The Darksteel Eye (16 page)

Everyone nodded.

“Well, skin gets hot too, only when it gets hot, it—”

“Expands,” interjected Bosh. “I understand. It is just like metal.”

“Not exactly,” said the elf.

Bosh looked out over a barren patch of plain, where there was no razor grass. The hexagonal plates that formed the ground were bowing up, like bubbles in a swamp. The iron golem pointed to them.

“See,” he said, “just like that.”

Everyone looked.

“What’s happening there?” asked Al-Hayat.

“You not know?” asked Slobad. “Slobad think magical beasts know everything, huh?”

The wolf looked up at the goblin. Glissa thought she detected a sneer on his lips. “I’ve never been out of the Tangle. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Oh,” grunted the goblin. “You just like crazy elf when Slobad find her, huh? Don’t worry.” He hitched his thumb toward his chest. “Goblin teach you everything, huh?”

“It is caused by the convergence,” explained Bosh, ignoring Slobad. “The metal plates expand when they are hot. Since they are joined so tightly, they have no room to move. They bend.” He nodded to the section of plain he had pointed to earlier. “Like that.”

“Oh,” said the wolf.

“Yes, but that’s not what happens to skin.” Glissa seemed frustrated.

“It gets hot,” said Bosh.

“Yes, and when it gets hot, it burns, like fire roasts meat.”

Bosh nodded slowly. “So the moonlight cooks flesh.”

Glissa shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“I do not want to be cooked,” said the golem.

“Golem not taste good anyway, huh?” chirped Slobad.

Al-Hayat let out a low growl. “Maybe not,” he said, lifting his muzzle toward the sky, “but someone is willing to test your theory, goblin.”

Bosh followed Al-Hayat’s nose to a patch of dark blotches in the sky. “What is that?”

Glissa strained her eyes against the glare of the moons.

“It looks like a pack of large plains birds or a group of small dragons.”

“They’re artifact wings with vedalken riders,” answered the wolf.

“Hey,” squealed Slobad, “how you know what vedalken looks like, huh?”

The wolf kept his eyes on the slowly growing forms ahead of them. “I have fought with them before.”

“In the Tangle?” asked Glissa.

The wolf nodded. “But out here, we have no trees for cover.”

Bosh stopped moving and lifted Slobad from his shoulder. “No,” he said, “but they do not have their sea or their fortress.” He turned to look at the wolf. “And they do not know about you.”

Pontifex flexed his fingers. First in his right hand then his left. Between them, he gripped the handle of his hover guard glider. It was a simple device, not unlike the unmanned aerophins. A lightweight, hollow frame was constructed in the shape of a bird’s wings. Between this frame was stretched a fine woven-metal fabric that billowed slightly in the wind. The whole thing was attached to the rider’s back with a set of straps and a buckle.

To Pontifex’s left rode Marek, to his right, Orland. Behind the three followed four dozen of Marek’s finest elite guardsmen.

Pontifex looked to his left. “Do you see them?”

Marek nodded. “The human woman doesn’t appear to be with them.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” replied the vedalken lord. “We’re after the elf girl.”

“The Guardian will be very pleased that we’ve brought her in,” interjected Orland. “The vedalken people will be well rewarded for our service.”

Pontifex smiled. “Yes. Yes indeed.”

“My lord,” said Marek, pointing down at the group of foot travelers. “They have some sort of beast with them.”

Pontifex narrowed his eyes. The reflection of the moons’ light off the metallic plain made it hard to pick up shapes and
impossible to distinguish colors. It did, however, appear as if the elf rode atop some large creature. “If she thinks she can outrun us with her mount, she’s mistaken.”

Marek nodded. “What should you have us do?”

Pontifex glanced back at his troops then looked back down on the elf girl and her party.

“We split up,” he said. “Marek, you take two dozen warriors and swoop around behind them.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder toward Orland. “The councilor and I will keep the rest of the men and hold here. When we see you’re in position, we’ll swoop down from both sides, surrounding them.”

