Talking to Annet came easily to Viggo. It had been a long time since he had become such fast friends with anyone. Although they seemingly had nothing in common, they related to each other a great deal. They had a common view of the world, a common empathy, an understanding.
While she grew up in relative lavishness compared to him, she too felt purposeless, as if the actions of her life did not matter. Sure, her father was the Lord Governor of Valla, and held a great deal of influence over the southern province, but she shared none of that power. Especially now that Valla was gone.
“Through all of it,” she said softly. ”It always felt like he cared more about everyone else then he did me.”
“That must have been hard,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
She looked at him and smiled, and Viggo felt a warmth come over him that he could not remember feeling.
She asked him about his past, and he told her of his time as a blacksmith before coming to the army. She looked as though she wanted to ask more, about where he came from, but the look in his eyes must have convinced her otherwise. He was grateful for that. He could not talk to anyone about that time.
Not ever.
They talked for what felt like hours, about everything and nothing, all while meandering through the empty rooms of the building. Only the stone had survived the millennia, and most of the rooms they passed through were barren save for the ever-encroaching presence of the wilds creeping in from the open windows and crevices.
Eventually, they came so far that they had circled back around to the atrium. Viggo could hear voices up ahead. He recognized Marcus’ steady voice, but it was laced with tension. Another voice that he did not recognize, light and airy, answered. The sound of it made Viggo’s hairs stand on end and his heart beat quickly. He turned to stop Annet from going any further. She was already frozen in place, a mask of fear plastered to her face.
Together, they slowly backed around the corner, out of earshot. They breathed a collective sigh.
“That voice...” she trailed off, shaking her head. They were close enough that Viggo could see the sweat glisten on her brow in spite of the cool night air that permeated the halls.
“I feel it too,” he said. “Something about it makes my skin crawl.”
“It’s like... waiting for something bad to happen.”
“How could anyone have found us here? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you think they want?”
“I... I don’t know.” He had felt this before, the cold pit of unexplainable fear in his stomach. In the square in Valla, when he was sure someone had been watching him. He had brushed it off then as his over-active imagination, but what if they had come for him? But why now, after all these years? He had done what they asked. If they were here for him, he couldn’t let Marcus and the others get involved.
“I’m going to go out there.”
Annet grabbed his arm. “What? Don’t be stupid. We should leave. I don’t know what this is all about, but it isn’t worth staying around for.”
He met her eyes and pulled away from her. “I just—I have to, okay? Stay here, out of sight. Don’t come out no matter what. If something happens, just run. Go east, you should eventually find the road to Senna.”
His legs carried him around the corner and towards the atrium before she had a chance to respond.
The owner of the lilting voice was an extraordinarily tall man dressed in dark leather armor. His head was shaved bald, an easy smile spread across his face when he noticed Viggo. The man took languid strides across the atrium, staying clear of the campfire, his dull gray eyes scanning the room hungrily. When his eyes passed over Viggo, his stomach roiled with discomfort. He stayed near the door, placing himself just beyond the entrance, and placed his hand lightly on the handle of his hammer.
“Oh look, another one.”
“I’m going to ask you again,” Marcus said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”
“One question at a time, please,” the man tisked, wagging his pointer finger. “And you are asking all the wrong questions, besides. You haven’t even asked me my name, yet.”
Viggo had never seen Marcus so flustered. His body was coiled like a spring into a fighter’s stance, and he circled the room with the man, keeping his body between the man and their campsite. Rykker, Sev, Sira, and Gareth all sat by the fire, sitting uncomfortably.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Viggo said, “Who are you?”
The man’s smile widened. “Finally, someone who knows how to play the game. You can call me Vanen.”
“What do you want?”
“Now, now, not so fast. It’s my turn.” Vanen stopped circling the room and began to approach the campfire.
Marcus took a step towards him. “Don’t.”
Vanen held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, I’m unarmed. What harm could I possibly cause you?”
“The crossbow on your back,” said Viggo.
He laughed, then unstrapped the crossbow and held it up. “This old thing? I only carry it as a warning to would-be thieves and cretins. I couldn’t hit you where you stood.”
When they did not respond, he laughed again and shrugged. “So be it.” He set the crossbow on the ground and kicked it across the room. It slid to a stop by Viggo’s feet.
“Happy now?”
Marcus was silent a moment, and Viggo thought he would still deny the man’s request. Eventually, though, the captain stood aside begrudgingly.
“My deepest thanks,” Vanen bowed with a quick flourish as he passed Marcus. “I’m famished. It has not been easy to follow you all this way. The lot of you are slippery, I’ll grant you that much.”
He crouched by the fire and leaned over the pot, breathing the aromas of the soup deeply. He produced a bowl from his traveling bag and ladled a modest helping of liquid into it. He blew across the bowl, then gingerly took a sip. He licked his lips, then nodded. “Not bad, not bad at all. Could use more salt, but I’m sure you took what you could from the Prioriem’s kitchens.”
