None of them said anything for a time as Denser studied their faces. Eventually, The Unknown straightened.
“We did wonder why you paid us so much for seeing you back here,” he said. “We also agreed that we wouldn't work for Xetesk again. Take some Protectors.”
Denser shook his head. “No. Protectors are just muscle. I need brain for this sort of recovery work.”
“And The Raven are—were—a fighting team. We've never done recovery work and we aren't about to start now,” said Sirendor.
“But it's not even a long-term commitment. And the pay will be on the same basis as today.”
The Unknown leant back on the bar top. “Another set of five per cents, eh?”
“I can't promise it'll be as easy.” Denser half smiled at Hirad.
“Bugger me, but I'd like to see one of your tricky jobs.”
“Sorry, that came out wrong. I mean the bodyguarding was easy.”
Sirendor's face broke into a wide grin. He straightened and dusted himself down.
“Denser, a couple of years ago, we'd probably have bitten your hand off for that kind of money. But right now, I for one am no longer interested. I mean, we'd have trouble spending it. Sorry, old son, but retirement has one very clear advantage.” He turned and punched Hirad on the arm. “See you later.” He strode off toward the main door, through which a stunning woman had walked with two men. She wore a shining blue cloak and pushed the hood back to loose a mass of curling red hair.
She saw Hirad first and waved. He and The Unknown returned the greeting. Then she began moving toward Sirendor. The two met, embraced and kissed, the warrior ushering her to a table on the right of the bar, close to the back room.
The Unknown placed a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses on a tray.
“Time for the barman bit, I think.”
“Yeah.” Hirad turned back to Denser. The Dark Mage's face was neutral but his eyes betrayed his disappointment and concern. “Had it been up to me, I'd have taken your money. We should be taking bastards like you for every penny we can get.”
“I'm flattered. Was that the last word on the subject, do you think?”
Hirad breathed out. “Well, The Unknown was interested, no doubt about it, and I'm pretty sure the boring brothers would tag along. Your problems are Sirendor, who is in love but can't marry till he stops fighting, and Ilkar, who hates everything you stand for.”
“Apart from that, no problem.” Denser lit his pipe.
“Tell you what, you work on Sirendor and play up the short time the job'll take and all the money he'll earn for his bride and all that. I'll try Ilkar. I reckon he might want to come along if he knows it's a spell you're developing. It'll be difficult, though.”
“And if you can't persuade him?”
“Then it's no go. The Raven never work apart.”
“I see.”
“Good. Right, where is he then?” Denser indicated the centre of the bar. Ilkar was talking to the cloth merchant, Brack, and a couple of decent-looking women. “I could get my leg over if nothing else,” Hirad said, then shouted, “Hey, Ilks! Need more drink?” Ilkar nodded. The barbarian picked up a jug and shouldered his way through the crowded inn.
“Hirad, good to see you.”
“You never were a good liar, Brack. Drink?” The merchant held up his goblet. Hirad filled it and Ilkar's. “I need to borrow Ilkar for a moment, ladies, but I promise we'll be back very soon.” Ilkar looked askance at the barbarian but allowed himself to be led in the direction of the bar. Hirad saw Denser standing at Sirendor's table and was surprised to see Larn get up and follow the Dark Mage over to the fire. The man must have extraordinary powers of persuasion—he was not sure that he'd have been so lucky so soon after the two lovers had sat down.
“So what did Denser have to say?”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand, Ilkar. Three jobs. Short term.”
Ilkar shook his head. “You know something, Hirad, I'm surprised at you. And I'm disappointed that after ten years you don't know me well enough not to ask.”
“But—”
“I've said all I have to say. I will not work for or with Xetesk. They cannot be trusted. I don't care how much he is offering because it won't be enough.”
Hirad chewed his lip. “Look, Ilkar, why not think of it as just taking even more money from them? Give it all to Julatsa if it bothers you, but I thought you'd want to keep your eye on what Xetesk is doing.”
Ilkar frowned. “What exactly is Denser asking us to do?”
Hirad beckoned him close.
