Months earlier, months before the pirates had begun their attack on the Matriarch's ship in the Western sea, a man by the name of Davik stepped off a small rowboat and onto a rickety wooden dock on the edge of the bustling city of Gholand, the home and center of the Forged Empire, and ruled over by the council of Nobles.
He couldn't help but grimace, causing the sword scar on his cheek to tug at his right eyelid. He'd been away for too many years. And yet, the stale air carried the familiar scent of dust and humidity with just a hint of soot from the city's forges.
Fumbling for the metal flask kept in his coat pocket, he took a double swig before counting the seconds till the burning-liquid would stop his hands from shaking.
His life couldn't be all roses. His stint in the navy, followed by a promotion into the secret service of the Nobles, had its share of problems. The things he'd seen... Thirty-five years was a long time to be a military man. Duty and loyalty in the face of some heinous missions.
Regrets? Plenty, but it wasn't his place to question his superiors. He had a job to do. He had a family to feed. Best not dwell on it. Best to remember that the past was dead.
He turned to regard the two sailors who'd rowed him ashore. "My thanks, friends." Neither one paid him any attention. Dressed in ratty-mismatched clothing with their feet covered in tar, they mindlessly waited for him to leave so they could return to their junk rig, waiting just offshore. Normally, it would be problematic for him, being seen on foreign craft. The shipbuilders of Gholand rarely used ribbed sails on any of their craft. To be seen riding one could make trouble amongst the loyalists. But for today—today he was in a good mood because he'd finally returned home.
Thumbing them each a silver, he watched them fail in their reaction to the glint of reflective silver that passed their eyes. Then the sound of coins bouncing around the bottom of their boat had them leaping from their benches. The one nearly lost his oar. An accident like that could've resulted in the captain having him whipped.
Davik nodded. "Thank the captain for letting me use his rowboat. Avoiding the wait for space on the docks probably saved me a whole day." He looked at the packed docks and lines of waiting boats that filled the harbor. "I must say, the city looks remarkably lively today."
"It's the weather," said the one with his wool cap askew as he focused on his newly gained unshaven silver coin. "With the trade winds drying up, and the season ending early—most crews are scrambling to unload before their return journey. They don't want to get stranded in the Straights in the east."
Davik nodded like he'd expected as much. "I see. Well, farewell, and thank you for the information." He might've heard as much on his return journey if he hadn't purposefully kept to himself.
Scooping up his weathered duffel bag, he adjusted his long wax-coated trench coat before proceeding down the dock. On a good day, Davik functioned with the grace of a younger man. Today was not one of those days. The long sea journey had left him with stiff joints and a sore back. His forty-plus years weighed on him like an outstanding debt.
The rest of his attire matched that of the typical Gholand citizenry. Heavy linen pants with patches over the knees, shirt, and muck boots. Nothing particularly special. Black on black, a product and advantage for the soot present in the air and the natural blackish-gray dye found in the eastern desert on the island. He kept his gray hair buzzed short, a holdover from his days in the navy.
To the north sat the island's barrier mountains, and to the east lay an extensive desert. Wedged between those two natural barriers, beyond the massive expansive docks, sat the city proper, which was about a mile from where he currently stood.
Over the years, the docks of the capital had grown into a wooden maze of stilted piers built over several square miles of ever-expanding tidal flats as they followed the ocean's continuing withdrawal. The older sections of the piers had long since become the homes of the poorer residents and migrants inside the city. Many lived in a variety of shacks, hovels, or tents, anything they could get their hands on—built along the sides of the platforms. The homes were often tacked on the edges, suspended, or even bolted onto the support pillars underneath the pier itself. Anywhere and anything, as the saying went for housing amongst the less fortunate.
"Time to get this over," he mumbled, shaking the moisture off his cloak. The soft bottoms on his leather shoes hardly made any noise as he made his way along the floating dock and up the steps and onto one of the larger piers. The people that filed passed—they paid him no mind. Many were foreign traders prepping for a return voyage or looking for a master merchant to help price and move their goods. All of it had nothing to do with him.
First, he would pay a visit to his friend's tavern on the edge of the docks next to the large market, then he'd visit his wife and kid on the edge of the city at the barracks. Business would come last. When the time came, he'd meet his connection along the main avenue inside the city.
His previous assignment had taken him to the city of Tervaska. If things had gone smoothly, he would've returned with the start of the trade season. Stubborn fools. The council of merchants had no one to blame but themselves for the riots that had left half the city burned. His own role in the fire's start was wholly irrelevant.
