Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  Expected. She had been too accommodating at the start. Not at all elf-like. She had an edge to her. An expectation that she was the one drawing the string. Arrows don’t argue. Sorrows didn’t argue. He made his way to the chair and sat down. Restless. Wondering if he would be her arrow or her target. He shifted. The chairs weren’t as comfortable as they appeared.

  The room bothered him as well. Sconces, but no tapestries. It made the walls seem endless. Stacks of pale stone with the same lines and corners of the other room, but on a grander scale. Which somehow made it worse. The table’s polished surface reflected a ghostly echo of the lights, the walls, Sorrows. The white-haired elf, brown-haired elf, the Weaver, the half-born, and her companion took seats across from him. As adversarial as possible. Elf-like. The two elves from the stairs closed the door, stayed outside. It sent a message. We’re not needed. The ones in this room can handle you. Sorrows slumped in his chair, clasped his hands, and set them on the table. He stared at the white-haired elf. She would be the one to start the dialog. The others didn’t matter. Not yet.

  She sat in the chair directly across from Sorrows. The Weaver to her left, the others to her right. Divided. Her hands were folded and resting in her lap. Sorrows couldn’t see them through the table. Couldn’t see if she was wringing her hands. Nervous. But her shoulders were still, her face relaxed. She leaned forward, conspiratorial. She glanced left, then right, tipped her chin at Sorrows. Come close, I have a secret for you, she was saying. He stayed put, stared at her.

  “They think you’re a thug or a killer. Not sure which,” she said.

  “Maybe neither,” he said.

  “Maybe both.”

  Sorrows shook his head. “If I were both, you wouldn’t be arguing about it. Makes more sense that I’m neither and you’re divided on which one presents the more convincing lie.”

  Her face tensed. A brief thing, but easy to spot in the deep lines of her face. Her hands came onto the table. She steepled her fingers. Beside her, brown-hair’s face grew red. On the other side, the Weaver rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling. But the most interesting reaction was the half-born’s. No anger, no hostility. Just keen interest. Study. Like she was taking his measure, guessing at the man beneath the clothes.

  “Are you sure of that?” White-Hair asked.

  “Sure as a split stinks,” Sorrows said.

  “Keep a civil tongue, Solomon. We’re only trying to ascertain the truth of the situation.”

  “What situation is that, I wonder?” Sorrows said. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, spread his hands wide. “You want civil? How about you tell me who you are? All of you. How about you tell me why I’m here? That would be civil, right? The elf thing to do? We trade names, stories about how great we are, observations of the gods-realm, or jokes about dwarves. I know some good ones. Real gut-busters.”

  White-Hair clenched her jaw, tapped her two index fingers together, stared at Sorrows for one breath and another. Then she nodded and inclined her head.

  “I am Archmage Tu’ell Eldrake,” she said. “This is my tower. That makes you my guest. Overseer Annessa Shen resides here, as well. She’s charged with maintaining order on the Edge.”

  The Weaver lifted an eyebrow at Sorrows and tamed a smirk that threatened to become a grin. Eldrake looked at Brown-Hair, waited.

  “Overseer La’Jen Oray,” he said, voice tight. Like a bowstring about to fray. “Hammerfell.”

  “Dwarves,” Sorrows said. Gods, he thought.

  “Is that a problem?” the half-born asked. She slid forward on her chair, gripped the edge of the table. White-knuckled again. Aggressive.

  “Easy, Remma,” Oray said. He turned to Sorrows. “You’ve already met Masters Remma Davrosh and Ostev Ga’Shel.”

  He nodded at the half-born and the elf from the tavern. Everyone was watching Sorrows.

  “Civil enough for you?” Eldrake asked with a smile that slipped from her cheeks before reaching her eyes.

  Sorrows nodded absentmindedly. It was a matter of time and distance. The dwarf city of Hammerfell was three months on foot, two by horse, two weeks with a Forestwalker. A long journey. A journey that two elf masters might make once a year. A journey an elf Overseer might make once every five. And a journey the three of them had started long before Sorrows pushed steel through a Seph.

