Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  Thane shook his head. “It still seems dangerous to have all of this set up so close to such an ominous figure.”

  “Oh, to hear the Elves tell it, people worried about it a long time ago. In the Sixth Age nobody wanted to live anywhere near the Dark Prince, so the only folks you’d find near the Pinnacle were some itinerant Tinderkin, Halflings, and acolytes of various temples trying to stop his return. But at some point they decided that the statue isn’t going to do anything with all these heroes running around, and hey, this view is actually pretty nice. Wasn’t long before the Elves and other well-to-dos started buying up the real estate.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing that there are so many professional heroes around here,” said the Troll.

  “Oh yeah. Almost makes up for all the murdering and pillaging those big, furless bastards do,” Burt muttered into his tea. “Sure, they kill or steal anything within reach, but at least they’re good at their jobs.”

  “I’ve no idea what I’m doing,” said Gorm.

  “It’s got one thrice-cursed crank,” Heraldin whispered over his shoulder. “You should be able to figure it out.”

  In one hand, Gorm held a device no bigger than a plum: a ball of swirling blue and green ribbed by bands of silver. A large key protruded from its top. In the other, he held a slip of paper with the words “CREATIVE DESTRUCTION: AUTOMATIC DISTRACTION” followed by four woodcut diagrams featuring a smiling hero in a cloaked hood and form-fitting armor.

  The first illustration showed the grinning rogue winding the key on the top of the sphere. Gorm gave the key on his own device a few good cranks and checked the instructions again.

  “This looks suspicious,” Laruna murmured, nodding at the bannermen on patrol.

  “Not as suspicious as all of you whisperin’ at me!” Gorm growled. “Shut up and act natural.”

  The party loitered around the entrance to the omnimancy exhibit, each of them strategically positioned to block the bannermen from seeing the alcove where Gorm worked. Heraldin and Laruna stood closest, feigning a conversation about the museum’s displays.

  The instructions’ second diagram showed the rogue whispering to the device, complete with a tiny word bubble containing a tree. The third showed the rogue tossing the ball underhand onto the ground, and the fourth showed a tree with large gouts of smoke surrounding it.

  “Nothin’ left but to try,” muttered Gorm. He held the ball close to his mouth, whispered “dragon-kin room,” and dropped it.

  The silver bands whipped off the ball as it spun through the air, becoming a set of ten spindly legs that caught it before it hit the floor. Without a moment’s pause it scuttled off toward the showcase of dragon-kin relics, keeping to the shadows as it did so. A moment later, Gorm lost track of it amid the bustling crowd.

  The heroes quickly filtered into the omnimancy exhibit. The wing’s banners showed sinister-looking wizards in gray robes, with headlines that had all the scholarly restraint of a carnival barker. “OMNIMANCERS: BETRAYERS OF THE ACADEMY” read one. “OMNIMANCY: INFERIOR BREEDING OR A DARK CURSE?” mused another.

  Gorm had just stepped through the doorway when thunder roared from the dragon-kin wing. He glanced back to see plumes of black smoke billowing from beneath a wyvern skeleton, sending attendees scattering from the perceived threat. Every bannerman in sight sprinted toward the smoke, swords drawn and at the ready.

  “Go get ‘em, lads,” Gorm muttered, stepping out of the way as attendees and guards stampeded past him. Ahead, the rest of the party gathered around a glass case. Jynn pulled the chronobomb from the recesses of his robes and twisted each end of the device, releasing the bars of copper surrounding the crystal.

  “Hey!” hollered someone. Gorm turned.

  A portly old bannerman had noticed the gathered heroes, and now his eyes fell on the whirling crystals levitating between Jynn’s hands. “What are you doing there?” he cried, rushing forward.

  “Blood and ashes,” swore Gorm.

  Light flared. A low thrum echoed through the chamber, and Gorm felt a whisper across all of his skin at once. A thin glow, a membrane of light, blazed into existence. Beyond it, the world was tinted blue and completely frozen, as demonstrated by the rotund bannerman caught mid-stride at the edge of the bubble. Beyond him, Gorm could see straight down the halls to the museum’s atrium, where the fleeing attendees, rushing guards, and even billowing smoke were all locked in place.