“As you wish,” Marek placed his fingers to the front of his mask in a salute to Pontifex. “My lord.” He did the same to Orland. “Councilor.” Then he was off.

Pontifex looked at the warrior with resentment. When he saw the smile on Orland’s face, he changed his mind. Marek was smart. He had learned from Pontifex, and this gesture of recognition to the new councilor would set the man at ease, making him easier to manipulate—or kill—when the time came. A feeling of tremendous pride filled the vedalken lord, and he smiled. Without even a word, his trusted bodyguard had picked up on the plan and played along perfectly.

Lifting the handle on his glider toward the clouds, Pontifex rose higher and made a gentle curving turn.

“Where are we going?” asked Orland, beside his leader.

“Nowhere,” replied Pontifex, steering around. “We’re circling.” He smiled. “Circling our prey.”

*  *  *  *  *

“What they doing, huh?” asked Slobad.

“Looks like they’re splitting up,” replied Glissa.

All four intently watched the flying figures as they broke up into two smaller groups. One appeared to be retreating.

Slobad tugged on Glissa’s arm. “They leaving. Scared of Slobad and his golem, huh?”

“No,” said the wolf, “they’re trying to surround us.”

Glissa felt panic fill her chest. They were out in the open. The only thing they could possibly use for cover was a large patch of razor grass that looked as if it had been recently mowed down by a gang of hungry threshers. If they ran hard, they could reach a fuller patch of grass, but even if they made it, they’d have to fight both the vedalken and the sharp-edged foliage.

“What do we do?” she asked, more to the heavens than to anyone in particular.

“We run, huh?”

Glissa looked up at the flyers. Already the splinter group was nearly overhead. The other group had completed a full circle and was beginning a second.

“No,” she said. “They move too fast. We’ll never out run them.”

Bosh’s voice rumbled in the light breeze. “We might be able to get out from in between them,” he said. “That might give us a better chance, if we only have to fight half of them at one time.”

“That’s a good idea,” said the wolf. “Under the glare of the moons, it’ll be hard for them to see us. If we stay near the razor grass and stick close together that could buy us some more time.”

“Let’s go then!” shouted Glissa.

Bosh grabbed Slobad and deposited him once again on his shoulders, then the group was off. Glissa rode Al-Hayat, and Slobad held onto the iron golem’s collar for dear life. They skirted the edge of the razor grass field, galloping at full speed.

Bosh’s huge metal feet pounded out a drum beat as he ran. Al-Hayat moved silently, with a fluid grace of an organic creature. Glissa squeezed the great forest beast with her knees and clutched handfuls of fur, trying to stay on his back. They narrowly outpaced the metal golem, running beside the small patch of razor grass.

Looking up into the sky, Glissa’s heart plunged into her stomach. “They’re coming right for us.”

The first few strides had moved them past the splinter group of gliders, but the other half had seen them try to run. They dived now to intercept. A deep, hollow whistle followed, louder the closer they came.

“They’re going to ram us,” she shouted.

Al-Hayat planted his front feet and came to a sudden, abrupt halt. Glissa couldn’t squeeze hard enough with her knees, and her rear end lifted off the creature’s back. If not for the solid grip she had on his hair, she would have been tossed right over.

Bosh came stomping up right beside.

“Why are we stopping?”

Glissa watched the gliders getting closer. They were almost on top of the foursome. There was nowhere to go. In seconds they would be smashed into the ground or pushed into the razor grass and cut to bits.

“For this,” said the wolf. Al-Hayat closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

To Glissa it felt as if the wolf were vibrating. She couldn’t hear what he said, but she could feel every syllable. Looking into the sky, she could see the gliders, make out their construction, recognize every detail on the warriors’ faces. She drew her sword.

“I won’t die like this,” she shouted, and she lifted her blade into the air.