  Time and distance. They made the Weaver irrelevant. Whatever story she told would only serve to strong-arm Sorrows into caving on any Hammerfell demands. Problem was, Sorrows didn’t like being strong-armed. And at the moment, the only thing he would agree to was returning to the Evonwood and putting three days between him and the elves sitting across from him.

  “Sure,” he leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “You hear the one about the elf who dropped his pants?”

  “That’s enough, Solomon,” Eldrake said.

  “No? It’s short, I swear.”

  Davrosh stood abruptly. Her chair slid across the floor. Loud, jarring. “Listen, orchole—”

  “He’s baiting you, Remma,” Ga’Shel interrupted.

  “You’d prefer to discuss the alignment of the planets?” Sorrows asked.

  Oray ran his fingers up his forehead and into his brown-hair. He wore the weary look of an Overseer with a problem. A big problem. “I told you this was a waste of time.”

  “That’s the gods’ honest truth,” Sorrows said.

  Davrosh leaned across the table. Leveled a finger at him. “No, the truth is you have no honor, no loyalty, and you invent ways to make enemies out of anyone you meet.”

  “Is that what you want, Solomon? To make enemies of us all?” Eldrake said.

  Sorrows had heard enough. And he had spent enough time with elves in the past three days to last a lifetime. He stood, kicked his chair back, and stared hard at Eldrake.

  “What I want is my bow, and to get all hells out of here. That’s what I want. You have three elves from Hammerfell and that means I’m not your problem. Means dwarves are your problem. Which means you need help. Which means Shen is here to apply pressure and get that help.” Sorrows lowered his head and voice. “Problem is, I ain’t interested in helping elves. No one is. You’re just too gods-shunned unlikable.”

  “Arrogant orchole,” Davrosh said. Sorrows ignored her.

  Eldrake leaned back and sighed. A quick sigh through her nose. Like she was getting the stink of the situation out of her nostrils. She glanced at Shen, nodded toward Sorrows.

  “We know you killed an orc,” Shen said.

  Sorrows turned to her. “Elves don’t give a bright golden piss about orcs. But it doesn’t matter. The orc was already dead. I killed a Seph.”

  Davrosh dropped into her chair, slid it forward, smoothed her jerkin, leaned back. She glanced from Oray to Ga’Shel. Grins spread across their faces. As if Sorrows had just said something that made their day. Maybe made their month. Maybe their year. Whatever it was, it made Sorrows uneasy. He took a step back, lifted his hands off the table and folded his arms across his chest. Stared at Eldrake.

  “What? What’s got them so happy?”

  “Your bow is elf-crafted, is it not?” Eldrake asked.

  “What do you care about my bow?”

  “Oh, Solomon,” Eldrake said. “We care about all things elf, I assure you. We like to keep elf things in elf hands.”

  “That’s my bow,” Sorrows said. “Might be elf-crafted, but it’s equally human. And I like to keep human things in my hands.”

  “Been with you awhile now, has it not?” Eldrake asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “More than a year, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re not.” Sorrows said. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

  “Maybe nothing, maybe everything,” Eldrake replied. “What can you tell me about the gods-born, Solomon?”

  “What’s there to tell? You both share the same gods, so they split your gifts. Dwarves got all the good stuff and elves got a stick up their col
lective split.”

  “I don’t mean just elves and dwarves, Solomon. Tell me what you know about all the gods-born species.”

  Eldrake smiled. Patient. Maternal. Davrosh, Oray, and Ga’Shel were still grinning. Shen's delicate finger traced the swirls on the table’s surface.

  “I don’t follow,” Sorrows said. I won’t bite. That’s my business, not yours.

  “No?” Eldrake asked in mock surprise. “Allow me to enlighten you. Some believe that elves and dwarves are not the only gods-born species. Another exists, though it’s all but extinct. Down to its last surviving member.”

  Sorrows tensed. Fought to keep his expression blank. Failed.

  “That so?” he asked. “Sounds like a handsome guy.”

  “That would make three gods-born peoples.”

  “I can count.”

