Margaret Weis - The War of the Lance

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.

But then I was dead, so I was no one to talk.

The fort in the trees was probably a relic from the times of the Cataclysm. Rough stone walls, the wooden double gate, a short stone-based tower to the left — all fallen into rot and ruin.

This place came with a third hobgoblin, lying facedown in the open gateway. The butt and fletching of yet another crossbow bolt was visible just under his leather armor; he'd fallen on it and broken the shaft after it had struck him. Humming flies circled over him, many feeding where his left ear had been. His arms were caught under him. He'd grabbed at the shaft, just as I had done. His sword was still nestled in its scabbard at his side. Another surprised customer.

Through the open gateway, we could see the fort's overgrown main yard, small when it was new but more so now with the bushes and trees thick in it. On the other side of the roughly square yard was the barracks building, its stone walls and part of its roof still standing. To the right, against a wall, was a low building that had probably been the stables. The tower to the left was mostly rubble. All was quiet except for the flies.

Orun glanced at me, then carefully leaned over the fallen hobgoblin and took hold of its rigid face with his free hand. Thick fingers poked at a gray cheek, then tugged down an eyelid to reveal a white eyeball.

"Dead 'bout a day," he muttered. He squinted up at me, then glanced around the fort's yard. "Think we're alone here," he added, matter-of-factly.

I nodded and went on through the gateway, the dwarf coming behind me.

The yard was largely covered with tall grass and thorn bushes. Trees stretched skyward by the stone walls. Someone, probably the hobgoblins, had partially covered the damaged barracks roof with animal hides. Pathways had been recently beaten through the tall grass, linking the barracks with the main gate. The stables to the right had their original roof and appeared more habitable than the other structures. The hobgoblins could stay safe and dry within the stables, firing through arrow slits at all intruders.

Intruders like us.

A squirrel ran lightly over the stable roof, stopped when it saw us, and watched with curiosity. It fled when I stared at it for too long.

"Bet you a steel," Orun said, pointing his axe at the barracks, "the rest of 'em's in there. Maybe your killer whatever's in there, too. Better go look."

We moved closer, Orun generously letting me lead. Dark shapes lay on the floor beyond the open barracks doorway. The dwarf stopped about thirty feet back from the single stone step, axe ready, watching both me and the doorway. He was no fool.

I hesitated only a moment before I mounted the step and went inside. The buzzing of insects filled my ears in the darkness. Weak light filtered in from the doorway and through holes in the makeshift roof. Water dripped constantly from above, splashing across the room.

As I looked around, I was glad to be dead. Not that the sight of bloated bodies affected me any longer as it once had on the bloody plains of Neraka. It was mere scenery now, shadows that held no terror. No one screamed, no one cried, nothing hurt. Everywhere I looked inside were bodies, and everywhere were black flies and crawling things at a morbid feast, carpeting the discolored, twisted bodies of the hobgoblin dead.

I counted eight bodies. Five clutched at their throats or faces. The rest gaped at the ceiling with bulging eyes and open, soundless mouths, their rigid arms grabbing at their chests or locked open in grasping gestures. It was hard to tell what they had been doing, but not one had made a move for his weapon. All swords were sheathed or leaning against the walls.

I looked around the room. There was a door to the right, apparently leading to the stables. The wood was gray with age and appeared ready to fall apart. It opened with ease.

Beyond the doorway it was very dark. I walked carefully to avoid stumbling over bodies that might be in the way. I didn't find any until I got into the stables themselves.

The hobgoblins had apparently cleaned up the stables and made them into a tidy home. Gray light leaked in from small holes in the ceiling and outer walls. The interior walls had long ago rotted away, but the hobgoblins had shoveled the debris with great efficiency. An ash-filled circle of stones served as a seat by a fire pit. A large mass of rotting cloth, half covering a pile of dry leaves, appeared to make up a bed. It was sufficient, if not cozy.