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

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 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 bottom was recognizable, if

weak and jerky.

There was a silence for a moment as she read, and both Bly

and Mishra shifted impatiently, waiting for the opportunity to

start the argument again. The youth Urza stood impassively, hands

folded in front of him.

Tocasia folded up the letter again and said thoughtfully,

"Well, that's that." To the two boys she said, "Get your things,

and follow Loran there to your quarters." To Bly she said, "These

two are now my responsibility. They are joining as students."

The purplish hue returned to Bly's face. "But they owe me

half a trip! You're telling me that I have to let these snipes

break an agreement just because of some letter!"

Tocasia let the wagon master complain. She watched the boys

pull a pair of slender backpacks from one wagon and lope after

the slim form of Loran. Only when they had passed through the

crowd and that crowd had dispersed to tend to the immediate

business of unloading the supplies did she turn her attention to

Bly.

"Your agreement was for them to work their way through their

journey," she said sharply. "When they arrived here, that journey

ended. They are taking up residence here. Do you understand?"

There was steel in her voice, and even Bly knew he could not

push the scholar around when she took this tone. Instead he took

a deep breath and forced himself to calm.

Tocasia held up the letter. "This is from their father, from

whom I have not heard for many years. What do you know of him?"

Bly stammered for a moment, then said, "He's not well at all.

Remarried recently-a virago, a real vixen from a good family with

her own children. He was taken seriously ill about a month before

we left Penregon. He might be dead by this time."

"He might be," said Tocasia solemnly, "or he might be too ill

to see to his sons' well-being. You didn't know about this

letter, did you?"

The wagon master looked at his feet, embarrassed. "No, you

did not," continued Tocasia. "Because if you had, you wouldn't

have tried to lock those children into such a hard bargain. 'Full

trip' indeed! Knowing you, you probably worked those two as hard

your aurochs, if not harder. Because you knew that without the

letter I wouldn't take them in on just their word!"

"The new mother, she's a hellkite," said Bly softly, by way

of explanation. "Wanted them gone, but wouldn't spend a groat on

their well-being. Didn't want to dip into the family moneys,

since they're all probably hers right now."

"So you gave the boys a break, worked them like slaves, and

tried to keep them, since no one would notice their fate," said

Tocasia. "That's low, even for you, Bly. Now get the supplies

unloaded, and yes, I'll do a complete inventory, thank you. And

then we'll load the wagons for return. There are some items there

that will fetch you a goodly profit, despite your scandalous

behavior."

Tocasia wanted to lecture Bly a bit longer, but Loran came

running up. "Mistress Tocasia, the new boys!"

Tocasia scowled at the student. The young girl had actually

spoken up, so it must be important. "Yes?"

"They're in a fight," said Loran. "With Richlau and a couple

of the other boys."

Tocasia uttered a mild curse. Bly chuckled. "I can always

take them back if you want, scholar," he said.

The scholar shot the wagon master a look that would skin an

ox at fifteen paces. To Loran she said, "Get Ahmahl and a couple

of the other diggers to break it up. And bring the boys to my

tent." Loran hesitated, and Tocasia practically stamped her foot.

"Now!"

The young girl disappeared in a puff of dust, and Bly said,

"I think that pair are more trouble than they are worth, if you

don't mind me saying."

"I wouldn't be surprised," grunted the scholar. "Their father

was always a handful."

"So you're going to keep them?" asked the wagon master,

shaking his head.

Tocasia sighed. "Aye. I owe their father that much. For an

old favor."

"Must be some favor," said Bly. "What did he give you?"

"Only my freedom," said Tocasia, and turned away from the

wagon master without waiting for a reply.

Bly looked at Tocasia's back as she walked back up the hill.

Was it his imagination, or did she seem to be older and more

fragile than she had been a few moments ago? Then he heard hoarse

shouts among the wagons, and the thought was driven from his

head.

"You lot!" he bellowed at the teamsters, throwing himself

back into the work. "Have you never hauled freight before? That

stuff's delicate! Handle it like you would your sister's newborn,

or we don't get paid!"

The hill seemed steeper to Tocasia on the way up than it had

on way down, and the boys were already waiting for her when she

reached the top. Ahmahl and Loran were there as well.

The leader of the desert-tribe diggers nodded sharply at

Tocasia. In Fallaji, the desert tongue, he said, "Watch the

little one. He was all fists and bites when we pulled him off. So

much fire in one so small. The big one bloodied Richlau's nose,

but nothing's broken."

Tocasia responded in the same language, "Richlau deserves to

have his nose bloodied. Tell him he's on kitchen duty for the

rest of the month. And move the boys' gear to Havack's barracks

instead." Ahmahl nodded and left the tarp. Loran made no move to

leave until Tocasia instructed her to keep an eye on Bly.

