The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Buy one of your own, then,” Allen said, smirking as he climbed over the ruined stone wall. “I’ll need that back when you’re done with it.”

  D’Jenn ignored his cousin, and followed him over the wall. He whispered his magic into the world, splitting his consciousness into three partitions. He opened his hand and let the axe levitate near his head, then seized his mace with the other part of his mind. The weapons began to spin around him, moving faster and faster as D’Jenn walked forward.

  “I’ll take as many as I can before they get to us,” D’Jenn said. “You get the ones that get close.”

  “Done,” Allen replied, pulling his saber and turning to face the oncoming corpses. “What is it you’re—”

  Allen’s voice cut off as D’Jenn whipped his hands forward, sending the pair of spinning weapons hurtling through the air. The axe sank into the skull of the leading cadaver, dropping it to the grass in a tangle of useless limbs. The mace smashed the face of another, which spun away and landed in a motionless heap. D’Jenn pulled on the threads of magic he’d tied to the weapons, and jerked them back into the air, taking another running pair in the backs of their heads. They fell to the grass with meaty thumps.

  Two more of the bodies were left, but Allen was already roaring as he moved to face them. He met the first one’s charge with his shield, slamming it edge-on into the thing’s teeth. The first revenant faltered, staying on its feet, but Allen stepped aside and attacked the second. He chopped into its neck with his blade, ending its un-life with a single swipe. Before the first one could recover its balance, Allen turned and cut into the back of its neck, making its ashen legs go limp.

  D’Jenn gestured, bringing his two weapons back into the air. Three more forms appeared at the apex of the hill, clawing their way toward Allen. D’Jenn took the first two with his flying weapons, leaving the third to have its skull split open by his cousin.

  “How many of these bloody things are left?” Allen said, swiping his sword in the air to clear it of putrid blood.

  “I didn’t take the time to count them,” D’Jenn replied, sweeping his gaze over the hill. Dormael and Shawna were facing their own group, and appeared to be holding their own. There were many shapes lying prostrate on the ground, ruined and broken bodies destroyed by Dormael’s magical onslaught.

  “Down there!” Allen said. “Look!”

  A man wrapped in a black robe was walking toward the fray, gesturing with a pair of claw-like hands. Several carcasses struggled to their feet under his direction, heedless of wounds that would have killed any normal man. D’Jenn’s eyes took note of the children amongst them, and he pushed down a bout of disgust that welled up in his stomach.

  “The vilth,” D’Jenn said, bringing the weapons back to hover near his head. “That has to be him. If we can kill him, the rest of these things should die.”

  “Are you sure?” Allen said, eyes wide at the number of corpses gathering for the attack. “Gods…that’s too many for the two of us to handle, unless you’ve got some tricks up your sleeve.”

  “Grab your bow,” D’Jenn said. “Hurry!”

  Allen shoved his saber back into its sheath, and turned to go for the bow he’d left at the wall. D’Jenn looked over to find an old woman with empty eyes bearing down on him, but he sent the axe into her skull with little effort. She tumbled into the wet grass without a sound. By the time D’Jenn turned his attention to the revenants gathering at the base of the hill, Allen was back with his bow in hand.

  “More of the same kind of thing we did on the river?” he asked.

  “Aye,” D’Jenn said, watching as the bodies began to run up the hill. “Take aim in their midst. Doesn’t matter if you take one in the eye, or the stomach. I’ll do the rest. We have to kill these quickly and turn our focus to the vilth.”

  “I hope this bloody works,” Allen said as he drew the string to his ear. He took a moment to judge the distance. “Ready when you—”

  Just as the words came out of his mouth, a kettle-like scream pierced the noise of the rain. A blurry, grayish object slammed into Allen, taking him from his feet. The two of them tumbled to the side and slid down the hill, leaving D’Jenn standing alone. It all happened so fast that he didn’t time to react.

  “Allen!” he shouted, trying to see where his cousin had ended up. D’Jenn turned to go after them, but was brought up short as the large group of revenants came running up the side of the hill, dead eyes locked in his direction. He cursed and spun to face them, readying the pair of weapons he held with his magic.

