But then I was dead, so I was no one to talk.
The fort in the trees was probably a relic from the times of the Cataclysm. Rough stone walls, the wooden double gate, a short stone-based tower to the left — all fallen into rot and ruin.
This place came with a third hobgoblin, lying facedown in the open gateway. The butt and fletching of yet another crossbow bolt was visible just under his leather armor; he'd fallen on it and broken the shaft after it had struck him. Humming flies circled over him, many feeding where his left ear had been. His arms were caught under him. He'd grabbed at the shaft, just as I had done. His sword was still nestled in its scabbard at his side. Another surprised customer.
Through the open gateway, we could see the fort's overgrown main yard, small when it was new but more so now with the bushes and trees thick in it. On the other side of the roughly square yard was the barracks building, its stone walls and part of its roof still standing. To the right, against a wall, was a low building that had probably been the stables. The tower to the left was mostly rubble. All was quiet except for the flies.
Orun glanced at me, then carefully leaned over the fallen hobgoblin and took hold of its rigid face with his free hand. Thick fingers poked at a gray cheek, then tugged down an eyelid to reveal a white eyeball.
"Dead 'bout a day," he muttered. He squinted up at me, then glanced around the fort's yard. "Think we're alone here," he added, matter-of-factly.
I nodded and went on through the gateway, the dwarf coming behind me.
The yard was largely covered with tall grass and thorn bushes. Trees stretched skyward by the stone walls. Someone, probably the hobgoblins, had partially covered the damaged barracks roof with animal hides. Pathways had been recently beaten through the tall grass, linking the barracks with the main gate. The stables to the right had their original roof and appeared more habitable than the other structures. The hobgoblins could stay safe and dry within the stables, firing through arrow slits at all intruders.
Intruders like us.
A squirrel ran lightly over the stable roof, stopped when it saw us, and watched with curiosity. It fled when I stared at it for too long.
"Bet you a steel," Orun said, pointing his axe at the barracks, "the rest of 'em's in there. Maybe your killer whatever's in there, too. Better go look."
We moved closer, Orun generously letting me lead. Dark shapes lay on the floor beyond the open barracks doorway. The dwarf stopped about thirty feet back from the single stone step, axe ready, watching both me and the doorway. He was no fool.
I hesitated only a moment before I mounted the step and went inside. The buzzing of insects filled my ears in the darkness. Weak light filtered in from the doorway and through holes in the makeshift roof. Water dripped constantly from above, splashing across the room.
As I looked around, I was glad to be dead. Not that the sight of bloated bodies affected me any longer as it once had on the bloody plains of Neraka. It was mere scenery now, shadows that held no terror. No one screamed, no one cried, nothing hurt. Everywhere I looked inside were bodies, and everywhere were black flies and crawling things at a morbid feast, carpeting the discolored, twisted bodies of the hobgoblin dead.
I counted eight bodies. Five clutched at their throats or faces. The rest gaped at the ceiling with bulging eyes and open, soundless mouths, their rigid arms grabbing at their chests or locked open in grasping gestures. It was hard to tell what they had been doing, but not one had made a move for his weapon. All swords were sheathed or leaning against the walls.
I looked around the room. There was a door to the right, apparently leading to the stables. The wood was gray with age and appeared ready to fall apart. It opened with ease.
Beyond the doorway it was very dark. I walked carefully to avoid stumbling over bodies that might be in the way. I didn't find any until I got into the stables themselves.
The hobgoblins had apparently cleaned up the stables and made them into a tidy home. Gray light leaked in from small holes in the ceiling and outer walls. The interior walls had long ago rotted away, but the hobgoblins had shoveled the debris with great efficiency. An ash-filled circle of stones served as a seat by a fire pit. A large mass of rotting cloth, half covering a pile of dry leaves, appeared to make up a bed. It was sufficient, if not cozy.
The body near the fire pit was the room's only occupant. I knelt down by it and took a long look. In life, it would have been the biggest hobgoblin I could have ever imagined — a head and a half taller than me. Even in the near darkness, I could still see a massive burned spot across the front of his hide armor. I'd seen its like only once before, when storm lightning had killed one of my uncle's horses in its pasture.
I looked up. The stables' roof was solid.
