"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 preCataclysm 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 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 me." The dwarf grunted, pulling the cloak tightly around his shoulders. "Almost did for me, too, but I was lucky. Damn lucky."
I eyed him for a few moments. "You want him."
Orun was silent for a moment more, then slowly turned around and grinned at me in a dark way, almost shyly. "Sure do," he said, eyes like arrow slits in a fortress. "Want 'im bad. He killed some good friends o' mine. My fault, really. I know how y'feel. You want to get your claws 'round his scrawny neck and squeeze his life out, make 'im feel what you felt. That right?"
I said nothing.
He grinned more broadly. "Well, you miss 'im, and I'll finish it for you. Lookin' forward to it. Our boy's been a busy little runt, killin' everything he can find. Got it in for everyone, like the rest o' 'is folk. Thinks he's a bad boy. But he won't like seein' you and me together."
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" I asked.
The dwarf looked me over in silence, then snorted as if he'd heard a bad joke. "You want me to be afraid there, dead boy? I'll tell you somethin'. In the war, my commander got 'imself killed by a draconian, sivak type. They're the big silver ones what change their shapes when they kill someone, so they look like what they just killed. You heard 'bout 'em?"
I remembered sivaks very well from the war. "Yes."
"I saw the killin', but I wasn't in a way to do anythin' 'bout it right then and there. Had to travel with 'im for two days, pretendin' he was my friend, all the time knowin' he was gonna turn on me and my buddies and kill us off or take us to an ambush. Got some help in time, though, and we cut that reptile boy down to gully dwarf meat. You may be a dead boy, but after that sivak, nothin' much ever gets to me."
The dwarf clapped his hands together, then went to get his axe. "'Sides, like I said, you probably leadin' me right to Garith. Gonna be like a family reunion." He lifted the axe to gaze down the blade. "I been dyin' to see the boy. Like as not, he'll be dyin' too — after he sees me."