  Eldrake continued. “Yes, I’m sure you can. But did you know there was a fourth? The last gods-born people were called the Seraseph, though their name has been worn short by the passing of time. Tell me, Solomon, what does it take to kill a gods-born?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because you’ve already confessed you didn’t kill an orc that night outside the tavern. Because you carry a bow made of havenwood.”

  All eyes were on him. Eldrake with her white hair, looking every inch the Archmage. Overseer Shen, golden-haired and disinterested. Overseer Oray, tired. Master Ga’Shel, golden-haired and over-interested. Davrosh, triumphant.

  Sorrows shrugged.

  “You want me to tell you it takes a gods-born to kill a gods-born, but that’s a lie told to mortals to keep them feeling inferior. Like death wasn’t doing a good enough job. I’ll play along, though. Let’s say we’re talking the Second Death. Well, it takes a gods-born to kill a gods-born. But as you pointed out, that third race severed their tie and became mortal. Which means the last surviving member, the handsome fellow, isn’t gods-born. Which means any animated orc corpse that he stuck with steel wasn’t gods-born either. And you’re back to two gods-born races.”

  Eldrake nodded, lifted her eyebrows, acted impressed.

  “A wonderful explanation, and you’re absolutely right, Solomon. You are a handsome fellow. I would guess, what, thirty-five or forty years old? It’s hard for me to tell. I haven’t seen a human in such a long time. Am I close?”

  Sorrows shrugged. “Close enough.”

  “Thirty-five then. Flattery wins friends, after all. Tell me, Solomon, how long have you been thirty-five years old?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is mortals die. Some might say it is their one, true gift. Yet it is a gift you do not seem to possess. My point is a Seph was slain that night outside a tavern, and that is no easy thing to do.”

  “You going to lock me away for killing a member of the species that declared war on the elves?”

  Eldrake shook her head. “No. The Seph haven’t sought our aid in bringing you to justice.”

  “Can’t imagine the Seph would be in a rush to ask elves for anything.”

  “Regardless, no charges have been raised.”

  “No accusation, no crime?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then why am I here?” Sorrows asked.

  “We have questions we’d like you to answer,” Eldrake replied.

  “Everyone has questions. Why should I answer yours?”

  “We want to know if you’re a problem.”

  “What if I am?”

  “What if? If you’re this problem, we keep the bow and send you to Hammerfell.”

  “And if I’m not?” Sorrows asked.

  Eldrake smiled. “Like I said, we have questions.”

  Sorrows took a breath, let it out slowly through his nose, grabbed a chair and spun it around. He straddled the seat and rested his arms on the back.

  “Ask your questions.”

  Oray leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Where did you get the bow?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “From an elf?”

  Sorrows stared at him for a breath. “From a Seph.”

  Ga’Shel snorted. “Was it truly a gift, or was it the spoils of battle?”

  “If I bested a Seph who was wielding a havenwood bow, I’d probably deserve whatever I took, don’t you think?”

  “Answer the question,” Oray said.

  “Like I told you, it was a gift.”

  “How familiar are you with dwarf customs?”

  “Customs?”

  “Traditions,” Oray said.

  “The Maiden’s Dance, specifically,” Davrosh said. “You ever see it?”

  Sorrows nodded. “I’ve been to a handful. Saw the dwarf daughters in their fancy clothes, faces and bodies painted, hair in plaits and ribbons.”

  “They look happy?”

  “Of course they were happy.”

  “Did you think them pretty?” Davrosh asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, orchole.”

  Sorrows hesitated, tried to read Davrosh’s scowl. Images of gem-colored dresses, silver bracelets and anklets, anxious faces flickered in his mind—candlelight memories of events long past. She took his silence as victory. Sat back with a smug grin that made her chin look twice as long.

  “You don’t think anyone deserves to be that happy, do you?” Davrosh asked.

  Oray watched him closely. Eyes intense. Sorrows could hear the elves breathing. Could hear his own heart pounding. Wondered if they could hear it as well.

  “Why didn’t you use the bow on the Seph?” Shen asked. “That’s how it works, right?”

  Sorrows turned his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Davrosh for a moment before bringing them to rest on Shen.

