The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Hadrick laughed. “I guess I should know better than to argue blades with a Marked Blademaster.”

  “We all make mistakes,” Shawna smiled, handing his sword back to him.

  “Are you sure I can't talk you into staying here?” Hadrick asked, a crooked smile on his face. “I could use a good blade, and a pretty face never hurts, either.”

  “You'll have to get in line, my friend. I'm going to marry her first,” Mikael smiled.

  Shawna laughed and dismissed their comments with a wave. Dormael almost let the food fall right out of his mouth. In Ferolan Shawna had been as prim as a noble bint in a tight halter, and now she joked—no, flirted—in good nature with criminals and smugglers, and debated the finer points of killing with veterans of foreign wars. Oddly, he felt a snag of jealously squirm its way out of his belly. He stuffed it down with another mouthful of fish.

  “So,” he said, trying to change the direction of the conversation, “you have a ship, you say?”

  “I do,” Mikael nodded, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. “The best ship on the Stormy Sea, she is. Seacutter.”

  “Orrisan?” Dormael asked. The Orrisans were a tribe of Sevenlanders that lived on the west coast of the continent. They were famous for their shipwrights and affinity for sailing, being the only people in the world who gave the navy of Shera a contest for dominance of the seas—at least, as far as sailing ability went. Orris had no navy of its own, and the Sevenlands' navy was four whole ships that barely sailed.

  “Of course,” Mikael smiled, indicating his tattooed skin. “I am Orrisan, so why would I sail anything else?”

  “The arrangements have all been made,” Hadrick said, nodding to Dormael. “Though Mikael drives a bargain tighter than a flea's arsehole.”

  Shawna regarded Hadrick with a distasteful look, and surprisingly enough, his cheeks grew red. Dormael looked at the two of them with confusion, then shook his head and returned to his meal. He must be living in a different world.

  “I drive a fair bargain,” Mikael grunted. “I am not the head of a criminal organization, here. I am the trustworthy one, surely you all can see that.”

  “You're a gods-damned smuggler,” Hadrick snorted. Mikael raised a glass and winked at Hadrick, who returned the gesture and drank from his own tankard. The two of them looked to be old friends, and their interplay made Dormael feel more comfortable.

  He returned to his meal and let the conversation wash over him, contenting himself with filling his belly and flicking pieces of rice at Bethany when she wasn't looking. A feeling of foreboding crept up on him though, and he couldn't shake it. His mind went to the journey, and what new perils awaited them at sea. The fact that they had seen nothing of the Galanians gave Dormael a sinking feeling.

  Where in the Six Hells were they?

  His eyes went to D'Jenn, who sat staring at the wan light coming in through the window. He rubbed at his goatee and reached into his pouch to light a pipe, offering it to Dormael when he caught him looking. Dormael accepted and put his food aside, lighting the pipe with a whisper of his magic. No one at the table noticed, except maybe D'Jenn and Bethany.

  D'Jenn returned to his pensive gazing as everyone else talked about nothing in particular. Hadrick spoke of his upcoming tasks in rebuilding, and discussed swordplay with Shawna. Mikael told a few stories to Bethany about sailing, and mulled wine was brought to the table as the food was cleared away. Dormael sat in silence, letting the conversation go on without his input.

  No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept returning to the Galanians. In the morning he and his friends would board Mikael's ship with all their belongings, and strike out for the Sevenlands—far away from the grasping hands of the Empire. Dormael, however, couldn't get the feeling of dread to leave his guts.

  Where in the Six Hells were those damned Red Swords? They had to be somewhere, waiting for the right chance to pounce. Dormael doubted that this Colonel Grant would just let them go unmolested, and something told him that they would see him again.

  Where are those bastards?

  A Tide of Blood

  Dormael shielded his face as another spray of cold salt water cleared the railing and frothed over the side of the ship. He gripped tight to a hand line that Mikael's men had tied to the port side railing, and tried to rock with the motion of the sea. His leg, protesting his every movement, sent a dull throbbing sensation rushing up into his hip, and he cursed as his weight shifted. It would be weeks before he was well enough to walk properly. His injury hadn't helped him regain his sea legs, though it had been less than a season since his last trip over the sea.

