by Dan Fish
The point struck behind her eyes. The goblin went slack, slipped from the guard’s blade, fell to the ground. She lay on her side, head turned by the arrow, black eyes staring blankly at Sorrows.
“Where were you?” she asked. Quiet, rasping.
“What’d she mean by that?” Pesh asked. “Friend of yours?”
Sorrows shook his head, said nothing. The bow was cold in his grasp, like ice beneath his fingers. Julia had never responded well to killing. He walked to the goblin, knelt.
“Careful, Gray Walker,” Bravigan said behind him.
Sorrows moved an arm, studied the gash left by the guard’s blade. Little flesh beneath her skin, ribs broken where the sword passed through, lung pierced. A killing blow dealt with dwarf strength. A blow that didn’t slow the goblin. He moved on to a smaller wound beneath her left collarbone. He pulled the wound apart with two fingers. Clean, deep.
“That’s from a dagger, or I’m an orc whore,” Bravigan said.
Sorrows nodded, rolled the goblin onto her stomach, matched the wound on her chest to a wound on her back. “Wide as my thumb at the base. Handspan in length. None of these are immediately fatal. Not like the sword to her side. Would’ve taken minutes for her to die.”
“Same wounds as the half-born,” Davrosh said.
Sorrows turned, gestured her closer with two fingers. “Right. Same weapon, I’d guess.”
“The half-born was dead for what, two days before he attacked Utuur and Brochand?” she asked.
“Possibly three,” Oray said, approaching behind her. “Depending on how soon the body was found. We had him for two days.”
“I thought the incision on his stomach woke the half-born in the tower,” Sorrows said. “Could be a simple matter of time.”
“That would put her death occurring the day after Zvilna Gorsham,” Davrosh said.
“A day after the half-born,” Oray said. “If he was found right away.”
Sorrows shook his head. “That puts the half-born’s death before Zvilna Gorsham's. But that’s wrong.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“Yeah. The corpses both said something to me. Where were you? I think Zvilna is possessing the bodies.”
Oray stared at Sorrows. “When were you planning on sharing that?”
Sorrows shrugged. “Hard to get a word in edge-wise with you screaming about everything. You know about it now.”
Bravigan had watched the conversation in silence, his eyes tracking from Sorrows to Oray to Davrosh and back to Sorrows. He cleared his throat, caught Oray’s eye, leaned forward, spoke softly.
“If you’re talking about Captain Gorsham’s Zvilna, you might wait until you are back at the tower.”
Sorrows shook his head. “No time. Send your men out, door to door. You reported twenty more bodies today. If we assume two days from death until awakening, then she’s been at this for three days. Might be you’ve found everyone. Might be there are others still to find. Mark the homes, and we’ll get an idea of where she started.”
Bravigan stared at Sorrows for a moment, then looked to Oray, eyebrows raised. Is he serious? Oray nodded.
“He’s right. We need to figure out where the killer is, and this could help.”
Bravigan nodded, sent the injured dwarf to see a healer, sent the others back to the streets to pound paint and find bodies, possibly answers. When he stepped out of the room, Oray turned to Sorrows.
“I’m the Overseer here, Sorrows. I give the orders. And I don’t remember telling you to tag along.”
Sorrows stood, grabbed a wool blanket from a shelf, spread it over the goblin, and turned to face Oray.
“You’re the Overseer. Start acting like it. Time’s working against you. You didn’t order me here, and that was a mistake. Looks like I’m the only one who can stop these dead who aren’t dead. You let Ga’Shel slip you, which meant you missed the first ten minutes of whatever was happening, and that was a mistake, as well. If sunshine can’t stomach it, keep him back at the tower. This is war, and you’re fighting on two fronts now. I’ll stop giving orders when you start giving the right ones.”
Oray’s face was crimson, his eyes white, his lips a thin line. He said nothing, turned and left. Davrosh looked at Sorrows, shook her head.
“I know,” he said. “I’m an orchole.”
She nodded, put a hand on his back and pushed him toward the door. Sighed.
“Yes. But you’re our orchole. Let’s grab breakfast. We’ve got the La’Gren dance tonight.”
Sorrows sighed. “La’Gren. Perfect.”
