by Adam Thomas
The vampire turned to mist, and her clothes dropped to the floor. The mist looked like morning fog on a lake, except it moved like quicksilver on a slanted surface. But Jeral had a vial ready. He swiped it through the thin cloud as it began to surge up the stairwell, away from the fire. Quick-thinking Shonasir whipped an arrow at the door frame at the top of the stairs, and the frame frosted over. In a flash of light, Shonasir’s Awakened Ice appeared, blocking the way. Shonasir commanded it to turn itself into icy water, and it flowed down the stairs like sloshing rapids. The water caught the vampire’s mist in its flow, dispersing it. Then the water reached the cellar floor and touched the near edge of the fire. Steam hissed throughout the basement, hastening the party’s flight from the manor.
They reached the moonlit grounds as smoke and steam belched from the cellar’s doorway. They were battered and bleeding and coughing, but all very much alive. A figure was rushing toward them from the neighboring house. Rosamund Steele emerged from the shadows, a look of confused concern etched on her face. She wore a silk dressing gown and slippers, and her flame-red hair was artfully disheveled. Anyone who did not know she was a vampire would have assumed she just woke up in the middle of the night.
“I’ve dispatched my butler to call the fire brigade,” she called, her voice husky with distress. “Is anyone hurt?”
Ronin Nar took in her appearance and realized that here was one of the supposedly kidnapped women he was after. “I’m afraid your neighbor has succumbed to the fire, but her staff must be warned. Excuse me.”
He strode to the kitchen door and wrenched it open. But before going in he turned and said, “I hope I never see any of you ever again.”
Then he was gone, and the B-Team heard his shouts reverberating throughout the house, a staccato counterpoint to the crackling whoosh of the basement blaze.
“Not a bad sort,” Shonasir said. “Brave in the end.”
“I like him,” Rhys said with a grin.
Rosamund ignored them and fixated on Jeral. “Mission accomplished?”
Jeral held up the vial and nodded.
“Good.”
Emric stepped towards Rosamund and said, “And with the fire you won’t have to pay to tear the house down.”
“True.” Rosamund’s statuesque features rose into an offhand smile that said she had never needed to consider the expense of expanding her property. “True,” she said again, and then her smile evaporated into her usual stern beauty. She fixed each of them with a gaze, taking in the flawless kaerest they wore on their chests – all save Emric, who had graciously donated his to her when he was charmed.
“Then our business is concluded,” Rosamund said, and she turned on her heels. When she had shut the door to her house and she was alone in the darkness, she added, “For now.”
tonight
Rosamund’s Letter
Dear Apranashar,
I write to tell you of a fascinating acquisition of mine, and to offer you a proposal. I have come into possession of a magical item called a karest. The item I possess is one of five such kaerest, all of which come from Karanathan, I believe. They carry the blessing and magic of an elder elf from that place, and I am sure are of great interest to you, given your desires of old.
I am in possession of one of these five tokens, and the other four are in a location that is safe and inaccessible. As a gift to my sire, I am willing to give you the first of these. I am also willing to acquire and give you the other four and all information I may gather about their origin, under the condition that they shall be my last gift to you. I have grown in my own right over these centuries, and I intend to claim the city of Thousand Spires as my territory within which no other vampire shall pass without my permission. If you accept these terms and are willing to release your claim over me as my sire, I shall aid you in this last endeavor gladly so we may part ways peacefully. We may meet either in my territory in Thousand Spires or in another place amenable to us both. If not, I shall simply allow these kaerest to wander off the edge of the known map, and you may wander another thousand years in search of them. Of course, my sire, the choice is yours.
Sincerely,
Rosamund Steele, once Samantha Esris
twenty-two
The Final Ingredient
The cheery bell above the Phoenix Wing’s door tinkled as the triumphant B-Team crowded into the small shop. With a bow and flourish, Jeral placed the vial of vampire mist on the counter. Helmen Pint’s eyes lit up, and he quickly swapped out his monocles and stared at the precious ingredient with the ice-blue one.
“Well, I’ll be a werewolf’s chew toy,” he said. “I knew you lot were determined, but I never really thought you’d find this. I can’t say I’ve ever worked with mist of vampire before.”
“It was not easy,” Jeral said. “Then again, worthwhile things rarely are.”
“Look who’s going all philosophical on us,” Alurel said.
“I’m anticipating my new personality,” Jeral said with a wink.
“New looks, new you?”
“The real me this time,” he said and surprised himself by choking up.
The potioneer busied himself gathering the other ingredients the B-Team had dropped off before their days hunting undead. He lit an arcane fire beneath a cauldron on his counter and added the water from the Verinon Par.
“We’ll let that come to a boil and then add the blackroot and moonfoil leaves.”
“Sounds like a nice tea,” Alurel said.
“It is, it is,” Pint said. “Restorative in itself, of digestive distress and cramps and the like. That’s why it makes such a good base for this potion.”
Pint let the tea steep before adding three drops of basilisk venom.
“That’s all the venom you needed?” Rhys asked.
“If you were drinking the potion, laddie, I might use four, but for our dragonborn friend, three will do. Too little and the potion won’t flow to the bloodstream. Too much and, well, that’s a rocky road.”
