It had been two days since Alec had arrived in Circulus Seruatis, and he’d spent nearly all of it in the library devouring text after text under Dus’ watchful eye.

To the teen it had been an enlightening experience. The reading had been tough going at first, to the point the gorgon had quickly grown tired of having to explain any words the boy had never come across before. Not that she would change it for the world.

The boy was a reminder of kinder times, times when she’d been able to walk free and safe. When her children had been alive.

Alec, for his part, had been fascinated by what he’d learnt of the histories and abilities of the three species of ‘stone gazer’.

The catoblepas, for example, were, many, many generations ago, the most common of the stone gazers, the almost cattle-like reptile a common sight in rocky areas, as were the statues of people who saw them.

There had been attempts to domesticate and farm the deadly creatures, blindfolding them so they couldn’t turn people into nothing more than a decorative lawn feature.

Predictably it had gone terribly wrong, catoblepas going berserk when deprived of the sense of sight.

Eventually, humanity had, according to the surviving memoirs, got tired of its irksome neighbours and started possibly the most cautious and well-planned cull in history requiring years of training on how to fight blindfolded culminating in thousands of deaths, both in training and on the field of battle itself.

Ultimately this crusade was successful, driving the catoblepas extinct in many regions. The bizarre reptiles had, however, undergone something of a resurgence in recent years, finally domesticated under the watchful, and no less dangerous, gaze of the gorgons. Whole herds now existing in their colonies in the Kholteph mountains — a mountain range the paladin-born Alec had never heard of before.

Gorgons were a much more interesting topic. Many books unable to agree on a cohesive history for the species, all agreed they were far more recent to Contenmere than either of the other two and, that whilst there were no recorded earlier sightings on the other continents, the author in question had had the honesty to point out the problems inherent to gorgon sightings, as well as, that both of the adjacent continents Byzale and Belsinan, were more than sufficiently large to lose an entire civilisation without any real effort at all.

Thus the search for a two-hundred-thousand-year-old statue of truly exceptional quality continued, albeit with ever decreasing quantities of hope.

Other theories were both more fantastical yet more likely. Some claimed they were the shock result of an early paladin experiment with nullstone, others that it was a necromancer attempt to bypass the same.

The one theory universally decried as lunacy, yet included by Dus all the same, was that, way back in the mists of time, a savage goddess, mad with power, did curse one of her own priestesses over a perceived slight, making it so that for all eternity the young woman would never again be able to gaze upon the face of another living being.

For an encore, and perhaps to set the grounds for an insanity plea, for surely there could be no other reason for the goddess to then go and curse the priestess’ two sisters to the same fate.

According to the book, such was the goddess’ power that despite five decades of toil, the mages of the time were unable to break the curse, many being struck down for their perceived hubris.

Whatever the gorgons knew as the truth of their true origins, they appeared to be keeping it to themselves.

Dus herself had been equally unforthcoming when Alec had asked her which theory was true. The gorgon had merely laughed, “All guesswork and children’s fairytales,” she’d remarked dryly. “Historians need to find better things to do than speculate and promote allegory.”

“So none of them are right?” Alec persevered.

Dus had refused to comment further.

Now, after two days of reading the boy was beginning to grow, not quite bored but drained somehow, as if there were only a certain amount of dry, humourless text a person could consume in a given length of time; it wasn’t that the information within wasn’t interesting, it really was, but the people who wrote it down appeared to be actively working to make it about as dreary as a conference on the analysis of the minutiae of the minutes of a meeting about a conference.

The complete lack of emotive language was thoroughly depressing, and as Alec stepped out into the daylight, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind and spirit.

The world was vibrant and full of life. The air awash with sounds and smells.

With a spring in his step, Alec resumed his exploration of Circulus Seruatis.

Meanwhile, in the infirmary, Saiko awoke for his second day of captivity. He’d spent a day shackled to the bed with only the dying necromancer and the tattooed soldier for company. Neither of whom had been particularly talkative.

Not that he was complaining; compared to some of the captivities he’d been forced to endure, this was the gilded cage with all the trimmings and an en-suite. Actually, the lack of a real en-suite was his one complaint; the needs of his bladder had been growing increasingly pressing. As if in answer to his thought, the tattooed soldier walked in, apparently unarmed, and walked over to the bed, not looking up as he calmly undid the restraints.

Once both legs and an arm were free, the mercenary tensed, preparing to wrap his legs about the man’s throat; a sufficiently tight sleeper hold would put nearly anyone out within five seconds. It was one of the few certainties in life, like the sun setting in the west or the tides.

“Don’t,” the man said calmly, unlocking the final manacle.

Saiko didn’t. Something about the tone told him he wouldn’t enjoy the result. Instead, he opted for a question, one that had been nagging insistently at him since he’d first woken — which had been a surprise in itself. “How are you still alive?”

“Would you believe really good luck?” The Swordsman asked, watching the man massage his chafed wrists, taking his answer from the venomous glare this earned him. “Very well. I am, for the lack of a better word, immortal.”

