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

comment caught me off guard. “How is that?”
    “Well, you know all you are here for is for findin' your killer man. When it's over, you
     go, too.”
    I had suspected as much, but it didn't bother me. Dying a second time seemed like such a
     small trade for seeing my killer go first.
    “Just lemme know when you see 'im,” Orun added. I wanted to laugh, but it wasn't in me.
     “You'll know.” As we entered the broad dirt streets of Twisting
    Creek, several people walked by us, giving me looks of disgust at the condition of my
     clothing and probably my smell. None of them even glanced at Orun. Dwarven merchants came
     here all the time from Kaolyn.
    We passed rows of families sitting on the sides of the road, children chasing each other
     or fighting. Almost as many people in town had no home as those who did, thanks to the
     war. I recognized many of them, but none of them seemed to know me in the darkness.
    “You followin' your man?” Orun asked quietly. “He's not far.” Orun sniffed and smiled. My
     senses led me on through town toward the other
    side. I had a strange feeling of dread when I realized I was walking in the direction of
     my uncle's farm.
    We rounded the blacksmith's shop and stable. I looked up and saw a small manor house on a
     low hill, only a few hundred yards away. It was lit by yellow globes of glass set along
     the sides of the house and up the front walkway. The long rail fence I remembered
     repairing in life surrounded it and the farm buildings behind.
    There,“ I said, stopping. ”He's in there.“ Orun stopped, too, and squinted. ”Nice place.“
     I nodded slowly as I started off again. ”My uncle's.“ Orun glanced at me, face hard. ”He's
     in there with
    your kin?" I said nothing. My uncle was a good man. He had his
    flaws, but if he was hurt, it would be one more thing I would owe the Theiwar when we met.
    We turned at the half-circle wagon path that led up to the doors of the manor. Balls of
     yellow crystal set on posts lit the way. My uncle had imported them from the city of
     Solanthus - glass spheres with magical light in them that never went out. Always the best,
     he liked to say. Always get the best.
    No one was outdoors as we approached. The place hadn't changed a bit since I was here last.
    Orun pushed back his oilskin cloak and undid the strap on his axe.
    I needed nothing but my hands.
    We mounted the steps, slowing down, and reached the door. I hesitated, sensing my prey so
     strongly I felt I could touch him.
    He was inside on the right. That would be my uncle's private study, to the side of the
     entry hall. Maybe he was holding everyone hostage, or he'd broken in and was borrowing a
     few things for his own use.
    I wondered if, when I met him, I'd ask him why he'd killed me before I killed him.
    I raised my hand and knocked hard, three times, and listened to the echo. Then we waited.
    The lock clicked. The front door heaved, then pulled open. It was our elderly manservant,
     Roggis. His face went white when he saw me, his eyes growing big and round.
    “Evredd!” he gasped. “Blessed gods, what happened?”
    “I'm home,” I said softly as I pushed past the old man and went in, Orun at my heels. The
     entry hall was brightly lit. The great curved stairs to the second-floor bedrooms ascended
     from either side of the room.
    Something inside me tore free. I wanted to see my killer's face, NOW. The study door was
     closed, but I was there in a moment, with the door handle in my hand, pulling it open.
    The cabinet- and bookshelf-lined study was before me. Yellow light
    fell from the globes hanging from the ceiling. Only one person was in the room, sitting at
     the center table's far end with a pile of ledgers in front of him. He was big,
     fleshy-faced, with a hooked nose and a receding hairline. He looked up with irritation as
     the door swung open.
    My MURDERER, sang the cold in my blood. My uncle, said my eyes. “Can't you - ” he