by Dan Fish
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Where were you?” the orc asked. Silent, mouth moving, tongue flashing, lips forming breathless words.
“You need to stop this, Zvilna.”
The orc moved its mouth again. Words. But not the question. Sorrows said nothing, just stared. Studied the shape of the orc’s mouth, imagined the voice. Thought he understood.
“What did you find?” Davrosh asked. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook his head.
“It was her again.”
Across the clearing, a sled raced into view, then another. The first two guards had a blanket, were wrapping it around Pesh’s body. No sign of Oray, no sign of Ga’Shel.
“Where were you?” Davrosh asked.
Sorrows nodded. “But something else. Something new.”
“What?”
“I can’t be sure, but I thought she said, 'Lay my soul to rest.'”
“How? Does she mean the Grimstone?”
Sorrows shook his head. “No. The Grimstone is for human souls.”
“Then how?”
Take it, Gray Walker, and lay her soul to rest. Sorrows remembered the Fates, thought of the box. “I’m working on it.”
Davrosh let her hand slip from his shoulder, and knelt beside him, ran a thumb across the fletching of one of the arrows.
“Your bow didn’t work.”
“No.”
“Two good shots. Both in the head. Both fatal. Worked for the half-born and goblin.”
“Yes.”
“What changed?”
Sorrows sighed. “Julia.”
Davrosh turned, stared at him. He turned, stared back.
“What do you mean,” she said.
“She doesn’t enjoy killing. She withdraws.”
“Can she do that?”
“Apparently.”
“Will she come back?”
“She usually does, in time.”
“How much time?”
“Depends. I should try visiting her today. Might help.”
“Do it. If these possessed keep showing up every couple days, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Right.”
Sorrows stood. Davrosh joined him. They walked to her blade. He picked it up from the snow, cleaned off the blood. She took it, sheathed it. Handed him his bow. He loosened the string, slipped into the bindings on his back. He had seven arrows left. He’d pick up more at the tower. They walked to the sled. More dwarves had arrived. Half a dozen teams crowded the clearing. Thirty-six dogs, eighteen dwarves, and a dead orc. Less than idyllic. The shop where the orc had emerged was searched, bodies found, five in total. A half-born family. Faces torn, skulls bludgeoned, hands missing.
Gorsham and Bravigan arrived, gave commands. The black and gold of the City Guard hurried about the clearing, knocking on doors, asking questions. Pesh’s body was bundled and put on a sled. The orc was bundled in a similar, but less respectful manner. Still no sign of Oray or Ga’Shel. Davrosh suggested returning to the tavern. Sorrows agreed. She climbed in the basket. He started pushing. The dogs found purchase; the sled gained speed. Sorrows had just jumped on and settled into a comfortable lean when another horn sounded to the west.
Davrosh looked back. They locked eyes.
“More?” she asked.
He nodded, grim. “More.”
He steered the team to the west, and she restrung her bow.
Chapter 40
IVRA JACE OPENED the door and stepped into darkness. She walked to the table, lifted the copper hood from the glowstone lamp and looked around. The bed was in disarray, the sheet and coverlet tossed aside. A tub of cold water rested by the wall beneath the tapestry of an elf scholar. She looked at the water for a long moment, then shook her head. Slipped out of her patchwork cloak and rested it on the back of the chair in the corner. Walked to the bed and turned, sat down.
She pulled off her boots, then her socks. Flexed her toes. Smoothed the legs of her gray wool trousers. Pulled at the hem of her white linen tunic. She lay down and pushed her hair out behind her, shifted her shoulders back and forth until she was comfortable. Stared at the ceiling, traced her fingers over the bedsheets. She lay there for an hour, then another. Glanced at the door. Sighed.
“I love you, Solomon,” she said to no one. “I know it complicates things, but I’ve felt it for some time now, and I needed to tell you. About that, about everything. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Definitely not right away, maybe not ever. I know it’s difficult to understand the past; to make sense of the death, the killing. I don’t blame you. But the future could be more. So much more. I want to be with you.”
She took a deep breath then exhaled slowly, letting the air rasp over her lips. The ceiling was bathed in pale light. She raised her arm, held her hand high above her face, studied her splayed fingers for a moment, then wriggled, curled, and twisted them, forming shadows. She shifted, rolled her shoulders, pressed her head into the pillow.
