Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  Jynn stepped back onto the yellow paint just as a crackling blue battleaxe flew through the space that his head had occupied a split-second earlier. It sailed through a large, rectangular hole in a corrugated metal wall before landing with an inexplicable splash.

  “Close one! Ha! Got to stay on the yellow floor when we’re in a live test zone,” said Boomer. “Safety is our top priority! Or at least it’s in the top five.”

  “What kind of test could that possibly be?” Laruna snarled as she tried to calm the trembling noctomancer.

  “Oh, I’m glad you asked!” Boomer’s eyes flashed as a wide grin lifted his impressive mustache. “Let me show you. Very exciting stuff.”

  He opened a door in the wall with the axe hole and led them into a brightly-lit, white chamber. A raised platform dominated the room, its surface a grate of tiny holes. On the far wall opposite the hole, the electrified battleaxe was embedded into a massive wooden target painted with a red bulls-eye. Beneath the raised platform a wide, shallow basin rested on short stilts, with a bottom that sloped down to a metal spigot. A Tinderkin in a white coat opened the spigot, and thick slime poured into the glass beakers she held beneath it.

  The source of the slime was obvious; on top of the grate a tower of translucent jelly gently quivered. It was shaped like a large cube, albeit one that leaned sharply to one side.

  Boomer gestured at the slime in the manner of a carnival barker unveiling a bearded woman or a shaved Dwarf. “That, my friends, is a Viscous Rhombohedron!”

  “A what?” asked Heraldin.

  “Viscous Rhombohedron. It’s a type of dungeon slime,” said Gorm, recalling his earliest dungeon crawls. “Slides around hallways eating anything that gets stuck in it. Same family as Spherical Jellies and Gooey Cylinders.”

  “Viscous Rhombo’s are the worst, though,” said Kaitha. “When they get hit, they spray some of their acidic slime in all directions. It’s got to be one of the world’s most disgusting defense mechanisms.”

  “Ha! Exactly!” Boomer clapped his hands. “But what we discovered is that the total volume of slime released by a Viscous Rhombohedron is directly correlated to the amount of destructive force that impacts its outer membrane!”

  Jynn had recovered enough from his near miss to be impressed. “That’s rather marvelous.”

  “It is?” asked Gorm.

  “They’ve developed an absolute scale for the damage inflicted by weapons and spells.” The noctomancer dabbed at his brow with a cloth. “They can measure which weapons are better.”

  “Exactly!” said Boomer. “Melis, what did you get?”

  “Ten and a half pints, sir!” called the technician, dumping the last vial of slime into a large bucket.

  “A good hit, then!” Boomer’s grin was even wider when he turned back to Gorm’s party. “Our Battleaxe of the Northern Storm always does between five and twelve pints of damage. An Axe of Lightning from those buffoons over at Vorpal Corp. only does between four and eleven.”

  “Can’t see how that’d make much difference,” asked Gorm. “An axe through the skull will kill ye either way.”

  “Ah, but some skulls are thicker than others,” said Melis, carrying the bucket up a stepladder. When she reached the top, she poured the slime onto the Viscous Rhombohedron, which burbled happily as it reabsorbed its lost material.

  “Ha! Ingerson here is living proof!” said Boomer. “And I don’t just mean hacking through a Swamp Kraken’s carapace. Listen, Gorm, heroes and their backers will pay sacks of giltin to know that they’ve got the best gear around. We can charge four times as much for a weapon that does just two pints of damage more!”

  “But the system must be a little biased,” mused Jynn. “I mean, slimes are immune to venom, and I’d imagine they’re more vulnerable to lightning than fire.”

  “Ah, see, now you’re sounding like Buster.” Boomer waved a gloved hand dismissively. “He’s trying to breed specialized slimes so he can figure out the math for different kinds of damage. It overcomplicates the system!”

  “It makes it more accurate, you mean!” hollered a gulping, raspy voice. All of the heroes except Gorm started as a Gremlin stepped into the room.

