Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  He drove the point of his spear into the ground and extended a hand to Sorrows. Sorrows offered his own, and they shook. A dwarf handshake. Firm, brief. Good to see you, it said. No sense dragging this out. Davrosh shifted on her feet, anxious.

  “We’re on our way to the tower,” she said. “If you could clear us.”

  Pesh offered a gracious frown, held out his hand, palm down. I’ve got this.

  “Since when are you on Walker watch?” Sorrows asked.

  Pesh nodded at Ga’Shel and Davrosh. “Since someone’s killing daughters. If you’re here to see Snow, she should be back soon. Passed through about an hour ago on her way out to the forest.”

  Sorrows shook his head. “No slipping for me. Just finished five days thin. I need to rest.”

  “Five days,” Pesh said, scratching his jaw. “Vesh?”

  “Grayshore.”

  Pesh glanced at Ga’Shel, gave a low whistle. “Good gods. Grayshore in five while carrying two? Impressive, Ostev.”

  “Thanks, Pesh.”

  Pesh turned back to Sorrows. “Why’d they bring you?”

  “The tower thought I might be the killer,” Sorrows said.

  Pesh laughed, hard and short. “You? I’d guess another dwarf before I guessed the Gray Walker.”

  Davrosh stiffened. “We need to get to the tower, if you—”

  “You catch anyone trying to slip the gate?” Sorrows asked. Davrosh turned on him, red-faced.

  “Quit interrupting me, orchole,” she said.

  “Learned his middle name, did you?” Pesh asked.

  “Right after we met,” Davrosh said.

  Pesh grinned, eyed Davrosh up and down, measuring.

  “He’s an agreeable sort,” he said. “As long as you’re the one agreeing with what he’s saying.”

  Davrosh nodded. “Exactly.”

  Pesh leaned on his spear, in no rush to take his eyes off Davrosh. “He’s as much an orc split as any elf I’ve met—no offense, Ostev—”

  “None taken,” Ga’Shel said.

  “—but if you’re in a tight spot, there’s no better sword or arrow to have at your back. And that’s the gods’ honest truth.”

  “Though it takes some time getting used to his smell,” a voice said. Feminine, low, husky.

  Sorrows turned, nodded at a hooded figure in a brown cloak. She hadn’t been there a moment before. Stood there now with a pair of rabbits slung over her shoulder. One hanging down the front, one in back. Gutted, tied together with twine.

  “Bex,” he said.

  “Sorrows,” Bex said. “Did you bring Mig?”

  She kept her face hidden in the shadows of her hood. Kept her hands hidden in her sleeves. Sorrows shook his head.

  “She stayed back in Tam.”

  “Pity,” Bex said. “Always a pleasure to have her around.”

  “Careful, Snow,” Pesh said.

  Davrosh cleared her throat. Bex turned, kept her hood tipped low.

  “I know who you are, Master Remma Davrosh. Rest assured, I’ve got no desire to see the Mage Guard knocking on my door. I keep to my own. Don’t bother no one anymore.”

  Davrosh said nothing, kept staring.

  Pesh turned to Sorrows.

  “Haven’t had anyone slip the gate.”

  “Not that you know of,” Bex said.

  Pesh frowned. “No one passes unless we want them to. Not even old Ostev here. Last I checked, Jokkib didn’t let anyone through. Did you, Jokkib?”

  “No sir,” Jokkib said. “Haven’t seen any slipped, save a handful of goblin smugglers a few days back. Sent them away a couple barrels lighter. If you catch my meaning.”

  “There you have it,” Pesh said. “Nothing’s got past Jokkib. Which just leaves me.”

  He shrugged. Nothing left to say, he was saying. Davrosh cleared her throat. He glanced at her, then waved a hand.

  “Head on in, Bex. I’ll be by in an hour for supper.”

  Bex snorted, then vanished. Davrosh folded her arms.

  “How long are you going to keep us here? It’s cold as all hells and we’ll need to get this orchole to his room before we meet with Overseer Oray.”

  “Just doing my job, Master Davrosh,” Pesh said. He glanced at Sorrows. “We take our time when orcs come to the city.”

  Sorrows grinned. “Always a pleasure, Pesh.”