“No such thing,” Saiko said with reflexive dismissal.

The Swordsman laughed darkly, “You’re probably right. Let us say immortal until proven otherwise.”

The merc seemed unconvinced, perhaps desiring to test this theory. “So why have you released me. Am I free to go, or are you throwing me to the dryads?”

“I’m afraid those options are rather synonymous at the moment. Your employer has managed to turn the entire forest against him and those like him; which in the case of the less distinguishing dryads counts as all humans, or in a few cases bipeds in general. Not that it matters in your case: they all hate you.”

Saiko sighed deeply, “I knew it was a mistake as soon as he did it.” He snarled, clearly annoyed though whether at the act itself or the consequences thereof, The Swordsman couldn’t tell.

“You were present when Lutan slew Lady Von Mori?”

“He didn’t kill her,” Saiko replied quickly, finally moving from his wrists to begin massaging some circulation back into his ankles.

“The forest would disagree with you.”

“That’s because the forest wasn’t there! Urgh, you know what I mean.” It was an unusual outburst from the typically reserved mercenary, but being blamed for a crime he hadn’t committed rankled. Especially when he considered the long list of crimes he had committed.

“So want to tell me what did happen?” The Swordsman enquired personally, leaning casually against a wall.

“What’s in it for me?” his captive demanded with the bluntness of a sledgehammer and basic self-interest of a veteran politician.

“Parole. For now.”

Saiko gave this due consideration, “What’s the catch?”

“Why does there have to be a catch?” The Swordsman asked, feigning intrigue at the swordsman’s suspicion even as amusement glittered in his eyes.

“Why would you allow a professional killer to freely roam the streets? I might do anything; kill someone for example.”

The Swordsman merely smiled, “Because I want to.”

“Besides, parole is for officers only. Everyone knows that,” Saiko complained.

“Which, according to the insignia about your person, you certainly qualify as an officer,” the tattooed man said, moving over to Saiko’s possessions, all neatly piled in the corner. He began rifling through the mercenary’s stuff, removing various badges of office, items of heraldry and similar from the pockets. They’d been idly noted with curiosity while he’d been disarming the man, and since then, he’d taken the liberty of looking up the insignias he’d failed to recognise. Selecting one, he showed it briefly to his captive, presenting each in turn, “Let’s see… General in the Noble and Glorious Army of the Paladin Order, Lieutenant in the Drachmat Light Cavalry – Third Regiment and ah yes… Captain in the Hyperias Wyvern Rangers, an interesting title considering the last known wyvern, Diamede the Sarcastic, died seventy years ago. I’m reliably informed his last words were: ‘Of course I’m not ill, I’m coughing up blood for fun.’“

Saiko smirked slightly, “An honorary title pending the rediscovery of wyverns.”

“Fair enough, but is my point made?”

“Very well, parole,” Saiko acquiesced. “Conditions?”

“No murder and no attempts to escape,” his captor said calmly.

“Very generous,” the mercenary mused aloud. “Any chance of you telling me what you really have planned for me?”

“It’s not much of a secret plan if I tell you, anyway I haven’t finalised anything yet.” The Swordsman couldn’t help a smirk, the tattoos dancing across his face so as to avoid getting scrunched in the lines this created at the corners of his mouth. “Do you accept these conditions?”

“Of course I do. I’ve hardly a choice have I?”

“There’s always a choice,” The Swordsman declared coldly, arms crossed. “Now grab your stuff, and I’ll take you to the dining hall.”

“I’m going to need to use a latrine first,” the merc said emphatically.

“Very well. Go outside, there’s a public outhouse, fourth building on your left. Good news is we have indoor plumbing.”

Half an hour later, Saiko was ready to go to the dining hall, an impressive feat considering he’d returned after barely two minutes. It turned out that Saiko’s armour and weapons took a long time to properly equip, the man choosing for that reason to sleep in the armour where possible — the camo-cloak doubling as blanket and pillow — well that and the generally pervading paranoia of those who survived long in the paid murder business. The dining hall was an exceptionally large stone oblong with merely a single floor visible. There was nothing grandiose about its exterior, where great monuments loomed, it lurked. The stone was an unremarkable grey and thus was only remarkable for being stone in a town built, with very few exceptions, from wood, though Saiko could guess why.

The building had clearly been built to be defensible, should the town ever be overrun for whatever reason. The roof had small crenelations for archers as well as several cauldrons above the door that Saiko would have bet his life’s savings could be easily tipped to pour hot pitch, oil or molten metal down upon any foe who thought a battering ram was a good idea.

As The Swordsman threw open the massive doors, the room below went deathly still as those partaking of their midday meal stopped to stare for just a moment, then quickly went back to eating.

In that time, Saiko had got a good look at the expressions, a mix of fear and hate which the mercenary found most worrying; it had all the hallmarks of a mob in the making.

“They’re just scared,” The Swordsman assured, answering the question hanging in the air. “Your patron is a threat to everything we are and everything we represent. It’s only to be expected that they’re nervous of you.”

