Jess Lebow - The Darksteel Eye

Bosh lifted his hands back for another strike. Large droplets of blood dripped from between his clenched fingers. Splashing to the hot metal ground, the liquid sent up a short wisp of smoke as it quickly dried. In the strange mixed light Glissa couldn’t tell if it was the blue blood of the vedalken warrior or the red blood of the now fleshy golem. The thought of Bosh bleeding to death brought a sudden chill to the elf’s spine.

Two more halberds came from nowhere, forcing Glissa to spin to one side. Unlike the other weapons the vedalken had been using, these did not have sharp heads. Instead, they sprouted loops of heavy wire meant to ensnare rather than wound. One of those loops lunged for Glissa, and she narrowly managed to duck under it. The warrior who carried it had a handle near the end of the shaft, and he pulled on it now. The loop tightened just as the elf pulled away.

“What am I?” she shouted. “A wild boar?”

The vedalken answered by lunging in with another thrust of their pointy weapons. These too Glissa pounded away, but this time she managed a counter attack. Not bothering to aim for any one warrior in particular, the elf jabbed the tip of her powerful blade into the throng of blue-skinned guardsmen. The tip momentarily caught on one warrior’s robes then tore free, sending her tripping forward.

Losing her balance, the elf lifted up on the tiptoes of her right foot. She could feel her weight dragging her forward. The thought of landing prone before four warriors, all of whom wanted her dead, had absolutely no appeal to the young elf, and she struggled to stay upright. With her left leg held out behind her, she toppled forward.

Skipping once and reaching out, she jabbed her sword point into the nearest warrior, hoping to push herself back and regain her balance. But the head of the sharp weapon punctured the vedalken’s armor and slipped through into soft flesh. The creature screamed, turned sideways, and pulled away. The hole in the warrior’s armor, now twisted to one side, clamped down on the tip of Glissa’s blade, trapping it and dragging the elf farther forward.

Glissa was extended as far as she could go, and she held onto her sword with all of her might. Reaching over, she grabbed the pommel with both hands, letting her toe slide across the hot metallic ground as the vedalken pulled back. Warrior and elf moved as a pair, the tip of Glissa’s sword still lodged in the vedalken’s chest.

The injured fighter struggled to free himself, flailing all four of his spindly arms. Blood now covered the blue ornamental robes he wore over his armor-looking like a dark brown stain on light brown robes in the mixed light of the converging moons. Then his struggles slowed, and he looked at the elf through his visor. His eyes were sad, even frightened, and Glissa felt a pang of pity.

The warrior collapsed, dropping to his knees. Glissa was yanked forward, and she watched the ground come up toward her face. This is it, she thought.

Something grabbed hold of her left foot, still lifted high in the air, and she was tugged back. She watched two halberd blades and a heavy wire loop strike the ground. The enchanted weapons cut into the metal plates of the plain, leaving huge gouges beside the dying vedalken-right where she would have been lying facedown.

Coming to ground on both feet, Glissa turned back to see her savior-Slobad. His bony hands were wrapped around her ankle, but he lost his grip and fell backward from the force of his tugging her free of the dying vedalken. She wanted to thank him, but there wasn’t time. More warriors pressed in.

* * * * *

Marek came to ground right beside Pontifex. His two dozen glider pilots landed closer to the melee. The elite guard commander shucked his glider wings and crossed to the two vedalken Synod members.

“Councilor,” he said to Orland, bowing his head slightly. He turned to Pontifex. “My lord, we were to pin them between the two groups. I fear I have failed you.”

Pontifex shook the comment off. “Nonsense. You flushed them right into our hands.”

Marek nodded.

Pontifex looked over his bodyguard’s shoulder at the fighting. The elf and her companions were still backed up against the razor grass field, but the vedalken warriors had made little progress in capturing Glissa.

Pontifex gripped his sword tightly.

Marek took another shallow bow. “I bid you farewell,” he said. “I will capture the elf and bring her to you.” The warrior turned on his heels and marched toward the battle.

“Kill her,” said Pontifex, his teeth clenched.

Marek stopped in his tracks.

Orland turned to the vedalken lord, a look of utter astonishment on his face. “Kill her? You can’t be serious?”

Pontifex grabbed Orland by the collar of his robes, forcing the gangly politician’s visor up against his own. “Quite.”

Marek stepped closer. “Are we not to return the elf girl to Memnarch?” He paused. “My lord?” he added late.

Pontifex glared into Orland’s eyes. Not letting the councilor loose, he spoke to Marek. “Plans have changed,” he said. “The Guardian no longer wants her.”

Orland shifted his eyes. Pontifex followed his gaze to Marek. “He’s not going to help you,” he shouted at his captive.

“I am not your enemy, Lord Pontifex,” claimed the councilor. “Please, let me go.”

Marek stood watching the scene. Pontifex could see him from the corner of his eye. “What are you waiting for, Marek?” he said. “Go kill the elf girl.”

Marek nodded. “As you wish, my lord.” This time he was more forthwith with the title. “But I would not be doing my duty to you if I did not ask you to reconsider.”

Orland squirmed in Pontifex’s grip. The vedalken lord, using his superior height, lifted the councilor up off of his footing, forcing the politician to stand on his toes or be strangled by his own robe, now bunching around his neck.

“Thank you, Marek, but no little elf is going to get between me and the Guardian of Mirrodin.” He shook Orland. “Neither is an elected Synod councilor.” He finally took his eyes off of Orland, loosening his grip on the man’s robe and letting him get his feet back under him. “Kill her.”

Marek didn’t even blink before he turned and sprinted toward the melee. Pontifex watched him as he rallied his men and headed off, following his orders to the letter.

“He’s good, Marek is,” he said to Orland, who was now trying to sooth his damaged throat. “Very good.”

Blood covered the plain. Nearly a dozen vedalken lay dead or dying on the ground-half the number who had swooped from the sky to press Glissa, Slobad, Bosh, and Al-Hayat back against the razor grass field.

Glissa herself had received nasty cuts on her cheeks and one across her breast. They stung and bled, but they weren’t painful enough to distract her, so she ignored them. Slobad was the same. He’d taken a thump to the head, but that was about it, as the small goblin did his best to stay away from the sharp ends.

Al-Hayat, on the other hand, was bleeding from the nose and throat. The wolf fought on, grabbing away halberds with his teeth, chewing soldiers to bits, bowling warriors over where he had the chance. He stood at the front of the foursome, growling and pushing his fur out to make himself look even bigger than he already did.

Lunging forward and snapping his teeth closed, the great forest creature reached out and caught another one between his wicked fangs. The vedalken gurgled out a cry, and the wolf began shaking the blue-skinned creature from side to side. Blood sloshed in a fan-shaped wave out across the other warriors, and the guardsman let out a scream more desperate and frightened than any Glissa had ever heard.