Picking a path through the docks had never been a straightforward task. The continuous expansion and cultural influx of foreign traders ensured a steady flow of change. Looking around, he tried to determine how much was different since he'd last been home. Usually, it was easy to determine the visitors or immigrants based solely on how much color remained in their clothing. It took time for the mines and harsh environment to burn everything away.
Several minutes of uneventful walking led to a more established section of the docks. With it came the milling masses of unwashed bodies. Tired, dirty faces, fresh from the mines in the mountains, and then there were the sweaty and equally dirty laborers out of the forges on the northern edge of the city. He also passed groups of squatters. Tired and broken bodies, nowhere to go and nowhere to be. There were more than what he was used to seeing. Dressed in large black ponchos, barefooted—they sat around waiting for handouts or a crew desperate for another pair of hands.
The nearby food cart filled the air with the stench of dried, fermented fish. The crusty yellow filets hung on a piece of string, suspended between two vertical rods as their fluids dripped and sizzled on the few remaining coals. His stomach growled. Fermented fish along the docks was one of his favorite delicacies.
Innocuous screaming beneath the platform signaled the passing of some children. Peering through the thick beams, he spotted a half dozen of the little urchins wading through knee deep mud as they dug in the muck with their hands for anything of value. Sewage, muck, and a lack of clothing mixed with young age made gender impossible to determine. One creature had found a clam, and a fight had broken out. Several onlookers on the docks had stopped to make bets.
Ahead, he noticed the crowd being systematically split by some unseen force. Possibly an overturned vendor cart. He ignored the disturbance and continued forward, rehearsing his report for the upcoming meeting with his connection.
The people eventually cleared, and the disturbance revealed itself to be a pair of city guards bullying their way against the flow of traffic. Armed with short lances and dressed in black plate. They lacked their iconic, egg-shaped black helmets with the built-in visor and breather.
It was a disappointing sight. Truthfully, they looked like thugs sizing up the crowd. The pedestrians moved around them like a school of fish swimming around a pair of sharks.
He made eye contact with the taller one and immediately regretted the action when the guard responded like it was some sort of challenge. He tapped his partner's shoulder and gestured in Davik's direction.
Davik moved aside in a vain attempt to blend in with the rest of the pedestrians. A pair of ladies carrying woven baskets on their heads bumped into one another, trying to stay away from him like he'd become diseased. In seconds, the throng of people were moving around Davik like he'd become an unofficial sacrifice to appease these two louts.
"Great," he mumbled.
The dock grew quiet as anticipation permeated the crowd. Most hurried past, wishing to remain uninvolved. Davik didn't blame them. To survive the docks, one needed a streak of selfishness.
With a dozen feet separating them now, his hope the guards would forget him disappeared when the one on the right, the younger of the two, jabbed his lance in Davik's direction, forcing him to dodge aside.
The guard's height had made him overconfident, and the bony neck gave him the appearance of a vulture.
His partner, who was at least twenty years his senior, nodded his approval. Sweaty faced and pudgy, his girth was testing the limits of the leather straps holding his plate onto his frame. Davik had doubts the canteen tied to his waist contained anything weaker than red wine.
Restraining his anger proved harder than expected. Davik squeezed his hands into fists. The sun had moved higher in the sky. It signaled he didn't have long before his meeting inside the city. If he wanted to grab a drink and see his family, all before the appointed time, he couldn't stop and play with these two. Unless they killed him, then all his problems and engagements certainly wouldn't matter.
Patrolling the docks was a muggy, thankless job. Most of the guards hated it. Knowing these two had chosen the short straw didn't earn them any empathy. To Davik, the guard served the important role of maintaining the security of Gholand. Boring as it was safe, these men should be happy they weren't out fighting on the frontier, where they were twice as likely to die from a mosquito bite than combat.
"You! What are you staring at?" said the sweaty, older one. Talking had caused his neck fat to vibrate, and his voice sounded like he was eating dry biscuits.
"Aye!" added the taller one. He hoisted his weapon aggressively. "We don't much care for trouble makers. We work hard to protect this-here dock, we do."
Sidestepping, they used their short lances to corner him near the edge of the dock. They thought to use their range and the dock's edge to their advantage. He nearly sighed in disappointment when he saw their hands shaking with what appeared to be fear.
The heavy one held his arms out to appear non threatening. "Allow me to welcome you to the docks. We strive very hard to ensure a safe environment for all people, and to ensure this process continues without interruption. I'm here to collect a protection fee." He waved a hand like he was trying to calm Davik down. "I know what you're thinking, but don't worry, everyone has to pay."
