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

Gods shun it. “You tell Ashra to go to hells. I’ve got an arrow with her name on it.”

“Tell her yourself. I’m just following orders.”

Sorrows glanced from the speaker to the blades at his left and right, then back to the speaker. Not enough room. Too much steel. He sighed.

“Let’s see it, then.”

“Not here.”

Sorrows said nothing for a breath, aimed the arrowhead into the shadows of the speaker’s hood. Felt the tension of the bowstring through his gloves.

“You have a name?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Care to share it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Are you Seph?” he asked.

She made a small noise that might have been a laugh, turned and walked away. Sorrows felt the point of a blade against the small of his back.

“Tell your boys one more poke and I’ll send a point into the back of your head,” he said.

“No, you won’t,” the speaker called over her shoulder. “But do hurry. We don’t have much time, and I have something to show you.”

Sorrows lowered his bow, spared his shot. Two of the figures appeared on either side of him, close, crowding his arms.

“Quickly now, yes?” a voice said behind him. The same voice. Not only similar: identical. Birdsong on wind.

The figure ahead turned to the side and disappeared. Sorrows followed with measured, contemplative strides. He glanced at the three figures walking beside him.

“Sisters?” he asked.

All at once, the three laughed. The same laugh. Identical. All at once, the three figures spoke.

“Not sisters,” they said. “Daughters.”

The same voice. And all at once, Sorrows knew who they were. He sighed.

“You know what?” he asked, turning to the figure at his right. “This day is going straight to orcpiss.”

✽✽✽

THE JOB IS straightforward. A weapon is gifted, or a ghost is named. In either case, a human soul is at stake. Sorrows hunts or journeys accordingly and, once finished, uses the Grimstone to collect the soul as payment. It’s a tough job. Dangerous. It would have been the death of him on more than one occasion, were it not for his immortality. Immortality preserves his life but doesn’t prevent his suffering. He’s left to deal with his pain, to avoid more of it in the future. But it’s a good job. It gives him the opportunity to talk to humans again, if only for a moment. It’s a job he enjoys, despite the risks. Maybe a job he enjoys because of them. Either way, it’s a job he’s good at.

The job comes with expectations. Each weapon is a contract. Each ghost an agreement. Measures are set in place to assess his performance. Duration is expected to be reasonably brief. Collateral damage is expected to be kept to a minimum, although some is understood to be necessary at times. It’s a tough job. Dangerous. Standards must be maintained. His methods are examined, scrutinized. When they are found lacking, the Fates appear. Sometimes only one, sometimes more. They take various forms: animals, people, elemental spirits. They ask questions. They make suggestions. They don’t appear often. It’s a job he’s good at. But they do appear.

Sorrows followed the four into a rectangular room, three paces wide by five deep. Another four high. A room that might have been a hallway at one time, but it had been walled off. The ceiling met the far wall at a clumsy angle, haphazard. A rushed job, maybe to accommodate an unexpected guest whose stay became extended. The room had pine walls. Inexpensive timber. Easy to come by. Maybe the guest became an unexpected burden. Maybe illness followed. Illness that emptied the house. Maybe the Fates chose it for those reasons. They favored places like the Quarry and this house left empty by the twist of life’s dagger. A closed door lay at the far end, and a single pine chair stood in the center. He was expected to sit for these conversations. He sat. A candle in each corner lit the room with flickering yellow light. Four Fates stood, hands hidden in sleeves, sleeves tucked behind backs. The door opposite him opened. A fifth Fate stepped through, wearing the same rags, hidden by the same shadows. She greeted him in the same cold voice.

“Gray Walker,” she said. “Time is thin, why do you tarry?”

Ashra gave me the soul of my dead wife, he thought. “What’s your rush?” he asked.

“Do I rush, I wonder?” said the Fate ahead and to his left.

The room grew cold. Sorrows blew out his breath, watched it billow and swirl. Behind him, the sound of cloth tearing tickled his ears. Gods shun it.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Because you survived,” the Fate behind and to his right said.

Sorrows shook his head, stared at the Fate ahead of him.

“Why am I here in this room right now?”

“Because she didn’t,” the Fate ahead of him said.

“Could you have saved her, I wonder?” the Fate behind and to his left asked.

Sorrows glanced at his bow, shivered. The Fate ahead and to his right reached up to her face and began tearing a long strip of cloth from her hood. The sound of tearing grew louder behind him.

“What would you have me do?” he asked.

He’d had frostbite before. Knew what it felt like. Didn’t much care for it. Could feel the sting of it on his ears and cheeks, on the tips of his fingers. He hugged his chest, pulled his cloak tight. His breath came out in pale clouds. The Fate ahead and to his left tore at her cloak. A long, ragged strip fell to the floor. The Fate ahead of him stepped forward, brought her hands out from behind her back.

She held a wooden box. Cherry wood. Lacquered to a shine that reflected the candlelight. Runes covered its surface. Elf, by the shape of them, and old. Sorrows knew a few runes but didn’t recognize any on the box. The Fate stepped forward, extended her arms.

“Take it, Gray Walker,” she said. “And lay her soul to rest.”

Take it, Gray Walker, and lay her soul to rest. He’d heard those