✽✽✽
THE DAGGER IS stubborn. How could it be anything but? The soul within was not prepared to return to its gods. It did not desire to abandon this plane for the next. It was a happy accident to choose the night of the Maiden’s Dance, when the dwarves are clinging to life and the comforts of flesh. The soul harvested is desperate to remain. Desperate to feel the wind blowing through hair, to taste wine upon the tongue, to feel the blush of lust spread through lips and limbs. Desperation becomes appetite becomes insatiable hunger.
But a problem has arisen. Two problems. Three. Four. They multiply like rats in refuse. The first is a small thing. Trivial. It may not be a problem at all. The box is missing. The box that held the dagger. The box with its runes and ancient magic. It serves no purpose other than the obvious, but it was lovely to behold. You miss the feel of it beneath your fingers.
The second problem is the first real problem. The dagger, though magnificent in its power, has a limitation. The soul leaves the weapon, possesses the body of the slain, becomes a monster. Not such a big problem in a half-born or goblin, but when fighting the Seph, well. Perhaps it would be nothing, or perhaps it would be something to fear. In any event, it would render the dagger powerless for some time. Nothing more than a simple piece of steel, beautiful in design and purpose, but somewhat lacking in ability. More weapons will be needed.
Which reveals the third problem. A bigger problem. Sizable. One that cannot be ignored. The elf has become, at the very least, a nuisance. At the very most, a risk. An elf who would become a god. As if it were that easy. As if god were a profession. A simple matter of mastery, and the path to godhood an apprenticeship of sorts. Foolishness. It would be easier for the elf to forsake all gods-bonds and become a goblin.
But the biggest problem is the hunter. One who carries the wisdom of ages. One who understands the matters of spirit. The hunter moves with instinct, faster than thought, primal. The hunter’s will is death. And the elf doesn’t see it. Doesn’t sense the approaching danger. The elf is distracted by thoughts of ambition and lust. Yes, the hunter is the biggest problem. One that must be dealt with quickly.
Four problems. Four matters demanding immediate attention. Yet, you are not worried. It is in times like these when your impatience becomes strength. It urges you into action. It moves you forward. Nisha Davrosh is still two days away. Plenty of time. An eternity. More than enough time to deal with four problems.
The hunter will be first. Then the elf. Then the rest will easily follow.
Chapter 38
GRESH LA’GREN WAS blond and tall with amber eyes like glowing coals. He was a century old, at most—young for a dwarf. His skin was sun-kissed, bronze, smooth. His chest was thick, his shoulders broad. He had an easy smile, a beard like a lion’s mane, and a deep chuckle that filled La’Gren Manor with low, rumbling humor. He was a Stoneshaper from a lesser known family who’d caught Sofya La’Gren’s eye, warmed her bed for a spell, then captured her heart and warmed her bed ever since. He’d explained this to Sorrows once at the start of the evening, shortly after they’d first been introduced. He told Sorrows again a few hours and several whiskeys later. He stumbled into Sorrows after the musicians had left and shared the story a third time. The details of his courtship grew more extravagant with each retelling. Rivals emerged, each vying for Sofya’s affections, some from very prominent families. In the end, it was Gresh’s prow
ess in the bedroom that won the day.
He was a good dwarf. Charismatic. Quick to laugh. For all his boastful swagger, he doted on Sofya. He kept her flagon filled; he joined her in dance throughout the evening; he tugged on her braids and kissed her deeply on more than one occasion. He sang, he toasted, he plucked on a lute at one point, to the delight of gathered family and friends. A good dwarf. Sorrows liked him. Which complicated things.
“Don’t take it personally,” Davrosh said, grinning. Her chin took up half her face. She elbowed Sorrows. “Guess you’re not Freni’s type.”
He shrugged. “Guess not.”
A lie. Somewhat. Freni La’Gren was as uninterested in a human male as any dwarf daughter might be. But Sorrows was a curiosity. Unique. The last of his kind. The Gray Walker. She’d watched him throughout the evening and into the night, stealing sidelong glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t the sort of thing Davrosh seemed to notice. But Sofya La’Gren did. She had pulled Freni aside. They’d traded words. Body language told enough of a story for Sorrows to guess what was said. He was a human; she was a daughter. She would carry on the family name. She should think of her suitors, her future. Freni should trust her mother. It was for the best. But it was a lie. Or, at the very least, a deception.
