by Dan Fish
She shrugged, looked around the room.
“Where’s your bow?”
Chapter 27
SORROWS LEFT DAVROSH at the tower, made his excuses, ignored her objections, and ventured into the wind and snow. He fought the storm all the way to the end of the road where the stone turned to gravel. Found the tavern he’d visited with Jace, went inside to escape the wind, and signaled Mig. Nothing happened. Talk to me. Waited a long moment, ignored the barkeep, the handful of half-born, went outside, kept walking. Knee-deep drifts striped the roads. He walked through them with short, heavy strides.
He arrived at Bex’s hut and ducked inside. Her body was still lying in pieces on the floor. Broken, frozen. He stepped past her remains, walked to the cushions, sat in the dim light, let his eyes adjust. Thought of ghosts. Waited.
He heard footsteps outside five minutes later. He stared at the entrance, saw a shape coalesce in the darkness, saw Mig walk through the triangle doorway. Saw the bow in her hand. Brushed his fingers across the bump on his head.
“Mig,” he said.
She threw the bow at him. Angry. Pushed it out with both arms like she was shoving it away, shoving him away. Getting space. It flew across the room. He snatched it from the air.
“Go to hells,” she said. “I can’t believe you took an elf to bed. An elf, Solomon. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
Sorrows shook his head. “No, I—”
“Is that all it takes with you? A woman bats her eyelashes, shows some cleavage, and you fall in love?”
“I don’t—”
“I don’t understand. You despise elves. Everyone knows what they did to the humans.”
Jace isn’t like other elves, he thought. He said nothing.
“Do you have any idea how many advances I turned away in the last year?”
Sorrows shook his head, still said nothing.
“More than one. Goblins, dwarves, elves, half-born. Even a centaur who visited Tam while he was on some pilgrimage. A centaur, Solomon.”
Sorrows said nothing.
“And I didn’t know where you were or why you left. But I waited—I waited—to talk to you again before thinking we were finished.”
Sorrows said nothing. Mig shook her head, pulled her cloak tight, shivered.
“I deserve better,” she said. “And so did Bex. And so does Julia.”
She hesitated, watched him. Like she didn’t know if mentioning Julia had gone too far. Hesitation could be an ally. Sorrows leaned forward.
“We didn’t tangle, Mig.”
“What?”
“I didn’t bed Jace.”
“You didn’t?”
Sorrows shook his head. “No.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I took a breath when I shouldn’t have, and you hit me with a bow. I haven’t put three words together since.”
Mig took a step forward. “Gods, Julia.”
Sorrows rubbed his head. “Yes.”
“Oh, and your head.”
“Yes.”
And then she was with him, arms around his neck, kiss on the cheek, body pressed against his. A good sign.
“But Jace tried, didn’t she?”
“She tried.”
Mig shoved away, angry. Shook her head.
“Who does she think she is?”
She turned, brow furrowed, eyes dark. Lips pressed into a thin, flat line. He had been on the wrong side of that look before. Wasn’t sure where he stood now.
“Take a breath, Mig. Relax.”
“You relax, Solomon. I don’t like her. I’ve said so from the start. She’s manipulative. She keeps secrets. She killed Bex.”
“We don’t know that.”
Mig snorted, started pacing. “You might not, but I do. She killed Bex, and she tried to steal you away from me.”
It was a tricky thing, arguing with Mig. Her temper spread like brushfire. She’d started out angry at Sorrows but had since moved on to Jace. Mig pushed back her hood, tossed her hair. Gestured, pointed at Sorrows.
“Does she have any idea what a pain in the split you’ve been?”
Sorrows shrugged, shook his head, said nothing.
“After all we’ve been through together, and with you gone for the past year. Then she just shows up outside your door and expects to have you?”
Sorrows said nothing.
“I’m going to kill her. I’m going to tear her apart, piece by piece.”
“You don’t mean that. You just need time to cool—”
Mig vanished. Sorrows waited, shivered. Started counting.
