“My heart is sorrowful over this, Dormael, whatever you think,” Jarek said. “But there is no changing the past.”
“Shit on your heart, Jarek,” Dormael sighed. “Just tell me how you plan to repay your debt to me, and let’s part ways. I can barely stand to sit beside you at the moment.”
Jarek’s face darkened, but he nodded his head. He stood, which prompted Dormael to do the same. Jarek loomed over him for just a moment, but Dormael met his gaze with cold disregard.
“I cannot give you your life,” Jarek said. “Not when I am tasked with ending it, if necessary. So I will give you time. It is the next most precious thing to the gods.”
“How much time?”
“Two, maybe three weeks,” Jarek said, shrugging as he gazed off to the west. “I think I will pick up a false trail leading me toward Orris, maybe toward the Sea of the Beast. I think it will take me that long to figure it out, and head back toward Runeme.”
“I understand.”
“I am not the only one looking for you,” Jarek said. “Keep an ear to the wind. The next time we meet, Dormael, we will act as enemies.”
“The next time we meet, Jarek, I’ll kill you,” Dormael said. “Your debt is paid. Get out of my sight.”
Jarek nodded, and pulled his spear from the ground. He untied the peace flag, and tucked it away in his pack. Shouldering his gear, he gave Dormael one last look before turning away. With the song of his magic playing through the ether, his form slid into that of a large golden eagle, and he disappeared to the west. Dormael watched him until he was out of sight.
He glanced to the southeast, where he had last felt the hum of D’Jenn’s coin. It had returned only vague signals as they drew farther from the city. Dormael had known what that meant, but he had been reluctant to admit it to himself. Hearing Jarek confirm his fears had affected him more than he thought it would.
With one last glance to the west, Dormael trudged back to where his friends awaited his return.
***
They traveled two more days through a forest that thinned into rolling hills, and no sign of pursuit appeared. Allen led them wide of homesteads and fenced plots of land, though they had to navigate around them more frequently as they drew closer to the river. Dormael wanted to avoid meeting anyone for as long as they could.
The evening of the second night since meeting Jarek found them camped in a small clearing. Lilliane was teaching Bethany a basic lesson in numbers, Shawna running through one of her sword-forms. Allen was showing Lacelle how to prepare a rabbit on a spit, as he’d brought in a few when he’d led them to the campsite. Dormael was left to brood, so he walked some distance from the camp and sat down to meditate.
Try as he might, he couldn’t banish the anger he felt over D’Jenn’s death. He felt inadequate to the task of taking vengeance, though he knew he could do nothing else. Victus would do everything in his power to see Dormael and his friends dead, and Bethany returned to the Conclave with the armlet in tow. There was only a single course of action to take, and that was to kill Victus instead.
Dormael thought about it as the sun crept toward the horizon. How would he get into the Conclave? Could he lure the man from the safety of its campus? How many Warlocks would need to die before that happened? The thoughts whirled around his head as the setting sun painted the sky with purple twilight.
“What’s on your mind?”
Dormael opened his eyes at the sound of Shawna’s voice, and pulled himself from his grim thoughts.
“Just thinking on our next course of action is all,” he replied, turning to look at her. The air was warmer than it had been for the past few weeks, and her shirt was hanging loose over her skin. Her hair was unbound, and kinked from being tied back all day. It waved in the light winds of the early spring evening, which brought her smell drifting over the grass. Somehow she never managed to absorb the stink of the road the way the rest of them did.
“We know our next course of action,” she said, coming to sit down beside him. “What are you really thinking about?”
Dormael grimaced. “Victus, and how I’m going to kill him.” Shawna was quiet for a moment, and when she finally spoke, she did so with the tone of someone who was choosing their words with care.
“Was your friend sure that D’Jenn was dead?” she asked.
“No,” Dormael said, “but nearly so. Victus is still alive.”
“Maybe D’Jenn just failed, and had to make an escape.”
