by Dan Fish
At that first glimpse, when she was a mere flicker, translucent like morning mist, Sorrows knew the bow would be different. He recognized the flowing raven hair, the graceful lines of a neck and chin he had kissed. He recognized the curve of lips that had found his own. He recognized the faint swell in her belly which had brought him so much joy and later so much pain. It had started as the job, but it had become personal.
He became obsessed. He stopped sleeping, stopped eating. He poured himself into the bow. A day passed, then another. The back of his eyes ached with fatigue, dehydration. He couldn’t die of thirst, but it could torment him.
He couldn’t die of hunger, but it could drive him mad if he ignored it long enough. It clawed at his stomach, demanding his attention, and he tore himself away from Julia to wander into the woods. He spotted a deer. Lifted the bow. Loosed an arrow. A quick kill, clean and easy. Sorrows had shot a hundred different bows, a thousand. None like this. Elf-crafted from havenwood maple and imbued with magic, it was light, responsive, balanced. It would be easy enough to end a Seph with it. Easier than a sword. Much easier than a dagger. Easy. It was the job. He was good at it. But he didn’t want to be good at it. Not now. Not when he could see Julia any time he desired. Not when they could be together again, smiling and standing close enough that he could convince himself she was there. With each summoning, she became less like mist and more like the woman he had known.
But a lie is like a flaw in shaft or feather. The bow is drawn; the string is taut; the arrow loosed. But the arc is wrong, poisoned with subtle twists and bends. The arrow will never strike its target. It falls short, goes long, veers to one side or the other. Julia became more difficult to summon. She faded quickly. Where once they had spent hours together, soon she disappeared after minutes. He was lying to himself, ignoring his duty. He wasn’t doing his job. And he knew it.
The lie lingered in his mind, distracted him. He wandered north when he should go south. South when he should go north. He fixated on love in the past, and ignored love in the present. He knew he should find a Seph and free Julia. Knew that to do so would put her soul at rest. Knew that it would mean reliving his loss. And Sorrows learned something about himself. He wasn’t so brave. He wasn’t so strong. When faced with losing Julia forever, he could accept the brief minutes they spent together. He could accept missing the target. He would be given other weapons, surely, and he could keep the bow as his own. Could keep Julia close to him.
Another weapon never came. Sorrows had never gone more than a month without a new soul to collect. Now a year had passed with only the bow to show for it. And Ashra was searching for him. Something was wrong. He had made a mistake. And with the elves threatening to take the bow, he was faced with losing Julia and knowing she was not at rest. They would be apart again, imprisoned. He needed to find a Seph.
“Right there, Sol. Do you see him?”
Sorrows blinked his eyes into focus. Fen was pulling on his sleeve, pointing through the woods.
“What am I looking for?” Sorrows asked. He leaned forward, squinted.
“The Walker. His back’s to us, about a hundred paces out. He’s a tricky one, but I slowed down, got thick, and thinned out real sudden and circled around. Look quick, I can’t hold us in this moment forever.”
Sorrows strode forward, ducked behind a tree. Slipped around the other side and moved closer. Found another tree. He kept moving until he had a clear view of the Walker. Ga’Shel. Expected. And he wasn’t alone. Also expected.
“That’s him,” Sorrows said.
“You sure?” Fen asked.
Sorrows nodded, pointed. “That’s the half-born beside him. They’re always together. Bow and arrow.”
“Who’s the bow, who’s the arrow?”
Sorrows shrugged. “Not sure. Can you lose them?”
“Yes, but we’ll need to travel east for a spell. And then I’m going to need to rest a bit afterward. Keeping us this thin isn’t easy.”
Sorrows nodded. “Do what you need to. Let’s go.”
The two put time and distance between themselves and Davrosh and Ga’Shel. When Fen eventually pulled them back into the gods-stream, the sun was high overhead, and he was exhausted. Sorrows left him resting in the boughs of an oak tree and went looking for shelter. Came back to find arms and legs dangling over a branch and Fen fast asleep. He climbed up, threw Fen over his shoulders, and dropped back down.