Davik's brow furrowed, feeling a fresh wave of rage bubble beneath the surface.
"Listen," the guard continued. "There's nothing to be confused about. Either you hand over coin, or you'll get a few inches of steel in your gut and a fall into the muds." He motioned to the side with a nod of his head. "Maybe you'll survive, maybe you won't. It's your choice, but I'd recommend paying. You won't get a second chance. Then again, the ghosts of your ancestors could crawl out from the heart of the island to protect you."
"I have no coin for you two. Go find easier prey elsewhere," Davik growled.
"Not paying?" asked the tall one. "Fine!"
Ready for the attack, Davik dodged the lance's sharp point, then grabbed the shaft. The younger guard became distraught when he couldn't wrench free his weapon. "Hey! Let go!"
After a short tugging match, Davik released his grip, and the guard collapsed flat on his back. The sound of his plate hitting the hard dock was loud enough to echo off the surrounding structures and the mud below. The remaining bystanders practically crawled on top of one another in a desperate rush to be anywhere else. It might've produced a more measured response if someone had screamed fire.
In just a few quick minutes, the surrounding area had become entirely deserted, almost like a bad sandstorm from the eastern desert had appeared on the horizon. With restricted access to the city, Davik wouldn't put it past the people to evacuate the docks entirely by boat. Then again, maybe the guard would open the barracks to provide shelter.
The people of Gholand were as smart as they were predictable. Besides the danger of getting caught in a fight, they knew that witnessing an altercation with the guard could be equally dangerous. No one wanted to be questioned. Many of these migrants had never registered, meaning they were here illegally. Usually ignored, it wouldn't be beyond the norm for migrants to be targeted. The guards carried out the will of the Nobles, and defying the Nobles was as unthinkable as it was deadly.
The senior of the two stammered in disbelief at the visual of his comrade lying on the ground. "N-Now you've gone and done it," he finally said. "We might've let you off easy-like, but now—now you die."
"Don't be so sure," Davik said, voice cold as ice. In one fluid motion, he dropped his duffel bag and pulled out a throwing knife kept hidden behind his back. Flipping his wrist, he released the weapon like a spinning bullet. The steel crossed the distance to slash the hand of the older-heavier guard, causing him to drop his lance and fall to his knees. Clenching his injured hand, he tried to stem the flow of blood. His screams were accentuated by the rattle of his fallen lance.
As fast as they could blink, Davik had two more knives, one in each hand.
Red face and cursing, the younger guard fought his way to his feet. He snarled and aimed to thrust his lance into Davik's stomach.
Davik reacted first by releasing a second knife. The steel reflected a flash of light before finding a home in the guard's throat with a meaty thud. One, two, it happened so quickly. Blood poured from his lips as he choked on the liquid that filled his lungs.
Stumbling, he fell to his knees, and after a momentary struggle, he collapsed, dead on the spot.
Davik kept his face smooth while he went to retrieve his weapons. Bending over, he yanked the one free from the guy's neck by hooking his finger through the loop made into the end of the knife. Regularly oiled and razor sharp, they were specially made throwing knives. The weapons had served him well through the years.
Wiping the blades clean with a rag from his coat pocket, he replaced them in their holsters hidden behind his back and beneath his coat. In total, he carried two in each sleeve, one in each boot, and nine in a custom leather holster strapped across his back.
"I give up," said the heavier guard, cradling his injured hand on his knees. "Please." Sweat ran down his face to mix with tears.
"Good," Davik said. "I've grown tired of killing. I came home to see my wife and child, not carve up fools on the docks."
"Y-You're one of the Enforcers?" said the first guard, still on his knees. His face slacked with the new bit of information. He paid no notice of the blood running down his wrist and into his armor or that of his dead comrade.
The dynamic had shifted. Whether he was a city guard didn't seem to count for much anymore. The title "Enforcer" was slang, given to the people in the service. Technically, they didn't have an official title. Davik and his comrades called it the service, and everyone else referred to them as Enforcers because they "enforced" the will of the Nobles. Secret titles and secret missions, but it was quite simple, really—to avoid the Enforcers, one should avoid crossing the Nobles.
"I... why didn't you identify yourself?" begged the bleeding guard. "We respect and honor your service. My cousin..."
"Everyone has a cousin," Davik said, cutting him off. He supposed the casual way he had dispatched the guard had given him away. "Honestly, I needed to avoid revealing myself, as I do not have time to play. I had hoped you two wouldn't force the issue, but to attack so brazenly. I am disappointed to see the guard resort to such blatant extortion."
