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

He wore a look that said, I know something you don’t. It was early, and Sorrows had managed little sleep. He jutted his chin at Ga’Shel, returned a look that said, Go to hells.

Introductions were made. The female was Astell Brochand; the male was La’Klin Utuur. They were both mage guards, had both served Hammerfell tower for more than a century. Had both heard of Sorrows.

“I wonder if I might ask you a few questions after all this,” Utuur said.

Sorrows shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Professional interest only, I assure you.”

“Sure.”

“About the Seph, specifically,” Brochand said.

Utuur’s voice was nervous, flighty. Like a small bird in a tree, flitting from branch to branch in a sudden flurry of syllables and pitch. Brochand was musical in comparison. Smooth and syrupy like a ripe peach, words bursting in her mouth and lingering on her tongue.

Sorrows frowned. “What about the seph?”

Brochand opened her mouth to speak, but Oray cleared his throat, and she pressed her lips together instead, offered a brief smile. She said nothing.

“The Seph can wait,” Oray said. “Let’s start the examination. I need to know more about the victim’s wrists.”

Utuur nodded, walked around the table, took Zvilna’s right hand in his own, placed his fingers on her wrist. Brochand did the same with Zvilna’s left. They glanced at one another, gave a small nod, dismissed the restoration magic. No hum, no flash of light. Zvilna’s hands detached from her arms, and Brochand and Utuur gently laid them on the stone table. They stepped back to allow Davrosh and Oray to move closer. Sorrows shifted toward Zvilna’s feet. Blood welled at the wounds, dripped onto the table, disappeared. The scent of ginger and lemon wafted in the air.

“Gods,” Davrosh said.

She stood behind Utuur, staring at Zvilna’s arms. Oray leaned forward beside Brochand.

“Multiple cuts,” he said. “Why?”

“Finding the weak spot?” Davrosh asked.

Oray felt his own wrist. “It’s not that hard to find.”

“If she was struggling?”

“She was tied up,” Sorrows said. “Those are the marks of her bindings.”

Zvilna’s arms above her wrist were striped with wounds. Clean cuts. Deep, glistening red against the green holly leaves painted on her skin.

“Tied up with what?” Brochand asked. “A rope that fine wouldn’t hold a dwarf.”

Oray shrugged. “We can discuss that later. Let’s keep going.”

Utuur moved to Zvilna’s head, gripped the arrow, pulled it free, set it on the table. The shaft of the arrow was stained, wet. The point was slender, sharp. More ginger, more lemon. The paint sealed over the wound.

“Get rid of the magic,” Sorrows said.

Utuur glanced at Oray, who nodded. Utuur splayed his fingers, gently placed them on Zvilna’s face.

“Gods shun it,” Davrosh said.

Her fist was clenched at her side, her jaw flexed, her face flushed. Sorrows moved behind her, looked over her. Zvilna’s forehead had long, fine cuts, like the ones on her wrists. Others split the bridge of her nose.

“More bindings,” Sorrows said.

“But using what?” Davrosh asked.

Oray glanced at Ga’Shel, looked back to Zvilna. “Keep going.”

Brochand and Utuur worked methodically. They cut away Zvilna’s dress, discarded it. Cut away her undergarments. Stripped of each layer of clothing, Zvilna appeared smaller and more alone. Sorrows took a deep breath in through his nose, then let it out long and slow, shook his head. She had been so meek in life. She had deserved better than this. He should have been there. Brochand and Utuur dismissed the magic from the paint wrapping her ankles. More cuts appeared, more evidence of the bonds which had held her fast. They communicated in small nods and murmured observations. They rolled Zvilna onto one side, then the other. Zvilna’s eyes stared blankly ahead. They worked her onto her stomach, then finished with her laying on her back. Her body revealed no additional wounds, no bruising, no scratches. They covered her with a white sheet and stepped away. Sorrows, Oray, and Davrosh followed them to the opposite table.

“Same as the rest,” Brochand said.

“Besides the cuts from her bindings,” Sorrows said.

Brochand nodded. “Right.”

She took off her gloves, set them on the slab beside Ga’Shel. She untied her hood, pulled it down. Utuur did the same.

“She struggled,” he said. “The wounds were clean enough. Deep in the center.”

“But frayed at the ends,” Brochand said. “She moved, tested the limits of her bonds.”

“The pain probably slowed her.”

“And she would have been weak from loss of blood.”

“She would have died from the loss of blood.”

“Agreed. We can rule out the arrow as the cause of death.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Then why bother?” Davrosh asked.

“Distraction,” Sorrows said. “Five dead and you just noticed the wrists and the cuts.”

“The killer’s smart,” Oray said.

Sorrows stared at Zvilna. “Smarter than you, that’s for splitting sure.”

“He’s kept a step ahead of all of us.”.

“He might be a step ahead of me, but he’s way ahead of you. You aren’t even close.”

“Easy, orchole,” Davrosh said. “We’re all on the same side.”

“Which side is that? The losing side?”

“Piss off. What’s gotten into you?”

Sorrows brought his hand down hard on the stone slab. “How do you not dismiss the gods-shunned magic?”

Utuur and Brochand said nothing. Oray and Ga’Shel said nothing. They were elves. They were either above reproach or too arrogant to give a split about a human foaming at the mouth. But Master Remma Davrosh was only half elf. She turned toward Sorrows, grabbed a fistful of his tunic, and pulled. She’d meant to bring him close. Nose to nose. She’d meant to bring his face low enough to slap, if she felt he needed it. And the look on her face said she felt he needed it.

But Sorrows was a tall man. Davrosh grabbed his tunic near the top of his stomach, missing the Grimstone amulet by a handspan. Lower than she intended. Less leverage. And Sorrows was a big man. He weighed twice as much as Davrosh and wasn’t about to be pulled forward, despite the vein of dwarf strength that ran through her. She yanked at his tunic but only succeeded in jerking herself forward. She stumbled into him, driving her head