The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  She nodded again, the smile beginning to die as she saw the pain on his face. Dormael struggled back to his feet, and bent over at the waist a few times in a futile attempt to stretch the pain out of his body. It didn’t help any more than the breathing had. He started to walk back to camp with the girl, but was struck with an idea.

  “Wait, Bethany—forget what I said,” he grunted. “You should at least show D’Jenn.”

  Bethany smiled, and ran off toward the campsite. Dormael limped in that direction, trying his best to work out the pain by keeping his stride as normal as possible. It didn’t work, of course.

  The sound of D’Jenn’s startled yelp, though, made it all worthwhile.

  ***

  Maarkov held the tiller in a light grip, and sneered at the misty evening. The air was tepid, choked with moisture and the stink of the surrounding swamp. The strega pumped the oars in a ceaseless rhythm, propelling the long river craft in silence. The only sounds were the swish of the water, and the calling of distant insects.

  The single lantern hanging near the mast cast a halo in the murk, illuminating everything in a bubble of orange light. The shapes of the rowing corpses were barely more than bobbing shadows on the deck. The Hunter was nowhere to be seen, but Maarkov was sure the bastard was somewhere nearby. It hadn’t made a move for him since its little stunt back in Istinhold. Maarkov’s hand had hovered near his blade ever since.

  If it tried again, he planned to relieve it of its one good eye.

  The boy that Maaz had dragged into the cabin now hung from the mast, head lolling onto his chest. His arms were left bare, but hung straight down at its side. When Maarkov got off course, the boy’s arm would slowly rise in the direction that he needed to turn. If he was on course, the arms hung straight—as they currently did. Maarkov hated having to look up at the boy, being forced to stare at his body in order to find his bearing.

  His brother’s sense of humor was wicked.

  For his part, Maaz had remained in the cabin for the entire journey. The Hunter would come in and out at different times, but it stayed mostly down in the hold, especially during the daytime hours. The deck had been left to Maarkov, and his crew of mute strega.

  A thump against the hull was the only warning that Maarkov received before the night erupted with noise. A roar issued up from the fog around them, and Maarkov shot to his feet. He whipped his blade from its sheath as he abandoned the tiller, but the flitting of arrows reached his ears as missiles began thumping into the deck. Four of them found his body—two through his right thigh, one in the side, and another that buried itself deep in his belly. Maarkov grunted in pain and yanked the arrows out, tossing them to the deck. His black blood seeped from the wounds like congealed pitch.

  Bodies crawled over the rail on all sides, climbing from rowboats hidden in the mists. The sounds of rasping steel reached Maarkov’s ears, and for the first time in a long while, a smile bloomed on his face. He rarely got a chance for a good fight.

  The first man came screaming out of the night with an axe raised over his head. Maarkov slipped to the side and opened his guts in a single motion, seeing a second just on his heels. He turned his slash into a quick, back-handed parry, and slid a thrust into the second pirate’s midsection as he stepped backwards. Both men fell gasping to the deck, and Maarkov stepped past them to find more. The coppery smell of blood filled his nose.

  Another man stepped into his path, sending a thrust at Maarkov’s face. Maarkov tangled his blade with the pirate’s, pushing it out wide, and whipped his dagger from his belt. The knife sank into the man’s eye socket, and his body went limp. It almost drug the dagger from Maarkov’s hand as it went down, but he was able to hold to the hilt.

  The Hunter let out a shriek as it pounced from the rigging, falling upon another pirate before Maarkov could get to him. It drove the man face-down into the deck, and pinned him there with its claws. Maarkov thought the thing would kill the pirate right away, but instead it sniffed the man like it was testing a potential meal. The pirate screamed in terror, but the Hunter smashed his face into the deck with a contemptuous, casual movement, and left him limp. Its glowing eye flashed at Maarkov before it slipped into the shadows, looking for another victim.

  Men began to scream as they realized what was happening. Maarkov saw one of the strega break the neck of a pirate who had just stabbed it, another that was beating a man to death in a frenzy, all the while being peppered with arrows from the haze around it. The corpse paid the arrows no more attention than the fog.