  “How what works?”

  “You need to banish a Seph to free the soul. Isn’t that right?”

  Sorrows shook his head. “I suppose. There’s a bit more to it than that.”

  “Are you familiar with the name Sturm?” Oray asked.

  Sorrows blew out his cheeks, stared through the ceiling in recollection. “It’s been a while. Knew a dwarf tracker who became a Sturm.”

  “What about Brightle?” Davrosh asked.

  Sorrows frowned. “Never heard of Brightle.”

  “How about Haglund?”

  “Gorn Haglund?” Sorrows asked.

  “Gorn Brightle now,” Oray said.

  Shen leaned forward. “Why wouldn’t you use your bow if you knew the orc was a Seph?”

  One arrow can’t hit two targets. Sorrows knew what they were doing. Knew they were working to keep him off balance. Distracted. Flustered. He had thought Shen was only there as a pretty face. A distraction. But her questions hinted at more, and hinting meant hiding. Sorrows wondered what he might learn if he played along, so he thought about what she asked but steadied his aim on one target.

  “I fought with Trailswell Devrok, years ago,” he said, turning to Oray. “I was the arrow, he was the blade. Good dwarf.”

  Most were.

  Oray nodded. “He married Alesha Sturm.”

  “Had kids, too, last I heard. Four sons,” Sorrows said.

  “He had a daughter as well,” Oray said.

  “Gods,” Sorrows said. “Good for him.”

  Dwarves carried on the family name through their daughters. And dwarf women were rare. A daughter was considered good fortune. A blessing of the gods.

  “You seem happy for him,” Davrosh said.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You don’t envy him?”

  “Envy? How so?”

  “He has someone. A family. You’re alone. And the most you could ever hope for is a half-born child.”

  A temper is like an arrow caught in a whirlwind. The arc of flight disappears, taking the will of the hunter with it. The arrow becomes a wild thing. Dangerous and untamed. Sorrows stared at Davrosh. Stared real hard and thought real long about whether he was fast enough to get across the table before Oray or Ga’
Shel got to him. Thought about what he might lose and what he might gain. After a deep breath, thought it better to stay calm. He moved on. Answered the question.

  “Gorn Haglund hired me as an armed escort when the front lines were overrun a few decades back. He used to do a whiskey run back then. North road saved him a month of travel. Worth swapping copper for muscle.”

  Davrosh’s jaw flexed. Quick and subtle. Her smirk faltered and disappeared entirely.

  “Did you consider him a friend?” she asked.

  “No,” Sorrows said. “He was an orchole. Why? Relative of yours?”

  “You two ever argue?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ever fight?”

  “Gods, you’re half dwarf; what do you think? Of course we fought.”

  “Gorn stole your necklace once, didn’t he? The one you keep hidden beneath your tunic.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Oray sighed. “We know everything worth knowing about you, Sorrows.”

  “And some things not worth knowing,” Ga’Shel said.

  “How good are you with a bow?” Shen asked. Distraction.

  “I know which end of the arrow faces forward,” Sorrows said.

  Davrosh snorted. “Answer the question, orchole. How good are you?”

  “What do you do here, Ga’Shel?” Sorrows asked, turning to face the elf.

  “Walker,” Ga’Shel replied.

  “Any good?”

  “Good enough to make Hammerfell in ten days.”

  Sorrows raised his eyebrows. Impressive. “They pay you?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s your answer,” Sorrows said, returning his stare to Davrosh. “Good enough to get paid.”

  “But that’s not the only weapon you know how to use, is it?” Davrosh asked.

  Sorrows shrugged, said nothing.

  “Are you as good with other weapons as you are with the bow?” Oray asked.

  Sorrows shrugged, said nothing.

  All five elves seemed pleased with the response, which made Sorrows regret answering the question about the bow. Silence hung around the table, waiting to be broken. Sorrows shifted, uncomfortable on his chair.

  “Why didn’t you use the bow on the Seph?” Shen asked.

  Sorrows shook his head. “Wouldn’t make sense. I thought the orc was an orc, and I wasn’t looking to kill. Just sending a message.”