“Nervous enough to act upon it?” he enquired whilst surveying the room and its varied inhabitants.

It was a lot larger than he’d expected, with the floor almost thirty feet down from the doors with stairs, built to a scale far greater than for human use, leading down to it. Should an enemy ever breach the doors, the inhabitants below would be reasonably easy pickings for a disciplined squad of archers or crossbowmen, though something told him they wouldn’t have it all their own way.

Possibly it was the massive ballista pointed at the doors which gave this impression, the siege engine elevated on an oak platform across the hall so it was level with the door, several scorpioballista around it like baby dragons next to their mother. He also noted the ballistae were manned as if fearing an attack even now.

The people currently in the room were perhaps even more formidable; Saiko counted four dragons, all quite young, two giants, at least thirty other various sentient creatures of myth and legend and a near score of humans, all armed to the teeth.

“No, they would never lay a hand upon you without violent provocation or permission,” The Swordsman declared with utter certainty. “Did Lutan not tell you what this place is?”

“I presumed an academy for mages or a magicians outpost.”

“What in the name of Mortis the Ascended gave you that idea?” the immortal being laughed.

“Lutan usually restricts words like heresy, blasphemy and blight for magician business,” Saiko said with a shrug.

“This is a sanctuary. A place of peace,” he noticed his new charge’s incredulous look at the siege engines and assorted personal armaments. “Sometimes peace needs defending. It is one of life’s great dichotomies. I’m pleased to say that since its founding, no hostile force has ever breached these walls.”

“Then why are they so jumpy?” the man asked as they began the low and slightly difficult process of descending the stairs.

“There’s always a first time for everything, and with Von Mori absent, this place has never been more vulnerable. Not to mention there are a few who, should their presence here ever become common knowledge, would bring the legions of the world down on us. And no, I won’t point them out.”

“If they’re such a threat why let them stay here?”

“Because that is the promise of this place. Sanctuary for all who seek it. Even Lutan could seek safety here if he chose, and I would be oathbound to give him shelter. You ask why they’re jumpy, they’re fleeing war and persecution, deserved in some cases, undeserved in others, but all are equal in this place. As long as no resident antagonises another they may stay here until old age takes them.”

“If they aren’t allowed to fight, then why let them keep their weapons?” Saiko asked whilst carefully weighing up the drop-down to the next step; it was just large enough to make a step uncomfortable but not quite enough to warrant a jump

“How would you feel if I took your weapons from you?” The Swordsman admonished calmly.

“Nude I suppose, just sort of… incomplete,” Saiko admitted, realisation dawning.

“Exactly. The only trade some of them have ever known is war. And besides, they still hone their skills daily; in fact, practise begins in two hours for those so inclined. You can join us if you so wish. You might learn something,” The Swordsman jested as they reached the ground before leading him straight into a side door actually built into the staircase. “Kitchen’s this way.”

“So what do I actually call you?” the merc asked, trying to force conversation now that the current topic seemed to have run dry.

“Well, my actual name is almost unpronounceable since the language it originated from died, and I’ve never cared for any of the bloody titles they’ve given me so many just call me, Swordsman. Or The Swordsman if they’re writing a book or feeling pretentious,” The Swordsman shrugged, opening the door to the kitchen.

The smell hit Saiko like a rapturous hammer blow as heavenly scents suffused the air. The kitchen was boiling with frenzied but purposeful activity. At the centre of it all, an orc bellowed orders at the top of his lungs yet still only barely audible in the hubbub.

At just shy of seven-foot he was an impressive specimen, daubed in woad warpaint in the markings of his tribe. A casual read of the markings, a useful skill provided you didn’t stop to read them mid-fight, told him he was dealing with a war chief, master of his tribe. A count of his ritual scars proved beyond his mathematical abilities, each one indicating a kill on the battlefield, whilst some of the scars were unfamiliar to him. Barechested, the orc would have been a terrifying figure on any battlefield if it weren’t for the jaunty look his chef’s hat gave him.

Upon noticing them, the orc ceased its shouting, walking slowly over to the two interlopers in his domain, “Well? Wha’ ya wan’ wiv me?” the orc demanded, “Can’cha see oi’m busy?”

Saiko frowned at this, thinking quickly as a hypothesis formed. “No need to put on an accent for the newcomer.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” the orc said fluently. “I’ve managed to string some newcomers along for years with the ‘all orc tork loik dis’ spiel. It’s one of my few pleasures in life.” He offered Saiko his hand, which the mercenary shook firmly and was pleasantly surprised to find his fingers intact at the end. Even when being gentle orc handshakes were known to break bones. “My name is Agh’zak Skullcrusher, and I’m pleased to say that I’m the finest gourmet chef this side of the afterlife.”

“Certainly an impressive claim,” Saiko said with a smile. “So what exactly makes a master of armies give it all up for mastery of a kitchen?”

