‘Don’t you bring The Raven into this,’ snapped Sol.
‘Doesn’t stop it being true. You are the man who can keep it all together. You know you can. Come to the Mount. Talk to us. Please.’
‘I’ve got a bar to run and a wife to look after. I have a new child on the way and a son who needs me by him right now, I don’t have the time and I don’t have the energy.’
‘And they all need to have a secure future.’ Denser poured more wine into Sol’s glass. ‘Talk to us. See what we have in mind. Think about it.’
Sol looked at Denser and allowed a smile across his face. Anyone else and he would have dismissed the notion out of hand. To this man, though, he owed more than to anyone alive.
‘Tomorrow,’ he growled. ‘Now drink up and get lost. I’ve got to open up in a couple of hours.’
‘Thank you, Sol. You won’t regret it, I promise you.’
‘Denser, I already am. What the hell do you think I’m going to say to Diera?’
‘You’ll think of something suitably pithy and persuasive, I feel sure.’
‘Go.’
Denser drained his glass and walked back to the door, opening it on the rain sheeting down, pounding on the street. Sol wondered if Jonas had actually gone out. The two men shook hands and Sol pulled Denser into a brief embrace.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Denser.
‘After lunch, when I’ve closed.’
Sol watched Denser walk away up The Thread and back to the Mount of Xetesk, pulling his cloak close about him. He shut and bolted the door and walked back through the bar towards the stairs. He paused by Hirad’s picture. The barbarian gazed back at him, eyes intense and full of belief, that damned smile on his face.
‘What on earth would you think, Coldheart?’ he said. ‘Probably nothing. Too busy laughing I expect. How does it sound . . . Sol, The Unknown Warrior, Ruler of Balaia. Daft, eh?’
And as he turned away, he could have sworn he saw Hirad nod.
Acknowledgements
At the risk of repeating myself for the sixth book in a row, I’d like to thank those who have supported and cajoled me through the writing of this book. Peter Robinson, John Cross, Dave Mutton and Dick Whichelow for their criticism, suggestions and encouragement. David Gemmell and Rob Grant for sound advice at a time of great change. Robert Kirby for helping me to another level and Nicola Sinclair for keeping my feet firmly on the ground.
And my family for just being brilliant.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Cast List
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Acknowledgements
For Oscar, who brings such joy to my life
Cast List
Chapter 1
Blood sprayed across Geskard’s chest. He grunted in satisfaction and stepped back out of range. He needn’t have bothered. His strike had beaten his mark’s defence and bitten deep into the shoulder, carving through leather jerkin and flesh before smashing the collarbone.
The uneven contest was done. Their eyes met. The victor and the unfortunate with too much money on his belt and too little skill with his blade. This city was no place for such imbalances. Never had been.
‘You should have given me your purse when I asked you,’ said Geskard. He smiled, recognising the dismay at approaching death that contoured the man’s face. ‘But I am much obliged you chose to fight.’
The man dropped to his knees, his sword falling from his right hand, which then clutched at the wound in his left shoulder. Nothing he could do would staunch the blood. His eyes dimmed and regret was his lingering, final emotion. He slumped forward, face in the dirt.
Geskard took a quick look about him. Again he blessed the chaotic sprawl of streets behind the north edge of Xetesk’s central marketplace. A man of his profession had surely designed it. In the warm light of early evening, tenements threw shadows across the alleyway. Above him, tatty washing hung on rotting lines. The sounds of the market day winding down rolled gently over him. If anyone had heard the brief exchange, they preferred not to make themselves known.
‘Very sensible,’ said Geskard.
He cleared his throat then cleaned and sheathed his sword, humming tunelessly. He knelt down by the body of the erstwhile merchant who had been just too eager to make one more deal in the day.
‘This wasn’t the sort of killing you had in mind, was it, my friend?’ said Geskard.
One big hand had reached for the man’s belt and bound purse, the other for a knife to cut it clear when Geskard shivered and paused. He looked round. A shadow had moved across the light behind him, making a shape like a man tattered by wind. He had seen it quite clearly, though just for a heartbeat.
No one there. He shrugged and returned his attention to his prize. The merchant moved. A tiny twitch but there nonetheless. Geskard started then chuckled.
‘Fight in you yet, is there? I’m impressed.’
Geskard felt for a pulse at the neck. Nothing. He moved his fingers and pushed harder. Still nothing. It didn’t matter. The man wasn’t about to offer any resistance. Geskard looked about him once more. He remained alone. He smiled to himself, shook his head and reached a third time for the purse.