Vanen sat down on one of the stone blocks of rubble they had dragged from the corner of the room and continued to sip from the bowl.
“What are the five of you doing with the Lord Governor of Valla? Or rather, should I say ex-Lord?” Vanen said in between sips. His gray eyes shifted to Gareth, who sat across the fire. The Lord Governor did not look particularly keen on answering.
Marcus sat down across from Vanen, his eyes never leaving the interloper. He was silent for a moment, the said, “He asked us to escort him from the city.”
Vanen smiled. He waved the bowl enthusiastically, and drops of soup splattered to the floor.
“Now you’re getting it,” he said excitedly. “A perfect answer.”
Viggo circled around the campsite and sat parallel to Marcus, the three of them creating a triangle around the fire.
“Why are you here?” He tried to keep his voice from wavering.
“I’m here for the same reasons you are,” Vanen shrugged. “I too have been given a task.”
“That doesn’t really answer the question.”
“Alright, I suppose that’s fair. I’d better not cheat at my own game.” Vanen’s cool gray eyes locked on to Viggo, and a chill slivered up his spine. “I’m looking for someone.”
Me. He’s looking for me. But why? He’d forgotten that part of his life. Cut it out, just as they had asked. And now that his past had returned, the only question is what was to become of him.
“I must say, the lot of you make quite the ensemble. If I weren’t on such a pressing errand, I would insist on learning all about you. Especially you, my towering friend.” He winked at Sev, as if the two of them were in on a joke the rest of the room were unaware of. “If I’m not mistake, there’s an Aeonnar in my midst, now that is very interesting. The stories you must know.”
At this, Rykker sat up. “A what? Do you know what Sev is?”
A belly laugh shook Vanen in his seat. He mockingly wiped a tear from his eye. “Don’t tell me you’re in the company of Aeonnar without even realizing it. How quaint.”
Rykker gritted his teeth. “Just answer the question.”
“Now, now. That information seems all too precious for a silly game such as this.”
“That’s not fair.”
Vanen seemed to consider, then said, “I suppose it would be a shame to end it so soon, so I’ll tell you this much: the Aeonnar are eternal constructs made by the magi of old—those of the Veritas Guild. They were made to serve the ancient magi, but when the world fell, they vanished. You’re friend there might very well be the last of them. Truly rare and exceptional.”
Rykker seemed to understand what Vanen was talking about, though Viggo had never heard of this guild.
“I was right,” Rykker muttered. He sat back, dazed.
Sev gave no perceptible reaction, but his eyes seemed to glow furiously. The Aeonnar stared intently at Vanen.
“Lord Governor,” Vanen’s gaze drifted to Gareth. “You have a daughter, do you not?”
The shift in conversation startled Viggo. He barely had time to process everything. What was this man’s true game? All he had done was dance around their questions, never reaching the true heart of why he was here. At first, Viggo had thought that perhaps the man did not know him by his face, and was trying lure him into confessing. To what, exactly? But now, he asked about Annet. It made no sense. No sense at all.
The Lord Governor flustered, and his eyes went wide. He looked to Viggo, who just stared hard at him. He hoped that Gareth understood his meaning. Vanen’s intentions with Annet, though unknown, were likely not virtuous. She could still get away.
Gareth’s face sagged into his hands, and he let out a rather convincing sob. “Yes, I did. She did not make it out of the city alive.”
His shoulders shook with continued sobs. He was quite good, actually, Viggo thought. The Lord Governor gave a passing performance of his daughter’s demise.
“Is that so?” Vanen’s brow furrowed, and he narrowed his eyes at the sobbing man. He apparently was not convinced. “I don’t like being lied to.”
“She’s not here,” Viggo spat. “What are you really after?”
Vanen sighed and looked down at his now empty soup bowl. “I think the game is over.”
He stood up and stretched, languid as a cat. “I think I’ll take a stroll around this old place. See what sorts of mysteries I might uncover.”
Marcus and Viggo stood in unison. His hand found the comforting wood of his hammer in an instant.
“I don’t think so,” Marcus said quietly. “We’re not done here.”
Vanen laughed again, cold and bitter this time, the facade of warm amiability stripped away. “You’ve got quite the wrong idea of what’s going on here. I’m afraid you’re out of your depth. I find you all very interesting, and that’s the only reason I’m going to give you this chance. Step aside, and I’ll let you leave here. Don’t push me.”
He turned his backs to them as if to leave. He made it two steps before Marcus charged, lunging forward with incredible speed.
Vanen turned slowly, and flicked a wrist towards the charging soldier.
“Stop.”
The single word resonated throughout the room, and seemed to vibrate somewhere deep inside Viggo. The sound of it, a slimy feeling, trickled into his ears and down his spine. It was disturbing and overwhelming and sickeningly familiar.
Marcus froze in place, arms stretched out before him. His legs still trailed behind him, one knee bent mid-step. His body was suspended in an impossible position, and his face was a mask of pain and frustration.
Vanen turned, and leaned forward, mere inches from Marcus. “What did I tell you? The. Game. Is. Over. I’m doing you a favor.”
