The troll laughed in the back of his throat. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you the future, only that the trolls will participate when all has been prepared.”
“Prepared?” Glissa shook her head. “What are you talking about. You make it sound as if there is some sort of predetermined course that we’re all destined to follow-that I’m the one leading. Am I missing something here?”
Drooge rose from his chair and ambled forward. The quickness of his words and the sharp intelligence in his eyes had distracted Glissa from noticing one important detail about the troll chieftain.
He had only one leg.
The bone staff he had been holding was a crutch, and he leaned on it as he moved forward. His steps were awkward and metered, very much as Glissa expected from a troll.
When he came close enough to touch the trio, he stopped and smiled. “I am sorry, I do not mean to confuse you. I forget that all this information is new to you. For the trolls, it has been a way of life, a belief.” He leaned down, lowering his face so that he looked into Glissa’s eyes. “We do not belong on Mirrodin. The trolls-” he waved his hand around, indicating all the creatures seated in the bleacher seats-“we are not from this world. We do not wish to stay here any longer than we must.”
“Wait.” Glissa sank down on the metal floor. “You’re from some other world?”
“Yes.”
“How is it that I can help you? It’s not as if I can lift you to some other plane.”
“You can help us escape from the tyranny of the Guardian,” explained the troll. “That is the path you will travel. That is the destiny that has been chosen for you.”
“You speak as if I don’t have any choice in the matter.”
“You do not.”
The elf snorted.
“If all of you-” Glissa ran her gaze around the room, taking in the entire troll tribe-“with your big muscles and strong fists, can’t stand up to Memnarch and his devices, what makes you think I can?”
“Because you are not afraid.”
“Of course I’m afraid!” Glissa shouted. “In fact, I can’t remember more than a brief instant of my entire life when I wasn’t afraid of something.”
The troll nodded, apparently unperturbed by her outburst. “Yes, it is something that transcends the racial boundaries. Fear binds us together and makes us all the same.” Drooge placed his huge hand on the petite elf’s shoulder. “What makes us different, you and I, is that despite that fear you go on.”
Slowly Glissa nodded. Now she understood.
Drooge turned and limped past his seat. “As I said, when the time is right, the trolls will come to your aid.” When he reached the far wall of the chamber, he placed his crutch aside. Flattening his palms against the metal, he spoke a single word, and a cabinet appeared.
It was a square box, about the size of a small goblin, the same color and texture as the surrounding wall. If Glissa hadn’t been watching, she might have thought it had been there the whole time. It blended with the rest of the chamber as if it had been carved from the tree, just like the steps. Drooge reached into this cabinet and pulled out a small casket.
“Do not think that I would send you away empty handed.”
The troll waved the trio forward.
They approached, and Glissa put her finger out to touch the casket. It was of exquisite workmanship, carved in patterns she did not recognize. She didn’t want to stop touching it.
“You like that?” asked the troll.
“Yes,” said Glissa. “What is it?”
“It is from the wood of a tree not of this world. Many thousands of years ago, it is said that my people, the trolls, lived in these trees.”
Glissa’s eye’s nearly bulged from her head. She couldn’t even imagine another world. Just running her fingers over the wood calmed her nerves and made her feel … feel … happy.
“You’re giving this to me?”
The troll laughed. “No,” he said. “I am giving you what is inside.”
Glissa was disappointed. “Oh.”
“It is nice,” said Drooge, his eyes lit up with amusement, “but I doubt this casket will help you along your path. No, I am giving you this.” The troll lifted the lid and drew forth a helm. Inset along its rim in a brilliant circle were five gemstones, each one a different color. At the top, carved deep into the metal surface, was a sigil or rune. It was a circle, broken into five wedge-shaped pieces by five different lines-like a wheel with five spokes.
Drooge handed the helm to Glissa.
“It’s beautiful.” The elf ran her finger over the stones-a diamond, an emerald, a ruby, an onyx, and a sapphire. Each of them sparkled.
Bosh waddled over, and Slobad lifted himself up on his tip toes to get a better look.
“What does it do?”
* * * * *
Pontifex paced outside the door leading to the Grand Assembly Chamber. Inside, the other members of the Synod waited. The lord of the vedalken knew what to expect when he entered. He knew what they had planned. The whole scheme had unfolded in less than a cycle.
Despite the very real power he now wielded over the vedalken people, and for that matter the Synod itself, he had been powerless to stop this. Sometimes the game of politics is simply more powerful than the politicians who play.
Pontifex steeled himself and stepped forward. The doors before him slipped silently aside, and he entered the chamber. No one spoke, but the room was filled with the shuffling sound of bodies trying to get comfortable. The assembled vedalken went still upon seeing him, and the room fell completely silent.
The Grand Hall, as it was often referred to, was nothing more than a giant spiraling pit dug deep into the ground. Wider at the top than it was at the bottom, the room itself had been designed by a vedalken architect who had taken his inspiration from the swirling storms and whirlpools of the Quicksilver Sea. A narrow platform, just wide enough to fit two vedalken guardsmen in full uniform side by side, wound down the edge of the pit, running in a spiral from the very ceiling to an open floor far below. To Pontifex, it looked like a corkscrew, winding its way down into the bowls of Mirrodin. That image amused him, and he smirked.
A railing skirted the edge of the spiraling platform. The original designer had wanted the room to feel-and be-dangerous. One false step and a vedalken could find himself on the floor in a big hurry. Down lower, that wasn’t much of a problem, but from this height, a body falling that far would be smashed into jelly.
This room is dangerous, thought Pontifex as he looked down at the collected vedalken, even with the safety precautions.
Gathered on the spiral, the assembled citizens of the vedalken empire stood against the outer wall or leaned up on the railing. Where Pontifex stood at the top of the winding platform he could see down on everyone, including the other two members of the synod who awaited him at the bottom. Beside them stood a third figure. Pontifex did not know this man, but he knew what his presence here represented.
“Lord Pontifex,” said a voice from far below, “so nice of you to join us.”
The round, lifting design of the chamber allowed every word spoken to be heard by all. It mattered not if the speaker were on the floor or along the railing near the ceiling, all had a voice here. However, any citizen who spoke out of turn or without being recognized was removed by force and thrown into hard labor for two full moon cycles. Many who had been punished in such a fashion didn’t live long enough to be released back into society. Consequently, while inside the assembly chamber, very few spoke at all.
Pontifex recognized the voice. “Hello, Tyrell,” he said, looking down to the floor at the vedalken. “It’s always a pleasure to be in the esteemed company of my fellow Synod councilors-” he circled his finger in the air, indicating the collected vedalken in the assembly hall-“and the elected citizen representatives.” He descended the long spiral platform toward the floor. “Welcome.”