The Archmage of Myriad Arts took a calming breath as she watched the door to her empty classroom, wondering just when Alec and Holly would get there. Not because she was nervous. Nervousness was beneath the millenia old elf, which was why she was merely experiencing trepidation.

History was not a subject Merida normally taught. There were a number of very good reasons for this fact. First and foremost that the usual history teacher had been in the role so long that they’d even taught her. Secondly that if she wanted an exercise in clinical boredom she could just as happily drunk a potion to achieve similar effects and thus do it in relative comfort.

The third reason, and in many ways the biggest one, was that she tended to argue with the history books, a lot. Sometimes it was small things, like how many troops were present and who won… and sometimes it was something larger like the fact that while technically the third battle for Emereth had been stopped by the storm, the storm in question had been brought by a rather angry Velerethex the lightning dragon who’d been woken by the noise.

Given that the location of dragons, at least those from the time of the gods, were a deeply guarded secret somehow that had escaped the history books entirely, and, Merida imagined, at great expense.

It had taken her quite a while to figure out why dragons were so protected given their multitude of uses in alchemy, their vast stores of wealth and knowledge and their tendency not to play nice with others. It had been quite perplexing until she’d realised the flying lizards were just too tempting of a target, exerting what bordered on a selection pressure as idiots of all creeds clamoured to slay them, and while Merida was not morally opposed to letting natural selection take its course, optimistic idiots were a valuable resource that she would far rather spend herself.

Which was why she was going to enjoy teaching Alec and Holly history. Not the optimistic idiots part, at least not necessarily, but they’d seen and learned just enough of the secrets of Reath that trying to teach them the official story was an idea not just dead and buried but that had also had the entire graveyard paved and turned into flats.

Admittedly she was still going to have to teach the official version of events alongside the (mostly) accurate version to prevent them accidentally contaminating their classmates. Poor Mortimer was having to forego sleep to make enough memory blank spheres with the rate they were using the damned things, including one of the spheres that had been allocated to her.

Given she had no memory of the event it was rather driving her mad, her mind grappling with the idea that she’d stumbled across something even she didn’t believe she should know. But down that path lay madness… and it wasn’t a long path.

It was also embarrassing, especially given the use of such supplies was a matter of record. She was supposed to be unflappable, one of the beating hearts of the Necropolis, nothing was supposed to be off-limits to her so what could possibly-

She cut the thought off sharply. It really was a very short path, and Holly and Alec were certainly not helping with their tardiness. That thought was another that got more than a standard prickling from the hairs on the back of Merida’s neck.

If forced to describe her new students, lackadaisical was not the first thought that came to mind. It was possible they’d just gotten lost… in a building that actively ensured people got to where they were headed…

*

Alec was not having a good day. Scratch that he was having a decidedly bad day.

It had taken more than he’d ever confess to, not even to Holly, to walk to his treatment today. So to have being monologued at, and belittled besides, in addition to being repeatedly drowned to the point he was having to cough up water, had not done much for his already prickly temper.

Of course the truly infuriating part had been how Merida, the psychopathic archmage, a woman who had literally argued for him to be killed, had been so terribly understanding. Talking about how they would get him counselling, how it wasn’t unusually to react with rage when feeling powerless, how it wasn’t his fault… Frankly if she’d been trying to make him angry she couldn’t have done a better job, and he wasn’t totally convinced she hadn’t been.

At least he’d been spelled dry before he left this time.

The truth was he’d always had a temper. Like the time Hazel had carefully coaxed a woodpecker to nest in his boughs, he’d stripped about half the bark off her tree before Beech had pulled him away. Or the time Hawthorn had found out he had woodworm and he’d clawed the witch’s face so badly she still had scars.

So despite what Merida said he was fairly sure it wasn’t a trauma response.

The teen was interrupted from his dark musings to find his path obstructed. Six necromancers had intercepted him at an intersection, and given they’d managed to box him in from all three directions the idea it was accidental was laughable, especially given just how rare seeing other people in the corridors was.

Alec had his suspicions as to why other people were so rare when in transit. At minimum the Necropolis did not conform to its external dimensions, and the great blackstoned fortress had been large in its own right. Combine that with the spell that Brin had told Holly about, that apparently clouded the perceptions of people there, and Alec was fairly sure that people were being diverted through different paths to any given location within the Necropolis.

