The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  He had to succeed here—he had to!

  Both his career and his very life depended on it.

  Stealing the Child

  The stars shone brightly down on Dormael and D’Jenn as they stood gazing up at the cliff on the seaward side of Ferolan Castle. Dormael had discovered a little used path in the corner of the Lord’s March that led down to the park they had seen earlier in the day. From there, it was a short climb down to a tiny patch of ground that was on the edge of a sheer drop into the dark waters below, but stood only about ten hands distance from the bottom of the castle cliff face.

  The cousins had left their mesavais at Alton’s manor, and had opted to come only in their dark, close-fitting shirts. It helped to keep them hidden in the shadows, but it also let the biting cold wind seep directly into their bones. Both cousins were tying long bits of cloth around their mouths and noses, so as to hide their faces in case they were seen in the castle. Dormael had wrapped his long goatee loosely around his neck, and tied it so that it wouldn’t come loose, or obstruct his movement.

  The waves crashed below them like thunder on the rocks at the base of the escarpment. The cliff itself was a sheer rock face that climbed over a hundred links into the night sky, a silent sentinel against the pounding force of the ocean below. It was a staggering climb, and Dormael didn’t understand what made D’Jenn think they could make it. Dormael imagined himself falling into the cold water below, and shivered.

  “How exactly are we supposed to get up there without flying, or blasting out large sections of the cliff for handholds?” Dormael asked as loudly as he dared against the crashing waves. He wasn’t sure how the sound would carry to the castle above.

  “Didn't I ever tell you how I got into the Keep at Thardin?” D’Jenn asked as he finished the last knot on his facemask.

  “If you did, I didn’t pay attention,” Dormael replied, still staring at the cliff face.

  “Of course not,” D'Jenn snorted. “Well, keep your underskirts from knotting up. Watch and learn, coz.”

  Dormael felt the familiar prickly feeling, and heard D'Jenn's magic start to sing its eerie melody into the night. He watched D’Jenn tie a strange bit of magic between his hands, feet, and the cliff face. With that done, D’Jenn jumped out onto the cliff, and stuck there like a spider in its web. It was impressive, but Dormael still thought that he would have preferred to fly.

  Scale the wall, indeed, he thought with a soundless grumble. He ran over the magic in his head, and took a deep breath. It was odd that he felt so at home in the sky with nothing beneath him, but as soon as he had a rock face to cling to—and a watery grave below—his guts tightened up in fear.

  Copying D’Jenn’s spell, Dormael took a running start and jumped out over the gap to reach the cliff face. For one tense second, he was airborne. The thought of flying ran through his head again, but then he felt the cold rock of the cliff under his hands. When his hands and feet stuck fast to the cliff face—something he had entirely expected to fail—he let out a relieved sigh. D’Jenn regarded Dormael with smiling eyes over his mask. Shrugging at his cousin, Dormael began to pull himself over the rocks, trying to get used to the strange sensation of not having to hold the stone in a death grip. D’Jenn kept pace with little effort.

  After an unnerving climb, the cousins came to the base of the castle wall. There was enough ground space at the edge to pull themselves up and stand against it, but the height and perspective was dizzying. The entire bay spread out beneath them, though at the moment Dormael could see little but the lights of the city and the moon reflected on the restless waves below.

  They had agreed prior to coming that once they had reached this spot, they would revert to the silent mode of communication known as the Hunter's Tongue. Hunter’s Tongue, also known as the Silent Language, was a system of hand gestures originally developed by Sevenlander hunters to use when stalking prey. Over generations of use it had developed into a deep and expressive language, though everyone had their own little ticks when using it. Dormael had always referred to them as 'accents', even though D'Jenn hated the reference. It was a very effective way to communicate in silence, and very few people knew about it outside of the Sevenlands. Dormael and D'Jenn used it all the time.

  Wait, Dormael’s hands said, listen for voices. Don’t want to walk into a trap.

  Of course. I'm not a child, replied D’Jenn.

  Dormael shot an offensive gesture at his cousin—his fist closed with an outstretched pinkie finger.

