Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  “He tore it,” an elf said behind him.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the half-born said, gesturing to the wall. “Hang it. The magic will pull it together.”

  Sorrows had tried to outdrink a dwarf once. Impossible. The two had spent an evening trading shots of whiskey and throwing knives at a painting of some elf magi until Sorrows passed out. Left the picture in shreds. He woke the next day hurting like the Curse. But the canvas was pristine, the magi smug, and the scent of lavender hung in the air. Elf magic.

  “Get dressed,” the half-born said. “Come outside.”

  She left and her elf companion followed. The rest of the squad stayed behind and watched Sorrows slip back into his still-damp clothes. He caught the female elf staring again. Heard her say something to another elf that sounded a lot like odd, round ears. He didn’t care enough to banter. He dressed, wrapped his quiver and bow in an oiled cloth, and slung the bundle over his shoulder. Pulled his hood over his head and stepped into a steady drizzle. Water beaded on his cloak and slipped off his sleeves. Another squad waited outside. The waypoint emptied. The door closed with a thud. Heavy wood framed in stone. Elves surrounded him. All dressed in black and gray. All wearing steel. Sorrows was outnumbered and confused. And he didn’t like being either.

  “Walk,” the half-born said.

  And he didn’t like being told what to do. Not by anyone. Certainly not by an elf. Even if she was only half elf. Even if she was white-knuckling the hilt of her sword like she wanted nothing more than to turn around and use his gut as a sheath. He planted his feet. Received a shove in the back. Stumbled forward two steps. Planted his feet again. The half-born glanced over her shoulder and looked at him like she had just noticed he was there. She stopped, approached. Her face was blank, emotionless.

  “You must wonder why we’re here.”

  You’re not here because of a dead orc, he thought. And no chance two squads and an escort are stationed this close to the Edge. But he said nothing. Listened to the ring of rain on steel behind him.

  “You don’t have questions?” she asked.

  He stared through the water dripping off his hood in big, congealed drops. Still have my bow. Why? The half-born furrowed her brow and gave a small shake of her head. Suit yourself, she was saying. She squared up to him and folded her arms. She was unmistakably dwarf. Standing beside a host of elves, her thick features stood out. Nose slightly bulbous, square jaw, long chin. A face that would get a first look, but not a second. But a face that told a story.

  She hadn’t reached middle age yet. For a mixed offspring of two gods-born species, that might mean ninety years. A century, perhaps. The lines at the corners of her mouth echoed a frequent frown. The smooth skin at the corners of her eyes confirmed an elf lack of humor. She had coarse dwarf hair, but the color was caught somewhere between the sun-touched gold of the elves and the raven strands of the dwarves. It looked dirty and bristled, though it was meticulously groomed and tied with cords in the elf style. Despite her best efforts, she looked unkempt. Disheveled. But her eyes were dwarf eyes and striking. Sparkling like cut emeralds. She sighed and left her elf companion to stand beside Sorrows. Looked past him to the elves and shook her head. I’ll be fine, she was saying.

  She placed a hand on his arm, applied gentle pressure.

  “Walk,” she said. A command, but a softly issued one. Sorrows complied, and the two fell in step behind the elf companion and two others.

  She was tall and thin for a dwarf, short and thick for an elf. Her shoulders were broad beneath her cloak, and her jerkin had been let out at the top to accommodate decidedly dwarf curves. Her skirt swished as she walked. A pleasant side to side sway striking a balance between elf grace and dwarf muscularity. Sorrows pictured her legs, toned, pale. Calves like apples, taut and round. Covered in coarse hair.

  “You’re worse than Ajenna,” she said.

  She drummed her fingers on the hilt of her sword. Steel rang cold like her voice.

  “Who?” Sorrows asked.

  “The elf who was eying you in the waypoint.”

  Sorrows shrugged, looked forward. “You flash steel, interrupt a wash, tell me to walk, I’m free to take the measure of you, don’t you agree?”

  “You like what you see?”

  “What?”

  “You like looking at half-born women?”

