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

”
    “Yes,” I told him, watching the dark fields ahead.
    “Oh,” Orun said, now haughty. “Well, now, I'm hardly as nosy as some people.”
    “Yes,” I repeated, louder and more distinctly, “I can SEE my killer.”
    “Oh,” Orun grunted, then said, “was told you smelled 'im.” We traveled in silence for
     hours after that.
    As the horizon in the east grew brighter, something began to slip out of my head. The
     clarity of mind I'd felt before ebbed away, and my sense of my killer's whereabouts grew
     elusive, foggy.
    “Gettin' tired?” Orun asked, shortly before dawn. The sky was still overcast, and no rain
     had fallen.
    “Tired?” Orun repeated a little later. I turned and saw rivers of sweat dripping from his
     face and beard.
    “No,” I said, not stopping. I could continue at this pace forever, but I'd noticed that my
     prey was slowing down. Was he tired already? He'd soon regret every pause for breath.
     “You?” I asked, wondering if Orun would make it.
    “Haven't died yet,” he said, then coughed and grew quiet for several minutes in
     embarrassment. He had eased the distance between us down to six feet during the night; he
     didn't increase it again. He seemed to be getting quite used to me.
    The killer I was tracking continued to slow down as the cloud-hidden dawn approached. When
     the sun arose behind the thick morning clouds, my inner sense of the killer's location
     faded within moments. Some of my supernatural energy seemed to dissipate as well, but I
     was able to keep moving at a steady walking pace. Maybe the energy loss at dawn was part
     of being a revenant. Maybe I drew some of my sustenance from darkness. Since this was my
     first mom-ing as a dead man, perhaps my ignorance could be forgiven.
    By now I knew where the killer was headed. I knew the way to Twisting Creek blindfolded,
     having hunted
    across these plains only months before. It was nearly noon when we crossed an abandoned
     cart road and entered a small forest, beyond which lay the ruins of a pre- Cataclysm
     farmhouse. Only the stone foundation remained of the structure, and young trees lifted
     their branches where ground-floor rooms had once been. A brook ran through the trees
     nearby.
    “Whoa,” Orun huffed. “Hold there. Stop for a bit.” He 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