Charlotte was shying and stomping her feet, sending the other horse into a similar state. Shawna took hold of the reins and brought the beast firmly under control, mounting up before the horse could protest. She took a deep breath, grasped the horsewhip with her free hand, and kicked Charlotte into motion.
The young mare responded with enthusiasm, breaking into a sprint past the manor house and down toward the road. Her father had a large pasture fenced off near the stables to allow the horses free range during the day. The herd was rushing about inside the fence, running in abject fear of the commotion inside the barn. Shawna bent over Charlotte's neck and gave the horse her lead, pointing her toward the gate that led out onto the road.
She reached it well ahead of the herd, jumped from the saddle, and opened the gate. Charlotte danced as Shawna pulled the heavy wooden thing to the side, and the thunderous sound of the herd grew in the distance. She was back in the saddle before the horses crested the low hill and rumbled down toward the opened gate, and Shawna pulled Charlotte to the side of the entrance. She unlimbered the whip, and waited for the right moment.
The first horses burst through the gate and made to run into the open, and Shawna snapped the whip in the air above the leading beast's head. It turned, eyes rolling, and headed down the road—directly toward the growing dust cloud. The stampede was spectacular up close, a veritable wall of unstoppable horseflesh. The noise rattled Shawna's teeth together, and she couldn't help but scream against the clamor as she snapped the whip a few more times to usher the herd along.
Charlotte danced in a circle as the horses burst through the gate and down the road, and the uppity beast made to follow them as they passed by. Shawna yanked the reins to the side and directed her up the hill and back to the manor instead, towing Taiba's horse by the force of the rope tied to her bit. She cast the whip aside and let it tumble into the dried winter grass.
She was struck numb to see smoke rising from the windows of the manor. From her vantage point, Shawna could see everything in stark detail. She swept her eyes over the corpses that littered the lawn in front of the house. She drank in the sight of her home framed against the cold morning sun, flames just starting to shine from within. Taiba stood before it, simple dress fluttering in the wind, clutching a bundle to her chest.
Shawna pulled up nearby, gesturing for Taiba to hurry. The girl ran for the second horse and struggled to climb into the saddle, but she was still wearing the ruined dress. It caught in the stirrups and she started to wrestle with it, which made the horse shy away from her. Shawna turned to help, but froze as her eyes alighted behind her.
Two Galanians were sitting astride horses at the edge of the tree line to the south, both of them raising bows to loose at the two women. Shawna cried out in alarm as Taiba climbed inexpertly onto the horse, but the girl never got her eyes up in time to see the danger. Arrows flitted down from the sky and buried themselves into Taiba's back.
“Taiba!” Shawna screamed.
The girl coughed wetly, and blood sprayed from her mouth before she tumbled from the horse. Shawna yelled in anger and pulled the knot that held the second horse to Charlotte's saddle, allowing the beast to run free before it could pull her own horse to the side. It darted away, and Shawna's heart broke as she watched Taiba's struggles go quiet.
She dug her heels into Charlotte's flanks and snapped the reins, urging her silently to run as fast as she could. Shawna's back itched with fear as she bent over the horse's neck, hoping it would take her from the killing field before the men could draw a shot on her. She turned the horse toward the northern fork in the road, which led to the city of Ferolan, and gritted her teeth as she let Charlotte have her lead.
Shawna felt something punch through her back, and agony filled her left side from toes to hairline. She gasped and nearly fell from the saddle, but was able to keep her seat. The arrow had pinned her cloak to her back, and each jarring report of Charlotte's hooves sent flashes of pain through Shawna's body. She grimaced and tried to force her mind to ignore it, but the effort was nearly more than she could bear.
Shawna knew that if the Galanians caught her, she wouldn't be able to fight with an arrow through her side. She was gambling on the hope that the foreigners' mounts would be tired from the excitement of the day, and her own mount was fresh, full of energy, and of far better breeding stock. Charlotte could outrun the best of their mounts any day, and gallop for half again as long.
