The War Of The Lance by Michael Williams, Richard A. Knaak, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Page B
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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 flies whirling around him.
He certainly hadn't been the one who snapped that stick I'd heard. Then, I saw who did.
About twenty-five feet from me was a dwarf in an oilskin cloak. His back was to me. He
bent over another fallen hobgoblin, his chain mail links clinked under the cloak. The
dwarf straightened. He carried a bright, spike-backed war axe clutched in a leather-gloved
fist. Then, looking around warily, he turned in my direction, revealing a wet and tangled
brown beard, thick dark eyebrows, and small black eyes that widened violently when he saw
me.
“Reorx!” the dwarf gasped. He swung the spike- backed axe in his right hand, his left arm
coming up to block me if I rushed him. He took a half-crouch, feet set in a stance that
could shift him in any direction. Another veteran of the war.
I raised my hands - palms out, fingers spread - and shook my head slowly. The dwarf didn't
take the hint, still readied for an attack. The sight of him clutching that polished axe
struck me as amusing, but I didn't smile.
I moved sideways to get away from the ledge, having none of the unsteadiness I'd felt
earlier. The dwarf rotated to keep facing me.
I moved my lips to say something to him, but nothing came out. It took a moment to figure
out why; then I drew a breath to fill my lungs. Part of my rib cage expanded, but there
was an unpleasant sucking sound from my sternum and the sensation that the left side of my
chest was not filling. I quickly reached up and placed my right hand inside the neckline
of my surcoat to cover the bolt wound. I tried
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 flies whirling around him.
He certainly hadn't been the one who snapped that stick I'd heard. Then, I saw who did.
About twenty-five feet from me was a dwarf in an oilskin cloak. His back was to me. He
bent over another fallen hobgoblin, his chain mail links clinked under the cloak. The
dwarf straightened. He carried a bright, spike-backed war axe clutched in a leather-gloved
fist. Then, looking around warily, he turned in my direction, revealing a wet and tangled
brown beard, thick dark eyebrows, and small black eyes that widened violently when he saw
me.
“Reorx!” the dwarf gasped. He swung the spike- backed axe in his right hand, his left arm
coming up to block me if I rushed him. He took a half-crouch, feet set in a stance that
could shift him in any direction. Another veteran of the war.
I raised my hands - palms out, fingers spread - and shook my head slowly. The dwarf didn't
take the hint, still readied for an attack. The sight of him clutching that polished axe
struck me as amusing, but I didn't smile.
I moved sideways to get away from the ledge, having none of the unsteadiness I'd felt
earlier. The dwarf rotated to keep facing me.
I moved my lips to say something to him, but nothing came out. It took a moment to figure
out why; then I drew a breath to fill my lungs. Part of my rib cage expanded, but there
was an unpleasant sucking sound from my sternum and the sensation that the left side of my
chest was not filling. I quickly reached up and placed my right hand inside the neckline
of my surcoat to cover the bolt wound. I tried
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