by Dan Fish
“Give me your pack.”
“Go to hells.” Expected.
Sorrows shrugged. “You’re taking two steps to our one.”
“Are you saying I’m slowing us down?”
“No, I’m saying you’re short. And you are slowing us down.”
“Our pace is adequate,” Ga’Shel said. “I’ve kept us thin. There is no need to tire ourselves.”
Sorrows turned, looked ahead. A copse of oak and maple lay a hundred paces off the road. He lifted a hand and pointed to the trees, opened his mouth to suggest making camp there. Davrosh’s rucksack hit him in the stomach with enough strength to force all the air from his chest. He stopped, bent over, found his breath, looked up. Davrosh and Ga’Shel had kept walking. Davrosh looked back over her shoulder with a smirk that made her chin take up half her face.
“Thanks for the help, orchole,” she said.
Sorrows slung Davrosh’s pack over a shoulder and caught up. They kept walking.
“The souls were gone,” Ga’Shel said. He glanced at Sorrows as though nothing had happened. “No lingering memories. No feeling of being watched.”
“Being watched?” Sorrows asked.
“You suggest a soul feels like a memory. I feel as though I am being watched.”
“I like my way better.”
Ga’Shel shrugged. “Are you afraid of souls, Sorrows?”
Run and hide, run and hide! Seph will find you, go inside!
“No,” he said. “They’re just people wronged by the Seph. I prefer to remember them that way. Being watched sounds a lot like being hunted. Makes it seem like the soul’s nothing more than a predator.”
“Prey keep a watchful eye, do they not?” Ga’Shel asked.
Sorrows looked at him. “That would make us the predators. I’m not a predator, despite Davrosh’s piss-poor guesses. Are you?”
Ga’Shel shook his head. “No, I suppose not. A poor analogy, then. Whatever the feeling, it was missing for all four daughters.”
Davrosh stumbled again. Ga’Shel caught her again.
“Time to stop?” he asked.
“Time to stop,” Sorrows said before Davrosh could disagree.
✽✽✽
TWO DAYS HAD passed, and the third was halfway gone. At the pace Ga’Shel maintained, Sorrows guessed they were halfway to Hammerfell. A hawk drifted overhead, gliding in slow, sweeping arcs. Leaves crept sideways across the path, golden, tumbling, hinting at a north wind that Sorrows couldn’t hear or feel. The day was bright. The sky was the pale blue of fall turning to winter. Sorrows lost track of time. A benefit of forest-walking. Davrosh stomped with less vigor, cared less about adjusting her pack. Dark circles lined her eyes. The light made it difficult to sleep. An inconvenience of forest-walking. By the time they reached Hammerfell, their bodies would feel fifty days of travel, but their minds would only perceive the passage of five days on the road. Not a basic concept. Not an easy thing to understand. Sorrows had asked Fen about it once, Mig about it twice, and decided afterward to never ask anyone about it again.
But he thought about the not-knowing sometimes. Thought about it a lot when he stepped onto water. Was thinking about it and only it as he followed Davrosh onto a river. Ga’Shel fell in step beside him. The three hurried across, moving quickly to avoid sinking into the sluggish waters.
“Bet your goblin friend can’t do that,” Davrosh said when they reached the opposite shore.
“I’ve crossed rivers with Fen before,” Sorrows said. “Though, I’ll admit they didn’t feel as solid. Sunshine knows his stuff.”
“A compliment?” Davrosh asked, feigning mock surprise. “I’m shocked.”
“Why? I’m not going to lie.”
“You never have anything nice to say.”
Sorrows shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not going to lie.”
Ga’shel and Sorrows continued walking, Davrosh continued stomping. They returned to the gods-stream in Vesh to restock. The city was like Tam, though smaller. It sprawled within a forest of hardwoods and evergreens, walls woven from trees. Most goblin cities had the same feel, the same erratic flow, the same narrow paths winding between shops and homes, the same welcoming smiles and bright, black eyes. Sorrows thought of Fen and Mig, and wondered when he would see them again. Wondered if he would still have the bow. Wondered if Julia would be trapped within its maple limbs or at rest inside the Grimstone.
