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

“Not interested,” Davrosh said, cold.

“Oh, c’mon, love,” the half-born said. “I’d treat you better than your orc friend here.”

The half-born reached in front of Sorrows, took the tankard, started to lift it. Sorrows grabbed his wrist.

“My drink,” he said. Low, full of threat and challenge.

“Hands off, lad,” the half-born said, pulling against Sorrows. “You ain’t had a sip since you got here.”

The half-born was strong. The tankard jostled. Ale sloshed onto the table. He jerked his arm, Sorrows released him. The half-born stumbled, caught himself with a hand on Davrosh’s shoulder. Chairs slid across the floor. A table emptying. Footsteps. Sorrows grinned, Davrosh stared at him. The tavern fell silent, tense.

The tension snapped in a rush of movement and sound. But it wasn’t Sorrows moving. He’d been ready and eager. Full of anger. He needed to fight. Someone. Anyone. Davrosh moved instead. First, fast. The half-born’s hand was on her right shoulder. She spun in her chair, grabbed his wrist with her left. He backed away. Instinct. She used the motion to pull herself up from the table, slip past him, behind him, while still holding onto his wrist. She twisted his arm behind his back. He cried out, contorted. She planted a foot on his waist. Kicked, sent him falling forward at the feet of three half-born who’d left their table. They might have been brothers. Their ages varied enough for it. Their looks were the right mix of dwarf and goblin. Their eyes went to the half-born sprawled on the floor. They were still staring when the ring of steel filled the tavern. Davrosh stepped forward, blade held low and loose.

“What’s this, lads?” she asked, grinning. Chin triumphant. “Thought you’d have a run at the mage guard, but didn’t bring steel?”

The half-born turned over, scrambled backward a step. Davrosh moved forward with him. His eyes were wide, his face flushed. He was sobering quickly.

“Apologies, love,” he stammered. “Was only having a bit of fun. Didn’t mean any harm.”

“Ha. Ha,” she said. She tapped her blade against the inside of his boot. “What fun. But why don’t you run along now and leave me to my ale. I’ve had a long day in a long week with more work ahead. If anything were to happen to you, I’d have piles of paperwork. Would keep me inside, out of the cold. And right now, I’ll admit the idea is tempting.”

The half-born stammered out another apology, received a cuff upside the back of his head from what could only be an older brother. Davrosh returned to the table. A minute later, the half-born serving girl appeared with fresh tankards and two whiskeys.

“On the house, my lady,” she said.

Sorrows stared at Davrosh. The anger had left. His muscles felt heavy and cold. Like a fire stoked then doused with rain. And his thoughts curled like black smoke.

“What are you staring at?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you think because I’m female I’d need saving?”

“Wasn’t thinking about you. Just wanted a fight.”

“I know. I saw it in your eyes. Except it might’ve gone farther than fighting. And killing’s still killing. Doesn’t matter that you lost a lover.”

Sorrows said nothing for a breath. Davrosh took another pull of her ale. The tankard was large, thick-walled. But she held it easily between her thumb and two fingers.

“You moved fast with that blade,” Sorrows said. “And I’ve seen you shoot. You mage guards know your way around a fight.”

“Flattery?”

“Honesty.”

“You should see me with a crossbow.”

“You’ll have to show me. Sometime.”

“Best shot in the tower.”

“Makes sense. You’re probably the strongest, too.”

“Probably.”

“You’re probably the best with a blade, too.”

Davrosh snorted. “That is an attempt at flattery. It’s common knowledge the elves are unmatched at swordplay. I wouldn’t last more than a minute against Ostev. Half as long against La’Jen.”

“Right,” Sorrows said. He pushed his tankard across the table as Davrosh set hers down empty. “But you could just as easy prick your palm to send Ga’Shel running.”

Davrosh laughed hard, loud. Heads turned. She grinned, grabbed her whiskey, held it up.

“To Master Ostev Ga’Shel,” she said. “A good friend and a bloody coward.”

Sorrows lifted his glass. “To Sunshine.”

Davrosh threw her drink back, swallowed, winced. Sorrows brought his glass close to his mouth, then hesitated.

“You’re sure there’s nothing between you two?” he asked. He turned, signaled to the bartender.

“I’ve told you before,” Davrosh said. “I’m not his type and he’s not mine. We’re just friends.”

“And not Oray?”

“Piss off.”

Sorrows set his drink down. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

“You sure about that?”

Sorrows pushed his whiskey across the table, held his hands out wide, palms facing forward. “I’m sure. Here. A peace offering.”

The moment balanced on the arrow’s point. They both sensed it. Both wondered which way it would tip. She studied him. He studied her. If she took the drink, it would mark a point of no return. She’d have to acknowledge his name. Would have to call him by it. They’d become something more than simply Master Remma Davrosh and orchole. They’d be friends, of a sort. But that would make things more difficult in some respects. More complicated. A bond was at the bottom of that glass of whiskey. They both knew it. Trust. Understanding. Expectation. I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine.

Any betrayal would be deeper, more savage, unforgivable. The more he thought about it, the more he regretted pushing the glass in front of her. He reached to take it back. He had questions. Had an idea forming. But he’d find a different way to loosen her tongue. To extract the information he sought.

She was too fast. Whether from thirst for more whiskey or from acquiescence of friendship, she took the drink and tossed it back. Slammed the glass on the table as the serving girl arrived with a bottle. She left and Davrosh poured.

“Drink,” she said. “Or for the love of your dead god, I’ll run my blade through your gut. I know it won’t kill you, but I bet it’ll hurt like all hells.”

Her tongue