Viggo had to act. Now, while he was distracted. He rushed forward. Vanen was completely oblivious, too busy taunting Marcus to notice a blindside attack. Hammer raised, he struck a fierce blow in an arc, straight down on top of his enemy’s head. He was thrown off balance surprised that his weapon found only air.
Vanen now stood a foot away from him, grinning wildly. His fist met Viggo squarely in the stomach, sending him sprawling to the ground with preternatural strength.
His breath abandoned him, and his vision swam. He gasped for air, but his lungs would not cooperate. It felt as though he had been struck by a sprinting horse.
He blinked, attempting to restore his vision in time to see Sev swing his warhammer.
As if in slow motion, Vanen sidestepped the attack with ease, then casually swept his leg out, catching Sev’s feet. The goliath tumbled awkwardly to the ground.
Viggo coughed, and spat blood and mucus onto the dusty ground. He wobbled to his feet, forcing his world to stay upright. Slowly, he limped towards Vanen, who still looked down at the fallen Aeonnar with a mixture of curiosity and pleasure.
Viggo swung again, targetting his foe’s center of mass. This time, Vanen had to slap the blow away with and open palm. He moved blindingly quick, and Viggo was powerless as his hand closed around his throat. Viggo’s feet left the ground, and he stared down with bulging eyes at the man who was going to kill him.
Vanen’s smile vanished, and Vanen’s gray eyes flared to a startling silver. “You’ve given me a great deal of entertainment today, so I’ll do you the favor of ending it quickly.”
It became impossible to breath as his hands tightened around Viggo’s throat. His hammer clattered to the floor. He tried in vain to pry at Vanen’s vice-like grip. It was no use. The world blackened at the edges, and everything began to dull. His arms hung limply at his sides. Dimly, the thought crossed his mind that no mere human could kill in such a manner. Strange, what one thought of in death. His head felt light, as if it might float to the ceiling. He heard the sound of screaming, a woman’s voice. But it was so far away.
“Stop it, please! Don’t hurt him!”
The force around his throat vanished, and the floor rushed up to meet him. He collapsed in a heap, unable to move. Gravel and stone scratched at his cheeks, the hard ground bruising his hands and elbows. Air filled his lungs again, and he gulped it in hungrily. Dark circles spotted his vision, but he could just make out Annet standing in the doorway to the Atrium, barely ten strides away. Something in her hand glinted in the moonlight and she waved it with a sharp gesture. He tried to call out, to tell her to run, but all that came out was a strangled cough.
Gareth, frantic, shouted what Viggo could not. “Run! Go, now!”
Vanen’s back was now turned from them, facing Annet. Viggo tried to move, to get up, do something, anything. But he could not. He could only watch.
“Well, you must be Annet. Back from the dead, are we?” Vanen strode towards the dooryway.
“Stay back,” Annet warned. There was no hint of hesitation or fear in her voice.
“Do you honestly think that thing is going to do you any good? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Just put the knife down.”
“I said stay back.”
She yelped as Vanen came for her and thrust the dagger towards him. In the blink of an eye, Vanen brushed her arm to the side. He wrenched the dagger from her grip and grabbed hold of her in a single motion.
She struggled, but his grip was firm, and she could not break free.
Vanen, still as calm as the moment he had stepped in to the atrium, licked his lips, surveying the room. “What a mess I’ve made.”
Viggo heard a grunt and a rustle of canvas, and he turned in time to see Lord Governor Gareth holding Rykker’s crossbow. Though the man did not shake with rage, his eyes burned with cold fury. He took aim, laying the weapon across his arm, carefully, and fired.
Steel clinked, and the bolt buried itself in the stone a few feet from Vanen. He twirled the dagger with his free hand, gaze fixed on Gareth, and with a careless flick of his wrist, sent the dagger in a vicious arc.
The sharp steel met its mark, vanishing deep within the Lord Governor’s chest. For a moment, he stood in shock, gaping at the filigreed hilt of his daughter’s dagger, then he collapsed to his knees.
“It’s been such fun,” Vanen said. “But we must be off now.”
“No!” Viggo croaked, stumbling to his feet.
Vanen spoke in unintelligible mumbles. A sensation hit Viggo like a wave, strange yet familiar. It washed over him, roared in his ears, and then vaporized, leaving a thick fog in its wake.
The man with gray eyes made a slicing motion with his hand, and the air itself cracked and was torn asunder, leaving a gaping maw of blackness in its place. Dragging Annet behind him, he stepped into the darkness and vanished. The split in the air stitched itself back together. For a moment, the air wavered, like heat waves rising from hot stone, and then there was nothing.
All at once, Marcus stumbled forward, grabbing for a body that was no longer there. He collapsed to the ground awkwardly.
Gareth let out a wet cough. Viggo stumbled to the back of the room, falling to his knees at the Lord Governor’s side, and saw that the man was already dead. He lay on his back, hands clutching the hilt of the dagger.