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

owner to offer some scrutiny. Doubtful whether he had laid eyes on a human before. Sorrows didn’t get around that much and he was, after all, the last of his kind. But the scrutiny changed nothing. The silence remained.

Over eleven meals, Sorrows had sat alone in the room more often than he had shared it. Alone was good. Alone was quiet. Alone was the sunset painting the mountains in violet or orange while the owner wiped tables that didn’t need wiping and straightened chairs that didn’t need straightening. Tonight Sorrows was not alone. Not as good. Besides the three orcs, which hardly counted as guests, another couple sat in the opposite corner. The guy was an elf, tall and broad-chested, hair like white gold cut short and neat, loose crimson tunic and brown trousers. The woman was half-born, elf-dwarf favoring dwarf. She was short and stocky, dressed in a long skirt and hooded sweater, all brown to match the elf’s trousers. The elf was ageless. The half-born looked to be in her eighties at most, not yet middle-aged but no longer young. They both looked tired. They didn’t talk. But they kept their eyes off Sorrows, and after a cursory glance, he returned the favor.

The orcs were talking to the owner in a low stream of coarse grunts. Not loud, but not silent. When he moved away, they moved with him, not pressing, but blocking any path he might take to another table. The owner’s hand drifted to the coin purse at his waist, froze there like the orcs might not notice if he stayed still. The orcs did notice. They leaned forward, oiled skin reflecting the lamplight. The orcs were a lot bigger than the owner. They were a lot bigger than the half-born woman. They were a few fingers taller than the elf and carried more muscle. They were a few fingers shorter and carried less muscle than Sorrows. But there were three of them. And each wore a leather jerkin, sleeveless, but thick enough over chest and abdomen. And each wore thick leather trousers. And thick leather gloves. And then there were the three blades, one for each orc, notched and pocked with rust, but with enough of a point to slip into a stomach. The orc to the right of the owner was the largest of the three. His leathers were thick. His bare arms were heavy with muscle. He pounded his fist into his palm with a thud that echoed against the walls and rafters, dull and heavy. He ground his knuckles so that his leather gloves scraped and rasped against each other. I hit you, you break, he implied. His shoulders bunched as he leaned his head forward. Sorrows imagined the orc was grinning, showing tusks and teeth and flaring nostrils. The owner’s throat convulsed with a hard swallow. He glanced from orc to kitchen door to orc to orc.

The orc to the left of the owner wore a sleeve on his right arm. He either had some skill with a bow or had killed someone who did. He leaned forward, grasping the back of a chair, grinding it in his hands. Sorrows heard the wood splintering. The second orc grunted something at the first that sounded a lot like when they leave and jutted his chin at the elf. The third orc was the only one facing Sorrows. He had dull gray skin. Not the oily shadow typical of his species. It made him look ill. Maybe he was. He wore long leather gloves that covered his forearms to just below the elbows. Odd gloves for an odd orc. He kept his mouth shut but tipped his head toward Sorrows. The first orc glanced from the owner to his two companions and then to the shadows falling over the forest. He grunted something that sounded a lot like when the moon rises, and the owner followed his gaze to the empty sky and nodded. The orcs straightened, as much as orcs straightened, and shuffled past the tables and chairs, shoving them away with loud knocks and wood scraping against wood. As they passed by the last table, the first orc grabbed a chair and flung it against a wall. The chair broke apart, loud, and fell to the floor loud. The elf watched, amused, while the half-born woman studied her bread. The orcs pushed their way through the heavy front door, and a gust of evening air rushed in as they walked out. Sorrows watched them pass into twilight and disappear as the door closed behind them. The owner walked to the remnants of the chair and started picking up splinters from the floor.

“Need a hand?” Sorrows called out.

Words slip off a tongue like arrows fly from a string, and both can sometimes miss their mark. It was a foolish question to ask. The owner paused without looking up, twirled the fragment of a chair leg in his fingers, gave a shake of his head and returned to work. Sorrows pushed his empty mug away and stood, straightening tables and chairs as he walked to join the owner. The elf and half-born looked up from their table and watched Sorrows cross the room.

“I didn’t know you could speak,” the owner said. “Never saw your kind before.”

Sorrows shrugged. It was an honest enough mistake. He picked up fragments of the chair.

“They ask for food?” he asked.

“Ask, demand, take your pick,” the owner said. “Food, ale, coin. If I had a wife, I’m sure they’d take her, as well.”

“Do you?”

Another arrow, another miss. Zero for two. The owner gave a polite, dismissive smirk.

“Too much goblin for an elf. Too little elf for a goblin. Not many other options,” he said. He glanced at the door and changed the topic. “Had this tavern for a couple years. Slow, steady business, figured I was safe enough.”

“So close to the Edge, the scent of food was bound to bring trouble eventually,” Sorrows said.

The owner sighed. “I tried to