  Feet thumped over the deck, and splashes sounded from the water as the pirates retreated. Maarkov was able to cut three more of them down as they ran, screaming insults at their cowardly backs. All was frenzied commotion for the space of a few minutes, and then stillness returned like a cloak thrown over the ship. Cursing echoed over the water as the pirates retreated into the night, melting back into the brume like whipped ghosts.

  Maaz appeared as the chaos abated, and surveyed the wreckage. Eleven bodies littered the deck, twelve counting the pirate that the Hunter had left alive. The strega stood on all sides of the deck, staring out at the night. With a single word from Maaz, the creatures moved for the oars once again. He barked another command, and two of the revenants began to clean up the littered bodies on deck, dragging them toward Maaz’s cabin.

  The Hunter rushed over to the one he’d left alive, and hissed at the strega that came to collect it. Maaz called the mindless cadaver off, and spoke a few unintelligible words to the Hunter. It keened in reply, shaking its half-ruined arm, and gesturing to its one good eye. Maaz made an irritated motion toward the cabin, and the Hunter left off its protests. With one over-sized claw, it grabbed the living pirate by the ankle, and began to drag him toward the cabin.

  The brigand woke halfway there.

  “No! No! Please—I’ll pay! Anything! Please!”

  He kicked and dug his fingers into the deck, but it was no use. The Hunter had the strength of five men—at least, that’s the way it seemed to Maarkov. The pitiful struggles of the pirate may as well have been the mewlings of a babe. The last Maarkov saw of the pirate were his fingers clutching the door frame before the Hunter jerked him out of sight.

  “Brother, you may want to return to your station,” Maaz said.

  Maarkov cursed and looked back to the tiller, which was listing to port. The boy on the mast pointed straight to Maarkov’s right—the west—like a macabre compass. The cries of the man in the cabin were muffled as Maaz shut the door behind him. It wasn’t long before other, more ominous noises leaked through the cracks with his screams. The Hunter gave a victorious cry at one point, and the man’s screams cut off.

  Maarkov stomped back to the tiller. Two, maybe three more days through this murk, and they’d make the northern plains of Farra-Jerra. Maarkov hated the bogs, with all its legends and insects and the constant stench of rotten vegetation. One would think that after generations of being around his brother, and the near-constant presence of his rotting servants, Maarkov would be numb to foul smells. The opposite, however, was the truth.

  Over the years, as he had thought in quiet moments, Maarkov had devised a theory to explain the reason. The body always healed and adapted, and just as a broken limb sometimes healed stronger than before, the nose could steel itself against the constant assault of bad smells. Maarkov’s body, however, did not adapt, because it was not alive. Every time his brother restored him, every time he was forced to partake in Maaz’s eating ritual, his body returned to full function. That, in effect, was what he thought was keeping him from adapting to the stink of the world.

  Now Maaz would have twice the number of dead servants to do his bidding. Maarkov had no doubt that more deaths were on the horizon. Maaz wasn’t one for half-measures, and since their quarry had slipped through his fingers in Ishamael, he had been possessed with a single-minded purpose. Maaz didn’t share the details of his plans with Maarkov, but Maarkov was no fool. He knew his brother, and knew
he would favor a single, devastating attack. It would be something to ensure his victory once and for all, and he had plenty of time to prepare.

  The insects returned to calling from the soupy night, and the strega to their task. The boy hung on the mast, pointing the way, as the boat ghosted over the water. Maarkov held to the tiller, and settled back onto the bench beside it.

  The evening was still once again.

  ***

  Billingshold was a bustling place, even after the sundown. Sell-swords stumbled between inns, drinking off the money they had earned on their latest run. Allen had said that these men earned a sizable amount of money going north and south along the river. Judging from the abundance of drunken, armed men in the streets, Dormael thought that most of them probably spent every bit of their coin before taking the next job.

  The presence of so many young men with coin had given rise to a variety of economies in town, especially the pleasure houses. The party passed four giant brothels, all packed with girls who called down to offer either promises or taunts, depending on the mark. Dormael smiled and waved at women who called to him, and laughed with everyone else as a few of the girls called promises to Shawna. Shawna, for her part, blushed in silence.