Shawna yelped as arrows flitted through the air around her. She thought one may have flown through her hair, but they were gone so fast that she couldn't tell. She yelled into Charlotte's mane and prayed to the gods that her gamble would pay off. Hadn't they had their fill of blood for the day?
Shawna certainly had. The faces of her loved ones flashed before her eyes as she rode, all ripped from this world and sent into the Void before their time. She was the last living person who could attest to what happened, and that responsibility weighed on Shawna's soul.
She carried their memories with her as she fled.
***
Dormael came awake with a snap.
His heart was thundering blood through his head, and the skin on his neck and shoulders felt as if it had been dipped in icy water. The feeling faded as the world came into focus, dissipating into a cloud of angry tingles before disappearing altogether. He felt an odd foreboding as he tried to get his bearings, and figure out what in the Six Hells had just happened.
His head was swimming with the ale he had been drinking. At least, he thought that was all he had been drinking. He couldn’t actually remember what it was. There was only one way to find out, so Dormael commenced to take another long pull from the mug in front of him.
It was ale, alright—warm ale, at that.
His vision blurred in two and he swept his arm before his face, trying to clear the drunkenness from his head. Of course, the movement only caused his mind to swim even worse, and he grasped the edge of the table to avoid an embarrassing introduction between his face and the floor. Taking a deep breath of the stale, smoky air that surrounded him, he began to gather his wits.
The tavern around him was alive with revelry. It was a seedy, dockside dive teeming with workmen and sailors. Barmaids dodged in and out of the boisterous crowd, ducking through small groups of singing men and deftly avoiding the drunken advances of the same. A man was perched on a table at the far end of the bar, strumming a lively melody on a country guitar. He belted out verses about a merchant’s daughter and her various sexual indiscretions with his household. Dormael winced as the crowd roared a boisterous “HEY!” and descended into laughter.
The sooty glow of lanterns lit the scene, casting a merry ambiance on those gathered in the alehouse. Wood chips were scattered on the floor, in case someone decided to spill their stomach, though the acidic smell of vomit was still wafting through the establishment. The scents of roasting fish and tobacco smoke also floated through the air, and it made for an odd mingling of odors. The smell notwithstanding, it seemed like a nice place to spend the evening.
Dormael’s head felt like it was covered in wet mud, his wits trying to swim to the surface. He took a deep breath and took stock of his belongings, uttering a sigh of relief as he found his pack and purse still intact. Well, his purse was somewhat intact, anyway—mug after mug of ale had taken a toll on his coin.
He had traveled lightly, bringing only what had been necessary. He had a pack with a few changes of clothing, a bedroll, and various implements of everyday life. He carried a quarterstaff that was a weapon more than a walking stick—at least to any eye sharp enough to know the difference. It was two hands taller than Dormael, and capped on either end with steel. Dormael liked it because it didn’t set teeth on edge and send hackles rising the way carrying a sword would.
His only indulgence was his most prized possession—a beautifully made guitar. Normally he took great pains to hide his level of wealth, carrying only simple clothing and the trappings of the vagabond, but he
couldn’t stand to be away from the instrument. The guitar itself would never be mistaken for the instrument of some traveling minstrel. It was made of polished wood, and carved with the various semblances of the gods, all rendered in painstaking detail. He carried it in a weathered, nondescript case to hide its true value.
He caught a few of the patrons giving him sidelong glances, and kept note of their faces as he continued checking his gear. He expected as much in this part of the world—his kind was widely regarded with ill favor in the east, and he wasn’t dressed to blend into the crowd.
While the people in this part of the world were as light-skinned as his own countrymen, with various shades of hair, their dress was mostly what one would expect in any poor district in any city in the world. Homespun and leather was the fashion for those too poor to care about fashion, though there were sailors in the room that sported the odd affectation from far and wide. None of it was similar to Dormael’s clothing, however.
