Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (39 page)

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Pyfox was greatly concerned by Namni’s sudden departure from the visiosphere. He knew that the final assault on the Dubers could not succeed without the augmented energy pulse Namni would provide to the remaining quake-triggering mages. The intruder threat had been neutralized by the deployment of stasis runes at the entrance to his chamber. They erected a powerful barrier that prevented both physical and magical trespassing. A motley crew had assembled on the other side, including the previously semi-mythical Ballop’ril, but Pyfox paid them no mind now that the barrier was up. Not even Ballop’ril could hope to weaken it before the final assault was completed. Presuming, of course, that Namni reappeared before the effect dissipated. He was beginning to get seriously worried when a brilliant flash lit the room and a small black statue appeared suddenly on the floor near the visiosphere. At the same moment the sphere flickered into life.

“When I am strong enough I will signal you and the operation can continue. Until then protect the replicast with your life.” The voice was very thin and wavering, but unmistakably Namni’s. Pyfox picked up the pitch black figurine. It was warm to the touch and softly thrumming. Little arcs of electricity leapt from it at irregular intervals, making a distinct crackling noise as they dissipated.

Just beyond the barrier, Ballop’ril was watching the proceedings closely. “It looks like a replicast,” he narrated to the group, “Namni must have run afoul of someone extremely powerful to force him to retreat into that. Someone he anticipated, though, because it takes a very long time to enchant such a thing.”

Pyfox heard his explanation and strolled over, replicast in hand. “Yes, it belongs to Namni, traitor. In a very short time he will be using it as the platform from which to launch the final assault on the Dubers. That will leave only my portal here in Astflanar for access to The Slice, access that will cost the mages and Magineers dearly. I will have a monopoly on magical sourcing for the entire planet.”

“Careful you don’t drop it, Pyfox,” Ballop’ril said, “Or your boss will be so much latent magical energy spread across the cavern floor.”

“Shows how much you really know, oh mighty archmage Perspice,” Pyfox replied with a sneer, “this replicast has an inviolability spell cast on it. It cannot be damaged by any means.”

“See those sparks coming out? That means the inviolability enchantment is not yet fully activated. Until they stop, you’re just holding a porcelain figurine full of hate with an internal heating element.”

Without warning a burly goblin wearing a trench overjack and helmet with the Goblinopolis Edict Enforcement departmental badge enameled on it popped up from behind a stalagmite and jerked the pulsing replicast out of Pyfox’s surprised grasp. “Thanks for the scoop, your mageness. I hate to be an art critic, but this thing has got a date with a rock.” He raised the statuette above his head. “No!” screamed Pyfox; he and two other hobs leapt toward Tol, but he body-slammed the first one into a stalagmite, dodged the others, and hurled the statue into space. The replicast inscribed a soaring arc over their heads and shattered against a large column of stone dripping with water seeping in from the ceiling. “Take cover!” shouted Ballop’ril. Tol ducked down behind the stalagmite again.

A pulse of pure white energy exploded from the fragmented replicast; the shock wave took layers of material off the surrounding stone facades and propelled Pyfox and his cronies against the walls of the cavern like rag dolls. The magical barrier bulged outward as the leading edge contacted it, and then punctured like a balloon shot with an arrow. An instant later the pulse had expended itself and all was quiet except for the moans and groans emanating from Pyfox. He had barely survived the explosion; one of his hobs was not so lucky.

Tol gave Pyfox first aid, and then pulled him to his feet. “You’re under arrest for a whole buncha stuff that I’ll sort out back in Sebacea.” Pyfox grimaced at him. “I think we’re out of your jurisdiction, smekhead.”

“But not out of mine.”

They looked up to see two more Goblinopolis EE officers accompanied by a third goblin in a brown and green uniform. His breast patch was the twin mountain peak & lightning bolt emblem of the Southron Rangers.

“Glad to see you gobs,” said Tol, “how in the smek did you ever track us down in here?”

“Some weird smooth-skinned creature who called himself ‘Plåk’ not only told us exactly where to find you, he gave us a teleport right to the entrance.”

