Read Online The War Of The Lance by Michael Williams, Richard A. Knaak, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman - Free Book Online Page A
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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
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
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