The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  The moon was high overhead, the air cool rather than chilly. Maarkov’s breath steamed in front of his face as he waited with his brother’s merry little band. A cart was passing by on the road, creaky wheels echoing in the night. A single figure huddled in the driver’s seat, shifting with the bumps as the horse pulled the cart along. Neither Maarkov nor the strega made a sound as it passed, but the Hunter hissed low in its throat as its pinpoint eye watched it trundle away.

  “Whatever you do,” Maaz said as the cart disappeared into the darkness, “try to keep from ruining them.”

  “Ruining them?” Maarkov asked.

  “Mutilating them,” Maaz clarified. “If the things are dragging their innards behind them, it will draw attention.”

  “Couldn’t have your walking corpses going around scaring people, could we?”

  “It is not the most desirable thing, no,” Maaz sighed. “Let us begin.”

  At some unheard signal from Maaz, the strega all moved at once. They set off at a run toward the little homestead, feet pounding the damp grass beneath. It was unnerving, watching even a small number of them sprint down the hill in complete silence. Maarkov gave his brother a disgusted glance, then drew his sword and started walking toward the farmhouse.

  Screams cut through the night as the first strega made the entrance. It ripped the door right from its hinges, opening the way for the others to rush inside. They went to work immediately, falling on the defenseless family and closing dead hands over living throats. The screaming echoed strangely in the night, as Maaz was using his magic to keep the noise of the violence from reverberating across the hills. No one would know what happened here until someone came to call on the former residents.

  Maarkov shouldered his way inside and took a moment to survey the scene. Two of the strega were strangling the grown men in the room, whom Maarkov assumed were the father and eldest son. Two younger women beat at the shoulders of the strega choking their brother, but the dead thing paid them no heed. Another strega had tangled its hand in the hair of an older woman—probably the matron of the house—and was dragging her toward the door. Maaz needed that one alive.

  No one noticed his entrance, and Maarkov wasn’t going to waste the edge of his sword on a pair of young women, no matter what his brother wanted. He scowled at the scene unfolding and moved for the back of the room, where a hallway led to the rest of the house. It was quieter in the corridor, though the screams from the front of the building still rang against the walls. Maarkov held his steel ready as he moved down the corridor.

  He kicked open the first two doors to find empty bedrooms, one with a single bed, and another with multiple bunks. There wasn’t much of interest to find in either of them. Maarkov had no use for wealth, farming implements, or odd family keepsakes.

  The door at the end of the hallway was another bedroom, this one used for smaller children. Maarkov remembered the sound of laughter during the meal, and noted the memory of children laughing with the adults. There had been no children in the great-room with the rest of the family.

  A sound alerted him to a presence nearby, and he spun, steel in hand. A young girl stood in the corner, crushing a toddler to her chest to keep him quiet. The child whimpered anyway, and Maarkov had a sick moment of panic in his guts at the thought of the child being dashed against the wall by the strega. The girl was somewhere around ten or eleven, with wavy blond hair and wild, fearful eyes. Maarkov was frozen with indecision. The screams down the hallway cut into the room, but the child’s gaze never left Maarkov’s eyes.

  Coming to a decision, Maarkov sheathed his sword and went to the window. He opened it to the night chill, pushing wooden shutters aside to reveal the starlit sky. He turned back to the girl and motioned her over. She didn’t move. Maarkov motioned with more force, grimacing as he listened down the hallway for the sounds of approaching feet.

  “Come on, kid!” he hissed. “No time!”

  Something broke in the child and she rushed forward, tears streaming down her cheeks. Maarkov hoisted her by the shoulders, toddler and all, and pushed her through the window. She put her feet on the ground and turned back, looking over Maarkov’s shoulder toward the sound of the screaming in the great-room.

  “Listen, kid! Are you listening?” he said, trying to keep his voice low.

  She nodded, holding her little brother tight against her chest.

  “Go to the next farmstead over, do you hear? Don’t look back, don’t stop, don’t make any noise. Got it?”