  The Agekeepers held that the Gremlins were once the Gnomes of Clan Remlon, known for for their rigorous science and lax ethics. Like the other lost clans of Gnomes, the corrupted god Noros warped their forms in the years before the War of Betrayal. Yet while Mannon’s evil engineers had clearly made the Slaugh distinctly frog-like and the Gnolls look like canines, it was much less certain where the forces of darkness had drawn inspiration from for the Gremlins. They usually had features somewhere between feline and reptile, and often they were marked by brightly colored scales, but those weren’t guaranteed traits. Gremlins often had a keen interest in biomancy, but unfortunately, their culture observed ethical standards in the way that merfolk observe hiking. As such, no two Gremlins were ever very similar. If they were, a couple of quick mutations could fix that.

  Buster was bulkier than most Gremlins Gorm had encountered; half a head shorter than Boomer, but built like a barrel. He wore heavy gloves over his arms and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles in front of amber, reptilian eyes. A thick, prehensile tail extended from behind his leather apron, gripping a large spanner that he waved for emphasis as he shouted at Boomer.

  “If we don’t account for natural resistances, our scale will never produce reliable results!” the Gremlin said.

  “Bah! You’ll just make it so confusing that customers won’t pay attention!” Boomer shouted back.

  Buster’s hackles were up; Gorm noted that they were webbed and tipped with sharp-looking spines these days. “It’s not as confusing as a system skewed by—”

  “It’s good to see ye, Buster,” said Gorm.

  The Gremlin stopped mid-shout, adjusted his spectacles, and blinked at the assembled heroes. “Gorm Ingerson! How long has it been? A dragon’s age, I’d say!” He broke into a sharp-fanged grin. “Oh, I wish I’d known you’d be visiting.”

  “I told you he was coming this morning!” said Boomer.

  “Oh, who listens to you, anyway.” Buster brushed the Scribkin aside. “Come now, Gorm. You and your friends must come back to the office for tea.”

  “That sounds lovely,” said Kaitha.

  “Aye, thank ye,” said Gorm.

  “And after we’ve caught up, you can tell us about this favor you need.” Buster guided Gorm back out of the test chamber.

  “I didn’t mention a favor,” said Gorm.

  “Yet,” said Buster.

  “When Gorm Ingerson shows up in Andarun, he needs a favor from someone,” said Boomer. “Lucky for us that it’s our turn! Ha! And probably unlucky for you all, as he only comes to us when he’s in really big trouble.”

  “That, or he’s attempting an insane stunt,” said Buster.

  “Ha! Right,” laughed Boomer. “So, which is it this time, Ingerson? You in danger, or just plannin’ something crazy?”

  Gorm gave a grim smile. “Well, since ye lads brought it up, both.”

  “Both?” Buster removed his spectacles.

  “I’ll wait ’til you’re sittin’ down,” said Gorm. “This is a big one.”

  “I think it’s shock,” Thane muttered.

  “It’s not shock,” said Burt, his head in his paws.

  “It looks like it.” Thane’s face bunched up in concern as he stared down at the clerk. “Madam, I believe you’re having a physiological reaction.”

  “She’s not. It’s not shock.” Burt sighed and tried to get more comfortable on the Troll’s massive shoulder.

  “She’s got all the signs.” The Troll watched the woman pensively. “Vacant stare, frozen in place, pale complexion…”

  The desk clerk made a sound that might have been a disgusted grunt or the dislodging of some stubborn phlegm. It was the second such sound she made during the visit—the first uttered when Thane handed her his thick stack of forms and questionnaires.
Otherwise, she had remained as silent and flavorless as a lump of Human oatmeal, decorated with excessive makeup and a wispy blond wig ill balanced on top of her malformed head. Her mouth was set in a frog-like frown as she hunched over Thane’s NPC application.

  “That’s how they always are,” hissed Burt. “If there were more clerks here, they’d be actin’ exactly the same.”

  Yet there was only the one. The Office of NPC Relations at Tamanthan Square was otherwise empty. There were few Shadowkin, NPC or otherwise, willing to walk into any office of the Heroes’ Guild these days, and management responded by cutting staff. Burt suspected that the remaining clerk kept her spot by distinguishing herself as the most dour and unhelpful of the pack.

  “What is she doing?” Thane muttered through his teeth.

  “She’s trying to find a reason to send you to the back of the line,” Burt whispered.

