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

“Zvilna,” Sorrows said, sliding to a halt.

The half-born turned his head, frowned.

“Where were you?” he asked. His voice rasped like steel on a wetting stone.

Kissing an elf, Sorrows thought. Contemplating more. Felt guilt like a punch to the face. Shook his head.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Where were you?”

“You need to stop this, Zvilna.”

“Where were you?”

The dwarves glanced at one another. Eyebrows raised, shoulders shrugged. One would give a look that asked, What in all hells are they talking about? The next would answer, Hells if I know. The silent dialog passed between the three faster than words, then changed. Raised eyebrows became wrinkled foreheads. Shrugged shoulders became sharp nods. Understanding and agreement. Tactical. Trained. They were City Guard. They outnumbered their opponent three-to-one. They had sharpened steel. He had clumsy iron. And they were dwarves, gods shun it.

The half-born turned square to Sorrows. Turned his back on one of the guards. The dwarf rushed in, boots crunching on gravel. Loud. An announcement. The half-born spun, quick. Like a fighter. He dodged to the side, took the point of the guard’s blade through his gut, just above the hip. A good strike by the dwarf. One that would cripple any other opponent. It didn’t even slow the half-born.

A desperate swing of the clumsy iron knocked away the second blade, which had rushed in from the side. The third blade hesitated for a second. Just a second. Less than a breath. But a second too long. The half-born lunged forward, letting the first blade slip through his gut and out his back. His hands were on the first guard. Strong hands that pulled the guard close, too close to risk swinging a blade. The half-born tore at the guard’s face, the guard screamed. The second and third guard traded a new look. Eyebrows were raised again. What now?

They didn’t ask Sorrows, but he had an answer. Had worked it out when the first guard rushed in and the half-born turned his back. Had held Davrosh’s blade loose and ready in his right hand while his left found the Grimstone hanging against his chest. He dismissed Merabeth Valor and her speed, her skill with a blade. Drinnegan Pine, he thought. Felt the sword turn clumsy in his hand, felt fire burn through his muscles. Saw the half-born as a small thing. Knew instinctively he could match strength and overpower. He lunged forward, wrapped his arm around the half-born’s arms, grabbed his wrists, pulled against them.

The dwarf guard scrambled away, his face scratched and bleeding. The second and third guard hooked hands under his arms and pulled him to his feet. They were safely away. No longer a factor in the fight. No longer a concern. Sorrows released the half-born’s wrists and sent him sprawling with a knee to the back. But the fighter hit the ground, tucked, and rolled neatly to his feet. Catlike. Fast. His feet found purchase in the ruts in the road. He ran forward, sprinting from edge to edge, each step building momentum. Broad. Strong. Prepared to launch himself at Sorrows, low. Sought to bring him to the ground where height and length were no longer an advantage.

But Drinnegan Pine had been a fighter of sorts as well. He didn’t retreat, didn’t hesitate, didn’t sidestep. Knew better than to give up his base. Knew the half-born was expecting the distance, was calculating when to jump so he could hit Sorrows with the most weight, speed, strength. Drinnegan knew and consequently Sorrows knew to close the gap, take away the expected. So he did. He took three steps. Left, right, left. Fast, finding his own ruts. The half-born adjusted. Couldn’t jump now. Not the same way. He lowered his shoulder, but Sorrows lowered his too. Sorrows brought his right elbow back, tight like an arrow drawn to cheek. He drove it forward into the half-born’s face. Felt nose and teeth and the thin skin of bone breaking, pushing inward, soft. Heard the crunch; wet, grinding.

It was a hit that would kill any mortal species. It dropped the half-born to the ground, stunned. He collapsed, blood running, dripping onto snow-packed gravel. He leaned forward, pushed against the ground, rose. But Sorrows was on top of him, grabbed his arms, pushed his knee into the half-born’s back, pulled.

“Why are you doing this, Zvilna?” he asked, straining.

“Lay my soul to rest,” the half-born said, thickly, impeded by his broken face.

“How?” Sorrows asked. “How do I do that?”

“Lay my soul to rest.”

Sorrows half expected the response. Which meant he was only half surprised to hear it. Was half disappointed to guess at what it meant. He thought of the Fates. Thought of the box he’d received in the Quarry. A long box, ornate with elf runes, which meant elf magic. The kind of box that might hold a dagger. He thought of the four killers imbued with Zvilna’s soul, covered with deep wounds as wide as his thumb. It was too familiar to be coincidence—the weapon, the souls, the Fates and the box. It had to be the job. Was always the job. He was always the Reaper.

“Blade,” Sorrows said, looking at Davrosh.

Davrosh was half-elf, measuring, calculating. She had a sharp mind, understood strategy and tactics. She had the blade in hand and moved toward Sorrows before he spoke the word. She was half-dwarf, strong, capable, unafraid. She knew the distance, lifted the blade, dropped to her knee as she brought it down. The half-born strained, the blade severed, Sorrows held until the body fell slack. Then he stood, straightened his cloak, dismissed Drinnegan with a thought.

“Nice work,” he said.

“You, too,” she said. “Lay my soul to rest? What did he mean by that?”

“Not he,” Sorrows said. “She. It’s Zvilna. All of these have been Zvilna.”

“How is that possible? The way she fought the guards, you. She couldn’t have done those things alive. Zvilna wasn’t a fighter.”

He shrugged. “No, I suppose not. But the half-born