“Good ol’ Plåk. Makin’ up for past indiscretions.”

“What’s that, now?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you at the pub some night.”

“Yeah, all of your stories are long when there’s ale involved.”

“I don’t get it, Pyfox. How did your larcenous little brain ever come up with a scheme of this magnitude?”

“He ain’t stupid,” the surviving minion spoke up, “Namni said he would get rich and live forever if he helped.”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Pyfox snapped, “He’s raving. Must be the pain.”

“I ain’t in that much pain, boss. I just don’t want ‘em to sell you short.”

The air off to their right abruptly took on a slight opacity and then Plåk himself shimmered into view.

“Yes, immortality would have been yours, Pyfox. But through what was no doubt an unintentional oversight the dearly departed Namni left out a rather crucial bit of information. Each time you were reincarnated into your cloned shell, your memories of anything that happened after the cloning would be eradicated. Further, and more to the point, Namni had modified the mental encoding of the clone such that you would be completely, unquestionably obedient to his every whim: incapable even of conceiving of questioning him, in fact. Forever a slave in word and deed.”

Pyfox still appeared defiant, but a hint of doubt was creeping in.

“Oh, and one last tidbit. I was snooping about in Namni’s lair while he was distracted by your little enterprise here and his rather entertaining battle with Oloi and discovered this.”

He held up a glowing crystal cube with a red protrusion. “This, my immortal Pyfox, is a kill switch. It is magically linked to both your physical and cloned brains. Eventually Namni would tire of you and when that happened he would simply press this button. Poof! No more living Pyfox, no more clone.”

“But...he swore to me that he would honor our agreement forever.”

“Namni is for all intents and purposes a demigod. The gods, or at any rate those in the same neighborhood of the ethical spectrum as Namni, are not bound by pacts taken with mortal creatures.”

Selpla stepped forward, her reporter’s curiosity no longer containable. “So, Namni is dead, then?”

“Not truly dead, no. His energies have been dispersed over an ever-widening area. It is theoretically possible that he could nudge them back together eventually and reform, but that will take at least an Age or two. Nothing to worry about for a few millennia, at any rate.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

“My name is Plåk. I am an...adventurer in The Slice.”

“And a criminal,” added Tol. “Reformed, it seems, but a criminal nonetheless.”

“There you go, always hating—even after all I’ve done for you.”

“I’m not hatin’, I’m testifyin.’ I am grateful for your help, by the way.”

Plåk sighed. “Make a simple mistake and pay for it throughout eternity.”

“You sank an entire island with three major cities on it!”

“It was a technical error, nothing more. I had no intention of harming anyone.”

“Oh, I’ve
got
to get this story,” said Selpla, almost salivating.

“Morianella,” said Kurg simply, from the rear.

Selpla looked confused for a moment, shook her head.

“
Morianella
? That disaster was caused by a quake almost a thousand years ago.”

“Yeah,” replied Tol. “Did it ever seem odd to you that scientists never figured that one out? That there are no faults or seismically active areas anywhere near where Morianella used to be? That’s ‘cause geology had nothin’ to do with it. That quake was the result of not-so-Archmage Plåk here goofin’ with something he didn’t understand.”

“That is so patently unfair of you, Tol-u-ol. I understood the Codex Lapidismotus intimately. I simply made a small error reciting one of the rituals. It was an honest mistake that anyone could have made.”

“Except anyone else making it probably wouldn’t have drowned a half million people.”

“Well, it’s obvious you’re not in a pleasant conversational mood today, so I’m off.”

Plåk disappeared, leaving behind a faintly sparkling outline that drifted slowly to the stone floor. The whole group began to move down toward the much more accessible entrance to the cavern used by Pyfox, who was positioned along with his injured henchman in the middle of the group as prisoners of the Southron Ranger, guarded by Tol and the other EE officers. Ballop’ril and Prond brought up the rear. Tol dropped back to talk to the bugbear.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Archmage, but I heard Pyfox call you
Perspice
back there. What did he mean?”