“Let go,” Fen said. Thick. Groggy. “Can walk, not a youngling.”
Sorrows said nothing, carried Fen to a small cave. Made camp while Fen slept some more. The sun had just dipped below the horizon when the goblin woke. Sorrows shoved some dried fruit at him.
“Eat,” he said. “We’ve got a problem.”
Fen stopped mid-mouthful. “Problem?”
“They’ll know we’re headed to Tam. They’ll just wait for us there.”
Fen shook his head. “Humans. You’re almost as bad as elves. Thinking you’re the only ones thinking. Thank the gods there’s only one of you. I changed course, took us on a different road. They won’t suspect Tam.”
He returned to his fruit. Sorrows glanced at the cave walls. Granite streaked dark, flecks of mineral sparkling throughout. Familiar.
“Where are we?”
“About two hours, slow-footed, from the Edge.”
Sorrows stood abruptly, hit his head on the low ceiling as he hurried to the cave entrance. “Gods shun you, Fen.”
“You said no rush.”
“I didn’t say get us killed.”
Fen shrugged. “You’re a big guy with a bow. I’m a Walker. What are you so worried about?”
“You were sleeping, and I’ve only got a dozen arrows. Small comfort if a horde of Curselings finds us.”
“Use your fists. I’ve seen you hit before.”
“Get up. Let’s go.”
“I’m still eating.”
Sorrows grabbed Fen, pulled him to his feet.
“Fen. Now.”
Fen rolled his eyes, looked at Sorrows, and shrugged.
“Fine, fine. But there’s another problem, Sol.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Sorrows asked, pushing Fen out of the cave.
“When we get to Tam, you’ll have my sister to deal with.”
Chapter 8
THEY’D MADE THEIR way to Tam three weeks ago. Twenty-one days. Most of which Sorrows had spent in the same tavern, at the same table, sitting in the same chair, drinking the same whiskey. Dreading the same conversation. A conversation he’d put off as long as possible. A conversation one year in the making. A conversation that still found him.
Sorrows studied the goblin sitting across from him. She was taller than her brother by a head. Taller than most goblins. She had large black eyes, skin the color of moss, soft, evergreen lips. She was lean and strong and full of curves. Her raven hair fell across her shoulders like dark water, shining and smooth. She was gorgeous. A goddess among a naturally beautiful people. And she was avoiding his eyes. Her forehead was creased. Her hands were clasped in front of her, resting on the table.
“It’s been almost a year, Sol,” she said.
“I know.”
“Was it something I said?”
“No.”
“Something I did?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“Is it because I’m a goblin and you’re… not?”
“Gods, Mig, no.”
She blinked, her brow knit. “I don’t understand. Is there someone else?”
There was always someone else. “No,” he said, and thought of the bow resting on a shelf in a room at Fen’s house.
“You’re lying.”
“Somewhat.”
“Another goblin?”
“No.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A dwarf?”
Sorrows shook his head, fought to keep a straight face.
“Solomon Sorrows, if you’re leaving me for an elf, so help the gods.”
“A soul,
Mig,” he said. “Not an elf.”
“The job?”
“Yeah. The job.”
“But you are leaving me?”
“I don’t know. I need time with this one, Mig. It’s tricky.”
She moved across the table and kissed him. Pressed her lips hard against his. Her hands brushed his face. Her fingers threaded through the tangles of his hair. He took her arms in his hands, brushed his thumbs across her shoulders. Gods, she felt good. She pulled away. He pulled her back. She broke free, breathing hard.
“You remember this, Solomon. You remember who you have waiting for you. I won’t stick around forever.”
“I know.”
Mig turned and left. Solomon watched her walk away. Her scent lingered in the air. His mouth was still warm from her kiss. Her hips swayed left, right, left—
“That’s my sister, Sol.”
Sorrows stiffened. “Gods, Fen. Wear a bell.”
