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

had been drowned into smooth submission. Forty paces long, another seven high. It had one door and no windows along its front. But it had a glowstone lantern hanging above the rough painting of an impossibly buxom goblin holding a tankard. The letters below read Hammer and Ales. Sorrows pushed the door open and stepped in. Jace followed close.

The door shut behind them, rattling a strip of metal nailed near its top. The tavern was brighter than the night, but the corners were still lost to shadow. Tables lined the walls and filled the center. A low, grinding voice called out something that sounded like sit or leave. Jace spotted an open slab of pine propped against the opposite wall. She stepped past Sorrows and walked to the table. Slid a chair out for him, then did the same for herself. Sorrows took the bow off his back, shrugged his cloak onto his chair. Jace slipped out of her cloak, then finished unbuttoning her jerkin, started pulling it off.

“Leave it,” Sorrows said, glancing around. “You’ve already shown enough to start a fight. Any more and it’ll be one I can’t finish.”

She lifted an eyebrow and shrugged, said nothing. She leaned back, casual, like she’d sat in the tavern a hundred times before. Maybe she had. She draped an arm over the back of her chair, pulling her tunic open below the neck, forcing it tight against her chest. She stared at him. He stared back and waited. It didn’t take long.

A goblin ambled toward them and set his hand on the table. Mottled green skin, missing half a finger. Sorrows stared hard at him and said nothing as he slurred an invitation at Jace. She politely declined, he insisted, she declined again.

“What’s the matter, precious?” he asked. “Your orc don’t let you play?”

He slipped onto his elbow, making a hollow thud that turned heads. Chairs scraped, but no one stood.

Sorrows counted twenty-four tables in the tavern. Most with four seats, some with more, some with less. Most filled. Another ten bodies standing at the bar. And in a place like this, when the tables emptied, the kitchen might get involved. Maybe the barkeep. This was the Quarry. Fights happened enough to know what was expected. To know what questions needed to be asked and answered. They’d already been asking themselves if the big guy had coin. They’d already reasoned that the bow wouldn’t do much in a crowded room but would sell well enough. They’d already decided the Mage Guard could leave unharmed, but she’d have to part with some copper first. These conclusions had been reached within seconds of Jace and Sorrows stepping through the door. This was the Quarry. It was expected.

But Sorrows had been answering his own questions. He knew his two biggest problems were a pair of dwarves in the corner. And since they were only two, he knew they weren’t much of a problem at all. He knew that the table behind him was essentially empty, despite the three goblins sitting around it. They’d view a fight as an opportunity to skip on their bill. They’d vanish. He knew the size of the fight depended on a table with five half-born crowded around it. A table seven paces away on a diagonal. They’d been watching him since he sat down. They hadn’t been distracted by Jace, her unbuttoned jerkin, her tunic, or what was underneath. Their eyes were locked on Sorrows, like they’d started measuring him but weren’t sure of the results. Was he really that big? Was he really that dangerous? There was one of him and five of them, after all. Their chairs had been among the dozen that slid back when the goblin fell onto the table. This meant they were the ones Sorrows would deal with first. The only question that remained was a question of seven paces diagonal. And as the goblin slouched toward Jace, Sorrows decided it was time to answer that question.

“Just one quick kiss?” the goblin asked.

His lips were still puckered when Sorrows grabbed the goblin’s scrap of tunic and turned him around. A Fen-sized goblin might weigh like a twelve-year-old elf. Light. This goblin was a bit taller, though still shorter than Mig. But he was thin, unhealthy. This was the Quarry. It was expected. Sorrows pulled him close enough to smell the stale sweat and beer on his clothes, then stood, extending his arms as he pushed through his legs. Sorrows was heavy. He probably weighed as much as Ga’Shel and Fen combined. He was lean, conditioned. Tossing the goblin was like tossing a bag of grain. And the answer to the seven paces diagonal question was an easy, crashing yes.

The five half-born looked from the goblin sprawled on their table to their tankards spilled on the floor and back to the goblin. They hesitated. More questions. The big guy had tossed a goblin. But each one of them could toss a goblin. Maybe not as far, but what difference did that make? There were still five of them and only one of the big guy. Who was willing to take the first punch? Who would get him from behind? They were still trading glances and asking unspoken questions when the arrow struck the table between the goblin’s legs. The goblin pissed himself, scrambled back. The half-born backed away. The door to the tavern opened, letting in a gust of night air and the scent of snow. The table behind Sorrows emptied along with three or four others in the tavern. Sorrows walked over, bow in hand, reached for the arrow. Didn’t look at the half-born. Spoke to the goblin in a loud, clear voice.

“She’s my elf,” he said. He ripped the arrow out of the table. “She’ll warm my bed, not yours.”

He turned back to Jace.

Mig stood between him and the table. Eyes like black fire. Jaw clenched. She stared at him hard, then slipped the gods-stream. Vanished.

“Gods shun it,” Sorrows said.

He dropped a