  “What line?”

  “You’d think that would matter, wouldn’t you?” Burt stared down at the tiny clerk. He’d spent much of his time in the Elven Embassy helping his clan-mates get their papers, and had seen every imaginable problem that clerks could find in NPC applications. Though it had been years since those days, he’d still navigated Thane’s questionnaire and its riders with the deft touch of a sailor maneuvering through familiar straits.

  Form D-4, including his voucher of intent to find employment, was completed in triplicate. Form D-6 itemized his attributes, from species and height down to an inventory of applicable combat skills. Subsection D-20 catalogued all the Troll’s treasures, including those carried on his person, in neat loot tables. Thane’s application was flawless.

  “I still think it might be a physiological reaction,” said Thane, a note of panic rising in his voice. “I’ve been causing them all day.”

  Burt gritted his teeth to hold back an angry retort. He took a couple of measured breaths and said, “Those people froze up because you kept trying to skulk and lurk in the shadows instead of walking down the street like a normal person. You looked like a thrice-cursed mugger! You got to act like you belong here if you don’t want people to notice you.”

  “I’m not sure I do belong here.”

  “Do you even know what you’re saying?” Burt had never heard of a one-ton walking death machine being so insecure about anything. “If you don’t belong here, I don’t belong here! None of us Shadowkin do, let alone the monsters.”

  Burt’s perch rose and fell as Thane shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just I’ve never been in a city of… you know…”

  “A Lightling city?” spat Burt. “Yeah, I bet you haven’t. And neither have I, ‘cause Andarun ain’t the Lightlings’ city. It’s everybody’s. Kobolds and Orcs and more have been born here, grew up here, and made homes here. It’s ours as much as anyone’s. If we keep shuffling around the edges and apologizing for being too much trouble and all that nonsense, it won’t be our city much longer. It’ll just be the place we live.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses. I lived here for most of my life, Troll. You know how many hoops I jumped through to get here? Hundreds. And I mean literally. It’s one of the tricks the Elves used to like a Kobold to know.” Burt could feel his hackles rising as he continued. “Andarun is my city. Our city. And as long as you act like it, everyone else will too.”

  Thane stared at the Kobold on his shoulder long and hard. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Good,” said Burt. “Stop apologizing.”

  “Sorr—um, yes. Okay.”

  Silence settled back over the hall.

  Eventually, the clerk lurched into motion, setting the paper down and retrieving a pair of rubber stamps from her drawer. “Never seen a Troll NPC before,” she croaked in the voice of a longtime pipeweed enthusiast.

  “Doesn’t matter, does it?” barked Burt. “There’s a manticore over in Sculpin Down that works in a foundry, and I know a boglurk that got a job in city sewer—”

  “Just sayin’ I ain’t seen one,” said the clerk without so much as looking at Burt. “Speaking of which, I ain’t seen your papers either.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I’m an NPC,” said Burt, flashing his own booklet at her.

  If the clerk had bothered to take down Burt’s NPC number and look up his records, she would have found that his noncombatant papers were voided for associating with a band of violent criminals. But few people had been eager to climb up a Troll to check a Kobold’s documents. Burt was counting on it.

  The clerk just nodded. “So, you’re the sponsor?”

  Burt shook his head. Shadowkin sponsoring Shadowkin required a background check. It was much easier to procure a Lightling’s help. Especially a particular sort of Lightling. “We’ve a friend here to sponsor him,” the Kobold told the clerk. “Hey! Boggit! You’re up!”

  A pile of rags on a nearby bench shifted and dropped to the floor. A moment later, a mop of unkempt hair popped from the top of it, and the creature shuffled in a widely meandering path up to the desk next to Thane. A bulbous face with a red glow and glazed eyes pushed out of the hairy mess, wearing an oblivious grin. The features could have been those of a Halfling or a Scribkin, or even a Dwerrow, but there was too much beard and grime concealing them to say for certain.

  “I’m’ere to vouch for this Kobold’s character,” said Boggit.

  “Not me,” whispered Burt. “The Troll.”

  “And the Troll,” slurred Boggit. “Both stand-up gentlemen if I ever saw ‘em.”

