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Chapter 4

Anya awoke with a massive headache, each breath, painful. Memories rushed back to her, the man in the armor, her father lying on the ground, her hand reaching for the dagger. She reached up to her throat and could feel the tenderness where a short time ago a hand had nearly crushed the life out of her, nearly. This was not death. There would not be pain.

Oh God.

A coil of fear began to wind deep in her stomach. She had been certain her life was over. She hadn't counted on this. Anya knew she had to open her eyes but feared what she might find. She opened them and found herself in a dimly lit room lying on a sofa. The room was large; the walls disappeared into the shadows. Slowly, she righted herself and waited out the wave of nausea that hit her with the change of position. She felt vulnerable in the large, dark room where anyone could be watching from the shadows.

"Lights," nothing happened. "Lights up," still nothing.

She stood and began to circle the room slowly. There were large windows that allowed her to see the stars. She approached a doorway and immediately it slid open revealing an even larger sitting room connected to a dining area. The dining table was elegant and could easily seat a dozen or more guests. It was hewn from the same black material that dominated the rest of the room's architecture. She made her way past the table and spotted another door. This one, however, did not open. She pressed some buttons on a touch pad beside it in vain. Moving on, she approached another door on the opposite side of the room. The doors slid apart revealing a large, elegant bedchamber. This room she did not enter.

The panic that had been bubbling in the pit of her stomach began to rise. Who did these rooms belong to? Why was she here? The logical part of her mind answered; these rooms belong to him. They were as elegantly appointed as his suit of armor. As this new revelation began to sink in, she heard a commotion on the other side of the locked door. Sliding along the back wall, keeping to the shadows, she watched as the doors slid apart. The man, who hours earlier had murdered her father, entered the room. He walked to a decorative counter top and began removing his armored vestments. When he finished, he approached the far wall. Pressing a button, the wall opened revealing a bar and a computer screen. He touched a few buttons, then picked up a glass and filled it with an amber liquid. He swirled the drink in his glass and took a sip.

"Would you like a glass, my dear?" he asked, turning to where Anya was standing in the shadows.

She knew he should not be able to see her in the darkness. Then again, what he did to her father, he should not have been able to do that either. Gathering all the courage she had left she stepped out of the shadows and met the man's eyes. He was smiling at her. It was not the cruel sneer he had displayed earlier but an expression that appeared genuine, though she could not be certain.

"Well?"

"No," was all she could bring herself to say.

He gave a slight shrug of a shoulder. "Not a drinker?" That smile again. "I've ordered us some dinner. It has been a long day and I think we're both hungry. Lights up."

Anya had to shield her eyes, unaccustomed to the brightness. The man seemed unaffected.

"Now we can see each other."

She dropped the hand from her eyes and took a good look at the man before her. He appeared to be in his forties, his eyes, however, spoke of greater age. He stood a full foot taller than her and outweighed her by perhaps 100 pounds. His eyes never left her. It felt to Anya as though he tore a piece of her brave façade away with every moment his eyes held hers. She stood frozen to the spot, unsure of her next move, or his.

Breaking the staring contest, he moved across the room and seated himself on a large comfortable looking couch, swirling his glass. "Do you know who I am?" he asked offhandedly, looking down at his glass as he took a drink and then returning his gaze to her. Anya didn't know exactly who the man before her was but he was obviously someone of importance. The others in the hall had followed him, their leader, perhaps. She did not know.

"My name is Zhylaw. I am the Lord Marshal of the Necromongers." Anya wasn't certain what a Lord Marshal was but she knew it meant the man she had attacked was no simple soldier. Perhaps he could sense her uncertainty.

"It means," he spoke slowly, deliberately, "that I am the ruler of all the Necromongers and commander of the great armada that swept aside your planet's defenses in a single night."

Perhaps he wished her to be awed at this proclamation but Anya had been surrounded by noble lords her entire life. She was not so easily cowed. There was a question burning in Anya's mind that she didn't think she had the courage to voice, nor the strength to hear the answer, but she needed to know. "Why have you brought me here?"

Anya held her breath as Zhylaw returned his attention to his glass, his head tilted in thought, his eyes becoming unfocused. She thought that he might answer her question but instead he countered with another

"What's your name?" he paused to meet her eyes again, "It's only fair. I've given you mine." His smile faded and his expression became unreadable. "Tell me." It was a command and Anya was certain this man was not accustomed to being defied.

Just then the door chimed, giving Anya a few precious moments as Zhylaw answered the door and allowed the servants to set the table. The food smelled divine and her stomach grumbled; reminding her she hadn't eaten since being rushed to the shelter by her father. The servants finished their work and exited with a gesture of respect to the Lord Marshal.

Zhylaw took his seat at the head of the table and waved at the chair to his right, "Sit." Another command. Anya decided there was little to gain by refusal so she moved toward the table and took her seat. The Lord Marshal began piling food on his plate. Anya did not want to ask permission to serve herself. She sensed he'd enjoy her deference. Anya reached for a roll but her hand was intercepted by Zhylaw who held her wrist in a firm grip. A small cry of surprise escaped her lips. Zhylaw smiled, "Your name first. I will not have a guest at my table without knowing their name. So," he released her hand and leaned back in his chair looking at her appraisingly, "your name, or no food."

There it was, the first gauntlet thrown; her name for food. To some, it would not be a choice, but Anya had the feeling this was only the beginning. If she submitted, what would he demand of her for her next meal?

She wasn't prepared to do battle now, she was too tired and her emotions were barely held in check. She could give him a false name but he would know. Her father had always laughed at her feeble attempts at lying. She didn't think this man would be any easier to fool. Her decision made, she answered, "My name is Anya."

She reached out once again for the bread but this time was allowed to take a piece. Zhylaw allowed her to fill her plate and they ate in silence. It seemed to Anya that the last two days stretched out for years. She thought about her planet, her father's death, and her present situation. She had not yet grieved for all she had lost and now was not the time. It dawned on Anya at that moment that he never answered her question. She looked up from her plate and broke the silence.

"Why have you brought me here?"