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

Sorrows nodded. No better aphrodisiac than a day of merrymaking that culminated in a night of gifts and food and drink. Thirteen months later would be the harvest of seeds sewn in revelry. The predictability of lust and dwarves. Basic concepts. Easy to understand. But it created a problem of time and numbers. Eighty-three Maiden Dances meant eighty-three families that needed to be questioned once they reached Hammerfell. It meant two to four parties to guard every day. It meant they needed to find the common thread. Needed to reduce the number of potential victims.

“Tell me about the twins and Mishma,” he said. “Was anything different? Any wounds? Signs of struggle? Anything.”

Davrosh shook her head. “Each one lying in her bed. Arms wide. Arrow to the head. No signs of struggle. No traces of magic.”

They had left the storm behind, anchored to the road and the gods-stream. The sky was clear overhead, and the sun was bright. They walked at a brisk pace which forced Davrosh into a near jog. Despite this, she shivered.

“There is more, though,” she said. “And it’s not good.”

“None of this is good,” Sorrows said.

“It’s bad.”

“This is all bad.”

“I’m serious, orchole,” she said. “It’s the arrow.”

“What about it?”

“The shot struck the center of each girl’s forehead. The exact center.”

He slowed a step, looked at her, nodded. Understood.

Ga’Shel wasn’t one for tact or subtlety.

“A soul shot,” he said.

“I know,” Sorrows said.

“To sever the gods-bond.”

“I know what it means, Ga’Shel. But it wouldn’t work on a dwarf. Not there.”

“It would on a human.”

Sorrows sighed. Elves, he thought.

“Right,” Davrosh said. She looked at Sorrows. “Which is another reason I thought it might be you. The last human. The Grim Reaper. Driven mad by the soul of his dead wife.”

“Still a piss-poor guess,” Sorrows said. “But more understandable. And don’t call me Reaper. What about the girls’ hands?”

“Wrists intact. Silver bangles and all,” Ga’Shel said.

Sorrows nodded. “Then their souls wouldn’t wander. It’s a small comfort, but—”

Davrosh stopped, shook her head. “No. They’re severed. Their gods-bonds were broken.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Ga’Shel said. “We’re sure.”

“But their hands?”

“I’ve already told you,” Ga’Shel said. “Intact. No other wounds.”

Davrosh shrugged. “We don’t know how it was done.”

“You’re the Mage Guard,” Sorrows said. “What do you mean you don’t know? This is what you do. Vengeance of the gods-born.”

“I mean the victims still have their hands, but they’re dead. Dead-dead. Like mortals. We thought it might be the bow, or something you were able to do as the Reaper.”

Sorrows shook his head. Four gods-born dead was a problem. Four dwarf daughters dead was a big problem. Four dwarves killed and their souls severed from their gods? Sorrows wasn’t the scholarly type. He lacked the imagination and vocabulary to describe the situation adequately. He couldn’t measure it. Didn’t know how to influence it. It wasn’t a basic concept.

Sorrows shook his head. “You really don’t know anything.”

“Such an orchole,” Davrosh said. “We know enough. We’ll find this guy.”

“No,” Sorrows said. “Four dead, no signs of struggle, no forced entry, no evidence other than an arrow in each girl’s head. And gods-bonds broken where they shouldn’t be. You don’t have enough, and you won’t catch the killer. Not like this.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Ga’Shel asked. “If you know so much.”

“I know less than you, but at least I admit it,” Sorrows said. “You want my advice? When we get to Hammerfell, you figure out who has the next birthday, and you make sure the Mage Guard attends each party.”

“Deshka Ha’lem,” Davrosh said. “Two weeks from yesterday. We’ve already assigned guards to watch her day and night. But that didn’t help with Mishma Valinor.”

“Just the one birthday?”

“Just Deshka, yes.”

“Then you put a guard in her room. Have one sitting bedside. Have two or three. Have them sing her to sleep.”

“And then what?” Ga’Shel asked.

Sorrows stared at the road ahead. A cloud of leaves and debris hung in the air, blown about by a wind he couldn’t feel. Guided by a hand he couldn’t see. Back within the gods-stream, the world was swirling chaos. But within the influence of Ga’Shel’s magic, Sorrows could isolate a fragment, study its relationship to the pieces beside it, track its drift, predict its path. Less chaos. More pattern. All that was needed was to slow things down, focus on one leaf or one piece of bramble, observe, think. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. Focus. Think. One target at a time.

“You’re missing something important. You need to find it.”

“Just like that?” Davrosh asked.

“Just like that.”

Chapter 12

YOU WERE RIGHT to experiment with the orc. It taught you two important lessons, the first of which was how to handle strength. Dwarves, even young dwarves, are strong. Stronger than you anticipated. It is one thing to see the Stoneshapers sculpt granite with their hands. It is another thing entirely to be thrown across a room by a frightened dwarf daughter. The first is an abstract event, witnessed from afar. You are not the granite, after all. The second is visceral, tactile. The dwarf’s grip is strong. She hurts you. But you have been hurt before. You have been bitten, scratched, torn, and broken. Wounds heal. Lessons are learned. The path to mastery is one of many subtle, shifting steps.

The second and third daughters are proof of both your approach and your potential. They die without as much pain. Without the need to learn and adjust. The fourth daughter is refinement, near perfection. She presents a new challenge: the watchful eye of the Mage Guard. But you know elves. You know what they look for and what they ignore. You adjust. And by the time you place the arrow, you’re already thinking ahead to the next victim.

Yet despite your mastery over the first death, the Death of Body, you still fail at the second, the Death of Soul. And this would be safe enough, were it not for the orc’s second lesson. You have an enemy. One who would