  “I think it worked,” said Jynn. He set the copper pieces of the chronobomb down; the crystals powering the time bubble were dancing through the air on their own now, whirling like drunken fireflies.

  “Well, all right then,” said Gorm. “Laruna, you’re up.”

  “I’m already on it.” The mage held up a silver mirror about the size of her palm in one hand and the sheet of directions in the other. “This is one of those times I wish you could weave solamancy,” she told Jynn. “This needs threads of light and water.”

  “I can still try to help.” Jynn took the instructions from Laruna and held them up for her to view.

  The heroes stepped up to a long display case. Beneath the glass a gray staff rested on red velvet. Its top was carved to resemble a dragon’s claw clutching a polished sphere of milky-white crystal. Words were carved in tight, concentric circles around the shaft in a variety of languages, though Gorm didn’t recognize any of them.

  “I’d give a penny to know what that says,” Gorm said.

  “It just says ‘rule in virtue’ over and over,” said Heraldin.

  “I didn’t know ye could read ancient languages.”

  “Bards know many secrets,” said Heraldin. “For example, we know to always read the signs at a museum.”

  Gaist tapped a bronze plaque on the display case.

  “Quiet,” hushed Jynn. “We need to concentrate.”

  Wisps of light danced around the mirror in Laruna’s hand for a moment, and then a silvery beam burst forth from its center onto the glass of the case. The solamancer slowly rotated the mirror, so that the light crept over the surface of the case. The beam left a pale glow as it passed, as though the case was being painted with light. It was a slow process that, judging by the expression on the solamancer’s face, was going to take a while. Gorm stepped away to look at the rest of the displays.

  There were a couple of omnimancer artifacts from the early centuries of the Third Age, slender devices that looked like they were spun from ivory. Nobody alive had any idea what they were intended for. They sat beneath a mural with several smart plaques that gave a neat illustrated history of the Twilight Order. It started with the heights of the Order’s power in the Second Age, when, as a helpful sign explained, omnimancers had once functioned as magical enforcers that kept the other two orders of mages in line. The pigments darkened along with subject matter as the mural transitioned to the omnimancers’ alliance with the Sten in the War of Betrayal, though the colors brightened again as the Twilight Order met their downfall at the hands of the Alliance of Light. The mural concluded with a few scenes depicting omnimancers as they existed today: scattered groups of transients, exiled from the Academy and living in the shadows of society.

  Another large display was dedicated to the story of Antoro Ibson, an allegedly well-known Archmage of the Order of the Sun from the Fifth Age. According to the signs scattered around Archmage Ibson’s personal effects, Antoro set out on a crusade to find hidden omnimancers within the ranks of the Academy.

  Next to the case lurked a large, ebony wagon with bright red wheels. Gorm read that the “dusk wagon,” as it had been affectionately known by compassionless men, was once used by Archmage Ibson’s lackeys to transport hundreds of suspected omnimancers to the gallows before the Academy came to its collective senses and deposed the madman. After Ibson’s departure, the Academy made two notable changes to its laws: first, that omnimancy was punishable by expulsion rather than death, and second, that a mage, regardless of his or her aptitudes, had to use both sides of magi
c to be convicted of omnimancy.

  “We’re just about done here,” Jynn called.

  Gorm broke away from the exhibit and trotted back to join the other heroes huddled around the Wyrmwood Staff. The case shimmered with silvery light from its glass top to about halfway down its four ornate legs.

  The mirror in Laruna’s hands thrummed with the same light, highlighting the sweat beading on the solamancer’s brow. But her eyes were confident, and she gave Gorm a satisfied grin as he approached. “We’ve got it,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “How about the security?”

  “There’s a heavy lock and an alarm mechanism on the case for our thief to pick,” said Jynn.

  “Please, friend. I am a bard,” said Heraldin.

  “A bard who picks locks and steals things,” countered the mage.

  “Many bards do that. But I am a bard who does not pick locks and steal things, because Benny Hookhand might find out I was participating in that sort of activity.”