“I love him,” she said again. “I know it complicates things, but I’ve felt it for some time now, and I needed to tell—”
Ivra Jace stopped, rolled onto her stomach and elbows, reached under the pillow. Pulled out a long, wooden box. She ran her fingers over its surface.
“These are elf runes. Old. Full of ancient magic.”
She spun her feet onto the ground, gathered her hair behind her head, tied it with a cord.
“I recognize them. And I have a good idea of what this box is meant for.”
She pulled on her socks, her boots, her cloak. Tucked the box into a pocket, walked to the door.
“And if I’m right, Solomon is in danger.”
✽✽✽
THE FIRST SHOT did nothing. Nor the second. A third shot struck the half-born’s chest. Slipped between ribs, plunged into a heart no longer beating. It, too, did nothing.
“Nice shot,” Sorrows said.
“Thanks,” Davrosh said.
“Sword,” Sorrows said.
“On your right,” Davrosh said. “I’ll take the bow.”
Sorrows looked to his side, took the hilt of Davrosh’s short sword, handed her his bow, turned and ran.
The street was not idyllic. It had no trees, no makeshift public square. It had no painted doors. The road was gravel and deep ruts. A tavern, a brothel, and somewhere close, a pigsty. Even if Sorrows hadn’t heard the beasts, he could smell them. One body lay broken in front of the tavern. No hands, torn face, collapsed forehead. Another half-born. Yellowed skin and eyes, sunken cheeks. He didn’t have much more life in him, but Sorrows guessed he’d have chosen a different end.
Zvilna’s soul had found a big fellow. Not as tall as the orc, but with enough dwarf in him to broaden his chest and shoulders into something menacing. He was fast. A fighter. Maybe a bouncer for the tavern. He held a spoke of black iron like a blade and swung it with enough conviction to slow the three dwarfs surrounding him. Their steel flashed and danced.
“Zvilna,” Sorrows said, sliding to a halt.
The half-born turned his head, frowned.
“Where were you?” he asked. His voice rasped like steel on a wetting stone.
Kissing an elf, Sorrows thought. Contemplating more. Felt guilt like a punch to the face. Shook his head.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Where were you?”
“You need to stop this, Zvilna.”
“Where were you?”
The dwarves glanced at one another. Eyebrows raised, shoulders shrugged. One would give a look that asked, What in all hells are they talking about? The next would answer, Hells if I know. The silent dialog passed between the three faster than words, then changed. Raised eyebrows became wrinkled foreheads. Shrugged shoulders became sharp nods. Understanding and agreement. Tactical. Trained. They were City Guard. They outnumbered their opponent three-to-one. They had sharpened steel. He had clumsy iron. And they were dwarves, gods shun it.
The half-born turned square to
Sorrows. Turned his back on one of the guards. The dwarf rushed in, boots crunching on gravel. Loud. An announcement. The half-born spun, quick. Like a fighter. He dodged to the side, took the point of the guard’s blade through his gut, just above the hip. A good strike by the dwarf. One that would cripple any other opponent. It didn’t even slow the half-born.
A desperate swing of the clumsy iron knocked away the second blade, which had rushed in from the side. The third blade hesitated for a second. Just a second. Less than a breath. But a second too long. The half-born lunged forward, letting the first blade slip through his gut and out his back. His hands were on the first guard. Strong hands that pulled the guard close, too close to risk swinging a blade. The half-born tore at the guard’s face, the guard screamed. The second and third guard traded a new look. Eyebrows were raised again. What now?
They didn’t ask Sorrows, but he had an answer. Had worked it out when the first guard rushed in and the half-born turned his back. Had held Davrosh’s blade loose and ready in his right hand while his left found the Grimstone hanging against his chest. He dismissed Merabeth Valor and her speed, her skill with a blade. Drinnegan Pine, he thought. Felt the sword turn clumsy in his hand, felt fire burn through his muscles. Saw the half-born as a small thing. Knew instinctively he could match strength and overpower. He lunged forward, wrapped his arm around the half-born’s arms, grabbed his wrists, pulled against them.