  “Shade better than orcs, if we’re being honest.”

  Her fingers stopped drumming. Wrapped around the hilt. Knuckles white. Steel rasped as it slid a short inch from its scabbard.

  “I’m not joking, orchole. I know your type.”

  “What type would that be? Human? I doubt it. We’ve never met before and you’re too young to remember anyone else.”

  “Predator.”

  He turned to look at her.

  “Predator?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I truly don’t.”

  “Like you’re wondering what’s under the cloak and skirt. Like you want to see more. You’re vile.”

  Her tone had grown sharp while simultaneously falling to a whisper. He studied the thick line of her brow, the easy frown that creased the skin around her mouth, the long chin, the heavy jaw.

  “You think I want under your cloak?”

  “Don’t you?”

  He shook his head, faced forward again.

  “I’d rather press lips with a Seph.”

  ✽✽✽

  THEY WALKED IN stony, soaked silence for the remainder of that day. Made camp that evening with unbridled animosity. Broke camp the next morning with thinly veiled loathing. Late in the second day, the half-born left him, and her elf companion took her place, walking in stoic arrogance beside Sorrows.

  “Don’t the gods-born have some code of honor for how they treat mortals?” Sorrows asked. “Or are elves above such concepts as basic human decency?”

  The elf stared ahead. “You have food. You have water. What more do you need?”

  “How about some explanation?” Sorrows said.

  “You’ll learn more once we arrive.”

  “Arrive where?”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  The elf didn’t answer any more questions that day or the next. And all the while, steel flashed in the sunlight, sang in the rain, and hovered like a ghost behind Sorrows, unseen but felt.

  Chapter 4

  THEY FILED THROUGH twin oak doors thrown open despite the storm raging outside. Three days on foot, heading south, two bridges crossed, elf pace, with the last day spent running ahead of wind and downpour. Had Sorrows been blindfolded, he’d still have known their destination. But he wasn’t blindfolded, and he had watched Godscry rise before them from the haze and mist, encircled by stone and iron. He had watched the pale, gray city pass by as they ran through cobblestone streets turned empty by the weather. He had cursed inwardly as they turned to Godscry Tower, slipped through its gates, climbed its steps. Cursed outwardly as they opened its doors, raced inside.

  The half-born strode forward, shaking rain from her cloak. She studied the room, eyes sliding from pillar to pillar as she turned a full circle. She approached an elf, whispered something to him, walked away as he blushed and straightened his cloak. She was meticulous, detailed, cautious. She waved at Sorrows and pointed toward a door off in one corner. Honey-colored, tight-grained, black iron handle. An elf on either side. Gray cloaks, black jerkins, gray skirts, black boots. Mage Guard. Their eyes tracked the approach of the half-born and the elf from the tavern. They straightened in deference. But their mouths turned down at the corners when the half-born drew near. A small thing. Hardly noticeable. But an elf thing. And Sorrows caught it. Probably the half-born caught it as well. It meant the two guards weren’t accustomed to seeing the half-born, else they’d better hide their derision. And all of that meant this tower was as new to his travel companions as it was to Sorrows. It wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing he had to an advantage since he was caught naked in the way
point.

  He was still dripping when the elves began pushing him toward the door. Their own clothes were dry, clean. Elf magic. Pricks. He walked. They pushed. He walked a bit more slowly. They stopped pushing. The door opened to stairs. Wide, clean slabs of stone. Eleven steps straight ahead of him, a landing at the top, an angle of stone to his right suggesting another flight of steps leading higher. He stopped, looked up. They pushed.

  “You sure you want me to go first? Give up the high ground?”

  The pushing stopped. Hesitation. Uncertainty.

  The half-born snorted and shoved past the elves, grabbing Sorrows at the elbow, partly in annoyance and partly in possession. He’s mine, she was saying. Leave the big, scary human to the half-born, you cowards. She pulled him to the stairs. Her elf companion followed. The two elves by the door joined him on either side. The five started up the stairs, boots echoing. They made enough noise that the entire tower would know how many steps they had climbed, whether they had stopped, and what they had eaten for breakfast.

