The citizens of Valla were suffering. Viggo could see the evidence in their faces. They looked more like trapped animals than people. Surrounded on all sides by the enemy, forced to suffer the slow agony of starvation and disease—It was a wonder that stayed sane. It had been the better part of a month since Antuzan forces closed in. An entire month for food stores to run low, and clean sources of water to run dry. Prices were increasing, eventually leaving the poorest of them without a means to eat.
He walked down a cobbled street, towards the marketplace they had passed the night before. What in Teldur’s name was he doing here? When he had awoken early that morning, he left the Prioriem without letting anyone know. He had just walked right out the front doors, without stopping to talk to anyone or tell them where he was going. Why, he couldn’t say. He only knew he had to move his legs. The distraction helped him think.
The isolation, the captivity was crushing the common people of Valla. In a matter of minutes, he spotted dozens of grimy country folk who had been forced from their homes outside the city. Used to the open spaces of their farms, they now clustered in small pockets, seeking shelter in alleys and under rudimentary tents. Their bodies were thin—beginning to waste away to nothing. The sight was enough to make him shake with frustration.
They could evacuate through the passage, if the council allowed it. Make their way north, or perhaps west to Cenna. Could he be sure, though, that they would be safe? Who was he anyway to determine the fate of so many lives?
A feeling of helplessness threatened to overtake him. It was familiar, like an old enemy, or maybe friend, that he was long acquainted with. There were many times in his life in which he had faced circumstances beyond his control. The mirror showed a very different man than five years ago. Those experiences had shaped who he was today. He supposed this one would, too.
He sighed and continued onward, towards Founder’s Square, an outdoor pavilion a few blocks away from the Prioriem. Before retiring last night, Sira had mentioned that this was one of the few marketplaces that still operated in the city. When he arrived, he found that many of the merchant stalls were still deserted. Only a few remained open, selling the most basic of necessities—dried meats, hard cheeses, breads, and alcohol. Not many could afford much else, given the circumstances. Though, few people were actually purchasing any goods. Even here, in one of the wealthier parts of the city, peasants and beggars alike filled the square. Most loitered near the public sitting areas, looking for reprieve. Some, however, were hoping one of the merchants would take pity and provide hand-outs. So far, none had.
He bought a small bottle of cheap ale for an exorbitant amount of gold from one of the vendors, exhausting a sizeable portion of his reserves. It was still early, but his flask had run out again last night. He took a long pull from the bottle. The liquid was lukewarm, but the familiar flavor eased him.
A quiet bench near a statue depicting Vallandra herself became the ideal spot for him to nurse his drink. She stood tall and proud, sword thrust upwards in a salute that bespoke adventure and triumph. Too bad her city is probably going to be sacked soon, he thought. He wondered if is mood would improve or worsen with the alcohol.
Dark thoughts brewed in his mind as he swigged the warm ale. Worse, then. All throughout the city, people struggled against the oppression of the siege. And yet the leaders of Valla refused to act. A decision, any decision, would be better than nothing. It disgusted him. In his experience, those in power rarely cared about the common folk. The theme seemed common among Ilrian nobility. They acted in their own interests, rather than the interests of the people they swore to serve.
For a time, he sat in the square, watching people come and go through the marketplace, buying what they needed—if they could afford it—to survive. They always walked away with too little for too much.
“I don’t know why, but I knew I’d find you here.”
Viggo turned to see Sira, her azure armor significantly more disheveled than the night before.
“I like the solitude.” He shrugged, sliding over to make room for her on the bench. “Did you even sleep last night?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I went to bed wearing this?” She gestured to her armor, giving a half-smile—though her eyes looked serious.
“You know, I think I would. You seem the sort.” He took another sip from his glass, then offered it to her. She shook her head, eying at the bottle. “Hey, it’s good stuff. The lukewarm temperature really brings out the flavor.”