"We had to! The magistrate ordered our stipend cut. The pay just isn't enough. And with the weather change, trade has dried up. My son is sick... medicine has become expensive."
Davik had nothing to say, poor fool. People make their own luck. Freedom and the will to find their own way. Picking up his duffel bag, he left the area before more guards showed up.
The more he saw of the city, the more he realized how much had changed in the months since he'd been away. His frequent work overseas made it difficult for him to keep up with every shift in the market. Time could drag in the moment, but hindsight always ended up biting him in the ass. Still, to see how much the shorter season had already affected the city—Davik didn't know what to say. It was unfortunate, and yet sometimes these things happen.
His own family would be fine. His position ensured certain benefits, but how long would that last if things got any worse? It was a prospect he didn't want to think about.
Having grown up on the docks, it was easy to recognize something was amiss. The air buzzed with worry, like a fish caught in a tide pool and left to suffocate in the scorching sun. He hoped it was just hyperbole. Foretelling the future was impossible, but sniffing out danger and maintaining a level of readiness had always been one of his skills. It was probably why he'd lasted this long.
The rest of his journey proved uneventful. Passing through the busy market, his eyes lingered on the carts of raw steel, blades, and leather. Most of the junk he ignored until he came across a stand covered with violet geodes. The woman forced a desperate smile while she waited for him to look them over. He didn't know what it was, but he just loved amethysts. Surprised at the prices, he pried himself away, and then crossed onto solid land, leaving behind the docks entirely.
Turning left and sticking to the coast, he ignored the city proper, and instead followed an uneven stone pathway wide enough to fit a dozen people abreast. The wide stone slate represented the ancient coastline. The surface of the stone slabs had become worn and dotted with holes from centuries of weather and pollution. Inns and taverns lined the other side of the street. Many were hovels, wooden support beams little better than termite leavings. If a foul wind passed through, there was no telling how many of the buildings would collapse. Regardless, there was a homeliness to them. Their square stone interiors, illuminated by a mix of coal fueled braziers, warm and glowing, had people packed into every nook and cranny. The heavy occupancy resulted from the off season weather affecting the trade industry.
Passing an alleyway, he glimpsed the city proper with its white domed buildings, lined up and organized like a military parade—if buildings could be said to function as such. It was bizarre seeing the small pockets of sand piled in the corners. The extensive desert in the east usually made sandstorms a weekly occurrence, but the Nobles had long since mandated a cleaning service to keep the sand under control—almost like a display of resilience in the face of the island's harsh climate. If the people were letting the sand build up, either the law had grown lax or the sand storms had become more frequent.
Wedged between a few of the stone rectangular buildings were a handful of wooden inns and pubs. The ancient structures had roofs of ceramic tiling, a holdover from a different era. Nearing the edge of the city's coastline, Davik eyed the buildup of trash: abandoned barrels, carts, rope, and broken boxes—most of it looked to have belonged to sailors.
Shoving the suspicion out of his mind, he needed to relax, somehow. His weeks away being surrounded by enemies always left him feeling like a coiled spring, and age certainly didn't help the issue.
A handful of minutes passed before he neared his friend's tavern. The salvaged piece of beach wood above the door read the establishment's name, The Pregnant Seahorse, and beneath the fine lettering featured a crude representation of a potbellied half-man, half-seahorse holding a mug of ale.
He delayed entry, scouting the immediate area by circling the adjacent alleyways. A quarter-hour later, he was confident enough to enter through the front door. He would've scouted longer, but time waited for no man.
He gritted his teeth as the weathered, warped door creaked in protest. There weren't many people in this area of the city, and the objectionable noise had probably alerted half the block to his presence.
Inside, the stuffy interior stunk of stale beer, roasted pork, and coal smoke. Split between an open kitchen and bar, and a dining area, the ancient wooden structure still held enough room for a dozen round tables and short-backed chairs. In the center of the room sat a recessed, smoldering fire pit with a circular hole cut into the ceiling to allow for ventilation.
Years of use had left the ceiling coated in a thick layer of soot. Moldy straw covered the floor, and a collage of looted banners dotted the walls representing a piece of Gholand's naval history. Overall, Davik thought the bar lacked a solid theme. Was it a barrack hovel or a proper bar? No matter. The owner was a former colleague of his. The tavern had long since become a frequent stop for those in the service.
Davik nodded approvingly at the sight of an empty dining area. He even felt a measure of stress leak out of him.