At a hundred, he shook his head, turned, grabbed the table behind him. He pulled it close as he rolled onto his knees. It was old, cracked, light. He picked it up and threw it against the wall. The wood was dry, weak. It shattered, splintered, fell in fragments onto the floor. He waited, kept counting.
At two hundred, he stood, hunched beneath the low ceiling. He tossed the cushions onto the broken table. Fumbled for a flint in his cloak.
“Gods shun it, Mig,” he said to no one.
He knew she’d left. Knew she’d gone to look for Jace. But knew she wouldn’t try anything, despite her anger. At most, she’d yell, accuse, confront. The problem wasn’t Mig. It was Jace. For two reasons.
The first reason was Bex. She lay in pieces on the floor. Not a pleasant sight, though Sorrows had seen the Cursed do worse. Still, without knowing what had happened, Bex hinted at a side of Ivra Jace she’d kept hidden from Sorrows. And that was not an easy thing to do. Not normally. Someone who knew what you liked. And if Jace was keeping secrets, then Mig was in danger.
The second reason was elves. Sorrows hated elves. Had seen them do too much. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Jace. Her smell, her laugh, her eyes like deep water. Even now, after his argument with Mig and their relationship left tenuous at best, he thought of Jace. Even now, cold and alone in a hut in the Quarry, he wanted to find her, to be with her. It was unlike him. Unexpected. He hated unexpected. He sighed, glanced at his bow.
“This day is not going well, Julia.”
He considered it for a moment. Thought of seeing Julia again. Then thought better of it.
He lit a fire, grabbed his bow, and left.
✽✽✽
A HUDDLED FIGURE is a common enough sight in the Quarry. One dressed in black doesn’t stand out any more than one dressed in rags. Generally, Sorrows didn’t acknowledge people he passed on the street. It was a kindness he hoped they would then extend to him. Mutual disinterest. A basic concept. Sorrows wore his hood up and kept his eyes hidden. That improved the odds of not being bothered. His bow was strapped to his back. That also helped. He was an arm’s length taller than nearly everyone in the Quarry. That made a significant difference.
So when a figure broke free from the shadows ahead, rags billowing in the wind, Sorrows kept his eyes down, kept his feet moving. A lone figure wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t unexpected. When a second figure stepped out of an alleyway and joined the first, Sorrows started shifting to the side, taking one step to the left on every second step forward. He still wasn’t worried. They were small. Goblin, judging by their height and by what appeared to be slender bodies beneath their rags. It wasn’t until a third figure joined the first two and the three drifted in front of Sorrows that he lifted his gaze and showed them the man beneath the hood. He pulled the recurve from his back and let them see how that man could string a bow without looking, without breaking stride. He let them see how fast an arrow could move from quivered to nocked. And if they knew anything about reading human emotion, he let them see a face that said they were either on the wrong side of the road or had picked the wrong man on the wrong day.
They, in turn, stopped ten paces before reaching him and offered a more familiar type of greeting. No interpretation of complex emotions required. Each pulled an arm’s length of bright steel from around its waist. Each dropped into a wide stance. Each held the blade loose, pointed low and patie
nt, watchful. Sorrows stopped, shrugged. Ten paces was better for an arrow than a blade. But they’d know that. Their shoulders were turned, offering a smaller target. They were trained, prepared. They’d know better than to pull up short of a bow. Which meant they were a distraction. He spun to his left, drawing his arrow as he turned.
“Easy, Gray Walker,” a fourth figure said. “I only want to talk, yes?”
Her voice was like birdsong carried on winter gale. It was musical and cold, and it lifted the hair on his arms. Her face was hidden behind layers of cloth and shadowed by a hood. The hood was stitched into a patchwork cloak of leather and wool that concealed her shape, fell to her feet. She lifted a hand hidden in the folds of sleeves too long for her arms. Gestured for Sorrows to follow. The three other figures brought their steel, shuffling through the snow into positions behind him and to either side.
Sorrows glanced over his shoulder. He was surrounded. He’d have time to loose one arrow before the blades fell upon him. He turned to the speaker.
“What if I don’t feel like talking?”
