Pride was a terrible, difficult thing to swallow up until the point you chose to do so. This was not the first time Erebus had been forced to face this hard truth, but it was definitely the most bitter as he stood outside the ancient enemy’s door. Fortunately, with the choice came determination and acceptance, enough, he fervently hoped, for the task at hand.

With great disgust, he rapped firmly on the stout oak door before him, the wood so old it had all but fossilised, and the sharp crack issued forth could have just as easily been the sound of his knuckles breaking.

It was almost two minutes before he heard the sound of footsteps past the threshold; doubtless, the wait was a calculated insult by the owner. The necromancer knew there was no way the creature behind the door hadn’t heard the knock and, by other, more esoteric senses, been expecting him for hours.

A dreamy-eyed man opened the door, his stare managing to take in Erebus whilst also gazing into the middle distance. “Hello again necromancer scum. Please do come inside,” the man said without preamble before gliding back inside with a swish of his tartan toga and long, flowing auburn locks.

“A pleasure to see you too Pheus,” the scum replied dryly, acutely aware the creature was making an effort to be polite. “I’m here to-”

“Get me to save the dryad girl. My answer is no.” The man smiled, exposing too perfectly white teeth. “I will see you and everything you care about rot, now would you like a drink?”

“Whiskey please, whatever Agh’zak recommends,” Erebus replied. “I am prepared to bargain for her life.”

Pheus smiled unpleasantly, “Then perhaps we might come to an arrangement. From your desperation I presume your library search was utterly fruitless.”

“As you knew it would be,” the necromancer replied evenly. “Your terms?”

“Of course it wouldn’t work.” Pheus sneered, “Foolish boy, like all your kind, looking to the past to find the future. How you defeated us I will never understand.”

“You only fought for yourselves.”

“Spare me the heady idealism,” his host declared in disgust. “You want terms, here are my terms. Your dreams and a month of nightmares visited by me.”

“A steep price,” the mage observed. “For the attempt or the successful completion?”

“They are the same. That is why you came to me when all other options were exhausted.” Somehow the statement was utterly without ego, a fact and nothing more.

“No one knows nightmares like you Pheus.”

“And no one ever will,” this time there was ego.

“Why my dreams?” the necromancer asked.

“Boredom. You and the paladin are the most entertaining show for a thousand miles and everyone gets to watch but me.”

“And the others? How do they watch this?” Erebus asked, voice growing softer still.

“Nem sees the paladin. Jay sees the choices, but both of you keep your dreams from me.”

Erebus laughed, the sounds utterly humourless yet filled with a near bottomless well of viscous hate. “To know you are reduced to mere voyeurs. Very well o’lord of Dreams. The pact is made.”

“The pact is made,” Pheus echoes, getting up to fetch two glasses, each glittering like the finest jewels in a king’s ransom and pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into each from a jewel-encrusted decanter. “Do you know there’s a huge expanse of land across the western ocean which has never known our guidance? A tribal people, rich in oral history and trusted by the spirits of nature.”

“Am I supposed to applaud?” the necromancer snorted.

“I haven’t got to my point yet,” Pheus chastised. “Just south of this place there is an empire, built upon human sacrifice by the bloodiest of my kind ever known.”

“And you are telling me this because?”

“Simply enjoying the irony, that we were cast down for our excesses, yet they persist.” The man shrugged, “Sometimes I consider making a clean break, letting go of my hate and rage. And then I remember your people had my family killed.”

“And all the families they had killed?” a harsh, bitter note in Erebus’ voice, quite in contrast with the whisky.

“Weren’t mine.”

“Very well.” The magician sighed, downing his glass in a single burning gulp before continuing with a hint of hoarseness, “Our business is concluded.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

*

In the two days since Alec had failed to enter Holly’s mind he’d had very little free time, either stuck meditating, which wasn’t particularly conducive to a clear mind, or learning how to fight with Saiko, the mercenary growing more visibly worried each day and the training more intensive and eccentric.

Yesterday he’d been training against Agh’zak, the orc proving an amiable and patient teacher when kitchen utensils were kept out of reach. This afternoon he’d been tutored by a retired paladin Saiko had managed to dredge from amongst the populace. A fact Alec had come to regret by the third hour of drills, when the wooden gladius in his hand may as well been purest lead. Still, the boy didn’t shirk from the training, a fact Saiko found as disconcerting as it was helpful, the mercenary certain that one of the demons the boy was to fight was, in fact, the very same he was being trained to fight.