The archaeologist strode around her table, sliding the

walking cane back into its holder, a drum-shaped basket made from

an onulet's foot. She leaned on her palms on the desk and looked

at the two boys. Their fine vests had been shredded in the

battle, and Urza's pockets had been torn out in the fight. Mishra

had acquired a black eye, and both boys showed numerous scratch

marks.

Tocasia sighed and lowered herself into her seat. The boys

shifted uncomfortably. "Fifteen minutes," she said at last.

"Fifteen minutes and you're already in a fight. A new record,

even for this place."

Both boys started talking at once. Urza said, "I would like

to apologize on behalf of everyone involved-"

Mishra burst out with, "I'm sorry but it really wasn't our

fault if-"

"Silence!" Tocasia slapped the table hard, so hard the su-chi

skull jumped slightly, and a piece of the pearl inlay bounced out

of its setting. The two boys quieted immediately and shifted from

one foot to another.

Tocasia leaned back in her chair. "What happened?"

The boys looked at each other, as if each were granting the

other the chance to explain. By mutual if unspoken consent, Urza

won the opportunity.

"One of the older boys picked on my brother. I stopped him,"

he said primly. "A large boy with red hair and freckles."

"So I see," said Tocasia. To Mishra she said, "And why was

Richlau picking on you?"

"No reason," said Mishra. Urza started to say something, but

Tocasia held up a hand to silence him. After a long silence,

Mishra added, "He said I was on his bunk."

"And were you?" asked the scholar.

Mishra shrugged. "I guess." Then, after a pause, he blurted

out, "But he didn't have to be rude about it!"

"Richlau is rude about everything," said Tocasia. "You're

going to have to get used to that if you stay here." To Urza she

said, "You're the older brother, correct?"

"I am," said Urza, but Mishra made a small coughing noise.

Urza made a face and added, "I should say that Mishra and I were

born in the same year, I was born on the first day of the year,

Mishra was born on the last. So for all days but the last, I am a

year older."

"On the last day, we're equal!" piped Mishra, as if pleased

that his brother had corrected himself.

Tocasia held up the letter from Urza's vest. "Do you know

what this says?"

Again, the two boys looked at each other. Tocasia sensed they

were conferring in a secret language, one only they could hear.

"Not exactly," answered Urza at last.

"Your father was a dear friend to whom I owe much," observed

Tocasia. "He wants me to look after you, to care for you should

something happen to him. That means you're going to be staying

here for quite a while. And that means working with me and my

students. If you're uncomfortable with this arrangement, I can

send you back with Bly, but to be honest I don't know what kind

of welcome would await you in Penregon."

Again the boys looked at each other. It was Mishra who spoke

this time, "What is it that you do?"

"I dig," said Tocasia. "Or rather, I supervise others who

dig. We are searching for artifacts out here. Do you know what

I'm talking about?"

"Remnants of the past," said Urza. "Of a civilization that

stood here long before Argive or any of the nations of Terisiare.

Relics."

"That's right," said Tocasia. "Artifacts that range in power

from small toys to great machines, machines that can do the work

of many men."

"Like the big white ox-things?" asked Mishra, almost unheard.

Tocasia arched an eyebrow at the younger brother. "Yes,

indeed. The onulets that we use as beasts of burden out here are

artifacts, ones I created based on the designs we've pieced

together of the artifact-creating race, the Thran. The onulets

are strong, loyal, unthinking machines that are tireless workers.

They require neither food nor water, and when they do at last

break down, the fluids from their joints are used to brew a

hearty beverage that we then trade with desert tribesmen for

information and other artifacts."

"They sound very useful," said Urza.

Tocasia leaned back in her chair. "I'm impressed, Mishra. The

framework is covered by stitched hides to protect the workings

from the desert sands. I had one student who was quite handy with

a needle. Most first-time students assume the onulets are alive,

since the only things comparable are the aurochs." She chuckled.

"One of the pranks that Richlau and the other boys were probably

planning was to assign you to feed an onulet and not to come back

until it had finished its meal. How did you guess they weren't

living?"

Mishra blinked, then furrowed his brow. "I didn't guess. I

just knew."

Urza sniffed and said, "The gait is wrong for something

alive. It pitches forward when it takes a step. A real creature

would be smoother." He looked at Tocasia and shrugged. "I knew it

too, but I didn't think it important enough to mention. The Thran

must have been amazing people to have created it."

Tocasia said, "And what do you know of the Thran, young

Urza?"

The sandy-haired boy planted his feet apart and put his hands

behind his back-a recitation position Tocasia remembered from her

own youth.

"The Thran were an ancient race that lived in this land many

thousands of years ago. They created a number of wondrous

devices, only a few of which have survived to the present day.

The great clock of Penregon's Grand Court is said to be a Thran

artifact."

Tocasia suppressed a smile; the device at the heart of that

clock had been one of her earliest finds. "But who were they?"

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

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