The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Wait,” D’Jenn said. “Earlier, was that…I mean, I thought I heard—”

  “Yes,” Dormael interrupted, guessing his thoughts again. “You’re right—they have a wizard.”

  ***

  Maarkov watched the corpse of the sailor move about the beach, gathering up what little equipment Maaz wished to salvage from the wreck. Scattered detritus had washed up throughout the day—crates, cloth, bodies—but Maarkov knew that they would find little use in any of it. Maarkov could feel his lip curling in disgust at the sight of the strega, at the thought of it’s slimy, dead hands upon anything that Maarkov might later touch. The thing moved like a person—in fact, it was capable of moving better than a person. The strega could run until its legs rotted away, or were damaged in such a way that they could not function. The strega never tired, it performed to its utmost strength, it never asked questions, nor did it give protestations. Without some aspect of his brother’s will controlling it, however, it would simply stand and stare into the distance.

  Maarkov hated the bloody things.

  The sailor had formerly pulled Maarkov through the surging water, dragging him to shore in the dark. If Maarkov was alive, then he would have owed the man that life. When he had seen Maarkov’s face in the moonlight, and realized whom he had saved, he had tried to run. Maarkov had been fine to let the man go, but Maaz had already made it to shore. The sailor didn’t get ten staggering steps through the sand before Maaz had him.

  The thing on the beach, though, was just the meat leftover when the man was gone.

  “Why are you barefoot?” Maaz asked from behind him.

  “Because my feet are wet, you idiot,” Maarkov spat. “My feet, my hands, and everything I gods-damned own is soaked. I don’t have magic to dry my clothing, so I have to do it the old fashioned way. Is there something you want?” Maarkov didn’t look up, but he could feel his brother’s irritation like heat just over his shoulder.

  “We’ve been blown farther north than I had intended,” he said. “We’re near the easternmost foothills of these Runemian Mountains, and we’ve got a long way to go. Days of travel to make up. We’ll need to eat before we leave.”

  Maarkov shuddered, his eyes shooting into the distance behind him, where a small group of lights could be seen in the fading sunlight—a village. They had washed up the night before, and had been on the beach the entire day since. Maarkov was surprised that no one had come from the village to the beach, but this didn’t look like a well-traveled area. People were there, though—and Maarkov knew what his brother planned on serving for dinner. Maarkov wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.

  “The strega found your sword. It was tangled in some sailcloth, snagged on something that washed up. I thought you’d like to know. When your clothes dry out, we’re leaving. I want to be off this beach before midnight.”

  “Too bad I don’t have my whetstone,” Maarkov said, a smile coming to his face before he could stop it. He felt Maaz’s presence at his back, and the air was pregnant with tension. Whatever it was he wished to say, however, he elected to keep it to himself. Maarkov didn’t turn to see where his brother went, he just listened to his fading footfalls.

  Like the strega, Maarkov didn’t need to breathe, to sleep, to slow down. He could perform to the limit of his body’s ability, as well—given that he partook in his brother’s blood rite. If Maaz wanted to make up days of travel, then he would undoubtedly be pushing them to run, non-stop, to their destination.

  Unless they had horses at this little village, which Maarkov hoped was true. The horses could be run until their hearts gave out, then his brother could animate them with his power—which granted them all the abilities of the strega. Maarkov hated the animated corpses, true, but he would ride one if it meant saving his boots. It was so hard to find a good pair of boots, and nothing about running through these foothills all the way to Ishamael sounded like a boot-healthy practice.

  Sighing, Maarkov rose to make his way back down to the beach and collect his sword. He was thankful that the thing had washed up—finding a good sword was harder than finding a good pair of boots. He looked out over the surf, watching the waves roll in with the tide. The waves hid the rocks that had broken their ship apart in the bay. The rain had passed on, and the sunset was almost idyllic.