Pint chuckled at his own joke. Emric scowled. He considered puns the lowest form of humor.
The potioneer donned a thick leather glove. “Lizard hide,” he said. “Dragon hide would be better, but the big lizards in western Torniel have similar scales.” He held the vial in his gloved hand and uncorked it with the other. “And now for the star ingredient.” Pint plunged the vial into the boiling solution before the mist could escape. “Only way to add such a gaseous ingredient to a potion, I’m afraid.” He pulled out the empty container and smiled at it in satisfaction. “Glad it worked.”
Pint hummed to himself as he stirred the potion. After several minutes, the concoction thickened and gained a misty white-gray color. Pint dispelled his magical fire and poured the cauldron’s contents into a tankard. “We’ll let it cool for a moment, but we can’t let it get too cold. You must drink it while it is still quite hot, I’m afraid.”
Jeral held the tankard and waited until Pint nodded. Then he drank the potion in two large gulps. “Tastes like –”
But before Jeral could describe it, he began shaking all over. The tankard fell from his grip. He staggered backwards, and Rhys steadied him. His green scales began blurring together, like many pats of butter melting in a skillet. His tail shrank into nothingness. His skull reformed, losing the long draconic snout and gaining a sharp, angular, elven shape. Gray-blue skin replaced green scales. Long, delicate fingers replaced claws. A humanoid of medium stature replaced the tall and lanky dragonborn.
The only thing that remained the same was his eyes. They looked as different as the rest of his new body, but they held the same mischief, the same twinkle, the same haunted trauma, and deeper down, the same kindness.
“You’re an elf!” Alurel said when the transformation had come to an end.
“Half of one, at least,” Jeral said, as he looked at his new-old
hands. He ran his tongue over his sharp canines, which were nearly long enough to be classified as tusks. “And still half an orc, too.”
Jeral turned to the potioneer. “Do you have a mirror?”
“Just there on the back of the door,” Pint said.
Jeral approached the mirror with trepidation. “I haven’t seen this face since before my first...my first murder. Until I met all of you, until you accepted me for all the people I’ve had to be, I never wanted to see it again. But I want you to know who I was, what I looked like, before I became a monster.”
“Your past doesn’t own you,” Alurel said, accompanying Jeral to the mirror. “Look at who you were before the trauma. Embrace him. And begin to heal.”
Jeral stepped into the mirror’s path. His features were more elven than orcish, much to his mother’s disgust. He had high cheekbones and a slightly protruding jaw. His ears curled into points above his hairless scalp. He tried on a smile, and his small tusks gave him something of a vampiric look. But the smile faded as a voice spoke in his mind.
Just because you’ve reclaimed your old body does not mean you have reclaimed your soul. You are mine, now and always. Never forget that.
“Jeral?” Alurel asked. “Is everything all right?”
He blinked away the burning sensation in his head and turned to his friends. “I’m not Jeral anymore. Call me Sorvek,” he said.
“So what do we do now?” Rhys asked, as the B-Team sat by the fountain in Tornby’s lovely park which led towards the Eldasin Library. Sorvek had treated them all to ice cream in gratitude for risking their lives for his transformation.
“We’ve obtained the kaerest, saved an orphanage, completed a pair of missions for Lord Day, killed a vampire, and helped Jer… I mean Sorvek,” Emric said. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“You could tell us why you’re terrified of water,” Alurel said in an offhand fashion.
Emric fell silent and busied himself with his ice cream.
“Lord Day is bound to have more work for us,” Sorvek said. “And it pays well.”
“We don’t want to seem too eager,” Rhys said. “He’ll pay us more if he has to track us down for a job.”
“Looks like someone’s picked up some of his boss’s business acumen,” Alurel said. “And speaking of Duna, what about him? Any work in this part of Sularil?”
“The Duna family has their hands in pots all over the Sularin League,” Rhys said. “But I’m something of a freelancer right now. I’d rather not get folded back in just yet.” He squinted and bit his lip. “But don’t tell Papa Paddy I said that.”
“I have a thought,” Shonasir said. “The gnomish enchanter in Thousand Spires. Elsany was her name. She said she is always looking for adventurers to gather ingredients she needs for her magic. Why don’t we ask her for work?”
“Gnomes give me the creeps,” Rhys said.
“Pssh,” Alurel said, throwing her empty ice cream cup at him. “That’s just your Kelenite superstitions talking. Gnomes are great. Elsany is lovely. She pointed me to where I got this.” She held up the vial she received from the archdruid in the forest. “Care to try it out?”
“How does it work?” Rhys asked, his aversion to gnomes suddenly forgotten.
“Put a few plant-based items in here, and in a day or two, they make a potion.”
Rhys’s eyes lit up. “I’m all for that. Here, take something from my mushroom stash.”
He pulled a bulging sack from his satchel and unwrapped it. Out spilled a pile of various mushrooms.
“Where did you get all those?”
“Here and there. Mostly from the Aril Forest when we went to see the archdruid.”
“I thought we talked about you checking with me before picking any dangerous fungi?”