  Forges were in evidence, and hammers rang even at this late hour. Dormael imagined that with all the business to be done, the bellows worked at all hours, at least in the larger shops. Allen eyed each smithy they passed with an interested expression.

  Gambling houses peppered the streets, each with a herald out front proclaiming the chances of winning inside. One of them even claimed that the local temple had blessed the house—which was called Aeglar’s Surprise—and that every man who passed through the doors had the blessings of the gods upon them. He stood in the street and shouted at passersby, gesturing with a scepter tipped with a golden apple.

  Healers had signs hanging in front of their shops promising to cure everything from runny bowels to venereal disease. The sign before one such establishment featured a smiling surgeon sawing at the leg of a man who was thanking him for the pleasure. A few featured the seal of the Galanian Surgical School—a red man in the center of a circle. Dormael was surprised to see it so far from Alderak, but he supposed that an enterprising surgeon from such a respected establishment could make a nice living in a place like Billingshold. Whatever else the Galanian Empire had done, their Surgical School was the only place in all of Eldath that focused on the healing arts.

  Shawna’s eyes darkened when she saw it, but not as much as they would have during the winter. It wasn’t a cloud of anger that passed over her gaze, at least as far as Dormael could tell. She looked more haunted than vengeful.

  “We should probably pick up some armor for the two of you,” Allen said, gesturing to Dormael and D’Jenn. “No one will believe you’re mercenaries without the proper equipment.”

  “I’m not walking around in a suit of steel,” Dormael said. “It’s too heavy. Too hot.”

  “Aye, but it will keep an arrow out of your hide,” Allen said.

  “Regardless, it isn’t happening.”

  “You don’t need a breastplate, or a chain shirt,” Allen said, “though I’m half a mind to come back with one just to tweak your nose. Those things need to be fitted, anyway. You’ll get something simpler, something I can buy off the rack.”

  “Pick up some bows, too,” D’Jenn said. “One for each of us, and a clutch of arrows.”

  “Do we need to spend so much?” Dormael asked. “The Mekai gave us a decent purse, but it’s not infinite. Who knows how long it will need to stretch?”

  “If we’re going to take a job going upriver, we’ll need bows,” D’Jenn said. “We won’t be able to use our magic until we’re off the boat—at least, not in any way that the crew could see. If we show up without something to fire at pirates, they’d never take us seriously.”

  “He’s right,” Allen said. He held his hand out to Dormael, a wry smile on his face. Dormael dug around in his saddlebag for the purse, and handed it over.

  “Don’t you need us to come with you?” Dormael asked. “To make sure the armor fits?”

  “I think I know your sizing,” Allen said. He pointed first to Dormael, then to D’Jenn. “Puny, and three-quarters puny.”

  “If it doesn’t fit,” D’Jenn said, “I’ll just alter them with magic. Keep an eye out for anyone following you. We’ll stay in an inn close to the harbor. Look for us there when you’re done.”

  “I’ll come with,” Shawna said, nudging her horse up beside Allen’s. “I need some repair work done, and you need someone to watch your back.”

  “Fair enough,” Allen replied. “If you keep taking these little trips with me, though, my brother will get jealous.”

  Shawna rolled her eyes, and the two of them rode into the lantern-lit streets of Billingshold.

  “I wonder,” Lacelle said as the two of them rode away, “what it was like to grow up with him. Was he always so flippant?”

  “I think he’s charming,” Lilliane said. “All the rest of you do is ride around with scowls on your fucking faces. At least he makes me laugh.”

  “Let’s find an inn,” Dormael said. “And yes, he was always like that. Still, I can’t get angry with him. Never been able to.”

  “You’re not trying hard enough,” D’Jenn said. “He gets under my skin all the bloody time.”

  By the time everyone was settled into their rooms at the Brimming Barrel, which was a large establishment, the party in the common room was well underway. D’Jenn had chosen the place for the number of raucous patrons. If another wizard discovered them, they would be loathe to attack in such a public place.

