Twilight bloomed gently upon the skies above Circulus Seruatis, softened greatly by the waning gibbous moon, its pockmarked matronly face the only witness to many a nefarious and malignant scheme and yet somehow remaining a beacon of light to mankind.
It would not be the sole witness to tonight’s events, momentous only to those with a personal stake in the outcome as these select few assembled within the bleak, utilitarian confines of the infirmary.
Just four people present as they prepared to push the known boundaries of magic.
The gathering would have been larger if they hadn’t kicked Saiko out, Erebus claiming that the fewer minds were in proximity to the spellweaving, the greater the chance of success. So it was just himself, Alec and Dus who gathered around Holly’s bedside, the three determined to wake the poor dryad from her null-induced coma.
In ideal conditions, Erebus would have insisted the teen spent months exploring the deep magical bond he shared with the dryad, learning its nuances and how to control it, but alas, they hadn’t the time. As of three days ago, the prognosis had been clear: Holly was dying, unable to draw the energy from her host which she needed to live in her current state, and if she died, then Alec would die with her if he was lucky — though Erebus had refrained from explaining what the graver alternative was.
The proposed solution was simple enough in concept, for Erebus to enter the young dryad’s mind and try to calm the torment within it. According to the necromancer, Holly had retreated into psyche to escape the agony induced by direct contact with nullstone, but her mind was too turmoiled, too tormented to attain a state of calm; something most had to meditate for decades to achieve in any case, and so the world of the mind in which she now resided was born of the worst fears and nightmares available to her. Anyone going in would have to unravel and resolve these fears to get to the part of her mind still aware of itself and pull it free, in theory.
Normally this would be a simple single person job, but after just one attempt, the necromancer had been bedridden for a day from psychic shock and physical trauma. The magics stopping his wounds killing him faltered as the agony in Holly’s mind had overwhelmed the magician’s exceptional mental fortitude, forcing him to rather rethink his approach to the problem.
And so now, two weeks after their disastrous arrival to this great sanctuary, the trio of travellers would be reunited, if only for the few moments until one of their minds burnt out.
The theory was simple, there was no way for Erebus to directly access Holly’s mind, but Alec, by virtue of their soul bond, should be offered a measure of protection.
Alas, Alec lacked the prerequisite skill to take advantage of this and so a solution had been devised.
Erebus would use Alec’s mind as a relay and thus, hopefully, benefit from the boy’s protection when he entered the dryad’s mind, the teenager being dragged along for the ride.
Dus’ presence was merely for moral support, though it betrayed the lie which had seen poor Saiki so summarily ejected from his home of the last fortnight.
The Swordsman had politely declined on the basis of having personal business to attend to.
“Are you sure you’re okay doing this?” Erebus asked one final time, knowing the boy had very little choice if he wanted to live but including a child in a magical experiment rankled greatly, necessity bypassing the usually ironclad morals.
“Yes,” Alec replied though the quiver in his voice betrayed his uncertainty. “It’s this or die right?”
“Unfortunately,” his mentor admitted, “but if you’re uncertain then I will find another way.”
“How long might that take?” the boy enquired, suspecting he wouldn’t like the answer.
“I don’t know,” Erebus said, electing for honesty. “Could be hours, could be years.”
“How long until she… we… die?” he asked nervously, suddenly terribly aware that he was living on borrowed time, that the hourglass of his life could have scant seconds left in it, and he had no way of knowing.
“A few days at most before you succumb to the same condition, after that you’ll be almost entirely out of the reach of anything within my power. Death should follow shortly after,” Erebus explained as matter-of-factly as he could.
“So not much of a choice at all,” the teen pointed out, voice hollow, unable to suppress the feeling that he was the victim of some great cosmic trick, a view, perhaps, not entirely unjustified.
“It’s still a choice. No one ever said it was a nice one,” the necromancer replied with sage regret. “Now I want you to meditate, do you know how?”
“Yes, there was a monk of the Stalwart Order who taught everyone in the village,” Alec informed him. “I enjoyed it, it was very calming.”
“Good, open your mind to everything around you. It will make it easier for me to access your mind,” Erebus said, sitting down cross-legged beside his patient’s bed, clearing his own mind. Each exhale controlled and precise as he removed stress and distraction from body and spirit as he sought zanshin, the state of no-mind. It was a rare ephemeral thing, oft sought but seldom found, and the more it was sought, the harder it was to obtain.
Despite his two long centuries of life, Erebus could still count the number of times he’d achieved that state of total awareness, no past, no future, just now and the rich vibrancy of it.
The first time he’d achieved zanshin, the mere shock of realisation had been enough to jolt him out of it.
Alas, he doubted he would achieve it this time, and in that doubt guaranteed his failure, but fortunately, it was not needed in this case; a clear mind would suffice. Though that too was merely to ease the difficulties inherent to such a deep mind probe. The magician doing it had to take precautions not to leave traces of their own psyche behind after the spell was complete, a problem only exacerbated by Alec’s youth, his mind far more malleable than an adult’s. The young yet to build up the buffer of prejudices, convictions and other small things that set a personality in stone.
Upon attaining his desired state, Erebus looked up, observing Alec, the boy’s posture for meditation very different to his own, the boy resting on his knees, hands over his stomach was an easier position to meditate in, the breathing exercises feeling less forced but far less comfortable than Erebus’ cross-legged posture.
The necromancer waited, checking his protégé’s breathing was slow and even before seeking out Alec’s mind with his own.
At such close proximity, and with both in a prepared state, it wasn’t hard.
Erebus’ world tinged with nervousness as he entered the fringes of Alec’s mind, not an unexpected occurrence; he’d been just as nervous the first time he’d communicated telepathically though not about the potential of imminent death.
‘Relax child.’ Erebus sent calmingly, entirely unsurprised as this produced the opposite response, Alec instinctively trying to remove the intruder from his surface thoughts. It was lucky he hadn’t delved deeper, or both of them would be facing at least minor brain damage.
With an indomitable will, Erebus clung on, lurking in the boy’s surface thoughts yet hard-pressed given the strength of his opposition, especially in the arena of his own mind, if he’d been fighting against an expert, he’d have been overwhelmed in seconds, but he knew how to deal with the instinctual approach. The necromancer insinuating his presence into the very thoughts trying to remove him, an eye in the storm so to speak, Erebus allowing his pupil to burn out most of his magical energy in the attempt.
‘Calmer now?’ he enquired politely. The second expenditure of magic was much smaller but still enough to raise the ambient temperature of the air.
Finally, the new storm subsided.
‘I’m calm.’ Alec replied, at last, figuring out how to thought-send intuitively. ‘Sorry… I just wasn’t expecting it.’ The message heavily overshadowed by guilt.
‘It’s a normal reaction,’ Erebus assured him. ‘We can talk like this for a while if that helps.’
‘Okay. What did you want to talk about?’
