The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

D’Jenn opened a single, baleful eye.

  “Blessed, how far you want to go?”

  It was the older one speaking, a wiry little runt of about eleven or twelve. He held one protective hand to his little brother, who leaned toward D’Jenn as if he expected him to do a trick. They were sandy-haired, and dressed in rough tunics.

  “Look toward the city, kid.”

  The boy obliged him.

  “Can you still see the Conclave in the distance?”

  “Aye.”

  “Keep going until you can’t.”

  D’Jenn closed his eye and shifted against the canoe.

  “Blessed?”

  D’Jenn opened his eye again.

  “Why are you running from the city?”

  D’Jenn sighed. “Kid, you remember that bag of silver I gave you?”

  “Aye.” The boy smiled, mischief in his eyes.

  “That means you don’t ask questions.”

  D’Jenn closed his eye.

  “I’ll bet he’s evil,” whispered the younger, either unaware that D’Jenn could hear, or uncaring. “I’ll bet they caught him doing forbidden magic, and they chased him out!”

  “You be quiet, Berbin, you don’t know fuck-all.”

  “I know more than you, and I’m telling Ma you said that.”

  “Tell her if you want, she won’t care when I hand her all that money.”

  “How come you get to hand it to her?”

  “Because I’m older.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It means everything, Berbin—that’s why you don’t know anything.”

  “I know you were scared to touch the wizard when you thought he was dead!”

  “I was not, and hush! He can hear you.”

  “Were so,” the younger said, his voice gaining in volume. “You wouldn’t do it until I dared you, because you were afraid.”

  “You’re an idiot, Berbin,” the older said. “I already told you, I know all about dead bodies. I see them all the time.”

  “Liar. You know what the gods do to liars. Ma told us. Lair, liar, liar.”

  “I am not a liar. You take that back, Berbin.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll dump you in the river, that’s what. You can swim back home, for all I care.”

  A scuffle ensued, shaking the canoe. D’Jenn let out an all-suffering groan and opened his eyes, shifting his body to try and sit up. The children froze as his gaze alighted on them, and regarded him with a pair of wary expressions. The older had his hand tangled in the younger’s hair, while the younger had his own hand tangled in his brother’s clothing. They released each other and settled, watching D’Jenn’s every move like a pair of deer ready to bolt.

  D’Jenn ignored them for the moment. His body hurt like fire. He wasn’t sure if he had sustained any damage in the fall—he didn’t even remember the fall—but he could feel the aftermath of Victus’s magic skittering through his body. His limbs tingled with numbness in random places, followed quickly by pain, then sliding back into numbness. His muscles betrayed him with tiny little rebellions, spasming in painful jerks when he tried to move. Putting his back against the stern of their little vessel was a struggle, but with a pained grunt, he sat up. The eyes of the two half-starved waifs never left him.

  “Blessed?” the older one asked.

  D’Jenn gave him an irritated look, and gestured for him to go on.

  “You’re not evil, are you?”

  “Not evil enough to hurt you, or your brother,” D’Jenn said, forcing his voice out around the pain. “Calm down, kid. Keep rowing. The canoe’s drifting.”

  The boy took up the oars and dipped them back into the water, releasing his brother. The younger one scooted away, but kept his own eyes locked to D’Jenn. He nodded down at D’Jenn’s hand.

  “Where did that come from?”

  D’Jenn followed the boy’s gaze down to his hand, where a burn had traced a strange pattern over the surface of his skin. It looked like a jagged spider’s web. D’Jenn clenched his teeth and worked the tingling hand, grimacing as the movement caused it to burn with discomfort. He’d seen that sort of scar on a woman in the mountains of Tept, a trapper who had been struck by lightning.

  Victus’s face flashed into his mind, eyes resolute over clenched teeth. He remembered the flash of white, the feeling of physical separation. The bracer on his forearm—the one he had taken from the dead Aeglar Cultist in Soirus-Gamerit—had deformed under his former deacon’s attack. The swirling patterns of inlaid brass had slid together like candlewax, though the bracer itself was still intact. D’Jenn fumbled at the thing with numb fingers, until the young boy reached out to help. With a pained smile, D’Jenn turned his forearm over so the kid could unbuckle the straps for him.

