by Dan Fish
One moment she was an arm’s length away, searching but not seeing. The next moment Sorrows was on his back, Reshel was leaning over him, and Davrosh was kneeling behind her.
✽✽✽
IVRA JACE WATCHED Solomon Sorrows approach with Master Ostev Ga’Shel. They were slipped. They didn’t notice her. She kept her face hidden beneath her patchwork hood. She crouched in the shadows beneath a tall pine. The scent of evergreen and resin was sharp in the cold air, pleasant. She inhaled quietly through her nose, filled her lungs, exhaled quietly through her mouth. She waited.
They were ten paces away from the daughter and her family when Jace noticed a shadow stalking ten paces behind them, closing the gap. Her eyes narrowed. She ignored Sorrows and Ga’Shel and focused on the dark presence.
Sorrows and Ga’Shel were seven paces away. The shadow was only five paces behind them. It unfurled like smoke caught in the wind. A dagger emerged, gripped by darkness. Jace’s eyes widened, darted to Sorrows. She pushed away a branch, took a step forward, then another. She was thirty paces away. She moved fast.
Sorrows was four paces from the daughter when Ga’Shel turned, saw the shadow only two paces away, saw the dagger. Saw it thrust forward. He pulled Sorrows into the gods-stream. The blade passed through his body, no slowing, no wound, no blood. Jace was fifteen paces away.
Ga’Shel slipped the gods-stream again, brought Sorrows with him. Sorrows stopped walking, stared blankly ahead. But the shadow ignored him, crept toward Ga’Shel. Ga’Shel held out his hands, palms raised, shook his head. Jace was five paces away. Then four, three, two.
✽✽✽
SORROWS SAT UP, winced, moved a hand to the back of his head.
“What happened?” he asked.
He was sitting on the marble floor of what he assumed was Hirsch Manor. Probably the great room. Furniture had been pushed aside for the Maiden’s Dance; silver trays rested on tables, empty but for scattered crumbs. The musicians and guests had left, but the room was busy with the black and gray of Hammerfell Tower. Reshel brushed away a strand of hair from his forehead.
“That elf wench tried to attack you, but Master Ostev fought her off,” she said. Her eyes were bright. “You fell and hit your head on the stone outside. It would’ve been worse, but Master Ostev threw himself under you to break your fall. He was amazing. The healer said if Master Ostev had been a minute later, I would’ve lost my hand.”
“Your hand?” Sorrows asked.
Reshel flexed her fingers and smiled.
Sorrows shook his head. “Ga’Shel was under me?”
“I saw it myself. He dove.”
“Sunshine?”
“Who?”
“Ga’Shel?”
“Yes, Master Ostev. He was incredible.”
She sighed. Davrosh looked over her shoulder, lifted an eyebrow, turned to face Sorrows.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Sorrows said. “Ga’Shel must have pulled us into the gods-stream then slipped again. Last thing I remember was walking up the path. Then waking up here.”
Ga’Shel groaned on the floor. Reshel turned to face him and took his hand in hers.
“Are you hurt, Master Ostev?” she asked.
Ga’Shel pulled his hand free, moved it to the back of his head, stared sideways at her.
“I’m fine,” he said. Leave me alone, he was saying.
She didn’t notice. She sat back as he sat forward. He turned to Sorrows, staring. Brow furrowed, mouth turned in the hint of a frown. He was saying, you weren’t worth it.
“The things we do for love,” Sorrows said. “Right, sunshine? Next time you can be on top.”
Ga’Shel blushed. He looked away. “Go to hells.”
Davrosh grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a hero, Ostev. Orchole owes you one.”
“You were magnificent,” Reshel said. She reached for Ga’Shel, thought better of it, and returned her hand to her lap. She turned to Sorrows. “I only caught glimpses, but he was everywhere. My golden champion.”
“What exactly did you see?” Sorrows asked.
He stood, put his hands on his knees, took a deep breath. His head hurt like all hells. Ga’Shel was moving slow. His face had paled. He looked like he would throw up.
Reshel frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did you see who attacked you?”
