Sorrows nodded. A goblin mother made the most sense. Goblin women were all manner of appealing.
“Why not ask sunshine over there?” Sorrows asked, tipping his head at the elf. “Be an easy enough thing for him.”
The owner shook his head.
“You really don’t understand half-born, do you?”
“I understand he’s sitting with one. Maybe that makes him sympathetic. Everyone likes goblins, and elves like elves. What harm is there in asking?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the owner replied. “Orcs already been here. They won’t need their noses to find their way back.”
The elf and the half-born were quiet enough to be listening. The pieces of the broken chair were all picked up. Silence hung heavy in the room.
“You have a woodpile?” Sorrows asked, holding an armful of chair legs, spindles and splinters.
“Yeah, out back. Through the kitchen.”
Sorrows gestured, and the owner handed over his fragments. Sorrows left and returned. When he did, the owner was back to wiping tables. The elf and the half-born were back to not talking while they ate.
“Will the venison last through next week?” Sorrows asked as he fished coin from a pouch.
“Probably not, if the orcs come back.”
“Mind if I leave through the kitchen?”
“Suit yourself.”
Sorrows threw a silver on the table.
“Gods be with you,” he said, turning to leave.
“Why would they start now?” the owner asked without looking up.
Chapter 2
SORROWS STEPPED OUT of the tavern and into the fading gray of the evening sun. He kept to the shadows, working his way through the village. He moved quickly. Made no noise. Drew no attention. He found a path on the edge of the forest and followed it into darkness. Left it when it broke south. He made his way to the cave, fumbled around in the darkness. No time for a fire. He found his bundle, unwrapped the layers of cloth until he held her.
The twin arcs of a recurve bow shone faintly. Wide at the handle, tapering slightly along mirrored lengths, curling at the tips. Sorrows ran gloved fingers along the bow’s length but left its string slack. His mind raced from one thought to another. Distracted. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t see her, not tonight. There was no time. But he had to talk to her. The bow warmed. It vibrated softly in his hands.
“There’s a tavern,” he said. Soft. Easy. Like he had just come in from a day in the woods. “Half-born owner. Honest enough fellow. Goblin and elf.”
The bow stopped vibrating but stayed warm. She was listening. Not to his words. They couldn’t talk like that. But she picked up on something else. Thoughts or emotions or something. She always had.
“Orcs showed up tonight. Three of them.”
The bow began to glow, faint yet unmistakable in the dark cave.
“I’m bringing you along, but I can’t see you. Not right now. There’s no time.”
The glow wavered for a moment, then steadied. The energy pulsed within his grasp. A heartbeat. Sorrows waited, quiet, like he was approaching a deer in the woods.
The bow thrummed and grew cool. The glow faded. He wondered if she was sad. If she was disappointed. He was tempted to clear his mind, to see her again. But the few minutes with her would be at the expense of the tavern owner. He sighed. His focus drifted to the chain hanging around his neck, the amulet resting against his chest. He had a message to deliver.
“I need to do this.”
The bow went cold in his grasp. Sorrows grabbed the quiver beside it, slung it over his shoulder. The strap crossed his chest. The pressure of it felt familiar, reassuring. He left the cave, slipped the bow into the bindings on his back and worked his way through the forest. The air was cool and smelled of pine. The quarter moon had begun its slow climb into the sky. He returned to the trail made silver by moonbeam. He followed it to the village and slipped like a shadow along walls and through alleyways. He approached the kitchen side of the tavern, passed by the woodpile, and made his way around the windowed side. Spots of yellow lamplight hung from the rafters like fireflies caught in a box. The elf and half-born had left. The place was empty except for the owner, who was wiping circles on tabletops and glancing at the front door. Sorrows continued his scouting of the tavern and stopped when he came to a dark corner off the front. He shrugged out of his cloak. He strung the bow but set it in the shadows, to the side. He was a big man; the cloak added unnecessary intimidation, and the bow added threat. He wanted the orcs to think him approachable, vulnerable. But he wanted the bow close in case a bad situation turned to worse. He leaned against the wall and waited.
An arrow on the string is restless, full of wanderlust and hunger. Sorrows shifted from one foot to another, flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders. The ground lay open from road to tavern. The grass turned to pale silhouette in the moonlight. The orcs would return soon. He had little doubt. This was a fight he had seen through many eyes. The corruption of power. The twisting of strength into a weapon to impose selfish desires upon the weak. It was done everywhere. If not here, then in some other village or city. It was done by anyone. If not orcs, another mortal species or the gods-born. It mattered little. Where corrupt strength discovered weakness, it pounced and devoured. Predator and prey. Unless something stronger stood in its way. Unless by blade or flying shaft the predator was crippled, weakened.
The sound of low, grunting conversation drifted in the night air, and Sorrows moved forward. An arrow on the string.
He tugged his gloves down tight and flexed his fingers, one hand and the other. A restless habit. He needed to keep the