It was bound to be a fruitless task; Saiko knew Lutan, his style, his weaknesses, his strength. He also knew it wouldn’t make a jot of difference if it ever came to a fight. There was no way a couple of months of training, no matter how well targeted, how superlative the teachers themselves or how dedicated the student, could overcome decades of training and experience, not withstanding the better weapons and armour or the greater strength, speed and reach.

Agh’zak had been a lesson in dealing with superior strength, the orc quite reasonable about playing the thug once the motive behind it had been explained. Whilst, in Saiko’s experience, orcs were seldom the bloodthirsty, bloodsoaked berserkers of legend, Agh’zak was laid back to the point of pure zen by comparison.

The retired paladin, Sir Antimony, had been a stroke of luck in the discovery. A silver-haired, eye-patched rogue, Saiko had taken an immediate liking to the old man, his first impression one of roguish humour, lazy amiability and razor wit. A mental picture neatly framed by an evening of drinking as they lied outrageously about their exploits.

The paladin had proven a less able tutor than Agh’zak, at least by Saiko’s definition, friendly yes, considerate also yes, but an uncreative taskmaster, though that wasn’t why he’d recruited the age-silvered swordsman. He’d needed a paladin to teach the boy the basics and, by fortune or fate, had found one. And for all Sir Antimony’s creative recounting, his time amongst the townsfolk had proven the old knight’s tall tales to be a mere appetiser.

Which led to tonight.

Alec had never had a training session at night before, but there was a certain frisson of expectation on the air and a subtle sense of motion in the shadows as well as gliding silhouettes amidst the umbra, just outside the reach of the magelights. Apparently, Seruatis never truly slept.

Saiko had told him to turn up at the patch of dying grass and moist earth that served as their training ground at midnight, a time he’d interpreted, never having had access to a clock, as a few hours after dark until now. Fortunately, especially given they’d only recently passed the Winter Solstice, Dus had elected to time it for him.

Days at a time of solitude had given the gorgon an uncanny time-sense, or so Alec had come to believe. The truth had proven a touch more practical though not as prescient. The slender beeswax candles that burned in a bowl on Dus’ desk burned for an hour and no more, with a ten-hour candle for when she slept, though how she knew if they remained lit when her mask was on Alec couldn’t fathom.

The patch of warm earth proved eery in the night air, the shadows giving it the greyish hue of old grave dirt, and each chirp of an insect or faint mammalian rustle was a clarion call to the small nub of neurons in the back of his head marked ‘Fear.’

As he began to relax, gaze flitting from shadow to ominous shadow, a hand came to rest gently on Alec’s shoulder.

The teen’s terrified scream was muffled by the gloved hand across his mouth. “We’re going to have to work on your awareness,” Saiko said quietly, letting him go. “Allow me to introduce tonight’s sparing partner; Anita Vasghoul.”

Alec looked around for his foe, whilst pondering why the nocturnal duel, he’d figured out already that each new trainer or foe was intended to teach a lesson. Finding out what the lesson was, on the other hand, and understanding it was another matter.

A small petticoated girl stepped out from behind Saiko, almost a full head shorter than Alec, but he judged to be about his own age, her skin unhealthily pale if belayed by the vitality in her eyes.

Short as she may be, Alec was overcome with a certainty she’d be able to pound him into paste.

“She’s kindly agreed to be your sparring partner tonight,” Saiko continued.

“Thank you?” he replied hesitantly, mind split between the inevitable beating he was going to receive and the reasons for the subterfuge and misdirection. Another infamous invaluable lesson from his old mentor: The only thing better than spotting and understanding a trick was to not let anyone know you’d done it.

Alec had suspicions as to what the catch was with tonight’s lesson, a growing theory. With the bare minimum of flourish, he brought his wooden blade up to a guard position, arms still aching a little from earlier today, the tip aimed at Cassandra’s pale throat.

“Ready when you are,” the teen declared evenly.

Saiko nodded approvingly, regarding his pupil’s stance and movement with the same calculating critical eye he would a potential opponent and despite a few minor problems with his stance — weight slightly too much on the forwards foot — and his grip on the blade a bit too stiff in the wrist — found it passable.

In the mercenary’s experience, most people first learning to use a blade had a tendency to grandstand and flourish, more focused on looking heroic than being effective in the belief the two flowed together.

There was an art to fighting for style; arena fighting was a discipline in itself, but it bore little resemblance to one-on-one duelling and even less to a pitched battlefield.

