Artifact Cycle 01 - The Brothers' War

365 Pages·2016·1.23 MB·English

by  Grubb Jeff

The Brothers' War - Artifact Cycle 01

Jeff Grubb

(Magic: the Gathering. Artifact cycle. Book I.)

PROLOGUE

OPPOSITES ATTRACT
(63 AR) It was the night before the end of the world.
The two armies had gathered on opposite sides of a blasted vale. Once this
had been a verdant valley, its wide plain shaped by a wide, meandering stream,
its flanking hills blanketed by thick groves of oak, blanchwood, and ironroot.
Now these trees were gone; no more than ragged stumps remained, the grass
burned away, and the earth beneath packed hard and barren. The stream was a
sluggish flow hidden by a thick film of oil, its surface broken only by the
shadowy masses of nameless solids.
Thick, inky clouds concealed the moons and stars from sight.
It had been overcast and cold on Argoth, despite unseasonably warmer weather
elsewhere on Terisiare. Both sides in the upcoming battle had taken to torching
the forests they found, if only to deny their opponents supplies and support. By
day the cloud canopy was a dull gray, a sheet of rolled and unfinished steel.
By night it was lit only from below, by the thousands of campfires and foundries
that now dotted the landscape. Along the opposite rims of the vale the flames lit
by both invading forces glimmered like evil eyes in the darkness.
Spanning the shallow stream was a pair of toppled giants, remnants of an
earlier battle between one of the invaders and the original inhabitants of this
land. One of the fallen giants had been made of living wood, and had been
splintered into a thousand shards. Its huge forested head lay on the ground,
screaming silently to the uncaring night. It had been the last champion of the
natives of Argoth, the avatar of their goddess, and with its death passed away all
hope for the island people.
The victor in the battle had also been destroyed in the struggle. This huge
humanoid monster was made of stone, its joints constructed of massive plates of
pitted iron and great brass gears. Its lithic body had been broken and patched a
number of times, and great sheets of metal had been bolted to its hide to hold it
together. The battle with the living forest beast had overtaxed its pistons and
armatures. Its final lunge had splintered its opponent; now it sprawled forward,
facedown, a bridge over the tepid stream. One of the stone giant's arms had been
ripped loose from the battle and lay a few hundred feet away, its fingers raised to
claw the sky.
On the back of the granite giant's silent corpse a lone figure waited. In his
youth he had been broad shouldered and handsome, but the years of war and
service to his master had exhausted him. His shoulders were slumped now, and
his frame carried the additional weight of both his responsibilities and his age.
His once-tousled blond hair was worn short, and the first patch of skin was
apparent at the crown of his head, herald of eventual baldness. Still, he was taller
than most of this fellows, so others did not see it unless he was seated. For the
moment he paced along the giant's back.
Tawnos pulled his rough, brown woolen cloak tighter around him, cursing the
cold and dark. As he did so his fingers scraped against the metal breastplate
beneath. It did not fit him-very little that had not been made specifically for his
large frame did, and he had brought it along only as an afterthought. The
message had been warm and welcoming, but it came from the enemy camp.
Urza would be irritated if his former student let his guard down so easily.
There was motion along the far side of the giant's back, near where its
smashed head lay at a twisted angle to the rest of the body. Tawnos did not see
her climb up, but suddenly she was there-a flash of red hair surrounded by an
ebon cloak. It was as if she wore a piece of the night itself, and wore it very well.
She was alone, as she had promised. As she crossed toward him, Tawnos
pulled a small device from his pocket. It was a flattened sphere with a lamp's
wick jutting from the top. He pressed a stud along the side of the sphere, and the
device sputtered. The wick burst into a brief, yellow flame, which subdued to a
soft orange hue as Tawnos manipulated the small stud along the side. Ashnod
drew into the light, and he saw that she had that bemused smirk that he had
always found attractive. He also saw that there were now silver hairs among the
scarlet.
"I'd heard you were dead," he said.
"Don't believe everything you hear, Duck," replied Ashnod the Uncaring with
a broad smile. "I've heard I died at least five times in the past ten years." The
smile faded and the voice turned solemn. "You came. Thank you."
"You sent a message," said Tawnos.
"It could have been a trap," said Ashnod.