His mesavai, a traditional Sevenlander garment, hung sleeveless over a woolen shirt and was belted at the waist, leaving a swath of fabric to hang down to the knees in both front and back. It was white with a wide, black hem, and within that hem were sewn flowing runes that were specific to one’s self and lineage. Dormael’s own mesavai was well decorated, but still incomplete. He was only twenty-eight springs breathing, after all.
His Sevenlander cloak was currently thrown over his pack, but he knew it would evoke the same reaction from these easterners. It was voluminous and sleeved, sported a deep cowl, and was made of heavy material. People didn’t wear them in this part of the world, and it would mark him out just as certainly. As would his beard, which hung long, braided, and lacked a mustache—a style clearly unpopular in the east, judging from the looks he got.
The door to the tavern opened, admitting three laughing men and a chilly draft from the street. The autumns in port cities were always a bit cooler, with the sea churning up winds and throwing them toward the shore. The weather on the Stormy Sea was notorious for being angry at this time of year, and Ferolan sat right beneath the meeting of the north and south winds. Dormael thought that if he listened hard enough, he could almost feel the power gathering out where no one watched, waiting to come screaming toward the shoreline.
He could do without the damnable cold, though.
After his last assignment he'd decided to take some time to himself. He wasn't escaping anything exactly, but he'd been ducking his normal contacts since he'd decided to leave. Dormael just didn't feel like making explanations to anyone, and he needed some time to unwind. The last few years had been rough on him, and his responsibilities were beginning to chafe. He was in dire need of some time to himself, so he had decided to take it. If his colleagues wished to track him down, then he felt reasonably sure they could find him. They always did.
Ferolan was a temporary stop. He was bound for Tauravon, the Great River City. It was late in the autumn, and the Winter Solstice would soon be celebrated. Tauravon’s Festival of Frost celebration was world renowned, and Dormael intended to partake this year—perhaps he would make a coin or two playing his guitar. He had planned to buy a horse and take to the road, but it had been so damned cold that the tavern had been irresistible. His purse was much lighter as a result.
Sighing, he called for his last mug of ale while gathering his belongings to set out and find a bed for the night. Dormael was used to walking, and he told himself it was good for the soul. The movement would keep his blood flowing.
He did wince, though, as he thought about the cold.
The barmaid deposited his mug on the table and gave him an offhand smile. Dormael pressed some coins into her hand and attempted to smack her on the backside as she passed. She laughed in spite of his predictable gesture, and dodged it without much effort. He winked at her as she turned to slip back through the press of drunken merrymakers, but she only rolled her eyes. He had always had a certain way with the fairer sex.
Shrugging on his cloak and shouldering his bulging pack, Dormael picked up his staff and his guitar as he rose to leave. Downing half the mug on his way out, he left the drink half full with another smiling, red-nosed man who cheered and clapped him on the shoulder for his trouble. Pulling his hood up against the chill wind, Dormael opened the door and stepped out into the night.
The streets outside were virtually empty. Most people had retreated indoors for the night, leaving the cobblestones of the streets to collect the mist that came in from the sea. Autumn was waning, and the chill fingers of winter had begun to sink into everything with a cold grip that only the morning sun could burn away. The glow of street lanterns cast long shadows into the alleyways he passed, and the absence of people gave the night a lonely, haunting quality. It left Dormael feeling a little unsettled.
He did pass a few people—men headed to taverns, hurrying after unknown errands, or the ever present City Watchmen. None offered him a greeting. The night seemed to make them wary of passersby, and Dormael didn’t blame them. At this hour most honest men had taken to their cups, and the cutpurses ran the streets until sunup.
Dormael soon passed from the Docks District into a slummy residential area, and the brick warehouses and shops that lined the streets at the docks gave way to squat, two-story tenement buildings. Most of the windows were dark, save for the occasional lighted bedroom, but the street lanterns still gave off their ruddy glow. It was quiet here, and it made Dormael’s unease more pronounced as he walked down the deserted streets, his boots rhythmically tapping on the cobblestones underfoot.