  “That burn, kid—that’s what happens when you get hit by lightning.”

  “How did you get hit by lightning?” the boy asked, pulling the bracer from D’Jenn’s arm. The waif went about rolling D’Jenn’s sleeve up and gazing down at the burn, breathing out a wondrous sigh at the twisting pattern traced into his forearm. It broke up some of his tattoos, but there was no helping it now. He would have waved the boy off, but he wasn’t sure he could trust his body to respond to his commands just yet.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” D’Jenn said, giving the boy a tight smile.

  “Can wizards really hear peoples’ thoughts?” the kid asked, releasing his arm.

  “No,” D’Jenn said. “That’s a myth.”

  “That’s too bad. I always wanted to be a wizard, so I can hear what everyone is thinking. I’d know when we were eating fish soup for dinner, and when Ma had fresh bread. I’d know everything,” the boy said.

  “You can’t just be a wizard, Berbin,” the older one said. “You’re born a wizard, everyone knows that.”

  “You don’t know fuck-all, Torbi,” Berbin replied, a wicked smile on his face.

  “You could be a wizard, if you wanted to,” D’Jenn said, cutting off the argument before it could begin.

  Both kids turned astonished gazes on him.

  “You can?” they asked in unison.

  “Aye,” D’Jenn said. “It takes practice. Dedication. But you could do it.”

  The brothers looked to each other. They looked back to D’Jenn.

  “How?” Torbi asked.

  “Get me to where I’m going, kid, and I’ll tell you the secret,” D’Jenn said. “The canoe’s drifting again.”

  Torbi smiled, the expression making him look younger, and took up the oars.

  “Ma’s really gonna be proud now,” Torbi said. “I’m gonna hand her a bag of silver, and become a wizard.”

  “How come you get to become a wizard, and I don’t?” Berbin asked. “I asked him first. I get to hear the secret, too.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do so!”

  “You wouldn’t make a good wizard, Berbin. You’re an idiot.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, that’s who.”

  “I don’t care what you say. Nobody cares what you say.”

  “The canoe is drifting again,” D’Jenn said, cutting the two of them off. Torbi turned his attention back to rowing, but stuck his tongue out at his brother. Berbin replied by shaking his fist, pinky finger extended.

  “I’m telling Ma you did that,” Torbi said. “She’ll ring your ears.”

  “Not after I tell her I’m a wizard,” Berbin muttered.

  D’Jenn closed his eyes again. He turned his attention inward, letting the boys’ argument fade into the background. His Kai still hummed at the center of his being, but listening to his magical senses gave him a monstrous headache. He did a quick sweep of their surroundings to make sure nothing was amiss, but paused as something caught his attention.

  “Kid! Stop rowing!”

  “What?” Torbi said, turning a confused glance on him.

  “Stop!” D’Jenn repeated, gesturing at the oars. Torbi yanked his hands a
way like they were on fire, and let the oars hang in their rings. Both boys turned surprised looks on him, but D’Jenn held up his hand for silence.

  With an effort of will, he brought his magic to bear. His head began to throb, but he tried his best to ignore the pain. He wove an illusion into the air around them, trying to hide the canoe’s presence. He felt someone above them, a presence gliding over the river in Mind Flight. D’Jenn clenched his teeth against the pain of his body, and held the illusion in place. After a few moments, the presence was gone. D’Jenn dropped the illusion as it disappeared to the north.

  They were looking for him, or maybe his body. He had known this would happen, but he had hoped he would have more time. Victus was nothing if not thorough.

  “New plan, kid,” D’Jenn said. “Get me to the trees on the west side of the river. Should be just a bit more to the north.”

  “And then what?” Torbi asked.

  “And then I leave you with a bag of silver.”