"It could have been," admitted Tawnos and opened his cloak.
His breastplate reflected the small light, which glimmered off the two sets of
ornate weapons that rode on his hips. Ashnod smiled again.
"Good to know you're still cautious," she said.
"Prepared," observed Tawnos. "That is all. Prepared."
Ashnod slung her pack on the ground and knelt next to it.
Tawnos hesitated, then joined her. They sat in relative silence for a long
moment. Far off, in the distance on either side of the vale, were the hammers of
forges preparing for the bloody business of the next day.
"You sent a message," prompted Tawnos.
"This is the last one, you know." said Ashnod, staring out into a night pierced
by red fires. "The last battle. The final conflict. One way or another, the
resolution of the war between your master and mine."
"Between Urza and Mishra," said Tawnos with a nod.
"They are both here," Ashnod added. "There are no reinforcements. No retreat
is possible for either side. One way or another, it all ends here."
Tawnos shifted uncomfortably. It had been a long time since he had sat cross-
legged on hard stone. "It is a good time for a ending," he said. "All this has gone
on far too long."
Across from him, Ashnod bowed her head in the light. "And wasted so much."
"Many have lost their lives," agreed Tawnos.
Ashnod giggled, an ill-placed sound that raised the hairs of Tawnos's neck in
irritation. "Lives?" she said. "Lives are nothing. Think of all the forests gutted,
the lakes drained, the lands plundered to get us to this point. Think what we
could have done with those resources. And people: yes, how we could have used
them, otherwise."
As she spoke Tawnos could feel his face tighten in disapproval. Even in the
dim glow Ashnod could feel his silent irritation. "Sorry," she said at last. "I
spoke before I thought."
"Good to know there are universal constants," said Tawnos stonily.
"Sorry." There was another pause, and in the distance something clattered. It
sounded like a mechanical demon laughing.
"How is he?" she said at last.
"The same, only more so," Tawnos replied. "Yours?"
Ashnod shook her head. "Something's ... wrong." Tawnos raised an eyebrow
and she added quickly, "Mishra's colder than ever.
More calculating. I'm worried."
"I always worry," said Tawnos. "Urza has become more withdrawn over the
passing years."
"Withdrawn," said Ashnod. "That's the word. As if we aren't even there. Like
no one else is." She reached out to touch his shoulder. Tawnos stiffened, leaning
away, and she let the gesture drop. "You're right about it being a waste," she said
at last.
"But it can be avoided even now."
"How?" Tawnos's eyes narrowed.
"Give him what he wants," said Ashnod. "Give Mishra the other half of the
stone."
"Surrender?" Tawnos said, his voice too loud. "After all this, surrender? When
tomorrow we might carry the field? Before we came to Argoth, it might have
been an option, perhaps." He thought a moment and said more to himself than to
his companion, "No, not even before."
Ashnod held up both hands in a pacific gesture. "Just a suggestion, Duck."
"He sent you with that message?"
"My words are my own," snapped Ashnod. "He doesn't trust me,"
she added softly.
"Who would, at this point?" asked Tawnos. The words were out of his mouth
before he realized what he said.
"Fine," she snarled, and stood up suddenly. She grabbed the knapsack, and it
disappeared again within the shadows of her voluminous cloak. "And I even
came bearing gifts."
"Any gift from you would be treated suspiciously," said Tawnos, scrambling
to his feet and standing next to her.
They paused for a moment, and a cold wind passed between them. Then
Ashnod turned to leave.
"Perhaps ..." Tawnos began. She hesitated at his words.
"Perhaps we could get our two masters together," he continued.
"Without their weapons. Without their armies. Perhaps there's a way to make
them both understand each other."
Ashnod shook her head. "They are lockstepped into their actions now, as
mechanical as their own inventions, as relentless as the phases of the Glimmer
Moon." She gave a sad giggle. "You dream of a time when they could
understand each other. There was never such a time."
She walked away from him, then paused and turned. "Be careful tomorrow.
May you survive the battle." She walked to the far end of the toppled giant, and
put her hood up. Her scarlet hair disappeared, and she merged once again with
the shadows.
"Be careful yourself," said Tawnos to the unresponsive darkness and turned
quietly toward his own camp. As he walked back, one part of his mind noted the
condition of the field, seeing pitfalls Urza's troops would have to avoid.
But another segment of his consciousness meditated on Ashnod's words,
repeating them over and over.
"There was never such a time ... ."

