The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “One canoe trip, kid. No weird stuff, I promise.”

  Torbi favored the man with a long look, pondering. His Ma always told him not to talk to strangers, that strangers made off with children and did all manner of things with them. This one didn’t strike Torbi as the weird sort, but he had to be dangerous. Nobody that was pulled out of the river with that much money in their purse could be harmless.

  “Fine,” Torbi said. “But if you hurt my brother, you’ll have to answer to me.”

  The man surprised him with a laugh.

  “Deal, kid,” he said. “It’s a deal. Here.” He replaced the coins in the purse, and tossed it over. Torbi caught it in his hands, terrified that the money would tumble into the mud and be lost forever. He clutched it with reverence, unsure where to put it. How was he supposed to carry so much money?

  “Oh—wait,” the man said. “You can have all of those, except one.”

  He gestured, and the purse floated up from Torbi’s hands and hovered in midair. Torbi froze, but Berbin let out another awed sigh and clapped his hands. Berbin had never seen a wizard before.

  Neither had Torbi, but Berbin didn’t need to know that.

  The wizard gestured, and a single copper mark leapt out of the purse and floated over to his palm. He snatched it out of the air, then dropped the purse back into Torbi’s open hands.

  “Not this one,” the wizard said. “I need this one.”

  The canoe was large enough for the three of them, even with the wizard lying down in the stern. The man slept so hard that Torbi had to check and see if he’d died after all. Every time he got close, though, the man opened one eye. Torbi decided to leave him be.

  Ma would be so proud with all the money. They could finally move out of the Market and into the countryside like she wanted. Maybe Pa would come back. Regardless, his family wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time. For that, he’d row the wizard all the way to Orris if he wanted.

  It had been a fine night for fishing, after all.

  THE END

  Of

  BOOK TWO

  Of

  The Seven Signs

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Old Man of the Temple

  Book Three of The Seven Signs

  Revised Edition

  Copyright © 2017 Daniel Wesley Hawkins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this ebook, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this ebook via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Published by Laconic Press. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. For all inquiries, contact questions@laconic.press, or visit our website at www.laconic.press.

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  This one is for Kasey, Alan, and Jason.

  They know why.

  The Cabal of the Epitaph

  The day was too pleasant by half.

  It felt an insult to Dormael. His home was now forbidden to him, everything he had known and loved ripped away by the tides of political turmoil. He was hunted, a fugitive in his own lands, enemy to those whom he had once called his family. The weather hadn’t the manners to reflect his plight.

  D’Jenn still hadn’t returned, and the bastard sun went right on shining.

  The rain of the previous day had let up, leaving the smell of wet earth behind. The river Ishamael sparkled in the morning sun, flowing ever south from its origins somewhere near the city of Jerrantis to the north. It was the longest river in the Sevenlands, navigable all the way to the sea in southern Orris.

  Dormael’s eyes were locked to the river for so long that they started to blur. He blinked them, scratched at the corners. He cracked a yawn, feeling the exhaustion of their flight from the tunnels creeping into his bones. If they had the time, he would sleep here for another few days, and wait for D’Jenn to reappear.

  Time, though, was something in short gods-damned supply.

  The camp was bustling behind him. Lacelle and Lilliane were unused to the road, and were having trouble adjusting. Bethany helped by demonstrating a few different tasks, delivering her instructions in a tone that Dormael thought had been inspired by D’Jenn. The two women smiled and listened, but there was something peculiar in their expressions when they looked at Bethany. Dormael made a note of it, but forgot about it as his eyes landed on Mist, D’Jenn’s gray-colored mare. Her saddle sat empty, another reminder of his cousin’s absence.

  “How long should we wait?” Shawna asked. Dormael loosened his shoulders with a conscious effort and turned to regard the Cambrellian noble. She was dressed for the road, wearing a battle kit complete with leather armor and twin belts for the two short-swords she carried. Her red-golden hair was tied up in a fighting braid, framing startling blue eyes. She looked like what an artist would envision when painting a mythical warrior-princess, a vision of beauty wrapped in the tools of war. Her beauty, though, was the lesser part of the picture, the detail added in the final swish of the artist’s brush. She was the deadliest swordswoman—or swordsman, for that matter—that Dormael had ever seen.

  “We shouldn’t,” Dormael said with a grimace. “We don’t have the time. You know that.”

  She sighed. “I know. But how long do you wish to wait?”

  Dormael ground his teeth and looked back to the river.

  “Just long enough to break camp,” he said. “Would that we had more time, but…we don’t.”

  She nodded, and squeezed his shoulder before turning back to the camp. He let her go without another word. He wasn’t sure he had any words to express the way he was feeling.

  Ishamael beckoned in the distance, sprawled under the morning sunlight. Boats would be moving through the harbor, and people would be bustling through the streets. The doors to the temples would be opening, and wizards would be starting their days at the Conclave.