The Unknown Warrior leant against the bar, happy to watch the evening go by while he sipped his excellent Blackthorne red. He shifted slightly, moving the elbow of his white shirt out of a puddle of liquid on the bar top.
Surveying the bar, he could have stepped ten years back in time. Talan and Richmond—the boring brothers as Hirad liked to call them—were sitting together saying nothing to anyone and running their fingers around the rims of their goblets. Hirad and Ilkar were standing a few yards away. They were talking alone and intently. He smiled and shook his head, took another sip from his glass and refilled it from the bottle on the bar.
His eyes eventually came to rest on the fireplace and the pair sitting in armchairs either side of it, talking to each other. His smile faded. Denser. The mage's head was largely hidden by the wings of his chair but he could see the cat and the inevitable hand stroking its back. The sooner he was gone, the better. The Unknown hated feeling he was being lied to.
Sirendor, it appeared, was on good form. His eyes were bright in the firelight and his clothes made him a focus of attention for more than one of the women in the room. Indeed, The Unknown could see one eyeing him up now. She was standing near the door. Lucky bastard. He never had to work at it. They just fell at his feet then into his bed. He wondered if Sana knew just how envied she was. At the moment, though, she was looking a little irritated as she sat with her bodyguards at the table Sirendor had recently abandoned.
The woman by the door started moving toward the fireplace. She had long auburn hair pinned back away from her eyes but bouncing about her neck, one side of which carried a black mark. Her tall, slim figure was tied into cloth trousers, dark shirt and tight leather jerkin. A deep red cloak was fastened about her neck. The Unknown shook his head. The attraction of Sirendor was seemingly irresistible whether his betrothed was present or not, and he found himself feeling a little envious. No, very envious.
Turning past a knot of market tradesmen clashing their tankards together and roaring a toast, the woman's eyes crossed The Unknown's and the warrior's blood ran cold. Inside a pale face with full lips and an exquisite nose, those eyes were flat, dark and brimful of malice. His gaze switched automatically to her hands and he caught a glint of steel. There were two men sitting by the fireplace, and cool certainty told The Unknown the woman had no interest in Sirendor Larn.
“Oh, dear Gods,” he muttered. He loosened his short sword in its scabbard, ducked under the bar top and began pushing his way through the throng.
“Sirendor! Sirendor, guard yourself now!” he yelled. He flicked a gaze to the woman, who was breasting her way quickly toward the fireplace. “Sirendor. To your left, dammit, your left.” Sirendor looked over at him frowning as someone moved in front of him. “Out of my bloody way! Sirendor, woman, red cloak, red-brown hair, long, to your left.”
The Unknown's heart was racing. He sensed a change in the atmosphere in the bar, saw the woman, dagger now in hand, moving swiftly toward her quarry. She was close. She was too close, and Sirendor, looking about him with his hand straying to his sword hilt as he rose from his chair, hadn't seen her.
The Unknown wasn't going to make it. The assassin was almost on Sirendor. “Stop her, Sirendor. For God's sake, let me through!”
And at the last, Sirendor, standing squarely in front of Denser, saw the assailant. As she attacked, he blocked the blow with his arm, the dagger slashing his sleeve and biting i
nto his flesh. In the next instant, The Unknown's blade crashed through the woman's shoulder. She died instantly, dropping to the ground without a sound, blood spraying into the fire, where it hissed.
The room fell instantly silent. People moved aside as Hirad, Ilkar, Talan and Richmond hurried over to the fireplace. Sirendor was sitting down again, his hand up by his face and shirt rolled back to reveal the cut. It was deep and bleeding well.
“Thanks, Unknown, I didn't see her. I—What is it?”
The Unknown was kneeling by the woman's body and had picked up her dagger by its hilt, examining the blade.
“No! No no no, shit!” he said and rubbed his free hand across his head.
“Unknown?” asked Hirad.
The Unknown looked briefly at the barbarian. There were tears standing in his eyes. He shook his head and turned back to Sirendor.
“I'm sorry, Sirendor. I was too slow. I'm sorry.”