  Then, the strega passed before his vision, and Maarkov spat into the dirt. He thought about grabbing his blade and slicing the thing’s head from its shoulders—that would certainly enrage his brother. If he dispatched the corpse, though, it would be Maarkov who was relegated to carrying and hauling. Plus, one more pair of hands meant a bit less killing for his own to do.

  The gods knew there was plenty of that to come.

  ***

  “They have the high ground,” Allen said, gesturing at the trail where the bandits had escaped. “If I were them, I’d set my camp somewhere I could post archers who could draw on a target long before it got up that trail. I’m willing to bet they’ve got people watching it for just that sort of assault.”

  “How many men could they have left?” Dormael asked, gesturing at the twenty-two corpses they’d lined up along the side of the road. At least twenty-four had been killed—the one Bethany had splattered couldn’t be collected with the others, and the one she had thrown from the road had disappeared. “For that matter—why attack us in the first place?”

  “Long remount train,” Allen pointed out. “Makes us look like rich traders.”

  “Yes, but…something about this doesn’t make sense,” Dormael said, clenching his teeth. “First of all, this wizard with the bandits.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it,” Dormael said. “A member of the Conclave would never turn to banditry. Your average Hedge Wizard is paid the least, and they enjoy a lavish lifestyle compared to your average highwayman.”

  “Maybe they just enjoy a bit of rape and pillage.”

  “Doubtful,” Dormael said. “If that’s the case, then they’re risking a lot doing it here. We’re at the summit of the Runemian Mountain range, practically overlooking the city of Ishamael—and well within reach of the Conclave. Whoever they are, they’re risking their very lives by demonstrating their power here. As soon as the Conclave caught wind of what was happening, the response would be swift and deadly. Whatever this is, it isn’t about loot.”

  “They took Shawna,” Allen muttered, looking up the trail and working his jaw. “You think this was a kidnapping?”

  “They tried to take Bethany, too,” Dormael said. “And they made every effort to kill the rest of us.”

  “You think these are mercenaries more than highwaymen?”

  Dormael shrugged. “Maybe just opportunists. The thing I’m chewing on is the identity of our magical friend up there.”

  “Can he set traps—magical traps, like in the old hero stories?” Allen asked.

  Dormael nodded down at where D’Jenn was sitting cross-legged, scouting out the trail with Mind Flight.

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Bethany stood, clutching at the hem of his cloak and staring at the spot where she’d killed the two men. Dormael had one hand grasping the girl’s shoulder, trying to convey a sense of comfort. The look of cold determination on her face when she had killed the second man stuck in his memory like it had been nailed there. She had been learning rudimentary uses of her power, but to have used it to kill at such an early stage of development…Dormael didn’t know what to say to her. When this was over, he would find time to explain it all as best he could.

  For now, though, they had to concentrate on getting Shawna back.

  Dormael reached down into his boot and slipped out one of his smaller daggers—a double-sided blade with rounded quillons. He turned it over in his hands, flipped the blade into his fingers, and offered the hilt to Bethany. She accepted it, holding the dagger in both hands like a miniature sword. Dormael reached down and corrected her grip.

  “Here, like this,” he
said, pulling one of her hands away and closing her other around the hilt. “Stick the pointy end in the bad guy, got it?”

  “Got it,” she nodded.

  “Always keep good hold of that knife, and don’t let it fall out of your hands. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she nodded again.

  “And listen—always put the point in the softest bit you can find, right? Behind the knee, under the jaw, just over the collarbone,” he said, pointing out each area on the girl’s body with a quick little poke. “Never let your enemy see the blade coming. Savvy?”

  “Savvy,” she breathed, keeping her eyes on the dagger.

  He took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes, holding her gaze when she tried to look away.

  “Every Sevenlander child gets a knife at a certain age,” he said. “You just earned yours, no matter how old you are. Keep it hidden, keep it safe, and never part with it if you can help it.”

  Bethany nodded, and looked at the dagger with more reverence than before. The wild look of fear had left her eyes, though. It was the only thing he could dream up to try and take her mind from the killings. Besides—the girl had earned the knife, if ever a child had earned it. Perhaps now she could draw strength from this experience instead of being afraid of it.