  She nodded again, a sob coming to the surface. Maarkov held up a finger to forestall the girl’s crying, and surprisingly, it worked. She started back from his gesture, and stalled the blubbering in her chest.

  “Never come back here, kid,” Maarkov whispered. “Run!”

  With one last look over his shoulder, she turned and ran into the darkness. Maarkov watched her little form disappear into the shadows beyond, gritting his teeth with the hope that the baby wouldn’t start crying. Moments passed, but no noises rang over the hills. Maarkov let out a breath he’d been holding, and turned back to the room.

  The Hunter crouched in the doorway.

  Maarkov almost whipped his sword back out. He had been waiting for an excuse to end the disgusting creature, and if it ended up killing him instead, at least his suffering would be at an end. He wouldn’t allow it to chase down those kids, not with the care he’d just taken to see them free. Something in his guts was twisting with emotion, some strange feeling he no longer recognized.

  Maarkov concentrated on keeping a straight face, and leaned back against the windowsill.

  “Nothing of worth in here,” he said. “Nothing of worth in the entire place.”

  The Hunter cocked its head at him and glided into the room like a hunting cat. It prowled along the walls, sniffing at things like some sort of hound, making hissing noises as it went. Maarkov’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as it came near, but it moved past him. It stopped at one of the little beds and ran a clawed hand over the blankets. With sudden violence, it pulled the covers from the child’s bed and rubbed them over its face, chittering in the back of its throat. Finally it took the thin coverings and wrapped them around its head, replacing the shroud that had been there before. It discarded the soiled one on the floor of the children’s room, and started for the door. Maarkov relaxed his sword hand.

  In a blinding movement, the Hunter turned and rushed toward him, red eye burning. Maarkov barely had time to whip his sword from its sheath and get it pointed in the right direction as he stumbled back against the windowsill. He almost fell out the window.

  The Hunter, though, had stopped its sudden rush for his blood. It crouched in the floor just in front of him, making some sort of chortling noise in the back of its throat. It took Maarkov a moment to realize the brute was laughing at him. He spat on the floor and shoved his sword back into its sheath.

  “That blanket won’t help your fucking stink in the slightest,” Maarkov said. “Next time you pull something like that, be ready to kill me, because I’m going to try and kill you.”

  The Hunter paused its laughter, and regarded him again with that sideways look. With a slow, deliberate movement, it shoved the claws of its right hand down into the wood of the floor, and cut a long swath at Maarkov’s feet. When it finished, there was a line between the two of them. The Hunter gave him a moment to absorb the message, then slammed its hand down through the floor, destroying the line. It gave him a baleful look before prowling back down the hallway.

  Maarkov let out a breath he’d been holding. He waited a moment to make sure no one was coming, and turned to gaze again in the direction of the fleeing child. None of the strega had come to the back of the house, and as far as Maarkov could tell, the girl had made it. He sat down on one of the tiny beds and leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes as things began to quieten down. Maaz would begin his ritual soon.

  The matron began to scream from the front of the house, and Maarkov close
d his eyes against that, too. He hoped the girl had made it beyond the boundaries of Maaz’s spell, so she didn’t have to hear those noises coming from her mother. He wished he could shut his ears the same way he did his eyes, but even placing his hands over them failed to block it out.

  The mother wailed for a long time before she died.

  ***

  It was dusk when the wolf came into the ruined homestead.

  Slinking over the ground like a whisper, it moved into what had once been the courtyard. The animal came forward with its front teeth bared, yellow eyes gleaming in the twilight. He was a big bastard, with a shaggy yellow and black coat.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” D’Jenn said.

  The wolf paused at the sound of his voice. D’Jenn opened his eyes and shrugged himself into a more upright position, scooting his back up against the trunk of the tree he’d chosen. He’d been playing dead, letting the wolf work its way into the courtyard. They stared at each other through the gloom.

  “Are we doing this like men, or do you plan on ripping my throat out with your fucking teeth?” D’Jenn said.

  He gave the wolf a withering look, and a rude gesture to boot. The wolf moved back and sat on its haunches, never taking its eyes from him. A moment passed in tense silence.

