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.
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