“I’m starting to think we are kindred spirits when it comes to dry sarcasm, but I think I’ll pass.” She sat down beside him, resting her arm casually on the back of the bench. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments.
She looked up at the statue that stood over them. “You know, she supposedly founded this city to out-do her sister, Cennadra. The story goes that each of them attempted to one-up the other, until one day they both founded cities, claiming that theirs would outshine the other.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard that one,” Viggo said. “I’m also familiar with the twin sister story—that much is the same. The way I’ve heard it told, though, is that the cities were founded to maintain balance. Each sister, and by extension each city, needed one another. One could not have been established without the other.”
“A very Caeteran way of looking at it. You’re not some religious fanatic, are you?”
He shook his head. “No, far from it. Just something I learned growing up.”
“They’re all just silly children’s stories in the end, I suppose,” she said. “I’m sure Vallandra and Cennadra were wonderful siblings.”
For a few moments neither of them spoke. A cool breeze blew through the square, welcome in the hot autumn weather. As he surveyed the market, something strange caught his eye in an alleyway across from where they were sitting. A cloaked figure lurked in the shadows of a building. And it appeared be watching him. He could almost feel a tangible malice emanating from the alley. His heart began to beat faster.
“Do you see that? Over there. In the alley straight across the way.” Throngs of people milling through the square obfuscated their view.
She looked towards where he was pointing and squinted. “I… don’t see anything. What was it?”
He looked again, and sure enough the figure was gone, the malicious aura along with it. Viggo shook his head in disbelief. “I swear on the sands that I saw someone over there. They looked shady. It felt like they were watching us.”
“Are you sure you should be drinking that stuff?” She arched an eyebrow at him, glancing down at the bottle.
“Probably not,” he admitted, setting the drink aside. “But I know I saw something over there. It felt... wrong.”
She stood up and arched her back in a stretch. “Well, I am captain of the guard. If a citizen has a concern, it’s my duty to investigate.”
She marched across the square, Viggo trailing in her wake.
The alley, as it turned out, was completely deserted. Not a trace of the shadowy figure remained. If it had ever actually existed at all. A quick investigation of the area yielded no evidence of any kind. Maybe he had just imagined it.
“Look, maybe you saw someone, maybe you didn’t,” Sira said as she finished poking at a particularly dirty set of rags piled into one corner of the alley.
“I... I don’t know. It was just a quick glimpse.” It was true that he didn’t get a good look, but he had felt something. He couldn’t explain away the feeling. Eerily, the wrongness had seemed familiar to him. That frightened him more than anything.
“Fact is, even if someone really was there, snooping around an alleyway—while it is kinda creepy—isn’t really a crime. Maybe someone was just confused at the Ilrian soldier loitering in the square drinking expensive alcohol,” she said, a hint of mocking in her tone.” We should be getting back now anyways. We’ve got larger concerns. The council met again this morning.”
Viggo, taking one last glance back down the alley, not sure what he was hoping for, turned to go. They left the dark shadows of the alley, heading back into the main pavilion.
“Let me guess. More indecision?”
“You’re starting to get the hang of politics, I see.” She gave another half-smile, but this time it contested with a grimace.
They began their stroll back to the Prioriem, making small talk, trying to avoid the proverbial shadow that loomed over their heads. He realized with dismay that he’d left his drink on the park bench. Damn, that was an expensive ale.
The rumbling basso of a horn sounded throughout the city, drowning out their conversation. It persisted for a few moments before stopping. The sound bounced off the walls of buildings, reverberating loudly.
“What in the hell was—“ Viggo’s voice was drowned out by a second blast of the horn. It was distant, but still carried a tremendous volume of sound throughout the city.
Sira held up a hand in a wait-a-minute gesture. A few moments later, a third horn rang out.
“Damn it. Damn it all!” She said. “Come on, we’ve got to move.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, walking with a brisk stride. There were other citizens in the street, many of whom began to scramble into the nearest building, looking panicked.
“What is it?” He asked.