On impulse, I got up and walked over to the bed, searching the rags until I found a suitably long strip of cloth. This I wrapped around my chest with a bunched-up rag covering the bolt wound, then tied it off. I tried a few words and discovered that I could speak almost normally now, though I still sounded as if I had rocks in my throat instead of vocal cords.
"Thought I heard you talkin' to yourself," Orun muttered when I came outside. He'd moved closer to the barracks doorway, but the stench was obviously getting to him. He held his nose until he was away from it. "Any ideas what happened to our hob buddies?" He indicated the doorway with the axe.
I shook my head. The dwarf frowned and looked around. "What did for 'em?" he asked absently, then turned back to me. "There anyone else in there 'sides hobs?"
I shook my head no.
"No sign o' another dwarf, maybe? Kinda whitelookin' one, real ugly?"
Again, I shook my head, but more slowly. "Why?"
Orun looked away at the fort and mumbled something that I didn't catch.
"Sewer?" I repeated.
"No," he said in disgust, setting his axe down to rub his hands together. "Damn that runt. Theiwar."
The name was familiar. It had to do with a race of dwarves, I recalled. "Theiwar?"
"Jackals," he said thickly. "All of 'em are. Call 'emselves true dwarves, but no relation I ever heard of. Some of 'em throw spells, the tougher ones do. Never let a Theiwar get behind you 'less he's already dead, and then you'd still better think about it. Born for evil, all of 'em."
A dwarf that threw spells? I'd never heard of such a thing, but I was beyond the point of disbelieving almost anything now that I was dead. "What kind of spells?" I asked.
"Oh," he said, "all sorts. Some of 'em's killer-type spells. Poison-gas spell's one of 'em. Could be what did for our hob buddies in there." He indicated the barracks. "Don't know what all they can do."
"You're hunting a Theiwar?"
Orun grinned self-consciously. "Funny you ask. Am at that." He looked up at me. "Bounty hunter. Come from Kaolyn. You know Kaolyn? Nice place."
Kaolyn was a respectable dwarven mountain kingdom, about eighty miles southwest of Twisting Creek. "Why hunt a Theiwar?"
He stroked his damp beard. "Traitor to Kaolyn. Supposed to've been spyin' on the draconians and hobs for us, chiselin' out a few when he could. Some Theiwar'll help you for the love of steel in their hands; some'll help you for the love of killin'. We put 'em to use." He sighed. "Gotta be done. War is war."
"What happened?"
Orun snorted. "Loved the killin' part too much, that one. Wanted more for 'imself. Sold out to the Blue Dragonarmy, east of here, and got to spyin' on us instead. We caught on and went after 'im. Got away with a band of hobs, and I bet these are them. Same armor, same tribal markin's." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with his broad fingers. "Don't know if he was the one who did for his own band, or why. Been the Dark Queen's own spawn to catch, that's for sure. Got real good with them 'lusions, changing his looks and all." He glanced down at his spikebacked axe, lying against his leg, then picked it up and hefted it, feeling its weight. "Sure was lookin' forward to meetin' 'im."
"What was his name?"
"The Theiwar? Garith. No last
name."
My curiosity was aflame. Could it have been the same Garith I'd heard the hobgoblins talking about? I was on the verge of asking more when everything inside my head changed.
The sun had just set. The darkness had diminished perceptibly within the last few moments, but I knew on an even deeper level that the sun had gone. Something inside me woke up. It was like seeing and hearing after being born without eyes or ears. It was as if I knew everything now, everything that really mattered.
"Evredd?" Orun called as I left the fort. "Evredd!" I heard him swear loudly, then hurry after me with a hardthumping gait.
I went to the edge of the cliff overlooking the place where I had been killed. There, past the bodies of the two hobgoblins, I stopped and gazed out to the southwest. Strength gathered in my limbs. My hands began to itch, and my fingers curled and uncurled uncontrollably.
All of a sudden I knew: I needed to head southwest as quickly as I could.
"Damn, you move fast for a dead boy," huffed Orun as he stopped behind me about twenty feet back. "You on to somethin', ain't you? I hear if you a rev'nant, you can smell your killer in the dark. You smell your boy out there?"
I turned and looked back at the dwarf. Another hand or two might be useful for what was coming.