Agh’zak laughed, a roaring guffaw that seemed to turn the room into an echo chamber, the steam hanging in the air unable to dampen the orc’s mirth as it bounced from wall to wall. “Delicately put human. Let it suffice to say that the long term survival prospects in the culinary arts are significantly better than in the fighting arts. Now, I believe it is considered polite in most human cultures for both of the people conversing to introduce themselves.”

“So it is,” Saiko admitted, already warming to the good-natured orc. “Saiko. Master swordsman.”

This earnt a quizzical look from the chef, “You have met the person stood next to you right?”

“Yes. And I lost,” Saiko conceded. “But the fight had been reasonably well matched up to that point.”

“How hard did you hit this guy?” Agh’zak asked with amusement painted plainly upon his face.

“Nowhere near as hard as you seem to believe, the boy has a natural talent. Given a few decades to whip him into shape I could probably make him an exceptional fighter.”

The chef appeared to consider this, “High praise indeed. Now, what brings you to my humble kitchen? I hate to cut the small talk short like this but I can only leave these louts unattended for so long before they burn something, or use the wrong ingredients or if the idiots are really out in force someone will mistake fricassee for fry.” He gave the traditional sigh of the much put upon but was smiling as he did so.

“Two bowls of whatever today’s stew is,” The Swordsman said amiably.

“You know there’s food out in the dining hall.” It wasn’t quite a rebuke but was all the more forceful for it.

“I always bring newcomers to see you. Helps them understand what we’re about and annihilate their preconceptions.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he grouched, looking around the kitchen. “I’m sure it’s a useful method of induction, but every time someone manages to- Perkins! You idiot, I said ground ginger, not diced! Ground! You’ll ruin the texture!” With that, the orc was gone, back to micromanaging over twenty people whilst doing as many tasks as personally possible. Somehow able to know almost instinctively how long each dish still needed and what it needed.

“He’s certainly… passionate about his art,” Saiko remarked, observing from a safe distance.

The Swordsman smiled, “Aren’t all who seek true mastery of any skill? Alas like all the greats throughout time it has left him rather lacking in social graces. There are dictators who’ve ruled with less of an iron fist than he rules his kitchen.” He shrugged non-judgmentally as one of Agh’zak’s many assistants appeared, proffering a bowl to each of them.

Saiko took the bowl and, with great self-control, managed to put it down on an available counter before it burned through his fingers, “You could have bloody warned me!”

“Warned you about what?” the immortal replied blankly even as his own bowl billowed steam.

“That the bowl is hot enough to melt steel!” the mercenary snapped.

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“It is?” the man frowned, “…sorry. He means well, my fault entirely.” His hand darted out, grabbing Saiko by the fist with such alacrity that Saiko didn’t have time to react before the almost forgotten flare of healing magic filled the mercenary’s hand to heal the minor burns inflicted. “Probably best you don’t try eating that. Agh’zak’s right. Mistakes happen when he doesn’t directly supervise, there’s probably enough poison in that bowl to kill a score of dragons.”

“Why-?” The question hung in the air, incomplete yet understood.

“My fault. It’s the tattoos. I got some to detect and counteract poisons put on my tongue, but it’s left me with damn near no sense of taste. Same problem with temperature. The literal effect is that I shall not be affected by temperature changes caused by external influences, so Agh’zak makes the food piping hot so that, for just a moment, I can feel it before the magic takes effect.”

“Sounds like a real pain,” Saiko said, trying to empathise. However, it was difficult, like blindness, it was something easier to show sympathy for than empathy, for only a rare mind had the imagination to truly envision life in the absence of a sense.”

“It is, though Agh’zak’s rare culinary flair has made it far less so. It will be a tragedy when old age takes him.”

“So is there any chance of food I can actually eat?” the former mercenary griped, his stomach choosing that moment to rumble in accordance to its owner’s complaint.

“Certainly,” Seruatis’ protector assured him before promptly disappearing into the miasma of steam which pervaded the kitchen, carrying upon it the spectral scents of herbs and spices, the dominating smell of roast meats and the olfactory allure of good gravy.

Just being in the room had increased his hunger tenfold.

It was fortunate then that The Swordsman returned promptly, carrying with him a bowl of stew presumably lacking the toxicant tastes of its predecessor.

Apprehensively he took the offered bowl, pleased to find that while the bowl was hot, it no longer represented an imminent threat to his fingers.

“Best we trespass upon Agh’zak’s domain no longer than necessary,” his guide suggested, leading them both back to the massive dining hall where he promptly sat down at one of the many tables, blending seamlessly into whatever discussion was animatedly taking place.

Tentatively Saiko took a seat at one of the few empty tables, imagining his presence would not be entirely appreciated by the other patrons.

To his surprise, before he’d managed to take so much as a single spoonful of stew to his lips, he’d found his attempted isolation disturbed, a woman in hood and mask taking the seat opposite him, curiously the mask didn’t extend past her nose and was entirely lacking in holes for the eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely, spoon hovering in midair.

