Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 by Dan Fish (no david read aloud TXT) 📕

impossibly perfect face with a plausibly haughty smirk. The mark faded as more magic eliminated dirt, restored thread and weave. The scent of sandalwood wafted in the air. He placed his bow on a table in the corner and stared at it for a long moment.

“Wish you could join me,” he said. “You have no idea.”

He stripped off his clothes, padded across a mosaic of pale stone, and looked up at the tapestry.

“I won’t enjoy this any more than you, swear to the gods.”

He tore the weave off the wall and wrapped it around his body. Magic coursed over his skin like ice water. He kept the tapestry moving until the dust and sweat of the road was removed, until sandalwood replaced the stench of the Seph-orc, until the filth of humanity had been swept away by the magic of the elves. It wasn’t exactly a respectful thing to do with a piece of elf art, but he didn’t exactly respect elves. He spread the tapestry on the floor, threw his clothes and boots into the center, and sat down, skin to thread to stone.

“Maybe I did enjoy it,” he said, flipping a boot onto the Forestwalker’s nose. “What? Don’t look at me like that.”

The door to the waypoint burst open and figures rushed in. Seven. A squad. They moved fast. Organized. One after another they swept into the room until Sorrows found himself surrounded and somewhat exposed. Elves. Each wearing the same gray cloak and skirt. Each with black leather boots, bright and crisp. Each with a black leather jerkin that dropped a handspan past his or her waist. Each with bright steel hanging at his or her hip.

“What’s the Mage Guard doing this far out?” Sorrows asked, turning his head to survey the room. “You lost?”

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. Held it firmly. He looked. The half-born woman from the tavern. Her elf companion stood beside her, sword raised, eyes roaming. She released her hold on Sorrows, stepped back.

“On your knees,” she said.

“There some law against being handsome and naked?” he asked.

She said nothing, glanced at her elf companion, nodded.

The sword tracked Sorrows. He held up his hands, palms facing outward. Worked his way up onto one knee, then both. The tapestry wasn’t thick. The floor was hard. It hurt his knees. He saw a shape pass in front of a window. There were seven elves inside, there would be as many surrounding the waypoint. There would be others, maintaining a perimeter in the woods. There would be others patrolling the paths.

“What are you doing here?” the half-born asked, glancing from Sorrows to his clothes.

“Hygiene,” he replied. “Mortal races tend to stink when we’re not clean.”

“Doesn’t justify vandalizing a waypoint,” the elf counterpart offered. “Besides, mortal races tend to stink regardless.”

Low chuckles around the room. Sorrows turned his head, and they fell quiet. He caught a female elf studying him a little too closely. She met his gaze. Frowned. No shame. No guilty blush. All elf.

Sorrows winked at her. “It’s cold in here. Don’t hold it against me.”

The half-born kicked at his clothes with her boot. Turned and approached his bow.

“Elf-crafted?” she asked in a tone that said she already knew the answer.

She reached for the bow. He tensed. The point of her elf companion’s sword drifted closer.

“Touch it and we’ve got a problem,” Sorrows said.

She stopped, glanced at him, let her gaze drift down below his waist. “You say that to all the girls?”

“Just the ugly ones.”

She flushed but turned away. She pointed at the Grimstone.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Family heirloom.”

She nodded to herself, kicked some more at his cloak. Bent down, counted the arrows in his quiver. The door was open. The air was cold. He shivered. She noticed.

“You uncomfortable?”

“No. You?”

She ignored the question. “You want to put your clothes back on?”

“Would you rather I keep them off?”

It was the wrong thing to ask. Elves had no sense of humor. And it was a strong enough trait that it overwhelmed the half-born’s dwarf side. Her jaw clenched, her nostrils flared. But she didn’t take the bait. She looked from Sorrows to her elf companion and nodded again. Hands took his arms and hoisted him to his feet. Shoved him off the tapestry.

“He tore it,” an elf said behind him.

“Doesn’t matter,” the half-born said, gesturing to the wall. “Hang it. The magic will pull it together.”

Sorrows had tried to outdrink a dwarf once. Impossible. The two had spent an evening trading shots of whiskey and throwing knives at a painting of some elf magi until Sorrows passed out. Left the picture in shreds. He woke the next day hurting like the Curse. But the canvas was pristine, the magi smug, and the scent of lavender hung in the air. Elf magic.

“Get dressed,” the half-born said. “Come outside.”

She left and her elf companion followed. The rest of the squad stayed behind and watched Sorrows slip back into his still-damp clothes. He caught the female elf staring again. Heard her say something to another elf that sounded a lot like odd, round ears. He didn’t care enough to banter. He dressed, wrapped his quiver and bow in an oiled cloth, and slung the bundle over his shoulder. Pulled his hood over his head and stepped into a steady drizzle. Water beaded on his cloak and slipped off his sleeves. Another squad waited outside. The waypoint emptied. The door closed with a thud. Heavy wood framed in stone. Elves surrounded him. All dressed in black and gray. All wearing steel. Sorrows was outnumbered and confused. And he didn’t like being either.

“Walk,” the half-born said.

And he didn’t like being told what to do. Not by anyone. Certainly not by an elf. Even if she was only half elf. Even if she was white-knuckling the hilt of her sword like she wanted nothing more than to turn around and use his gut as a sheath. He planted his feet. Received a shove in the back. Stumbled forward two steps. Planted his