He’d visited Vesh enough to know its charms. A chill wind blew through the trees, ruffling his cloak. He took a deep breath, filled his nostrils with the scent of resin and rain. Davrosh was arguing the price of something with a seller. Ga’Shel was watching with arrogant disinterest. Sorrows left them to find a butcher he remembered. He returned with the bottom of his pack heavy with sticks of cured meat. Davrosh and Ga’Shel were gone. No matter. Sorrows found a tavern built into a copse of black walnut, ordered a tankard of something dark and foamy, and drank and waited. Davrosh found him halfway through his ale.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
Sorrows patted the bulge in the bottom of his rucksack. “A butcher.”
“You need to stay with us.”
“Why?”
“Because quite frankly, I don’t trust you,” Davrosh said.
She was staring hard at him, eyes burning like evergreen fire. Ga’Shel stood beside her, said nothing. Sorrows shrugged.
“That’s your fault, not mine,” he said. “You still think I killed those daughters.”
Davrosh shook her head. “I know you didn’t.”
“First impressions, Davrosh,” Sorrows said. “You might reason that I’m not the killer. But you formed an idea of who I was before you met me, and that idea shapes how you see me. Natural instinct. Say a year from now I meet a nice half-born woman. Dwarf-elf. Face like a smiling potato. If I’m not careful, I’ll just assume she’s secretly in love with me.”
“I’m not in love with you, orchole.”
The tavern hummed with low conversation. A goblin lutist sat in a corner, plucking a song Sorrows had heard before. Something soothing that dawdled in low, hushed tones before rushing into a flurried crescendo, only to fall back into quiet contemplation. He nodded at two chairs.
“Whatever you say. Sit. Have a pint or two.”
Davrosh shook her head. “We need to get back on the road.”
“Takes less than an hour to finish an ale,” Sorrows said. He jutted his chin toward Ga’Shel. “Sunshine has kept us thin. We’re making good time despite your stomping.”
“We can afford to rest a spell, Remma,” Ga’Shel said. He pulled out a chair and sat.
Davrosh glanced at him, brow furrowed, slight frown. Traitor, she was saying. But she conceded and sat down. And when a goblin server stopped at their table, she was quick to order an ale and a loaf of bread. Her eyes followed him as he wove his way past crowds and tables and disappeared into the kitchen. She sighed.
“They’re a beautiful species,” Sorrows said.
“They are,” Davrosh said.
“He’s what, thirty or forty years old? Just entering the prime of his life.”
Davrosh looked at Sorrows. “I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Goblins typically live a few decades past a century. A half-born might live a few decades past that, if one side is gods-born. You’ll probably see two centuries, if Ga’Shel doesn’t kill you first.”
Ga’Shel straightened, pursed his lips. Elf lack of humor. Davrosh rolled her eyes.
“So what? Why bring it up now?”
“Each species is different. Elves linger for millennia, well past their welcome. Dwarves return to their gods after about five hundred years.”
“Where are you going with this?” Davrosh asked.
“Why twenty-seven?”
The age bothered him. It was specific, consistent. All four daughters had died the night of their Maiden’s Dance. Not the day of. Not the day before. Not a fourteen-year-old, not a seventy-year-old.
The g
oblin server returned with two ales, a loaf of bread, and a wink for Davrosh. She blushed as he walked away, hid her face behind a tankard for a sip. Ga’Shel noticed, frowned.
“You fancy him?”
Davrosh shook her head. “No. Just reminds me of someone.”
Sorrows looked at Ga’Shel, raised an eyebrow. Ga’Shel shrugged. Davrosh frowned.
“Moving on,” she said.
“Right,” Ga’Shel said. “Twenty-seven. We think it has something to do with opportunity. A Maiden’s Dance draws dwarves from all over Hammerfell. Most are attended by dozens of family and friends.”
Sorrows shook his head. “Why kill the daughters? They’re the center of attention. If the crowd provides the opportunity, then why not choose a random guest?”
“The crowd provides the cover,” Davrosh said. “But he uses the room to perform the task. He needs privacy.”
“But they were still in their dresses, no signs of struggle.”