  The stairs continued long enough for Sorrows to feel every inch of his legs. Beside him, the half-born fought to hide her fatigue, forcing air in and out through her nose. This caused her nostrils to flare. And that did little to improve her overall appearance. Behind them, the three elves offered no audible signs of tiring, and Sorrows didn’t care enough to turn around and see them not sweating. After an eternity of stone slabs, the half-born stopped climbing and the two new elves stepped past Sorrows to open a heavy oak door like the one before the stairs. They stepped into a wide corridor lined with sconces, decorated with tapestries, and marked by evenly spaced doors. It was quiet like the streets had been, as though the storms had kept everyone locked away in their rooms. They stopped in front of the seventh door. The last door on the left. One of the two new elves opened it. The half-born led Sorrows inside. The room was empty except for a single wooden chair. No table. No sconces. No tapestries. No more than six paces wide, eight deep, another six high. Stone walls and floor. Lamps hung from beams that crossed overhead. Sorrows spat on the floor, rubbed a dark streak on the stone with his boot. It grew cold beneath his feet, and the room filled with the scent of orange blossoms. The half-born walked past him.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  Sorrows unstrapped the bundle from his back and rested it on the chair. He shrugged off his cloak and laid it on top. Walked to the wall. Ran his fingers along the seam between stone slabs, and felt the eyes of the half-born and the elves watch his every move. He turned, leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor. The half-born stared at him for a long moment before turning and leaving the room. The elves followed. The door shut. A low hum filled the air, like the rush of a river in the distance. Elf magic. Sorrows wouldn’t bother trying to open the door. If an elf wanted you to stay put, you stayed put.

  The knocking of boots faded as the elves and half-born walked away. He glanced at the bundle on the chair and thought of unwrapping the bow, but wouldn’t give the elves a reason to take it away. So he rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and breathed. Slow breaths. Patient breaths. But too few breaths. Footsteps again. A different cadence. Heavy and ponderous. The door swung open, and an elf stepped in. Brown-haired, gray-eyed. Not unheard of for the species, but uncommon. His face was all hard lines and hostility. He raised a hand, rubbed his chin in the angle made by his thumb and forefinger. Squatting, he created peaks and valleys in the fabric of his gray skirt. He was old. Older than Sorrows.

  “Bigger than you thought, right?” Sorrows asked.

  “Younger,” the elf said.

  “Than you? I’d suspect so. Haven’t seen too many elves with wrinkles.”

  The elf said nothing; he stared for a few seconds more, stood and left, slamming the door behind him. Sorrows closed his eyes and returned to his breathing.

  Footsteps again. Fast, light. The door opened. New face, same faint surprise. She was younger, a couple centuries at most. Not old enough to remember humans. She had a pretty face, haughty and aloof, but soft in all the right places and hard in a way that quickened the pulse. Same black jerkin, same gray skirt, same black boots. But they looked better on her somehow.

  “More handsome than you expected?” Sorrows asked.

  “Are you what humans deemed handsome? Interesting.”

  “The more of me you see, the more interesting I become.”

  The elf said nothing, but her mouth twitched with a slight smirk. She turned, the door slammed. Sorrows closed his eyes, returned to his breathing.

  More breaths this time. Thoughts cleared, questions considered and set aside. A third cadence. Soft, steady. Confident. Sorrows straightened, leaned forward, watched the door. It opened and a third face appeared. Old. White-hair old. With eyes like a storm and deep lines around her mouth.

  “You’re bigger than I imagined,” she said.

  “I get that a lot.”

  “What do you think of me?”

  “Older than I expected. I prefer the last elf.”

  “She gets that a lot.”

  Her voice was smooth, melodic, confident. Sorrows was just another matter to deal with. And she’d handled worse. She was as much a part of the tower as the stones that shaped the walls and floors. She was an elf that straightened spines when she walked by. A leader. Respected. She stared at him and he stared at her. They stayed like that for a while before she left as the others had left. But she closed the door quietly. Softly. Like she had built the tower herself.