The dwarf guard scrambled away, his face scratched and bleeding. The second and third guard hooked hands under his arms and pulled him to his feet. They were safely away. No longer a factor in the fight. No longer a concern. Sorrows released the half-born’s wrists and sent him sprawling with a knee to the back. But the fighter hit the ground, tucked, and rolled neatly to his feet. Catlike. Fast. His feet found purchase in the ruts in the road. He ran forward, sprinting from edge to edge, each step building momentum. Broad. Strong. Prepared to launch himself at Sorrows, low. Sought to bring him to the ground where height and length were no longer an advantage.
But Drinnegan Pine had been a fighter of sorts as well. He didn’t retreat, didn’t hesitate, didn’t sidestep. Knew better than to give up his base. Knew the half-born was expecting the distance, was calculating when to jump so he could hit Sorrows with the most weight, speed, strength. Drinnegan knew and consequently Sorrows knew to close the gap, take away the expected. So he did. He took three steps. Left, right, left. Fast, finding his own ruts. The half-born adjusted. Couldn’t jump now. Not the same way. He lowered his shoulder, but Sorrows lowered his too. Sorrows brought his right elbow back, tight like an arrow drawn to cheek. He drove it forward into the half-born’s face. Felt nose and teeth and the thin skin of bone breaking, pushing inward, soft. Heard the crunch; wet, grinding.
It was a hit that would kill any mortal species. It dropped the half-born to the ground, stunned. He collapsed, blood running, dripping onto snow-packed gravel. He leaned forward, pushed against the ground, rose. But Sorrows was on top of him, grabbed his arms, pushed his knee into the half-born’s back, pulled.
“Why are you doing this, Zvilna?” he asked, straining.
“Lay my soul to rest,” the half-born said, thickly, impeded by his broken face.
“How?” Sorrows asked. “How do I do that?”
“Lay my soul to rest.”
Sorrows half expected the response. Which meant he was only half surprised to hear it. Was half disappointed to guess at what it meant. He thought of the Fates. Thought of the box he’d received in the Quarry. A long box, ornate with elf runes, which meant elf magic. The kind of box that might hold a dagger. He thought of the four killers imbued with Zvilna’s soul, covered with deep wounds as wide as his thumb. It was too familiar to be coincidence—the weapon, the souls, the Fates and the box. It had to be the job. Was always the job. He was always the Reaper.
“Blade,” Sorrows said, looking at Davrosh.
Davrosh was half-elf, measuring, calculating. She had a sharp mind, understood strategy and tactics. She had the blade in hand and moved toward Sorrows before he spoke the word. She was half-dwarf, strong, capable, unafraid. She knew the distance, lifted the blade, dropped to her knee as she brought it down. The half-born strained, the blade severed, Sorrows held until the body fell slack. Then he stood, straightened his cloak, dismissed Drinnegan with a thought.
“Nice work,” he said.
“You, too,” she said. “Lay my soul to rest? What did he mean by that?”
“Not he,” Sorrows said. “She. It’s Zvilna. All of these have been Zvilna.”
“How is that possible? The way she fought the guards, you. She couldn’t have done those things alive. Zvilna wasn’t a fighter.”
He shrugged. “No, I suppose not. But the half-born was.”
Davrosh shook her head. “How is she choosing who to possess?”
“I don’t think she’s choosing at all.”
“Jace?”
“Has to be.”
“How do we stop her?”
“I’ve got a good idea of where to start. But no idea of how to finish.”
Davrosh cleaned her blade, sheathed it. A sled arrived, then another. Bravigan, not Gorsham. Two captains, two crime scenes. Bravigan went to his men, gestured to the wounded guard, gestured to a sled, pointed toward the first crime scene where the healer had been. They talked to Sorrows, talked to Davrosh, bundled the half-born body, loaded it for transport.
Sorrows and Davrosh walked back to their sled. Davrosh climbed into the basket, Sorrows leaned against the back. He pushed, the dogs mushed, the sled slid.
A third horn sounded further west.
Chapter 41
JULIA STOOD BEFORE Sorrows: same white dress, same long black hair. Same eyes like the night sky. She didn’t see him. Her eyes narrowed, her forehead wrinkled. She looked from one side to another. She walked, he watched. She craned her neck forward, tilted her head, listened.