“Nothing happens before the kill,” Ga’Shel said. “He’s not forcing himself on the daughters.”
“Then why the bedroom?” Sorrows asked. “Dwarf houses are filled with rooms. And he knows the Mage Guard are watching the women now. Yet, he still chose Mishma. And he still chose the night of her birthday.”
“Because she was twenty-seven.”
“Not just twenty-seven, or else he’d have an entire year to work with,” Sorrows said. “I think it’s important that she had just turned twenty-seven. It’s specific. It has significance.”
Davrosh took a long pull from her ale, leaned back, studied the ceiling. She pressed her lips together, pushed them out, raised her eyebrows. She nodded.
“Yeah, I think so. I think you’re right.”
Chapter 13
THEY WERE CLOSE. The sun was at their backs, still low on the horizon, hidden behind a scattering of white clouds that formed pillars in the sky. The mountains would appear eventually. Until then, they would walk across flat, golden grassland that stretched endlessly before them and endlessly behind. No hills, no rivers, no obstructions. No distractions from the monotony of Davrosh’s stomping feet. Sorrows had taken her rucksack, though. Small victories.
“Tell me about Julia,” Davrosh said.
“No,” Sorrows said.
“The bow?”
“It’s elf-crafted. Havenwood maple. It’s a gift from an enemy of mine. Was stolen by the Mage Guard a few weeks ago. What else is there to know?”
Davrosh sighed. “You’ll get it back in Hammerfell.”
“I never should have lost it.”
“You said yourself it’s elf-crafted,” Ga’Shel said. “Perhaps it was never yours to lose.”
“That’s between the elves and Ashra. I do the job.”
“Except you haven’t done the job for the past year,” Davrosh said. “In which case, you have an elf bow that you use for what? Hunting deer? Elk?”
“I would put it to better use on the Edge,” Ga’Shel said. “Fighting the Cursed.”
Sorrows said nothing. Davrosh and Ga’Shel gave up asking any more questions. They walked until Davrosh tired, then made camp, ate supper, slept. They broke camp when the sun had climbed to a mid-morning height. Mountains loomed in the distance, dark shadows rising from the flat, brown horizon into a blue sky unburdened by the clouds that approached from the east. The road, which had narrowed to little more than a trail across the plains, grew wide again. Other trails emptied onto it. Fewer cities remained to scatter travelers across the land. A matter of time and distance. Easy to understand. It meant every step forward made Hammerfell the more likely destination. Soon it would be the only destination and the road would be paved in stone. Every step forward meant Sorrows was a pace closer to the bow and Julia, which meant a pace closer to being done with the Mage Guard. The thought put him in a better mood.
“Tell me about your sister,” Sorrows said.
“Why should I?” Davrosh asked. “You haven’t said two words since I asked about Julia.”
Sorrows shrugged. “Fine. Forget I asked.”
They walked. Clusters of pine and cedar speckled the grasslands, gathered in the hollows, sheltered from storms like the one building in the east. Sorrows knew the land well enough. Could imagine the wind blowing from the north. Could imagine it biting at his skin, sending cold fingers into the folds of his cloak and tunic.
“She’s the third-born daughter of House Davrosh,” Davrosh said.
Sorrows glanced at her. “Davrosh? You took on the house name?”
“Father insisted. Garia wouldn’t agree to it at first but gave in eventually. Didn’t win me any friends.”
Sorrows shook his head. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. You two get along?”
“Me and Garia? Some days are better than others.”
“What about you and Nisha?”
“She used to hate me. Always loved our father. We get along well enough now. Mostly because it makes life easier.”
“Easier for everyone or easier for you?”
“Easier for me. Her life is already easy. She’s a daughter. She has a pretty smile, sweet disposition, eyes like sapphires. The brothers dote on her. She’s smart, rides well, hunts. And she’s a Stoneshaper.”
Sorrows raised an eyebrow. “A Shaper?”
Davrosh nodded. “Father suspected it early on. She had always excelled at rock climbing, and one day when they were on the mountain together, he saw that her fingers sank into the stone when she climbed. She was seven.”
