Free The War Of The Lance by Michael Williams, Richard A. Knaak, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

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.
    The body near the fire pit was the room's only occupant. I knelt down by it and took a
     long look. In life, it would have been the biggest hobgoblin I could have ever imagined -
     a head and a half taller than me. Even in the near darkness, I could still see a massive
     burned spot across the front of his hide armor. I'd seen its like only once before, when
     storm lightning had killed one of my uncle's horses in its pasture.
    I looked up. The stables' roof was solid.
    On impulse, I got up and walked over to the bed, searching the rags until I found a
     suitably long strip of
    cloth. This I wrapped around my chest with a bunched-up rag covering the bolt wound, then
     tied it off. I tried a few words and discovered that I could speak almost normally now,
     though I still sounded as if I had rocks in my throat instead of vocal cords.
    “Thought I heard you talkin' to yourself,” Orun muttered when I came outside. He'd moved
     closer to the barracks doorway, but the stench was obviously getting to him. He held his
     nose until he was away from it. “Any ideas what happened to our hob buddies?” He indicated
     the doorway with the axe.
    I shook my head. The dwarf frowned and looked around. “What did for 'em?” he asked
     absently, then turned back to me. “There anyone else in there 'sides hobs?”
    I shook my head no.
    “No sign o' another dwarf, maybe? Kinda white- lookin' one, real ugly?”
    Again, I shook my head, but more slowly. “Why?”
    Orun looked away at the fort and mumbled something that I didn't catch.
    “Sewer?” I repeated.
    “No,” he said in disgust, setting his axe down to rub his hands together. “Damn that runt.
     Theiwar.”
    The name was familiar. It had to do with a race of dwarves, I recalled. “Theiwar?”
    “Jackals,” he said thickly. “All of 'em are. Call 'emselves true dwarves, but no relation
     I ever heard of. Some of 'em throw spells, the tougher ones do. Never let a Theiwar get
     behind you 'less he's already dead, and then you'd still better think about it. Born for
     evil, all of 'em.”
    A dwarf that threw spells? I'd never heard of such a thing, but I was beyond the point of
     disbelieving almost anything now that I was dead. “What kind of spells?” I asked.
    “Oh,” he said, “all sorts. Some of 'em's killer-type spells. Poison-gas spell's one of
     'em. Could be what did for our hob buddies in there.” He indicated the barracks. “Don't
     know what all they can do.”
    “You're hunting a Theiwar?”
    Orun grinned self-consciously. “Funny you ask. Am at that.” He looked up at me. “Bounty
     hunter. Come from Kaolyn. You know Kaolyn? Nice place.”
    Kaolyn was a respectable dwarven mountain kingdom, about eighty miles southwest of
     Twisting Creek. “Why hunt a Theiwar?”
    He stroked his damp beard. “Traitor to Kaolyn. Supposed to've been spyin' on the
     draconians and hobs for us, chiselin' out a few when he could. Some Theiwar'll help you
     for the love of steel in their hands; some'll help you for the love of killin'. We put 'em
     to use.” He sighed. “Gotta be done. War is war.”
    “What happened?”
    Orun snorted. “Loved the killin' part too much, that one. Wanted more