“Couple of quick things,” Tyron announced as the staff gathered inside the shop prior to opening. “First, I’m going to be taking a trip out of the city, starting next week. I’ll be gone for approximately six days. That means you and I are going to be extremely busy making sure our storeroom is filled with stock, Flynn.”

“Not a problem, Master Almsfield. I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“Just make sure you let me know if you’re getting too tired to work accurately,” Tyron reminded him sternly. “I applaud your enthusiasm, but sloppy work, I do not.”

The apprentice hesitated a moment before he nodded.

“Secondly, Cerry, this will mainly impact you. So far, you’ve been responsible for opening and locking the store every day, and you’ve been faultless at performing this task, even when I’m not around. I want to commend you on your dedication and professionalism, wonderful traits to have in someone so young. Even after you awaken, I want you to know you’ll always be welcome to work here in this shop.”

“I’ll want a raise. though,” the young woman smiled, full of pride at the praise she had received.

“After some consideration, however, I’ve decided I have been irresponsible in entrusting this work to someone so young. There is a lot of money and valuables kept in this store. and I would hate it if you were attacked by someone wanting to get inside.”

Cerry went to protest but Tyron held up his hand firmly.

“I know what you want to say, and as I said a moment ago, you have done excellent work and I couldn’t have asked any more of you, but I refuse to allow this job to put you in any danger. I have contracted another party who will be responsible for opening and closing the shop each day.”

He raised his voice.

“Come inside.”

The front door opened with a ring of the bell attached to the frame and a woman clad in hardened leather armour stepped inside, a broad smile on her face.

“Hello all,” she said in a friendly tone. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is Wansa, a silver ranked slayer who’s decided to settle in the city for the time being. I’ve brought her on at the recommendation of people I trust, and I hope you can all work together.”

The three of them each said they could, some with more enthusiasm than others. Wansa continued to smile broadly, Cerry looked a little sullen and Flynn still looked a little dazed at Tyron’s rebuke.

He sighed.

“Wansa, find a spot to make yourself comfortable, but please don’t interfere with Cerry as she works the floor and handles transactions. Flynn, let’s get upstairs and get to it. I’ve ordered quadruple of our normal shipment of goods this week, and I intend that the cores be carved and set before seven days are done.”

Apprentice Flynn swallowed and nodded heavily.

