by Dan Fish
Brenn cleared his throat. “And more to the point, what brings you into our home?”
Sorrows sighed, leaned back, held his hands in front of him, palms facing each other, three hand spans apart.
“It’s about a box,” he said.
Chapter 43
THE ELF HAS already been to Nisha Davrosh’s house. You see the wire and the arrow beneath the bed. Walkers always assume that others can’t slip the gods-stream. As a result, they tend to be… obvious. The idiot. It is little wonder you’ve had to illuminate every small step, every last detail. It is not unlike raising a child, or so you think. And like a child, the elf is petulant, entitled, over-confident, foolish. Not at all trustworthy. You do your own assessment of the bedroom. It puts your mind at ease, somewhat. You are confident the kill will go well tonight, despite the human and the half-born. You will capture Nisha Davrosh’s soul as well as the elf’s.
But first, there is something you must see to. A small thing. An important thing. The wire.
Yes, dwarves are strong. And yes, the binding is necessary. But you only need a relatively short length in comparison. An arm’s length should suffice. Because an elf’s gods-bond is broken at the neck. Not a large circumference. And elves are not as strong as dwarves. Not even close. Binding is unnecessary. Besides, you like a little struggle. You enjoy the desperation, the fight, the panic. You enjoy the body falling slack within your grasp. And since the elf has caused you unnecessary headache as of late, you will enjoy the surprise, the confusion, the sudden realization it was you pulling the strings.
You take your length of wire. You hide it so no one can see it. You give the room one final glance before leaving. Hours remain now. Mere hours. But for someone with your impatience, they will linger, stretch. You will need something to do until then. You step outside into the cold and leave to find the hunter.
✽✽✽
THE BOOK WAS bound in brown leather, edges tipped in gold. It had no title, no author. A once black ribbon, now gray with age and use, rested within the valley of its margins, hung loose and frayed underneath. It was a large book. Large enough that the weight of its pages kept it open. It was lying on a low table. Sorrows, Davrosh, Brenn and Wilhelm leaned forward, each from the edge of a seat, each with elbows resting on knees. They studied a picture. Ink on parchment. Faded, but not as much as the ribbon. Black lines, some thin, some lending shadow and heft. A picture of a dagger, slender, pointed. Runes on the blade and handle. A box drawn beside it, long, ornate. More runes.
“You’re sure?” Wilhelm asked.
Sorrows shrugged. “As sure as I can be without the box in front of me. The runes look right. Elf, for certain. Too old for me to recognize. It all fits.”
Brenn nodded, traced inside the hem of his sleeve with a finger. “I know better than to doubt you, Gray Walker, but I wish to the gods you were wrong. I’d wager you recognize the blade as well.”
“I do.” Sorrows said.
“It’s the blade that killed the possessed, isn’t it?” Davrosh asked. “From the Quarry?”
Sorrows said nothing, but he glanced sideways at Davrosh. Gave her a look that said, Not here, not now.
Wilhelm noticed and laughed. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Sol. Those days are long past Brenn and me. And discretion keeps the sword in its sheath, does it not?”
Sorrows nodded, leaned back. “It does. Yet, rumors still spread in Hammerfell.”
“Well, you can’t deny dwarves their gossip,” Brenn said. He smiled. “The winter’s too gods-shunned cold for much else.”
“Except whiskey,” Wilhem said.
Brenn shook his head. “But that only furthers the gossip, Will.”
“Then there’s tangling, for certain. But then I suppose the whiskey only furthers that as well.”
“Aye, my lad. And the two only further the gossip again.”
Sorrows cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate two months’ silence, if you could. One month if you can’t.”
Brenn glanced at Wilhelm, winked. Wilhelm stroked his beard a moment, then nodded. “A month, not a day longer. We’ve a reputation to maintain.”
“Besides, when has it ever taken you more than a fortnight to find your prey, Gray Walker?” Brenn asked.
“Often enough,” Sorrows said.
“Nonsense,” Wilhelm said. “Brenn’s gran used to talk of seven souls in seven days.”
“Aye, but a dwarf wipes his split with the treetops in stories, does he not?” Brenn asked.