  They were on him before he could do anything but curse.

  ***

  Maarkov ducked as stones the size of barrels came flying down the hill. They tore into the strega, scattering bodies and tossing up tufts of dirt where they landed. He narrowly avoided being crushed as one of them bounced nearby, peppering his face with wet dirt. Another whizzed through the air and bashed into a group of dead bodies just ahead of him, knocking some of them head over heels. Several didn’t rise, but more than a few did.

  Maarkov didn’t care to join the fray, but the chaos that battle promised suited his mood. Perhaps the singular focus on survival would infuse him with energy, would make the world seem, at least for a few moments, like it wasn’t as empty as it felt. Perhaps the gods would see fit to end him today, to destroy his body in such a way that his brother could not bring him back.

  Another stone came hurtling down the hill, and Maarkov had to drop belly-first to the grass. He felt displaced air on the back of his neck as it flew over. He realized that he may have given up his opportunity for destruction by succumbing to his instincts. Maybe he should have let the rock hit him. It would have been painful, for sure, but it might also have ended his marriage to this worthless existence.

  He got to his feet and took a deep breath. Smiling, he forced himself to put his arms out to the side and walk forward. He closed his eyes and let his feet slip as he started to climb the hill, leaning forward to keep his balance. The fight raged around him, but he resisted the urge to look. Let the wheel of fate grind him beneath its rim, he had stopped caring long ago.

  Thunderous cracks sounded from nearby, and Maarkov felt a curious tingling over his skin. He felt mud splatter onto his cheeks, and wiped it with an errant hand as he continued forward. The hill got steeper as he moved ahead, and he was forced to bend down and use his hands to pull himself along. He kept his eyes closed.

  As he grasped a tuft of long grass, there was another crack. It was followed by a floating sensation, and whiteness that filled Maarkov’s vision. Tingles ran down through his body until it went numb, then burned, then numb again. Rain poured onto his face, and he felt grass on the back of his head.

  What in all Six Hells was that?

  His vision returned, full of the storm overhead. He blinked water from his eyes and swiped a hand across his face, then turned to spit on the grass. There was a strange taste in his mouth, and his saliva was stained with the dark fluid that had once been his blood. Pain wracked his body from chest to knees.

  He grunted as he tried to rise, and had to push through the protestations of his abdomen. Uttering a curse, he looked down at his chest to try and figure out what had happened. A rent had laid part of his vest open, and traced a jagged burn across the pallid skin of his right side. It was painful to the touch, but what was pain to a creature like him?

  Lightning, then, he thought. You were struck by that wizard’s lightning.

  Any normal man—a living man—would have died. Maarkov, though, persisted even through this. He had closed his eyes and dared the gods to end him, and they had tried, at least in some way. He started to laugh, and spat more of his blood-tainted saliva to the side. What was it going to take?

  There might be one way to see it done. Maarkov knew little about his brother’s art, but had deduced over the years that there were differences in the way that Maarkov had been cut, and the way that Maaz had cut himself. The Secrets had granted Maarkov ma
ny things—a body that lived outside the ravages of time, the ability to go without sleep, and the strange amount of bodily strength he still had trouble utilizing—but they left one clear weakness that not even Maaz could take from him. It was the one thing that Maarkov could never do to himself, but he may be able to seek his death from someone else.

  He rose from the ground and stretched his muscles, trying to get feeling back into his limbs. It returned with movement, though his body went numb in little patches here and there, then burned with pain in quick cycles. There wasn’t much he could do about it, and in the end, it didn’t matter.

  Glancing up the hill, he caught sight of the woman that had started this ordeal. He’d known of her, of course, but this was the first time he had seen her in action. She fought with obvious skill, especially to anyone with Maarkov’s training. Her blades whipped through the air in deadly flashes, taking a strega with each strike. He recognized the style she employed, though it was different than what Maarkov had learned from his own master. She was mesmerizing to watch, and Maarkov felt sure the woman was not only well trained, but also had a natural talent for dancing the blade.