“I wonder what it’ll be this time!” Sira shouted into the air, ignoring his question. Her pace increased to the point where she was nearly jogging, and Viggo struggled to keep up. “Hurry up,” she called without looking back.
Before he could ask again, he heard a low rushing sound coming from high above. He stared in shock as a flaming ball of rock hurtled over their heads in a wide arc. The distance was hard to guage, but his best guess was no more than a span or two across. With a thundering impact, the projectile crashed into a building a few hundred paces down the street ahead of them, causing the roof to collapse in on itself; a burst of flames snaked into the sky, and a butt of embers sprang forth into the air.
Oh. Oh gods above. This is bad.
“Oh, Trinity’s fucking sake,” Sira said. “They’re much closer than before!”
“Much closer to what?” Viggo shouted as another fireball collided with another buliding, this time to their right. People screamed. Shouts could be heard from all over, crying out names, yelling urgently, rising to a caucophony that became unintelligible.
“The Prioriem,” Sira shouted over the din.
In that moment, Viggo realized what direction they were headed, his feet carrying him without thought. The Prioriem. It’s courtyard was only a block away. The Antuzans were trying to bomb the Prioriem.
He heard the sound of a third fireball crash into the street, no more than a hundred paces behind them. A harrowing scream, unlike anything Viggo had ever heard, pierced through the veil of sound around him.
He turned to look back, nearly stumbling in the process, and could see a young girl on her hands and knees. By some miracle the fireball had missed her—had it landed a few feet to one side, she would have been crushed. He watched as she tried to crawl closer to the point of impact, but the rock was still on fire, and the heat was too intense. She shied back, tears streaming down her face.
No time to think. He pulled himself away from Sira, pivoted, and sprinted back towards the girl. Sira called out behind him, but his attention already focused ahead. His feet flew, and he skidded to a stop in front of the massive crater. He had misjudged. The rock was closer to three or four span across, about the size of a horse-drawn carriage. He caught a glimpse of a body underneath the rock, crushed beneath the weight. An outstretched hand peeked from below, now blackened from the fire. It seemed to be reaching for the girl. Only his years of medical training allowed him to keep his composure. Who was it? Her Mother? Father?
Tearing his eyes from the sight, he scooped the girl up in his arms and ran for the nearest building. At first she tried to pull away, back towards the crater. Towards the body that lie underneath. He kept running, and eventually she gave up, clutching him tightly. Another fireball crashed into the second floor of the building he ran towards, causing it to explode into rubble. Shit. He pivoted, diverting their path, and dashed for Sira, standing outside the gates of the Prioriem, eyes wide, waving her arms frantically.
They raced to the gate, through the courtyard, and finally into the old building. Sira closed the doors behind them, and a sudden quiet filled the space around them. The clamor outside was shut out, leaving a heavy silence. Another crash shook the Prioriem. “Follow me,” Sira said. “There’s a basement that should keep us safe.”
Viggo followed Sira as they navigated their way to safety, down a flight of steep stairs that was hidden in one of the kitchen pantrys. The girl had buried her face into is chest, grabbing him so tight it was hard to breathe.
The basement turned out to be an entire furnished floor—extra bedrooms, living spaces, and even a library. Sira explained that the space had been used to harbor fugitives during the collapse of the Sovereignty. This city seemed to have fragmented memories of the old world everywhere.
The entire Council of Valla and their families, Lord Governor Gareth Finn and his daughter Annet, Marcus, Rykker, and Sev, and the entirety of the staff had already taken refuge below. They sat in one of the parlor rooms, scattered across a mishmash of chairs that they had pulled together. Conversation was sparse, most sat huddled in small groups, talking nervously.
It was strange to be in such company. He currently sat in the same room as the most important citizens of Valla. Something about seeing them sit about and worry as normal people struck him as odd. It humanized them, if slightly. They were trapped in this city just as much as the rest of them. Whatever bed they chose to make, they would lie in it all the same.
