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

went slack, slipped from the guard’s blade, fell to the ground. She lay on her side, head turned by the arrow, black eyes staring blankly at Sorrows.

“Where were you?” she asked. Quiet, rasping.

“What’d she mean by that?” Pesh asked. “Friend of yours?”

Sorrows shook his head, said nothing. The bow was cold in his grasp, like ice beneath his fingers. Julia had never responded well to killing. He walked to the goblin, knelt.

“Careful, Gray Walker,” Bravigan said behind him.

Sorrows moved an arm, studied the gash left by the guard’s blade. Little flesh beneath her skin, ribs broken where the sword passed through, lung pierced. A killing blow dealt with dwarf strength. A blow that didn’t slow the goblin. He moved on to a smaller wound beneath her left collarbone. He pulled the wound apart with two fingers. Clean, deep.

“That’s from a dagger, or I’m an orc whore,” Bravigan said.

Sorrows nodded, rolled the goblin onto her stomach, matched the wound on her chest to a wound on her back. “Wide as my thumb at the base. Handspan in length. None of these are immediately fatal. Not like the sword to her side. Would’ve taken minutes for her to die.”

“Same wounds as the half-born,” Davrosh said.

Sorrows turned, gestured her closer with two fingers. “Right. Same weapon, I’d guess.”

“The half-born was dead for what, two days before he attacked Utuur and Brochand?” she asked.

“Possibly three,” Oray said, approaching behind her. “Depending on how soon the body was found. We had him for two days.”

“I thought the incision on his stomach woke the half-born in the tower,” Sorrows said. “Could be a simple matter of time.”

“That would put her death occurring the day after Zvilna Gorsham,” Davrosh said.

“A day after the half-born,” Oray said. “If he was found right away.”

Sorrows shook his head. “That puts the half-born’s death before Zvilna Gorsham's. But that’s wrong.”

“You know something I don’t?”

“Yeah. The corpses both said something to me. Where were you? I think Zvilna is possessing the bodies.”

Oray stared at Sorrows. “When were you planning on sharing that?”

Sorrows shrugged. “Hard to get a word in edge-wise with you screaming about everything. You know about it now.”

Bravigan had watched the conversation in silence, his eyes tracking from Sorrows to Oray to Davrosh and back to Sorrows. He cleared his throat, caught Oray’s eye, leaned forward, spoke softly.

“If you’re talking about Captain Gorsham’s Zvilna, you might wait until you are back at the tower.”

Sorrows shook his head. “No time. Send your men out, door to door. You reported twenty more bodies today. If we assume two days from death until awakening, then she’s been at this for three days. Might be you’ve found everyone. Might be there are others still to find. Mark the homes, and we’ll get an idea of where she started.”

Bravigan stared at Sorrows for a moment, then looked to Oray, eyebrows raised. Is he serious? Oray nodded.

“He’s right. We need to figure out where the killer is, and this could help.”

Bravigan nodded, sent the injured dwarf to see a healer, sent the others back to the streets to pound paint and find bodies, possibly answers. When he stepped out of the room, Oray turned to Sorrows.

“I’m the Overseer here, Sorrows. I give the orders. And I don’t remember telling you to tag along.”

Sorrows stood, grabbed a wool blanket from a shelf, spread it over the goblin, and turned to face Oray.

“You’re the Overseer. Start acting like it. Time’s working against you. You didn’t order me here, and that was a mistake. Looks like I’m the only one who can stop these dead who aren’t dead. You let Ga’Shel slip you, which meant you missed the first ten minutes of whatever was happening, and that was a mistake, as well. If sunshine can’t stomach it, keep him back at the tower. This is war, and you’re fighting on two fronts now. I’ll stop giving orders when you start giving the right ones.”

Oray’s face was crimson, his eyes white, his lips a thin line. He said nothing, turned and left. Davrosh looked at Sorrows, shook her head.

“I know,” he said. “I’m an orchole.”

She nodded, put a hand on his back and pushed him toward the door. Sighed.

“Yes. But you’re our orchole. Let’s grab breakfast. We’ve got the La’Gren dance tonight.”

Sorrows sighed. “La’Gren. Perfect.”

✽✽✽

THE DAGGER IS stubborn. How could it be anything but? The soul within was not prepared to return to its gods. It did not desire to abandon this plane for the next. It was a happy accident to choose the night of the Maiden’s Dance, when the dwarves are clinging to life and the comforts of flesh. The soul harvested is desperate to remain. Desperate to feel the wind blowing through hair, to taste wine upon the tongue, to feel the blush of lust spread through lips and limbs. Desperation becomes appetite becomes insatiable hunger.

But a problem has arisen. Two problems. Three. Four. They multiply like rats in refuse. The first is a small thing. Trivial. It may not be a problem at all. The box is missing. The box that held the dagger. The box with its runes and ancient magic. It serves no purpose other than the obvious, but it was lovely to behold. You miss the feel of it beneath your fingers.

The second problem is the first real problem. The dagger, though magnificent in its power, has a limitation. The soul leaves the weapon, possesses the body of the slain, becomes a monster. Not such a big problem in a half-born or goblin, but when fighting the Seph, well. Perhaps it would be nothing, or perhaps it would be something to fear. In any event, it would render the dagger powerless for some time. Nothing more than a simple piece of steel, beautiful in design and purpose, but somewhat lacking in ability. More weapons will be needed.

Which reveals the third problem. A bigger problem. Sizable. One that cannot be ignored. The elf has become, at the very least, a nuisance. At