The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Her face exploded with pain as his elbow connected with her nose. Shawna went blind for a moment and threw herself into a roll, feeling the air part somewhere nearby as his blade sought her life. She came up on her feet and was forced to parry him through the pain, backpedaling as he came forward with cut after cut.

  He feinted high, then gave her a delicate slash across the leg when her parry was too slow. Another wound to the outside of her forearm when she parried too close to his cross-guard, allowing him to give her a draw cut. She was nearly blinded again as he thrust toward her eyes, and she was forced to push his blade above her head. Maarkov kicked her in the chest as she left herself open, and Shawna thought she felt ribs crack as she was knocked to the ground.

  She could barely breathe. Her mouth tasted like blood, and her teeth hurt with her exertion. Her nose was ruined, and she could feel the warm blood being washed down her face by the rain. The cuts on her limbs stung as the cold water fell into them.

  “Your defenses are unraveling,” he said. His shadow filled the light above her. “Do not think ill of your prowess, though. I should be dead already, after all.”

  Shawna opened her eyes and gave him the most evil glare she could summon. His sword point was hovering just above her collar, unmoving in the rain. They had been fighting longer than she had fought anyone, and the bastard’s arm didn’t even twitch—not even with his shoulder laid open to the bone.

  “You fought with honor,” he said. “It has been a great pleasure to face you.”

  Shawna felt the thrust coming before he moved. She tried to parry it, reaching her right sword up to slide the blade over her head. Again, though, she was too slow, and the tip sank into the meat just above her shoulder. Hot pain burned along her neck, and she let a small cry escape despite the anger burning in her chest.

  Shawna struck with her foot, connecting with the inside of Maarkov’s knee before he could move. She was rewarded with the sound of crackling tissue, and Maarkov crumpled to the ground beside her, losing the grip on his sword. She attacked blindly with her own blade, though her range of motion was limited by the sword still stuck through her shoulder. Her arm betrayed her, and her sword slipped away as it impacted something on Maarkov’s body, though she couldn’t say what.

  Screaming against the pain, she tore Maarkov’s sword from her shoulder. She rolled toward him, abandoning the idea of facing him on her feet. A fierce struggle ensued between them, but Shawna got a hand on his face and jabbed a thumb into his eye. Maarkov growled like a distressed animal, but the distraction gave her the necessary time to climb atop him.

  Somehow she’d kept hold of the sword in her off-hand, thanks to the reflexes her mentor had drummed into her. She held the blade point-down and tried to stab him in the throat, but Maarkov fended off her attempts with his arms, taking a few cuts in the process. Shawna struggled for a short moment, but abandoned the attempt. He was stronger than her, quicker than her, and she couldn’t stay atop him forever.

  She howled in anger, pouring her last bit of energy into a final attack. Her pommel came down and smashed into his face, but he showed no sign of weakening. She hit him again when he didn’t respond, then again in frustration. His head bounced from the ground and back up again, his one good eye staring as if nothing she did was working. She tried for a fourth time, but he reached up and grappled her arms, his pale hands clamping down on her skin like manacles of iron.

  Shawna grabbed her blade in two hands, heedless of the edge biting into her palms. She got it between his arms and twisted, prying his grip apart. He bucked as she freed herself from his grip, but his knee must have been more damaged than she thought, because one leg wasn’t pushing. The movement allowed her the barest moment to shift her position, and she shoved her knees into his armpits, settling onto his chest.

  His eyes blazed as they met hers. She was still moving, bringing the tip of her sword back around to his face. He tried to reach down and grapple her again, but she had forced his arms over his head with her knees, and even with greater strength, he hadn’t the leverage to reach her.

  “Slice the neck-bones in two, right?” she hissed through her teeth.

  Her sword sank into his throat, causing an eruption of black fluid from the veins in his neck. She roared a mindless cry of victory, pushing the blade farther toward the ground. Shawna felt his neck-bones part around the blade, and his struggle ceased. She bore down on the hilt, sinking the sword into the dirt beneath him like she was planting a fence post.

