Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “The museum announced they’d be ending the omnimancy display after King Klenn of Ruskan announced the quest to slay Detarr Ur’Mayan again,” said Buster. “I imagine the guild is nervous about having so many of its relics out of the vaults when so many heroes are headed far afield.”

  “But ye can still find a way for us to get the staff, right?” said Gorm, trying to ignore the icy fingers of panic creeping into his chest.

  Boomer turned to Buster. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Temporal distortion ruse?” suggested the Gremlin.

  “Seems the simplest way,” said the Scribkin.

  “It’s the only way, given the constraints,” said Buster.

  “We’ll do it,” said Gorm. “Just tell us what it is we’re doing.”

  “Pullin’ off an impossible heist, I’d say!” Boomer wore an eager grin. “But there’s no time to waste sitting around here jabbering about it.”

  “Come,” said Buster. “We’ll explain down in the lab.”

  They led the heroes back down onto the factory floor and along the narrow, yellow path to a door with a copper plaque on the front that read “CONSUMABLES.”

  The door opened into a warehouse of mismatched oddities. There were racks with hundreds of vials of colorful liquids with labels like “RESIST FIRE,” “BREATHE WATER,” “DETECT GOLD,” and every other imaginable pairing of verbs and elements. A multitude of bombs and grenades lined another set of shelves. An entire wall was dedicated to charms and cantrips, each ready to unleash a small spell once broken open.

  Heraldin plucked a folded sheet of paper from a stack on the cantrip shelf, next to a sign that read “ANTI-MAGIC CHARMS.” He was about to unfold it when Gaist lunged forward and grabbed the bard’s wrist hard enough to elicit a surprised yelp.

  “What was that for?” asked Heraldin. “I just wanted to read the pamphlet on their anti-magic charms.”

  “Your big friend there has the right of it,” said Buster, carefully removing the paper from the bard’s hand. “The rune on that paper is the charm. Anyone reads it, and it’ll knock the sorcery off everything within fifty yards. For a couple of minutes, at least.”

  “Sounds handy,” said Gorm.

  “Handy? Those runes will take the magic out of a mage, unshift a shapeshifter’s shape, and strip the bite off any magic weapons,” said Boomer. “They’ll change the tide of your fortunes, they will! Take a couple.”

  “Thank you.” Heraldin slipped a few of the folded papers into one of his pouches.

  “Just don’t read them anywhere near our shop. Ha!” said Boomer. “But those runes won’t help you get a Stennish artifact out of the Museum of Andarun.”

  “No?” said Laruna. “I’d think we could knock out the security wards to get into the museum at night.”

  “You might knock down the magical wards,” said Buster, “but you’d still have to walk into a museum full of guards unnoticed if you’re going to even make it to the staff.”

  “Let alone walk out,” agreed Boomer. “If anything’s out of place for a second, they’ll be all over you like Slaugh on a swamp log.”

  “So, what’s your plan?” asked Gorm.

  Boomer tapped the side of his nose. “Make sure nothing’s out of place for a second.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Heraldin.

  The Scribkin took a key from his pocket and unlocked a glass cabinet. Carefully, he retrieved a device that looked like a copper cage built around several small, blue crystals suspended by some unseen force. “This,” he said reverently, “is the chronobomb.”

  “You mean the time bomb,” said Buster.

  “That would be a bomb that goes off after a set amount of time,” growled Boomer.

  “You mean a delayed explosion bomb?” said the Gremlin.

  “You know that’s—” Boomer caught himself and, after a deep breath, told Buster, “We aren’t going through the name again. It’s a device that stops time.”

  Buster adjusted his spectacles. “More accurately, everything inside a small area around the… chronobomb will be sped up so much that—”

  “So much that time stops for everyone else,” said Boomer, glaring a warning at the Gremlin.

  “Isn’t chronomancy illegal?” asked Laruna.

  “Not as illegal as robbing a museum,” said Buster.

  “Right! You can get permits and Academy exemptions for chronomancy,” said Boomer.

  “Which we did,” said Buster. “Our research initially focused on developing a way to speed up production.”