He sat the girl sat down in a chair next to him, and she finally released her grip, a vacant expression on her face. Who had the body been underneath the rock? He shuddered. To lose someone important at such a young age. He hadn’t ever even known his parents, which was the pleasant scenario by comparison.
Sira brought the girl some water and asked her what her name was. She took one sip, responded “Mel” and then returned to her empty staring. Sira tried to pry more out of her, but Mel simply ignored her.
Viggo—looking for a distraction—noticed Annet, sitting across the parlor talking quietly with her father. She was only slightly younger than him, he guessed. She was also beautiful. The though was probably innapropriate, considering their situation, but the thought barged into his mind, without regard for social propriety. Given her father’s looks, her beauty surprised him. She was, in fact, taller than her father, and had none of his stocky features. Her lively green eyes were their only shared feature. With a start, he realized that she was staring back at him with a discerning look. He pulled his gaze away, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
After an hour of waiting, Sira left to investigate the situation top-side. She returned a few minutes later to give the all clear. The bombardment had stopped.
Together, they made their way back upstairs. The girl stuck close to Viggo. Although she hadn’t said a single word to him, it seemed that she considered him her guardian for the time being. Her eyes were still fixed wide with perpetual shock. Dirt—or maybe it was soot—smudged her face. She did manage to hold on to his hand, though, as he guided her.
“I can take her from here,” Sira said as they came to the front entrance. “She said her name was Mel. I think her parents run the smithy down the street.”
Sira reached her hand towards the girl. She recoiled, taking a step backwards. The image of a burnt and bloodied hand reaching out from underneath rock flashed across his vision. “No,” he said, and squeezed Mel’s hand. “I’ll see this through.”
“Let me at least come with you,” she said. Her brow furrowed in a look of concern as she noticed his dark expression. He nodded. The truth was, he didn’t really want to do this alone.
He left the Prioriem for the second time that day, with Sira and Mel in tow. Although none of the fireballs had impacted the building, one had landed in the courtyard, leaving a sizeable creater.
The walk to the smithy was short. Viggo purposefully took them down the opposite side of the street to where the crater had landed, being sure to put himself between it and the girl. There was no need for her to see that again. Once was bad enough.
Their destination was only a few blocks further. A row of shops, mostly intact, lined the street. Last in the row, the smithy’s storefront was modest, with a sign hanging above the door that read Devir’s, an emblem of a hammer and anvil etched into the wood above the name.
Viggo touched the hammer that hung from his belt. Years ago he had earned it working as an apprentice smith in Turin. Now, though, the hammer’s main use was violence. Or dispensing justice, as he liked to see it. Seeing this place brought back painful, but also fond memories. Becoming a smith had been the first step in his transformation.
Other than the sign, there were no other adornments decorating the facade. Sira wrapped her knuckles on the door.
“Please, have you seen—” A woman’s voice, frantic, called out as the door swung open. Her eyes were wide with panic, cheeks streaked with tears. As soon as she saw Mel, she collapsed to her knees and embraced her, pulling the girl in close. “Oh, thank the Trinity. They told us to stay inside but—but I coudn’t find her.” She sobbed between words. She grabbed at the girl, patting her down as if to check for injuries.
“She’s alright. We found her wandering the street when the raid began,” Sira said, her voice careful and soft.
“Oh my gods, I’m so sorry my love. I shouldn’t have left this morning. When I heard the horns, I came as fast as I could, but I couldn’t find you or Devir and the guards made everyone go inside. I just hoped he had you.” The woman up sharply, voice raising an entire octave. “Wait. Where’s Devir? Where is my husband?”
So, Father, then. Viggo couldn’t keep his reaction hidden.
When she caught the pained look on Viggo’s face, a choking sob caught in her throat. She let go of her daughter, fresh tears streaming down her face. She composed herself slightly after a few moments. “Mel, honey, go wait in the washroom. We need to clean you up.” Her daughter obeyed, leaving without another word or glance back, head bowed. He hoped the poor child would remember little from this day.