‘It’s your mind kid, you decide,’ was the phlegmatic response. Erebus struggling to stop secrets hidden from the world for years from leaking across the mental link. ‘Too old and too out-of-practice,’ he chided himself, cursing the ravages of time upon his mind. To his horror Alec replied, the errant thought travelling across before he could stop it.
‘What’s wrong?’ the boy asked, concerned at his mentor’s doubt.
‘Just age,’ Erebus reassured. ‘Though magic has conquered decay of the body, the mind is not so easy; we can prevent mental illness, for the most part, but that doesn’t prevent centuries of memory from weighing you down.’
Alec gave this due consideration. ‘Why’s that a problem now?’
‘Have you ever tried, really, really, really hard not to think about something? Right now, two centuries of secrets are all but begging to flow across the link, and it’s mentally exhausting, like being engaged in a form of mental combat against yourself.’
‘Then how do professional telepaths cope?’ Alec asked, aiming unerringly for the pertinent question as the monk, and now the necromancer had taught him.
‘Decades of constant practise and meditation, alas, I am but a mere dabbler in the arts of the mind.’ Somehow Alec knew that wasn’t entirely true but did not press further as Erebus continued with the conversation proceeding at the speed of thought; it was hard to believe that a mere handful of seconds were all that had passed thus far. One of the reasons for holding the conversation with eyes shut, neither of them could grow disjointed by the difference in the time they felt had passed and the time actually passed. ‘Now, are you feeling comfortable enough with this mode of communication to allow me to delve beyond your surface thoughts?’
‘I suppose so,’ the boy sent deliberately, though he lacked the discipline not to send his true thoughts across as well; a boiling mass of doubt and fear.
Erebus restrained himself from letting his frustration show; it was hardly the boy’s fault. Alas trained telepaths underwent two years of training before they were allowed to receive mind-to-mind contact. To go as deep into the mind as Erebus intended, deeper than instinct, right to the heart of where primal magics dwelled, few could have done it, even fewer would have dared attempt it, and alas whilst the mage knew he had the nerve for the latter, even he doubted the skill to be included in the former. His trainer had been rigorous to the point of cruel, but even she hadn’t imagined he’d have cause to go this deep into a mind.
Tragically, despite his assurances to the teen, there were no other options available if he wanted to save the boy’s life.
He didn’t voice any of this, mentally or otherwise, opting for a diplomatic. ‘Suppose is insufficient I’m afraid. When you’re certain, let me know.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you want to take a break?’ the necromancer asked kindly — it was little less than a miracle that Alec wasn’t bleeding from the eyes, though doubtless, his bond to Holly was providing some insulation from the strain. ‘We can try again in a couple of hours.’
Yes… please, Alec replied, finding the presence of a second set of thoughts in his own mind more disconcerting than he could put into words.
With great relief, Erebus carefully extricated himself from the boy’s surface thoughts, removing any trace of his presence with a forensic attention to detail, leaving just the memory of the conversation; the last thing he wanted was to accidentally mould the boy into another version of himself.
Once this arduous task was complete to the best of his abilities, Erebus opened his eyes, noting the stillness in the room. With great deliberation to his movements, taking a few moments to get used to navigating back in what telepaths rather charmingly referred to as ‘meatspace’, the man rose to his feet.
“You can open your eyes Alec,” he said softly; vocal communication might be less efficient than directed thought, but it was blissfully easier.
The boy opened his eyes. The world seemed strangely bigger after his brief stint within the confines of his own head, “Where’s Dus?”
The necromancer had been pondering that himself, though aloud he said, “Back to her library I would imagine. Being present for moral support isn’t particularly useful when the person you’re supporting can’t register your presence, and she’s always been a practical thinker.”
“You’ve been her friend for a long time?” the boy asked, pouncing upon the familiarity in his mentor’s voice.
“Dus doesn’t allow herself to have friends,” Erebus replied evenly, “but I am pleased to believe she looks upon me fondly.”
“Why doesn’t she let herself have friends? She must be very lonely.”
The venerable mage chuckled bitterly, “Sometimes loneliness is a preferable alternative to pain. It’s not my place to say more than that.”
“You admire her,” Alec observed with the erratic insight of youth.
“Greatly. My art owes her more than we could ever repay, as does every being to live upon this world, and yet the memory of her suffering has all but faded from history.”
“What did she do?” the teenager asked, wide-eyed at this unexpected aspect of that librarian who had been so kind to him these past two weeks.
“I can’t tell you. Her wishes are to fade from history and despite a few literary protests in my youth the past few decades have brought me around to her point of view, some deeds, no matter how justified, or pure the intention, or good the result, are better not gloried.”
“Surely people have a right to the truth, no matter how unsavoury it may be?” the boy demanded, Erebus barely able to restrain his shock at having his own ideology thrown back in his face.
“I said I understood, not that I planned to write myself out of history, though were I to be forgotten I would not be disappointed.”
“What could you have done that’s that terrible?” Alec asked, pondering what dark deed could have occurred.
“Nothing like that, I stand by my actions. But it’s human nature that we hold our failures dearer than our successes,” Erebus explained, or perhaps mused aloud to himself. “Each one, a vice-like chain about the ankle, weighing you down where’er you go.”
“Are you carrying around a lot of chains?” the teenager asked, extending the metaphor. It wasn’t asked in a cutting manner; Alec genuinely curious and eager for insight into his mentor’s past.
“Yes, after two centuries I’ve more than I can count,” Erebus informed him matter-of-factly. “It is a burden of great magical power, a natural counterweight I suppose you could call it. Still I suppose there is a beautiful, terrible symmetry to it; that the punishment for an unnaturally long life should be an unnaturally long life.”
“If it’s so terrible why choose it?” Alec demanded, the conversation continuing its evolution from friendly discussion to interrogation.
“Are you asking why I chose it or why anyone would choose it?”
“Both I guess.”
“It was a decision I made when I was young, well younger anyway, and thought time boon not burden. Regardless, I’d likely, given that choice again, still choose an extended life.”
“You haven’t told me why though,” the boy pointed out.
Erebus smiled, “No. I haven’t.”
Alec frowned before rallying with a change of subject, “You told the Lord Protec- I mean Lutan that you’d used thirty years to hit him with the lightning, what did you mean?” his pupil asked, though he had more than an inkling as to the answer to the tangential question.
“Well, ultimately magic is simply the manipulation of energy, to get past the effects of the nullstone armour and Seruatis’ wall took a lot of energy,” Erebus explained amiably. “Now I’m a powerful magician, but I doubt any mortal mage has the innate power to use combat magic in that situation, therefore I had to turn to less traditional sources, so I burned thirty years of lifeforce in a single blast.”
“Why would you waste that much of your life for one shot?” Alec demanded, almost incredulous at the idea. “Especially when it did nothing‽”
“To dent Lutan’s confidence just a little. He was very careful to ambush us in a place with enough null dampening where he thought I would be harmless.” There was a pause as the necromancer considered his next words with the care of a chess grandmaster peering over his board, “I wanted him to re-evaluate that opinion for the future. At the very least, I’ll doubt he’ll confront me in person again.”