  The clerk’s face didn’t even twitch as she turned to the drunk. “You hereby certify that this Troll is of sound moral character and able to join the Freedlands as a productive member of society, and agree to sponsor him as an NPC?” croaked the clerk eventually.

  “Righty-ho!” said Boggit.

  “Sign here,” sighed the clerk, presenting a form.

  Boggit scrawled his name and birthdate on the form with the provided quill, drew an “X” through the signature line, and saluted for good measure. “A pleasure to serve. Are we done?”

  “That’s everything. Thanks, friend.” Burt pulled a small, glass bottle of Dwarven whiskey from his pouch and tossed it down to the probable Gnome. The vial landed somewhere in Boggit’s rags and disappeared from sight as the old drunk shuffled away.

  “That’s it?” asked Thane.

  “That’s it!” said Burt. “Now we just find out if your application is approved.”

  The clerk made the grunting noise again, stamped the application, and rang a small bell. Another clerk came and ushered Thane into a small back room where a Gnomish craftsman—a Deep Gnome, judging by the purplish hue of his skin—started working on the Troll’s woodcut portrait.

  “This is a good sign, right?” The Troll whispered from the corner of his mouth as the artist worked.

  “Oh yeah,” said Burt. “You’re golden.”

  “I thought they’d need more time to look into my background,” said Thane. “I mean, she saw who vouched for me. How do they know I won’t commit a crime?”

  The Deep Gnome laughed at the question.

  “Buddy, if you try anything, they’ve got a physical description of you, a complete threat assessment, and a catalog of the loot a group of professional heroes will find on your corpse,” said Burt. “You go rogue, and you’ll be nothin’ but a revenue stream for them to cash in.”

  “That’s what the Heroes’ Guild is supposed to do,” said Boomer. “They get paid to take care of this sort of mess.”

  “And I’d be happy to let ‘em, if they’d treat it proper,” said Gorm. “But I don’t see anyone else trying to muster Arth’s great artifacts.”

  “Do they realize the liche might have the Crown of Iron Thorns?” asked Buster.

  “They might,” said Jynn. “They know it’s missing, and there aren’t too many active villains right now capable of taking it.”

  “The question is whether or not they’d do anything about it,�
�� said Laruna.

  “Besides adjusting some numbers and upping their fees,” added Gorm.

  Boomer and Buster nodded, and a thoughtful silence descended once more.

  Gorm looked around the conference table, which sat in one half of the office of Boomer J. Blorfindol and Buster Slyne. On the other side of the room, two desks were set opposite each other, one as neat and tidy as a grid, the other barely visible beneath an avalanche of paperwork and discarded food wrappers. Beyond the desks, a giant window overlooked the factory floor of Creative Destruction Incorporated’s main workshop. Plans and diagrams were plastered across the walls so thickly that they almost concealed the certificates and commemorative plaques that lay underneath them.

  “This is a big one,” said Boomer, twirling his mustache.

  “If we thought there was any plan with a chance of workin’ that didn’t involve us breakin’ into the Museum of Andarun, we’d do that instead,” said Gorm.

  “The world hasn’t faced anything like this since the Sixth Age,” said Kaitha. “But the guild is treating it like a standard kill and loot quest. It may be too late by the time they realize what they’re up against.”

  Boomer nodded. “That sounds a lot like our Heroes’ Guild, unfortunately.”

  “But this plan…” Buster picked at his fangs with his claws.

  Gorm leaned forward in his seat. “Ye help us steal the staff, and your debt to me is repaid.”

  “Poppycock!” snapped Boomer. “We can never repay what we owe you, Ingerson!”

  The Gremlin smiled at the tattooed Scribkin. “But that won’t stop us from trying. I just wish you’d given us more time,” he added to Gorm.

  The Dwarf snorted. “Well, we can come back tomorrow if’n ye need—”

  “No, you can’t,” interrupted Boomer. “You need to steal the Wyrmwood Staff of Geffyn today, because the omnimancy exhibit ends tonight.”

  “What’s that now?” said Jynn.

  “You didn’t know?” Buster said, somewhat surprised. “They’re putting the omnimancy relics back into guild storage and opening up an exhibit on the reptilian peoples.”