Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  “Right.”

  “What about the room? Any signs of struggle?”

  Davrosh adjusted her rucksack. “I already told you. Nothing. No struggle. Rugs as they should be. Furniture untouched. Bed still made. No torn dress.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “The dress. Ga’Shel’s magic would’ve repaired it.”

  Davrosh shook her head. Took a moment to snap the water from her cloak. “He only protects the paint.”

  “He can do that?”

  “Anyone could. It’s not so difficult.”

  “Any elf could, you mean.”

  “Right.”

  “What else?”

  “Not much else. We checked for magic. Nothing. We checked for other wounds. Nothing.”

  “How do you check for magic?”

  “We look for traces. There might be a smell in the air, like restoration magic. Other magic leaves sound behind, if you know what to listen for. Some leaves a warping of light where it’s been cast.”

  “How long until the traces disappear?”

  “A day or two.”

  Sorrows nodded, sniffed. Could smell vanilla and tobacco, but the scent had gone faint. Another hour in the rain and he wouldn’t smell it at all.

  “Makes sense,” he said. “You get used to the smell of restoration magic, but it’s still there.”

  “Right. Traces linger.”

  “And you found nothing?”

  “Nothing. Not a sniff, not a whisper, not a shimmer. The gods-bond wasn’t severed with magic.”

  Davrosh adjusted her rucksack.

  “Give me your pack.”

  “What? No. Why?”

  Sorrows extended a hand. “I can’t think with you constantly pulling on those straps.”

  Davrosh stared at him. “You didn’t give an orc split about my back earlier.”

  “Not really.”

  “Orchole.”

  He reached for her pack anyway, but Davrosh grabbed his wrist, held it away. She was strong. He tried to yank his hand free but ended up pulling her toward him. She stumbled forward, slipped in the mud, toppled against him. She flung her arms around him to stop her fall. He grabbed her, steadied himself. They stood, tangled, staring at each other for a breath before Davrosh pushed away, straightened her cloak, adjusted her rucksack.

  “I’m keeping my pack,” she said.

  “Fine,” Sorrows said.

  “Fine.”

  He stared at her. She stared back. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Maybe it was the voice, vaguely familiar. Maybe it was elf reflexes. Maybe Forestwalker speed. Whatever the reason, Ga’Shel leaned back in time for Sorrows to miss his jaw by a handspan.

  “You almost hit me,” Ga’Shel said.

  “Almost,” Sorrows said.

  “If you’d like, I can leave—”

  “No,” Sorrows said quickly. “No, you startled me, that’s all. I’m glad to see you, sunshine. Seventeen and a half days with her is long enough.”

  Davrosh moved to stand by Ga’Shel. She glanced up at him. “You have no idea.”

  “I can imagine,” Ga’Shel said. He smiled at Davrosh. “The smell, right?”

  “Among other things.”

  Ga’Shel nodded, straightened his cloak, peered out from under his hood. White-gold hair, flawless skin, gray eyes, chiseled features. Sorrows imagined him kneeling in front of Mari Sturm on the morning of her twenty-seventh birthday. Imagined Mari’s pulse quickening. Imagined her excitement for the day building in that moment. He wondered if Mishma Valinor had felt the same excitement. Or did the news of Mari’s death and the death of the Brightle twins weigh upon her? Did trepidation dampen her spirits? A slow, steady drip of worry and fear. Ga’Shel noticed him staring, raised an eyebrow, then turned away.

  “No sense staying in this any longer than needed,” he said.

  Sorrows set aside his thoughts and walked close to Ga’Shel and Davrosh. He didn’t remember the slip. Never remembered the slip. But when he woke from the disorientation, minutes later, the water fell in slow, patient drops, and the puddles felt like walking on sand.

  He nodded, gave an approving frown.

  “Gods,” he said. Clapped Ga’Shel on the shoulder.

  Ga’Shel looked annoyed, then flattered, then smug. Davrosh glanced at Sorrows, shook her head.

  “Like I said: any day now.”

  Chapter 11

  “A DAUGHTER WALKS into her room after a night of celebration. She’s tired, but her heart’s still pounding. The killer waits until she closes the door. She sees him but doesn’t call out for help. Why?”