“Why didn’t you two get along?”
“You know why we didn’t,” Davrosh said. She sighed. “She’s her mother’s daughter. The irony is, Garia treated me better after Nisha was born. But when you’ve hated a person for so long, you do things without realizing you’re doing them.”
“What things?”
Davrosh shrugged. “Some little things, some big things. What difference does it make? I wonder sometimes whether if Nisha had been born before I showed up, Garia would have accepted me from the start.”
“Will you do her paint?”
Davrosh laughed. “Of course. I might be half-elf most of the time, but I’m half-dwarf whenever Garia needs something from me.”
“Is Nisha afraid?”
“Yes and no. You know how these things are.”
“How’s that?”
“Garia worries, and I’ve warned the family to watch for anyone or anything suspicious. But Nisha’s twenty-six, a daughter, and a Shaper. She thinks herself invincible. Or at least she did until Mishma.”
“Why Mishma?”
“The two were old classmates, friends. I had to leave shortly after Mishma was found, but before I left, Nisha seemed different.”
“Different? How so?”
“Worried. And she asked when I would be back, which is out of character.”
Sorrows nodded, glanced at Davrosh. She stared at the mountains, chewing the inside of her lip as she stomped along. They walked in silence for a spell. The road turned to paved stone. Pine, spruce, fir and cedar grew on either side, forming a corridor of granite and evergreen.
“Stone Mother’s road,” Ga’Shel announced. “We’re close. There’s an elf waypoint ahead. We’ll stop there to rest, and then on to Hammerfell.”
Davrosh grinned. “You getting tired, Ostev?”
Ga’Shel snorted, said nothing. Glanced at Davrosh with a look that said, I could make the trip back to Godscry.
Sorrows slowed a step. Stone Mother’s road. Stone Mother.
“Did you paint all four daughters?” he asked, turning to Davrosh.
“What?”
“The four victims. Did you paint their Stone Mother’s mask?”
Davrosh shook her head. “No. I did Mari and Mishma, but not the twins. My fee was too high for the Brightles. Did you think I was the thread?”
Another false trail. He shrugged. “Maybe a rival, jealous of your work. Or some zealot who didn’t think a half-born should paint the mask.”
“It was a guess.”
“It was a piss-poor guess,” Davrosh said. She gave a chin-stretching smirk. “Keep trying. orchole.”
✽✽✽
THE ELF WAYPOINT came and went. The Stone Mother’s road climbed from the grasslands to the foothills to the mountains. The storm that had been building in the east caught up with them, turning the day dark. The trees swayed slowly. Clouds of early snow drifted in the air. They stuck to the road when it veered north and skirted a lake, then followed its gradual ascent past crags and granite-strewn valleys toward Hammerfell. The storm subsided, and the day turned bright. Sorrows followed Davrosh and Ga’Shel to a clearing, four paces square. Two dwarves stood along one side, each with a spear, each with a scowl. The guard on the left had his mouth open, mid conversation. The guard on the right was nodding slowly.
“I tell him he’s got no chance at bedding a daughter, not with half a leg chewed off by the — gods shun it, Ostev.”
The guard on the left stumbled back, raised his spear. The guard on the right started but held his ground. He stared at Sorrows.
“That an orc?” he asked.
Sorrows said nothing. Davrosh shook her head. “This is—”
“Too ugly to be an orc,” the guard on the left said. He lowered his spear.
Sorrows said nothing.
Davrosh looked from guard to guard. “He’s not an orc, he’s—”
Ga’Shel put a hand on Davrosh’s shoulder. Gave a small shake of his head. The guards didn’t seem to notice. Their eyes were locked on Sorrows.
“She’s right. He’s no orc,” the right guard said, stroking his beard. He gave Sorrows an appraising look. “Looks like a half-born. One half orc—”
“And the other half the tail-end of a centaur,” Sorrows said. He grinned. “Your beard’s getting shorter, Pesh. Or your belly’s growing.”
“You know this guy?” the left guard asked.
“Wish I didn’t,” Pesh said. He directed his words with a series of gestures. “Jokkib, Sorrows. Sorrows, Jokkib.”