  People would be looking for Dormael and his friends.

  The bronze mark in his hand pulsed against his magical senses, its sister resonating somewhere far in the distance. It was too far away for Dormael to tell if the other coin—the one he had given D’Jenn—was moving, or stationary. It gave a constant hum, but little else.

  Dormael looked to the sky and thought about attempting a Mind Flight to get a better idea of what was happening. The attempt would present a whole new set of problems, though, the least of which was the risk of discovery from the rest of the Warlocks, who would all be Victus’s people. Any number of spells might be in place in the skies around Ishamael, and more than one could trap an errant wizard’s mind like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Some of the more nasty ones could drive a wizard mad, or kill outright. He ached for more information, but he knew such a thing would be too dangerous. Bethany was counting on him to keep her safe, and exposing her to the rest of the Warlocks was not a workable option.

  Dormael would just have to trust that D’Jenn was alright. He would have to trust that Victus hadn’t killed him during his attempt to assassinate the man, would have to hope that he hadn’t been captured. Letting go of any situation had never been Dormael’s strength,
however. Patience was a virtue, and the gods hadn’t blessed him with that particular quality.

  Dormael turned away from the river.

  As he turned, he came face to face with Lacelle, the former Deacon of Philosophers at the Conclave. She was a tall woman, willowy and blond, with eyes the color of ice. Her age was indeterminate, though she looked to be a woman in the middle of her thirtieth decade. She had always been cold to Dormael, though their flight through Ishamael’s tunnels had eased some of her attitude towards him. Whatever their positions had once been in the Conclave, they were allies now. Lacelle was no longer the Deacon of Philosophers, and Dormael was no longer a Warlock.

  “Warlock Harlun,” she said, her manner as perfunctory as if she was standing in a gilded hall.

  “Dormael, please,” he said. “If I get to call you ‘Lacelle,’ you should reply in kind.”

  She gave a quick smile. “Dormael, then. In the wake of the chaos last night, we didn’t have time to discuss our plans.”

  “Our plans,” he repeated, sighing through the word. “Right. I haven’t given it much thought as of yet. My initial instinct, though, is to send you and Lilliane south once we get clear of Ishamael.”

  “South?”

  “Aye, you should head for Mistfall.”

  Lacelle’s eyes tracked to Ishamael, which sat in the distance to the southeast.

  “Would that not force us to return through the city, and take the road through the mountains into Soirus-Gamerit? I know I am new to this sort of subterfuge, but such a thing seems backward to me.”

  “If you do end up heading south, of course you shouldn’t travel through Ishamael,” Dormael said. “Any other route would be safer. In any case, I haven’t sat down to decide what we should do with you and Lilliane. We’ll have to part ways eventually, but we should wait for a better opportunity.”

  “Should we not stay together?” she asked. The question surprised him. Neither Lacelle nor Lilliane were warriors, and neither were trained to use their magic in a fight.

  “We should not,” he replied. “Unless you want more of what we got in the tunnels. More of those…things, whatever they were, chasing you. More exposure to Victus, and to this vilth.”

  “Is not the greatest strength in numbers?”

  “Not in every case, tactically speaking,” Dormael said. “In this case, we have to weigh our priorities. For Shawna and I, our priority is to find Orm and discover what we can about the Nar’doroc. Yours is to find safety—which is always in short gods-damned supply in our company.”

  Lacelle winced at the curse. “And what if Victus finds us before we can make it to Alderak? We would be ill equipped to fight off any of his minions.”

  That’s the gods-damned truth, Dormael thought.

  “There’s risk in everything,” he said. “The point is to weigh which is the greater, and which the lesser. Victus will likely have expected us to stay together, but even if he guesses that I would send you away, it’s more probable that he’d come hunting me first. Between the two of us, I present the greatest threat to his plans. If he goes after you first, he knows he’ll have to watch his back for my knife every second I’m not under his power. My hope is that by the time he finds me, you will be safely hidden away with Shawna’s cousin in Cambrell.”

  “This Alton Dersham of which you spoke?”

  “The same,” Dormael said.

  “He’s a good man,” Shawna said, coming up behind Lacelle. “He will welcome you, and treat you well.”

  “Do you play stones?” Dormael asked, the memory of his nighttime games with Alton coming to the front of his mind. It was over a stones table that Dormael and Alton had forged their own friendship.

  “Sometimes,” Lacelle said, giving him an odd look. “Why?”

  “Alton loves to play stones,” Shawna said. “He’s always complaining about a lack of capable opponents.”

  Lacelle smiled, but looked away after a moment, toward the city in the distance.