“Ashra said you might need convincing, but she insisted we be patient. She suggested a demonstration.”
Gods shun it. “You tell Ashra to go to hells. I’ve got an arrow with her name on it.”
“Tell her yourself. I’m just following orders.”
Sorrows glanced from the speaker to the blades at his left and right, then back to the speaker. Not enough room. Too much steel. He sighed.
“Let’s see it, then.”
“Not here.”
Sorrows said nothing for a breath, aimed the arrowhead into the shadows of the speaker’s hood. Felt the tension of the bowstring through his gloves.
“You have a name?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Care to share it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Are you Seph?” he asked.
She made a small noise that might have been a laugh, turned and walked away. Sorrows felt the point of a blade against the small of his back.
“Tell your boys one more poke and I’ll send a point into the back of your head,” he said.
“No, you won’t,” the speaker called over her shoulder. “But do hurry. We don’t have much time, and I have something to show you.”
Sorrows lowered his bow, spared his shot. Two of the figures appeared on either side of him, close, crowding his arms.
“Quickly now, yes?” a voice said behind him. The same voice. Not only similar: identical. Birdsong on wind.
The figure ahead turned to the side and disappeared. Sorrows followed with measured, contemplative strides. He glanced at the three figures walking beside him.
“Sisters?” he asked.
All at once, the three laughed. The same laugh. Identical. All at once, the three figures spoke.
“Not sisters,” they said. “Daughters.”
The same voice. And all at once, Sorrows knew who they were. He sighed.
“You know what?” he asked, turning to the figure at his right. “This day is going straight to orcpiss.”
✽✽✽
THE JOB IS straightforward. A weapon is gifted, or a ghost is named. In either case, a human soul is at stake. Sorrows hunts or journeys accordingly and, once finished, uses the Grimstone to collect the soul as payment. It’s a tough job. Dangerous. It would have been the death of him on more than one occasion, were it not for his immortality. Immortality preserves his life but doesn’t prevent his suffering. He’s left to deal with his pain, to avoid more of it in the future. But it’s a good job. It gives him the opportunity to talk to humans again, if only for a moment. It’s a job he enjoys, despite the risks. Maybe a job he enjoys because of them. Either way, it’s a job he’s good at.
The job comes with expectations. Each weapon is a contract. Each ghost an agreement. Measures are set in place to assess his performance. Duration is expected to be reasonably brief. Collateral damage is expected to be kept to a minimum, although some is understood to be necessary at times. It’s a tough job. Dangerous. Standards must be maintained. His methods are examined, scrutinized. When they are found lacking, the Fates appear. Sometimes only one, sometimes more. They take various forms: animals, people, elemental spirits. They ask questions. They make suggestions. They don’t appear often. It’s a job he’s good at. But they do appear.
Sorrows followed the four into a rectangular room, three paces wide by five deep. Another four high. A room that might have been a hallway at one time, but it had been walled off. The ceiling met the far wall at a clumsy angle, haphazard. A rushed job, maybe to accommodate an unexpected guest whose stay became extended. The room had pine walls. Inexpensive timber. Easy to come by. Maybe the guest became an unexpected burden. Maybe illness followed. Illness that emptied the house. Maybe the Fates chose it for those reasons. They favored places like the Quarry and this house left empty by the twist of life’s dagger. A closed door lay at the far end, and a single pine chair stood in the center. He was expected to sit for these conversations. He sat. A candle in each corner lit the room with flickering yellow light. Four Fates stood, hands hidden in sleeves, sleeves tucked behind backs. The door opposite him opened. A fifth Fate stepped through, wearing the same rags, hidden by the same shadows. She greeted him in the same cold voice.
“Gray Walker,” she said. “Time is thin, why do you tarry?”
Ashra gave me the soul of my dead wife, he thought. “What’s your rush?” he asked.
“Do I rush, I wonder?” said the Fate ahead and to his left.
The room grew cold. Sorrows blew out his breath, watched it billow and swirl. Behind him, the sound of cloth tearing tickled his ears. Gods shun it.
“Why am I here?” he asked.
“Because you survived,” the Fate behind and to his right said.