Perhaps it was the near silence, or maybe the ale, but a strange feeling began to tingle inside of him. At first Dormael thought he was going to be sick, but he wasn’t feeling nauseated at all. He tried to shake it off, taking deep breaths of the cold night air, even pulling down his hood to bare his head to the chill, but nothing worked. More and more as he trod through the quiet city, Dormael began to suspect something was seriously wrong with him.
Then, with a feeling akin to jumping into an icy stream, his magic suddenly flared to life.
Dormael almost collapsed, and he had to lean heavily on a street lamp to keep his feet underneath him. His heart was beating into his ears, and he felt as if there was a storm inside of him that he was barely managing to control. His senses were alive with clarity, and the cold night came into sudden, painful focus. He could feel the rush of the waves against the distant cliffs resonating in his chest. The air tasted so strongly of salt that Dormael's mouth went dry.
He concentrated on his Kai, the source of his magical power, and tried to force it back down, but the magic would not leave him. It was listening to something far to the south, and it took Dormael a moment to hear it through the tumult his own magic was making in his senses. His Kai was resonating with something, and pulling him as a leashed dog might pull its master.
Dormael took a few deep breaths to calm the panic that had gripped him. Magic was a dangerous and volatile thing. If his power could wake of its own accord when he was blistering drunk, then could it set a building aflame? Kill someone accidentally? Plenty of wizards had lost control of their power before, and had paid the ultimate price for it.
Sometimes scores of people paid that price along with them.
Dormael cleared his head and embraced his power instead of fighting it. He was terrified of the prospect of losing control, and it appeared the only way to keep that from happening was to acquiesce. Shrugging his packs back onto his shoulders and grumbling the whole way, Dormael began to trudge in the direction in which his magic pulled him.
After a minute or two of walking, the power eased its wild insistence, but nonetheless kept him steadily moving. He could feel something out there in the night, some pulsing source of unknown power that pulled on his magic. Beads of cold sweat formed on his skin as he followed his magic through the frigid, sleeping city.
What in the Six Hells is that sound?
His Kai led him through the residential district to
the market, and through the market into another, richer area where the houses of merchants and officials were raised two and three stories above the streets. He turned south at some point, passing through another trade district sprinkled with shops, alehouses, and inns, but still the magic marched him on. Soon, the guardhouse of the southern city gate appeared before him.
Dormael paused before walking casually through the gate. It was late, and colder than the underworld outside, and the last thing Dormael fancied was a tromp through the windy highlands around Ferolan. He had already been out in the cold for too long, and he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of allowing his magic to pull at him. He considered heading back into the city regardless of what his Kai wanted, but he knew that he couldn't ignore this. Squaring his shoulders and shrugging deeper into the voluminous Sevenlander cloak, Dormael trudged through the southern gate.
The guards on duty paid him little mind as he walked through it. Cambrell had been at peace for a very long time, and Dormael couldn't recall the last time Ferolan had been attacked. The City Watch was more used to dealing with cutpurses than threats on the walls, and the lackadaisical attitude was readily apparent. He passed from the city into the darkness of the road beyond, and none of them said the first word to him. He felt exposed as the night closed in around him, but his Kai kept urging him onward.
The wind was blowing unchecked from the sea, lashing Dormael’s cloak about him like a flag caught in a squall. The moonlight was beaming, though it did little to aid his blurry, drunken vision. The road was made of trampled dirt, and it loosed clouds of dust every time the wind blew. Dormael had to shield his eyes with his hand periodically. The only sound was the noise of the Stormy Sea crashing against the rocky beach of the coast. The land around the city was mostly coastal highlands, but the road snaked southwest into a dense forest some small distance from the city. Sparse trees dotted the highlands, though they gave little shelter from the wind.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 4