“Maybe,” Dormael admitted. “I can’t hold out hope any longer, though. In any case, Victus will keep sending people after us until we’re all dead. It’s the way of things when wizards go rogue.”
“Not to mention my mother’s armlet,” Shawna added.
“And that,” Dormael said. “We’ve got dark days ahead of us, Shawna. I’m just trying to absorb it before it drives me insane.”
“Don’t let it unman you,” Shawna said, nudging him with her shoulder. “We’ve weathered other storms. We’ll weather this one.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of the bigger picture,” Dormael said. “There’s Victus, and his designs. Then there’s the armlet, and all the world-ending problems it comes with. The Galanians, the vilth—I know there’s more going on here than I can see. If I could just put the pieces together, I’d understand. D’Jenn was always better at this sort of thing. The planning, the strategy. I’m good at breaking things and causing general mayhem, but I don’t have D’Jenn’s cunning turn of mind. Without him…well, things will be more difficult.”
Dormael stared hard at the grass in front of him, but he felt a general softening of Shawna’s presence at his words. She put a hand on his arm, and gave it a comforting squeeze. He didn’t pull away from her, and for once, her touch didn’t elicit thoughts of what the rest of her would feel like against him. He was just glad she was there.
“So things will be more difficult,” she said. “We’ll deal with that, too. My master used to say that the only things worth doing were difficult. And don’t underestimate yourself. You’re not half bad, for a brutish thug.”
“A brutish thug?” he said, a smile creeping onto his face despite his black mood. “I’m not that bad.”
“You’re terrible, Dormael,” she replied. “The first night I met you, you could barely keep your eyes from crawling over my legs. Couldn’t keep them from doing it, really. You are such a lech.”
“I’m a man, and any man would have done the same.”
“Then, you flirted with me all the way from Ferolan to the Sevenlands.”
“I did not!”
“You tried to trick me into getting naked and bathing with you.”
“If I remember correctly, there was no trickery involved—I just made the suggestion.”
“You’ve made all manner of lewd comments to me.”
“I believe in honesty,” he smiled. “So I speak my mind.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You leer at me every morning when I’m performing the Siyane.”
Dormael turned to look at her.
“Aye,” he said. “And I won’t apologize for it, either.”
“No?”
“Nope.”
She smiled, and rolled her eyes. “Terrible, see? You treat me like some tavern wench. No respect whatsoever.”
“You’re just flirting with me to try and make me feel better,” Dormael said, turning back to gaze into the twilight. “You know I have respect for you. We’ve been together too long for you to doubt that.”
“Oh? You think so?”
“I do,” he said. “If I was so terrible, you’d have packed up and left long ago. You’re not afraid to strike out on your own, Shawna. You’re far from the fainting type. You’re just too proud to admit that you like me.”
“You started to say something nice there,” she said. “Then you ruined it.”
“You don’t mind so much.”
“You sound pretty confident of that.”
“I’m confident
that you like me, aye.”
“Why?” she laughed.
“Because the minute you got drunk enough, you tackled me and tried to wrestle my clothes off.”
“That is not the way it happened!” she said, pushing him over into the grass.
Weeks back, the party had stopped at Dormael’s family homestead while on the way to Ishamael. His family had done what all Sevenlander families did on such occasions, and thrown a party. During the festivities, when Shawna had been plied with the Shaman’s Leaf and more firewine than she was used to, she had cornered Dormael in the hallway and kissed him. Things had gotten heated, but she had passed out drunk before anything serious happened.
Dormael had been wondering if she remembered the incident ever since. He had declined to say anything out of fear of embarrassing her. Now that he knew the truth, he was at once irritated that she had let him twist for so long, and relieved to have the matter out in the open. He began to laugh, and couldn’t stop even when she started to throw playful punches into his side.
“So you do remember,” he said. “You remember, and you’ve been letting me squirm for all this time.”