  Allen caught Dormael’s eyes, and nodded in approval.

  D’Jenn stood up from where he’d been sitting, brushing the dust from his pants. He took the waterskin that Allen offered and drank, then handed it over to Dormael. Bethany clutched her knife and crowded in with the men, as if she were joining a command conference in some general’s tent. Dormael would have smiled if not for his deepening fear for Shawna.

  “They’ve got a nice little spot up there,” D’Jenn said. “The trail winds a good way up the side of this peak, then turns upward onto a flat expanse of ground—that’s where the bastards have made their camp. The whole thing is surrounded by trees, and the entire approach is watched by archers they’ve got stationed at high places along the path.”

  “Told you,” Allen said.

  “What about the wizard?” Dormael asked.

  “A Nelekan,” D’Jenn said. “The men all look like hire-outs—bounty hunters, back-stabbers, and sell-swords. They’re following his orders, but things are a little tense between them.”

  “A Nelekan?” Dormael repeated. “He’s a long way from home. What in the Six Hells is a Nelekan wizard doing out here?”

  “Maybe the empire has different ideas about magic than the rest of Alderak,” Allen said.

  “No—using magic is a hanging offense in the Galanian Empire,” Dormael said. “Things keep getting stranger. Do you think he’s trained?”

  “Not well,” D’Jenn said. “He had wards at different points along the road, but he set them up like a fool. I unraveled them one by one, and he doesn’t even know it’s been done. His workings are no better than a third-year Initiate at the Conclave.”

  “And Shawna?” Dormael asked.

  “They’re tying her to a post in their camp. She’s out cold, so nothing’s happened to her—yet,” D’Jenn said. “The quicker we get up there, the better.”

  “You’ve seen the terrain,” Allen said, tapping D’Jenn on the chest. “Got a plan?”

  D’Jenn gave Allen a crooked smile. “Can you still stalk a deer?”

  Allen smiled. “Close enough to kiss the fucker.”

  “Good. Dormael—your magic?” D’Jenn said.

  “Hurts, but I can use it,” he grumbled. “I’ll have one bastard of a headache tomorrow.”

  “Alright, then. Allen and I will go into the trees to either side of this trail they’re watching. We’ll take out the archers, and it’s knives only. I don’t want to alert the wizard that we’re getting close. Amateur or not, he’s dangerous.”

  “Maybe more so because of that,” Dormael muttered, eliciting a nod of agreement from D’Jenn.

  “Dormael—I want you in the air, drop in on their campsite and be ready to move. When people start dying, you go for this Nelekan wizard,” D’Jenn said.

  “What about me?” Bethany asked, her tone and expression grave.

  “I need you to find a good hiding spot,” D’Jenn said. “Somewhere on the other side of the pass, where you can see this trail. Watch for anyone leaving it, and don’t make a sound. We’ll need to know if anyone gets away.”

  “And keep your knife close, don’t forget,” Dormael added, giving the girl a short, one-armed hug.

  “I won’t,” she promised.

  When the horses were seen to, and Bethany had scuttled across the road, the plan went into motion.

  Dormael poured his magic inward and took his favorite form—the gyrfalcon. He pulled his way into the sky, fighting against the strange currents of air that always eddied around mountains. The wind howled through the passes, but once Dormael climbed out of it and spiraled over the trail, he stayed aloft with little effort.

  He could see his brother and D’Jenn making their way through the shadows beneath the trees, ghostly forms in the blue and orange of quickening twilight. D’Jenn would be keeping his magic quiet, so as to avoid alerting the Nelekan wizard to his presence, and depending on their knife skills alone. Dormael ruffled his feathers at the pace, but there was nothing he could do.

  Spotting the camp from the air was easy. Crawling about along the ground like some low-bellied lizard blinded one to the things surrounding them. The raptor, able to soar on the wind, saw everything. Even in the fading light, he picked out the campsite in stunning detail—in part because of the roaring bonfire that lit up one side of the hill like a miniature sunset.