Al-Hayat stopped his rumbling and opened his eyes. A swirling green ball of energy shot out from the wolf, striking the razor grass field. Like the magic he used to cure the goblin, the spell settled onto the metal foliage in a puddle nearly as large as the creature who cast it, soaking into the ground as if it were water.

The whistling noise the gliders put off grew to a horrific screech, and the vedalken guiding them pulled back, bringing forward charged lances with glowing blue heads. The gliders cast their shadow over the group, blotting out the converging moons. The magical blades swung down on Glissa, Al-Hayat, Bosh and Slobad.

The patch of razor grass touched by the wolf’s spell grew up to meet the vedalken’s halberds. The sharp blades climbed high over the travelers, reaching farther in the air than the elf’s extended blade, overtopping even the iron golem. Glissa felt a warm splash as three of the glider pilots were skewered by the still-growing grass. She ducked her head, shielding herself from anything that might fall from the sky, and hoping that Al-Hayat’s magic wouldn’t let any of the gliders get through.

Gurgling screams and cries of pain filled the air, as the three front glider pilots were smashed from behind by their comrades, forcing them deeper onto the reaching spikes. The misfortune of the vanguard saved the rest of the flight from certain death, and the remaining pilots pulled up, landing on the plain before the foursome.

The companions wasted no time, engaging the pilots as they unhooked themselves from their artifact wings. Glissa slipped sideways off of Al-Hayat, charging out from under the growing razor grass to slash a vedalken warrior across the gut while his arms were still enmeshed in his backpack.

The wolf followed, snapping up a blue-skinned, four-armed
warrior in his mouth and champing down, making the vedalken look like nothing more than a tasty snack. The warrior’s powered lance gleamed brightly, falling from its wielder’s hands as he was summarily devoured by the wolf. Its bright blue beam mixed with the colors of Mirrodin’s many moons as it reflected off the plain, turning the swirling brown light into something closer to purple.

The sound of metal clashing on metal rose over the plains. Bosh and Slobad came out from under the razor grass. The iron golem pounded a pilot into a pile of broken glider, flesh, and bones, which sizzled on the hot hexagonal plates. The goblin stayed near the golem, taunting the vedalken into attacking, then letting the big metal man do all the work.

For having been backed into a corner, thought Glissa, the opening few moments of this battle were going quite well.

Another heavy shadow passed over the winged warriors, momentarily blocking out the mixed colors of the overhead moons. The temporary shade was accompanied by a deep, hollow whistle.

The second group of gliders had arrived.

*  *  *  *  *

Pontifex landed on the plain behind his elite guards. This was preposterous. Three glider pilots killed by a patch of razor grass. Razor grass! Had none of these trained soldiers grown up on Mirrodin? What child didn’t know enough not to get caught up in those killing blades?

The vedalken lord shrugged his glider from his shoulders and unhooked his sword from his hip. Unlike most conventional blades, Pontifex’s was less like a sword and more like a kris-knife. The sharpened length jutted out from a straight,
leather-wrapped hilt, but from there it began to curve. The blade formed an S, as if it were a slithering snake, finally ending in a deadly jagged head.

Next to him, Councilor Orland was having trouble unfastening his glider from his shoulders. The clod had obviously never been in battle before, living a soft life inside Lumengrid. Pontifex thought briefly about stabbing the man in the gut, right here on the open plain, while his arms were tangled. But he stayed his own hand. The time would come when he could do that in a much more private setting. Judging from Orland’s twisting and wrenching display as he tried to free himself from the glider, it wouldn’t be too hard to kill the bumbling politician even if his hands were free.

Marek and his group of gliders would land and join the fight in moments. The two dozen pilots Pontifex had come to ground with were circling the elf girl and her comrades, but their numbers had dwindled. Already six were down, including the three who had been killed by the growing razor grass. The vedalken lord didn’t want to have to wade in himself, but if it came to that, he would. Nothing was going to stop him from getting that elf.

Somehow that girl had tarnished his image as a leader of his people. She had stormed through their fortress, committed the sacrilege of swimming in the Pool of Knowledge, and escaped without punishment.