“Well, no. But it was her. I know it was. She tried to kill me like she killed the others.”
Sorrows patted the air. “Right. But how’d she get in? Was she wearing the Mage Guard uniform?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
Davrosh leaned forward, putting a hand on Reshel’s knee. “Try to remember. Did you see a gray cloak? Black boots? Did she say anything?”
Reshel looked at her hands, folded in her lap. She shook her head.
“I don’t know. I remember lying in bed, then Master Ostev yelling at someone. I might have seen her. I think she had long yellow hair.”
Davrosh looked at Sorrows. “Sounds like her.”
Sorrows sighed. “Sounds like every gods-shunned elf I’ve ever met.”
“I’m sorry,” Reshel said. She started to cry. Davrosh looked at Sorrows. Orchole. He shrugged, turned to Ga’Shel.
“What did you see?”
“It was her,” Ga’Shel said.
“You’re sure?” Sorrows asked.
“Yes. But there’s something else you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s strong.”
“Already knew that.”
Ga’Shel shook his head. “Not like this, you didn’t.”
“Fine. So she’s strong.”
“There’s one more thing.”
Sorrows looked at Ga’Shel, raised his eyebrows. And?
“I don’t think she’s working alone.”
Chapter 39
YOU DON’T KNOW what went wrong, and now you have a problem. The plan was simple, inspired. It was as close to a spontaneous act as someone with your patience is likely to attempt. You thought about it for days. You planned. You accounted for all known variables. It should have been easy. It was meant to distract, to pull attention away from Nisha Davrosh. An apparent mistake to bolster false confidence. It was meant to be quick. It did not go as you expected. You were injured. You may have been seen. It was not a good outcome. But that isn’t the problem.
Your feelings for the human nearly cost you everything. You underestimate them time and time again. They distract. They make you act the fool. They pull you into action when you should remain hidden. As though he needs rescuing. But you cannot deny your feelings. They must be taken into consideration. They are more than simply acceptable risk; they are inevitable. And, unexpressed, they are crippling. You need to tell him. And he will be with Nisha Davrosh. It is time. Mastery is at your fingertips. This will all be over soon, and the reward is a place in the gods-realm. With you, a god. That is the true goal. After that, you might have anything you desire. Anyone you desire. If the ancients are to be believed, all gods are allowed their mortal infatuations. The human could be yours. It could start with you confessing your love for him, though doing so would leave you exposed, vulnerable. The thought worries you. But even that isn’t the problem.
The problem is the shadow. The same shadow which has been with you during the killings. The same shadow that carried the dagger. The same shadow that was so pleased after Zvilna Gorsham. The shadow is a problem because there is no way in all hells the shadow is a god.
No splitting chance. And that means someone knows about you. Knows everything about you. That makes you more vulnerable than your feelings ever would. That adds risk to Godscry before you’ve even started studying the elves. And that is unacceptable. That demands swift and immediate attention. Which means the next time you see the shadow, you will do what you should’ve done the moment it first appeared. You will kill it.
Problem solved.
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✽✽✽
THE DOOR OPENED, and light spilled into the room. But it was not enough to wake Sorrows. The wool coverlet was thrown back; the cotton sheet beneath it as well, leaving him naked on the bed, exposed to the cold. But he still didn’t wake. A hand grasped his shoulder and shook him. A voice spoke. Loud, sharp.
“Get up, Sorrows. It’s the Quarry. Time to hunt.”
Sorrows woke. Woke from a deep sleep. Mind and muscles disconnected but stirring. Heart and breathing slowed but accelerating. One beat, one flash of instinct. His arm snapped upward. He grasped the wrist above the hand on his shoulder. Another beat, another flash of instinct. He rolled, used his strength and weight to pull the figure close. Another beat. His free hand found the figure’s neck. Another beat, no more instinct. He was awake, and Oray was leaning over him, eyes bulging, free hand clawing at the hand around his throat. Sorrows let him go, shook his head.
“Gods, Oray,” he said. “Try knocking next time.”
“He did, orchole,” Davrosh said from the doorway. She grinned, chin stretching. Ga’Shel stood behind her, eyes roaming.