  “Imagine it!” said Boomer, throwing one arm around Gorm and waving the other at some unseen production line. “Hundreds of golems working faster than we can even see! Why, we’d manufacture cartloads in less than a second!”

  “Well, we would if the crystalline structures supporting the temporal distortion field could withstand the distortion itself,” said Buster.

  “Beg pardon?” said Heraldin.

  “Those crystals are old, rare, and expensive enough to make thaumite look like quartz,” said Boomer. “And once you set off the chronobomb, they start to weaken. There’s no telling how long they’ll hold out before they shatter, dissipating the time spell completely.”

  “But it won’t be more than a few minutes,” added Buster.

  Gorm looked at the chronobomb and gave a snort of grudging appreciation. “It looks good, but I still don’t see how this gets us the Wyrmwood Staff.”

  “Have some vision, Gorm!” laughed Boomer. “You’re gonna buy your tickets, go into the museum, and get several minutes uninterrupted with the staff’s display case. Anything you do will happen too fast for anyone to see. You’ll grab the staff and nobody’s going to look twice!”

  Chapter 11

  “They’re all staring,” said Thane.

  “It ain’t that bad,” said Burt.

  “It is. Nobody’s sitting down. They’re just staring.” The Troll pointed at a pack of onlookers on the other side of the cafe’s short iron gate. The growing cluster of Elves and Humans wore expressions ranging from horror to disgust to pure confusion as they gawked at the massive Troll squatting next to one of Spelljammer’s relatively tiny tables. Much of the group broke off and hurried on their way when Thane looked at them.

  “And what if they are? Not our problem,” said the Kobold.

  “I don’t think our waitress is too happy we’re here, either,” whispered Thane, nodding to a young Tinderkin in a green uniform approaching.

  “She—uh—” Burt began, but the waitress’ arrival at their table ushered in an awkward silence and several forced smiles as she set out the table for tea. The Kobold waited until she retreated back under the awnings of the cafe’s elaborate hut before continuing. “She’s just unhappy that we’re keeping away the other customers.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  “We ain’t leavin’,” Burt growled. “I haven’t been to Spelljammer’s Cafe in ages. I used to come up here all the time when I was ridin’ in an Elf’s purse. We’d get jam tarts and spiced tea and watch the city go by.”

  He sat back in his stool and took a deep breath. “And now, after starving in a Dwarf’s smelly rucksack for over a year, I’m back at Pinnacle Plaza, I have a spiced tea, and a fresh-baked jam tart is on the way. So if our waitress or any other Lightling has an issue with us being here, they can go jump off the Wall to solve it.”

  “All right.” The Troll’s voice was heavy with uncertainty.

  “And quit moping. Try to enjoy this.”

  “I’m trying, but it’s hard to,” said the Troll. “I know you see the way everyone’s staring at us. You must hear them whispering. Don’t you get tired of pretending none of that’s happening?”

  Burt thought about it, then shrugged. “It beats the alternative.”

  Thane sighed. After a moment, he attempted to pour himself a cup of the spiced tea, but the serving set was designed for someone a fraction of the Troll’s size. Half the pot sloshe
d onto the table, and Thane glanced around furtively as he tried to clean it up.

  “Don’t—” Burt began, but stopped himself when the Troll flinched. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed a napkin and started mopping up the spilled tea.

  “Sorry,” said Thane.

  “Don’t worry about it,” grunted Burt. “You know, I bet Kaitha is a fan of Spelljammer’s.”

  “Did she say that?” said Thane.

  “Well, no. But I know her sister loves this place, at least. And if you didn’t want to take her to Spelljammer’s, then you could go to the Astral Plate. Or Sigil’s. Or even the Restored Tambour, if you want something easier on the old coin purse.” Burt pointed to the different cafes around Pinnacle Plaza as he named them.

  “But Spelljammer’s will always be my favorite. On account of the view.” Burt swept his arm across the panorama beside their table. The rooftops and spires of Andarun fell away before them, streams of people and carts cascading along the streets and stairways that spider-webbed through the city. Sprites of various colors sparkled in the air, especially around the dome of the Andarun Stock Exchange, which scintillated red and green in the glow of approaching trade sprites. Beyond the city, rolling clouds cast wandering shadows that meandered over the grassland and forest.