“You thought he’d survive?” Alec seemed quite surprised.
“I’ve learned to be cautious,” Erebus dodged carefully, “and Lutan’s oft proven harder to stamp out than any cockroach history’s ever seen… he wasn’t always like that you know? He used to be such a gentle child.” There was a guilt-ridden sigh; fortunately, the undertones went over Alec’s head.
“What happened?” Two such simple words, spoken in innocence yet loaded with dark potential.
“He lost his father at an early age,” Erebus said flatly, not wanting to be drawn out on that particular subject. “Now we’d best find our patron, I suspect he’s embroiled in momentous events.”
The diversion would have been obvious to any outside observer yet was enticing enough not to draw Alec’s attention to the fact he was being manipulated, the boy replying with his usual insatiable curiosity.
“How momentous?” the boy asked, trying, and failing, to feign disinterest.
“Enough for you to be telling your grandchildren a lifetime from now,” he replied with sincerity ringing true for every word. “This only happens for two weeks out of every hundred years.”
“What is it?” Alec’s imagination conjuring great battles and historic duels.
“The Confluence of Immortals,” Erebus announced with a sweep of his arm as if unveiling a great secret, which technically he was.
It didn’t get the expected response, the teen’s brow merely furrowing in bemusement for a moment. “What’s that when it’s at home?” he asked, a touch annoyed at the magician’s showmanship.
Erebus sighed. When revealing some of the world’s greatest secrets, mild snark was not an expected nor appreciated response. “Once a century, the world’s immortals meet up to discuss their affairs, as well as make sure none of them have gone mad in the interim.”
“Does that happen often?” he asked, picturing their benevolent benefactor as a frothing-at-the-mouth murdering maniac. It was a difficult image to hold on to, at least until he remembered how calmly he’d slid the blade through the paladin’s spine.
“More often than people are comfortable with,” the necromancer answered phlegmatically.
“What do they do then?” the child enquired, pondering, as had countless before him, how to disable a being who healed soon as injured, had the strength to treat best steel like mere talc and could not by any known method die.
There was a pause.
“…no one actually knows,” Erebus admitted, “though theories abound. They just disappear.”
Off in the distance, the distinct melody of steel on steel rang out, it was a surprisingly dull sound, dampened rather than the expected clear, pure ring of vibrating metal and yet, despite having known it barely a month, somehow the sound was so distinctive to the human ear that Alec found it unmistakeable; Erebus certainly had a similar moment of recognition for a hand was placed firmly upon the boy’s chest, palm open, preventing him from taking another step.
For Alec, it was like walking into an iron bar. Surprised, he turns to face his mentor, “You think they’d hurt us?”
As if in answer, a bodkin stopped scant inches from the boy’s chest, almost pinning Erebus’ hand in place, the shaft held firmly in The Swordsman’s grip, the immortal appearing from apparently nowhere, a sound like a thunderclap accompanying him moments later. A second look at the arrow would reveal its sudden deceleration had made it catch fire.
“No, but they might not notice us until it’s too late,” Erebus commented quietly. “I see the Huntress has arrived and is as cavalier about collateral as always, anyone else?”
“The Smith, The Artist, The Ancient and The Cursed Wanderer,” The Swordsman replied, one eye fixed cautiously upon the treeline. “Might I suggest I escort you to an area of designated safety if you wish to observe?”
Erebus laughed darkly, noting that Alec was still in a state of mild shock from his narrow brush with death, “I’d certainly appreciate it, I find getting hit by arrows bad for my health, though you’ll have to ask Alec again once he snaps out of his fugue.”
“Perhaps it would be best to wait for that in relative safety.”
“Only relative?” Erebus asked, concealing a grin with some effort.
“Well, you might spontaneously have a heart attack, nothing I can do about that,” The Swordsman pointed out graciously, beginning to lead them to proclaimed ‘relative safety’; which proved to be a section of grass fifty metres from the wall, sectioned off by four roughly hewn wooden posts, currently occupied by Saiko and the oldest man Alec had ever seen.
“The Ancient,” Erebus whispered in response to the unasked question.
Old eyes snapped to them, a burning intelligence behind the faded orbs as what appeared little more than a desiccated cadaver examined them in turn. “I know,” he croaked, “aren’t I a horrific sight? Still, you would be lucky to look half as good at my age.” There was the very smallest hint of a smile behind the wrinkled lips, “Hello again necromancer.”
“Ancient One,” Erebus respectfully intoned, eyes back on the five-way duel that had re-erupted, though, at such speeds, the combatants were little more than blurs.
“How many times must I ask thee not to call me by such a ridiculous moniker? Edward will suffice,” the man croaked from his chair. “And you boy, if you’re done gawking, there’s a cigar in my right jacket pocket. Would you kindly remove it for me and have the necromancer light it?”
Timidly Alec obeyed; the skinny figure, little more than a well-dressed skeleton that had been lacquered in flesh with the occasional wisp of long white hair, was somehow greatly intimidating. Finding the vice in question with little difficulty, he removed it with agile fingers and offered it to Erebus, who simply stared disapprovingly at it.
“What’s it going to do? Kill me?” the old man wheezed irritably. “Permit me a few mild pleasures in my life.”
For several surprisingly long and tense seconds, it looked like Erebus would refuse, but slowly and deliberately, he took the cigar from Alec and gripped the end delicately between thumb and forefinger. For a moment the fingertips glowed white with heat, lighting the cigar with ease before placing it in the immortal’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Edward said, rolling the cigar to the corner of his mouth, “love to have done it myself, but it’s just a bit too painful, my arms you know.” The pair of twigs that were theoretically arms gave a lacklustre shrug; he let out a mirthless chuckle, “Don’t suppose you could knock a few decades off by any chance?”
“Ed, you’re over six thousand years old, I could knock centuries off and you wouldn’t even notice,” Erebus told him sadly.
Edward sighed forlornly, “Can’t blame me for asking.” The burning intelligence turned its gaze upon Alec, “Word to the wise kid, when making deals with daemons, always check not only the small print but also what you’ve actually asked for.”
“Why? What did you ask for?” Alec questioned as politely as possible.
“To live forever,” The Ancient declared or perhaps admitted. “Unfortunately I forgot to include eternal youth in the bargain, and so, despite dodging successfully the various snares for my life, soul and service in the first set of conditions, ultimately I lost.”
“How do you actually make a deal with a daemon?” Alec asked inquisitively.
It was an oft-spoken practice in the annals of folklore, but no legend or myth ever explained the actual process for obvious reasons, instead opting for the equally foolish option of expressing the dangers and the forbidden nature of such an act, thus ensuring most teenagers throughout history attempted it at least once; fortunately most failed utterly, though occasionally an innate eldritch intuition allowed them to summon something, and even more rarely survive the encounter. Though developments of the last few centuries had greatly increased the survival rates of fledgling demonologists, most daemons now, instead of murdering the poor summoner, and through the application of some truly excessive bribes, would simply contact a member of the Path of Summoning and inform them of the newcomer’s location.