“Of course, Master Almsfield.”

~~~

“Still alive there, Flynn?”

The apprentice raised his head from his workstation, red-rimmed eyes staring back at Tyron with barely a flicker of life in them. He could almost picture the young Arcanist as a zombie.

“I’m fine, Master Almsfield, just fine,” he wheezed.

“Did you manage to get those cores set last night?”

“I… I did.”

“Great work. This is the last of them then.”

Tyron lifted the heavy case in his hands, filled with another hundred newly completed cores, and placed it carefully on the cluttered bench. Flynn looked as if he might cry.

“Go home and get some sleep, Apprentice Rivner,” Tyron told him firmly. “You can take your time with these. As long as they get done by the time I return, I’ll be more than satisfied.”

“A-are you sure?”

Caught between exhaustion and his desire to keep up, Flynn wavered between a determined expression and a look that seemed as if he were sleeping sitting up.

“You’ve worked extremely hard this past week, much more than normal, and your output has been quality. I’ve no complaints. Go. Home.”

“Right you are then, Master Almsfield. I-I’ll just… head on home.”

Although he wobbled a bit when he stood from his chair, Flynn was able to make it downstairs alright, though Tyron was still concerned.

“Cerry, I’ll watch the store for a bit, can you make sure apprentice Rivner gets home safely? I have pushed him too hard over the past week and he’s not all too steady.”

The young girl lowered her head and busied herself with shifting a few items back and forth before she drew a deep breath and turned around.

“I’d be happy to,” she beamed. “Come on, Flynn, let’s get going.”

Despite his mumbled protests, Cerry took hold of one of his arms and practically dragged him out of the store. For his part, Tyron stretched his back and flexed his fingers, listening to them pop with satisfaction.

“Those two are sweet on each other, you know that right?” Wansa said from her post near the door.

Tyron frowned.

“They are?”

He’d not noticed any signs, the two seemed perfectly natural around each other. Or perhaps that was the sign? A casual, comfortable working relationship was all he thought had developed between the two. Was that unusual between two people of that age?

“I’m not sure why you keep the two of them around in the first place,” Wansa said. “My mistress could replace them in a day with much—erk!”

The moment she said mistress, the Necromancer's fingers had flashed through a sequence of sigils and he slammed his mind into hers. It’d become far too easy over the years, to dominate the will of others in this manner. If only it weren’t so necessary.

He glared at the slayer, whose blank eyes stared at nothing.

“What did I tell you about mentioning your mistress?” he hissed. “Or anything to do with them?”

With a contemptuous snort he released his grip on her and the woman slumped forward, gasping.

“You are here because your mistress owes me, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you can be trusted. And you can be trusted, can’t you Wansa?”

She glared back at him.

“Or should I have a word, a little chat, with your precious mistress? I don’t think she’d like what I had to say. She may be quite mad at you, perhaps even abandon you. What would that be like, to never feel the touch of your mistress again?”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Wansa whimpered. The anger in her eyes immediately crumbled, replaced with desperate, naked fear.

“I’ll be quiet,” she breathed. “I won’t mention it again. You have my word.”

“Good.”

He turned his back on her and returned to the counter, leaving Wansa to collect herself. Once a proud slayer who had fought for years at Undermist Keep, she had been reduced to her current state after becoming entangled with Yor and her coven.

Able to reduce even relatively strong slayers like Wansa to quivering addicts, the methods of the vampires were powerful, but distasteful to Tyron. Yor looked at Wansa as a capable servant, fully able to utilise her mind and abilities, whilst being totally dependent. Tyron only saw a weak, trembling wreck. Emotional, unstable, and ultimately not to be depended on, these enslaved humans were a stopgap solution at best. He would rather have an undead by his side, every time.

Still, she was a much needed layer of security, and was utterly loyal to her mistress, to the point of insanity. No doubt she was reporting everything he did to Yor, but he could live with that. It wasn’t as if he did much in the shop other than work anyway. But she could never be allowed to compromise his cover.

Cerry and Flynn gave him an added veneer of authenticity. An unawakened youth was the traditional salesperson of choice for those businesses who wanted to appear trustworthy. Customers could shop confident in the knowledge they weren’t being manipulated by merchant skills or feats. Having an established apprentice like Flynn in his shop gave another layer, another connection to the trade and city at large. Replacing them with more bewitched slaves of the coven would not help him in any regard.

He breathed out and let the tension drain from him. With no customers in the store, he pulled out the account books and began to go through them line by line. Just as he had for his uncle Worthy so long ago, Tyron found it strangely soothing to work through the numbers. Cerry kept a good record of each transaction, but her arithmetic wasn’t perfect, and he made corrections here and there.

All in all, the store continued to be very profitable. In any enchanting work, the cores were always the greatest expense, but limiting himself to the smaller grades, usually used for light, weak power cores, producing a little warmth and other such applications, saved him an immense amount of money.

Compared to the vast sums of money master Willhem made on a daily basis, Tyron was living in poverty, but he had more than enough to fund his activities. With the added funds he earned from his share in Yor’s business, he was on his way to becoming genuinely wealthy.

He drew no pleasure from it; all he needed was enough to fund the resources he required to fulfil his purpose.

Cerry arrived back at the shop a half hour later, and Tyron took a few minutes to point out the errors she had made and let her know he had secured the safe in the backroom for the duration of his trip.

With that done, he went to his room and stretched his back and shoulders once more. A week solid of relentless enchanting work was nothing to him; after three years straight of endless grinding in his apprenticeship, he felt like he was only getting started.

Barring any unexpected surges in demand, the store should be stocked for the next month, which would leave him plenty of time to complete his excursion and then research on his next set of remains. With the amount of time he’d bought himself, he should be able to research while maintaining a relatively normal sleep schedule. How luxurious.

Still, there was little point in wasting any time. He stalked around his room, swiftly packed a small travel pack and set out. Just outside the western gate that led into Kenmor, a huge network of coaches and stables could be found just off the main road, which thronged with traffic at all hours of the day.

Once there, he paid handsomely for a coach, climbed into the back and settled down to sleep. It would take almost three days to reach his destination, travelling around the clock. If possible, he’d like to avoid having to make this sojourn to the backcountry, but there were obligations he had to meet.

~~~

The carriage had been rattling over a rough section of dirt road for several hours, and Tyron was half certain his teeth were going to shatter if he didn’t get some relief. At least he was sure they were approaching their destination.