Ballop’ril took a deep breath. “It is,” he began, “one of those proverbial ‘long stories.’”

“I think I may know some of it,” Tol interjected, “if it involves the Belladonnas.”

Ballop’ril nodded. “Indeed, it does. Gramidius Contentius, the Capo Belladonna, and I are…brothers.”

Tol stopped short. “Not to seem disrespectful, Archmage, but is that even biologically possible?”

Ballop’ril laughed. “No, indeed it isn’t, in the literal sense. What I mean is that we were brought up together. My mother and father were killed in a street riot in a Galangan border market when I was but a toddler. We had crossed over to do some shopping—my mother loved and collected Northern Galangan folk pottery—when a street protest formed right outside the shop where we were browsing. I don’t think either of my parents realized how dangerously the situation had escalated. We had just stepped outside and were crossing to another shop when a mass of people came running down the street, fleeing government troops who were responding in large drays with horizontal rams affixed to them. My father flung me bodily onto the curb just as they were both slammed by a press of people trapped in front of the rams. I never saw them alive again.

Prond had never heard this story, either. He gasped in shock and horror. Tol just listened grimly. He’d seen too many similar tragedies.

“Grami’s family lived in that small town and saw what happened. When the casualties were laid out for identification and they realized I was the only survivor of my own family, they adopted me on the spot using the Galangan Declaration of Fostering. I grew up there with Grami as my ‘brother.’ Clostridius Perspice was the name they gave me as a child, but when I came of age they told me my original name had been Ballop’ril. His parents and I communicated up until his mother passed on; I don’t know if old Terentio yet lives. Not surprisingly, they didn’t approve of Grami’s choice of occupation, or what comparatively little they knew of it. They didn’t understand mine, either, but at least they were supportive insofar as it wasn’t as morally questionable as his. Grami inducted me into his Belladonna ‘family,’ but I never felt comfortable there and did not associate with them often.”

Tol was digesting all this when Selpla came bouncing up. Ballop’ril seemed relieved at the interruption and dropped back. Tol just let him go.

“Tol, can you give me details of the Morianella incident?” Selpla asked, sweetly.

“Sure, doll. All it takes is good ale and patience. It’s ancient history, though. I did learn one thing from it: you can’t prosecute someone who doesn’t reside on the physical plane. The smekkers just skip out on you.”

“I don’t have any ale on me right now. Can we make a date back home soon?”

“I hang out at the Bloated Balrog, on Pacinian in Sebacea. Drop by early evening, before my shift starts.”

“I think your work schedule might be revised, Officer Tol-u-ol,” interjected one of the Goblinopolis cops. “Sarge sent us to find you and bring you back as soon as possible. Captain wants you, and I mean now.”

“Why in the smek would the captain want to see me? Did I forget to file some smekkin’ paperwork or some smek?”

“Not sure. I think Sarge mentioned something about the king being involved. Seems a bit far-fetched, though, for the king to care about a Sebacea EE squad.”

Tol rolled his eyes. “Smek, I forgot about him. It’s not really as, um, far-fetched as all that.”

The EE officer looked surprised. “It isn’t? Why not? What possible reason could the
king
have for being interested in you or our squad?”

Tol looked annoyed and a bit embarrassed.

“He’s my uh...he’s my kid brother,” he whispered. Their eyes got wide. “Keep it to yourself, all right?”

From somewhere in Tol’s backpack they heard an odd twittering noise. 

Chapter Twenty-Three:
A Knight to Remember

A
t the border between the Municipality of Greater Goblinopolis and the Southern Reaches, the Southron ranger formally handed over custody of Pyfox and his surviving accomplice to the EE officers. They thanked him for his assistance and headed for Sebacea. The news team split off at this point, with Selpla promising to contact Tol soon for the Morianella story. If she’d been aware of Tol’s relationship to the King she probably wouldn’t have been able to tear herself away, no matter how loudly Kurg commanded her otherwise. Access to anything related to the Royal inner circle was an irresistible draw for a Goblinopolis journalist.