It was a matter of opinion whether this was an improvement; the Path had been born out of very different circumstances to its fellow’ dark arts’, not as a defence against a world that hated them like necromancy and shadowmancy — though the world more certainly hated them — nor did it arise out of the enterprising spirit of academia like nexomancy, but out of a deep-seated paranoia and fear of each other, or rather to try and prevent said fear.
It hadn’t worked, the new unity simply leading to factions of demonologists killing each other rather than the singular. It was a situation no observer was particularly inclined to remedy. Megalomania ran high amongst such summoners, and if it wasn’t there to start then, their demonic ‘servants’ would soon cultivate it.
Technically it wasn’t their fault, even if even more technically it was, but since the last great daemon war, the demonic population had settled for war against the world by proxy. The summoners thought themselves to be in control, but so did the daemon; usually, the daemons were right.
All of this flashed through the Ancient’s mind as he formulated his answer; it was important to be delicate…
“You don’t,” Saiko interjected coldly, not out of dislike of the people involved, just a deep foreboding when addressing the subject. “Not if you intend to live long.”
“Why not?” Alec asked, seeing this as the innate fear of an outsider addressing a subject they didn’t understand; afterall, it’s not like the mercenary had magic.
“Because they will betray you; and then one of you will kill the other,” Saiko declared solemnly.
“So says the voice of experience,” Erebus observed, watching the mercenary with a careful mix of amusement and interest.
The Ancient laughed with mild derision, “Don’t tease the lad Erebus, as I’m given to understand it you yourself spent time in service to such a creature in the very heart of their own realm.”
“I’d use the term apprenticeship rather than service.” The necromancer replied calmly, “And the terms we parted on were quite amicable, I’d even go so far as to say pleasant.”
This last proviso didn’t change the amused, knowing looks the immortal and the mercenary were giving him.
“And this daemon would be?” Saiko asked, trying to sound disinterested.
“I knew her as Sara,” Erebus replied, tone wistful and gaze distant. “It was a much… simpler time I suppose.”
“Knew?” the Ancient, or as he preferred to be known, Edward, seemed surprised by this, “Something happened to the young lady in question?”
“Lutan.”
“This would be the paladin everyone keeps talking about? He must be a skilled member of his order to defeat even a succubus in single combat.”
“She’s not dead, just contracted to non-interference,” Erebus complained by observation. “I love how everyone is just assuming that my daemonic contact is a succubus.”
“Male magician, female daemon. It’s not a great leap of imagination,” Saiko pointed out.
“She was a quod-frequentat-somniorum-malorum-pressum.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
That earned a wince from Edward, “And you’re still sane?”
“Debatable,” Erebus declared dryly.
“What’s a quad-frequentat-somnorum… ?” Saiko asked, trying to recall the long fluid string of syllables.
“Possibly one of the evillest daemons to ever exist,” The Ancient said quietly, taking a long draw on the cigar as he awaited Erebus’ response.
“Evil is a poor choice of words; dangerous or predatory would certainly suffice,” the necromancer mused aloud, not overly taken with the immortal. In his opinion, the Ancient abused his infirmity by using it as both shield and weapon in arguments where people were too considerate to call him out on his abrasiveness.
“What’s so dangerous about them?” Saiko enquired, his own experiences with the genuinely otherworldly rather limited beyond a single close friendship, and even if he had been taught about their home realms, the loose linked set of realities that mankind collectively referred to as the Infernal or The Hells, the number of distinct species and sub-species of daemon which had been identified numbered in the thousands.
“Well firstly,” the Ancient was far too happy to explain, “they know your worst fears simply by looking at you, secondly they can make you hallucinate those fears from up to a hundred feet away, thirdly they can drain your life with a single touch, and finally they take great pleasure in doing all of the above.”
“A trifle unfair,” the necromancer said calmly. “They can’t help their abilities any more than we can help ours.”
“They are also semi-insubstantial, an unholy combination of flesh and shadows.”
“I have trouble with the word unholy,” Erebus snapped.
“As do I,” Saiko chimed in, much to the magician’s surprise. “One of my best friends was a daemon remember?” he continued in response to the mage’s enquiring glance. “And I won’t hear a word against them.”
“This would be the daemon you were forced to kill?” asked Edward, earning himself no karma points in the process.
“Yes,” Saiko declared with sufficiently violent vehemence in his voice to end that avenue of conversation.
Alec pressed his lips together in a frown, not liking the verbal warfare’s sudden viciousness and deciding to turn the conversation back upon his mentor. Erebus might not appreciate it, but at least he was sure the necromancer had the patience to withstand it.
“So why apprentice yourself to a quod-frequentat-… a demon?” the boy finished lamely.
“She had knowledge I needed,” he replied, not quite hiding the deep regret he felt, though at what specifically he didn’t elaborate upon.
“What knowledge would that be?” the elder amongst them demanded.
“How to inhabit the line between shadow and reality, and stay there safely,” Erebus’ voice grew quieter, the words appearing almost to choke him.
“And why would you want to do that, hmm?” the Ancient smiled cruelly. “To the best of my knowledge only one creature inhabits the shadowgate…”
As leading questions went, it wasn’t even subtle.
Erebus took a moment to master himself before answering with consummate calm, “To honour a friend.” There was something in the undercurrents of the words, a hint that there would be severe enough consequences for any further enquiry that even the immortal backed off.
Instead, the group’s attention turned to the war in microcosm raging before them, though Saiko’s attention had, in truth, never entirely left it, gaze peering intently from the protection of their four wooden posts as he tried to interpret the actions of people who were little more than blur and afterimage.
“I was being toyed with,” He concluded aloud, then realised that statement needed some clarification, “When we fought I mean.”
“To an extent,” Erebus admitted, “though not in the way you’re thinking.”
“And what exactly am I thinking?” the mercenary asked, calling the mage’s bluff on the façade of omniscience the necromancer tried to exude at all times.
“You’re thinking that he deliberately slowed himself down to a speed you could cope with,” Erebus said, quoting Saiko’s internal monologue almost verbatim. “Which to the best of my knowledge is simply untrue.”
“I’m watching him move at speeds my eye can’t even properly track right now,” the swordmaster pointed out, finding his title more and more dubious by the second.
“Yes but right now he’s not right outside the barrier and next to two suits of null plate, nor having to worry about a spellbreaker blade.” Erebus smiled slightly, “You had the first even fight with him in over six millennia and held your own for a while. You should be proud of that.”
“It’s the ‘for a while’ part that bothers me,” he complained.
“Why so glum about it? You’ve managed to impress someone who’s been using a blade for most of recorded history, and he’s not the only one you’ve impressed, I’ve heard good things from Alisha, and she’s notoriously difficult to please.”