  “You may find this humorous,” she said, grimacing, “but I don’t like the idea of leaving after what happened last night. It…well, honestly, it feels like running away. I know that I’m not a warrior, nor a Warlock, but hiding until the danger has passed is something I don’t think I can do. I am no coward.”

  Lilliane was eyeing them from where she sat with Bethany, but she didn’t argue Lacelle’s words.

  Dormael didn’t like the idea of dragging the deacon and her disciple along, but he couldn’t bring himself to gainsay the woman. He knew very well the emotions that must be stirring in her guts when she looked back in the direction of Ishamael. He could see the intensity in her eyes, and he felt the same roiling anger in the pit of his own stomach. Dismissing her out of hand would have been the height of foolishness.

  Still, she would be a liability on the road. He already had Bethany to mind, and the addition of Lacelle and Lilliane to the list would only cause more trouble. The advantages they brought would be outweighed by the various ways they could compromise everything.

  Dormael narrowed his eyes in thought.

  “Deacon—”

  “Lacelle,” she corrected.

  “Lacelle,” Dormael said, nodding in apology, “there is something you could do.”

  She took a deep breath. “Alright. What?”

  “Go to Alderak,” Dormael said, holding up his hands to forestall an argument. “What we need right now is information.”

  “I don’t see how I could help you while hiding in a manor in Alderak,” Lacelle said.

  “You wouldn’t be hiding,” Dormael said. “Do you have contacts in Lesmira, at the Mage Tower?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “I’ve a very good relationship with the Archmage Logica, and many members of his discipline.”

  “Archmage Logica?” Shawna asked.

  “The head of the Philosophers in Lesmira, at the School of Magical Arts,” Dormael clarified. “He’s Lacelle’s counterpart across the Stormy Sea.”

  “There are a few differences,” Lacelle said.

  “You wizards love your fancy titles,” Shawna sighed.

  “I want to be the Archwarrior Spearica,” Allen said, walking up from the camp. “Everyone has to call me that now.”

  “You can’t be Archwarrior of anything until you’ve beaten me,” Shawna said. “That’s never going to happen.”

  “You can only beat me with those two swords,” Allen replied. “Put a spear in your hand, you’re useless.”

  “Useless?” Shawna said, punching Allen in the shoulder. “Pointy sticks are a weapon for children.”

  “Speaking of children,” Dormael said, “would you two like to have your pissing contest later?”

  “I only answer to Archwarrior, or Archwarrior Harlun,” Allen said, a wide smile on his face.

  Dormael would have laughed, but he had no laughter to give.

  “Regardless,” Lacelle said, “I still have contacts in Lesmira, yes.”

  “Can you trust them?” Dormael asked.

  “I believe so,” Lacelle said. “I suppose I could travel there, and—”

  “You can’t travel there,” Dormael cut in. “Victus will be watching the Mage Tower, and if you suddenly stroll in asking to be shown to the archive, pigeons will fly on the first wind. Within a week’s time, Victus will have a Warlock on your trail. You have to send a message—one you’re sure won’t be intercepted.”

  “Of course,” Lacelle said. “I need to start thinking like…well, like a Warlock, I guess.”

  “Try not to vomit,” Dormael said. He’d meant the comment as a joke, but Lacelle held a deep mistrust of the Warlocks in general. She had, up until the previous night, been amongst the most outspoken of their critics within the Conclave. It didn’t help Dormael’s ire that the woman had turned out to have valid criticisms.

  Lacelle gave him a pained look, and he grimaced.

  “Sorry, that was in bad taste,” he said.

  “It’s nothing.” Lacelle
affected a smile. “I can send a message. I deduce that you want me to continue researching the Nar’doroc?”

  “That, and anything else you think might be significant,” Dormael said. “You might not be a Warlock, but your mind is as sharp a weapon as any in our arsenal. With—,” he cut off, the words catching in his throat, “—with D’Jenn possibly being killed, or captured…well, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  The conversation died in the wake of that comment, and everyone moved toward their horses. Dormael spared one last look at the river, hoping that he would see something there. There was nothing but the wind, and the bastard sunlight. Dormael turned from the river, and mounted Horse.

  There was tree cover to the west, further along the meandering river Ishamael. North was where they needed to go, but traipsing up the river in full view of the sky was a fool’s game. Victus would have people out searching for them soon, if they weren’t flying already. Once they got some cover over their heads, they could decide their next move. Until then, they would have to run.

  Gods, D’Jenn, I hope you’re not lying dead somewhere.

  ***

  D’Jenn slept like the dead.

  The canoe was none too comfortable. The wood dug into his cramped shoulders, and his legs hung off the side so the two kids could have room to sit. They went numb in turns, first one, then the other, like the two were competing to see which would be declared Most Vengeful Limb. His clothing had been soaked in river water, and the cool morning had done little to dry him. Each time he jerked awake, he was shivering.

  “Blessed?”