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

spot to escape the fury. The clouds drifted apart; the moon appeared bright in the dark sky; the stars twinkled for an hour or so, then shone steady as the air cleared. The night grew crisp and cold.

Sorrows huddled under his cloak, bow bundled and strung across his back. A fire struggled in front of him, chewing on dried wood with cracks and snaps, hissing when it brushed against damp spots or bark. It wouldn’t amount to much, but he didn’t need much. It was already more than enough to send a message. He reached into a pouch at his waist, pinched a wad of dried leaves between his thumb and forefinger, tossed them into the flames. The fire sparked and flared purple for a moment before dying down to orange-yellow and orange-red. He settled back, waited.

He woke feeling eyes on his back. Didn’t remember falling asleep, but that was the nature of sleep. He stayed still, kept his breathing steady, listened. The fire had died. The cold made the night quiet. No snapping of flames, no chirping of crickets, no wind rattling the scant leaves overhead.

“I know you’re awake,” a voice said. High, clear. Like the whistle of wind through a hollow. Goblin.

“That didn’t take long,” Sorrows said.

“Been following you since you were two days out of Godscry.”

Sorrows rolled over, searched the darkness where the voice had been. A futile effort. A goblin wasn’t seen until it wanted to be seen. Most of the time they didn’t. Fen Costenatti was no exception.

“You alone?” Fen asked.

“Of course I’m alone,” Sorrows said. He made a show of pulling back his hood with one hand. With the other, he made a series of quick gestures. Not alone. Elves following.

He was guessing, but it was a good guess. The type of guess that elf scholars would call educated. The type of guess that had saved him more often than failed him.

“Good enough for me. I left the stuff you wanted by the tree you marked. Don’t be a stranger.”

A flash of light lit the woods, painting black silhouettes with green radiance. Silence.

Sorrows rose to his feet, stretched his arms overhead, yawned, scratched at an itch. He wandered through the woods to some random oak, its trunk covered in a patchwork of rough, gray bark and lichen. He bent over, riddled around the roots of the tree a bit, picked up a stone, and shoved it into a pouch, started back toward camp. He stopped halfway and found another tree, made a show of dropping his trousers enough to piss.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just grab your hand,” Fen whispered in front of him. “Or a fistful of your cloak.”

Sorrows blindly extended a hand. He still couldn’t see Fen, despite the goblin being close enough to smell.

“Let’s go. Get me out of here,” Sorrows said.

A shadow might show the shape of its master in height and width, but it lacks depth. It is less, in that way, than the one who casts it. Yet, without that depth, the shadow gains a measure of freedom. It moves unhindered across the landscape. It stretches over mountains and lingers in valleys. It climbs trees, crosses rivers, drifts upon the snow. Forest-walking is not so different. The Walker becomes a shadow of sorts, slipping from the gods-stream and losing his depth. But with that loss, he gains mastery. Time becomes his landscape. He stretches over new mountains and lingers in new valleys. Minutes become hours become days. His magic gains potency. He can bring others with him. And so they travel together as shadows through the world of the gods-born and mortals.

Sorrows woke with a start and found himself walking through shafts of autumn sun, pale golden ribbons that fell from the sky through the patchwork canopy. Forest-walking was a bit like waking within a dream. Everything slowed down, except his guide, who spoke in a rapid, unending string of paranoid observations.

“You’re awake? Finally. You’ve been sleepwalking for almost an hour. I think we’re being followed. You signaled elves earlier. Was there another Walker? You didn’t say anything about a Walker.”

Fen looked up at him, black eyes bright and wide, black hair short and messy. Pale green skin turned to silver in the moonlight. He was thirty years old. Was likely a fifth of his life had passed. Young. He and Sorrows had been friends for years. Almost a decade. Great friends. Then he’d introduced Sorrows to his sister. Now he and Sorrows were only good friends. Twin overprotection. A basic concept. Easy to understand. And in his case, somewhat justified. Relationships were always complicated with Sorrows. The one with Fen’s sister made his head hurt. Really made his head hurt. He winced, rubbed his temples.

“My head hurts. Why does my head hurt?”

Fen looked away. “You walked into a branch. Sorry.”

“A branch.”

“I said I was sorry.”

Accidents had a way of happening with goblins. Certainly with Fen. He was both aggressive and passive aggressive. Often at the same time. Sorrows stepped sideways, bumped his hip into Fen’s shoulder, sent the goblin stumbling.

“Sorry,” Sorrows said.

Fen eyed him sideways. “You’re such an orc split. This wouldn’t happen if you learned to wake-walk. I’ve told you a thousand times—”

“Can’t.”

“Did you even try?”

Sorrows shrugged. “Sure.”

Fen sighed. “If elves can do it, I’m sure you could too, if you’d just let me teach you.”

“Not all elves.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Fen pulled at his cloak, glanced over his shoulder. “I just know there’s a Walker.”

“If there’s a Walker, I know who’s following us. Have you seen anyone?”

“No.”

“Would you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Is this guy any good?”

Sorrows nodded. “He’s good. Hammerfell-in-ten good.”

Fen shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

“He said it and I believe him. Ten days.”

“I don’t give an orc’s split what he said. I’m telling you, Sol, it’s not possible. Unless there was a second Walker and they got real thin.” Fen glanced at Sorrows with wide, anxious eyes like glossy obsidian globes. “Is there a second Walker?”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

“The