  A song flitted out through the ether, weaving into the body of the wolf. It shifted before D’Jenn’s eyes, sliding like jelly into the form of a man. He was medium height, and held a knowing smirk beneath his dark hair. He was thick through the waist, but D’Jenn knew him to be more agile than he appeared. He was dressed for a hunting expedition, and carried an axe at his belt. D’Jenn did a double-take when his eyes fell upon it, and he recognized it as the same axe he had dropped during his attempt on Victus’s life. He recognized the man, too. He had practically grown up with him.

  “Mataez,” D’Jenn said.

  “D’Jenn,” Mataez replied. He stared at D’Jenn with inscrutable eyes. “I’m not surprised you’re alive. The deacon said he hit you with lightning, but I knew you were a shrewd bastard. Hard to kill.”

  “Aye,” D’Jenn grunted. “He mentioned that the lot of you were behind him, doing his dirty work. I thought you were better than that, but I guess I was wrong.”

  Mataez laughed. “Are we going to start with the sanctimony already? I thought we’d reminisce for awhile longer.”

  “Allow me my little jabs,” D’Jenn said, gesturing at his spent body. “I’m dying, after all.”

  Mataez took a long look at him and sighed.

  “Aye, old friend. I hate that, but it’s true.”

  “Do you?” D’Jenn asked. “Do you hate it, really? Did you hate it when the others were murdered?”

  Mataez narrowed his eyes, his expression darkening. He gave D’Jenn a long, heavy gaze before moving to sit cross-legged a small distance from him. D’Jenn gave a silent curse—he had been hoping the man would come closer.

  Staying out of attack range, he thought. You were always sharp, weren’t you?

  “D’Jenn, what is it that you want to hear? Do you want to hear me apologize, beat my breast in repentance? Do you want me to skip down to the temple and sacrifice something to the gods? I could scribe a very sorrowful letter.”

  “Fuck yourself, Mataez,” D’Jenn said.

  “That hurts, mate. It really does.”

  D’Jenn let out a long, painful laugh.

  “Hurts?” he coughed. “You want to know what hurts? What hurts is finding out that everything you’ve known your whole life was a lie. Discovering that you’ve been deceived by the people closest to you.”

  “And the puppies all died and the children cried,” Mataez said, affecting a dramatic tone. “Such horse-shit, coming from you.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye, you bastard,” Mataez growled. “How many lies have you told? Lying is what we do, D’Jenn. It’s how we were made. Tell me this, you sanctimonious prig—how many lies did you tell while you were digging out the deacon’s plans? I know it was you, D’Jenn, because Dormael was too busy lying in bed with that red-head that follows him around. What in the great expanse of the fucking Void gave you the right to lay it all out for the Mekai, and fuck things up before they could even get started? It’s you that’s responsible for what comes next, D’Jenn. Keep that firmly in the front of your fucking mind.”

  “Me? Go die in a hole somewhere.”

  “Aye, you and your gods-damned cousin,” Mataez said. “One of you is too obsessive to leave well enough alone, and the other has a hero complex too fuck-all big to let things go. A match made by the gods, you two.”

  “And you’re too great a fool to see the depths of your own treachery.”

  “Treachery?” Mataez laughed. “Fine word, coming from the man who tried to kill our deacon. He raised us, D’Jenn! He made us what we are, taught us everything! You tried to bury an axe in his skull, so don’t tell me about treachery.”

  “Mataez, I know you’ve got trouble getting that greasy little head of yours working, but even a fool could see the end of the path you’re following,” D’Jenn said. “He will lead you all into something terrible.”

  “And now you’re a soothsayer.”

  “Think, Mataez! Why do you think that wizards have been barred from leadership since the days of Indalvian? Why do you think that the greatest man in our entire history had the forethought to write that law into the Conclave’s charter?”

  “Laws change, D’Jenn. It has happened throughout history.”

  “Look to Alderak, you fool,” D’Jenn said. “What is it, do you think, that motivates so many Alderakans to execute wizards where they find them?”

  “They’re afraid of us,” Mataez said. “And they should be.”