“Take a good look, sunshine,” Sorrows said. He yawned, rubbed his eyes. “I’ll expect dinner before you see me naked a third time.”
Oray rubbed his throat and coughed. His voice was hoarse, pinched. “No time for banter. Bodies. Fresh.”
Sorrows slid out of bed, found his clothes, put them on. Tied his boots, shrugged into his cloak. Strapped on his quiver, then his bow. He joined Oray, Davrosh, and Ga’Shel in the corridor; followed them to the entrance hall, then out into darkness and snow. A sled waited, dogs panted, breath clouded.
“What in all hells,” Sorrows said. “Aren’t we slipping?”
He turned, but Oray and Ga’Shel were gone.
“They are,” Davrosh said. “We’re not.”
Sorrows stepped onto the back of the sled, grabbed the handlebar. “Why?”
“I didn’t ask. Unlike you, I don’t question Oray when he gives me an order.”
“He ordered you to not travel with him and Ga’Shel? Out of the wind? Moving faster?”
Davrosh shrugged. “It’s my turn to steer, orchole.”
“Are you splitting serious?”
She was. He stared, she stared back. He conceded. The dogs ran, and the sled slid over packed snow. He tucked his knees, kept the bow close. The cold helped to wake him, but his eyes ached from lack of sleep. They rode in silence until stone turned to gravel. They approached the tavern, then slowed.
They stopped next to a dozen other sleds and twice as many city guards. Oray and Ga’Shel were already there, talking to captains Bravigan and Gorsham. They glanced at Sorrows and their eyes wrinkled. A few of the guards bent heads, pointed, murmured. Sorrows heard something that sounded a lot like, She makes him ride basket. He frowned, strung his bow, ignored a chuckle from Davrosh. Oray waved them over without looking. He stood beside a tavern table, studying a sheet of parchment. It was covered in lines, tangled and black; some roads, some buildings. The angles were all wrong, like a child had drawn the map. A good depiction of the Quarry. Bravigan ran his thumb along a row of squares.
“Blood in the snow here, two bodies inside.” He moved his hand past a road, tapped on three more squares. “More bodies here, here and here. Nothing more.”
Sorrows leaned over, tapped three streets. “If it killed north to south, then you’ll find it on one of these three.”
Oray nodded, ran his finger in an arc. “And if it moved south to north, then any of these.”
“We’re sending the patrols out now. The guards have horns and have been instructed not to engage.”
Sorrows jabbed his finger at a box between roads. “I’ll wait here with Davrosh.”
“I want Ostev there in case the situation escalates,” Oray said.
Sorrows nodded. Bravigan and Gorsham shouted commands. Dwarves scrambled. Ga’Shel disappeared and Sorrows and Davrosh returned to their sled. The horizon was gray with the whisper of sunrise behind thick clouds. Sorrows yawned, knowing he hadn’t found enough sleep. Knowing it didn’t matter.
The day had started for better or worse. And it was the last day before Nisha Davrosh.
✽✽✽
A HORN SOUNDED to the south, like the bleating of a ram. It echoed off stone and timber, split the morning quiet. The dogs stood, perked their ears, turned their heads. Sorrows pushed, the sled creaked into movement. He jumped on the back as momentum built and the handlebar pulled against his grip. The dogs mushed. The sled lurched and wobbled, then steadied. The horn sounded again. Davrosh rode in the basket, stringing her own bow, pointing as they drew closer. They turned the corner onto a narrow side street; the dogs strained up a steady slope. The horn sounded again, then shouting, then a scream. Primal, pain.
The Quarry was not without its havens. Pockets of comfort amid the squalor. Here and there a city block might have managed, through no small effort of its inhabitants, to sweep away the filth and decay of the outcast and ignored. Modest, well-maintained shops with living quarters above; streets kept flat and free of ruts. Stands of pine, old hardwoods left intact; an impromptu city square where none had been planned. A tavern where the ale was a bit stronger; a butcher who threw in an extra bone for soup; a baker whose bread was always warm and fresh. Havens.