  She would be the one. She had to be. Her skill was undeniable, and that would make for a good contest before the end.

  Maarkov took a deep breath and surveyed the hillside that separated them. Maaz was keeping the wizard that accompanied her busy, and she was facing down the remaining strega on her own. They pressed her, but not hard enough that she came close to dying. By the time Maarkov made it to her, he was confident she would still be there.

  She’ll be the one. She has to be.

  Maarkov checked that his blade was secure, and went to find out.

  ***

  The distance between Dormael and the vilth crackled with tension.

  A moment passed while the robed man stood, magic poised for an attack. Dormael met his stare, though the vilth’s eyes were concealed by a deep hood. Even from the opposite side of the field, the man’s gaze was cold, like the regard of a man-eating lizard. Dormael filled himself with the power of his magic, letting the vilth sense the strength of his song.

  The necromancer’s melody was sharp, twisted, like four different instruments playing separate lines. That oily film infused his magic, binding it like a ghostly creeper choking a hedge. Dormael could feel the man’s power thrashing about of its own accord, like a dog resisting the yoke of its master.

  The vilth’s feet shifted, and Dormael exploded into movement.

  He rushed to the side, taking the hill’s slope at an angle to keep from losing his footing. The necromancer’s song rang out through the ether, and more rocks came flying in Dormael’s direction, making whizzing noises as they hurtled through the storm. Dormael slapped each stone to the side as he ran, being careful not to tip them backwards into his friends. Great booming thuds sounded as the rocks fell to the grass, tearing holes in the ground as they bounced away.

  A cadaver came out of the deluge, making a grab for Dormael’s throat. He avoided it only because it slipped on the grass and fell, still pawing to get to him. Dormael crushed its head with his Kai as quickly as he could, and kept running.

  The vilth started running, too, and Dormael was stunned at his speed. He flew over the ground like a man at his absolute physical peak, heedless of the robe that flapped at his knees. Two more stones ripped themselves from the ground and flew at Dormael, heavy enough to turn his body to pulp if they landed. He knocked the first aside the same way he had the others, but the second came right on its heels, and he was forced to shield himself rather than deflect it. The rock pounded into his shield, draining his Kai with the force of its impact.

  Dormael stumbled on the slope, the soaked ground betraying his footing. He tossed himself into a roll, and came up just in time to see the vilth coming for him. Dormael twisted his magic into another shield, and split his consciousness, preparing a Splinter.

  The necromancer’s hood had blown back from his brow, revealing a gaunt face decorated with patterned scars. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with graying flesh that looked as if it had died years ago. The man’s skin was as pale as a corpse.

  Dormael set his feet, tightened his hands on his spear, and attacked with the Splinter. The necromancer must have anticipated his move, though, because his magic winked out before the spell could sink home. Using the other partition in his mind, Dormael blasted a hole into the earth at the vilth’s feet.

  The necromancer stepped into the hole, unable to slow himself in time to avoid it. With a curse, the vilth toppled head over heels, hitting the ground with a series of meaty thumps. Dormael readied his spear, and gathered some magical energy to lend the killing blow extra heft.

  The vilth’s magic rang out, coming awake and slamming into Dormael’s body. His Kai took some of the blow, as he pulled up an instinctual defense, but the backlash was violent. A flash of light crackled between them, and Dormael was thrown backwards from the force. He rolled into the grass, losing his grip on his weapon.

  Dormael scrambled to his feet and saw the vilth doing the same, having been thrown away from the impact as well. His magic was once again alive, clawing at everything like a chained beast. Dormael sensed another attack coming, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He pulled up a shield just in time to keep off a gout of flame that blossomed around him. Steam hissed from the fire as the rain met it, roiling around Dormael’s shield. The vilth abandoned the attack when he saw that Dormael had shielded, and the flames died as the rain beat them into the ground.