  “And you have to tell us how to be wizards,” Berbin put in. “Don’t forget that!”

  “Fine, kid, fine. Just row,” D’Jenn said. His eyes, though, went back to the sky. He had to keep his Kai open to listen to what was happening in the ether, which increased the pounding in his head. Out on the water he was vulnerable, and he hated being vulnerable. He had to get off the bloody river, and soon.

  D’Jenn shoved his hand into his spare purse, and clenched it around the spelled bronze mark. He could feel its twin somewhere to the west, pulsing away. D’Jenn tried to concentrate, to delve some meaning from the hum it gave his senses, but the pain in his head kept him from focusing. After a few moments, he gave up the effort.

  I hope you’re still alive, Dormael, he thought. And that I live through the next few hours.

  ***

  Dusk fell over the land like the promise of violence. The quiet of the lengthening shadows sank into Dormael’s bones, and left him feeling empty. It was strange that the sun would set without having brought a reckoning for everything that had happened, but the day had been silent. Dormael half expected Warlocks to come screaming out of the sky, or for Victus to summon a storm to display his fury, but he knew such things were just fancy. The charged feeling to the air was all in his head.

  They had found an abandoned barn in the middle a sparse forest to the northwest. Dormael had elected to set up camp and stay put for awhile, watching the skies for pursuit. No one had spoken in opposition, though the knowing look from Shawna had said that she suspected the real reason for the halt.

  D’Jenn would find them—he just needed more time.

  The coin in his pocket continued its hum against his senses, having changed little throughout the day. It had changed, though—Dormael was sure it wasn’t his mind playing tricks. Its sister coin had moved to the north throughout the day, traveling just faster than Dormael and his friends. He had an idea that maybe his cousin was moving along the river, but that produced its own questions.

  The coin would continue working whether D’Jenn was live or dead.

  Dormael sat near the hole where the barn door had once been, watching in the direction of Ishamael. The sky was darkening to purple, the stars already shining their lonely beacons through the Void. A chill had crept into the air at dusk, though Dormael could feel the winter loosening its grip.

  Lacelle glided in from outside, after having done a circuit of their campsite. She had laid down a series of wards—both defensive and deceptive. The woman seemed determined to prove her worth, though Dormael needed no such demonstration.

  She paused near the door, and nodded toward the lengthening shadows.

  “I haven’t sensed anything,” she said. “I’ve been listening all day. If someone comes looking, they’ll have to be very observant to see past my wards. We should be reasonably safe for the evening.”

  “Good,” he said. “Having a fire is nice. My brother brought in a trio of rabbits earlier. Lilliane is cooking.”

  “I can smell them,” she said. “I never thought I would look forward to trail food, but…I’m so hungry.”

  Dormael shared a laugh with her.

  “The road takes it out of you,” he said. “You get used to it, after awhile.”

  “I used to travel quite often,” Lacelle said, gazing out into the night. “My early years as a Philosopher were spent searching the wilds for ancient ruins, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” Dormael said, turning to look at her. “When I was a child, I used to dream of exploring ancient ruins.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, aye,” Dormael said. “Why do you think I became a Warlock? I wanted adventure. In my dreams, I always discovered an old magical gem, rescued a princess, rode off on a griffon—that sort of thing.”

  “It’s more like digging in the dirt, endlessly searching old texts for translations to languages you can’t read,” she said. “I did it for a long time, young Dormael, and I never once rescued a princess.”

  “I’m the Pirate-Queen of the Seas,” Bethany said, appearing over Dormael’s shoulder. “I’m a rescuer of princesses.”

  “Are you, now?” Dormael said. “I had no idea we were in the presence of such heroic royalty. Allow me to show Her Highness the proper respect.”

  He jabbed at the girl’s ribs, who fended him off with quick hands and laughter. Any talk of ancient ruins, princesses, or adventures drew Bethany as sure as night follows day. When Dormael gave up the assault, she settled in to listen.

  “Where did you search for old ruins?” Bethany asked.