Fen sat down in Mig’s chair. “Got something to tell you. But first, did you come clean with her?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Clean enough. No specifics. That’s the best I can do.”
Fen nodded, stared at Sorrows. “How’d she take it?”
Sorrows remembered the kiss. Blew out his cheeks.
“On second thought, don’t answer that,” Fen said. “How are you doing?”
Sorrows shrugged. “Been better. Could use a drink.”
Fen gave a faint smile. “I’ll grab us a couple pints.”
“Make it whiskey.”
“You’re the boss.”
“What was it you needed to tell me?” Sorrows asked, but Fen had already left.
Walkers were like that. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, slipped from the gods-stream and off to their next destination. Sorrows didn’t mind. In this case, Fen’s next destination was a bar made of polished maple that reflected lamps hanging overhead and glasses neatly inverted on its surface. Eight goblins crowded its length, laughing, jostling one another, calling for the barkeep. But the old goblin was busy jawing at customers standing in the doorway. And Fen hadn’t reappeared.
He hadn’t reappeared, and suddenly Sorrows was thinking about the bow. Thinking about the path from the tavern through the village. Thinking about the distance from his chair to the room and shelf holding the bow. Because the customers hadn’t left the doorway, and the barkeep had slung a towel over his shoulder and was pointing at Sorrows. Because the eight goblins who had been intent on food and drink were instead turning to stare at whoever was standing in the doorway. Their smiles faded along with their laughter. And Fen still hadn’t reappeared.
Which meant that Ga’Shel had found them, and he didn’t want them to slip the god-stream and run. Which meant he wasn’t alone. But Davrosh couldn’t handle Sorrows by herself, and Ga’Shel was busy with Fen. That meant more of the Mage Guard were in Tam. That meant he was likely already surrounded. So Sorrows took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest. And waited.
He didn’t wait long. Oray appeared with Davrosh beside him. The two walked in amid stares and whispers. They scanned the tables, but a half-drunk orc could spot Sorrows in a crowd of goblins. Davrosh pointed and whispered to Oray. The Overseer nodded, and the two approached the table.
“You’re alone,” Oray said. Observation and question.
Sorrows nodded.
“You’re welcome to join me,” he said.
Davrosh threw sideways glances at tables filled with goblins. She hid her face in the shadows of her hood.
“We’d prefer to talk in private,” she said.
“Do you have a place in the village? Somewhere we could talk?” asked Oray.
“I stay at Fen’s place, and I’m guessing Ga’Shel has chased him away. Would be rude to invite you in myself.”
“We could talk outside,” Davrosh said.
“We could talk just as easy inside,” Sorrows said. He waved a hand, flashed three fingers at the barkeep, then gestured to the chairs. “Sit. First round’s on me.”
He stretched his feet under the table and kicked the chairs backward. An invitation. Oray sighed and slumped into the chair in front of him, pulled back his hood, rubbed his eyes.
“Sit, Remma,” he said.
Davrosh stared at the chair, threw a backwards glance over both shoulders. Cautious. She sat; back straight, leaning forward, like her legs were holding all her weight, and the chair was just decoration.
The barkeep arrived with a tray holding three tankards. He set the drinks down and walked away. Suds the color of doeskin leather, a thin sheet of frost on the sides from a bit of goblin magic. Good ale. Sorrows grabbed the tankard nearest him and pulled it close. He glanced at Oray.
“No wine, I’m afraid. But the whiskey’s good if you don’t like ale.”
“Ale’s fine,” Oray said.
Davrosh shifted, settled back against her chair, slowly lowered her hood. The goblins glanced, whispered, and a few jutted their chins in her direction. But the reaction was no more than Sorrows received when he had walked in. Davrosh relaxed, sagged, tipped forward onto her elbows.
“I’m not thirsty,” she said.
“Drink something, Remma,” Oray said. “It’s been a long two weeks.”
He offered a tired half-grin, and she gave in. Grabbed her tankard, drank deeply. Sorrows raised his eyebrows, impressed.
