The elf pointed out to the battle raging just a few yards from them. The forest beasts had torn many of the artifact creatures to bits. Piles of metal parts littered the ground, but among them were the fallen forms of several trolls.
“My trolls can take care of themselves,” replied Drooge. “Now you must take care that you do not too easily play into Memnarch’s hands.”
“You think this army is here to find me?”
“I do not think,” replied Drooge, “I know. Now, follow me.” Despite his missing leg, Drooge moved faster than she’d ever seen a troll go, and Glissa struggled to keep up.
Glissa looked down at her sword. “Wait! Where do I find the last piece of the Kaldra Guardian?”
The troll did not turn, continuing to lead Glissa, Slobad, and Bosh from the Tree. “You must find Geth. He has what you are looking for.”
Glissa looked to Slobad. “Geth again.”
“Crazy troll can’t find ’nother shield?”
Glissa shook her head. “You’re the one who was so excited about a new artifact to tinker with.” She shrugged. “Guess we head back to the Vault of Whispers. If we’d only known last time, we could have saved ourselves a trip.”
Drooge, standing taller than any except Bosh, looked each of them in the eye then returned his stare to Glissa. “You must get to the Mephidross quickly. Do not stay here and fight, or the sacrifice of these many trolls will be in vain.”
* * * * *
Pontifex lowered his wide-headed halberd and lunged at Marek. “These are trying times, my friend.”
The vedalken elite guard commander parried the blow then countered, pushing Pontifex back a step.
“Well done,” complimented the vedalken lord. He steadied himself then began weaving his blade in a series of practiced patterns.
Marek watched the tip of the halberd as it moved through the air.
“I knew the probable outcome, but I hadn’t expected such a unanimous vote.” Pontifex continued moving his weapon, attempting to lull his opponent with its gentle motion.
“Does that really matter, my lord? If the representatives vote with one voice, there is no difference between approval from most and from all. The outcome is the same.” Marek kept his guard up.
“True, true,” replied Pontifex. He watched Marek follow the hypnotic pattern of the blade. “Still, this sort of thing could lead to very dangerous changes inside the empire.” The vedalken lord struck. His blade moved forward, but instead of moving back, following the pattern, he lunging farther, catching Marek off guard. The blade spanked off of the warrior’s shoulder pad, and Pontifex pulled back. Marek went down, trying to dodge too late.
“Well done, my lord,” said Marek, looking up at Pontifex from the ground.
Pontifex placed the butt of his weapon on the ground and extended three hands to Marek. “Thank you,” he said, and he helped the warrior back to his feet.
The two placed their halberds in a rack against the wall, and Pontifex grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his gleaming, bald head.
Marek scratched his chin. “Forgive my ignorance, my lord, but what sort of dangerous changes?”
Pontifex took a deep breath. “If the representatives get a real taste of power, they may try to be part of the Synod on a more regular basis. If that happens, the council will lose some if not most of its power, and that we cannot have.” The vedalken lord stood up. “Perhaps more disturbing would be the possible erosion of my authority. If the representatives think they can challenge everything I do with a vote, I will be forced to take more drastic measures. And if they are successful …” Pontifex let out a laugh. “Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if every decision I made had to be voted upon before it could be enacted. Really! The damage caused to the empire by such a process would be an irrevocable disaster.”
A knock came at the door, interrupting the vedalken lord.
“I won’t have it,” he said to Marek in a whisper. He straightened his robes and turned to the door. “Enter.”
The door slid open. Sodador and Tyrell stepped through, followed by a third vedalken-the newest member of the Synod.
“Orland,” said Lord Pontifex, “what an unexpected surprise.”
The third member nodded then stepped forward.
Pontifex looked him over.
The vedalken had a slight build, even for his relatively frail race. His four arms were long and skinny and seemed out of proportion to his short body. Pontifex drew himself up to his full height, noting that he overtopped the man by nearly an entire head.
“Lord Pontifex,” said Orland, “it is my honor and privilege to stand before you as your equal and colleague. Thank you for allowing us an audience.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Pontifex. “Please, come, sit down.” He guided the other three councilors to form-fitting, high-backed chairs surrounding a sturdy table.
When all of the men were seated, Pontifex cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
Orland opened his mouth to speak, but Sodador cut him off. “Forgive us, Lord Pontifex, but this is official Synod business.” He looked at Marek. “Would you be so kind as to excuse the commander?”
Pontifex scowled. “Might I remind you, Sodador, that you are inside my personal chambers. Marek is an honorable man, and my trusted servant. While there are guests, I require a bodyguard.”
“Oh, please!” spat Sodador. “We are no threat to you.”
“This is official business,” interjected Tyrell. “How can we be expected to speak freely if we have an audience?”
Orland looked at Marek then turned to both Sodador and Tyrell. “Gentlemen, please. Lord Pontifex has been gracious enough to allow us into his chamber. We should respect his wishes.”
Pontifex looked at the new councilor. Perhaps this one could be of some use after all. “Thank you, Councilor Orland.” He smiled. “As you were saying?”
“Yes. We have come to you at my urging. I realize the circumstances surrounding my appointment to the Synod were unorthodox. I want to make sure that my presence in the decision-making process is not seen as an invasion.”
“My dear Orland,” Pontifex said, “whatever would make you think such preposterous things? The representatives voted in a legal assembly. The outcome is indisputable.”
Orland nodded. “Precisely, but if I were in your position, I might feel as if I’d been fooled.”
Sodador and Tyrell squirmed in their seats.
“I’ve come to you on a mission of diplomacy,” continued Orland, “to make available to you my services-as a token of my respect and dedication to the greater good of the vedalken people.”
Pontifex was puzzled. “What do you have in mind?”
Orland smiled. “Helping you catch the elf girl, of course.”
CHAPTER 7
Glissa followed Drooge through a winding passageway inside the Tree of Tales. As they ran, they descended. The clank of Bosh’s feet on the metal ground filled the passageway, drowning out the sounds of battle from above.
The tunnel twisted and turned then abruptly ended around a corner at a set of stairs leading up.
“This is where I must leave you,” said the troll chieftain. “Good luck to you, and good speed.” Drooge nodded to the three, then ducked back down the passage.
“So we go up again, huh?” said the goblin.
“Guess so,” replied Glissa. “Any idea where we are?”
Both Slobad and Bosh shook their heads.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Glissa pulled her sword from her sheath and climbed the stairs.
The goblin and the golem followed.
The stairway led up into a dark cavern. At the opposite end, a small opening let in light, and with it the sounds of battle.
“Come on,” Glissa led the others to the opening and looked out. They were near the edge of the Tangle inside a narrow cave at the base of a very large tree. The army of levelers covered the ground before them, but their attention was focused the other direction, on the Tree of Tales. Near the middle, riding on a leveler, was the metal man Glissa had seen inside Mirrodin.