Kaldra Champion stood behind them, towering over the other three. “Where’s the other wizard?”

“He went after Bruenna.”

In the chaos, Glissa had forgotten. Immediately she felt the urge to give chase, go find her friend and rescue her from whatever fate awaited her when the thresher stopped and let her free. But Bruenna’s image arose in her mind. Glissa could see her shaking her head, saying, “Finish what you have started—for the good of all.”

Bosh handed Glissa her new blade. “You might need this.”

She took it, gratefully. “Thank you.”

Grabbing hold of Pontifex’s hoverer, she hopped on. “It’s time we paid Memnarch a visit.”

*  *  *  *  *

In the distance, a four-legged, bird-headed creature stalked the elf and her companions. It crouched low behind a mycosynth monolith. From its hiding place, the myr could see where they headed, but it did not pursue—not yet.

Also in its field of view were several other artifact creations just like itself. They were a pack. Five in all, they hunted the elf.

Back in Panopticon, Memnarch watched her through the Eye as she headed to his palace.

*  *  *  *  *

As they approached the glistening tower, Glissa couldn’t help but be amazed. Though she knew it was made of steel, aluminum, and titanium, parts of Panopticon looked like sparkling crystals.

Memnarch’s fortress climbed high into the air, higher than any other structure on the interior. Where each of its five walls joined the next, the line was so sharp and straight, it looked as if it would cut through flesh like a razor. The top rose to a
needlelike point, perched atop a room made entirely of glass, opened to the world for all to see in—and for those inside to see out.

From a distance, the tower looked like just one more perfectly formed mycosynth monolith. Up close, it looked more like the scepter of a giant king. Its base was thick and heavy. Its top was adorned with a hefty jewel. Its sides were intricately designed to give off a regal air of power and grace.

A pair of wide doors on the ground floor opened up, and Glissa stopped. She looked up at the Kaldra Champion, then she looked at Bosh and Slobad.

“You ready?”

All three nodded.

The doors lay open, the light of the mana core reflecting off the edges, not penetrating into its depths. Then the darkness beyond began to move. Shadows coalesced into nightmares, and an army burst forth, their shiny hides reflecting back the interior sun’s blinding rays.

“Levelers,” said Glissa and Slobad in unison.

Glissa stepped off the hover hoverer and drew her sword. In a flash the metal beasts were on them. Scythe blades rang out, and the elf parried blow after blow. Catching the tip of her darksteel sword in a joint, she pried free a bolt. After so many fights with these beasts, she knew where to hit them to do the most damage.

Her strike was clean, and one side of her foe sloughed to the ground. Its left half now unarmored, Glissa reversed her stroke and cut deep into the device. That was all it took, two strokes, and the leveler was dead.

Across the way, Slobad loosed his crowbar. Hopping into the air, he jumped over the razor blades of the attacking horde to land atop a leveler. With a practiced flare, the goblin tore into
the killing device, taking apart its metal hide in a blink and disabling it with a twist of his hand. Then he was off, leaving the lifeless hulk to rust on the battlefield.

Behind them, Bosh beat the metal devices into the ground. He kicked holes in their hides and tore their insides out. He smashed their vision crystals, blinding them before he dented in their heads, and he ripped their steering sails off. Without them, the levelers could only turn right, and they spun in place, looking like ballerinas dancing a deadly ballet on the battlefield.

Towering above them all was the Kaldra Champion. With each of his great magical fists he smashed a leveler flat. With each of his feet he stomped them into foil.

It was a massacre of titanic proportions. For each victim these killing devices had claimed on the surface of Mirrodin, the elf, goblin, golem, and champion visited five blows upon their heads. The battlefield rang with the screeching of metal, and the ground was piled with debris.

The fighting stopped. The levelers, usually fearless and unrelenting, retreated. Behind them, the gates to Panopticon lay open, and a pair of figures emerged. One was bipedal. His skin shone brilliantly under the glare of the mana core.

The other walked on all fours, not like a wolf or a lion, but more like a spider with only four legs. Unlike his counterpart, this one did not sparkle or reflect the blinding light. Instead he looked a pale blue, as if he were made of flesh instead of metal.

As the pair marched toward them, Glissa recognized the shorter, two-legged creature. “Malil.”

The other bore a striking resemblance to the metal man. Not in his body or even his face—for this creature had six eyes, each covered with a deep blue lens—but in his mannerisms. They were like a father and his son. Each looked different, but both
came from the same lineage, carrying the same build, the same set of ancestors—and the same scars.