As his mind wandered Saiko kept part of his attention on his student as with steady exactitude, the girl bowed low, and Alec struck, stepping forwards to bring the flat of his blade towards her exposed head, aware the surprise attack could be lethal if it landed edge first even with a training blade.

Saiko smiled briefly, watched as with an adroit sidestep Anita span in under Alec’s guard in a neat half-circle, taking him by his overextended wrist and flipping him over her hip into an embarrassing sprawl in the dirt.

The girl stepped backwards, out of reach of a desperate grab or kick, though none was forthcoming. “You fight without honour,” she stated as Alec pushed himself back to his feet. “Good. You might just live.”

Five minutes later and Alec had had enough, body a mass of stinging welts. As he’d suspected, Anita was most definitely not a young girl, she was too fast, too strong, and even without a sword, she’d beaten the crap out of him. Little more than a blur when she decided to strike, and she’d struck often.

Frustrated, he threw down his blade. “I give up! what’s the point of this? I’m getting nothing out of this other than hurt,” Alec declared, anger echoing out into the darkness. In any other city, this would have caused a chorus of rage back from freshly awoken residents, but fortunately, as he’d already figured out, the day-night cycle wasn’t even given lip service.

“You tell me what the point is,” Saiko told him. “You’ve a decent head on your shoulders, use it.”

Stolen story; please report.

“And I’m telling you I haven’t the slightest clue!” the boy protested loudly.

His teacher frowned, “Very well. Then we shall end this lesson early. Think on what this was meant to teach you and when you’ve an idea find me and I’ll set up another lesson.”

Alec scowled but didn’t protest further, picking up his blade before saluting his foe/partner as curtly as he felt he could get away with before stalking away to go to sleep.

Saiko shook his head as the boy left, noting the sullen sunkenness in the boy’s shoulders, “That could have gone a lot better.”

Anita shrugged, “Could have gone worse. It can always go worse.”

“It can always go better too,” Saiko riposted. “Don’t be such a pessimist.”

The vampire shook her head, “I’m an optimist at heart. To expect the worst from any situation means you can never be disappointed, all the surprises are joyous ones.” She smiled warmly at him.

The merc couldn’t suppress a shudder; child vampires creeped him out. Though not the norm, they were popping up more and more often, at least according to some of his friends in the monster-hunting business. On the mage side of the border.

Something about the increasing social acceptability of the undead in modern society, though that was just what the younger hunters said, the old ones, grizzled steel-stubbled bastards to a one, the ones who had stopped being quick a very long time ago and had to settle for smart and underhanded, they simply smiled sadly when the subject was broached, but they wouldn’t talk about it.

Usually, child vampires were ‘mission of mercy’ cases though Saiko couldn’t see anything merciful about it. True, their lives were being saved, but saved for what?

Eternity trapped in a child’s body, unable to form adult connections, forced to watch your friends and peers age and grow, and eventually wither and die, whilst forever trapped in a body their mind had long outgrown. A lot of adults weren’t equipped to handle that sort of trauma. He’d heard almost a quarter of vampires chose to greet the sun within their first three decades though Saiko doubted that. In his experience, when a vampire snapped, they snapped, and it was time to clear out or arm up before your corpse was part of an art exhibit with a central theme of red.

From what he’d heard, child vampires were worse.

Anita met his eyes and, he judged, read rather more than he’d have liked from them. “Don’t worry. I haven’t killed anyone in years.”

“That’s reassuring,” Saiko said dryly. “Sorry your practice got aborted.”

“Hardly practice, barely even qualified as fun,” she complained, raising a hand that was rapidly turning into claws. “Care to go a few rounds? I’ll take it easy on you.”

“I’ll be sure not to return the favour,” Saiko replied smoothly.

The best part of an hour later, nursing a swollen eye, a split lip and some stinging of light cuts, he found himself approached by the necromancer.

“What do you want?” he demanded. He’d been aware of the magician watching for some time, though he’d been courteous enough not to interrupt. Black always showed up bizarrely well in darkness.

“Just curious as to why Alec can almost be classified as a walking bruise,” Erebus said.

“He came to you to complain?” the merc revising his estimate of the boy downward.

“Nothing so dramatic. The boy stopped by the infirmary to get some salve for his bruises, I merely happened to be the healer on duty.”

“And here you are to question my methods,” the swordmaster pointed out, voice sourer than acid.

“I understand your methods. It’s an unfair world so you’ve given him an unfair opponent, someone he would not normally consider a threat then have him crushed mercilessly and repeatedly so he’ll treat all opponents no matter their lack of stature or obvious physical prowess with wariness and respect.” Erebus paused just long enough for Saiko to nod. “Have you considered that the boy’s spirit might break under such methods? He’s been through a lot lately.”