  “It is beautiful,” the Troll conceded.

  “You and her, sittin’ up here, sipping spiced tea, talking about flowers and trees and whatever else it is you have in common.”

  “Maybe music.” Thane rested his cheek on his hand and gazed out over the city. “She could teach me a lot about music.”

  “Right, whatever,” said Burt. “Now imagine some stuck-up Human in velvet tights struts up with his knickers twisted and says you two have to leave.”

  “What?” said Thane, sitting up straight. “I don’t think—”

  “Doesn’t matter what you think. He wants you and the Elf gone,” barked Burt. “Are you going to do it?”

  “No,” said Thane. “No, we’d stay.”

  “Why?” pressed Burt.

  “Because there’s no reason we can’t be here,” said the Troll.

  Burt stood up in his seat and pointed a triumphant finger at Thane. “Aha! And don’t you forget it.”

  The Troll fell silent and turned to watch the clouds roll across the landscape. Burt took the opportunity to clean up the last of the spill and order another pot of tea.

  Thane perked up when the waitress returned with the replacement tea. “Miss, I’d like a larger cup, please.”

  “We have a couple of beer steins in the back room,” offered the Tinderkin.

  “Yes, thank you,” said the Troll.

  The waitress nodded and headed off.

  “And thank you,” said Thane to the Kobold.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Burt.

  “Seriously, just stop talking about it,” Laruna hissed through her teeth. “Nobody will notice.”

  “I noticed,” muttered Gorm. “The gods alone know why you’re readin’ that here, and a bannerman might wonder the same!”

  “This is way more complicated than I thought,” Laruna murmured as she looked over the sheet of paper. It showed several woodcut diagrams of an unusually chipper wizard weaving magic at inanimate objects. The illustrated instructions were one of the hallmarks of Creative Destruction’s products.

  Gorm grunted and handed her a pamphlet for the Museum of Andarun’s omnimancy exhibition. “If ye have to read the instructions out here, at least hide it,” he said under his breath.

  “Fine,” said Laruna. She tucked the illustrated set of instructions into Gorm’s pamphlet and feigned reading it with interest.

  They sat side by side on one of the long marble benches in the museum’s atrium, watching the sparse crowds make their way around suits of Imperial armor from the Fifth Age. A few bannermen patrolled the floor in polished bronze armor decorated with the teal heraldry of the Agekeepers and, by extension, the museum itself.

  “I think that’s the signal,” said Laruna, nodding.

  Gorm looked. Gaist was standing at the entrance to the omnimancy exhibit, statuesque. “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I think so,” said Laruna, though she sounded doubtful. “There it is again? Maybe?”

  “I didn’t see any—why in the seven hells did we have Gaist give the signal?”

  “We didn’t want someone to notice the signal. Otherwise, they might think he was acting strange,” said Laruna, slipping the pamphlet back into her purse.

  “But the—he just stands around, staring at walls half the time! Everybody always thinks he’s acting strange,” sputtered Gorm.

  “Let’s go,” said Laruna, stepping away from the bench.

  The solamancer and Dwarf took an intentionally circuitous route through the museum, moving past the giant bones and stuffed drakes of the dragon-kin room, through a chamber filled with famous documents from the history of the Heroes’ Guild, and into the permanent exhibit on the Sten and the War of Betrayal. Gorm feigned interest in the glass cases filled with fragments of Stennish mortuary sculptures and sacred stones before Laruna pointed out Jynn and Kaitha.

  They joined their companions standing by a large, ornate case with a single, plain-looking spear in it. Behind the case, a mural depicted an Elven hero facing off against a Stennish warrior. Kaitha stared at the mural like any interested museum-goer, but Jynn looked conspicuously like someone trying to look inconspicuous.

  “What have ye got for me, lass?” Gorm asked, sidling up to Kaitha.

  “It’s the Spear of Issan,” said Kaitha.

