slowed down, dropping behind me. “Lemme rest.”
I stopped, though I felt a powerful urge to continue on
and catch up with my killer. I raised a thin hand and
waved at the forest and ruins. “Rest,” I croaked.
Orun grunted his thanks and wandered down to some
trees for privacy, then went to the stream bank and placed
his polished axe with care on a fallen log. Dust covered
his face and clothing, and he was streaked and splattered
with his own sweat. He set his helmet aside as he knelt at
the stream, then bent over and splashed water on his head.
After taking a long drink and rinsing off, he settled back
on the bank, rubbing his knees.
Only the brook spoke for a long time. I thought about
the dead hobgoblins, my cousins, and myself. I wondered
who had killed us all, and why.
I studied Orun then. He had leaned back against the
fallen log on which his precious axe rested, his stumpy
legs stretched out. His dark wet beard was as tangled and
chaotic as a mop.
“Tell me about Theiwar,” I said.
Orun glanced over in surprise. “Like what?”
“Everything,” I said.
Orun shrugged. “Know anything at all ’bout ’em?”
“No.”
“Mmm,” he said. He looked down, chewing his lips.
“Theiwar. They’re sorta like dwarves, but not normal. Not
at all like true dwarves. They’re uglier, o’ course. You
heard me say they throw spells, and they do that. But
they’re weaker. Sunlight makes ’em puke; can’t stand it at
all. Have to hide in the day or else wrap ’emselves up in
black. Inbreedin’ does it.”
He paused for thought. “Not ugly only on the outside,
either. They’re cowards, thieves, murderers. Those’re their
good points.” He smiled only briefly. “They’re like a bad
relative. You got a distant cousin you hate. He cheats, lies,
steals, thinks he owns the world. He’s still family, ‘long as
he obeys the rules o’ the house. Follow me so far?”
I nodded and thought about the hobgoblins. “They
collect trophies?”
“Sure do. Ears they like – easier to cut off than fingers.
Save ’em up, show ’em to their friends. Use ’em to prove
their kills. Eat ’em later, maybe. Don’t know, don’t want to
know.” He stroked his shaggy beard.
“Theiwar use crossbows?” It was a long-overdue
question.
“Sure,” he said. He got to his feet, dusting off his
trousers and cloak. “Got all sorts o’ funny weapons, but
they do like them crossbows.”
It made sense that a Theiwar might have been my
murderer. I knew a dwarf could see enough well in
darkness. The Theiwar could have gone right up the cliff
after killing me to do in the hobgoblin lookouts, then the
rest of them. But why would a Theiwar kill me? Did he or
the hobgoblins kill my cousins? Why would he kill his
own allies? It made no sense.
Orun stomped his feet, then looked at the forest and
ruins. He glanced back at his axe, still on the log, then
shrugged and spat.
“Never thought I’d see a rev’nant, or talk to one,” he
stated, adjusting his cloak. “One of my old kin, great
uncle, he was one. Lemishite killed ‘im out in a field, took
his steel. Broan came back, blood still on ‘im, and called
for aid. Two of my kin went with ‘im. Found the Lemishite
halfway back to his home. My kin came back, but not
Broan. Kin never spoke of it much. Hundred, hundred ten
years ago.”
He rubbed at his throat. “Seen others who came back,
but not like you. Walkin’ dead, mindless. Black Robe
wizards like ’em. Had one pass through Kaolyn once.
Didn’t let ‘im stop. Had a bunch of dead helpers.” Orun’s
face twisted with disgust at the memory. “Wizards,” he
sighed.
“Did you know this Garith?” I asked.
A muscle twitched in Orun’s left cheek, pulling on the
side of his mouth. He looked toward the road,
remembering. “Was his contact with Kaolyn, kind o’ to
keep an eye on ‘im. Supposed to have known what he was
doing when he was killin’ our people off, but he got by