  Maybe not, but you're snapping at me like an old woman, he signed.

  You climb like an old woman, D'Jenn shot back.

  It was hard to hear over the crashing waves below, but soon the sound of voices floated down to them from the top of the wall. As the noise passed, the cousins recast their spells to bind their hands and feet to the stone of the castle wall. The night once again grew silent, save for the thunderous ocean, and the two wizards began their ascent up the outer wall of Ferolan Castle.

  As they slipped like a pair of shadows over the edge of the battlements, a cloud went over the moon, and thunder pealed in the distance. Dormael, though he knew rain would help keep them hidden, dreaded the thought of being wet while out in this cold. The storm still appeared to be a good distance away, however. The night was now moonless, and the shadows closed in like a dark curtain.

  Eindor smiles on us. Let's move on before the next patrol catches us huddled here like thieves, D'Jenn signed.

  Nodding his agreement, Dormael took a look around. They had gambled on the fact that the guards would most likely be looking outward instead of inward, but one could never be sure. The nearest guard tower was just to their right, but the walkways on the ramparts were deserted. Satisfied that they would not be seen, Dormael backed up as far as he could—he would need to get a running start.

  Now for one of my little tricks, his fingers said as he shot D'Jenn a mischievous smile. With that, Dormael took a running start directly toward the inner edge of the rampart. With a powerful grunt of effort, he jumped from the battlements and went sailing out into the air. He felt his groin tighten up reflexively for a just a moment, and then he willed his magic into motion.

  Instead of falling like a rock, he floated across the gap like a feather in the wind. Using D’Jenn’s spell once more as he sailed through the night air, he reached the inner wall and stuck like an insect. The landing still took the breath from his chest as he slammed into the stone, but he was safe. After he'd gotten his bearings, D'Jenn landed on the wall a small distance away.

  Are you alright? Dormael signed.

  Fine. Let's keep going, D'Jenn returned.

  The climb up the inner wall took twice as long, and the wind picked up as they cleared the height of the outer wall. It was cold enough to bite into Dormael's bones as he pulled himself hand over hand up the smooth face of the stone. His mask whipped around his face, but Dormael's hands were occupied with climbing, and he could do nothing to remedy the situation.

  They made the ramparts on the second wall and narrowly avoided being spotted by a roving patrol of guardsmen. Once they were gone, the cousins slipped over the edge and jumped once again—using Dormael's spell—to the wall of the smaller of the two towers inside the walls of the castle. After Dormael stuck fast to the smooth stones beneath his hands, he let out a breath in exertion and looked to D'Jenn, who was flattened against the wall a small distance away.

  Still alive, cousin? His fingers asked.

  Aye, and still better at this than you, D'Jenn replied. He winked at Dormael over the edge of his mask. That floating spell is a neat trick. I'll have to remember it.

  I'm going to wreak havoc with yours. Maybe hang out on the roof of a bathhouse somewhere, scare the pants off the patrons, Dormael signed.

  If they're in a bathhouse they won't be wearing any pants. D'Jenn's face conveyed all the dry humor that would have been in his tone otherwise. Dormael shot him another offensive gesture.

  Let's get going
before you get us caught. You're so talkative tonight, Dormael shot back.

  I hadn't realized you'd been chosen as Deacon of Warlocks. Lead the way, Wise One, D'Jenn smiled.

  Dormael shook his head, and the two began to climb once more. Sticking to the side of the rounded tower was a little different than scaling the flat castle walls. He knew it was ludicrous, but Dormael felt that he had less to hold on to, and he grew dizzier the higher they went. As if that wasn’t enough, the stone underneath Dormael’s hands was colder than all Six Hells. His hands were freezing, and the temperature was beginning to numb them. The wind was strong at this height, and Dormael sometimes felt that he was going to be blown off the tower to splatter into the courtyards below.

  D'Jenn, of course, had no trouble, and frequently stopped to shoot Dormael glances that were halfway between a taunt and actual concern. Dormael felt like cursing him, but that would mean taking his hands from the face of the tower. He was dizzy enough as it was.