  “You’re a wanted fugitive,” said Laruna.

  “Ah, but for guild crimes, not for thieving,” Heraldin said. “It’s very different.”

  “How so?”

  “The guild would only hang me, for starters.”

  “Look, it’s all well and good to try to avoid this Hookhand fellow, but we’ve all seen you pick locks,” said Jynn.

  “No, you haven’t,” said Heraldin pointedly.

  “And I suppose all of those locks we’ve encountered together opened themselves?” The noctomancer’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “Who can say? How does a flower bloom? How does the sun rise? How does a dragon-kin fly when its wings can’t possibly support that much mass? More pressingly, how did this case get unlocked?” The bard rapped his knuckles on the edge of the case, and the lid popped up with a metallic click.

  The other heroes stared at the open case. “But… how?” asked Jynn.

  “It’s a mystery,” said Heraldin.

  Gaist looked at Jynn and nodded.

  “No, but… but… I didn’t even see you pick the lock,” protested the wizard.

  “Exactly!” said the bard. “Now, you can finish stealing this staff if you like. I’ll be over here minding my own business and definitely not taking part in a burglary.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Gorm nodded to the wizard, who looked nonplussed as he slowly opened the case.

  Jynn’s reluctance gave way to reverence as he lifted the Wyrmwood Staff. He ran his fingers over the inscribed words for a moment before handing the artifact to Laruna.

  The crystal flared with amber light the instant the solamancer touched the staff, prompting the other heroes to step back.

  “Why’d it do that?” asked Gorm.

  “It’s… happy,” said Laruna, holding the glowing staff in one hand and the magical mirror in the other.

  “Careful, friend,” Heraldin called from the far edge of the time bubble. “You cannot trust a weapon that thinks for itself. Soon it may start thinking for you as well.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jynn. “But many artifacts were given rudimentary desires, like a dagger that wants to kill or a sword that seeks out a righteous warrior. As long as our goals align with the staff’s, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It sounds like the stick is in charge already,” said the bard.

  “It just wants to be used,” said Laruna, staring into the glowing crystal.

  “And we ain’t got no choice but to use it,” said Gorm. “So let’s get going.”

  “Agreed,” said Jynn.

  Laruna nodded and set the glowing mirror in her hand down in the center of the empty case. Jynn carefully closed the lid and nodded to her.

  “Kalya,” the solamancer muttered, weaving threads of light into the glass. A white glow flared for a moment, and then a perfect copy of the case appeared in the same space as the original, concealing the mirror. The illusion was nearly indistinguishable from the actual case, save that it contained an ethereal replica of the Wyrmwood Staff and it sat at a regrettably unorthodox orientation to the case’s legs.

  “Bones,” swore Laruna.

  “I’m guessin’ it ain’t supposed to be sticking out the sides like that,” said Gorm.

  The new, illusionary case was almost perfectly perpendicular to the old one, with half a table leg dangling from each of its four corners.

  “Here, just rotate it,” said Laruna, opening up the case and fumbling with the mirror inside. But the magical bauble had expended all its power, and the illusion remained immobile no matter how the solamancer twisted and turned it. With a grunt of frustration, she flung the mirror away. It flew straight until it passed through the membrane of the chronobomb’s field, where it slowed to a stop mid-flight, as though trapped in the goopy mass of a Viscous Rhombohedron.

  “Careful!” hissed Jynn.

  “Why? It’s worthless now.” Laruna gestured at the illusionary case, resolutely set at a right angle to its original. “Who cares what happens to the mirror?”

  “I care more about what happens to the rest of the room,” said Jynn. “Everything in the chronobomb’s radius is actually moving unimaginably fast. Anything leaving the bubble will keep some of its momentum. Look!”

  He gestured at the mirror. The expended trinket was suspended in the air, but it was also clearly moving, creeping along like a snail among statues.

  “That mirror’s likely moving fast enough to embed itself in stone,” said the noctomancer. “You could destroy an exhibit or kill someone.”

  “Ah,” said Laruna.

  “At the very least, that’s going to alert the bannermen,” said Kaitha.