"Follow me," I said, and started for the trail. I kept my stride slow so that Orun could keep up, but even then he had to jog. He followed and peppered me with questions that I ignored, then swore outrageously in frustration.
Ahead of me, miles away in the falling darkness, I sensed a presence moving. It wasn't really smell, and my night-awakened senses couldn't tell me who my killer was, but I knew where he was, exactly where.
If I hurried, maybe he and I could chat.
We walked for the entire night over lightly forested plains and across shallow streams. Orun kept up the pace beside me until he puffed like a horse, his chain-mail armor jingling rapidly as he moved. "Tired yet?" he asked once, but I never responded. The killer was ahead of us by a long distance.
"Doing okay myself," Orun said, sometime later. "Did this durin' the war. Marched two days once and never stopped." His words were almost lost as his breath gave out for a moment. "Fought an army o' hobs with my brothers right after that. Whipped 'em in one hour. Ran 'em right off into a canyon. Good day, you bet."
I said nothing. I was straining to see what else I could detect about my killer. I let my mind be open to everything.
"Like I said, I'm from Kaolyn," Orun went on, between his panting. "You know Kaolyn — up in the Garnets, nice place. I tell you that? Came out to see the world and fight in the war, been here and there ever since. You been to Kaolyn? Gotta see it sometime." I heard Orun pull free of a briar that caught his cloak. His armor clinked like a background song. "Real pretty in the spring."
The dwarf was silent before he asked, in a different tone, "Smell your killer man?"
I said nothing.
"Too damn nosy, that's me," he said with a sigh as he trotted along. "That's what they always said back at Kaolyn. Too damn nosy. I — "
"Yes," I told him, watching the dark fields ahead.
"Oh," Orun said, now haughty. "Well, now, I'm hardly as nosy as some people."
"Yes," I repeated, louder and more distinctly, "I can SEE my killer."
"Oh," Orun grunted, then said, "was told you smelled 'im." We traveled in silence for hours after that.
As the horizon in the east grew brighter, something began to slip out of my head. The clarity of mind I'd felt before ebbed away, and my sense of my killer's whereabouts grew elusive, foggy.
"Gettin' tired?" Orun asked, shortly before dawn. The sky was still overcast, and no rain had fallen.
"Tired?" Orun repeated a little later. I turned and saw rivers of sweat dripping from his face and beard.
"No," I said, not stopping. I could continue at this pace forever, but I'd noticed that my prey was slowing down. Was he tired already? He'd soon regret every pause for breath. "You?" I asked, wondering if Orun would make it.
"Haven't died yet," he said, then coughed and grew quiet for several minutes in embarrassment. He had eased the distance between us down to six feet during the night; he didn't increase it again. He seemed to be getting quite used to me.
The killer I was tracking continued to slow down as the cloud-hidden dawn approached. When the sun arose behind the thick morning clouds, my inner sense of the killer's location faded within moments. Some of my supernatural energy seemed to dissipate as well, but I was able to keep moving at a steady walking pace. Maybe the energy loss at dawn was part of being a revenant. Maybe I drew some of my sustenance from darkness. Since this was my first mom-ing as a dead man, perhaps my ignorance could be forgiven.
By now I knew where the killer was headed. I knew the way to Twisting Creek blindfolded, having hunted across these plains only months before. It was nearly noon when we crossed an abandoned cart road and entered a small forest, beyond which lay the ruins of a preCataclysm farmhouse. Only the stone foundation remained of the structure, and young trees lifted their branches where ground-floor rooms had once been. A brook ran through the trees nearby.
"Whoa," Orun huffed. "Hold there. Stop for a bit." He slowed down, dropping behind me. "Lemme rest."
I stopped, though I felt a powerful urge to continue on and catch up with my killer. I raised a thin hand and waved at the forest and ruins. "Rest," I croaked.
Orun grunted his thanks and wandered down to some trees for privacy, then went to the stream bank and placed his polished axe with care on a fallen log. Dust covered his face and clothing, and he was streaked and splattered with his own sweat. He set his helmet aside as he knelt at the stream, then bent over and splashed water on his head. After taking a long drink and rinsing off, he settled back on the bank, rubbing his knees.
