The War of the Lance t2-3 Read online

  One of the hobgoblins above me belched like a giant frog croaking, then dropped a metallic cup and cursed. "S'my damn drink!" he moaned. "S'all spilled!"

  The other sentry cleared his throat and spat. "There's yer drink," he said, sniggering. "Put it in yer cup."

  "I'll give ya somethin' for yer cup," muttered the first, and a rock sailed off the top of the hill, over my head and about sixty feet past me. I kept quiet in case one went to look off the cliff. Hobgoblins are a fun-loving race when it comes to humans. They would have lots of fun with me, good hobgoblin fun, with whips, knives, hot irons — the works.

  Another rock flew overhead, landing in the grass beyond.

  "Throw one more, and ol' Garith'll set yer dumb ass on fire," said a hobgoblin testily.

  "Ya godda find 'im, firs'," retorted the other. "S'nod comin' back. Gonna live like a huuu-man now. Thinks 'e's so good."

  "He's comin' back," snapped the first. "Didn't I tell him we wouldn't wait long 'fore we began to tear things up? He knows we'll cause trouble. Little toad-belly knows we want action. We got to keep movin', not sittin' on assbruises. And you put that rock down or I'll give you a face that would scare a blind dwarf."

  After several more minutes of arguing, the hobgoblins settled down in wine-sodden silence. I decided to move out again in a bit when the sentries were either dozing or too groggy from drink and lack of sleep to notice. Then I'd take them, one by one, the way I'd learned to during the war. Only the crickets could be heard in the darkness. I sighed, waiting, fingers on my sword hilt.

  Something punched my chest. Pain shot through my left lung, hurting far worse than anything that had ever happened to me at Neraka. I looked down, my hands involuntarily going for the source of the pain, and saw a short, feathered shaft sticking out of my leather surcoat, next to my heart. I could tell the arrow had gone right through me. I was never more surprised to see anything in my life.

  Son of a bitch, I thought, desperately trying not to breathe or scream. They'd found me; the hobgoblins had found me. But how in the Abyss did they do that? I never heard them coming. I stood there like an idiot, looking down at the arrow shaft and wondering why the hobgoblins weren't now calling out in alarm. The shock and pain of being hit was too much to take. I couldn't think.

  Something prickly and cold spread through my bloodstream from the wound. The pain ceased and became a cloud of nothingness, as if my chest had disappeared. My will broke then and I tried to scream, but I couldn't inhale. It seemed like a huge weight pressed against my rib cage, keeping out the air. I slumped back against the rock face, my vision swimming, my hands clutching the wound.

  It came to me then that I was going to die. There was nothing I could do. I didn't want to die, not then, not ever. I wanted to go home. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to live. For a moment I thought of Garayn and Klart. I could al most see their faces before me.

  The numbness reached my head. Everything became very light and airy. I felt a rushing sensation, as if I were falling.

  This wasn't right, came a mad thought. The hobgoblins killed me. They'd killed my cousins, and now they'd killed me. It wasn't right, and I wanted them to pay for it in the worst way.

  That was my last mortal thought.

  I was having the worst of all nightmares, worse than the red dreams I'd once had of Neraka. I dreamed I was dead and buried. Ice-cold rain fell without end on me, trickling down on lifeless flesh. My body was dead-numb, my limbs chained down. I was hollow, a shell of nothing in the earth. I fought to wake up or even move a muscle. I begged the great gods of Krynn to let me wake up.

  No one heard me.

  I begged them for mercy. I pleaded for justice.

  No voice spoke in the darkness.

  Then I cursed them, I cursed the gods, and I cried for revenge.

  I became aware of a colorless light. Without thinking, I opened my eyes, my lips still moving.

  Gray clouds rolled swiftly above me, ragged-edged. Cold droplets slapped my face and fell into my unblinking eyes. I couldn't move my limbs. I felt nothing, nothing at all but the cold, and I listened to the drumming of the rain against and around me.

  The gray clouds rolled on for ages. The rain fell. Then a weight seemed to fall away, and I knew I could sit up.

  Very slowly, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself upright. Every movement was unbalanced, and I swayed dizzily until I braced myself with my arms. The tilting scenery settled in my vision, and I looked around.