  Pesh winked, straightened. Turned toward a guard tower beside the east gate, waved. He pulled his spear free in a spray of rock, gestured Sorrows, Davrosh, and Ga’Shel forward.

  “Good to see you, Sorrows,” he said. He glanced at Ga’Shel. “Ostev.”

  “Pesh,” Ga’Shel said.

  Pesh turned to Davrosh, inclined his head. “Hope to see you again sometime, Master Davrosh.”

  Davrosh said nothing, offered a small smile, and led Sorrows and Ga’Shel from the clearing.

  ✽✽✽

  DAVROSH STOMPED ALONG stone-paved streets, fifteen paces across, meticulously straight. If you were tall enough, you could see from the east gate all the way through to the heart of the city. Sorrows was tall enough. He studied the city as they walked. Knew their destination lay to the right, to the south of their path. Past stone and more stone. Roads intersected, square, precise. Clean lines. Dwarf magic. If an arrow flew as true, Sorrows might never miss. They passed a tavern. The bellowing of dwarf revelry seeped through the windows and door. The sweet, warm smell of brown ale and black bread wafted in the air.

  They turned a corner and the tower, which had loomed overhead, appeared in front of them, separated from the street by a moat of grass and sculpted shrubbery. Dense evergreen bushes had been pruned into bears and elk; wolves giving chase to stags; dwarves riding to battle on boars. Hammerfell Tower stood tall amidst the decor, solid at its foundation with great, uncut boulders. The rough surface of the raw stone gradually gained order. Lines appeared, faint at first, but growing in prominence as the tower rose above the city. A mountain in the mist, a gift to the elves for the Mage Guard who resided within its walls. But shaped by dwarf hands to suit dwarf sensibilities.

  Davrosh and Ga’Shel strode through the gardens, exchanging brief greetings with elves wearing black and gray. Sorrows followed, watching, listening. No hidden dismay for Davrosh, no delayed deference. The two Masters exuded confidence as they approached the oak doors, spoke to the guards, waved Sorrows inside.

  “The Overseer will be down shortly,” an elf said as they stepped inside.

  She was short for an elf, dark-haired, pale-skinned, violet-eyed. Easy to understand why she was in Hammerfell. Another elf waited beside a door in the back, presumably to escort Oray when he arrived. Tall, but awkward with his height. Gangly. Red-haired. Another obvious choice for Hammerfell. Godscry Tower had been filled with golden hair and gray eyes. The elf standard. Anomalies were sent elsewhere. Talented enough to join the Mage Guard, but not Godscry material. Other elf towers might have one or two anomalies. But for the dwarves? No need to waste good elves on dwarves. Davrosh fits right in, Sorrows thought. He also wondered why Ga’Shel had been assigned to Hammerfell.

  The faint ringing of steel on steel caught his attention, echoing from somewhere in the tower. He tipped his head, listened. Davrosh noticed.

  “Weapons practice,” she said. “We have training rooms in the lower levels of the tower. An archery range as well.”

  The door opened, swinging silently on oiled iron. The stairwell or corridor or room behind was dimly lit. Not the bright lamplight of Godscry. The dwarves were as comfortable underground as above. Light was an extravagance. Luxury. Unnecessary. The elves had probably disagreed. A compromise had been reached.

  Oray emerged, brown hair, gray eyes. Another anomaly. He walked briskly, gray cloak unbuttoned, flowing behind him. Black jerkin crisp, skirt straight and brushing against the stone floor, boots flashing beneath. He was rejuvenated, imposing. As though he drew his strength from Hammerfell Tower and had been revived upon returning. Most likely he did. Blessing of hom
e and hearth, Sorrows thought. Dwarf magic. Worked into the stone when the tower was built. Davrosh had found a second wind, as well. Her eyes were bright, her uniform was crisp, and despite the days of travel, she had tamed her hair enough to look somewhat put together.

  Davrosh and Ga’Shel walked forward to meet Oray. Sorrows lingered behind, following slowly. Oray said something to Davrosh. She turned, glanced at Sorrows, then she and Ga’Shel left through the same door Oray had come out of. Oray strode forward.

  “Welcome to Hammerfell Tower,” he said, glancing from side to side. My tower, his eyes were saying. Wolf eyes. “I can arrange for someone to show you around, if you’d like.”

  “I’ve been here before,” Sorrows said.