“Julia,” he said.
He sat on the bed, leaned against the oak headboard, winced. Lifted a hand, rubbed the back of his head where the chair had hit. The memory of it lingered on his shoulders and on his back as well. He wondered why it was always the back of his head that seemed to get hurt. Decided it was better than the front of his head. Broken nose never felt good. Broken jaw was painful, as well. He sighed.
“Julia,” he said again.
She hesitated. Stopped walking. Listened.
“Julia,” he said a third time.
She turned toward him, squinted, took a step forward, then another. She ran across the room, stopped in front of him, extended her hand. He reached out to her, and their fingers passed through one another’s. She smiled. He smiled back.
“You abandoned me today,” he said.
She frowned, shook her head, flipped her hair back over her right shoulder with her right hand. He waited. Knew what was coming. Didn’t enjoy it when she was alive. Would’ve given anything now to have it back again. She stomped her left foot, folded her arms right over left, pursed her lips. Then immediately unfolded her right arm and pointed at him. Her lips moved without sound, her tongue flashing behind her teeth. A flurry of soft curves and circles and lines. She made an emphatic point and flung her arms out wide, as though the power of her fury threw them from her chest. He watched, could have watched for hours, days. She could yell at him for eternity, and he’d be a willing prisoner. But she didn’t. Not when she was alive, and not now. Her temper faded as quickly as it flared, like the bolt beneath the storm. Bright and violent and then gone in a crack of thunder.
“I love you,” he said.
Easy words to say. Easy to read on lips and in eyes. Her shoulders relaxed. She mouthed the words back to him. I love you too, Solomon. He spun on the bed, grimaced, put his feet on the floor. Cold. He rested his elbows on his knees, met her gaze. Her eyes roamed over his chest, the bandages on his shoulders and arms. She took a step forward, brought a hand to her mouth, pointed at his hand. What happened? An easy question to read
. He held up his hand, wriggled three fingers and a thumb.
“Goblin got my little finger,” he said. “I was thinking of having it removed, anyway.”
She reached toward his shoulders. Her fingers passed through strips of white cloth. She looked at him, lifted an eyebrow.
“Half-born used me to break a chair,” he said. “In her defense, I’d just insulted her mother.”
Why? A simple question. Almost an accusation. One he’d heard more than I love you. One she always preceded with a sigh. He saw the sigh, imagined her breath on his face, neck. Caught the question. Leaned forward, put his hands to either side of her hips, imagined taking her dress in his fingers. Imagined pulling her to him. She imagined the same, took a step closer, brought her hand to his face.
“I need you with me,” he said. “The people I’m killing aren’t people anymore. They—”
She stepped back, could sense death in his thoughts. He held his hands out, shook his head.
“It’s not like that. They’re monsters, Julia. They kill. They need to be—”
She took another step back, shook her head again.
“Julia, you need to believe me. They need to be stopped or people will die. So many have died already.”
She shook her head, mouthed another easy word. No. He sighed, stared at her. Had known it would come to this moment. Hadn’t known what he would do or say to convince her. Knew he didn’t want to lie to her. Not Julia. Not ever. Knew he had to.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. He smiled a little. Made sure it reached his eyes. Made sure it looked sincere. Conciliatory. “Okay, Julia. No more.”
She lingered at the edge of the room, half frowned, half pouted. He held out his hand.
“No more,” he said again.
She nodded, took a deep breath, sighed, walked back to him. She said something. He couldn’t read her lips, could never read her face. He shrugged, smiled small. She rolled her eyes, knelt in front of him, studied his hand. She looked up.
“It’ll grow back,” he said.
If she knew half the injuries he’d suffered, she wouldn’t worry over a finger. Or maybe she would. Maybe it wasn’t about the finger. Maybe it was about his pain, no matter how small. She had always cared. Especially when he didn’t. Maybe that separated her from him more than the distance between planes. Whatever it meant, he knew a finger would never bother him. Nor an arm, or a leg. His life was pain. He’d lost parts of himself that could never grow back. Now he just felt the memory of them. Sharp, sudden. When something reminded him they should be there. Like reaching without a hand, stepping without a foot. Julia flickered. Pressed forward to kiss him. Passed through him, faded away. Sharp, sudden.