Despite necromantic melodrama being almost a given, he suspected that wasn’t the real reason walks in the Necropolis were lonely by default. Rather than an aid to melancholy he suspected the spell was a traffic calming measure gone wrong.

The first big clue had been the size of the advanced class. While he wasn’t a statistician, the idea that there were currently only seven students over the half a continent that the Necropolis could recruit from that warranted some extra attention was ludicrous on the face of it. Which meant that not many people were choosing to become necromancers, and what necromancers there were were mostly out there in the world actually doing things.

The Necropolis itself lay all but empty, and seeming all the emptier for spells doing their job long past the point they were useful. Which meant when six mages just happened to block your path in three different directions it wasn’t a coincidence.

Alec’s first instinct was, as always, to fight. But that was a hopeless endeavor. His second, to run, was equally pointless, especially when a check over his shoulder showed a duo of similarly sour-faced necromancers advancing from the only available direction.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The only silver lining was that he recognised one of the mages in front of him. Slayer Arrabelle had at the very least earned some forbearance. Alec didn’t fully, or if he were honestly mildly, understand Necropolis politics, but he had figured out that the elderly woman had gone to bat for him in a big way with her and her entire order essentially threatening to throw down if he or Holly were harmed.

“Apprentice Alec of Respite.” The old lady began, voice clear and strong, “The Slayers of Death require your presence. We bid you, come with us.”

‘Well at least this wasn’t going to be an outright kidnapping,’ Alec thought dryly, still not liking the way he was being crowded in. “And if I choose not to?”

“Then we will, I am afraid to say, insist.” Arrabelle admitted, a flush of shame crossing her wrinkled features. “If it helps, we intend you no harm. But the information you have is just too important to us.”

So it was in fact a kidnapping, just a very polite one. “I have my first history class to get to...” The teenager tried weakly. “Perhaps we could arrange another time?”

“I’m afraid not.” Arrabelle said, fishing into her pockets to remove a blindfold. “Put that on.”

Reluctantly Alec took the blindfold. There really weren’t many other options, if he fought them he’d likely just be bodily carried.

He began to put on the blindfold when a new sound caught his attention, the rather distressingly familiar clank, clank, clank of steel boots on stone as a panting paladin rounded the corner. “Alec of Respite, you do not need to go with them!” The newcomer yelled before hunching over, hands on his greaves as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

The paladin’s presence was not a welcome one, not even for Alec. Having your entire village wiped out as a pretext for murdering your mentor tended not to endear people to political organisations.

The Slayers of Death were if anything less impressed than Alec. They hadn’t even bothered reaching for their weapons. Arrabelle, their chosen speaker, smiling with patently false warmth at the man as she said smoothly, “Ambassador, this is an internal Necropolis matter. Of no interest to the Holy Paladin Order I assure you.”

The paladin, still puffing, nodded. “Certainly. But that doesn’t mean it’s not my business.” As he approached Alec could see that his armour wasn’t quite fitting, a little tight just about everywhere, especially around the middle. Hells, some of it even had spots of rust where it hadn’t been properly tended to. That and he just looked like crap, the man’s hair an auburn knot of Gordian proportions. He was haggard, unshaved, his skin greasy and the bags under his eyes were deep enough to be used for shopping.

Arrabelle’s eyes narrowed to a full glare, the Slayers by some unspoken signal moving to form a wall to block Alec from sight. In theory he could have run now, but he knew the open corridors might as well be an illusion. They had magic and he did not. And besides, part of him wanted to see how this played out.

“You can’t possibly hope to fight us.” The Slayer told him coldly, a hint of concern entering her eyes at the paladin’s smile. Well it was debatable if it was a smile, certainly his lips pulled back to show his teeth.

“I can’t hope to fight you and win” He corrected them, “but that’s fine. Cowards seldom win anyway. And killing me would make quite the diplomatic incident.” His expression softened slightly, from sheer granite to mere concrete as he looked past the Slayers to Alec. “You don’t have to go with them if you don’t want to Alec.”

“The Necropolis has dealt with such incidents before. You would not be the first ambassador to just… disappear.” Arrabelle threatened. Yet despite that she still backed away slightly from the still advancing knight.

“Nor would I be the last. Rest assured that Neia knows exactly where I am, and exactly what I’m doing. My disappearance would not stay unsolved for long.”