  “Maybe he clamps a hand over her mouth before she turns,” Ga’Shel said. “Maybe she tries to scream, but nobody hears her.”

  Sorrows shook his head. “Dwarves are strong. I can still feel where Davrosh grabbed my wrist, and she’s only half dwarf. A twenty-seven-year-old dwarf would still be a handful for anyone but another dwarf.”

  “No chance it’s another dwarf,” Davrosh said.

  Sorrows nodded. “It’s not an elf either. Not without magic.”

  “You don’t think a full-grown elf could over-power an adolescent dwarf?” Ga’Shel asked, his face impassive, his tone not as impassive.

  “Sorry, sunshine,” Sorrows said. “You’re unlikable, but formidable because of your magic. Without it? Well.”

  Ga’Shel stared at Sorrows, said nothing.

  “Am I wrong?” Sorrows asked.

  Ga’Shel shrugged. Sorrows took it as concession.

  “How did he get inside in the first place?” he asked.

  “The Maiden’s Dance is a big celebration,” Davrosh said. “He could have slipped in with other guests, found an opportunity to get upstairs and wait.”

  “With Mari, maybe, and the twins,” Sorrows said. “But Mishma had the Mage Guard watching. The opportunity would’ve been different. The family would know every face. They’d know if someone showed up uninvited.”

  “We followed up on anyone who knew all three families,” Ga’Shel asked. “All accounted for. Alibis, witnesses, everything.”

  “Not everything,” Sorrows said. “Or else you’d have the killer. Maybe he’s not a family friend. Maybe he’s just someone you’d expect to see. Someone you wouldn’t even consider.”

  Davrosh shook her head. “Musicians, entertainers, extra wait staff. We’ve checked everyone.”

  “He’s not going to be an extra,” Sorrows said. “He’d be someone who knew the layout of the manor. Someone who knew which staircase to climb, which hallway to follow, which door to open and close before someone else noticed.”

  “Someone who visited beforehand,” Ga’Shel said. “We already thought of that. We asked the families about recent visitors. No one reported anything suspicious.”

  “Don’t ask the victims’ families,” Sorrows said. “They’re distracted. Under duress. You need to get ahead of this. Find out whose Maiden Dance happens this month, next month, the rest of the year, next year. Ask questions. Were they showing guests around? Did someone get lost? Did someone disappear for a few minutes? Anything suspicious. They’ll remember now because it’s more recent. And they’re less distracted.”

  Davrosh sighed. “If we go a year out, we’re looking at over four hundred families to question. We can focus on the birthdays in the next one or two months and build from there, but that’s still more than sixty.”

  “And the majority would be chasing smoke,” Ga’Shel said. “We still don’t know how the killer chooses his victims.”

  “It’s not perfect, but it’s something,” Sorrows said. “And with, what, thirty birthdays each month, you need something.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Ga’Shel said.

  “What’s not?”

  “The birthdays. They’re not spread evenly throughout the year,” Davrosh said. “There are none this month.”

>   “That’s a good thing,” Sorrows said.

  “There are eighty-three next month,” Ga’Shel said.

  “Eighty?”

  “Eighty-three, yes.”

  “The Feast of Nine is in two weeks,” Davrosh said.

  Sorrows nodded. No better aphrodisiac than a day of merrymaking that culminated in a night of gifts and food and drink. Thirteen months later would be the harvest of seeds sewn in revelry. The predictability of lust and dwarves. Basic concepts. Easy to understand. But it created a problem of time and numbers. Eighty-three Maiden Dances meant eighty-three families that needed to be questioned once they reached Hammerfell. It meant two to four parties to guard every day. It meant they needed to find the common thread. Needed to reduce the number of potential victims.

  “Tell me about the twins and Mishma,” he said. “Was anything different? Any wounds? Signs of struggle? Anything.”

  Davrosh shook her head. “Each one lying in her bed. Arms wide. Arrow to the head. No signs of struggle. No traces of magic.”

