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

heads. Sorrows pushed, the sled creaked into movement. He jumped on the back as momentum built and the handlebar pulled against his grip. The dogs mushed. The sled lurched and wobbled, then steadied. The horn sounded again. Davrosh rode in the basket, stringing her own bow, pointing as they drew closer. They turned the corner onto a narrow side street; the dogs strained up a steady slope. The horn sounded again, then shouting, then a scream. Primal, pain.

The Quarry was not without its havens. Pockets of comfort amid the squalor. Here and there a city block might have managed, through no small effort of its inhabitants, to sweep away the filth and decay of the outcast and ignored. Modest, well-maintained shops with living quarters above; streets kept flat and free of ruts. Stands of pine, old hardwoods left intact; an impromptu city square where none had been planned. A tavern where the ale was a bit stronger; a butcher who threw in an extra bone for soup; a baker whose bread was always warm and fresh. Havens.

The sled slowed amid storefronts kept clear of snow. Idyllic. Wood smoke drifted in the air, hickory and oak. A few of the shops had benches out front. A few of the shops had freshly painted signs. A butcher, a tinker, a potter. The street widened into a clearing. Scant decorations had been hung for Silversong Eve. They lingered in windows, though the holiday had passed. Snow packed on gravel became snow packed on stone pavers. A tree grew near the center, towering and old. Maple by the look of it. A few crimson leaves lingered on the branches. Beneath it, more crimson stained the snow, left a trail like ribbons.

Two dwarves in the black and gold of the City Guard held blades over a third, who wasn’t moving, just bleeding. An orc limped toward them, skin like tar pitch, arm hanging crooked from a torn shoulder. No tunic, trousers left in tatters, no boots, one foot dragging, one foot snapping forward with heavy, measured steps. Torso covered in deep wounds, like the goblin, like the half-born. The shoulder had been done by a sword. Another long gash marked the orc’s back. Another marked its side. Blood, intestines, sinew.

Sorrows loosed an arrow, reached to his quiver, leapt from the sled, slid to a halt, had another arrow at the ready. The first shot hit above the orc’s ear and lodged in its head. But it lumbered forward. The dwarves stood their ground, shielding the fallen guard. Sorrows loosed another arrow. Another hit. The orc kept moving.

“Give me your blade,” Sorrows said, extending his bow to Davrosh.

“You can’t be—” Davrosh said.

“Now,” he said.

She took the bow. His fingers grasped the hilt of her short sword. The orc was five paces from the dwarves. Sorrows was thirty from the orc. He ran, placed a hand over the Grimstone. Merabeth Valor, he thought. Felt the soul spread through his body like cold water running along his chest, legs, arms. His mind filled with the dance of battle. Lunge, parry, riposte. Variation and adaptation. He ran faster. The orc was four paces to the dwarves; Sorrows had cut his distance in half. Three paces and five. Two paces and none.

The orc stood half again as high as either dwarf. They lunged, thrusting at its abdomen, slicing at its legs. Mortal wounds on a mortal body. But the orc was different, changed. Like the half-born. Impervious. It felt nothing. Kept moving. Sorrows was a head taller. Had different targets than the dwarves. Lungs, heart, neck. The orc moved unaware, no defense. Sorrows saw his opportunity, felt the memory of the strike before it landed. An easy attack. A weak point on the orc’s muscled body. Blade through skin and spine. Neck severed, head falling in a spray of blue-green blood. But body still standing. Arms reaching. Hands grasping.

Steel flashed, and the dwarves turned the orc’s arms to stumps. Hands fell in the snow. More blood like spruce needles. Sorrows lunged, drove his blade through the orc’s back, felt the steel burst through the orc’s chest. Pivoted on his feet, set a foot behind the orc, leaned into the sword and twisted. Flung the body over his leg, sent it sliding onto the stone. More blood the color of lake scum. It mingled with the crimson from the dwarf. It pooled in the snow beneath the old maple tree, amid the shops and their freshly painted signs. Not as idyllic. The orc’s body spasmed, then lay still.

“Gods,” Davrosh said.

She knelt beside the fallen guard. Sorrows joined her, dropped to a knee, dropped her blade in the snow.

“Gods shun it,” he said. He dropped Davrosh’s blade on the snow.

“Saw him coming out that door over there,” one of the guards said.

“Was shoving something in his mouth,” the other guard said. “Got closer, saw it was a hand.”

The first guard shook his head. “Pesh ran in without a thought. Caught the orc’s shoulder, back, stomach. Should’ve killed the brute. Was brilliant swordplay.”

Sorrows looked down. Forehead caved in, hands intact. Dead, but Pesh’s soul could return to his gods. A small comfort. Sorrows put a hand on Pesh’s forehead.

“Live well,” he said.

“And die better,” the two guards said.

Davrosh glanced at him. He met her eyes for a moment before standing and walking to the orc’s head, lying near the base of the maple. He turned it over, looked into its dead, yellow eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Where were you?” the orc asked. Silent, mouth moving, tongue flashing, lips forming breathless words.

“You need to stop this, Zvilna.”

The orc moved its mouth again. Words. But not the question. Sorrows said nothing, just stared. Studied the shape of the orc’s mouth, imagined the voice. Thought he understood.

“What did you find?” Davrosh asked. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook his head.

“It was her again.”

Across the clearing, a sled raced into view, then another. The first two guards had a blanket, were wrapping