“Why do I get the feeling everyone is in the know here other than me,” Saiko grumbled.
“Because it’s true,” Edward quipped. “The problem with the long-lived is eventually it ends up as a bloody clique. Everyone knows everyone and everyone tells everyone everything, even if they don’t particularly like each other. I’ve no doubt half the population of this dreary hellhole knew about your sword’s secret within a day of its discovery.”
Saiko frowned, “So basically this place thrives on gossip.”
“Understandable given its isolation,” the magician pointed out. “News of the outside is rare enough to practically be hard currency.”
“If it’s any consolation no one tells me anything either,” Alec proffered with only a hint of resentment before attempting to draw the subject back to the battle before them. “So who’s actually fighting?”
“The Swordsman, The Huntress, The Smith and The Cursed Wanderer.” Edward sighed, rolling his eyes to the heavens, “Pretentious nonsense.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” the necromancer said evenly. “There’s power in a name, and distance, and they certainly need both. And I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark Alec, I’m doing my best to introduce you to the nuances of the magical community slowly to minimise the shock, and this really is not a good place to be doing that. Not that that seems to be an issue.”
“It’s okay I guess…” There was a significant pause as the boy tried to put into words an insecurity he’d been quietly nurturing for weeks now. “What’s going to happen to me once you’ve left?”
The necromancer frowned; he’d been deeply hoping that he wouldn’t have to address this so soon, that he’d be able to acclimatise the teen to magic and its many supplicants before revealing his own sorcerous abilities. Still, he’d been backed into a corner, if unintentionally so, and should the boy pursue this line of enquiry beyond its surface, he’d be left merely two choices, the truth or a bare-faced lie. Neither were palatable options.
“If circumstance permits I would bring you with me,” he informed Alec honestly. “Provided you have no objections of course.”
“I do like it here,” Alec replied contemplatively, clearly attempting to weigh his options. “So what happens if I travel with you?”
“Then we would travel to the Necropolis, on foot for the most part… it would take a long time and not be an easy journey. I have enemies, some of whom I would have to take significant detours to avoid.”
“I see… then why shouldn’t I stay here?” the boy asked, seeking the catch he knew had to be there.
“This is a beautiful place, an oasis of calm, peace and sanctuary which cannot be equalled anywhere on this verdant world,” Erebus said solemnly, forced by his own principles to give a balanced argument. “But it is a place to grow old, not a place to grow up. Every day you will be regaled with some of the greatest deeds ever to fade out of history by the very legends who performed them, but never will you have the chance to commit any of your own.”
Alec thought about that for almost a full minute, mulling it over. “Then I would prefer to go to the Necropolis,” he concluded, returning his attentions once more to the fighting, which seemed to be slowly winding down as the participants returned to speeds which could be seen with the naked eye rather than the pure blur they had been until then.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Two of the participants bore a close resemblance to pincushions, a quiverful of arrows shared between them. The woman responsible was engaged in a frantic duel with The Swordsman, both still ablur even as their peers departed for the safety of the square.
Going from the hammer one of them was carrying, an artefact found in any blacksmith’s, it was not an unreasonable deduction to conclude he was ‘The Smith’, which by elimination would make his companion ‘The Cursed Wanderer’, the latter a thoroughly intimidating figure in a type of armour and mask that was entirely unfamiliar to both Saiko and Alec, red-lacquered leather plates in an overlapping pattern and the mask in the same style. Despite his appearance, Erebus greeted them both as if they were old friends. Only the Wanderer replied in kind.
“I see you both proved lacking in martial zeal on the field of battle,” Edward commented abrasively, clearly seeking a rise from them. Both declined to give it to him.
“Huntress must have spent years perfecting that trick,” was all the Wanderer would venture on the subject.
“I’m afraid none of us has the skill to see what trick you are referring to,” Erebus said smoothly.
“Liar,” the Ancient snapped.
The necromancer frowned, “Is there any detail of my life he hasn’t shared with you at some point?”
“Most likely but, for reasons I won’t even pretend to understand the rest of the immortal community regards you as a person of interest,” Edward all but snarled.
“Please excuse him necromancer,” the Wanderer interjected head bowed respectfully towards the magician. “He is in great pain and thus common courtesy escapes him betimes. But in answer to your question we have indeed been regaled with tales of your exploits, the more humorous ones at least, please do not blame The Swordsman. Time has made us easily bored and your misadventures have been of great interest to us, and no tale was shared without the understanding that it shall not pass beyond timeless ears. Your secrets are safe with us.”
“You needn’t fear on either front, I am quite familiar with Edward’s abrasive charm and I knew the risks of taking The Swordsman into my confidence,” Erebus assured probably the most humble of the immortals. Or at least if there was one more humble, they hadn’t made it known. “Now I believe you were going to enlighten us as to the Huntress’ latest trick?”
“Three arrows to the strings at once,” the Smith grumbled, “it’s hard enough blocking just one. I never should have designed that bloody bow.”
“You’re not going to receive any dissent from me,” the Wanderer replied, trailing off with a pained grunt as he tore an arrow from his chest. “I do however have one question pertaining to her choice in projectile. Why, when knowing we would be her only foe, does she insist on using barbed arrows?”
“Latent sadism perhaps?” the Smith quipped, though only half in jest. “Or more likely as each landed shot reduces our manoeuvrability slightly… though for that theory to be valid she’d have to be targeting our joints… which just leaves sadism.”
“One of you seems to be coping rather well,” Saiko pointed out, still trying to make out what was going on, apparently having decided that if he just squinted hard enough he’d achieve what magic should not.
“That is because he predicted this three centuries ago,” the Ancient pointed out. “The mewling children here were warned.”
“It still doesn’t explain why she has yet to land an arrow on him,” the Smith grumbled, partly to himself.
“Simple geometry,” Erebus told them with a wry chuckle, glancing around to make sure Alec was paying attention, not that there was much danger of him doing otherwise, the teen very much in learning’s thrall. Forbidden knowledge held a great allure, particularly at a young age, not that the paladins held a monopoly on the repression of information. Some of the things Erebus had learned during his youth the magical community had had to come up with punishments far worse than mere death to ensure the knowledge could not be passed to another, as well as as a deterrent to prevent the same.
“You see,” he continued, “any two points in three-dimensional space can be mapped and joined by a line, and a sword could technically be counted as a line segment, which is to say a line of finite distance. Alas, three points count an area provided they aren’t along the same line, and thus can’t be met by a single sword. Which is why he’s using two.”
“I thought he was just showing off,” the Smith grumbled.
“He’s also showing off,” Erebus remarked. “Now if you’ll all forgive me I’m afraid whilst time might be willing to wait for you three, it won’t do me the same courtesy and I have work to do. Good to see you.”
“And you my friend,” the Wanderer replied, though whether he was speaking personally or for the three of them was unclear as the necromancer slunk off back towards town.