  The landscape appeared odd in the rain-washed light, but I was still at the foot of the rocky cliff. It was late in the evening now. I didn't know the day. The long grass of the plain had been beaten down by rain some time ago. A light wind blew across the field, rippling the bent and broken stalks.

  I sat there stupidly for a long time, then looked down at myself.

  The butt of an arrow was projecting from my chest. After a few moments, I remembered how it got there, and thought I was lucky that it hadn't killed me.

  Then, of course, I knew the truth.

  I stared at the arrow for a long time. The rain eventually slowed. All was quiet except for the cawing of distant crows. I wasn't afraid, only dully surprised. No heartbeat sounded within me, no blood ran from my wound. I felt surprised, but nothing more.

  I hated looking at the arrow in me. It wasn't right. It ought to come out. Carefully, I reached up and touched it, then tapped it hard. There was no pain, only a sense of its presence. I reached up and carefully tugged on the shaft. It didn't budge. Then I took it in both hands and broke off the arrow at the point where it entered my chest, having it in mind not to open the wound any further. I felt a need to keep my body looking as good as possible. Self-respect, maybe.

  That done, I reached behind me with one hand to find that the arrow point stuck out of my back by an inch or two, between two ribs. After some difficulty in getting a proper grip, I slowly pulled the arrow out, then held both pieces of it before me.

  The arrow was shorter than I'd expected; the arrowhead was small and grooved. It was actually a crossbow bolt, not a longbow arrow — a well-made bolt, too; dwarven-make. Doubtless the hobgoblins had been picking up good weaponry on their raids.

  I rolled to my knees, then staggered to my feet and looked myself over. I was filthy with mud. My sword scabbard was empty, my boots were gone, my food pouch was untied, and my waterskin had been cut loose. I knew that my pouch had been tied before I had been killed. My murderer must have checked me for loot. I had done it myself at Neraka, searching dead hobgoblins after the battles. I hadn't brought anything with me but a few odds and ends. I opened the pouch flap and found it was empty now. I looked down at my feet and saw my food in the mud and water. None of the food had been eaten; all was ruined. The boots and waterskin lay further away, slashed open. The sword was nowhere around, but the killer had undoubtedly taken it, probably discarded it later. It was cheaply made. My murderer was thorough.

  I tossed the pieces of the bolt to the ground. I looked at my arms as I did so and realized that, for a dead person, I didn't look half bad. My skin was very pale, almost dull white. My hands and arms looked thinner than I'd remembered, more bony and less puffy and full. My trousers, boots, and surcoat were muddy and soaking wet, and my surcoat was also badly stained with what had to be blood. I must not have been dead for very long, maybe only a day or two.

  I couldn't see my own face, of course. For that small blessing I felt curiously grateful. I touched my short beard and mustache, wiped them as free of dirt as I could, then adjusted my leather surcoat and brushed at the small hole in the front as if I had just spilled food there. My long, thin fingers were like icicles, but the cold was almost comfortable.

  A stick snapped, the sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the cliff above me. I looked up, saw no faces, only clouds and rain.

  Damn hobgoblins had probably forgotten about me, left me here for animals to feed on. Maybe they were still drunk.

  Maybe I should find out.
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  I examined the cliff face. It was weathered and old, full of cracks and plant roots. It was worth a try. Wedging my bone-thin fingers into a vertical split in the rock, I found a foothold and began the ascent.

  It took time to go up the cliff, but I didn't mind the climb. I felt no pain at all. I wondered what the hobgoblins would do when they saw me. I couldn't wait to find out. I had no sword, but I had my bare hands, and I was already dead.

  Just below the top, I hesitated listening. Someone was moving around up there; metal clinked, maybe chain armor. I had no fear of their weapons now, but I wanted surprise. I rocked slightly, then pulled myself up swiftly and quietly over the ledge.

  At my feet in the tall wet grass lay a heavy-bodied figure, his misshapen head buried face-down in mud and brown water. A thick wolf pelt covered his shoulders and back. One gray-green hand was thrust forward, fingers digging into the wet ground. The hobgoblin looked as if he'd tripped over something while walking toward the cliff but had never gotten up. He wasn't going to get up, either. The crossbow bolt projecting from the back of his thick neck tipped me off. So did the hungry aura of black flies whirling around him.