  Dormael loved taking sea voyages in the summertime, but the winter was a different story. The great ocean that stretched between the Sevenlands and Alderak was called the Sea of Storms for a reason. Furious squalls blew over the sea every winter, and Dormael and his friends were pushing the deadline far past its limit. The gods, if they existed, were showing them the folly of their actions.

  Seacutter was a sleek, three-masted ship. She cut through the water like a knife through butter, though no feat of engineering could calm the violent motion of stormy weather at sea. She was fast, though, and Mikael had all the laundry hanging. A squall was brewing to the northeast, and the winds that ran before the storm filled Seacutter's sails to bursting. Mikael had been running from that storm, which rolled through the sky like some lumbering behemoth, for four days. It had taken them six days to skirt the edge of the Maelstrom Field, running with favorable winds and the current. The storm had appeared on the third day around the Field, and had loomed over them ever since. Dormael found his eyes drawn to it, as if it was some Hammer of the Gods waiting to come down, but Mikael assured him that it was nothing to worry about.

  Another day and it'll be on top of us, he thought, looking to the ominous gray color of the sky. Then we'll see about worrying.

  Another wave hit the Seacutter on her port side, and Dormael cursed as the ship rocked in response. If it wasn't for his damned leg, he wouldn't have this problem, but he couldn't change the motion of the sea. D'Jenn, a veteran of many sea passages, had taken to the trip with the same stoic intensity that he did everything, and had shown no signs of seasickness or land-legs.

  Bethany, of course, had traipsed around the deck like she owned the thing. He'd caught her hiding in piles of rope, and hanging from anything that she could reach. The crew of Seacutter took to her like a group of ill-gotten friends, and even helped the girl along at whatever mischief she was currently cooking up. On the third day around the Maelstrom Field, he had found her leaning out of the crow's nest with one of Mikael's men, hoping to spot a whirlpool in the distance. He'd been unable to climb the rigging, so he just watched her the entire time, magic poised to catch her if she fell. If the girl was going to be so much of a handful all the time, Dormael would have to put serious thought into hiring a governess.

  Shawna had spent the first two days at sea in her cabin, green with seasickness and ill-tempered about it. By the third day, though, she had taken breakfast, and two days later her nausea had almost subsided. She spent most of her time in her cabin, though, saying that the motion of the water made her eyes want to roll back in her head. For Dormael it was the opposite—being tucked into the ship and unable to see the sky made him nervous, so he preferred the deck, salty spray and all.

  He summoned his Kai, using a bit of magic to keep warmth huddled under his cloak. The wind whipped unchecked over the waves, and the water was frigid this time of year. The storm that thundered in the distance only brought more icy wind with it, and it looked to be a big one.

  “Sails! Sails on the horizon!” someone called from the lookout.

  Dormael stiffened.

  No one made an issue of the call, though Mikael did pull out a looking glass and gaze into the distance. Dormael felt an ominous shudder run down his spine, his mind going to the Red Swords and their commander. Could the man have procured a ship?

  It was probably
another trader, pushing the edge of his weather window to make some big sale, or maybe to avoid tax collectors. Few captains would risk an oversea crossing at this time of year, though, and Dormael didn't think they were far enough south for there to be any ports within reach. Why would there be another ship so far north, and so close to the Maelstrom Field?

  Cursing under his breath, Dormael struggled down the deck to speak with Mikael.

  Pulling his way along the pitching deck was difficult in the rough seas with an injured leg. He cursed his carelessness in getting caught for the thousandth time since it happened, and gritted his teeth against the pain as he made his way forward. By the time he struggled up to the poop deck, he was sweating from the effort.

  “A ship?” Dormael asked, breathing through his teeth to banish the ache in his thigh.