“That was abrupt,” Saiko remarked.
“He’s stressed trying to find a way to save the dryad and the boy.” The Wanderer replied simply. Alec frowned in surprise and confusion, “How could you know that?”
“My mask is enchanted to observe the souls present; it’s more useful than you’d think. I noticed an irregularity in yours. A mixture of human and non-human souls, and not a stable one. Madness inevitably results, usually death follows. According to The Swordsman, Erebus arrived with a comatose dryad in tow. He clearly has a level of emotional attachment to you. The rest is trivial.”
Alec smiled, “I noticed Erebus does that analysis thing too, how long does it take to learn?”
“A difficult question. Ultimately it is dependant upon the student. A rare few develop it naturally without apparent effort or learning, some take years, some decades, some try their whole lives but never learn it. What I will say is it that before you try and walk that path yourself, know that with it comes a cost, once learned it cannot be unlearned. You will see more into people than they like and that earns enemies, and sometimes you will see more into people that you would like and that earns melancholy.”
“Then why learn it all if it just makes you miserable?”
There was a saddened mirth in the man’s voice as he answered, “Even if you refuse to see something it is still there. The young necromancer taught me that.”
“Erebus taught you? I would have thought it would be the other way around, with you being immortal and all,” Alec’s voice cracking slightly as surprise and youth combined.
“Clearly you haven’t been told my tale quite yet. For now let it suffice that a hundred and thirty year ago, going by planar time, I was in a very sorry state, taken to isolation in the deepest pits of the mirror network when a young magician, hounded and upon the brink of death, stumbled upon my hiding place. It took him three months to recover,” the Wanderer recounted fondly. “In that time there was shockingly little to do but talk.”
“I assume you’re meandering to a point,” Edward snapped with annoyance. “And for the record, I rather enjoyed your absence.” He turned slightly in his chair to address Saiko directly, though even that visibly pained him. The mercenary, he hoped, the most likely of his audience to be receptive to the spiteful aside prepared, “He was always spouting pseudo-philosophical babble, and since that blighted magician turned up he’s become even more longwinded in the telling. One can only hope that when he finally has the decency to shrug off this mortal coil he’ll revert back to insufferable rather than intolerable.”
Saiko frowned before pointedly ignoring the irritable cadaver impersonator, “You were saying sir?”
“Thank you young warrior. Now where was I… ah yes, Erebus was a surprising companion, at once impatient to be back to the fight and yet somehow very tranquil and accepting of his injuries. As much as he wanted to return to normal reality he never hurried or risked a worsening of his wounds. Once I asked him how, when every day still in the mirror was clearly a trial, he could suffer through it without complaint.”
“What did he say?” Alec asked eagerly, keen to gain a better sense of the man who saved his life.
“That a man should not lament that which cannot be changed, for there is nothing to be done. As the past cannot be changed one should not regret it only learn from it and so focus on what we can change. The future,” the Wanderer explained.
“Nonsense and poppycock. The past makes the damned future. Our mistakes are what define us!” Edward spat. “Some more than others.”
The Smith frowned. “I think,” he began carefully, “that it’s time you and I visited the Vault, paid our respects.”
The Ancient protested fiercely, at least verbally, physically the man didn’t, or likely couldn’t, offer any resistance and, were they not relieved to see him go, both Saiko and Alec would likely have felt a great outrage at the manhandling of the venerable grouch.
The Wanderer, for his part, merely sighed, “Please forgive Edward; if my curse is great, then his is greater, and the pain he is in keeps him from adopting a stance of acceptance to his fate. Now let us please return our attention to the entertainment so kindly provided by our patron and his rival.”
“Tempting, but neither myself nor the boy is gifted with your senses,” Saiko lamented albeit politely. The softly spoken warrior had been nothing but gracious thus far, and the merc was warming to him rapidly, strange armour and all.
“Gift would be correct,” the Wanderer replied, fiddling idly with his gauntlets. “Unlike most of my brethren, I have no intrinsic magic of my own beyond my curse.”
“You seemed to be keeping up with them quite well,” Saiko observed smoothly, allowing the implications to ask the question for him.
“Indeed,” the armoured man agreed, finally working a finger free from his gauntlet; or so it seemed, for the instant before he worked it free the finger collapsed into several pieces on the ground, the gauntlet just a series of metal rings.
“Enchanted?” the merc asked succinctly as he helped pick the small hoops out of the dew-moist grass.
“For moving and perceiving at greater speeds than the human body can normally,” the immortal confirmed with mild approval. “No more than two a hand, unless one of you is a mage in disguise, I’d rather not explain how I managed to poison you both with mana saturation. And don’t wear them for more than half an hour unless you want to cook in your own blood.”
“I’ve worn more than four enchanted objects before,” Saiko stated as he and Alec put on the rings. Despite the very mild complaint, he only put on four rings, immediately noting the sharpening of vision as the two figures fighting in the background came into focus, now moving on the very edge of his eyes’ newfound resolution.
“Not like these you haven’t. The Smith and The Runemaker made them so we could spar with the two stooges over there,” the warrior explained, watching with gentle mirth as shock overtook them both as the magic set in. “Witness and marvel,” he declared in mock awe, the words sounding slurred and slow as he messed up the time differential.
There was a wry chuckle as he gleaned his mistake from their bemused expressions. “I’ll leave you youngsters to observe those two showoffs. It’s honestly ridiculous those two have been feuding since I met them; it’s like they enjoy it.” With a last shake of his head, the world’s oldest ronin stalked off in the direction of the town, doubtless intent on rejoining his brothers-in-arms who’d already elected to retire from the field of battle as well as those who lacked his interest in martial pursuits.
An unexpectedly amiable silence descended upon teen and sellsword as they watched the fight; their animosity, as one-sided as it had been, had been quick to dissipate. As Alec had gotten to know the swordmaster (however inaccurate Saiko was beginning to view that particular title) he’d realised there was no malice in the man, in fact, his newfound tutor in the ways of the blade seemed to be going out of his way to be nothing but kind and generous around him.
Saiko was particularly attentive to the duel unfolding before him, noting with surprise how the Huntress was using her bow as both club and stave with great effect, a promising style that, were sharpened steel not his one true love, he’d be tempted to learn for himself.
For a brief moment, the duo disengaged, cautiously assessing their foe as they circled, their martial prowess sufficient that, for a span of seconds as they stood in relative stillness, wounds showed through even their ludicrous healing.
The Huntress, for her part, bled from over a dozen scratches on her arms whilst The Swordsman was haemorrhaging blood from a broken nose, the rest of the blunt force trauma hidden beneath his jacket.
After an eternity, at least through the stiletto lens of adrenaline, The Huntress saw an opening and the fight broke into a frantic flurry once more though not for very long. This last attack proving both decisive and brutal. The Huntress swayed under her foe’s counter-stroke, calmly absorbing a punch in the ribs as she closed in past his guard to kick hard against The Swordsman’s knee, dislocating it with a fleshy pop whilst in the same movement stepping past him to avoid the backswing, the string of her bow pulling tight as she looped it about the man’s throat, the garrotting to the accompaniment of the sticky wet shlick of metal biting into flesh.