Approaching the bar, he pulled out a stool and sat, dropping his bag on the dusty floor. The stool groaned beneath his weight as he leaned his elbows on the bar. He remembered when his friend had salvaged the wood from an old wreck, proclaiming he'd fashion it into a bar top.
On the wall behind the bar sat several shelves of green and black-colored glass bottles. Their labels faded or ripped, and their contents half gone, and on the far end of the bar was a large barrel tipped on its side. The tap fitted on the lid leaked a tiny stream of amber liquid onto the hay covered floor. The skewered grouper roasting in the corner over a bed of coals would soon be too dry to make one of the tavern's famous sandwiches.
It didn't take long for Maynard to show his face. "Ah, if it isn't my old friend. Good to see you, Davik," said the barkeep and owner with a dry and nasal inflection. "How fairs the hunt? Did you pass through the tunnels of a thousand faces? Or drink the blood of eternity? Though the sour look on your face suggests you probably tripped into a pile of barnacles."
He ignored the old wives' tale and insult. "Funny man. Good to see you too. I'm surprised you haven't drunk yourself to death yet."
Maynard laughed, slapping his round stomach. He stood a head taller, and the girth he carried made it look like he carried a keg under his shirt. Bald, bearded, and a leather eyepatch covering his left eye, Maynard had retired from the service nearly nine years ago. A master interrogator, his retirement had come as a surprise to their superiors, though the man opening a bar was the surprise of no one. Today he wore a stained, green short-sleeved shirt, pants that extended just past his knees, leather sandals, and a leather apron covered in grease.
Maynard laughed at the comment about drinking. "Don't say I haven't tried. Lucky that owning a bar subsidizes my habit. Plus, I get to chat with old pelicans like you."
"If you say so," Davik said. "But if you ask me, you could stand to stock some liquor with a bit more kick."
"Bah, don't be silly." Maynard grabbed a pair of pewter mugs, filling them with the amber liquid from the large barrel resting on the bar. "You can't beat the ale. The caramel they use in the brew gives it such a rich flavor. Hmm." He handed Davik one mug before taking a long, hard swallow from the other. "Ah! That hit the spot."
Sipping the warm, bitter drink, Davik bottled his cringe, wondering if they used pine pitch in the brew. "Yum," he lied.
"Now," Maynard said. "Why has the tide washed you into my tavern?" Drinking, he eyed him from the side of his mug with a knowing smile.
Davik couldn't help but frown. "You don't seem too surprised to see me."
Maynard returned to the barrel to refill his pewter cup. "I figured you'd notice. You were always good at your job, obsessively so. But first, drink!" Tilting it back, he finished his second cup in a single gulp. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.
Davik mirrored the effort as best he could, though his stomach did complain over the brewed chunks of yeast hitting the back of his throat. He flashed a sarcastic smile before putting his cup down.
Maynard nodded. "Now, I suppose you have some questions regarding the state of the island. I regret to say—the rumors are true. Trade is suffering, and unless something is done, the market of the city may collapse. These shorter seasons mean there are fewer ships arriving. As the saying goes, if you're not growing, you're dying. And if people knew how bad the fresh water shortage was—there'd be riots in the streets." Maynard then laughed, like he thought the whole thing was one great big joke.
"I see," Davik said, feeling every one of his forty-odd years suddenly. "Any word from the Nobles? The council needs to act before things get worse."
Maynard smiled incredulously. "The Nobles? I'm sure they have a plan, but they aren't telling us, but then again when did they ever? Their laissez-faire approach to governance has worked miracles for the Forged Empire, and especially for the island city of Gholand. We have wealth like the world has never seen. But never fear, there's a plan in the works."
"Good." Davik refocused on his pewter mug, finishing the contents without a second thought. "And here I was, hoping I would retire soon."
Maynard's head tilted to the side like he'd just heard something peculiar. "Retire? Legends can't retire."
"Me? Legend? That's funny," Davik said, exasperated. "I'm tired. Tired of always being on the move. Tired of not knowing where I'll sleep next. I am tired of the stress and the blood. It's time for me to pass the torch and disappear. Let the younger generation pick up where we left off."
"You don't have to tell me," Maynard said. "I got out years ago."
Davik nodded. "I..." he choked on the sudden bubble of emotion. Puzzling out his feelings had always been an arduous task. He didn't like people thinking he was human. Peculiar thing, but there it was. "I think... I'm done. My previous mission was the last one. There's enough blood on my hands to paint the city red. When I meet with my connection, I'm offering my resignation."