  “Aye,” Mikael muttered, peering through a long spyglass at a barely-visible speck on the horizon. “Square-rigged, tall bitch she is. Can't tell much else, though. She's too far out.”

  “What do you think about it?” Dormael asked. Mikael regarded him with a speculative look and snapped his spyglass shut. His wild, braided hair was wrapped in a scarf against the weather, but the wind still flitted some of the tiny braids that stuck out around his head.

  “Don't know as I need to think much about it. She's coming our way, but so's the wind. She won't be close for awhile now, anyway—if she even gets close.”

  “Is it normal for ships to be out here this time of year?”

  Mikael peered at him askance. “You got someone chasing you, Blessed? Is there something I need to be worrying about?” Hadrick had arranged the whole passage between himself and Mikael, and it had become apparent that he had told the sea captain a few things about their situation—Dormael and D'Jenn's identities as wizards, and Shawna's status as an Imperial fugitive—but he had also left some things out.

  “Is it normal, or not?” Dormael pressed.

  Mikael took a deep breath and pursed his lips, returning his eyes to the distant speck. “There ain't many ports to sail for on the eastern coast of the Sevenlands. Minsdurim—though nobody goes to Minsdurim this time of year, it's too far north—and Mistfall. What I'm wondering is where that one came from. From her angle, she must have been south of the Maelstrom Field, or west of it. I don't know why she'd turn in our direction, but the gods give us a strange world to live in. Why?”

  Dormael sighed, feeling a bit of apprehension tighten in his guts. “It just gives me a bad feeling.”

  “That storm has been brewing up for a few days,” Mikael shrugged. “Could be that she's running before the wind, just like us. Trying to get away from the blow.”

  “Maybe. I think I might have a look, though, in any case,” Dormael said. “Do your men have any weapons?”

  Mikael's face darkened. “Just what we use to keep stowaways from climbing in the crates, and a few crossbows. My men aren't pirates, Blessed. We're a trading ship.”

  “Might be a good idea to have them at hand, just in case.”

  Mikael narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Dormael. “Listen, Blessed, I'm as patriotic as any man. I respect the Conclave, as any Sevenlander does. I know better than to get on the wrong side of it, anyway. But my men aren't fighters. They're hardy, they'll sail right into the teeth of a storm and laugh at the gods, but they're not fighting men. What in the Six Hells has Hadrick gotten me into?”

  “Probably nothing,” Dormael said, trying to deter the man's mood before it could turn dark. “It's probably running from the storm, like you said. I just want to be sure.”

  Mikael narrowed his eyes even further, then turned away to scream at his First Mate. “Kennick! Hang out all the laundry she's got! Time to get her moving!”

  “Aye,” Kennick said with an offhand wave before turning to scream the command to the crew—albeit with more vitriol and colorful descriptions of what he'd do should anyone fail at their task.

  Mikael turned back to Dormael. “Have your look, Blessed. But if you get us into the shit, I expect you and yours to defend Seacutter and her crew, savvy? This is your fight, if a fight is what we have.”

  “You don't have to worry,” Dormael said. “We'll do our part.”

  Mikael waved him off and returned to his duties.

  Dormael clenched his jaw once again and worked his way belowdecks, where his companions had taken residence in Seacutter's guest cabins. The corridor that joined them together was little more than shoulder-width, and Dormael took the opportunity to lean against the wall for support. He made his way down to the room he shared with D'Jenn and opened the door.

  The cabins were not much better than closets, with fold-out cots that fastened to the wall with hinges and clips. There was just enough space for one man atop the other in the small cabins, and a box under the lower cot for storage. There were only four such cabins aboard the Seacutter, and Shawna had squeezed into a second with Bethany. The other two held Mikael's First Mate and Quartermaster.

  He found D’Jenn in their cabin, running through a meditation exercise with Bethany. He sat on the floor, his back planted against the hull, watching Bethany breathe from her place on the lower cot. The girl was at a critical stage in her magical development, and needed all the training they could give in the meager time that they had. Once she had learned to hear the song of her Kai, she would hear it more and more, and be tempted to reach out to it. If she walked around with her Kai singing all the time, it might start to bleed out and change things in her carelessness. It was imperative that the dangers of being caught up in that trap were made clear to her, so that they could teach her how to resist. The lessons were painstaking, and slow-going, though.