  They had left the storm behind, anchored to the road and the gods-stream. The sky was clear overhead, and the sun was bright. They walked at a brisk pace which forced Davrosh into a near jog. Despite this, she shivered.

  “There is more, though,” she said. “And it’s not good.”

  “None of this is good,” Sorrows said.

  “It’s bad.”

  “This is all bad.”

  “I’m serious, orchole,” she said. “It’s the arrow.”

  “What about it?”

  “The shot struck the center of each girl’s forehead. The exact center.”

  He slowed a step, looked at her, nodded. Understood.

  Ga’Shel wasn’t one for tact or subtlety.

  “A soul shot,” he said.

  “I know,” Sorrows said.

  “To sever the gods-bond.”

  “I know what it means, Ga’Shel. But it wouldn’t work on a dwarf. Not there.”

  “It would on a human.”

  Sorrows sighed. Elves, he thought.

  “Right,” Davrosh said. She looked at Sorrows. “Which is another reason I thought it might be you. The last human. The Grim Reaper. Driven mad by the soul of his dead wife.”

  “Still a piss-poor guess,” Sorrows said. “But more understandable. And don’t call me Reaper. What about the girls’ hands?”

  “Wrists intact. Silver bangles and all,” Ga’Shel said.

  Sorrows nodded. “Then their souls wouldn’t wander. It’s a small comfort, but—”

  Davrosh stopped, shook her head. “No. They’re severed. Their gods-bonds were broken.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” Ga’Shel said. “We’re sure.”

  “But their hands?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Ga’Shel said. “Intact. No other wounds.”

  Davrosh shrugged. “We don’t know how it was done.”

  “You’re the Mage Guard,” Sorrows said. “What do you mean you don’t know? This is what you do. Vengeance of the gods-born.”

  “I mean the victims still have their hands, but they’re dead. Dead-dead. Like mortals. We thought it might be the bow, or something you were able to do as the Reaper.”

  Sorrows shook his head. Four gods-born dead was a problem. Four dwarf daughters dead was a big problem. Four dwarves killed and their souls severed from their gods? Sorrows wasn’t the scholarly type. He lacked the imagination and vocabulary to describe the situation adequately. He couldn’t measure it. Didn’t know how to influence it. It wasn’t a basic concept.

  Sorrows shook his head. “You really don’t know anything.”

  “Such an orchole,” Davrosh said. “We know enough. We’ll find this guy.”

  “No,” Sorrows said. “Four dead, no signs of struggle, no forced entry, no evidence other than an arrow in each girl’s head. And gods-bonds broken where they shouldn’t be. You don’t have enough, and you won’t catch the killer. Not like this.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do?” Ga’Shel asked. “If you know so much.”

  “I know less than you, but at least I admit it,” Sorrows said. “You want my advice? When we get to Hammerfell, you figure out who has the next birthday, and you make sure the Mage Guard attends each party.”

  “Deshka Ha’lem,” Davrosh said. “Two weeks from yesterday. We’ve already assigned guards to watch her day and night. But that didn’t help with Mishma Valinor.”

  “Just the one birthday?”

  “Just Deshka, yes.”

  “Then you put a guard in her room. Have one sitting bedside. Have two or three. Have them sing her to sleep.”

  “And then what?” Ga’Shel asked.

  Sorrows stared at the road ahead. A cloud of leaves and debris hung in the air, blown about by a wind he couldn’t feel. Guided by a hand he couldn’t see. Back within the gods-stream, the world was swirling chaos. But within the influence of Ga’Shel’s magic, Sorrows could isolate a fragment, study its relationship to the pieces beside it, track its drift, predict its path. Less chaos. More pattern. All that was needed was to slow things down, focus on one leaf or one piece of bramble, observe, think. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. Focus. Think. One target at a time.

  “You’re missing something important. You need to find it.”

  “Just like that?” Davrosh asked.

  “Just like that.”