  “Oh? And do you suppose they might notice this freakish twelve-sided display case as well?” snarled Heraldin.

  “Hey, that mirror was complicated!” Laruna waved the illustrated instruction sheet at the bard. “This doesn’t make it clear that you’re supposed to orient the mirror before you speak the words.”

  “Well, how did you think it was supposed to work?” said Heraldin.

  “Like magic!” exclaimed Laruna. “It’s magic! It’s supposed to do what you want it to! That’s what makes it magic!”

  “Uh, we have bigger problems,” Kaitha interrupted.

  “We’re wanted criminals standing in the middle of a museum full of bannermen next to a conspicuously botched illusion with a stolen relic in our hands,” snapped Heraldin. “This is as big as problems get!”

  It occurred to Gorm that Heraldin’s words likely constituted a violation of Nove’s first principle of universal irony, but events were moving too fast to dwell on it.

  “Fine,” said Kaitha. “We have additional problems of equal magnitude.”

  “Like what?” said Gorm.

  The Elf pointed behind the bard. “The time bubble is shrinking.”

  They looked. The shimmering membrane that marked the edge of the chronobomb’s area of influence was beginning to contract. It was a slow, jerking retraction, but it was accelerating.

  “Bones,” swore Laruna.

  Gorm’s mind raced through possible scenarios, searching for one that didn’t involve a battle with museum bannermen and guild enforcers.

  It was clear that the party wasn’t going to walk out of the museum with the Wyrmwood Staff amid the confusion as originally planned. Between the old bannerman running at them, the speeding mirror on track to destroy a suit of Imperial armor from the Fourth Age, and the bizarre illusionary case set up behind them, the heroes were sure to be a point of interest for any nearby guards.

  Now, the only option was to flee. He looked down the museum hall to the great doorway on the opposite side of the atrium. The fleeing crowd had shoved the doors open, and beyond it Gorm could see the streets. It was a straight shot, but it was too far to run. They’d almost certainly be caught and bogged down in a fight halfway across the Atrium.

  Unless…

  “Help me get the cart!” he shouted, running back to the display on Archm
age Ibson.

  “What?” asked Kaitha. “How will that—”

  Gorm was already at the Dusk Cart. “Just help me!”

  The open-topped cart’s wood was old and faded, but it was solidly built, with two steel axles for its four iron-ringed wheels. Gorm’s axe made short work of the cables that held it in place, and then Gaist and Heraldin helped him wheel it to the center of the chronobomb’s collapsing hemisphere.

  “Everybody in!” Gorm said as he and Gaist carefully lined up the front of the cart. There was a narrow path to the door through the fleeing attendees and running guards. It felt like trying to thread a needle from several hundred yards away.

  “I’m still not sure how being inside a vandalized exhibit will make the museum guards any friendlier,” said Heraldin.

  “The trick is not bein’ in the museum anymore, ain’t it!” said Gorm, running around the cart. Gaist vaulted him inside before leaping into the cart himself. “We’re drivin’ this cart out of here just like one of them jet-sleds at Boomer and Buster’s! Laruna, make a big fire.”

  “A what?” asked the solamancer.

  “Ye know, a big stream of flame,” said Gorm, waving his hands in an ill-informed facsimile of a sorcerous gesture. “A big fire to push us along like the jet-sled.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” said Laruna. “If it did, I’d get blown off my feet every time I cast a spell.”

  “It could work if you had a focus,” suggested Jynn. “The jet-sled must have used a latticed weave channeled through a focal nexus.”

  “Didn’t that jet-sled crash?” Heraldin asked Gorm as the mages fell into whispered jargon.

  “Aye,” said Gorm, rapping his knuckles on his steel helm. “I’d try to find a helmet.”

  The bard paled visibly.

  “Okay,” said Laruna, nodding. “It’s worth a shot.”

  “I’m not entirely sure how well it will work,” Jynn told her.

  “But it’s bound to work better than sittin’ around yammerin’,” said Gorm. He stood toward the front of the cart’s bed and grabbed the reins from the driver’s seat. “Now, how do ye steer this thrice-cursed thing?”