  Oray raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I think I’d remember that.”

  “Before your time.”

  “I’ve been stationed here for—”

  “Before your time,” Sorrows said.

  Oray nodded. “I see. Well, come with me. I’ll show you to your room.”

  He didn’t wait for Sorrows to respond. He turned, gestured to the door, and fell in step beside Sorrows. They passed through the door into a dimly lit corridor. The floor spiraled downward in a gradual, wide arc that left forty paces of stone walls and floor visible. It gave the impression that someone might be lurking ahead in ambush. Sorrows didn’t like it. Knew it was intentional by the dwarves. Strategic. Doors appeared randomly, some on the right, leading to the interior of the tower. Others on the left, leading outward, beneath the tower grounds. No sconces, no lamps hanging from iron pegs. Glowstone had been worked into the ceiling, casting pale light. Dwarf magic. No tapestries, no decoration. Forty paces of nondescript walls and the occasional door. Disorienting. Strategic.

  “I don’t get a room in the tower?” Sorrows asked.

  “The lower rooms are well-furnished,” Oray said.

  And more difficult to escape, Sorrows thought.

  “Do you have my bow?” he asked.

  Oray stared at him for a moment, nodded. “It’s in your room.”

  Sorrows felt something akin to relief. “Good.”

  “Did you discuss the killings with Davrosh?”

  “We didn’t just talk about the weather for four weeks.”

  “Any ideas?” Oray asked.

  He studied Sorrows, suddenly intense.

  Sorrows shook his head. “You’re missing something. I don’t know what, but I know you won’t find this guy until you find it. Which means you have three weeks before you’ll need to figure out a way to protect eighty-three girls over the coming month.”

  Oray stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. They walked a bit further before Oray stopped beside a door, pulled it open.

  “Your room,” he said. “Get familiar, get comfortable. Get ready to work. We’ve got three weeks.”

  Sorrows stepped inside, glanced from one side to another. The bow was on a bed in the corner. The room was fifteen paces by ten and another five high. A tapestry on the far wall showed an elf scholar standing beneath a starry sky. It was accommodating enough. He turned to Oray, nodded his approval. Not that it matters, he thought.

  “We’ll get together shortly to talk through a few details,” Oray said. He glanced at the bow. “Not enough time for any... meetings.” No time for Julia, he was saying.

  “Sure,” Sorrows said. Piss off, he thought.

  Chapter 14

  ORAY LEFT. SORROWS walked to the tapestry, pulled it from the wall, tossed it on the floor. Disrobed, threw his cloak and clothes onto the image of the scholar. The scent of mint and rosemary filled the room. Pungent. Strong. Elf magic. It had been a long journey. He sat down, grabbed a corner. Something dark with stars. The magic coursed over his body, cold, tingling. It turned the skin on his arms to gooseflesh. Hands slipped over his shoulders, sudden, unexpected. Fingers slid onto his chest. A body pressed against his back, soft, warm. He tensed.

  “You got past Pesh?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mig said.

  “Fen?”

  “A diversion. Was Bex that got me in when the guards turned their backs. And she helped sneak me into the tower.”

  “Makes sense. Saw her at the gate. When she mentioned you by name, I figured you two had worked together. She give you any trouble?”

  Mig laughed, small. Shook her head. “No. She’s changed. Doesn’t cause trouble anymore.”

  Sorrows nodded. “Anyone see you?”

  A laugh. “What do you think?”

  “I think Pesh might have.”

  “Pesh likes me.”

  He placed a hand over hers. “Everyone likes you. How long have you been here?”

  “Five days.”

  “Gods, you must be starving.”

  Another laugh. She moved her hands under his arms, across his chest, breathed in his ear. “I slipped, went thick. It’s only felt like a few hours.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Easy as going thin.”

  “No one’s mentioned it before.”

  “No one?”

  “Not in a thousand years.”

  She scoffed, shrugged. Her chest rubbed against his back. “You probably weren’t listening or weren’t interested. Everyone wants to slip to save time.” She bit his ear, light, inviting. Her voice fell to a whisper. “But it can be nice to waste time instead.”