  D'Jenn looked up as Dormael came in, and Dormael spoke to him in the Hunter's Tongue.

  There's a ship on the horizon. They're headed our way. Mikael says they could be outrunning the storm, but it's giving me a bad feeling.

  I don't like it, D’Jenn’s hands replied. I didn't expect we'd see many ships this time of year, at least not this far out to sea. I don't like strange coincidences.

  Me either, Dormael signed back to him.

  Can we out-pace them?

  I think Mikael is trying, but I'm going to fly over and have a look.

  Bit windy for all that, isn't it?

  Mind-flight, then. I'll let you know something, Dormael replied.

  D'Jenn nodded, and Dormael shut the door as quietly as he could manage. He started to hobble back onto the stormy deck, but caught himself on the way out. Shawna would probably want to know about this, too. Dormael was a bit surprised to find that he regarded her with the same gravity with which he did his cousin. It had been a bit uncomfortable in the beginning, but she had settled into the group, and he now thought of her as a friend. Even D'Jenn seemed to enjoy her company, and he had been viciously opposed to her in the beginning.

  Sighing, he turned and struggled his way to Shawna's cabin.

  He found the young woman seated on her bed, turning one of her blades around and gazing at the way the candlelight played along the magical steel. The metal itself was a product of some magical forging process, though Dormael knew little about it beyond an understanding of the basics. The light slid over the surface of the steel instead of being reflected, and Shawna watched it crawl back and forth as she turned the blade. She motioned him over to the cot without taking her eyes from her sword, or changing her pensive expression. Dormael sat, leaning away from the sword as she turned it around.

  “I was so proud the day my father gave me these,” she said. “He fought me, you know—about training. Fought me tooth and nail until he realized that I'd never wanted to be the girl he'd imagined me to be. The swords...they were like an apology—or at least, I interpreted them as such. They were my father's way of saying that he was proud of me, that he acknowledged who I was, and he accepted me. It was his way of saying that he still loved me.”

  Her face had a faraway expression, and her tone matched it. Dormael wasn't sure
what she expected him to say. He had always been better at trampling the feelings of others by mistake than bolstering them on purpose. Tact had never been his strong suit. He chose to remain silent, and let her say what was on her mind.

  “They're all I have left of him now. Of my mother, just a lock of her hair...and that gods-damned thing,” she said. Dormael imagined she meant the armlet, and he silently echoed her feelings on the matter. “It's fitting, I think. The one thing of my father that I have left is the thing that I'll use to avenge him. It's enough to make me see the hand of the gods in this. What a clever little joke they've played. Do you see the irony?”

  “Shawna—”

  “I'm sorry,” she sighed, interrupting his comment. “I'm in a dark sort of mood. The sea does not agree with me.”

  “I thought you've been feeling better,” Dormael said, glad of her sudden change of subject. “You stopped emptying your guts every day, anyway.”

  She snorted. “Better than the first day, yes. Not so good that I feel like dancing.”

  “Well, you might want to try out a few steps. There's a ship on the horizon. I'm going to find out more, but I figured you should know.”

  “I see,” she sighed. Then, she turned a considering glance on him, and for just a moment there was a ghost of a smile on her face. It was gone before Dormael could register what it meant. “Thank you. For telling me, I mean, and...all of this. Everything.”

  Dormael gave her a thin smile and rose to leave. “No thanks are necessary. I'll let you know what I find out about the ship.”

  She reached out and grabbed his arm, and Dormael froze. Something about her touch brought him up short. There was an earnestness to it, a vulnerability. Dormael couldn't remember if the girl had ever touched him before, but she certainly had never done so in a friendly way. He had been quite sure the woman liked him about as much as a familiar rash.

  “Why do you always do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Shrug and try to escape when someone says something serious to you.”