  He certainly hadn't been the one who snapped that stick I'd heard. Then, I saw who did. About twenty-five feet from me was a dwarf in an oilskin cloak. His back was to me. He bent over another fallen hobgoblin, his chain mail links clinked under the cloak. The dwarf straightened. He carried a bright, spike-backed war axe clutched in a leather-gloved fist. Then, looking around warily, he turned in my direction, revealing a wet and tangled brown beard, thick dark eyebrows, and small black eyes that widened violently when he saw me.

  "Reorx!" the dwarf gasped. He swung the spikebacked axe in his right hand, his left arm coming up to block me if I rushed him. He took a half-crouch, feet set in a stance that could shift him in any direction. Another veteran of the war.

  I raised my hands — palms out, fingers spread — and shook my head slowly. The dwarf didn't take the hint, still readied for an attack. The sight of him clutching that polished axe struck me as amusing, but I didn't smile.

  I moved sideways to get away from the ledge, having none of the unsteadiness I'd felt earlier. The dwarf rotated to keep facing me.

  I moved my lips to say something to him, but nothing came out. It took a moment to figure out why; then I drew a breath to fill my lungs. Part of my rib cage expanded, but there was an unpleasant sucking sound from my sternum and the sensation that the left side of my chest was not filling. I quickly reached up and placed my right hand inside the neckline of my surcoat to cover the bolt wound. I tried again.

  "Don't worry," I said — and was startled to hear my own voice. It was burned hoarse, as if I had swallowed acid. I forced another breath in. "I won't hurt you," I finished with a gasp.

  The dwarf gulped, never taking his eyes off me. A muscle twitched in his left cheek. "'Preciate the thought," he muttered. "I'll keep it in mind."

  I was curious about the dead hobgoblins. I gave the dwarf an unconcerned shrug before kneeling to examine one of the fly-covered bodies. As I'd suspected, the bolt head projecting from the hobgoblin's neck was exactly the same type as the one that had hit me. I let my right hand drop from inside my shirt and reached out to examine the dirtied tip.

  I quickly pulled my hand back. A strand of black tar clung to the bolt head, worked into some of the grooves. I had seen that stuff before, at Neraka. Black wax, my commander had called it. Deadly poison. A handful of the Nerakan humans had used it on their weapons, their idea of a special welcome for us. The gods only knew where they had gotten it; the Nerakans themselves hadn't known how to handle it. We would regularly find their bodies, snuggled into ambush points, with little spots of black wax on their careless lips or fingers.

  I remembered the sensation of nothingness spreading inside me as I died, the bolt through my chest. I'd been the first that night to feel the poison's kiss. I figured my cousins must have felt it earlier still. Too bad I hadn't thought to examine their bodies.

  I leaned over to continue checking the hobgoblin, who had probably outweighed me by a hundred pounds in life. He was a thick-necked brute; his clothes and armor were as dirty as his skin. Knife slashes had opened up his belt pouch, now empty, and the sides of his armor and boots. He was also missing his left ear. It appeared to have been cut cleanly away, below his helmet line.

  I looked up at the dwarf, who hadn't moved, remembering to put my hand inside my shirt before I spoke. "What about him?" I asked hoarsely, pointing a clawlike finger at the dead hobgoblin behind him. I sounded like an animal learning to talk.

  The dwarf eased up, but only by a hair. He stepped away from the body behind him, clearing my view. This hobgoblin lay face up, an arm flopped down beside an empty wine cask in the grass beside him. He'd been stabbed through the darkened leather armor over his abdomen. A second stab wound, blue-black now, was visible in his throat. His left ear was missing, too, cleanly cut away. He had not even gotten up; he had died sitting, then had fallen back.

  I reached up and felt my own ears. Both were still intact.

  "Maybe you could tell me a bit about what you want." The dwarf's voice was steady and low, his axe arm still raised for a strike or a throw.

  I looked beyond the dwarf at the half-forested hilltop. No one else was around. "Looking for someone," I said finally.

  This didn't answer everything, but the dwarf let it go for now. "Got a name?" he asked.

  "Evredd," I said, the word sounding like a mumble. I covered the wound and said it again, more clearly.