“Will you tell me what the hell you're talking about, Unknown?” Sirendor smiled, then gagged suddenly. “Gods, I don't…” He turned aside and vomited into the fire. “I'm cold,” he said. His voice was quiet, weak. His eyes, suddenly red, turned scared to Hirad, who pushed The Unknown away and crouched by his chair. “Help me.”
“What's happening?” Hirad's heart was thumping in his chest. “What is it?” He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“He's poisoned, Hirad. It's a nerve toxin,” said The Unknown.
“Get a healer, then!” Hirad shouted. “Get one now!” The hand merely tightened its grip.
“It's too late. He's dying.”
“No he isn't,” grated Hirad.
Sirendor turned a sweat-covered face to his friend and smiled through the shivers coursing his body, tears falling on his cheeks.
“Don't let me die, Hirad. We're all going to live.”
“Keep calm, Sirendor. Breathe easy. You'll be all right.”
Sirendor nodded. “It's so cold. I'll just…” His voice faded and his eyes slipped shut.
Hirad grabbed Sirendor's face with both hands. It was hot and slick with sweat.
“Stay with me, Larn. Don't you leave me!”
Sirendor's eyelids fluttered open and his hands covered Hirad's. They were so cold the barbarian flinched.
“Sorry, Hirad. I can't. Sorry, Hirad.” The hands slipped to his sides, his eyes closed and he died.
“Who was she?” Sana's eyes bore into Hirad's, imploring him to help her understand. They were standing in the main bar just outside the back room; the Mayor and two bodyguards sat at a table near the door to The Rookery.
Sana was calm now but her red eyes and white face were the remnants of a tempest. The Raven had lain Sirendor on the table in the back room and covered him with a sheet. Sana had burst in and torn the sheet from him, screaming at him to wake up, to come back, to open his eyes, to breathe. She'd pumped at his heart, she'd raked the hair from his forehead, she'd kissed him long on his lips, she'd clung to his hands.
And all the while, Hirad had stood near by, half of him wanting to pull her away, the other half wanting to help her. To shake the life back into Sirendor, to see him smile. But all he did was stand there watching, fighting back his tears, his whole body quivering.
At last Sana had turned to him and buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing quietly. He'd stroked her hair and heard the silence of The Raven and could sense the passing of what they had been.
He'd moved her outside, and as she regained some composure, she drew back to ask her question. Hirad felt helpless. Useless.
“An assassin. A Witch Hunter.”
“Then why—” Her voice caught.
“She wasn't after Sirendor. Sirendor just got in the way.” Hirad shrugged, a stupid gesture, he knew. “He died saving another man.”
“So? He's still dead.”
Hirad took and held her hands. “It was a risk he took every day.”
“Not today. Today he was retired.”
Hired said nothing for a moment. He smoothed away the tears rolling fresh down her cheeks.
“Yes. Yes, he was,” he said eventually. “I'll get the man behind this.”
“That's your answer, is it?”
“It's the only answer I can give.” He shrugged again.
“Night has come, Hirad. Everything has gone.” And when he looked into her eyes, he knew it was true. She gave his hand the briefest squeeze, turned and walked to her father. Hirad looked after her for a second, pushed open the door to the back room and walked inside.
No one was talking. The fire crackled in the grate, they were all sitting holding drinks but no one was talking. Hirad moved to Sirendor's body. The sheet had been replaced. He looked at the outline of his face beneath the covering and laid a hand on one of his friend's, praying for the grasp of fingers he knew would never come. He turned.
“Why do they want you dead, Denser?”
“That's what we just asked him,” said Ilkar.
“And what did he say?”
“That he wanted you to hear it too.”
“Well, I'm here now, so he can start talking.”
“Come and sit down, Hirad,” said The Unknown. “We poured you a drink. It won't help but we poured it anyway.”
Hirad nodded, walked to them and sat down in his chair. The Unknown pushed a goblet into his left hand, and with his right, Hirad reached out and felt the arm of Sirendor's chair though he wouldn't, couldn't, look at it.