PART 1

A STUDY IN FORCES
(10 - 20 AR) Chapter 1
TOCASIA The Argivian archaeologist removed her lenses and
rubbed her tired eyes. The desert grit was everywhere, all the more so when the
stiff breeze blew eastward from the inland wastes. The desert air was warm as
forge coals, but Tocasia was glad for the gentle wind. Without the breeze it
would be merely unbearably and stiflingly hot at the dig site.
The aged researcher sat at an ornate table, a huge monstrosity with thick,
fluted legs and a heavy top inlaid with polished shell. It was a gift from one of
the noble families of Argive, a reward for "straightening out" an errant scion of
their line. The heirloom looked almost comical perched on the outcropping that
Tocasia had claimed as her headquarters, beneath a tarpaulin of pale-gray
Tomakul muslin.
The gift had been well intentioned, and she could only imagine the expense
incurred in sending the table out to her. The desert had already taken its toll: the
hand-rubbed finish had been almost entirely blasted away by the sand-laden
wind, and the wood beneath had cracked as the heat boiled away the liquids still
locked within. Furniture suitable for an Argivian dressing room was much less
acceptable in the desert. Still, it was a flat space, and Tocasia appreciated it.
The tabletop was littered with scrolls half-shoved into their cases and survey
maps weighted down by bits of rusted metal, the torn edges of the papers
fluttering in the breeze. A particularly large chunk of bluish metal sat directly
before Tocasia, damning her with its enigma.
It looked like a parody of a human skull, with a batlike face, and cold,
impassive eyes of colored crystal set in the unfamiliar blue-tinted metal. The
metal itself seemed as ductile and soft as copper, but bending it only caused it to
reform slowly into its original shape. A set of Thran glyphs ran along the
underside of the skull, which Tocasia had translated roughly as su-chi. Whether
this was the name of the creature, its owner, or its manufacturer was a mystery to
her.
The skull's lupine lower jaw jutted forward, ending in a handful of fangs. The
top of the skull had been peeled away to reveal a tangle of blue metal cables. Set
among them was a single large gemstone, the shade of old glass, worn beyond
age, and marred by a longitudinal crack along its top.
Tocasia sighed. Even if her diggers could find the rest of this Thran artifact's
body, it was unlikely that they would ever get it working again. The damage was
too extensive, and even if they could re-create its form, the gemstone that
provided its power was shattered. They had found only a double handful of such
stones that were whole and functioning. Glowing in rainbow hues, they could
power the old Thran devices. The largest of those stones were shipped back to
Argive for additional study and in exchange for support and supplies.
A shadow touched the comer of her table, and Tocasia jumped slightly. She
had been so involved with the skull that she had not seen anyone approach. She
looked up into Loran's dark face and wondered how long the girl had been there.
Loran was a noble's daughter and one of Tocasia's best pupils, though that was
not saying much, given the current crop of students. Early in Tocasia's career she
had accepted the financial support of many of the noble houses of Penregon. In
exchange, the houses would often ship their recalcitrant or rebellious junior
members out to the desert for a summer to join the mad archaeologist in her
excavation of Thran artifacts.
To be honest, Tocasia thought, most of the youths she received were guilty of
nothing more than being typical young people, and their parents were only
seeking to get them out of the manor house. Once on the site, their interest in the
past varied from minimal to nonexistent. They were glad to be away from the
perfumed and protected courts of Penregon, its petty intrigues, and-most
important-their parents. Tocasia entrusted them with as much responsibility as
they accepted. Some supervised the Fallaji diggers, while others helped glean
and catalog the devices they brought to light. Still others were content to man the
grapeshot catapults that flanked the camp and served as a deterrent to desert
raiders and the scavenging rocs.
The young men and women came, served their time, and fled back to the cities
with enough tales to impress their friends and enough maturity to mollify their
parents.
And a few, such as Loran, had the intelligence, the wisdom, and the presence
of mind to come back after their first experience. Loran was on her third season
and coming into the full flower of womanhood. Tocasia knew it was only a
matter of time before the girl started to care more for ball gowns and dinner
parties than for artifacts and dig sites, but for this summer, at least, she was
pleased to have her there to help catalog, organize, and coordinate.
Tocasia blinked, pushed her spectacles back up on her nose, and arched an
eyebrow at the student. Loran would never speak until spoken to, though Tocasia
was trying to break her of that habit.
There was a pause, and then Loran said softly, "The caravan from Argive has
arrived."
Tocasia nodded. They had been watching the rising dust cloud from the east
all morning, but she'd thought it would be late afternoon before Bly's wagons
would reach them. The old wagon master must have finally sprung for new
beasts, or else the old aurochs had finally failed him. What Loran meant was that
Bly's wagons had finally passed through the stockade gates, and Tocasia had
best be there to save her students from the bad-tempered merchant's pique should
the mistress of the camp not be there to greet him.
Loran did not move, and Tocasia added, "I will be down as soon as possible.
If Bly does not like it, let him stew." Loran's lips compressed in a thin line; then
the girl nodded and vanished. Tocasia sighed again. In two or three years Loran