  Sorrows pulled gently on her hand, but she unwrapped her arms, pushed away. He turned to face her, confused by her presence, affection, then sudden distance. She wore a gray cloak, not the dull silver of the Mage Guard, but something stone-like, mottled, textured. Her hood was back, her hair in a tight braid, the points of her ears lying against her head. She walked toward the bed and trailed her fingers along the length of the bow.

  No loose ends.

  “This is the bow,” she said. A statement. Simple. But an implied question. Not as simple. This is Julia? This is why I haven’t seen you in a year?

  “Yes.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Was she beautiful?

  “Very.”

  Her fingers stopped on a swirl in the woodgrain. “What will you do?” Will you choose her over me?

  “I need to find a Seph,” he said, looking past Mig to the bow. “She deserves to be at rest. It’s time.”

  Her fingers resumed their slow, soft, sliding. She smiled. He offered a small grin in return. She looked at him, raised an eyebrow. Took a step closer. Another.

  “You’re really ready to finish the job?”

  Another step.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we were together for a while before the bow came along.” Another step.

  “Yes.”

  She undid a clasp on her cloak, dropped her hand to the next.

  “Have you ever tangled outside the gods-stream?” she asked.

  He had, long ago, but he liked where this was going. “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Maybe.”

  There were no footsteps in the hall, no knocking. Just the faint rasping of oiled iron as the door opened. Apparently his limited privileges did not include privacy. Mig slipped the gods-stream and vanished. Sorrows turned. Expected another guard with some minor physical abnormality. Expected someone not quite Godscry material. Expected an anomaly. Instead was greeted by the unexpected.

  She had hair like summer sun, tied loose behind her head with black elf cords. Her eyes were like deep water. Her skin like pale sand. Her lips were like a rose-blushed sunset, and parted slightly. She wasn’t wearing a cloak and her jerkin was half-unbuttoned, showing a loose, white tunic beneath. She was at most a handspan shorter than Sorrows, tall for an elf. Long-legged, thin. Gorgeous. She was staring at him, head tipped to one side, smiling. And he was sitting on the floor, clutching a corner of tapestry, clothes in a pile an arm’s length away.

  “Hello, Solomon,” she said.

  Sorrows said nothing, watched her. Wondered what Mig was seeing.

  The elf stepped closer; Sorrows h
eld up a hand.

  “I’m not dressed,” he said. An obvious statement.

  Her smile grew. “What were you doing?”

  “Hygiene.”

  She nodded as though the explanation was entirely acceptable. “Continue.”

  She didn’t move. Elves.

  “Could I have some privacy?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  She walked to the door, closed it without leaving the room. Turned to face Sorrows. Indicated with a nod of her head that he should proceed. He stared at her. She smiled at him. Impasse. Blades crossed. A battle of wills. He grabbed the tapestry, thought of modesty, then shrugged, stood, and finished cleaning the weeks of travel from his body. The cold of the restoration magic helped calm any lingering thoughts of Mig, any newly formed thoughts of the elf visitor. She watched with casual interest for a moment before her eyes drifted to the bed, the bow.

  “You have a name?” he asked. “You know mine already.”

  “Ivra Jace,” she said.

  “You a Master?”

  He tossed the tapestry aside, picked up his clothes, dropped what he didn’t need or wasn’t ready for. Jace gave a soft laugh.

  “Master? No.”

  “Overseer?”

  She smiled. “You flatter me.”

  “You keep smiling, I’ll keep flattering.”

  Flirting. Instinct. Stupid. He thought of Mig, knew she couldn’t hear him outside the gods-stream, still regretted the words. Thought of Julia, her soul locked in the bow. Regretted the words. He stepped into a boot, grabbed the other.

  “Solomon Sorrows flirting?” Jace asked. “Predictable. I thought you might like me better.”

  “Better than what? Davrosh or Oray? Not difficult.”

  “If you say so.”

  Sorrows finished tying his boots, slipped into his tunic. “I do say so. I’m surprised Oray didn’t bring you to Godscry. Seems a better approach than to stick me with Davrosh for nearly a month.”

  “Godscry with Solomon Sorrows? Tempting. Very tempting. But I prefer to limit my time with killers.”

  “I didn’t kill those daughters.”

  She looked at him, said nothing for a breath. “I’ve heard the others discuss the murders, of course. I suppose a guy like you wouldn’t use a bow in close quarters. Too many things could go wrong. You’d use a knife or a dagger.”