  The dwarf's flint-black gaze went to my chest. "You a dead boy, ain't you?" he said.

  I found it hard to answer that. It wasn't something I wanted to face.

  "You a rev'nant, I bet," the dwarf went on, knowingly. "Been dead a bit, I can tell. I seen dead boys before, but not walkin' ones like you. You a rev'nant, come back to get your killer man. That right?"

  He was talkative for a dwarf. "Who did this?" I asked him, indicating the bodies.

  The dwarf looked at me a while longer, then glanced around, one eye still on me. The sky was darkening with the coming sunset, but the rain had stopped. Behind the dwarf by a couple hundred feet, in a tree line, was an irregular outcropping of rock, overgrown with vines. A wide gully or eroded road ran out of the woods and undergrowth, then off along the top of the cliff toward the south.

  "Can't say," said the dwarf, looking back at me, then down at the bodies. "Just got here myself." Rainwater dripped from the axe blade.

  I stood up. The dwarf fell back, his face tight, and raised his axe arm.

  "No," I said, but it came out as a gasp. I put my hand inside my shirt. "No," I repeated. "How long… What day is this?"

  "Sixteenth," he said, his eyes narrowing again.

  I'd been dead for a day, then. The hobgoblins had hit on the twelfth, and I'd left on the next day. "Are more… people with you?" It was hard to get the words out in one breath. I'd need lots of practice at this.

  The dwarf hesitated. "Just me," he said. The dwarf grinned nervously and adjusted the grip on his axe. "I didn't make you a dead boy, and if you a rev'nant, you ain't gonna attack me, I reckon. You save that for your killer."

  I had no urge to bother the dwarf if he didn't bother me, so I guess he had a point. I scanned the ground for any clues to the identity of my murderer. The dwarf stayed back, but soon got up the nerve to examine the stabbed hobgoblin again, checking for valuables with one eye locked tight on me.

  The heavy rain had destroyed virtually all the clues there were — tracks, crushed grass, everything. For all that, I could still put together a few things about my killer. He had used a crossbow, probably a dwarven one. He knew about weapon poison. He could probably climb cliffs; he must have gone right up this one after killing me, then hit the hobgoblins. They'd been drunk and tired, but the lack of other bodies indicated that he'd moved with considerable speed, killing them before they could shout warnings, even to each other.


  But if he'd killed hobgoblins, why had he also killed me? He must have known I was after them, myself. And if he could see well enough to shoot me this accurately, he couldn't have mistaken me for hobgoblin scum. I pondered for a minute, then looked off the cliff. I could still see a man-shaped impression in the muddy ground below, where I had fallen. I scanned the field out to the horizon. About fifty feet to the west, away from the cliff base where I'd been shot, was a small dead tree with a briar bush cloaking the base of its trunk. I'd had my back to the cliff, facing west. The killer could well have been hiding out there somewhere in the darkness when he caught sight of me.

  Yes, my killer was a damn good shot.

  Maybe he could see in the dark, too.

  "You know," said the dwarf casually, "hobs don't go in twos. Must be more dead 'uns somewhere here. Otherwise, we'd be covered in arrow stings 'bout now. Maybe we better look around."

  The dwarf got to his feet. I'd almost forgotten he was there. Dwarves, I remembered, could see heat sources in the dark. So could elves and maybe wizards. Wizards couldn't use crossbows, though, and the elves I'd known in the war had universally despised them. Dwarves liked them.

  "Hey," said the dwarf, waving his free hand, the other clenching the thick axe handle. "You deaf as well as dead?"

  I shook my head, not wanting to talk much. "More of them?" I asked with one breath, indicating the nearest body.

  The dwarf glanced back at the tree line. "Fort's back there," he said. "Old one. Bet we find 'em there."

  I nodded, seeing now that the "outcropping" was really a half-collapsed wall. The distant shouts I'd heard the other hobgoblins give last night must have come from there.

  The dwarf gave me a final look over. "Name's Orun," he said. He didn't put out his hand to clench my arm, as was the custom of most dwarves I'd known from these parts.

  I nodded in return, then pointed in the direction of the fort. We left the bodies and started off. Orun made sure to keep a good two dozen feet between us. He was cautious, but he seemed to take to my presence. Either he had nothing against a walking corpse or else he was crazy.