“We're listening, Denser,” he said, his voice just holding together.
“I want you to know right away that what I am about to tell you was being kept from you in your best interests.”
“You are digging a deep hole,” said The Unknown slowly. “We decide what is in our best interests. The result of not being able to do that lies under a shroud for all to see. We want to know exactly what you have involved us in. Exactly. Then you will go and we will talk.”
Denser took a deep breath. “Firstly, I make no apologies for being Xeteskian. It is simply a moral code, and much of what is said about us is fabrication. Our past, however, is not blameless.”
“You know something, Denser, you have a gift for understatement,” said Ilkar.
“We could have such fascinating discussions, Ilkar.”
“I doubt it.”
“Right,” said Denser after a pause. “You heard what Gresse was saying, and his information is all too accurate. The Wesmen tribes are rising and uniting, the Shamen are running the organisation, the Elder Councils are working in concert and we are seeing subjugation of local populations practically in the shadow of the Blackthorne Mountains.”
The Unknown Warrior sat up straight. “Just how far east are we talking about?”
“We've had an eyewitness account from a village called Terenetsa, three days’ ride from Understone Pass,” said Denser.
“Gods, that's close,” breathed Talan. “No wonder Gresse wanted Blackthorne warned.”
“I fail to see what this has to do with the death of my friend,” muttered Hirad.
“Please,” said Denser. “This is relevant, believe me. We've had mage spies in the west for several months now and the picture is grim. We estimate that Wesmen armies approaching sixty thousand already armed and training are gathered in the Heartlands. An invasion of the east is surely imminent and we have no defence. There is no four-College alliance and the KTA has a tenth the armed strength it had three hundred years ago.”
“But what chance do they really have?” Ilkar was dismissive. “A couple of thousand mages alone could stop their advance. They don't have the Wytch Lords for magical support this time.”
“I'm very much afraid that they do,” said Denser.
The fire crackling in the grate was suddenly the only sound. Talan's glass stopped halfway to his lips. Ilkar opened his mouth to speak but didn't.
Richmond shook his head. “Hold on,” he said. “I understood them to be destroyed.”
“You can't destroy them,” said Ilkar. “We never
knew how and we still don't. All Xetesk could do was trap them without a means to escape.” He switched his gaze to the Xetesk mage. “What happened?”
Denser breathed in deeply and knocked the bowl of his pipe against the fire grate. He filled it as he spoke, his cat sleeping on his lap. “When we destroyed Parve, it was to remove all vestiges of the Wytch Lords’ power base from Balaia. It was never intended that that action would end the Wytch Lords themselves. While their bodies burned, their souls ran free and we trapped them inside a mana cage and launched it into interdimensional space.” The cat stirred. “We've been watching it ever since.”
“Watching what?” asked Richmond.
“The cage. We and we alone have kept unfailing watch on the Wytch Lords’ prison for three hundred years. As others refuse to accept us, so we refuse to accept the word of those who claim ultimate victory.” He shrugged.
“Clearly, you were right,” said Ilkar.
Denser nodded. “We've noted increased dimensional transference, probably through Dragonene action, for some time. One particular move damaged the cage. We thought it was rectifiable.” He scratched his head, then lit his pipe from a flame produced on the tip of his thumb. “We were wrong. Mana must have entered the cage because the Wytch Lords are no longer inside. We believe them to be back in Balaia. In Parve.”
Ilkar massaged his nose and pulled at his lips with his right hand. His eyes narrowed.
“How long have they been there?” he asked.
“Who cares?” said Hirad. “I'm still waiting to—”
“Hold on, Hirad.”
“No, Ilkar, I will not bloody hold on.” Hirad raised his voice. He turned on Denser. “You might as well have been talking tribal Wessen for all I've understood so far. You've got your stupid pipe stuck in your stupid mouth and you've balled on about dimensions, Dragonene and some old threat that's been gone hundreds of years like it was important. I haven't a clue what you're talking about and I'm no nearer knowing why that Witch Hunter bastard killed my friend.”
“I sympathise with your need to understand,” said Denser gently.
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