  They left Sorrows alone after that. Whatever conversations they were having didn’t require his presence, though he imagined they’d result in his inconvenience. He stretched, yawned, glanced at the bundle on the chair. Thought again about unwrapping the bow. Thought again about losing it. An hour passed, perhaps two. Without the sun, moon, or stars to guide him, it was difficult to know time. The pale stone walls offered no insights beyond lines, corners, and staggered patterns of slab and mortar. But the corridor eventually filled with the thunder of footsteps and conversation, and the door eventually opened. The white-haired elf stood in the doorway.

  “Time to take a walk, big guy,” she said.

  The two new elves stepped past her and stood to either side of Sorrows. Waiting. He peered up at them, but they were staring at the door, not making eye contact. He sighed. A long exhalation through his nose. One that he hoped would send a message. There had better be a good reason for all of this. He stood, but one of the elves was standing between him and his bundle.

  “I want my things,” he said, pointing to the chair.

  The elf reached over, grabbed Sorrows' cloak, tossed it against his chest.

  “And the other thing,” Sorrows said.

  “You can have the bow later,” the white-haired elf said. “First, we talk.”

  Sorrows shrugged. There were three of them, one of him. Two had steel, and one was so at ease that it made Sorrows uneasy. Maybe she was a magi and could throw him up against a wall with a flick of her wrist. Maybe she’d do it again and again until his head cracked against the stone. He didn’t want to find out, and elves tended to jump to elf-friendly conclusions quickly.

  “Follow me,” the white-haired elf said.

  Sorrows was squeezed through the door into a crowd of black jerkins, gray skirts, black boots. The half-born was there, and the elf from the tavern. And the brown-haired elf and the Weaver. At least Sorrows thought her to be a Weaver. She was pretty enough for her looks to be an illusion. He watched her, looking for the telltale ripples of bent light as she whispered excitedly to the brown-haired elf. If she was a Weaver, she was good. The corridor was all elf energy and hushed conversation as the group walked its length. They were anxious, excited. It made Sorrows uneasy. Like he was on the outside of something important while simultaneously being at the center of it. Like the five elves had knowledge he didn’t, but should. He didn’t like not knowing things. And he didn’t like elves.

  Which soured his already sour mood.
The new elf on his left brushed against him, and Sorrows shifted his weight, snapped his forearm outward, away from his body. Give me space, he was saying. But as big as he was, the move was more like shouting than pleasant conversation. The elf stumbled sideways and caught himself against the wall. Steel rasped, and the group stopped. All eyes were on Sorrows, all hands on hilts. He shrugged.

  “Oops.”

  The half-born shook her head. They resumed walking. The corridor wasn’t long. He had already traversed it once. He glanced at the tapestries, wondered what fragrance each would make if it was sullied. Wondered if the same elf wove the magic for each tapestry. Maybe the entire corridor. Maybe they found the elf with the best restoration magic and made him do the whole tower. Maybe the whole place would smell of orange blossoms if it got dirty enough. He was near ready to spit and find out when they opened the last door on the right, which had been the first door on the left when he arrived.

  They filed into a large, rectangular room. Ten paces by twenty, and another six high. A wooden table in the center, running the length. Chairs on either side. The table and chairs were made of the same wood. Had similar styles. Enough curve to be comfortable, but not inviting. A glossy finish that reflected the light from the sconces on the wall. It was a room for audience and interrogation. Display and spectacle. A room Sorrows wanted no part of. He sighed.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter 5

  “HAVE A SEAT,” the white-haired elf said.

  “Any seat?”

  “Take your pick.”

  Sorrows walked to the chair closest to the door and put his hand on its back, ready to pull it out.

  “Not that one.”

  Sorrows shot her a glance but walked around the table to the chair opposite the first. It was still close to the door.

  “Not that one either,” the white-haired elf said. She nodded at a chair in the center of the table. “How about that one? Looks big enough for someone your size.”