  The fools, he thought. Certainly they wouldn’t think to leave wizards alive behind them, and then display their position for anyone who cared to look?

  What was going on here?

  The camp was spread out over several hillsides, though one of them was full of tents and rigged shelters, with only a few men milling about between them. The large, central clearing that linked the rest of the campsite was where the bonfire raged, blaring its indifference to the night sky. A single, spare man stood before the flames, his narrow shoulders outlined by the light of the fire. He stared away from the bonfire, looking to where three men loitered around a stake that had been driven into the ground, and the girl who was tied to it.

  Shawna!

  She was slumped over, hair covering her face. Her hands were secured above her head, tied to a nail driven into the post. Another rope ran around her waist, and kept her back flat against the pole. The firelight reflected from her hair like molten copper. Dormael was careful to keep from silhouetting himself against the moonlight as he swung around for a landing. The bonfire would have blinded most of the fools in the clearing anyway, but it was always better to be thorough. Dormael found a suitable tree on the edge of the clearing, and clutched to a branch near the top, flapping his wings to stay upright.

  He could go down there now. He could use the bonfire to roast the Nelekan—the short man standing next to it, Dormael guessed—and then kill the others with simple force. He’d have to hold off anyone else while he waited for D’Jenn and his brother to appear, but it might be possible. He itched to run to Shawna’s rescue.

  It would be folly, though. Dormael had no idea what this Nelekan’s capabilities were, no matter what D’Jenn had said about him. He drew patience over his shoulders like a cold towel, and waited for bandits to start dying. He watched the clearing, and listened.

  The three men standing around Shawna’s inert form were examining things in turn. One of them turned her swords around in his hands, staring open-mouthed at the craftsmanship. The second was snickering as he watched the third grope at Shawna’s breasts like an overeager adolescent. Dormael felt a surge of indignation at the sight, but forced himself to stay put.

  “Karv!” the slim man called from near the bonfire.

  Karv, who was four hands taller and twice as thick as the shorter man, straightened from his fondling with a bal
eful look on his face.

  “The fuck you want, Jureus?” he rumbled.

  Jureus, Dormael thought, a Nelekan name. He had been right—the short man was the wizard.

  “Leave the girl be,” Jureus snarled, though Dormael couldn’t tell how much of his anger was pure bravado. “My Master wants her unharmed, and that means unsoiled by the likes of you. So stay away from her. You can bugger anything else you find out here, but not her.”

  “That’s the thing, Jureus,” Karv rumbled, his meaty thumb flicking along the blade of an axe tucked into his belt. “There hasn’t been much come through here, has there? You promised us all a case full of silver marks, and all the pillage we wanted. Taking the cunny from what we catch is part of the deal. You haven’t paid us that case of silver marks yet, and the way I see it, I’m owed a piece.”

  Grumbles issued up from around the camp, disembodied voices in the shadows.

  “You had a girl just three nights back,” Jureus said, his voice cracking in the upper registers. “The drover’s daughter. I had to get rid of the body because you left it lying about, like a dog with its favorite chew toy. Like a fucking beast.”

  So, Jureus was not a slight man, but closer to a boy. Karv’s attitude toward him, the slight frame, the cracking voice—how did a boy with Eindor’s Blessing get involved with this lot? The kid had balls, challenging a man like Karv, but he looked to be in over his head.

  And who is this Master he’s talking about?

  A few scattered laughs bubbled from the shadows at Jureus’s comments, and Karv shot a mistrustful glare around the camp. His hand tightened around the haft of his axe, but he paused just on the edge of drawing it. Kid or not, Jureus must have shown these men something in the way of dominance, else they wouldn’t follow his orders.

  “The drover’s daughter was a bore,” Karv spat. “Just laid there the whole time, grunting like a pig.”

  “That was you,” one of the men behind Karv said, and laughter burst out in the camp. Karv’s face darkened. He looked to be losing his little popularity contest, and he didn’t like it.