They both froze, nemesi in a bloody tableau. The Huntress stood behind her opponent, bowstring digging deep enough into his throat to fountain blood, but she hadn’t come through unscathed.
From their vantage point, Alec and Saiko could see half a foot of bastard sword sticking through from between her shoulder blades, the blade having been reversed and driven back under his armpit once he realised his foe’s true intent.
“A draw,” the Huntress said evenly, loosening the string from about his throat.
“A draw,” The Swordsman replied gravely once the wound closed, pulling his blade free and flicking blood from it with a practised motion of the wrist. “Until next we meet,” he intoned formally, bowing to his opponent before sheathing his blade and retrieving the other before beginning the walk back to town at a normal human pace; the sight almost comical until the two observers quickly removed the Wanderer’s rings, falling into step beside him, taking his choice to share their time frame as an invitation for conversation. Correctly as it happened, the tattooed menace turning to regard them with a kindly eye.
“Your thoughts?” he enquired, not breaking stride.
“I don’t understand,” Saiko said, apparently having mastered his mentor’s ease of generality.
“Good. Violence for the sake of violence should never make sense,” he replied with an approving nod, waiting for the inevitable second question; not the first or even thirtieth time he’d had this conversation.
“Then why do it?” Alec asked, interjecting smoothly into the discussion.
The Swordsman smiled at the subtle ways in which life could prove predictable and yet so surprising at the same time; right question, wrong source. Maybe he was just getting old.
“Why do anything?” There was a weary half-shrug before he continued with the actual answer, “Habit mostly. Because it’s what we’ve always done, for as long as any of us can remember. I think there was a reason once, I remember that much, although the tradition was well established long before I was declared immortal. I think it was partly because rare was the mortal who could match us, even without magic on our side. Not to mention that if rivals were thick enough on the ground to be likened to wheat in a field, there’s our non-interference pact so we probably wouldn’t even be allowed to fight. And our actual enemies would be playing for keeps so who else could we practise against? But mostly it’s because we’ve always done it; relics of a bygone age reliving old triumphs and unable to make new ones.”
The Swordsman shook his head, “The folly of humanity is always to want more, no matter what you already have.”
“That’s… sad,” the boy replied, not expecting something that bordered upon an emotional outburst from the simple question.
“What pact?” Saiko asked, apparently unmoved by the show of emotion, perhaps suspecting it for a sham.
“One of non-interference, but for a few specific circumstances, we’re not permitted to meddle in the politics and wars of mortals. Can’t have unkillable soldiers altering the balance of power, though fortunately most of us lack any intrinsic magic.”
“I can see the logic, but it sounds nearly impossible to actually enforce,” the sellsword observed. Though he’d acted as a bounty hunter for — and against — the supernatural, this would certainly be a job he’d have turned down out of hand; as much as he enjoyed a challenge, there were limits.
“You could say we’re prisoners of conscience,” he replies wryly. “Or each other.”
“My condolences,” his proto-protégé replied. “What are the exceptions?”
“This place is possibly the biggest exception, though I prefer to view it as mortals meddling in our affairs rather than the reverse,” he snarked though there was a smile to it, the few square miles of peace, tranquillity and safety a source of great pride.
“Any others of note?” Saiko enquired. As world-weary and battle-worn as he was, he couldn’t entirely withhold a sense of wonderment strong enough to pierce the ‘seen-it-all-done-it-all’ attitude that had served him so well through the years. As much as it tended to dent the opposition’s confidence if you made a show of taking everything in stride (even if deep, deep down inside you were fiercely wishing you’d remembered to wear your brown trousers) somehow, within Seruatis’ wall — the lack of plural required a conscious effort much to his annoyance — he couldn’t muster the effort, it not only didn’t seem worth it, but it seemed the very height of hubris when brushing shoulders with actual myths and legends.
“The other major possibilities? How good’s your history?”
“Passable.”
“You’re familiar with the Era of Invasion?”
“Only as a mythical footnote.”
“Think non-mythical,” The Swordsman said flatly. “I know people who lived through it, well most of it. It’s complicated.”
“That nonsense was real‽” the merc exclaimed in both horror and shock.
“Indeed. Armies of fae, daemons and creatures from beyond the sundered veil we don’t even have names for, possibly even can’t have names for — a memetic hazard would explain a lot about the accounts. Each army stretching as far as the eye could see. That’s the sort of situation where they let us off our leash.”
“Sounds terrible,” Alec said quietly, envisaging a plain filled with slavering fanged monstrosities, some taller than the Seruatis library, and each consumed only by the need to kill and maim. Whilst alongside them shapeless beings oozed across the landscape like a flood, consuming and extinguishing every spark of life in its wake. The picture in his mind’s eye disturbing and unnatural in its clarity.
“It was. Though at least we survived, the dwarves and the trolls weren’t so lucky,” The Swordsman replied wearily.
“The what?” the boy asked gormlessly.
“Exactly,” he replied as they reached the outskirts of town. “Fortunately, the world is a lot safer these days, or so I’m told.”
“How often do people tell you things?” Saiko enquired with false sweetness.
“How else am I meant to find things out? You and your employer are the first legitimate reason I’ve had to step beyond these walls since the last Necromancer-Paladin war.”
“And illegitimate excuses?” he asked, an amused twinkle in his eyes as he seized on the choice of words. He’d figured the man out, or at least he felt he had, The Swordsman too honest, or perhaps too clever, to lie outright, instead relying, with practised fluidity, on concealment, misdirection and implication.
“Von Mori and I might have been holding clandestine poker games until people finally caught on.” The Eternal Swordsman confessed with a chuckle.
“Dare I even ask what you both used for stakes?” his protégé inquired, titillated by the revelation. Though his encounters with the great dryad were brief, the second lasting literally as long as it took to bind her, Saiko had found her an imposing presence; it was hard to see her lowering herself to games of chance, no matter how illustrious the opposition.
“I’m afraid that is a secret that will remain between myself and the other competitors. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’m chairing the Confluence’s meetings for today,” he evaded, peeling off to disappear in the Seruatis library, the trio left a duo. The two staring numbly at each other as they sought to fill the silence now the main topic of conversation had walked off.
“I don’t think I could be immortal,” the teen said finally, “they all seem so lonely.”
“Thousands of years’ worth of survivor’s guilt,” his teacher observed. “It’s hardly surprising.”
“It’s more than that,” Alec said slowly, brows furrowed as though solving a particularly thorny puzzle in his head. “I think it’s fear of survivor’s guilt, and pain at its inevitability. To know that everyone you call friend will become no more than dust whilst you shall live on to see it happen again and again.”