Only the brook spoke for a long time. I thought about the dead hobgoblins, my cousins, and myself. I wondered who had killed us all, and why.
I studied Orun then. He had leaned back against the fallen log on which his precious axe rested, his stumpy legs stretched out. His dark wet beard was as tangled and chaotic as a mop.
"Tell me about Theiwar," I said.
Orun glanced over in surprise. "Like what?"
"Everything," I said.
Orun shrugged. "Know anything at all 'bout 'em?"
"No."
"Mmm," he said. He looked down, chewing his lips. "Theiwar. They're sorta like dwarves, but not normal. Not at all like true dwarves. They're uglier, o' course. You heard me say they throw spells, and they do that. But they're weaker. Sunlight makes 'em puke; can't stand it at all. Have to hide in the day or else wrap 'emselves up in black. Inbreedin' does it."
He paused for thought. "Not ugly only on the outside, either. They're cowards, thieves, murderers. Those're their good points." He smiled only briefly. "They're like a bad relative. You got a distant cousin you hate. He cheats, lies, steals, thinks he owns the world. He's still family, 'long as he obeys the rules o' the house. Follow me so far?"
I nodded and thought about the hobgoblins. "They collect trophies?"
"Sure do. Ears they like — easier to cut off than fingers. Save 'em up, show 'em to their friends. Use 'em to prove their kills. Eat 'em later, maybe. Don't know, don't want to know." He stroked his shaggy beard.
"Theiwar use crossbows?" It was a long-overdue question.
"Sure," he said. He got to his feet, dusting off his trousers and cloak. "Got all sorts o' funny weapons, but they do like them crossbows."
It made sense that a Theiwar might have been my murderer. I knew a dwarf could see enough well in darkness. The Theiwar could have gone right up the cliff after killing me to do in the hobgoblin lookouts, then the rest of them. But why would a Theiwar kill me? Did he or the hobgoblins kill my cousins? Why would he kill his own allies? It made no sense.
Orun stomped his feet, then looked at the forest and ruins. He glanced back at his axe, still on the log, then shrugged and spat.
; "Never thought I'd see a rev'nant, or talk to one," he stated, adjusting his cloak. "One of my old kin, great uncle, he was one. Lemishite killed 'im out in a field, took his steel. Broan came back, blood still on 'im, and called for aid. Two of my kin went with 'im. Found the Lemishite halfway back to his home. My kin came back, but not Broan. Kin never spoke of it much. Hundred, hundred ten years ago."
He rubbed at his throat. "Seen others who came back, but not like you. Walkin' dead, mindless. Black Robe wizards like 'em. Had one pass through Kaolyn once. Didn't let 'im stop. Had a bunch of dead helpers." Orun's face twisted with disgust at the memory. "Wizards," he sighed.
"Did you know this Garith?" I asked.
A muscle twitched in Orun's left cheek, pulling on the side of his mouth. He looked toward the road, remembering. "Was his contact with Kaolyn, kind o' to keep an eye on 'im. Supposed to have known what he was doing when he was killin' our people off, but he got by me." The dwarf grunted, pulling the cloak tightly around his shoulders. "Almost did for me, too, but I was lucky. Damn lucky."
I eyed him for a few moments. "You want him."
Orun was silent for a moment more, then slowly turned around and grinned at me in a dark way, almost shyly. "Sure do," he said, eyes like arrow slits in a fortress. "Want 'im bad. He killed some good friends o' mine. My fault, really. I know how y'feel. You want to get your claws 'round his scrawny neck and squeeze his life out, make 'im feel what you felt. That right?"
I said nothing.
He grinned more broadly. "Well, you miss 'im, and I'll finish it for you. Lookin' forward to it. Our boy's been a busy little runt, killin' everything he can find. Got it in for everyone, like the rest o' 'is folk. Thinks he's a bad boy. But he won't like seein' you and me together."
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" I asked.
The dwarf looked me over in silence, then snorted as if he'd heard a bad joke. "You want me to be afraid there, dead boy? I'll tell you somethin'. In the war, my commander got 'imself killed by a draconian, sivak type. They're the big silver ones what change their shapes when they kill someone, so they look like what they just killed. You heard 'bout 'em?"
The War of the Lance t2-3 Page 6