“Harm the boy and I will end you,” she said simply before leaving the dining hall entirely.

Saiko looked around cautiously, trying to see who may have overheard the brief, ominous exchange by intentional eavesdropping or supernatural hearing, but no one appeared to be paying him any attention, nor was anyone deliberately doing so as far as he could tell.

Finally, he got around to trying the stew. It was cold, not an unexpected result when the mouthful in question had been on the spoon for almost a minute, the lone lump of meat and two chunks of barely identifiable vegetation initially upon the wooden spoon had been forced to vacate after his quick check for observers tilted the utensil.

Still, what broth was left proved flavoursome, rich and filling, which was all one could ask of a good stew.

It wasn’t the best meal he’d ever eaten; there was, after all, only so much that could be done with a stew for by its very nature, after hours on the boil, every ingredient tasted the same as all the flavours diffused into the broth.

Despite these fundamental limitations, it was delicious but, given the large size of the bowl, also mildly boring by the last few mouthfuls. However, if that was what the orc could achieve with a simple stew, for Saiko had been unable to find any ingredient more exotic than a carrot, then he was more than keen to try Agh’zak’s other endeavours in the chef’s craft.

For a long time, he’d been focused upon his meal, far more so than he’d normally allow, and thus when he looked up, the masked woman was sat across from him once more, albeit in a different mask, though surely only arcane transport could have allowed her to get so close without him noticing even accounting for his distraction.

“I believe I may have made a poor first impression,” she said with false regret.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied in cautious tones, his actions belaying his words as he watched her warily.

“I just get overprotective sometimes,” she explained.

“Hurt what boy?” the mercenary asked, feeling he’d rather missed the context behind the original threat.

“The one your employer was going to kill just to make a point,” the masked woman growled accusingly, even if it came across as more of a hiss.

“Perhaps you could take that up with him?” Saiko suggested tentatively, not enjoying his role of proxy.

“You stood by and watched. In my books, that makes you an accomplice,” she informed him calmly. “If I had my way… well…” the woman leaned in to whisper quietly in his ear.

Slowly the colour drained from his face until most vampires would seem tanned by comparison, and for a moment, it seemed that Saiko’s stew would be making a reappearance.

Finally, she leaned back in her chair with every sign of nonchalance, “I hope we’re clear.”

“As a glacial lake,” the survivor of over a hundred battles assured her timidly.

“Wonderful,” she said cheerfully. “You can call me Dus, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends.”

“Yeah, great friends,” Saiko mumbled, making an in-depth study of the bottom of his empty bowl. “I want you to know I wasn’t going to hurt him; I mean, why would I? I’m on parole.”

“Good then, we won’t have any… misunderstandings,” she all but purred.

“Why do you care?” he asked abruptly. “It’s not like he’s your child.”

“No, my children are all dead, murdered in their sleep by ‘brave men’ like you,” Dus spat her anguish, the only thing greater than her rage. “All for the great and despicable crime of being alive. Tell me sellsword, have you ever watched your children’s heads be paraded through the streets?”

“No ma’am,” Saiko said slowly, “I’ve never had a child.”

“Don’t try patronising me sellsword,” Dus snapped. “Just remember what will happen if you hurt the boy.” With that, she stormed out, though the size of the dining hall rather reduced the gesture to amusing as opposed to its dramatic intent.

Saiko watched her go with something of a sigh, “And to think I was beginning to like it here,” he lamented idly, more for the benefit of supernatural eavesdroppers than himself.

Slowly he rose to his feet, bowl in hand, and walked over to The Swordsman’s table, “Where do I need to go to wash this up?” he asked politely, not allowing his current vexation to pierce through the façade of his demeanour.

“Just put it down anywhere. They’re all enchanted to return to the kitchen after going untouched for more than ten minutes,” the master of swordsmanship answered with gentle amusement.

“Neat system,” Saiko observed.

“Most of the time, though it’s not unknown for the overly talkative to have their meal vanish before their eyes.” Clearly, the concept amused him.

The mercenary rolled his eyes, placing his bowl back down, “So my parole, where will I be staying?”

“That would be your choice, up to a point,” The Swordsman explained cautiously.

“The choices being?”

“Well you can continue to stay in the infirmary or move into one of the guest rooms.”

“What’s the catch with the guest room?” Saiko demanded, mind working quickly.

“Why must there be a catch?”

“Because it’s an obvious choice. There is no reason not to pick the guest room unless there’s a catch.”

The Swordsman smiled, gaze inquisitive as he asked, “And is that all you figured out?”

“No. This is a test of some kind, though why I’m being tested remains unclear.” He smirked, “So did I pass?”

“You had until you asked if you’d passed,” The Swordsman replied evenly, “now where do you want to stay?”

“You still haven’t told me the catch,” Saiko observed calmly, suspecting this too was a test.

“True, true. Well the problem with the guesthouse, as it stands, is the other guest.”