Rhys looked down like a scolded child. “I haven’t tried any yet, I promise.”
“Right,” Alurel said, folding her arms across her chest.
“Well, maybe one or two.”
Alurel held out the enchanted vial to him. “Put one in here and we’ll test it together...safely.”
Rhys selected a particularly frilly fungus and squashed it into the vial’s narrow opening.
“So, back to Thousand Spires?” Shonasir asked the group.
“Sounds good to me,” Sorvek said. “I’ve never been there as myself.”
The B-Team walked north into the Pinnacle and took a runegate to the Trade Quarter of the big city. Thousand Spires was so named for the towers that rose across the thirty mile isthmus. But not all the buildings in the city were many-storied. Elsany’s shop in the Trade Quarter South was even smaller than most, a little cottage in the midst of much larger structures. A sign on the door noted that she had been in business in her location for nearly two hundred years and anyone who wanted to buy her land to turn it into some sky scraping monstrosity could sod off.
They crowded into the small interior. The shop was most definitely sized for gnomes and halflings. Sorvek, Shonasir, and especially Rhys had to watch out for the ceiling beams which crisscrossed the room. Hooks holding various drying plants were especially dangerous because they were at eye level.
“Just a moment, please,” came a singsong voice from beyond a short doorway at the back of the room. “Do look around in the meantime and see if you find anything to your liking.”
Elsany’s gnomish accent barely touched the rougher sounds of the common tongue and her vowels were lengthy and bright. The voice was inviting, hospitable, and set the B-Team at their ease.
“Look at this,” Shonasir said. They pulled a beautiful, dark-stained leather quiver from the wall.
“Ah, you have a good eye, my young elven friend,” Elsany said as she appeared in the gnome-sized doorway. She wore a canvas apron over puffy maroon trousers that gathered themselves at her ankles. Her shirt was green and buttoned up tight around her throat. The ensemble gave her the look of someone attempting a radish costume. For a gnome, Elsany was in the later stage of middle age, which would have made her easily ten times older than Rhys or Alurel. But her bright eyes and quick, businesslike movements made her seem much younger.
“Welcome back to my humble shop.” Elsany favored Shonasir with a broad smile. “How is your bowstring treating you?”
Shonasir pulled what looked like a simple necklace from around their neck and pumped their fist once. Their bow materialized with the enchanted bowstring taut from end to end. “It’s brilliant, Elsany. You’re the cleverest gnome I’ve ever met.”
“Probably the only gnome you’ve ever met, my dear, but I’ll take it. I see you’re looking at that quiver. If you thought I was clever before, go on, give it a try.”
The elf shrugged off their quiver and donned the enchanted one. But when they bent to transfer their arrows, Elsany clicked her tongue. “No need, no need.”
Shonasir gave her a skeptical glance and then slowly bent their arm in the familiar motion of arrow-grabbing. To their astonishment, they grasped an arrow and pulled it from the empty quiver. The shaft glowed with an ethereal quality, but the wood and feathers and metal tip were solid.
“The supply is limitless,” Elsany explained. “The arrows are perhaps more potent than crafted ones, and they disappear after being loosed.” She smiled and chuckled to herself. “Well, after they do what they’re supposed to do, I mean.”
Shonasir did not try to hide their enthusiasm for the astounding quiver. “I’ll give you all my money for it.”
“That quiver is the most precious item in my shop just now,” Elsany said. “I’m not sure mere coin will pay for it, no matter how much you have.” The gnome bustled over to the counter and busied herself writing on a scrap of paper. The B-Team watched her in silence. When she was done, she handed the paper to Shonasir. “Luranko, twelve portions should do. You bring me that and the quiver is
yours.”
“What is luranko?” Sorvek asked. His voice sounded both strange and natural coming from his original body. The intonation and personality were the same, but the register was different – a little higher without any of the gravel his dragonborn throat had added to his speech. It suited him.
“Undead bone dust,” Elsany said matter-of-factly. “Technically, it’s the dust made from the interior of a bone against where the marrow once was. Tricky to distill. The femurs of animated skeletons are the best because they don’t have any of the extraneous juicy bits.”
“Great, more of the formerly alive,” Sorvek said.
“You have some experience with undead beings?”
Rhys’s hand went to his throat and rubbed the scar where Serafina’s teeth had punctured him. “A little,” he said.
“Then you shouldn’t have any problem.”
“Where do we find this luranko?” Emric asked.
“The older the better,” Elsany said. “There are plenty of ghost stories about the mounds near the Crossroads. That might be a place to look.”
“Seems like an awful lot of work just for a magic quiver,” Emric said. “Are you sure we can’t just pay you for it?”
“I need this luranko for a special order, and I can’t get it myself.” Elsany clapped her hands together and put them on Emric’s shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. You get the luranko for me, and you’ll get the friends and family discount here at my shop for the rest of my days.”
Emric couldn’t help but like the old gnome. She spoke with equal parts business savvy and grandmotherly admonition. The dwarf looked at his companions, who gave him nods and smiles of affirmation. “Deal,” Emric said. “We were looking for something to do anyway.”
twenty-third
The Burial Mound