  “That’s all fine and good, but I was askin’ how many bannermen you counted,” said Gorm. Now that he was closer, Gorm noticed dark spots beneath the Elf’s eyes. Her face looked more gaunt than slender. “Ye feeling all right, lass?”

  She rubbed at the dark rings under her eyes. “Yeah, it’s nothing.”

  “Ye’ve been acting strange of late,” Gorm said softly. “Ye ain’t… it isn’t dark thoughts, right?”

  Kaitha frowned at him.

  “All right, all right. I just had to ask,” said Gorm, hands in the air.

  “I just… I thought we’d have more time in Andarun,” sighed the ranger.

  “Aye, we all got surprised by the museum closing the exhibit,” said Gorm.

  “I know. I just wanted…” Kaitha caught herself and instead gave a reproachful glare back at Laruna. “I just hoped to have some time in the city.”

  “Aye. I wanted to have a good, long bath,” Gorm said.

  Kaitha grinned. “And we all really wanted that for you.”

  “Hilarious,” said Gorm. “But enough lookin’ at old weapons and makin’ wishes for the city. I counted eight bannermen on my way from the atrium.”

  “There are five between here and the exhibit on recent runes,” said Kaitha. She nodded to the spear. “And I thought you’d be more interested in something related to Niln’s prophecy.”

  “What’s that now?”

  “Yeah. If we’re to kill that statue Niln was worried about, we may need Issan’s spear,” said the ranger. “He was the champion of Tandos who killed the last prince of the Sten at the end of the War of Betrayal.”

  Gorm looked at the villainous-looking Sten in the mural. “That’s the Dark Prince?”

  “That’s what the Lightlings call him, anyway,” said Burt. “I prefer ‘that creepy statue that the pigeons avoid.’”

  “It sounds familiar.” Thane’s broad brow creased as he stared at the black granite statue at the center of Pinnacle Plaza.

  “Maybe you heard Gorm talkin’ about it,” said Burt. “The young priest that assembled the party believed all of the old prophecies about the Dark Prince. Assembled the group to fight and stop him.”

  “I remember Niln,” said Thane. “Gorm still talks about his prophecies.”

  “Yeah, I wish he’d stop,” said Burt. “But there’s the big guy at the heart of all the legends.”

  “He doesn’t l
ook right. He looks…”

  “Angry? Murderous?”

  “Horrified, perhaps,” said Thane. “Most of the statues I’ve seen today look more… noble. Determined. Heroic. Not… whatever that is.”

  Burt sat back up and took another sip of tea. “Yeah, well he ain’t there for the aesthetics. The city would take him down if they could, but there’s low magic and prophecy involved. Destiny or whatever.”

  “What do the legends say?” the Troll asked, still staring at the statue.

  “Oh, you know. Standard ancient prophecy,” said Burt, waving his hand dismissively. “That sculpture is supposed to be Stennish royalty, and he’s still ticked about the Elf who offed him when Tandos struck down Al’Thadan. And the story goes that one day the stone will come back to life, overthrow the kingdom, take revenge for the Sten, bring back Al’Thadan and the traitor gods, and rule the world. You know, villain stuff. Heard it a thousand times.”

  “You don’t believe it’s true, then.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s true. To a degree, anyway,” said Burt. “Thing is, Andarun has more guild heroes than anywhere else on Arth, and if having all these thrice-cursed adventurers around is good for something, it’s stopping dark prophecies.”

  Thane poured himself another tankard of tea, draining the pot. “I didn’t know you could stop a prophecy.”

  “Oh yeah, if you catch it at the right time,” said Burt. “Why, back when my grandsire was a pup, all the Deep Gnomes in Scoria thought the world was going to end at the hands of a great darkness from beneath the Ironbacks. They sold all their homes and bought up every can of potted meat you could find to prepare for the apocalypse. And then some hired swords running with Adventure Capital went down in some dungeon and killed a toothy demon from beyond space and time, and just like that the prophecy was finished.”

  “Crisis averted,” said the Troll.

  “Unless you were a Scorian Deep Gnome,” said Burt. “They all lost their homes and were left with nothing but canned ham. I bet they’re still eating it.”