Willhelm nodded. “That they do, Brenny. That they do. Still, I’m thinking a month is far too long to hold our tongues.”
Sorrows stood, patted Brenn on the shoulder. “And I’m thinking with a bit of whiskey, you’ll find something else to hold. I’ll leave you to that.”
“Already?” Brenn asked. He frowned at Wilhelm. “You’ve been too bold, Will. You’ve gone and chased off our guests again.”
“Oh, come off it,” Wilhelm said, standing. “They were halfway out the door the moment they stepped inside. Always in a rush.”
He helped Davrosh from her chair, put a hand on her back, let it slide a bit low, until she glanced at him. He raised it a bit higher.
“You come back anytime, Master Davrosh,” he said. He offered a small smile. “No need to bring Sol.”
Brenn joined Wilhelm, draping an arm across the white-haired dwarf. “Best of luck, Gray Walker, Master Davrosh. Gods be with you.”
“And with you,” Davrosh said.
✽✽✽
SORROWS WALKED BACK to the sled, Davrosh followed. A group of half-born children mingled with the dogs, petting, playing. They scattered like leaves blown across snow when they caught sight of Sorrows. Their laughter lingered in the air. Davrosh looked back at the house and shook her head.
“What in all hells is going on?”
“I’m working on it.”
Davrosh snorted. “I’m beginning to think that’s simply your way of saying I don’t know.”
Sorrows shrugged, said nothing.
“I know about hollow weapons,” she said. “I’ve read books on the topic.”
“Books.” Sorrows said, stepping behind the sled. “And what did your books tell you?”
Davrosh climbed into the basket, pulled a wool blanket over her legs. “They spoke of ancient weapons crafted by the elves during the war with the Seph. But some were stolen by the Seph, imbued with human souls, and used against the elves.”
Sorrows started pushing. His voice was strained, half-grunt, half-growl. “More than some. Hundreds.”
“Right,” Davrosh said. “But I thought you’ve found most of those. Isn’t that the job you always allude to?”
“It is. And I have. It’s how I’ve seen that dagger before. Hells, I’ve used that dagger before. Tell me, Master Davrosh, did you read anything about the hollows holding dwarf souls?”
Sorrows shouted, then leaned as the dogs turned the sled onto the main road. The tower loomed ahead.
“No,” Davrosh said.
“And do you see how that might be a problem for your family? For other dwarf families?”
“You think the Seph are returning?”
“You don’t?”
“I might if you showed me this box I’ve heard nothing about.”
“I can’t show you the box.”
“Why not?”
“Because Jace took it.”
Davrosh turned in the basket, stared at Sorrows. “What?”
“It was in my room. Now it’s gone.”
“How do you know it was Jace?”
Sorrows said nothing, only gave Davrosh a look that said, Who else would it be? She looked away, then turned to face forward again.
“Right. What do we do next? Or are you still working on it?”
“Something like that.”
Davrosh barked a laugh, shook her head. “Gods, Jace is going to steal the clothes right off your back.”
“She caught me off guard last night.�
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“So you’ve said. Tell me again how strong and fast she is.”
“She is.”
“Right. It’s a wonder you broke free from that stranglehold she had on your tongue.”
Sorrows said nothing. Had nothing to say. No defense. He’d known what Jace was, what she’d done, what she was likely planning to do again. Had known he needed to stop her, to bring her to some semblance of justice, as though one life could ever recompense what had been taken. She’d killed daughters. She’d ended lineages that spanned millennia. And somehow, in doing so, she’d birthed a monster in the untethered soul of Zvilna Gorsham. And Jace had probably killed Mig as well.
He’d known all of that. Yet, when she appeared in the street after the Seph, he couldn’t resist her. Needed her. Could tell she needed him. Or so he thought. He thought he’d sensed her urgency, desire. Instead, she’d stolen his bow and the Grimstone. And in doing so, made a mistake. A big mistake.