Saiko gave him a look of concern, “You are far too young to have to understand these things.” There was a pause, “Scrap that, I’m too young to have to understand these things.”
“Ignorance is only treasured by the ignorant,” his student answered off-handedly.
“Now that’s got the air of a quote to it. Who’s it by?”
“My teacher, back home. He’s always coming out with stuff like that, or rather he was.” There was a touch of accusatory bitterness to the statement, not that the mercenary could blame him. He may not have given the order, he may not even have liked the order, but he’d carried it out all the same.
He sincerely doubted that if the situation were reversed, he’d have been able to be so understanding or restrain himself to the odd glare and verbal jab. It was a worrying thing to realise a fourteen-year-old was more emotionally mature than himself, that, or far far more emotionally repressed.
“Sounds like an interesting guy,” was all he said, intoning it as an apology.
“He was,” Alec sighed, picturing the monk’s kindly, wrinkled smiling face. “Um… he would have been wearing a brown monk’s habit, woollen — you practically itched to look at it. Old, weathered skin, like he’d been left outside for most of summer and shrivelled.” No question was asked; no question needed to be asked.
“I don’t remember him,” Saiko answered truthfully, noting how a metric tonne of tension seemed to life from the teen’s too-old eyes and shoulders. “He might have survived.”
The boy’s expression was grateful but hard, “You know that’s a lie.”
“Yes,” the man admitted, “but I hoped you didn’t.”
“Thank you,” Alec said and meant it. “You know Erebus reminds me of him sometimes.”
“Perhaps, but all necromancers have another side; a darker side,” Saiko said, quiet and soft. “No one can wield that sort of power without one of two things. Madness or utter faith in a set of values, which is basically madness in nice clothes.”
“He’s a good person,” the teenager insisted. Somehow the necromancer had become the rock upon which he’d built his world. It was as unsurprising as it was obvious, Lutan had torn down the edifice atop which his life had been built upon just a month ago; it was almost natural that he should latch upon the man who saved his life and his values.”
“They all are,” the swordmaster-once-more-in-training agreed, “right up until the moment they aren’t.”
“How many mad employers have you actually had?” Alec enquired, sadness ephemeral and mercurial with the vaunted curiosity of youth.
“Depends how much I’ve had to drink,” the merc replied. “Or if I’m feeling cynical.”
“And when in a good mood?”
“Maybe four; including Lutan. At least if you’re only accepting certifiable and diagnosable insanity.” He shrugged helplessly, then began listing, “There was my third employer, egomaniac vampire who wanted bodyguarding in the daytime. Then there was a healer — more bodyguard work — cracked under the pressure and began going all angel of mercy on some of his patients.” There was a small sigh and shiver at memories best left behind, “Fortunately when I reported this I got the order to put him down. Some things a mage can do are simply wrong. Lutan got that much right.”
“Erebus agrees with him on the subject of dread healers,” the boy agreed by proxy; he may not have entirely understood the history of dread healers or the nuances of their power, but anything which scared Lutan and Erebus was something he never wanted to meet.
“Everyone does. It’s one of the few major things all major factions agree upon.”
“I thought it was just the Mage Alliance and the Paladin Order.”
“With the best of respect you’ve spent most of your life living in a small backwater deep in Paladin territory, there’s no reason you should know,” he explained, not unkindly.
“So what are the major factions?”
“In Contenmere? It is mainly the Paladin Order and Mage Alliance, though there are a few others. Fortis Umbra, The Court of Stars, Aegis Borealis, couple of other really minor ones. Few major global groups, though they’re mostly extradimensional factions looking for a permanent foothold.”
“What are they all about?”
“Globals or non-global?” Saiko asked, using the question to buy a couple of seconds to dredge up old memories; as varied and chequered as his past was, he’d had very little to do with the groups he’d named.
“Non. Even I can guess a few of the others.” The sentence definite if mildly butchered.
“I don’t know much about the Umbra,” Saiko confessed. “They tend to keep to themselves, only thing remotely close to public information is that they split from the Alliance eight hundred years ago to deal with something they called ‘The Great Threat’.”
“What does everyone else call it?”
“Gross paranoia.”
“And the others?”
“Well,” The merc-turned-surprised-geography-teacher began, moving to more familiar ground, “the Court of Stars is little more than an independent nation of gorgons which the Paladin Order has never had the time or spare manpower to crush; very insular even to necromancers.”
“What makes gorgons think necromancers are special?” Alec demanded, a glimmer of old biases reasserting themselves.
Saiko snorted, “If you ever get a straight answer to that one, tell me.”
“And the last group? Aegis means shield right?”
That earned a blank look, “I have no idea. But they’re the only large faction on the continent I’ve had direct contact with beyond the obvious two. Maniacs for the most part, largely mages, some kind of big fortress way to the north. They’re coldly calculating, as befits their element.” He paused for but a moment, catching Alec’s questioning glance, “Cryomancers; ice mages,” he explained. “It’s always a source of amusement how often the mages grow to stereotype their element, though I’m told there’s a good reason for it. Something about ease of channelling.”
“Channelling?” Alec asked laconically.
“Using the body as a focus and vessel for elemental energy… though that’s just what I remember from a very, very dull lecture on the nature of magic. Apparently being ‘in tune’ with your element makes the spells easier.”
“Okay. I guess that sort of makes sense.”
Saiko shrugged, “Guess you’d have to be a mage to be sure. Now enough idle chatter, have you been practicing the sword drills I showed you?”
“Yes sir,” Alec replied smartly, standing straighter and more respectfully as he transitioned from talking to Saiko, battle-hardened mercenary, to Saiko, his swordplay teacher.
“Good. I want to find you a sparring partner for an hour from now; is that acceptable?” he asked the boy, not quite making it an order as the warning of a masked lunatic played in stereo inside his head. It was probably for the best given how his own training had gone, way back when he’d first grown enamoured by the subtle nuances of blade work.
He still remembered his first day, and sometimes, in the heart of winter, the phantom pain of those long gone bruises would keep him awake.
Saiko’s mentor, Jonen McLathe, now long dead and begrudgingly much missed, had not believed in regimented styles, preferring to let his students hone their skills by constant sparring once they’d grasped the basics and no one got in without having grasped the basics. In the grizzled ex-sergeant’s own words, “Once you can beat one clockwork soldier you can beat them all.”
Alas, the methodology lacked the encouraging nature of the philosophy. Saiko had spent most of his first day being beaten to pulp by two far more experienced students, his only respite being meals and those brief periods where he’d been retrieving his training blade from the sun-baked ground.
For his part, Alec was, in Saiko’s opinion, the ideal student. He listened, tended to understand things the first time it was explained, and when he didn’t, he asked. The big problem was on his end, having to pick which styles to teach the boy with so limited a time until the necromancer would likely leave, and, if his own mentor were to be believed, the boy with him.
As Alec walked away, Saiko couldn’t suppress the feeling that despite his very best efforts, Alec was inevitably heading for a date with an early death.