“Consider it payback for all your little comments,” she said, emphasizing her words with slaps at his ribs.
“You must enjoy them, if you wanted to kiss me so bad!” he laughed, trying to fend off her attacks. The woman was too quick for him, though. Shawna’s hands were twice as dexterous as his own.
“You’re wrong,” she said, leaving off her attack.
“Oh?”
“I don’t like you because of your brashness, Dormael,” she said, pulling him back to a seated position beside her. She leaned in, and Dormael’s whole body tingled. He was suddenly aware of her closeness, of how beautiful she looked with her hair falling across her shoulders. “I like you,” she said, “because despite all of that, I can count on you. You try like all Six Hells to help where you think you’re needed. It’s a bit brutish, maybe, but I like it anyway. I’ve met all manner of refined gentlemen in the years since I was old enough to marry, most of them cowards, or self-interested schemers. You’re a different thing altogether, Dormael. Brusque, but not without your own sort of charm.”
Dormael felt heat rising to his cheeks at her words. Normally he would have some quip ready to shoot back in her direction, some flirtatious comment that would disarm the seriousness of the situation. With Shawna, though, things were different. Maybe their time on the road had deepened the bond he felt with her, or the shared danger they had faced had shoved them closer than he’d realized. Her words warmed him more than he expected they could.
He opened his mouth to say something, but she placed her finger on his lips to stop him.
“Don’t say anything,” she said, a smile creasing one side of her mouth. “I know you’ll just ruin it.”
Dormael reached out before he could stop himself, and pulled Shawna into a kiss. Some part of him had expected her to shove him away, but she didn’t. She sank into him, her lips searching his, and her body relaxed. She scooted closer, but when he pulled her against him, she pushed him down into the grass.
He started to laugh, but she found his lips again, and crawled on top of him. Dormael’s world narrowed to her lips, and the warmth of her body. They descended into searching hands and muttered laughter, and he was suddenly on fire for her.
How does she always manage to smell like wildflowers, even after a full day of riding?
“What are you doing?!” Bethany’s voice exclaimed from nearby.
Shawna was gone in an instant, making her feet before Dormael realized what was happening. He twisted his neck to see Bethany standing a short distance away, having come from the camp, a horrified expression on her face. Shawna was mortified, her hands smoothing her hair and clothing with guilty little motions, eyes wide with fear.
“I was just…ah, showing him a wrestling hold, dear,” Shawna said. Bethany gave Shawna a withering look. Dormael began to laugh at the sight of the girl’s face, and Shawna turned an accusatory glare on him.
“I’m not stupid, you know,” Bethany said. “You were kissing. I saw it!”
“Bethany, really—” Shawna started, moving forward, but Bethany took a step back.
“Gross! Don’t touch me after you were kissing! Ew!”
“Bethany!” Shawna said, an admonishment in her tone, but Bethany ignored her.
“I came to tell you supper was ready, and you were kissing!”
“Bethany, listen, dear—we need to keep this between us, alright? Sometimes people do things because—”
“I’m going to tell everyone!” Bethany laughed, crouching like a deer about to bolt.
“Bethany,” Dormael said, finally able to stifle his laughter, “don’t do anything crazy.”
“You’re going to have a baby, now!” Bethany said, pointing at Shawna like the woman was carrying some strange disease.
“What?!” Shawna gasped, back straightening. “Little girl, that is not how it works!”
“Uncle Allen will want to know this,” Bethany laughed, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “He might even pay me.”
“Bethany,” Shawna said through her teeth, “don’t you dare.”
The two of them stared at each other for a swift moment, a silent challenge passing between them. Bethany was off in a blink, laughing as she disappeared into the shadows of the evening. Shawna made an attempt to catch her, but Bethany was as nimble as an alley cat. Dormael swore that sometimes the girl could disappear if she turned sideways in a shadow. She was gone before Shawna could lay a hand on her, and the woman returned, cursing under her breath.