He called out commands, and the dogs pulled the sled onto the main street. He called out commands twenty or thirty minutes later, and they stopped in front of Hammerfell Tower. He walked off the sled toward the twin oak doors. Davrosh stomped close behind. They passed through the doors, through the entrance hall, down the corridor. Sorrows opened the door to what he thought was his room and was greeted with smooth stone.
“Next one down,” Davrosh said. “Seriously. You’ve been here for months.”
“Feels like I’ve been here a century,” he said.
He walked to the next door, opened it, entered his room. He strode to the corner, picked up a wool blanket wrapped around something dog-sized and moving. Wasn’t a dog. He turned and left the room to join Davrosh in the corridor. She gagged.
“That smells like death,” she said.
“They all smell like death.”
“And this will work?”
“Hope so.”
They walked up the corridor, back to the entrance hall, back to the sled. Sorrows set the bundle in the basket and pried apart the folds of the blanket until he met two eyes.
Two eyes, one big and brown from a dog; one solid black from a goblin. They sat in a face pieced together from strips of green goblin skin and matted brown dog fur. The nose was dark and hollow. No lips, no ears, no hair upon the skull, just a patch of fur that ran from the dog’s eye on the left over the head to the back of the skull on the right. The creature had a dog’s neck and chest, deep and thin. But goblin arms attached at the shoulders, slender and agile. The creature had no legs; it just ended at the dog’s abdomen.
It smelled of rot. Black ooze seeped at the seams of goblin and dog, seeped beneath the eyes, trickled from the corners of the mouth. The dog’s chest swelled with breath and exhaled stench. It stared at Sorrows. He stared back.
“You know who I am?” he asked.
“Hollow Man,” the creature said, voice rasping, whining. High and thin; a quiet scream shaping words within a mouth that split into countless tentacles. Grasshopper mouth, flaring, flowing like grass in a stream.
“That’s right. You know what I do?”
The creature nodded slowly. “Kill, kill, kill.”
“You want to live?”
“Yes.”
“You feel the pull?”
“Yes.”
“Point to it.”
A finger appeared in the crook of the wool blanket, pointed south and west toward the Quarry.
“What’s it doing?” Davrosh asked.
“It feels the Grimstone,” Sorrows said.
“Gods, you’re serious?”
“Like a fish on the hook.”
Davrosh grinned. Chin stretched a little. “So, we’ve got her.”
Sorrows nodded. “We’ve got her.”
He left the basket, walked to the back of the sled. Davrosh looked up at him, shook her head.
“Oh, piss the hells off,” she said. She pointed at the basket. “No splitting way am I riding with that thing.”
“It’s a Seph, not a thing.”
“I’m not riding with it.”
“Neither am I.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He stepped behind her, reached over her, started pushing. Davrosh braced herself. The dogs started mushing. When he felt the sled slipping away, Sorrows jumped on, stood close behind Davrosh. Their bodies jostled and pressed against one another. Davrosh glanced over her shoulder.
“I don’t want to hear any jokes from you,” Davrosh said. “Got it?”
“What?” Sorrows asked. “You feel nice.”
“Not another word.”
She turned around, Sorrows grinned, the Seph pointed, she gave the commands. The crowds parted, and the sled moved quickly over packed snow. They traveled in the direction of the Quarry but turned into an alleyway before the stone turned to gravel. They stopped at the back of a shop. The Seph pointed to a cluster of spruce.
“Ready?” Davrosh asked.
“Ready.”
They stepped off the sled. Sorrows stepped quietly, moved around the trees, found a door hidden from the alley. Put his hand on the handle, turned to Davrosh, lifted his eyebrows in an unspoken question. She nodded an unspoken answer. He lifted an iron latch slowly, then pushed the door open fast, moving inside in a rush. A single room, dimly lit, square.
“Empty,” Davrosh said.
“Not empty,” Sorrows said.
He walked to a corner, picked a bundle of wool off the floor. Soft. Buttermilk. He lifted it to his face, inhaled. Orange blossom.
“What is it?” Davrosh asked.
Sorrows stared at it for a long moment, thought of a silver pin in raven hair; large black eyes; evergreen lips.
“Mig,” he said, and let the dress slip from his fingers.