“This guest being?” Saiko prompted, mildly bored of the melodrama which seemed to almost emanate from the immortal being, as if, after thousands of years of life, he were under constant threat from terminal boredom.

“A vampire by the name of Brachus.”

The mercenary allowed himself a snort of amusement, “Ah. Don’t worry, unlike my erstwhile employer I know how to play nice with those of the undead persuasion. Underworld above, my third girlfriend was a vampire.”

“Alas that’s not the problem. He’s currently blood-crazy after his supply of synthaglobin ran out.”

Saiko winced, “I think I’ll stick to the infirmary… can’t someone just donate a pint or two to soothe the cravings?”

“I wish. Half of this bunch of crazies have qualities in their blood which are poisonous, some of them placed there intentionally. The other half for reasons of their own simply refuse. We have some blood donors but they’re all fully tapped out sustaining our permanent vampire population, taking on another would likely result in someone dying.”

“Ouch,” he said sympathetically. “Can’t you donate some blood?”

The Swordsman laughed darkly, “I wish. There’s a moratorium on my blood being used for sustenance or magical experiment.”

“Why…?”

“The latent magic level in it’s too high. The last vampire to drink some spontaneously combusted, then the remains flash froze everything within fifty metres.”

“I’m willing to spare a pint,” Saiko offered magnanimously. “Though I hope no one objects if I stay in the infirmary for the time being.”

“I thought you didn’t have a problem with vampires?” The Swordsman enquired sweetly.

“I don’t, but it will take weeks to slake his bloodlust if I’m the only donor, and if I’m light-headed with blood loss, then sleeping under the same roof as a vampire made mad with hunger, borders on a suicide attempt,” Saiko explained patiently.

The explanation was met with an approving nod, “Full marks.”

“So my parole… do I need a chaperone?” the parolee enquired.

“Only if you think you do.”

“See you around then,” Saiko said nonchalantly, walking to, and with difficulty up, the stairs.

Being back in the fresh air and sunlight was a minor relief, and he took a few moments to enjoy it before beginning to wander aimlessly along the dirt roads, past rows of houses, a small farm and what was he was reasonably sure from the noise was a tavern doing surprisingly good business for early afternoon.

It was at the outskirts of the city, with little but farmsteads between him and the wall, a construct whose magical nature the master swordsman was more than a little bit interested in, that something caught his eye, a single glint of metal near the wall itself.

Curiosity piqued, he ceased his aimless wandering and broke into a jog towards the glimmer of mirrored sunlight.

As he got closer, the small star of reflected glare revealed its secrets, a lone woman, a long blade in each hand, moving through katas with such speed and grace that it seemed more a dance than the studious application of a martial discipline, though not a discipline he was familiar with.

Not wanting to disturb another’s practise, he elected to stay at a respectable distance until she’d finished.

As she stopped her training, the woman turned to glare at him, piercing green eyes filled with a burning hostility, “What is it going to take for you guys to get the message? I’m not some blasted lucky charm so leave me alone.”

“Calm down ma’am, please. Two points. One, and I can’t stress this enough, I have absolutely no idea who you are, and two, this is my first day here.”

She blushed slightly at her mistake. “Oh… sorry.” Her gaze descended to his hip, “Do you know how to use that pigsticker?”

“I’m one of the best I know,” he replied honestly.

“A glowing assessment I’m sure,” she drawled, “if I knew who you were.”

“If you’ve some training blades, maybe we can find out how glowing,” the mercenary suggested.

“No training blades, we’ll just have to make do with what we have,” the woman said simply redrawing her swords, both long, curved and single-edged, putting Saiko in mind of a scimitar though the blades appeared to lack the necessary heft.

“Steel blades? We’ll kill each other,” he spluttered, his own sword kept to a razor’s edge — one which never needed sharpening or care. He knew he was good and suspected she was as well, but accidents did happen.

“That’s dealt with easily enough,” she declared simply, running a finger along the edge of each of her blades. Saiko could only watch in astonishment as the metal dulled then browned, finest steel transmuting to polished oak before his eyes. “Now your blade please.”

“You can definitely reverse this?” he enquired, not ready to forsake a prized possession to her without assurances.

“Naturally. It’s a simple trick when you know how.”

“Isn’t everything?”

This earnt a gentle smile, “Perhaps.”

He smiled back, recognising a kindred spirit. With a mildly excessive flourish, he relinquished his favourite sword to her, a slim falchion Lutan had given him as a token of gratitude the third time he’d save the man’s life, the very same blade The Swordsman had struck a good twenty metres across the clearing outside the wall. “What’s your name?”

“Alisha,” the word kept to a crisp three syllables, some of the coldness creeping back into her demeanour at the mild personal enquiry. “Yourself?”

“Saiko,” he replied, watching her expression in the now faint hope of a glimmer of recognition; as well known as he was in Paladin territory, he might as well have been from another world for all the recognition that earned him here. That and the fact master swordsmen appeared to be a penny a dozen in this place, a fact which should have annoyed him far more than it did.