“You’re not going to do anything about that?” Shawna asked, shoving an angry gesture in the direction of Bethany’s departure.
Dormael sighed. “I think that ship has sailed.”
“No thanks to you.”
“What would you have me do?” Dormael laughed. “Swear her to silence? Do you really think she’d listen to me?”
Shawna made to speak, but stopped herself. She sighed and shook her head, gazing in the direction of the camp. Finally she came over and plopped into the grass beside him, her hands hiding her face.
“I knew I would regret this,” she said. “I told myself over and over—Shawna, don’t do it. You will regret it.”
“You did it anyway,” Dormael said, tapping her on the shoulder.
“I did it anyway,” she repeated.
Dormael stretched out in the grass, and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, and took in the sight of the stars as they began to twinkle in the darkening sky. Shawna scooted closer to him, and he felt her relax.
“So, just to clear things up,” he said. “I was right.”
“Oh?”
“You like me.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Dormael started to laugh, and she gave him a short elbow in the stomach. He snickered through the surprise, and settled back into the grass. Shawna pulled his arm beneath her head, and spent a few quiet moments staring up at the sky. Dormael wanted to say something, maybe to reassure her that the embarrassment would fade, but he decided to keep his mouth shut.
He didn’t want to ruin it, after all.
***
Maarkov watched the boat bob in the harbor—or what passed for a harbor in this shit-ridden little hamlet. It was long and lean, though not the largest vessel docked in the town known as Istinhold. She had a single sail, space at the fore for ten oars or so, and a single cabin on the aft deck. Judging from how high she sat in the water, there was probably an expansive hold below the waterline. A single lantern burned on deck, silhouetting a solitary figure that leaked wispy smoke into the shadows of the night.
Maarkov’s hand clenched the hilt of his sword. The crew was ashore, probably looking for drink and company for the night, leaving only a single watchman aboard. Maarkov was fairly certain there would be more men down in the hold, maybe stretched out in hammocks. Given Maarkov’s luck, not a singl
e one of them would provide a challenge.
More wanton slaughter and butchery, he thought. I might as well take up selling meat, after this. Maybe my sword-arm will fetch a nice price—it’s useless, after all. He glanced down at the pallid skin of his arm, and sighed. He wondered if the muscles beneath would be gray and bloodless, or maybe a glossy black.
Will it grow back if I carve it off? Can Maaz reattach it?
“The strega will take anyone living on board in silence,” Maaz whispered, eyes locked to the boat. “Best to let them do their work. You may keep your sword sheathed tonight, brother, and your conscience quiet.”
“What joy I feel,” Maarkov grumbled, but Maaz ignored the quip.
They stood huddled into a corner of the docks, shoved between two piles of stacked crates. The strega stood around them like posts in the wind, as motionless as the wood under their feet. The Hunter was somewhere nearby, though Maarkov had no idea where. If the disgust that crawled up his spine at the strega was uncomfortable, the trepidation at the thought of the Hunter moving around in the dark was worse. Maarkov would have ended the thing in its sleep, but it never slept. It was like Maarkov and his brother in that respect.
Maaz raised his hand, and every lantern between their position on the docks and the boat winked out. The wharves were plunged into darkness, though the only protest was single muttered curse that echoed over the water. The strega filed out of their hiding spots one by one, moving in rigid lockstep. The emotionless faces of the family they had taken from their farm went by, and Maarkov remembered the children he had dropped out the window. If Maaz knew anything about his little betrayal, he had said nothing. When the last of the strega had left their cover, Maarkov followed them. He could feel his brother’s presence right behind him, like a carnivore stalking his heels.
They made their way down the shadowed wharf, silent on murderous feet. When they reached the berth of the ship, Maaz reached up another hand and snuffed the lantern on deck with his magic. The watchman gave a loud curse, and started mucking around with the lantern. At some unheard signal from Maaz, the strega sprang into action.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 98