Sorrows and Davrosh walked the stairs, a landing, then more stairs up to Freni’s bedroom. Freni eyed Sorrows, lower lip protruding in a pout, small and sad. Davrosh still didn’t notice. She carried a chair past Sorrows into Freni’s room and turned.
“See you in the morning, orchole.”
“I’m right here if you notice anything.”
“Sure. We’ll be fine. Enjoy the shadows.”
Sorrows looked past Davrosh and tipped his head. “Goodnight, Freni.”
Freni’s eyebrows lifted, her eyes widened. “Good night, Solo—”
Davrosh shut the door. Her chair scraped, bumped. Sorrows sat, laid his bow across his lap, stretched his legs and listened. The manor was quiet, dark. The Mage Guard sentries scuffed lightly below, from stone to rug to stone. Davrosh talked to Freni for a spell. Two low voices that slipped wordlessly beneath the door. An hour passed. Snoring drifted up the stairs from somewhere below, and with it footsteps.
Slow, patient, practiced. Feet that knew each stone, each step, each tasseled rug. A head appeared in the darkness. One Sorrows expected. One which complicated things.
“I heard you were in Hammerfell,” Sofya La’Gren said. “I thought you might stop by. But then weeks passed, and I never saw you.”
Sorrows said nothing. Sofya stepped into a wash of pale light cast from a glowstone lamp sheathed in silk. She was much as he remembered her. Gleaming raven hair, snow-kissed skin, rose-petal lips. She stared at him with eyes like pools of quicksilver, ghost-like in the dimly lit hallway. She wore a nightgown; black, thin, sleeveless, plunging. It hugged her breasts and fell with tight, twisting lines to just below her hips.
“You say something?” Davrosh asked through the door.
Sofya stared at him, lifted an eyebrow. He shrugged, turned away from her and spoke to the gap between oak and frame.
“Nothing,” he said. “How’s your side?”
“Freni’s asleep already. Sweet thing. She’s exhausted.”
Sorrows turned back around. Sofya stepped forward, threading his leg between hers. Standing, she was a head taller than he was when sitting. The hollow of her neck was close, familiar, tempting. She rested her hands on his chest, pressed against him, moved her lips to his ear.
“I can be sweet, too,” she said, low, urgent. “If you remember.”
“I remember,” he said.
Sofya leaned back, studied him. Her face was a hand’s width away, her brow knit. Her eyes searched his.
“Was it because I’m a dwarf?” she asked.
“Was what?”
She frowned, almost pouted. Dragged her fingers across his jerkin, sighed.
“When you left without saying anything, I thought… others have such different tastes than ours.”
Others. Not dwarves, Sorrows thought. He shook his head.
“Gods, no. You’re incredible, you know that.”
“Then why?”
“I was injured.”
“I could have taken care of you.”
“I was badly injured,” he said. He placed his hands on her arms. “I was asleep for a few years; in bed for a few more; spent a couple learning how to walk again. When I came back to Hammerfell, you’d married.”
“You could have visited.”
“I thought it would be awkward.”
She leaned forward, brushed her lips against his. “Is this awkward?”
Her breath was warm, her body close, her nightgown thin as parchment. He didn’t turn away, couldn’t move back any further.
“Your husband’s downstairs,” he said. “This is a little awkward, yes.”
She hesitated. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. Davrosh bumped her chair into the door. Sorrows tensed, shifting forward a little. Only a little. But it was enough to press his lips against Sofya’s. She reacted, fell onto him like snow slipping from a tree. Rigid and still one moment, then all gravity and movement the next. She kissed him hard, slid her hands from his chest around his back, pulled herself tightly against him. Her thighs squeezed his leg, pushed against the bow. Her chest pressed against his, silk on leather. She moaned, soft.
“Gods, you’re married,” Davrosh said, muffled behind the door.
Sofya broke away, pressed her lips together, bit back a smile. She took a deep breath through her nose, gave Sorrows a quick kiss on the cheek, backed away. She offered a smile, beautiful in the half-glow of the hallway.
“I am married,” she said, too soft to pass through the door. “To a wonderful dwarf. But I remember you, Solomon Sorrows. And I missed you.”
He slid his hands from her arms to her wrists to the tips of her fingers.