  We’re outlaws, now, Dormael thought. Hunted in our own lands.

  Dormael retired to his room as soon as everyone settled in, and kicked his boots into the corner. Bethany was shadowing Lacelle and Lilliane, who were probably being pressed into telling stories. D’Jenn had disappeared into his own room even before Dormael, saying that a real bed would do wonders for his injuries. For the first time since they’d left Ishamael, Dormael found himself alone.

  One of the serving girls brought him a steaming plate of food from the kitchens. Dormael finished it, then sent for a second. He was hungrier than he had realized, but the food went down without taste, or enjoyment. His thoughts were occupied with the future, and his mind was worn out from his constant worrying. Closing his eyes, he sought to clear his mind, and relax.

  He lay in bed for a long time before the noise downstairs chased him into slumber.

  ***

  “So you’re headed for Ferolan?” D’Jenn asked, watching the former Deacon of Philosophers and her student from across the table. “I’ve missed quite a lot. It does make sense, though you may still be exposed to danger there. Victus knows of Alton Dersham. We told him about the man ourselves, when he debriefed us upon our return to Ishamael.”

  “We understand the risks involved,” Lacelle said. “But as I told your cousin, I do not wish to flee and hide away in a hole. This mission is of grave importance to us all. Lilliane and I may not be Warlocks, but there is much we can do to help.”

  “I think we’ve got too many Warlocks running about just now,” D’Jenn said. “I could do with less.”

  Mataez’s face flashed before his eyes, and he shoved the memory down.

  The three of them sat in a private dining room, one of only three such in the Brimming Barrel. Lacelle had purchased its use herself, and asked D’Jenn to speak with her. She had also sent word to Dormael, though he hadn’t roused to the knocks at his door. D’Jenn had told the woman that he was most likely asleep, but if D’Jenn knew his cousin, he was probably brooding. He had a tendency to sink into dark moods that lasted for days, and the best thing to do was leave him be.

  D’Jenn had slept throughout the previous night, and for most of the current day. His body felt a thousand times better, and his mouth had stopped bleeding, though he still felt sharp pains when he chewed anythin
g harder than soup. The pain, though, was tolerable. What was better, his voice had returned, and it no longer hurt to speak.

  “You will like Alton, I think,” D’Jenn said. “He showed us nothing but courtesy and friendship. Speak Shawna’s name, and he will welcome you—probably insist on helping you any way he can, too. If I remember, he was sorry that he couldn’t make the journey with us.”

  “I’m not fucking sorry, though I mean no offense,” Lilliane said. “The lot of you have targets on your backs, and I’d just as soon get as far as I bloody can from you.”

  “I understand,” D’Jenn replied, giving the woman an empty smile. Lacelle gave Lilliane an exasperated look, but Lilliane ignored her. D’Jenn couldn’t blame her, in any case—she was right. The two Philosophers were valuable to Victus, and in every danger of being captured, though it was unlikely he would have them killed. They would be much more profitable alive.

  D’Jenn and Dormael, though, were as good as dead.

  “I wanted your advice,” Lacelle said.

  “My advice?” D’Jenn asked.

  “On how best to protect ourselves, and the Baronet Dersham, once we arrive at his estate,” Lacelle said.

  “Ah,” D’Jenn nodded. “Well, keep the secret of your magic. Devise a good cover story, memorize it, and stick to it. Alton runs a shipping business, so it would probably serve to say that you’re new business associates from across the Stormy Sea. From Minsdurim, maybe—it will best explain the things that people will notice about you.”

  “What things?” Lilliane asked.

  “No one who hears you speak will believe you’re anything but Sevenlanders, unless you can fake a good Alderakan accent,” D’Jenn said. “You’re educated, and others who are lettered will realized that you’re highly educated, which will need to be explained. Tell everyone you’re Minsdurim Academy graduates, and they’ll buy it.”

  “Academy graduates,” Lilliane snorted. “I suppose masquerading as second-rate scholars is better than being captured, or having my bloody limbs ripped apart by those…whatever those fucking things were in the tunnels.”