“How?”
The solitary word carried a heavy burden with it. “I don’t think—” Viggo began.
“Please,” she begged, still on her knees. “Tell me how he died.”
He caught a sidelong glance from Sira, but her expression was inscrutable. He hadn’t told her what he had seen. He took a deep breath. This woman deserved to hear it, if only because she wanted to. “He... One of the fireballs hit him.” Best not to go into detail, or mention that her daughter saw everything.
The woman covered her hand with her mouth and let another sob escape, letting her head sag. Eventually, she pulled herself up, taking deep breathes and wiping her face.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at Viggo with red eyes. “Thank you for bringing my daugher back to me.”
All Viggo could do was nod. He left to go wait outside while Sira talked with the woman, no doubt discussing the logistics of her husband’s death. In other words, when and where to pick up the body. What was left of it, anyways. You really ought to stop looking at things so negatively. What we do here is make purpose out of that which has no purpose. He could hear his old master’s words as clear as the sound a hammer makes on heated metal. Unfortunately, his master’s lesson had never really stuck with him. Cynicism was his religion. What lesson could possibly be gleaned from something like this? There was no reason to it. No purpose.
After they left, Sira flagged down a pair of guards and tasked them with removing the boulder and retrieving the body. Their stoic expressions indicated that the request was not unusual; in fact their reactions were so nonchalant it gave him pause.
“Has this been a regular occurence?” Viggo asked as they walked back to the Prioriem. He waved his hands in a vague gesture all around him, indicating the bombardment.
Sira kicked a loose rock down the cobbled road. Her expression was sour. “I’m afraid so. It’s been like this for a month now. Every week at least. It’s not always rocks either. A week ago it was the rotting remains of livestock from the farms we abandoned.” She scrunched her face in disgust. “It’s hard to clean up hundreds of corpses off the street. Not before hundreds of people end up in the hospital, ill from disease.”
A thought occurred to him, something curious he had nearly forgotten in the heat of the moment. “During the attack, you suggested that the Antuzans were targeting the Prioriem. How did they know where it is?”
She shook her head. “They don’t. Well, not exactly, anyways. The Prioriem came first, everything else in Valla built around it. To this day, it lies in the exact center of the city. I guess the Antuzans have been trying to estimate exactly where the center is with each go around. And they’ve been getter closer each time.”
“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why go for the Prioriem in the first place? Why not just target the walls and storm the city? They greatly outnumber us. They have to know we are surviving by a thread. Not to mention the strange vial. It doesn’t seem to add up. Why all the theatrics?”
Sira shook her head and shrugged. “I wish I knew, Viggo. One thing is for sure, though, they are planning something. I can feel it.”
“Well whatever it is, we’re running out of time,” he said.
“Indeed,” she nodded, her face twisted in a defeated smirk. “I just hope we can get out or beat them back before it’s too late. Maybe Fastaar will pull through.”
They walked the remainder of the way in silence, giving Viggo time to think. The city was cracking under the weight of the Antuzans. They applied pressure from all sides. He did not know what their end game was, or why they had not simply overwhelmed the city with an attack. But it was only a matter of time before the force of their efforts came crashing down, crushing the people below. And yet those in power, both in and outside of the city, those with the power to act, did nothing. Deliberation was a luxury they could not afford. Although he hated to admit it, the Lord of Valla could be right—beginning evacuations as soon as possible might be the only way.
On the other hand, Vallans were tougher than they appeared. Mel’s Mother was proof of that. He had seen a fire in her eyes. A burning hatred for their common enemy. She showed immeasurable strength in the face of her tragedy. Perhaps they could rally the people, stand, and fight. Gather every able-bodied soul and push back. Would they stand a better chance at survival? They could even motivate Fastaar to join the fight, and surround their attackers.
Great, now I’m debating myself back and forth, he thought.