  If climbing straight up was bad, then shuffling sideways on the rounded surface was even worse. Frequently the cousins had to do this to skirt a window, or to keep in the shadowed side of the tower and avoid being spotted from the ramparts. D'Jenn spotted a window high on the tower that was out of sight of the guards below, and the cousins climbed up close to listen. Dormael could hear nothing but the wind buffeting his ears, but his magical senses told him that there was no one inside.

  The window was closed, and there were heavy drapes hanging beside the portal, left open to the night. There was no light inside, but Dormael could make out a four-poster bed standing in one side of the room, opposite a large fireplace that held no flame against the winter cold. D’Jenn waved his hand at the window, and it sprang open without a sound. The cousins slipped inside on silent feet.

  Dormael saw no belongings, nor signs of any kind that the room was currently occupied. The hearth was cold and empty, as was the bed. A light layer of dust covered everything, and the room smelled cold and uninviting.

  Empty, D'Jenn's hands said. Where do you think they're billeting the Galanian commander?

  It has to be somewhere in this tower. I'm sure the other one is used by the duke. My bet is one of these at the top, Dormael signaled back.

  D'Jenn nodded, They'd want to put him in a place of honor, I imagine.

  Let's have a look around the corner, Dormael signed.

  Fine, but I don't want to get caught up going room to room. In and out quickly—that's the game, D'Jenn replied.

  I know the bloody game, cousin. You can start trusting me at any point in our lives, you know, Dormael shot back, but he softened his message with a smile.

  I learned not to do that long ago. D'Jenn met his smile with one of his own that was all teeth and sarcasm.

  I think I'll push you from the wall on the way out. Do you think you'll actually splatter at the bottom, or just break open like a melon? Dormael shot back.

  Break open, D'Jenn smiled. Splattering is undignified.

  Dormael stifled a laugh and moved to the door, bending his ear to the sounds in the hallway. When nothing but silence greeted him, he slowly pushed the door open and peeked around the corner. There were candles burning in the corridor, filling it with ruddy light, but it was otherwise deserted.

  Dormael slunk out of the room, D'Jenn following close behind. Dormael felt a distinctive itch between his shoulder blades—he always did when he was sneaking around. He gritted his teeth and prayed to the gods that no one would come along and catch them in the open. They were illuminated and in plain sight, so there would be no choice but to fight. The wizards had left their weapons at Alton’s manor—Dormael’s staff was too long and cumbersome for this sort of exccursion, and D’Jenn’s morningstar had a tendency to clang against everything as it hung in his belt.

  The hallway snaked around in a curve, following the shape of the tower. They passed another room—also unoccupied—and made their way to what Dormael thought was the opposite side of the building. Suddenly D’Jenn’s hand clasped down on Dormael’s shoulder, pulling him up short.

  A noise echoed from the stones—a man humming a tune.

  Guard, Dormael signaled. D’Jenn nodded in agreement, his eyes intent over his face mask. There was a loud rasping noise, as if steel were being drawn across rock, and the humming continued. The noise was jarring, and it made Dormael’s hair stand on end as it echoed around the curved passageway.

  Sharpening his blade, D’Jenn flashed at him.

  Put him to sleep? Dormael asked. At D’Jenn’s answering nod, Dormael reached out with his magic.

  Placing someone into a deep sleep was tricky. The mind naturally resisted any efforts to alter it with magical influence, and it required a delicate touch to see it done. A person needed to be distracted most of the time in order for the spell to work—as Dormael had distracted Nan by asking her a question on the night D'Jenn had arrived. If the target was engaged and paying attention, the spell wouldn't work unless the wizard poured a large amount of power into it, which had ill long-term effects on the target's mind. The Conclave frowned on the alteration of consciousness, but putting someone to sleep was considered a gray area.

  In this case, the guard was unaware that Dormael was even nearby. Dormael reached out with a whisper of magic, and brushed it like a whisper across the guard's mind. The whistling stopped, and there was a rustle before the passageway went silent. D'Jenn clapped Dormael on the shoulder, and the two of them rounded the corner together.