Alisha ran her index finger along the blade to blunt it before she began to transmute the metal, frowning deeply as it resisted her efforts. “Where did you get this blade?” she demanded with shocking ferocity, brandishing it at him threateningly enough for the mercenary to take a solid step back, knives appearing in his hands as if by magic, though reality was much more mundane; the mercenary had spent several months learning how to make use of spring-loaded wrist sheathes and, in his opinion, it had been time well spent.

“Whoa there, Al, watch where you you’re swinging it will you? I’d rather not end an illustrious career in a freak sparring accident if you don’t mind,” he pleaded, showing his hands in a universal gesture of peace and goodwill, a gesture rather ruined by the vicious knives he was holding.

“Where did you get this?” the svelte woman demanded, voice low and soft but so very dangerous.

Saiko recognised the tone; it often preceded a killing. “It was a gift from a friend. Why does it matter?”

“Because this is a pure nullstone blade,” she stated with something approaching reverence. “This gift,” —she all but spat the word — “is worth more than entire kingdoms, people have sold their souls for less. And yet someone gave it to you?”

Saiko laughed nervously, “You’re crazy, everyone knows nullstone’s too soft in its pure form to make a weapon, let alone hold an edge, and besides, Lutan’s not that generous.”

“You really have no idea what this is do you?” she asked cryptically, apparently shocked at the existence of such ignorance.

“Enlighten me,” Saiko requested dryly, knives disappearing back into the recesses of his sleeves, a gentle click signifying the mechanism returning to its armed position.

“This is a spell breaker blade, only eight of them were ever made,” she said, practically caressing the falchion as she spoke. “Enchanted to be practically indestructible, to always maintain its edge and to destroy any form of enchantment or other magic with which the edge comes into direct contact.”

“That’s impossible,” he said in disbelief. “You can’t enchant null.”

“You can. It’s just very difficult. It takes four things to make null take an enchantment. Indomitable will, exceptional magical ability, a truly masterful grasp of runes and the various skills of a master blacksmith,” Alisha explained to him. “There have been twenty recorded artificers with the requisite skills and each has made unique and irreplaceable contributions in the realm of magical artifacts which repel magic. But only one had the audacity to take it a step further; Diregnan Strausst managed to weaponise the magic negating powers of nullstone.”

This earnt a snort of laughter from the mercenary, “I think the Paladin Order’s already pioneered that particular method.”

“It’s almost cute how naïve you are. Comparing nullsteel to this is like comparing the sound of someone hitting a piano with a hammer to the majestic cascade of a full orchestra at work.”

“What’s the difference?” replied the world’s most disinterested music critic.

“I sincerely hope you’re talking about the swords,” Alisha declared.

“Probably. So you were about to explain what’s so special about spellbreaker blades that nullsteel doesn’t do just as well?” Saiko prompted.

“He focused the null field to extend no further than the edge of the blade… at least that’s the theory, but the effect is that should the blade come in contact with a magical object, it ceases to have any magical ability, which was fine until a smartarse in the Paladin Order figured out magicians are technically magical objects,” she elaborated with the erudition of a born academic.

“You’re joking right? There’s no way that the magical community would tolerate the existence of such a weapon,” her audience declared, spotting an obvious flaw in the history being presented to him.

“They didn’t, but considering a single nick from a spell breaker could render even the mightiest and most learned mage to a mere babe in arms, it was not until the twenty-third Paladin-Necromancer war that they actually managed to get their hands on one.” She paused for breath, voice bizarrely choked with emotion as if remembering an anguish of ages past. As improbable as it was, the twenty-third war was eight centuries in the past and she fit none of the usual criteria of the long-lived — unless exceptional beauty counted. No pointy ears, out in sunlight, no obvious magical tattoos or talismans, and even the best healers struggled to maintain the façade of youthfulness for more than a couple of centuries. Yet, somehow he could tell that this woman had been there, fought there and suffered there.

“How did you dispose of it?” he enquired curiously, slowly piecing together the reality of things.

Alisha’s sea-green eyes widened for just a moment, “Well deduced.”

“Thank you. I’m not normally this observant,” Saiko remarked with genuine surprise.

The woman smirked knowingly before returning to the deathly seriousness that seemed to form one half of the stark duality her personality seemed to take. Both, as best the mercenary could tell, carefully catered façades for someone who had known too much pain in their life to let others close. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he did.

“In answer to your question, we flung it into the heart of a dormant volcano in the hope that if it survived, we would never see it again, only to have it return to us in an eruption fifty years later. The worst part was that it wasn’t even the same volcano. The fires of the world’s core could not destroy one of these swords, and now, after all these long years, another has found its way into my hand.” She stopped for a moment, letting that sink in whilst regarding the man opposite her with an intensely studious gaze. “The Swordsman must trust you greatly indeed to let a blade so inimical to both our way of life and himself remain in your care.” With a deft swing she flipped the sword in question to offer it back to him hilt first.

Saiko took it back with rather more deference than when he’d given it, “You said they were only nearly indestructible, how would you go about destroying one?”