“I should’ve ordered a couple whiskeys.”
“There’s still time,” she said.
“Have some bread sent as well,” Oray said. “We need to talk.”
Sorrows traded signals with the barkeep before turning to Oray.
“This about the bow?”
“No. This is about Mishma Valinor,” Oray said.
“Who?”
“Another girl was found dead the morning after her twenty-seventh birthday,” Davrosh said. “We had guards on premise to protect her. Happened right under our noses.”
Sorrows shook his head. “Four gods-born dead. And dwarf daughters at that. You’ve got a problem.”
Oray nodded. “A big problem.”
“Her father is Brenn Valinor,” Davrosh said. “Do you know him?”
“What difference would it make if I did? I’ve been in Tam for the past three weeks. I’m not your guy. I never was. You’re wasting time you don’t have.”
“We’re just trying to find a connection,” Oray said. “Something. Anything.”
He sighed. A tired sigh, like he hadn’t slept in two weeks. But for all the fatigue reflected in the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders, he still looked better than Davrosh. Her eyes were half closed. Her elbows were sliding wide. She was almost sleeping on the table.
They sat in silence for one breath, then another. Sorrows worked at his ale. Motioned the barkeep for another tankard after Davrosh made quick work of hers. Oray sipped, glanced around the tavern. A serving girl arrived with bread. A steady hum of conversation surrounded them, accented by the occasional laugh, the occasional curse, the occasional slap.
“We thought we had the motive figured out with the first three killings,” Davrosh said finally.
Sorrows shook his head. “You found a thread that connected the three families, but I never had any motivation to kill.”
“You’re human.”
“That a crime?”
“No,” she said. “But it’s plausible that past trauma made you unstable. And you’re known to be violent toward the Seph. Maybe you’d be violent against dwarves, too.”
“The Seph declared war against all other species. A twenty-seven-year-old dwarf daughter doesn’t make enemies. Not like that.”
“The Seph wear many faces. Some of them female. Maybe you developed a fixation. It’s not so hard to believe.”
“It’s harder than you think,” Sorrows said. “And right now you can’t afford mistakes. Not if you want to find whoever’s doing this.”
&n
bsp; “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re grasping, Davrosh. It means I was never your guy, and you know it. You’ve always known it. Which means time’s wasting and you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Because I know you didn’t travel to Tam to tell me I’m no longer a suspect. And you sure as hells didn’t come here to share drinks and break bread.”
Oray rubbed his fingers into his eyes, brought his hands down, stared at Sorrows.
“You’re a hunter, Sorrows. Word gets around. The Seph fear you, and that’s saying something. They hide. You find them.”
“It’s the job,” Sorrows said.
“And you’re good at it,” Oray said. “We need your help.”
Sorrows laughed. A loud, sharp laugh that silenced the tavern. Heads turned. He leaned across the table.
“Pick a hell. Go to it.”
Oray and Davrosh stared at him. He stared back. Impasse. Blades crossed. Steel scraping steel. The murmur of conversation returned as goblins found better things to do than watch three people not talking. Oray sighed.
“Someone’s killing the gods-born,” he said.
“I know. You tried to convince me I was the one doing it, remember?”
“They’re daughters.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” Sorrows said. “No such thing as vengeance of the human.”
“You orchole,” Davrosh said.
Oray glanced at her, gave a small shake of his head. She stared at him, dark circles under her eyes. The hair on the left side of her head had freed itself from the elf cords she wore. It looked like patches of coarse brown grass growing around her ears.
“Could you make it your problem?” Oray asked, still watching Davrosh.
“Why would I?” Sorrows said.
“You know dwarves. You’ve fought with them. You know how they think.”
“You think a dwarf did this?”
“You don’t?”
“I’d sooner believe it was me.”
“Maybe it was a dwarf who fought the cursed,” Davrosh said. She was sinking further onto the table, her second tankard half empty beside her. “Maybe something happened that scarred him.”