“I have,” the swordsman answered with defensive haste and testiness. “Personally I’d say Alec is made of sterner stuff than that. And if he isn’t… then better he breaks here than out there.”

“I agree,” his former foe replied. “I just wanted to make sure you were thinking about these things.”

Saiko nodded, prepared to accept the olive branch on offer, “Why all this interest in the boy? Don’t get me wrong, I like the lad but you’ve gone to great lengths to protect him and at great risk to yourself.”

“Our host has been sharing his theories I see,” Erebus remarked, rolling his eyes.

“Not even slightly. Why? What does he think?”

“That Alec is my son who I’ve kept hidden for years under Lutan’s nose.”

The some-time assassin gave that a moment’s thought, “No.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Still doesn’t answer my question though.”

“Maybe not but let me ask you a question, why should I not have saved the boy?” Erebus smiled slightly, the guise of amateur philosopher one he wore with the familiarity and comfort of an old coat.

“I’m not your apprentice. Nor am I an idiot. Please stop evading.”

“Very well,” the necromancer replied with steady finality. “My reasons are my own and shall remain so.”

“I can respect that. I’ve some other things I’ve been meaning to ask you, if you’ve no objections.”

“I will listen to your questions, though I cannot promise you answers,” Erebus replied, hedging his bets, still unsure where Saiko’s loyalties lay and finding the sellsword both perceptive and likeable, always a dangerous combination.

“Very well,” Saiko agreed and the sotto voce negotiations over, ploughed on with his question. “What exactly is a grey mage?”

The necromancer laughed, “Technically I am, as I’m sure Lutan said many times. Let me guess you didn’t want to appear ignorant in front of your employer so just smiled and nodded whilst making appropriate defamatory remarks, possibly concerning my parentage?”

“It tended to do the job.”

“It’s a rather old and dated title, seldom used since the line between healing and necromancy got really blurry,” Erebus explained. “It refers to a magician who is an acknowledged master of a ‘white art’ — usually healing — and a ‘black art’ such as necromancy.”

“With white representing good and black representing evil,” Saiko observed.

“Naturally, though the original reason many of the more morally murky arts were called black magic is that their practice traditionally took place under the cover of darkness, and thus for purposes of juxtaposition any magic that was perceived as good became white. Next question.”

“Very droll. Here’s a question, I thought most mages only focused on the one art so why would you split your attention between two magics which are antithetical to each other?”

“Because they aren’t, or at least the traditional combination of necromancy and healing aren’t, they compliment each other magnificently, and the longevity both give gives more than enough time to study both. Both require a near unrivalled knowledge of anatomy and both in times of war have the effect of keeping as many troops in fighting condition as possible.”

“Very pragmatic.”

“The magicians who survived the constant warring with the Paladin Order had to be pragmatic. The peace we are enjoying now, the same peace Lutan would see shattered is a result of that pragmatism.”

“I know my history.” Saiko growled, “Just because I’m a mercenary does not mean I’m an idiot.”

“Never said you were. Lutan’s no fool and unless you’re the secret heir of some lost kingdom I can’t think of any reason he’d keep a sellsword for an advisor other than that you give good advice.”

“You never had the pleasure of Lord Owen’s conversation,” he replied dryly. “I assure you his swordsmanship was superior in all aspects.”

“The knight?” Erebus hazarded.

There was a nod and a smile, “Made advisory meetings all but intolerable.”

“What exactly would he suggest?”

“Oh the classics. He really believed the whole ‘down with magic’ spiel Lutan preached, particularly the concept of tainted by association.”

“I presume from your derision that you weren’t a believer?”

Saiko gave him a hardbitten look, “Of course I believe, I believe whatever I’m paid to.”

The smile shared wouldn’t have been out of place on a pair of sharks.

Silence reigned briefly between them until “What are the boy’s chances?” the mercenary asked.

“Good. I’ve found a… specialist who should be able to solve the problem.”

“Shouldn’t you and Alec be with him then?”

“If only it were so simple, unfortunately Pheus requires Alec to be sharing Holly’s nightmare state.”

“I know it probably doesn’t change anything between us but I do regret the null collar and I did speak out against it.”

Erebus closed his eyes in contemplation, “You’re right, it doesn’t change anything.”

“Shall we part ways now?” Saiko said quietly. “It would be a pity to end on a note of discord.”