  “In the northlands, child,” Lacelle said. “In the Gathan Mountains, along the Teptian border.”

  “Did you find any?” Bethany said.

  “I did. There are many old structures up there, from a time before the Sevenlands. Things older, even, than the Vendon—our ancestors.”

  “Older than the Vendon?” Dormael asked. “What came before the Vendon?”

  “We don’t exactly have a full explanation, just clues here and there,” Lacelle said. “What you have to understand is that it’s hard to discern the correct date for anything we’ve found. There are spells for determining such things, but methodology differs between different wizards. They test for different things, you see, and—”

  “The best explanation, then?” Dormael said, cutting her off.

  “Of course,” Lacelle smiled. “I get enthusiastic about this. In any case, there is evidence to suggest that there were older civilizations here—ones that worshiped different gods, for instance. Some of the relics they’ve left behind are incomprehensible on many levels, but we’ve determined over the years that—at least, in the Teptian area of the Gathan Mountains—there was a civilization that had writing, culture, and a form of government. They even traded with other peoples.”

  “What do you think happened to them?” Dormael asked.

  “It’s unclear,” Lacelle said. “War, perhaps. Starvation. Disease, or even the Garthorin. They may have interbred with the Teptians, and been absorbed by their culture. If that were the case, though, we would see relics of their language within our own, or perhaps in the slang used in the region close by. All we can say for certain is that these people existed. The world was old even in ancient days.”

  “I’ve always had a romantic idea about ancient secrets,” Dormael said.

  “You’ll get your fill soon enough,” Lacelle said. “Orm is ancient—it was old even in the time of Indalvian.”

  “Do you believe in the curse?” Dormael asked.

  “I…believe in something,” Lacelle said. “The people in Farra-Jerra believe it. There are all sorts of stories surrounding the ruins at Orm. Mostly it’s the usual sort of folklore that grows up around such legendary places—lich tales and superstition.”

  “But not all of it?”

  “I’ve read a few accounts from Philosophers in the Conclave’s archive—credible sources, you understand—that tell of strange occurrences.”

  “Such as?�
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  Lacelle looked toward the fire again, where the food was being prepared.

  “Perhaps we should all sit and discuss this,” she said. “Let’s eat, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  ***

  Maarkov held his blade outstretched, point horizontal to the ground. He held it until his wrist should have been shaking, but it did not. Muscle fatigue was a thing years in his past, though his mind still expected it. The sensation was odd, as if his body were not his own. During his training, his master had made him run hills until it no longer tired him, and then had made him run farther. The old man had said that it strengthened his body, and he’d been right.

  It had all been useless in the end. All the dirt he had pounded beneath his feet, the hard-gained strength his body had developed, the determination he had cultivated over the course of his training—it was all moot. Maaz had changed him into something that no longer needed determination. If his mind said ‘run,’ his body would obey. He could run until his boots were pulverized from his feet, and then keep going until his own soles wore to the bones.

  Still, he expected to shake. He expected his elbow to twitch, his shoulder to burn with effort. There was nothing.

  Maarkov sometimes stood frozen for long periods of time, locked into one stance or another to see if his body would betray him. It never did. His sword still weighed the same, but his shoulder did not tire from the effort of lifting it.

  Sighing, he slid into the rest of his blade-form.

  Finding opponents was tough business while traveling with his brother. The need for a good sword-arm was minuscule in Maaz’s company. Maarkov’s blade work was given over to wanton slaughter rather than skilled contest. There was the occasional merchant’s guard to deal with, but the people who fell under Maarkov’s blade were, more often than not, cowering in fear. About one in ten would throw themselves at him in a pathetic attempt to sacrifice themselves for their families or friends, but they ended the same way their families and friends did—bleeding into the dirt. Maybe they won laurels on the other side, maybe the gods gave them something for their trip through the Void. Maarkov doubted it. If the gods gave two golden shits about them in the first place, they would never have allowed Maarkov and his brother to brutalize them so.