He’d paid for speed, a classed Wagoneer who could get the absolute most out of the horses he worked with, but perhaps he should have also sprung for a more padded coach. Something to consider next time, or perhaps he was just getting soft and should try to toughen himself up.

Soon, the coach began to slow until it finally came to a stop, the horses huffing and whinnying with relief.

“Here you are, sir,” the wagoneer, Eric, called.

Tyron grabbed his pack and opened the door, alighting to the ground with one wobbly step.

“Thank you, Eric. It’s a rough journey and I thank you for persisting.”

The middle-aged, stubble-faced man grinned wearily.

“That’s what I’m paid for, sir. How long until we head back?”

“A little under a day at most, twelve hours at the minimum.”

“Well then, with your permission, I’ll grab myself a bite to eat, something to drink, take a piss and get some sleep.”

“By all means. If you head to that house over there, they’ll accommodate you.”

“Thank ee, sir.”

As the man trudged off, clearly fatigued, Tyron took a deep breath of the fresh air.

Still smells like shit. Yet somehow, still better than the city.

As much as Kenmor had invested in sewers and sanitation, having so many people packed into such a small space was an impossible situation to manage. Shadetown stank even in the best areas, and the city itself was only marginally better. At least, outside of the Golden district and Castle.

Before him stood several large farmhouse buildings made from cut stone. Centuries old, the stone had a light covering of lichen and moss, as well as a few climbing vines that lent a sense of age to the place.

“Master Almsfield,” a voice greeted him and he turned to see Rita Oldan approaching.

In her finely made clothing, the farmwife looked more like a prosperous merchant than a person of the land, though her thunderous expression betrayed her less than genteel temperament.

“You’re late,” she said in clipped tones as she drew closer. “We expected you two weeks past.”

“I’ve been occupied,” Tyron replied coldly.

If he’d left the corpses sitting in his basement for two weeks, they’d have saturated well before he could begin to work on them. Meeting the deadlines of his collaborators was secondary to advancing his own craft.

“They don’t care how occupied you are. You’re to meet your end of the agreement.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? If I arrive according to my own timetable rather than yours, that is something you will simply have to deal with.”

She scowled at him.

“You may as well let your real face show. Your man is going to be fast asleep in five minutes.”

“I will drop my glamour,” Tyron said firmly, “when I am out of sight, and not before.”

Why was everyone he had to work with so stupid?

Rita snorted.

“You’re on the Ortan estate. We’re two days from the nearest city and an hour to the nearest farm. You’re as secure as you can possibly be out here.”

She turned to lead him to one of the buildings and paused after three steps when he didn’t follow.

“I want to go into the basement.”

“You’ve kept the Venerable waiting long enough,” she grated.

“The old goat isn’t going anywhere. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“By Rot, your disrespect will come back to haunt you one day, Steelarm.”

Anger flashed in Tyron’s eyes at the use of his name, but he suppressed it.

“Basement,” he said.

Mrs Ortan was furious, but she acquiesced, as he knew she must. A few minutes later, she withdrew a long key from her pocket and used it to remove the heavy padlock from the cellar door.

“I won’t be long,” he said, as he ducked his head and walked down the narrow steps into the darkness.

Conjuring a magick globe, he extended his senses to check on his wardings. When he found them intact and undisturbed, he nodded with satisfaction. One couldn’t be too careful.

A few keyphrases and a little sigil work later, he stood in a long, narrow chamber, the air heavy with dust and mildew. He empowered his globe, chasing back the shadows to reveal the contents of the cellar.

At the back, row after row of skeletons, the light in their eyes so dim as to be reduced to a bare spark, almost impossible to see. Almost fifty in total, as there had been the last time he was here. He briefly inspected them, ensuring their condition hadn’t deteriorated, before he turned to the shelf that ran down the left side of the room.

Stones of irregular shapes and sizes rested there, each engrained with a symbol. Moving down the chamber, he ran his hands along each of the stones, ensuring that each was in its proper place, until he came to the one at the end.

This one, he picked up and placed carefully in the centre of the dust-covered stone floor. He stood over it for a moment, contemplating, before his hands began to move, fingers flickering through a rapid series of sigils.

When he was done, mist began to rise from the stone, forming a cloud of chilling white right in front of him. From within the haze, a wailing, defeated voice emanated.

Let me die, Rufus begged.

Tyron stood coldly, staring at the trapped spirit. One corner of his mouth lifted the smallest fraction.

“No,” he said.