would be ordering merchants like Bly around effortlessly, but for now she, and
most of the other students, were cowed by the merchant's bluster.
Tocasia watched Loran's retreating form, clad in the cream-colored working
shift that most female students labored in. She noted that the girl was already
wearing her hair longer, in the fashion favored in the capital. Loran's hair was
long, dark, and thick, making her exotic among most of her compatriots. "A
touch of the desert" was the saying among the Argivian nobility. It was not a
compliment but rather a tacit accusation that some desert barbarian was lurking
in the family tree. Perhaps that was why Loran kept coming back for the
summers-it could not be family pressure. The last time Tocasia visited Penregon,
Loran's mother had made it quite clear that Loran should curb such foolish
endeavors as rooting around in the dust for scraps of metal.
Tocasia looked out over the camp, a rough wall built around a collection of
hills. The low, rolling hills were incised by dry washes and proved to be
extremely productive of Thran artifacts.
The stockade was more of a demarcation of territory than a true protection, but it
kept what desert bandits that might prove a problem at bay. The barricade of
piled stone was flanked by a pair of oversized catapults loaded with loose rubble
to keep the rocs away. Within the walls most of the activity of the camp was
slow in the summer heat. One particular hill, where they had recovered the su-
chi skull, proved particularly promising, and was now covered with a grid of
string and stakes for further examination. The slow-footed onulets plodded to
meet the wagons, steered by noble boys who enjoyed thwacking the great albino
beasts with their makeshift goads.
The gate had closed on the last wagon now, and a wide-girthed figure leapt
from the lead carriage, waving his arms in an animated fashion. Bly seemed to
enjoy terrorizing the students out here, perhaps because he had to kowtow to
their parents back in Penregon.
Tocasia smiled at the thought of Bly back in the Argivian capital-hat in hand,
head bowed slightly, trying to enunciate his requests without resort to curses.
The desert was probably the best place for him as well.
The archaeologist ran her hands through her short graying hair, trying to shake
out any nonexistent tangles. When she had been young her hair had been longer
and almost as dark and luxuriant as Loran's. There might have been a touch of
the desert in her family tree as well. Still, age tended to make all peoples equal,
and her shorn locks were easier to care for in the desert.
Tocasia gave the blue-metal skull an affectionate pat and rose from her camp
chair. She reached for her walking stick, a shattered fragment of wood and bright
steel from some unknown Thran mechanism. She was still spry enough to justify
the staff as a walking stick to aid her in navigating the uneven ground and not as
a crutch. But aches in her joints in the cool of the early desert morning told a
different tale.
Tocasia took her time descending from her perch. Bly would bluster and
complain, but that never stopped him from dealing.
The artifacts and saleable loot he would bring back from the site was worth the
long and arduous trip inland.
It was no surprise, then, that once she reached the wagons there was a wide
circle of students and teamsters surrounding the wagon master. The surprise was
the pair of young men that Bly was berating.
The two were strangers. One was dark-haired and stocky, and flinched every
time Bly bellowed. He was half-hiding behind the other, a lean, tawny-haired
boy who stood bolt-upright, taking the full blast of the wagon master's thunder.
"Frauds! Cheats! Liars!" shouted Bly.
The pair were all of ten years old, Tocasia guessed. Twelve at the outside.
That was about the age nobles first considered sending their children out to
Tocasia's camp. But these were not her students, and no new arrivals were
expected until the beginning of the next season. Loran was at one side of the
crowd, looking both embarrassed by the scene and relieved that she was not the
object of Bly's temper.
"You seek to cheat me! Now get busy unloading, you motherless dogs!"
sputtered Bly, a crimson hue crawling through his face.
The dark-haired boy raised his fists and took a step forward.
The older blond lad held out an arm to block his companion, but his eyes never
left the wagon master.
"Sirrah," he said calmly, though loud enough for the surrounding crowd to
hear, "we had a bargain. We would work for you to pay for our passage here. We
are now here, so we will work for you no longer."
Wagon master Bly turned an apoplectic purple. "You agreed to serve as hands
for the journey. The journey isn't over yet; we still have to get back to
Penregon!"
"But then we'll have to get back here on our own!" exploded the stockier boy,
leaning forward against the other's restraining arm.
"What's going on here, Bly?" said Tocasia.
The wagon master wheeled on the scholar, blinking as if he had only just then
noticed her. "A private matter, Mistress Tocasia. Nothing more."
The leaner of the two youths stepped forward. "You are Tocasia the Scholar?"
"We're not finished," Bly started, but Tocasia held up a hand and replied to the
youth.
"I am," she said.
"I am Urza," said the youth. "This is my brother Mishra." The sturdier of the
two boys nodded, and the lean youth fished out a battered envelope from within
his vest. The seal on the flap, the imprint of a familiar noble household, was
intact, but it looked as if the letter had made the entire trip next to the boy's skin.
Bly drew in his breath sharply at the sight.
Tocasia looked at the two youths, then at the wagon master.
She slid a sandblasted nail beneath the flap and popped the letter open. The
script was fluid and well formed, dictated to a scribe, but the signature along the