“There is no discord,” Erebus assured him. “There is nothing to be done about the past, just have care for your future.” The master magician lowered his voice to the deep quiet of a conspirator, “Our dear patron has plans for you, and as I respect him I would play nice even if I despised you, which for the record I don’t.”

“What sort of plans?” the mercenary queried as a cavalcade of red flags danced in his mind’s eye.

“Well the term ‘apprentice’ may have been tossed around, as might have been ‘successor.”

Erebus had seldom had just cause to use the word flabbergasted, but this certainly seemed to qualify as Saiko seemed to be giving his best impression, and it certainly was a convincing one, of a freshly landed pike.

“But he’s the finest swordsman on the continent!” Saiko managed after the best part of a minute stammering over the first letter.

“Which makes him rather qualified to make such a judgement. He think’s you’ve a natural talent which needs refining.”

“Why are you telling me this?” the mercenary asked.

“I think you can guess.”

“Lutan,” Saiko answered.

“Indeed. I felt, though The Swordsman disagrees, that knowing the opportunity available to you might affect your choices should agents of your old boss come a-calling.”

“So you don’t actually trust me.”

“I trust you to act in your best interests and so I felt it only fair you were able to make a well-informed choice.”

“As I said you don’t trust me.”

“I trust you the same as I trust anyone else, I trust you to act within the confines of your personality.”

“But you don’t know me,” Saiko objects.

“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘know the man, know the method’?”

“Yes…” the sellsword replied, not sure where the necromancer was going with this.

“Then by the same virtue to know the method is to know the man, and so you’ll find I do in fact know you rather well sellsword.”

Saiko glared, “How do you know Lutan’s people aren’t already here, laying in wait?”

“You’d have told us.” This was met with a doubtful look, “I said I know you. You’re a natural survivor, you’d tell us just to hedge your bets. I get assassinated and we can’t blame you and you remain in favour with Lutan. Whereas if we foiled any such attempts then you gain favour in our eyes and Lutan never finds out.”

Saiko considered protesting, but unfortunately, it was all true. “You’re disturbingly perceptive for a necromancer. The ones I’ve met tended to spend all of their time wittering on about if truth is beauty then is beauty truth and whether it’s possible to hear falling trees.”

“I’m the other kind of necromancer,” Erebus replied with a quiet smile. “You remember those evil bastards who starred in the old tales? I’m one of them.”

The mercenary laughed nervously, “I’m beginning to see that.”

“One last question before I leave you in peace. Did you know what Lutan had planned for Von Mori?” There was an edge to the question, and despite Seruatis’ ban on non-consensual violence and Erebus’ earlier assurances of good intent, Saiko knew that if he gave the wrong answer, then the peace he’d be left in would be a final one.

“I knew he had a plan but I didn’t even expect what it involved. My guess was some careful legal obfuscation under the auspices of the Accords.”

The mercenary shook his head in disbelief, “If I had any idea at all well… contract be damned I’d be being led blindfolded through the Stonegaze mountains right now.”

“What do you know about the soul binding he used?” Erebus asked, sallow and troubled.

“Well, emerald focus, but you already knew that and I’ve no idea where he got one that large, but very intricate runes inside it, four dimensional layering.”

“Four?” the necromancer spluttered. “Are you absolutely sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”

“Beyond a shadow of a doubt. I even asked.”

“Most troubling… and Lutan had his armour on during the activation?” This was met with a curt nod, “Very troubling indeed, the only way to get a spell-trap that intricate in the presence of nullstone is to use enchanted null for the runes.”

It was Saiko’s turn to splutter, “Impossible. I’ve never even heard the legend of a craftsman that good.”

“I know of just two able to pull off such a work of power and skill. They’re both here as it happens.”

“The Smith,” Saiko guessed, glancing at the currently inactive acceleration rings on his fingers, “and…?”

“The Runemaker; what you’ve described is exactly his area of expertise.”

“I can’t see it if I’m honest. How would Lutan even know he existed?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you. There are confidences I can’t betray.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it matter?” the centuries-old mage replied, smile terribly sad and desperately weary. “You know how the game is played.”

“Blood contract or worse?”

“Does it need to be worse?” Erebus replied. “I think I’ll take my leave now, though I fear your candour has merely spawned more questions.”

Saiko watched the necromancer with a mixture of dark amusement and respect.

He wondered what guesses the magician was keeping to himself. He’d certainly been right about most of it.

Once he was sure Erebus was gone, he split into a full grin; it was time to hedge his bets.