“Gods,” Davrosh said. “She’s dead, then.”
Sorrows said nothing. Davrosh stared at him.
“I’m sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”
Sorrows said nothing, turned, and left the hidden room. Davrosh followed. They walked past the trees to the alley. He ran to the sled, to the bundle of wool, spun, looking. The Seph had vanished.
“Gods shun it,” he said. “We weren’t gone for more than a minute.”
Davrosh shook her head. “Walker. We should’ve brought Ostev.”
Sorrows sighed. “I thought she’d show herself if she saw me.”
“Then what?”
“I thought I could get her talking.”
“Then what? Did you think she’d just turn herself in for another kiss?”
He shook his head, said nothing for a breath, then struck the handrail with a fist. Davrosh poked at the basket, reached, held up her hand. Her face was pale. She looked at Sorrows. She held a single, black, goblin eye. When Sorrows spoke, his voice was low, tight. Full of threat.
“I’ll kill her,” he said. “I’ll tear her apart, piece by piece.”
Chapter 44
“THIS IS THE place,” Davrosh said. “Good ale. Better whiskey. Crowd can be a bit rough at times. More half-born than gods-born. I like it.”
Sorrows said nothing; he pushed the door and stepped into the tavern. A dwarf barkeep wiped at goblets and tankards. A handful of patrons sat at tables. Goblins, half-born. They glanced at the big human and the mage guard, then slid a bit lower in their seats. Sorrows walked to a table against the wall. Sat. Davrosh took a chair across from him, silent. She lifted her hand, held up two fingers, watched Sorrows.
A half-born serving girl appeared. Dwarf-goblin. Young, black-eyed, and raven-haired. Thick-limbed with pale green skin like spruce needles dusted with snow. She nodded at Davrosh, smiled at Sorrows, left two tankards, foam dripping down the sides. Davrosh took one, pushed the other in front of Sorrows.
“Drink,” she said.
“Not thirsty.”
“Not asking.”
Davrosh took a long pull, set her tankard down.
“How do you catch a Walker?” she asked.
“
With another Walker,” Sorrows said.
“Ostev should be with us tonight.”
“No, he shouldn’t. You only think Nisha will be the target because you’re close to her. Ga’Shel goes where he goes. Oray goes where he goes. We go where we go. None of it matters. Jace is too good.”
“We need to be better.”
“We’re not.”
“Gods, just drink, orchole. You need it. Think of it as a professional assessment and medical recommendation.”
“You’re not qualified for either.”
“Yeah, but you’re pissed enough for both. You’re wound tighter than a dwarf at a barber.”
“And you think drinking will help?”
“You got a better idea?”
“I do.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“No. But you look nice today. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Piss off,” Davrosh said. She took another drink. “I’ve told you you’re not my type.”
A half-born approached. Dwarf-goblin. Fair skin, no beard, raven hair. Goblin eyes and ears, dwarf chest and shoulders. Not big, not small. Sorrows studied, measured. Nearest table was two paces away. An easy target. Would send a quiet, crashing message. Enough to draw attention, but not so much as to intimidate. Would bring others out of their chairs. Would start a brawl. A pleasant skirmish between like-minded folk. The thought appealed to him. He wanted to hit something.
He was angry. He felt it like a rope tied around his arms, legs, chest. Felt it pull tight. Made it hard to breathe. Hard to think. All that anger pumped through his heart, coursed through his veins, flooded his muscles. Elf scholars would call it chemical. A physiological response to emotional trauma or threat. Sorrows viewed it as a variation on fight-or-flight reflex. He figured the silver pin Jace had given him was a small push on the shoulder, maybe a bit of swagger from a smug adversary. He’d run from it, ignored it. He pushed the thought of it to the back of his mind, let it fester. He figured the buttermilk dress in the hidden room had been a slap on the face, more swagger, a taunt. He hadn’t run but had no one to fight. And the dress caused those festering thoughts of the pin to resurface. Soured his mood. The eyeball was a gut punch. Hard, fast. He didn’t see it coming. It wasn’t Mig’s. Couldn’t be. But it sent a clear message.