Sorrows shook his head, stared at the Fate ahead of him.
“Why am I here in this room right now?”
“Because she didn’t,” the Fate ahead of him said.
“Could you have saved her, I wonder?” the Fate behind and to his left asked.
Sorrows glanced at his bow, shivered. The Fate ahead and to his right reached up to her face and began tearing a long strip of cloth from her hood. The sound of tearing grew louder behind him.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
He’d had frostbite before. Knew what it felt like. Didn’t much care for it. Could feel the sting of it on his ears and cheeks, on the tips of his fingers. He hugged his chest, pulled his cloak tight. His breath came out in pale clouds. The Fate ahead and to his left tore at her cloak. A long, ragged strip fell to the floor. The Fate ahead of him stepped forward, brought her hands out from behind her back.
She held a wooden box. Cherry wood. Lacquered to a shine that reflected the candlelight. Runes covered its surface. Elf, by the shape of them, and old. Sorrows knew a few runes but didn’t recognize any on the box. The Fate stepped forward, extended her arms.
“Take it, Gray Walker,” she said. “And lay her soul to rest.”
Take it, Gray Walker, and lay her soul to rest. He’d heard those words a hundred different times from a hundred different Fates. Or maybe the same Fate in a hundred different forms. Always with a weapon. Always to begin a hunt. He glanced at his bow. He’d never hunted two at once before. This was new. But he imagined little would change. Find a Seph, kill it, free the soul, claim it. He opened the box. It was empty.
He looked up. “I don’t understand.”
The box slipped in his grasp. His fingers were going numb. He couldn’t feel his toes. His body was shaking from the cold. The wrappings fell away from the Fate ahead and to his right. A shriveled body stood before him, long dead. Withered, brown skin clinging to bone. Coarse black hair hanging in braids. Lips curled back, revealing teeth stained with rot. Dark hollows where eyes had once been. A pattern of ivy and lilacs painted on its face. It took a step toward him, extending an arm.
“Lay her soul to rest,”
it said, birdsong on winter gale.
Movement ahead and to his left. He turned. Another corpse stepping free of its rags. Holly leaves and white flowers. Lips painted red.
“Lay her soul to rest,” it said.
Scraping on the floor behind him. He spun, knowing what he would see. Two withered bodies, two masks. Holly and gray berry.
“Lay her soul to rest,” they said.
He felt a weight on his shoulder and turned.
Zvilna Gorsham stared at him, pale, not yet withered. Lips pressed together, eyes bright with tears. She stepped closer. His heart pounded. His breath billowed. She stepped closer. Fell forward onto him. The chair broke. He lay on his back, Zvilna pressed against him, her face a finger’s width from his. Her body leeched heat from his. He spasmed from the cold. His eyelids were thick with ice, his fingers and feet numb. He pushed Zvilna to the side, clumsy, slow. He scrambled onto his elbows, then onto his hands and knees. He grabbed his bow, grabbed the empty box. He found his feet, stood. Found the door, opened it, turned.
“Lay her soul to rest,” said five voices, whistling like wind through trees.
Zvilna and the four corpses stepped forward, arms outstretched, faces painted in their Stone Mother’s masks. None of their mouths moved with the words.
None of them had hands.
Chapter 28
HAMMERFELL TOWER WAS calm outside. Immovable, solid. An arm of granite reaching into the storm, the battlement its hand, merlons like thick fingers brushing the sky. It grew larger as Sorrows stumbled closer. It beckoned, promising warmth, shelter. Its doors opened at his approach. The calm crumbled as he stepped into the entrance hall. Inside, the tower was a maelstrom of black and gray. He staggered forward, was jostled; took another step, was pushed aside; fell to one knee; two hands cupped his face.
“You orchole,” Davrosh said. “Where in all hells have you been?”
Her hands were warm on his cheeks. His eyes felt heavy. She was strong. He tipped forward. She slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to make his eyes water. He shook his head, blinked away the melt and tried to stand. She caught his arm and helped him to his feet. He took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. Willed his head to stop spinning.