  “Yes, they’re afraid of us, because we have power they cannot understand. They’re afraid of us using that power against them, you slobbering idiot. The only gods-damned reason it’s different here is that Indalvian foresaw the reasons for this, he knew the dangers of allowing wizards to rule! It may not happen tomorrow, but when people learn what Victus has done, the full spectrum of his machinations, the Sevenlands won’t just turn on him. It will turn on the Conclave itself.”

  “The Sevenlands will do nothing,” Mataez scoffed. “Who has the power to oppose us, D’Jenn? Who?”

  “You care nothing for the dissolution of our entire way of life?” D’Jenn said. “You really are a fool.”

  “Our way of life will go on just as before,” Mataez said. “Do you really think Victus would turn us against the Sevenlands itself? He wants to help the Sevenlands! He wishes to fix the wrongs in the world, to finally apply our power where it is most needed!”

  “Was he helping the Sevenlands when he threatened members of the Council of Seven?” D’Jenn asked. “Was it part of his benevolent design to put his boot on the throats of a few Kansils? Was it right to use Warlocks to sway votes and threaten people? I didn’t realize that being a partisan thug was so righteous.”

  “You and I both know that sometimes you have to get your hands dirty.”

  “Aye, but only for the right reasons, Mataez. Victus wants war—don’t you see that? He wants to fix things, alright—things like Rashardia, and the Galanian Empire.”

  “And why should you give two golden shits about them?” Mataez said.

  “I don’t,” D’Jenn growled. “I care about my gods-damned principles. You should care more about yours.”

  Mataez scoffed and looked to the side.

  “Principles,” he said. “Yet another joke tumbles from your mouth.”

  “Joke?”

  “Aye, you bastard. We both know why you did this, and it’s got nothing to do with your principles. It’s her.”

  D’Jenn felt a black anger turn over in his stomach. He knew which ‘her’ that Mataez meant—Vera. She had been one of the Warlocks to die in Victus’s purge, another victim of his fucking benevolence. So many people that D’Jenn had considered family had been killed in this conflict, but
none meant more to him than Vera. He had loved her since the days of his adolescence.

  As far as he was concerned, Victus’s life would one day pay for hers.

  “Aye, it’s her,” he said. “And Taglion and Jastom. Kiriael. All of them.”

  “Don’t sit there and pretend to care about the rest of them,” Mataez said. “Don’t pretend that I didn’t. The truth is—and we both know it—that you did all this, brought everything burning to the ground, betrayed the man who is a father to all of us, because of your wounded fucking heart!” He turned his head and spat into the dirt. “There’s something for your fucking heart, D’Jenn. It means nothing in the greater scheme of things! But you would see everything to ruin because you can’t get over your lost gods-damned love. The truth is that you’re a child.”

  A moment passed in silence, the words burning themselves into D’Jenn’s mind. He hated Mataez for those words.

  “Who was it?” he asked.

  “D’Jenn—”

  “Who was it?” D’Jenn repeated, riding over his objection. “I need to know.”

  “You don’t,” Mataez said. “You’ll be dead before sunrise, D’Jenn. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me!”

  “No,” Mataez said, looking him dead in the eyes. “It breaks my heart, D’Jenn, it really does. Hells, it breaks my heart that any of this ever had to happen, but here we are. The gods give us a strange world to live in, eh?”

  “You would feed me platitudes?” D’Jenn said. “After everything, you give me empty words.”

  “I wish we could have been on the same side of things,” Mataez said, rising to his feet. “All of us wished it so. We had hoped that you and Dormael would see your way around to our way of thinking, but you didn’t. This pains me, brother, it really does.”

  “Brother,” D’Jenn repeated, looking away. “Can we call ourselves such anymore?”

  “I would, but I suppose it’s up to you,” Mataez said. “I’ll make it quick, D’Jenn. And I promise to do the same for Dormael, if I’m the one to find him. I meant everything I said, but I still love you as a brother. That’s why I came, instead of someone else. I figured if it had to be done, then it’s best it comes from the hand of a friend.”