  Dormael stabbed at the vilth’s magic with a Splinter, and this time he slid it home. The grass crackled as ice crystals formed over its surface, the cold rushing outward from the vilth in a circle. Dormael heard him curse as his magic left him, and he moved to take advantage of the man’s weakness.

  He dropped his shield and sprang into motion, running directly at the necromancer. He noticed his spear lying nearby and pulled it from the ground with his Kai, sending it to fly point-first at the vilth. The man dodged aside with unnatural grace, twisting his body from the spear’s path. It thudded into the ground, the haft vibrating with the impact.

  Just as the necromancer recovered, Dormael fired a bolt of lightning right into his chest.

  The man’s feet left the ground as he was blown backwards. The crack echoed over the battlefield, and Dormael was left with a glaring afterimage burned over his sight. He pulled his spear from the ground as he rushed by it, aiming to pounce on the fallen vilth and pin him to the dirt, but he was again surprised by the man’s physical capabilities.

  The necromancer was already on his feet, struggling from the lightning-scorched cloak. He shouldn’t have been able to move with such speed, nor should he have been able to recover from eating a lightning bolt to the chest. Even wizards who were able to redirect the effects of hostile magic would have been injured by the bolt, if not killed outright. Doubt wormed its way into Dormael’s thoughts as he closed with the vilth once again.

  What will it take to kill him?

  As the man slithered from the upper part of his robe, Dormael felt his magic awaken once again. He tossed his ruined clothing vaguely in Dormael’s direction, and the fabric animated itself and tried to tangle the haft of Dormael’s spear, whipping about like a angry tentacle. Dormael burned the thing with a thought and shot his attention back to the necromancer.

  His torso was near emaciated. Corded muscles showed through his pale skin, crisscrossed by veins that looked like creepers strangling a tree. The skin itself was as pale as marble, devoid of anything resembling healthy color. Scars were cut into his entire body, designs that looked to have a structure and meaning to them, but one that was alien to Dormael. He didn’t look dead so much as suspended.

  The vilth whipped a pair of wicked knives from his side, long and curved downward. The blades were wider on the ends than at the hilt. Dormael thought they were of Rashardian design, but he wasn’t sure. They looked like something a butcher might wi
eld, as if they were more suited to removing limbs than the quick cut-and-thrust of melee.

  Dormael felt the vilth’s magic ring once more, and the armlet pulled sharply against his belt as the man tried to tear it away. Dormael siezed it in his own magic and stabbed at the necromancer’s face to distract him, forcing him to abandon his attack. The vilth slipped out of the spear-blade’s path, bending just out of range. Dormael attacked again and again, thrusting and cutting at the man’s face. The vilth moved onto his heels and began to backpedal, knocking Dormael’s attacks aside with the blades of his knives. Steel and wood clacked together as they danced across the hillside.

  The vilth was much too fast. He moved from the path of Dormael’s strikes like a shadow, staying just ahead of the spear. The knives whipped back and forth, weaving a dangerous wall of steel that held Dormael’s spear at bay. The only thing that protected Dormael from being sliced into cutlets was the range that his spear afforded him. As long as Dormael could hold the man’s attention and keep him backpedaling, he might be able to score a hit. Even with the necromancer’s unnatural speed and grace, the wet footing limited his ability to maneuver.

  Twice more the vilth made attempts to seize the armlet, and twice Dormael foiled him. The necromancer was strong, perhaps even stronger than Dormael, but it was apparent that fighting other wizards was not one of his skills. Each attack broke his concentration, intensifying the hateful rictus on his face. Dormael let his own anger fuel his attacks, feed his magic, as he advanced on the necromancer.

  He’s probably used to preying on defenseless townspeople. The troop of animated corpses, full of women, children, elderly, and able-bodied men alike, was proof of that. He doesn’t like it when people can fight back.

  Dormael thrust at the vilth’s eyes, missing again by a hair’s breadth. He was just about to try and seize the man with his Kai and twist his body into a broken toy, but the necromancer was faster. A Splinter shattered Dormael’s magic, flooding his limbs with numbness. He stumbled as the spell disoriented him, and nausea welled up in his stomach.