“I remember you, Sofya,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
Footsteps below, rushing to the stairs. Low voices coming closer. Sofya stepped away quickly, smoothed her dress, lifted her chin, swallowed. Strong, defiant. A daughter. The head of the family. Unashamed, unafraid. She turned to the stairs.
But it was the Mage Guard. Sorrows didn’t know their names, hadn’t bothered to ask. Didn’t particularly care. One was tall with red hair, the other short with black hair. Red hair looked at him, glanced at the door. Sorrows shook his head.
“Door stays closed,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Sir, it’s—”
Ga’Shel appeared beside Sorrows, grabbed his arm, pulled. “You need to come with me. They’ll watch the door. Bring the bow.”
Sorrows jerked away and stood. “Easy, sunshine. Is it Jace?”
“What’s going on out there?” Davrosh asked.
Ga’Shel nodded, grinning. Not smug. Nervous, anxious. “She made her first mistake. We need to go. Now.”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying,” Davrosh said. “I heard voices. Are you talking to someone? Who is it?”
Sorrows glanced at Sofya. She stared back at him.
“She’ll be fine,” she said. “Freni will be safe. Go.”
She was pale and beautiful, broad and muscled and curved. Black hair, black dress. Shadow on snow. She smiled at him. Then she was gone.
And the warmth of La’Gren Manor went with her. Snow floated in the air. The night was dark but not black. The moon shone bright and full behind the clouds. Sorrows put one foot in front of another. Left, right, left again. He shook his head, blinked his eyes into focus. Ga’Shel glanced at him.
“We’re almost there,” he said.
“Your place or Oray’s?”
Ga’Shel looked away. “Mine.”
His voice was strained, and Sorrows turned to him. Blood stained the back of his head, dull, dirty crimson against his golden hair.
“You injured?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Doesn’t matter. Jace is gone. And I’m faster than a sled.”
“Were you in the room?”
“Yes.”
“How’d she get in?”
“Hirsch opened the door.”
“Hirsch? The dwarves?”
Ga’Shel nodded. “They were afraid. They thought enough time had passed.”
“They could’ve just asked you.”
“I was slipped. I always stay slipped at these dances. I don’t want to get caught off guard.”
“How did you get hit?”
Ga’Shel sighed. “I got caught off guard.”
Sorrows said nothing for a moment, studied Ga’Shel. “Gods, it would be like standing watch for days.”
Ga’Shel shrugged, said nothing.
They left the street, passed between pillars of stacked stone and black iron. Maybe Sorrows didn’t understand dwarf artistry, or maybe he didn’t stay in one place long enough to notice. Maybe he was too old and had seen too many buildings, walls, rooftops. Whatever the reason, Hirsch Manor was more of the same. But the trees were different; tall in the darkness, soft silhouettes against the blush of moonlight playing in the night sky. They stood like sentinels at the corners of the manor, two on the left, three on the right. They framed the windows, the columns, the front door.
They framed three dwarves standing in a rectangle of light. One had lines on her face, the shadow of gray hair on her chin. One had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a silver-streaked beard that hung to his stomach. One had gleaming black hair woven in thin, loose braids. Reshel Hirsch, a dwarf daughter, the maiden of the Maiden’s Dance. The first to survive Jace’s attack. Her face was dark beneath a Stone Mother’s Mask. She wore a blue-green dress the color of spruce needles. She stared down the path, watching, waiting. But Sorrows and Ga’Shel were slipped and remained unseen. A precaution. Ga’Shel needed Sorrows alert, ready to act quickly if Jace were to show. Sorrows needed to avoid the disorientation of a slip. They approached hidden, steady, cautious.
They drew closer to the front door, to Reshel Hirsch. Her mask showed a pattern of ivy and white flowers. Her dress was torn. Her eyes were amethyst fire. One hand was clenched at her side, angry and determined. But the other hung limp, fingers slack, trembling. Weak. None of the daughters used restoration magic now. Better to suffer smudges than to present an easy target. Perspectives change. Sometimes overnight. Without the magic, the paint didn’t hide the deep wound circling the dwarf’s wrist. Without the magic, blood trickled onto her hand and gathered in drops at the end of her fingers. Without the magic, tears slipped from her cheeks, fell slowly to the ground, mingled with the crimson puddle spreading on the white marble floor.