  Chapter 12

  YOU WERE RIGHT to experiment with the orc. It taught you two important lessons, the first of which was how to handle strength. Dwarves, even young dwarves, are strong. Stronger than you anticipated. It is one thing to see the Stoneshapers sculpt granite with their hands. It is another thing entirely to be thrown across a room by a frightened dwarf daughter. The first is an abstract event, witnessed from afar. You are not the granite, after all. The second is visceral, tactile. The dwarf’s grip is strong. She hurts you. But you have been hurt before. You have been bitten, scratched, torn, and broken. Wounds heal. Lessons are learned. The path to mastery is one of many subtle, shifting steps.

  The second and third daughters are proof of both your approach and your potential. They die without as much pain. Without the need to learn and adjust. The fourth daughter is refinement, near perfection. She presents a new challenge: the watchful eye of the Mage Guard. But you know elves. You know what they look for and what they ignore. You adjust. And by the time you place the arrow, you’re already thinking ahead to the next victim.

  Yet despite your mastery over the first death, the Death of Body, you still fail at the second, the Death of Soul. And this would be safe enough, were it not for the orc’s second lesson. You have an enemy. One who would prevent your mastery. One who would stand in your way, blocking your path. You had suspected as much. You have already taken precautions. But what happened in the aftermath of the orc confirmed your suspicions. You accept this as another obstacle to overcome. Another aspect to measure and influence and measure again. What choice do you have? Complications arise. They are expected. True, you did not expect your enemy to side with the elves, but no matter. You will adapt to this, as well. The Mage Guard, the enemy, the increased scrutiny of the dwarves, these are not insurmountable. Not for you. Not for one with your patience. Not for one with your knowledge.

  You have more than a month to prepare. Ample time. Excessive. Indulgent. The next kill will provide your greatest challenge, your greatest triumph. It might provide the insight into Death of the Soul which has eluded you thus far. If so, it would mark the end of your days in Hammerfell. If so, it would be your last killing of dwarves. They were only ever the inferior of the two gods-born species after all.

  And true mastery demands better than second-best.

  ✽✽✽

  “TELL ME ABOUT the gods-bond,” Sorrows said. “How do you know it’s broken?”

  The sun hung low ahead of them. Their shadows stretched on the road behind, legs impossibly long, arms thin and movin
g in exaggerated sweeps as they echoed the forward and back swing of the travelers.

  They had returned to the gods-stream in Grayshore, an elf city that stretched along the western edge of Lake Eshven. They filled their packs with enough food to last them a few days, then slipped again and continued their journey. The land flattened into something open and expansive. The trees remained, though they thinned. Their leaves had mostly fallen this far west. The horizon was a tangle of silhouettes, branches and trunks turned black and bare against the orange and crimson of the evening sky. Davrosh stomped in the center of the packed-earth path, Sorrows to her left and Ga’Shel to her right. Sorrows looked over the top of her head, half because he was talking to Ga’Shel and half to keep the sun from his eyes.

  “I would think you an expert on souls and their tethering,” Ga’Shel said.

  “Human souls, not dwarves,” Sorrows said. “Only thing I know about a dwarf’s gods-bond is that it’s tied to the hands. Cut off their hands, sever the bond. But now you’re telling me the daughters still have their hands, and not their souls.”

  “That’s right,” Ga’Shel said.

  “How can you tell?” Sorrows asked. “What do you look for?”

  Ga’Shel shrugged. “I look for the bond. I know when I see it. I know when I don’t see it. What does a human soul look like?”

  Sorrows lifted a hand to his chest, felt the amulet.

  “It doesn’t look like anything. It’s more of a feeling. Like I’m remembering something.”

  “You get that feeling from a soul-imbued weapon?” Ga’Shel asked.

  “Something like that.”

  Ga’Shel nodded. “It’s the same with a slain gods-born, except the soul isn’t tied to a sword or bow, it’s tied to the gods-born body. If the body dies before the soul leaves, then the soul lingers. This is why the elves and dwarves perform rituals of passing. To encourage the soul to return to the gods.”

  Davrosh stumbled, and Ga’Shel caught her arm. He offered a small smile.

  “We can stop to make camp, if you’d like, Remma?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Her shoulders were hunched. She clutched the straps of her pack, one in each hand. With her cloak and the added supplies, the burden made her look like she was being attacked by a bear cub. Sorrows extended a hand.