“Karatas… why are you doing this? You aren’t well.” The Slayer tried for empathy, indicating his sunken eyes and gaunt features.

“Am I not?” The paladin laughed, a dark bitter sound he almost choked on, “And why should I be well? What right do I have to be well when so many of my friends lie dead from my cowardice? You will not take the boy Arrabelle.”

That certainly seemed to stump the Slayer. She and her cadre had been prepared for a a wide array of opposition, up to and including Ackeron or Merida, but a depressed and possibly suicidal paladin diplomat had not been on their bingo card.

“We are at an impasse.” Karatas noted, striking while he had what passed for the momentum. “And violence serves you nought. I propose a compromise.”

That served to foul Arrabelle’s composure even further. The Slayers of Death was not an order known for diplomacy, if anything their forthright ultimatum to the Necropolis’ leadership was unusually subtle and underhanded. Karatas on the other hand was the longest serving ambassador the Holy Paladin Order had sent. Being drawn onto his battlefield over their own could only end in disaster, but what choice had they?

“What do you envision?” The old woman sighed, clearly still mentally debating the pros and cons of trying to dispose of a body at short notice.

“That first we ask Alec what he wants.” Karatas suggested softly before snorting out a laugh, “By all the fallen gods, did it ever once occur to you to just ask him to meet up at a later date?”

Evidently it hadn’t, Arrabelle and her cohort looking shellshocked at the idea, provoking another, more bitter laugh from Karatas. “Well lad, what do you want?”

It was a surprisingly complex question. Certainly he knew the answer he should give was that he wanted to go to his class, and learning about the history of Reath was, to the future shock of his teachers, enticing to the teen. After living most of his life in an information vacuum where the only information considered useful was either how to mill flour and bake bread, or how to select good pieces of the highly valuable Forest Von Mori deadwood, with a smattering of just enough paladin teachings to avoid be considered part of their cultural milieu, learning actual history, admittedly coloured by a necromantic perspective, was something he’d been looking forwards to.

But it wasn’t magic, and, while he didn’t know what the Slayers of Death wanted, and daylight kidnapping wasn’t doing much to endear them to him, Alec had to acknowledge that he likely owed them his life. Admittedly he’d been acknowledging this from the moment he’d seen Arrabelle, but it was one of those facts that bore repeating.

Most importantly, he was curious. The Slayers seemed like an organisation that took themselves seriously, and their name rather gave away their purpose. The idea that he could help them in some fashion was borderline farcical, so he couldn’t help wonder what had convinced them otherwise.

The most probable answer was they wanted a blow-by-blow of the fight between Erebus and Tza’rahlitzek, hoping to glean some technique by which the archmage had managed to wound the divine. In which case he’d have to decline on the grounds of being murdered being bad for his health. But it couldn’t hurt to find out for sure. Probably.

“I think I’ll go with them.” He said slowly, drawing the words out as if hoping to be interrupted.

Karatas merely nodded. “As long as you’re sure. And I’ll tag along to ensure fair play.”

Finally Arrabelle recovered. “That will be quite impossible. Our sanctum is not to be seen by outsiders, let alone the likes of you, ambassador.”

“And what about me do you find so objectionable?” Karatas asked softly. “It can’t be my affiliation, you’re the only order in the Necropolis with paladins in your ranks. It certainly can’t be the company I keep, given the number of Slayers I’m friends with. So what about me do you protest to?”

“By your own admission you are a coward. The warrior who put down his sword to raise a pen instead.”

“Ah.” The diplomat chuckled, the sound slowly moving to a full guffaw. “I forget sometimes how stupid your order is. Do you know I was on the other side of this conversation years ago? When a far better man than I put my name forwards for this role. It was never my pen that made me a coward Arrabelle, it was my inaction. And that time is done.”

“Bold words. Yet your claim to be a man reborn is just a claim.” The Slayer declared dismissively.

“If not me then I’m sure I could arrange someone else… I know the Shields have more than a passing interest in this matter. Ackeron would love an excuse to walk amongst you, and Merida is always so very… thorough when she believes herself slighted.”

“Fine.” Arrabelle spat the word out as if hurt her. “You can come.”

“Then let us waste no more of each other’s time.” Karatas said graciously. “Lead on.”