Alistair Grim's Odd Aquaticum by Greg Funaro

thing!”
    “And since that time,” Father went on, “in addition to his academic endeavors, Oscar Bricklewick has devoted his life to the search for Excalibur. Thus, out of professional courtesy, as well as a lack of necessity on my part, I never pursued Excalibur for myself. Until
now
, that is.”
    “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Bricklewick said contemptuously. “You’re an expert on that, aren’t you? Stealing things from your friends? Why should Excalibur be any different?”
    “Nevertheless,” Father said, ignoring him, “as any quest for Odditoria takes significant preparation, given our present state of affairs, there is simply no time for me to carry out the proper research. Fortunately, Professor Bricklewick knows the precise location of Excalibur already. Problem is, he doesn’t have the means to get there. I, on the other hand, have the means but not the location. You see where this is going, Oscar?”
    “You really have gone mad, haven’t you?” Bricklewick said. “Even if I believed you, which I don’t, after everything you’ve done, how could you possibly think that I would turn over my life’s work to my most hated rival?”
    “Because, like it or not, we’ve run into something much bigger than you and me—something so dangerous that, if you refuse to help me, the world as we know it will cease to exist.”
    “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
    “An evil, magic-absorbing necromancer bent on world domination. His name is Prince Nightshade, and he is more powerful than anything you could possibly imagine—so powerful, in fact, that only Excalibur can defeat him.”
    The professor’s mouth hung open, and Father proceeded to give him a brief summary of the events leading up to our arrival in Cambridge, including Nightshade’s attack on the Odditorium, his quest for the animus, and his plan to create an army of purple-eyed Shadesmen. And when he’d finished, a stunned Professor Bricklewick sank down into an armchair and rubbed his forehead.
    “Good heavens, Alistair,” he said weakly. “What have you done?”
    “You see, Oscar, although I’ve known about Prince Nightshade for quite some time, the old devil had been entirely unaware of my quests for magical objects until his discovery of the animus at the Odditorium last month. However, I am convinced that we first crossed paths a decade earlier—unbeknownst to one another, in the wake of Abel Wortley’s murder. You remember old man Wortley, don’t you?”
    “Of course. He was my family’s friend as well as yours.”
    “Well, it is my belief that Prince Nightshade murdered Abel Wortley all those years ago for his Odditoria. And since that time, not only has he managed to keep his true identity secret, but he’s also ensconced himself in a suit of magical armor that is virtually impenetrable to both conventional and magical weapons alike.”
    “But, Alistair, if what you say is true and this necromancer is capable of absorbing magical power, I should think Excalibur would be useless against him.”
    “Unlike most magical weapons, Excalibur does not require a spell to activate it. The sword’s power lies simply in the strength of the blade itself. Therefore, it would be able to cut through the prince’s armor without him absorbing its magical properties.”
    Professor Bricklewick thought for a moment. “Indulge me. Let’s suppose that I agree to hand over my dreams to the man who betrayed me. Surely you must remember your history. Excalibur was forged for the Pendragons, the ancestral line of King Arthur, and thus, theoretically, can only be recovered by a descendant of the royal bloodline.”
    “I am well aware of that, yes, but I thank you for the refresher.”
    “So tell me,” Bricklewick said, leaning back in his chair. “Unless that cold black heart of yours beats with Pendragon blood, just how do you propose to get your grubby little hands on Excalibur?” Again, he added for me, “No