The sled slowed amid storefronts kept clear of snow. Idyllic. Wood smoke drifted in the air, hickory and oak. A few of the shops had benches out front. A few of the shops had freshly painted signs. A butcher, a tinker, a potter. The street widened into a clearing. Scant decorations had been hung for Silversong Eve. They lingered in windows, though the holiday had passed. Snow packed on gravel became snow packed on stone pavers. A tree grew near the center, towering and old. Maple by the look of it. A few crimson leaves lingered on the branches. Beneath it, more crimson stained the snow, left a trail like ribbons.
Two dwarves in the black and gold of the City Guard held blades over a third, who wasn’t moving, just bleeding. An orc limped toward them, skin like tar pitch, arm hanging crooked from a torn shoulder. No tunic, trousers left in tatters, no boots, one foot dragging, one foot snapping forward with heavy, measured steps. Torso covered in deep wounds, like the goblin, like the half-born. The shoulder had been done by a sword. Another long gash marked the orc’s back. Another marked its side. Blood, intestines, sinew.
Sorrows loosed an arrow, reached to his quiver, leapt from the sled, slid to a halt, had another arrow at the ready. The first shot hit above the orc’s ear and lodged in its head. But it lumbered forward. The dwarves stood their ground, shielding the fallen guard. Sorrows loosed another arrow. Another hit. The orc kept moving.
“Give me your blade,” Sorrows said, extending his bow to Davrosh.
“You can’t be—” Davrosh said.
“Now,” he said.
She took the bow. His fingers grasped the hilt of her short sword. The orc was five paces from the dwarves. Sorrows was thirty from the orc. He ran, placed a hand over the Grimstone. Merabeth Valor, he thought. Felt the soul spread through his body like cold water running along his chest, legs, arms. His mind filled with the dance of battle. Lunge, parry, riposte. Variation and adaptation. He ran faster. The orc was four paces to the dwarves; Sorrows had cut his distance in half. Three paces and five. Two paces and none.
The orc stood half again as high as either dwarf. They lunged, thrusting at its abdomen, slicing at its legs. Mortal wounds on a mortal body. But the orc was different, changed. Like the half-born. Impervious. It felt nothing. Kept moving. Sorrows was a head taller. Had different targets than the dwarves. Lungs, heart, neck. The orc moved unaware, no defense. Sorrows saw his opportunity, felt the memory of the strike before it landed. An easy attack. A weak point on the orc’s muscled body. Blade through skin and spine. Neck severed, head falling in a spray of blue-green blood. But body still standing. Arms reaching. Hands grasping.
Steel flashed, and the dwarves turned the orc’s arms to stumps. Han
ds fell in the snow. More blood like spruce needles. Sorrows lunged, drove his blade through the orc’s back, felt the steel burst through the orc’s chest. Pivoted on his feet, set a foot behind the orc, leaned into the sword and twisted. Flung the body over his leg, sent it sliding onto the stone. More blood the color of lake scum. It mingled with the crimson from the dwarf. It pooled in the snow beneath the old maple tree, amid the shops and their freshly painted signs. Not as idyllic. The orc’s body spasmed, then lay still.
“Gods,” Davrosh said.
She knelt beside the fallen guard. Sorrows joined her, dropped to a knee, dropped her blade in the snow.
“Gods shun it,” he said. He dropped Davrosh’s blade on the snow.
“Saw him coming out that door over there,” one of the guards said.
“Was shoving something in his mouth,” the other guard said. “Got closer, saw it was a hand.”
The first guard shook his head. “Pesh ran in without a thought. Caught the orc’s shoulder, back, stomach. Should’ve killed the brute. Was brilliant swordplay.”
Sorrows looked down. Forehead caved in, hands intact. Dead, but Pesh’s soul could return to his gods. A small comfort. Sorrows put a hand on Pesh’s forehead.
“Live well,” he said.
“And die better,” the two guards said.
Davrosh glanced at him. He met her eyes for a moment before standing and walking to the orc’s head, lying near the base of the maple. He turned it over, looked into its dead, yellow eyes.
