Timaron yanked his fist from the guard's chest. He slapped his body before it fell, and it went flying a good ten feet. Sollvar could only stare. Glyphs? Could he still have working glyphs?
Taking Irnskar's discarded jacket, Timaron casually cleaned his hand as they watched in mute bemusement. Satisfied it was clean, he glanced around, primarily at Irnskar and the guard.
'You may as well try,' he said. 'I have to kill you anyway, in case you do know anything.'
The guard broke first, running for the door. Grabbing the chair next to him, Timaron hurled it at unbelievable speed. It hit with a solid crack that wasn't just from the chair, and the man fell.
Irnskar had his sword out and lunged while Timaron's back was turned. The old man's hand snapped around to catch the blade in mid-thrust, snapping it clean in two. A slap sent Irnskar across the room, crashing into the edge of a bookshelf, spilling a few tomes. Irnskar still moved, but probably couldn't move far, or fast.
The old man leaned on the table facing Sollvar. What was he waiting for? Was he playing with them?
'Who are you?' asked Sollvar, in a daze.
The old man smiled. It wasn't pleasant. 'Let's see how close you've really gotten. Guess?'
'I haven't gotten anywhere. Nowhere that could explain how your glyphs work when no others seem to. Are you responsible for that?'
'No, that'll be the boy, Thjorn, playing his little games.'
'Thjorn?'
'His old boss,' Timaron nodded at the guard who'd stabbed Tifnar. There were getting to be a number of bodies. 'The glyphpunk who stole the Society’s arvinim.'
His inability to concentrate began to fray on Sollvar's temper. 'If you're going to kill me anyway, why should I play your game?'
Timaron raised an eyebrow at the outburst. 'There's dying, and then there's dying.' His eyes held far more threat than when he'd first come in. They also seemed a lot older. And a lot nastier.
A flicker from the old man’s chest caught Sollvar's eyes. Glyphs writhed with power, shining through his shirt. The shape was wrong, though. After all the hours spent poring over glyphs old and new he recognised the style, but not as one which should work. His eyes returned to Timaron's, and a name popped into his head. A ridiculous name. One even the extreme circumstances wouldn't justify saying out loud.
But the old man saw something in his eyes. 'Say my name,' he hissed.
'Wotyn,' whispered Sollvar.
The old man barked a laugh. 'Clever boy.'
'But you can't be.'
'Yet I am.'
'But you were...'
'Betrayed? Buried in a prison far below the ground?' His voice grew heated. 'Yes. Yet here I am. They buried me and left me there for centuries. But I'd already lived centuries. They may have blocked some of my power, but I still had my knowledge. They should have left me bound. I might actually have died. And they couldn't stay away, eventually coming to see if I'd scribbled any secrets. I replaced one of them, leaving his bones on my throne, so the world believed me dead.'
The knowledge was less than reassuring. He didn't match the picture Sollvar had built up from the books. Not guild books, anyway. Others had seemed slanted, but now he wondered whether it’d been the glyphists who’d viewed him in too positive a light.
Wotyn's gaze swept across the table, and jarred to a halt. He grabbed a sheet.
'What's this?' He shoved it towards Sollvar. 'Where is this from?'
Fumbling for a response, Sollvar didn't get a chance as another voice spoke.
'Is it irritating to realise there's someone smarter than you? I've often wondered.'