  The guard was a large man, dark-haired and unshaven, wearing chainmail and a white surcoat trimmed in bright red. He was slumped in a wooden chair, his chin resting upon his chest. The sword still clutched in his hand teetered in danger of clattering to the floor with each breath. Dormael reached down and took it, laying the blade on the floor beside the man’s chair. As he bent down to take the blade, he noticed the symbol on the guard's surcoat—a large red sword, pointing downward in the middle of his chest.

  D’Jenn noted the standard, and gave Dormael a knowing look. They moved to the door guarded by the slumbering Red Sword, D’Jenn putting his ear to the portal. After a moment, he nodded at Dormael and slipped inside. Dormael followed his cousin into the room.

  This chamber was as dark as the first had been, though Dormael could feel the remnants of a fire in the hearth. Another four-poster bed dominated the room, but this one had silk curtains covering the framework, drawn closed in the occupant's absence. There was a luxurious fur rug covering most of the floor, and a small writing desk to one side of a window, which was drawn shut against the cold night wind. Dormael’s eyes were drawn to the foot of the bed, where a large truck sat hosting a fine longsword attached to an arming belt. It bore the insignia of the Red Swords, and another symbol that Dormael didn't recognize. He picked it up and presented it to D’Jenn, who nodded in recognition.

  That's the insignia of a colonel in the Galanian Army, D'Jenn signed. That's more than a little odd. The man should be commanding regiments in the field, not chasing so-called criminals.

  Nothing about this makes sense, Dormael replied. At least, not yet.

  Indeed, D'Jenn nodded.

  How do you know the Imperial rank structure? Dormael asked.

  I read books, cousin. You should learn how someday.

  Dormael chose to ignore that one.

  He crossed the room and went to the writing desk. A tidy stack of paper sat in the middle, under a quill in a dry inkpot. Dormael moved it and rifled through the papers while D’Jenn spelled the trunk at the foot of the bed to unlock and open itself. When the weight of the inkpot came off the paper, one of them in the middle of the stack kinked and revealed itself. Pulling out of the stack of paper, Dormael smoothed the folded edges of the document, and summoned a small magical light by which to see.

  Colonel Grant,

  Your letter was not a welcome message. You have always served with distinction, and I thought I could trust you to handle this mission with greater care. With matters
having spun so far out of control, I trust that you're working as hard as possible to clean up your mess. The mistakes of the soldiery fall upon the shoulders of the commander—a thing of which I’m sure you’re fully aware. Find the girl, kill her, and bring me the artifact. There can be no other course at this point. Your failure could destroy everything I've worked for these past years, so I'm sure you understand the delicate nature of your course of action. Duke Lindesholm has been promised gold and estates in Shundovia for his loyalty, which should make it easy for you and your men to move around and accomplish your mission in Cambrell. If you fail this time, you will be punished accordingly upon your return home. See it done with all possible haste.

  There was no name at the bottom of the letter, just a large, stylized “D”. Dormael walked to D’Jenn and gave him the message to read. D’Jenn took it from him, and read it by the low light that Dormael had conjured. His eyebrows rose higher and higher with each line of the letter until, shaking his head, he handed it back to Dormael.

  “Dargorin,” whispered D’Jenn, his voice sounding inordinately loud after breaking his silence. “I knew it.”

  “And Alton was right about the duke—he's a traitorous little shit,” Dormael whispered back.

  “Indeed. Alton can deal with him. He is cousin to the king, after all.”

  “Right. Well, now we know for sure why they’re after her. She’s got something they want, and I'm guessing this 'artifact' is the same thing that twists up our magic,” Dormael said.

  “Yes. I wonder what it—”

  At that moment there was a small, pathetic whimper that came from the canopied bed. Both men started in surprise, and Dormael extinguished his magical light, though he knew it was already too late. The sound, however, could not have been made by a full grown man. It had the distinct timbre of a child's voice. Dormael turned a confounded look on his cousin, who only shrugged in confusion.