But there was something else too. Something serious nagging at him that he couldn’t drag from his subconscious. It was to do with the awakening.
A strong gust of wind rattled the windows, almost over before it had come. Denser shrugged, switched his attention to the desk and began leafing carefully through its papers.
Korina was bustling. Trade had been excellent throughout the summer and the seasonal change had brought little diminishment, other than the falling numbers of itinerant travellers and workers, who had begun to take ship for the southern continent, following the heat.
After two years of rumours of more battles, increased taxation and Wesman invasion, following the end of the war, confidence was returning to Korina’s once-deserted docks and markets, with every trader seemingly determined to wring out every last ounce of profit. Market days were longer, more ships sailed in and out on every tide, day and night, and the inns, eateries and hostels hadn’t seen such a boom since the halcyon days of the Korina Trade Alliance. And of course, out in the Baronial lands, the bickering had begun in earnest again and the mercenary trade was seeing a return to profitable days. But it was a trade without The Raven.
The Rookery, on the edge of Korina’s central market, groaned at the seams from early dawn when the breakfast trade began, to late evening when the nightly hog roasts were reduced to so much bone and gristle on their spits.
The Unknown Warrior closed the door on the last of the night’s drunks and turned to survey the bar, catching his reflection in one of the small pillar-mounted mirrors. The close-shaven head couldn’t hide the spreading grey that matched his eyes, but the jaw was as strong as ever and the powerful physique under the white shirt and dark tan breeches was kept in peak condition by religious exercise. Thirty-eight. He didn’t feel it but then he didn’t fight any more. For good reason.
The watch had just called the first hour of the new day but it would be another two before he walked through his own front door. He hoped Diera was having a better night with young Jonas. The boy had a touch of colic and spent a good deal of the time grumbling.
He smiled as he moved back toward the bar on which Tomas had placed two steaming buckets of soapy water, cloths and a mop. His happiest times of the day were standing over his newborn son’s crib at night and waking next to Diera with the sun washing through their bedroom window. He righted a stool before slapping his hands on the bar. Tomas appeared from beneath it, a bottle of Southern Isles red-grape spirit and two shot glasses in his hands. He poured them each a measure. Completely bald now he had entered his fiftieth year, Tomas’ eyes still sparkled beneath his brow and his tall frame was upright and healthy.
‘Here’s to another good night,’ he said, handing The Unknown a glass.
‘And to the wisdom of hiring those two extra staff. They’ve taken a weight off.’
The two men, friends for well over twenty years and co-owners of The Rookery for a good dozen, chinked glasses and drank. Just the one shot every night. It was the way and had become a token these last four or so years. Neither man would miss it after an evening’s work together any more than they would give up breathing. It was, after all, to enjoy these moments of magnificently ordinary life that The Unknown had fought with The Raven for more than a decade. Shame then, that with the wisdom of hindsight, he knew they weren’t enough.
The Unknown rubbed his chin, feeling the day’s stubble rasp beneath his hand. He looked towards the door to the back room, painted with the Raven symbol and scarce used now.
‘Got an itch, boy?’ asked Tomas.
‘Yes,’ replied The Unknown. ‘But not for what you think.’
‘Really?’ Tomas raised quizzical eyebrows. ‘I never could see it, you know. You settling down and actually running this place with me forever.’
‘Never thought I’d live, did you?’ The Unknown hefted a bucket and cloth.
‘I never doubted it. But you’re a traveller, Sol. A warrior. It’s in your blood.’
The Unknown allowed only Tomas and Diera to use his true name, his Protector name, and even now when they did, it always gave him pause. It meant they were worried about something. And the truth was that he had never settled completely. There was still work to be done in Xetesk, to press for more research into freeing those Protectors that desired it. And aside from that, he had friends to see. Convenient excuses when he needed them and while his reasons still drove him, he couldn’t deny that he sometimes tired of the endless routine and yearned to ride out with his sword strapped to his back. It made him feel alive.
It worried him too. What if he never wanted to settle? Surely his desire would fade to something more sedentary in the not too distant future. At least he didn’t feel the urge to fight in a front line anymore and there was some comfort in that. And there had been offers. Lots of them.
He smiled at Tomas. ‘Not any more. I’d rather mop than fight. All you risk is your back.’
‘So what’s the itch?’
‘Denser’s coming. I can feel it. Same as always.’
‘Oh. When?’ A frown creased Tomas’ brow.
The Unknown shrugged. ‘Soon. Very soon.’
Rhob, Tomas’ son, appeared through the back door that led to the stables. In the last few years, the excitable youth had grown into a strong, level-headed young man. Glinting green eyes shone from a high-boned face atop which sat short-cropped brown hair. His muscular frame was the product of many years’ physical labour around horses, saddles and carts and his good nature was a pure reflection of his father’s.
‘All in and secure?’ asked Tomas.
‘Yes indeed,’ said Rhob, marching across to the bar to grab the other bucket and the large rag-headed mop. ‘Go on, old man, you get off to bed, let the youngsters fix the place up.’ His smile was broad, his eyes bright in the lamp light.
The Unknown laughed. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been called a youngster.’
‘It was a relative term,’ said Rhob.
Tomas wiped the bar top and threw the cloth into the wash bucket. ‘Well, the old man’s going to take his son’s advice. See you two around midday.’
‘Good night, Tomas.’
‘ ’Night, Father.’
‘All right,’ said The Unknown. ‘I’ll take the tables, you the floor and fire.’
Just as they were into their stride, they were disturbed by an urgent knocking on the front doors. Rhob glanced up from his swabbing of the hearth. The Unknown blew out his cheeks.
‘Reckon I know who this is,’ he said. ‘See if there’s water for coffee will you, Rhob? And raid the cold store for a plate of bread and cheese.’
Rhob propped his mop in the corner and disappeared behind the bar. The Unknown shoved the bolts aside and pulled the door inwards. Denser all but fell into his arms.
‘Gods, Denser, what the hell have you been doing?’
‘Flying,’ he replied, his eyes wild and sunken deep into his skull, his face white and freezing to the touch. ‘Can you help me to somewhere warm? I’m a little chilly.’
‘Hmm.’ The Unknown supported the shivering Denser into the back room, dragged his chair in front of the unlit fire and dumped the mage into the soft upholstery. The room hadn’t changed much. Against shuttered windows, the wooden feasting table and chairs lay shrouded beneath a white cloth. That table had seen celebration and tragedy, and it was a source of sadness that his abiding memory was of Sirendor Larn, Hirad’s great friend, lying dead upon it, his body hidden by a sheet.