Jeff Grubb - Artifact Cycle Book 1 - The Brothers' War

446 Pages·2016·1.2 MB·English

by  Grubb Jeff

JEFF GRUBB
“The Brothers’ War”

(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