"I'm honored you confided in me," Maynard said. "But do you think retirement can be granted so lightly, or easily?"
Davik looked up, feeling defensive. "I've put in my time. My family is all I have left. Spending the rest of my days with my daughter is the only thing I want. Next week she'll be eight. This will be the first birthday I'll celebrate with her."
Maynard flared his nose before finishing his beer. "Listen, I have good news, and bad news," he said. "First, the good news, the retirement you wanted? It's granted."
Davik's eyes opened wide, then narrowed with realization. "What? I don't understand."
Maynard cut him off. "I'm your contact." He explained information about Davik's previous job and intended location, confirming his identity. "I knew you'd come here first, so when I heard you'd returned, I made the logical decision to wait for you here. As for the bad news, your retirement will start upon the completion of your next mission. Sorry, but the Nobles require your service one more time."
"Is there no one else?" Davik hoped his desperation wasn't too obvious. He hated lowering himself, but the continuous drinking had done a fine job of loosening his tongue.
Maynard was already shaking his head. "Sorry friend. The Nobles requested you personally."
"What?" Davik breathed. "Is that possible? They asked for me by name? This does not happen, never."
"Maybe you're too good at your job? Everyone in the service looks up to you. Would it be a surprise if the Nobles had remembered your name after hearing it mentioned in reports or conversation for the past decade?"
Davik didn't know how to respond to the realization the Nobles had taken a personal interest in him. In the past, it would've been the highlight of his career—the honor it meant. But now, his priorities had shifted. Another month or longer before he could see his daughter. If he was lucky. The thought nearly made him growl. His wife would understand. She knew who he was, even if she didn't know the exact details.
A child was a different story. The birth of his daughter had changed everything. His missions had morphed from an opportunity into a necessity. He needed to survive for her, and the years spent ignoring the truth had done nothing to ease the emotional turmoil. The price hadn't changed, but now he knew the cost.
"So be it," he whispered.
Getting what he wanted most would never be easy. One more. When he'd first envisioned this meeting, a large part of him had feared the request for retirement would come with a hook. But at least now he had an official date. He stood and knocked over his stool in his haste.
"Where are you going?" Maynard asked, nearly choking on his drink.
"I'm going home to prepare for my daughter's birthday. I expect you'll contact me when the details have been ironed out."
"I'm sorry to say, but the mission is already set. There's no time for you to visit your family." Davik's face must've betrayed his emotions because Maynard was suddenly trying to appease him. "Rest assured, you'll be rewarded handsomely, but time is important. There's a ship and crew already waiting. They'll take you west. You must act quickly if you want the tide to be on your side." Maynard's face had grown hard, like he'd just finished issuing orders.
"You must be joking. I've only arrived," Davik said. His disbelief melted as his "friend" refused to yield.
"I wish I were joking," Maynard said. "We expected you weeks ago. I'll tie you up and carry you to the docks if I must. The ship will cast off the moment you're aboard. As for supplies, I took special care to make sure the voyage would be quite comfortable. The crew knows what you're about. Several of the men will follow and assist when you arrive at your destination."
"Some friend you are," Davik mumbled, feeling thoroughly trapped.
"What's her name? The name of your daughter?" Maynard asked, hoping to change or at least redirect the subject.
"Maggie."
"I'm going to pat you on the shoulder, so don't put a knife in my throat." Maynard reached across the bar to put a hand on Davik's shoulder. The stench of ale continued to fill the air, though the hot air was making him sweat. "There, that's not so bad. Based on what I know, I expect this mission to wrap up within a week or so. The Nobles selected you because they trust you. Few of us can claim to carry such weight. Honestly, I'm envious. You'll probably get a chance to see the palace and meet the Nobles. Imagine it, heroes of the ages. A hall covered in gold—red and black carpets to match their colors. Hundreds of servants with unlimited wine. A palace to surpass anything on this side of the Divide. Promise you'll tell me what they look like."
Davik smiled despite his grievances. The idea of visiting the palace of Gholand and seeing the Nobles was quite enticing. The structure had always stood as a mass of prestige and hope for the people of their island. "Okay. I promise."
Maynard raised his mug for a toast. "To our best warrior. None are more deserving. They may even reward you with lodging within the city."
"Ha! Thank you." For once, Davik didn't mask his emotions. He couldn't help but imagine himself sitting in front of a warm coal fire in the hearth of his new home, fine wine, a book, and his daughter on his knee.
"Now drink!" Maynard said. "You've got a long voyage ahead of you."