“In theory? Just clash two spellbreakers against each other edge to edge, each would destroy the magical properties of the other. Unfortunately the energies released would be so great that the conservative estimate for the resulting crater is half a mile deep Now I believe we were going to spar?”

The mercenary chuckled depreciatingly, “With what? I just found out my sword is a priceless, indestructible, immutable artefact with the potential to shatter the world like a dropped wine glass.”

“You’ve got knives haven’t you?” Alisha rhetoriced dryly.

“Against a master swordswoman?” he asked with similar rhetorical intent.

“Don’t tell me it’s because mine’s bigger… I might start to wonder if you’re compensating for something,” she goaded with a wink.

It was but the work of a moment for two daggers to be placed in her hands, sometimes male pride was amusingly easy to manipulate, though part of her suspected Saiko wasn’t quite as egotestical as he seemed, simply playing the role for her benefit.

A quick splash of minor spellwork and the blunted wooden knives were deftly thrown back to their original owner, who was already beginning to regret his ego and would no doubt be given further cause to regret it in the very near future. While it would be pure hubris for him to declare he was without peer with a sword, up until three days ago, he’d been able to count aforesaid peers on his fingers. Alas he was under no such illusions about his knifework; he was skilled, but his knives had always been for throwing, and as a distraction at that, or the first of a number of last-ditch defences.

Saiko shook his head, trying to clear the doubts from his mind, indecision and fear as much his foe as the woman before him and in many ways more deadly.

At an unspoken signal, both stepped adroitly back to a safe distance, flowing smoothly into their stance of choice as they began to circle each other, unblinking, poised, two apex predators waiting for the perfect moment with which to strike.

One of them found their moment.

With a valiant warcry Alisha span through the air, swords seeming to orbit her as they moved to bisect him.

On his best day, with his preferred weapon, Saiko would have struggled to block even the first strike.

He’d blocked six before he’d realised what was going on and a further twelve before he recovered from his surprise.

He fought as a man inspired, with a speed born of superlative and superior instinct, faster than he’d ever fought before and yet lacking the franticness this implied, each movement a perfect economy of motion. Each knife met a sword, yet even with whatever profound influence had overcome him, it was a trial not to have the short blades ripped from his hands by the sheer force of each blow. Clearly, the lithe form was the disguise for some spectacularly compact muscles.

By some miracle both of them maintained this furious pace, neither landing so much as a glancing blow nor slight nick. And then he blocked a blow that never made contact.

Alisha’s open hand struck his throat where she’d simply let go of her sword in the moment of contact, rendering him off-balance as he overextended.

Saiko collapsed to the floor, gasping and choking as his daggers fell limply from his hands. His sparring partner proved unsympathetic, arms folded with amused dispassion as she waited for him to recover from his coughing fit.

“Well fought,” The Swordsman said from beside them, startling the pair, drawing a sharp jerk and gasp from Alisha and an aborted wheeze from poor Saiko.

“I really wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” Alisha snapped waspishly, proving that time did not heal all wounds, clearly here annoyance had festered.

“Or you could learn to listen more carefully,” he chastised whilst offering her sparring partner a hand up, which he gratefully accepted, slowly rising to his feet, most of his focus still on breathing. “So what do you think of him?” the immortal enquired, indicating Saiko with a thumb.

“Potential,” Alisha replied cautiously. “Why?”

“I was hoping you might be willing to train him,” he elaborated, “the boy might benefit from your inspiring influence.”

The response was as vicious as it was quick; a sharp slap rang out over the field, “How dare you! I came here to avoid people who wanted to use me, and now you, the very man I fled to for sanctuary, is now seeking to exploit me in the same way.”

“It would just take a month of your time I promise, just until the Confluence is over,” he promised her, looking utterly wretched and guiltridden as he did so.

“What changes after a month?” she demanded, less than mollified.

“I will be able to devote my own time to his training,” The Swordsman explained patiently.

Alisha gasped, wooden blades falling from her hands as her right moved to cover her mouth.

“You do both realise that I get a say in this right?” Saiko interjected with only mild annoyance and more than a touch of amusement.

“Nominally,” the de facto if reluctant ruler of Circulus Seruatis agreed noncommittally. “But considering the path you’ve chosen for yourself, I can’t see a refusal in your future for any reason but wounded pride, and in that case you simply wouldn’t be worth our time.”

The mercenary fumed, but silently, pride wounded.

“I still haven’t agreed,” Alisha snapped, still thoroughly annoyed.

“Come on Al, I know for a fact that you’ve missed having someone to spar with,” he wheedled. “Consider it him doing you a favour.”

“I will consider it,” she snapped, stalking off, practise aborted.

Saiko frowned, as confused as he was amused, “Well I know it wasn’t me who annoyed her.”

“Smug doesn’t suit you.” The immortal laughed and was gone, not even a blur.

“I can see why she hates that,” Saiko said to himself before looking down at his still wooden knives. “…Damn it.”