  Shawna gulped air through her blood-filled mouth and leaned on the sword—mainly because it was the only thing keeping her upright. Maarkov’s eyes stared upward, unmoving. The rain poured into his face, and thunder cracked again as the storm surged on. She felt empty, drained of all her energy and emotion.

  Shawna blew a long breath through her lips and moved her fingers through her own blood. She made to wipe it over her forehead, to dedicate Maarkov’s death to Aastinor, and add another drop in the bucket against her oath. Something made her pause, though.

  Against all her better instincts, she felt a kinship to the dead man beneath her. Perhaps it was their shared love of the sword—a professional respect. It could have been the fact that for all he looked like a nightmare made flesh, his voice had been light and full of depth. His eyes, too, had betrayed something hidden. No matter how she tried to justify it, her heart was not in the sacrifice. She sat there for longer than she should have, staring down at the man beneath her.

  Summoning what little energy she had left, she disentangled herself from him, and climbed to her feet. He was much less fearsome as a corpse. Something about the sight of him lying dead in the grass gave her a twinge of sadness.

  With a sigh, she pushed the emotion away. The entirety of her body hurt. Her muscles were sore, her nose broken, her skin parted by cuts on every limb. The wound in her shoulder burned, sending twinges of pain all the way to her ear. She was having trouble moving her arm, too.

  I’ll have to be careful of it, she thought. I don’t want it to twist up while it heals.

  Her eyes went to the Hassani blade lying beside the pale swordsman. She stooped to pick it up once she had secured her own swords, and gave it a last examination. It was an elegant weapon, and had been deadly in Maarkov’s hands. With a grunt of pain for her shoulder, she shoved the sword into the ground beside him.

  “You fought and died with honor, Maarkov of nowhere. Take it with you on your trip through the Void.”

  With that, she turned and stumbled into the rain.

  ***

  “Leave us alone,” Bethany said though her teeth, peering at the vilth through lowered brows. “Just go away!”

  Dormael tried to scream at her to run, but he couldn’t drag the air into his chest to do it. The necromancer had turned to face Bethany, but the magic that kept Dormael pinned to the wall hadn’t let up. Struggling against it was useless.

  “Child,” the vilth said, his tone making it sound like an accusation, “I have been searching for you for quite some time.”

  That gave Dormael pause.

  He’s been searching for her? Why?

  Bethany’s presence with the Galanians in Cambrell had’t been mere coincidence, then, or the result of Colonel Grant’s perversions. What part was she to play in the necromancer’s plans? A sick feeling welled up in his stomach as his imagination went wild with the possibilities, and he once again tried to summon the energy to call out to her. It was as fruitless as his last effort.

  “I see you’ve discovered your power,” the vilth said. “Wonderful. Our work can soon begin.”

  “If you don’t turn around and leave, I’m going to hurt you,” she replied.

  Dormael pulled on his Kai, but it would not answer him.

  “Hurt me?” the vilth repeated, snickering to himself. “Come now, child—you don’t want to hurt anyone, do you?”

  “I don’t want to,” Bethany said. “But I will.”

  She clenched her jaw and
filled herself with power, flexing her magical prowess for the first time that Dormael had seen. Her song rang out through the ether, loud and defiant, as she faced down the necromancer. Dormael’s arms and legs erupted with needles as the girl pulled on her magic, and he was stunned at the breadth of her strength. He and D’Jenn had been keeping her to simple uses of her gift during her training, and even she looked taken aback by the amount of power she could now command.

  The grass in the courtyard bent outward from her as she flexed her Kai, and danced in waving patterns. Rain began to float through the air around her, as if it was caught in some invisible maelstrom. Light began to flicker around the courtyard in wild colors, twisting the view of the hillside beyond it. Bethany was startled as a few of the nearby stones cracked of their own accord, but she held her gaze on the vilth. She looked tiny in her over-sized riding clothes, standing in the midst of all that magic.

  “Very well, girl,” the vilth said. “The first thing you’ll have to learn is that you must never raise your hand against me.”

  The necromancer twisted his own power in preparation, the enslaved magics clawing against his control. Bethany must have felt it, because her own power grew even more threatening in response. Tiny veins of lightning arced from her shoulders and stung the grass around her, which began waving with more vigor.

  “You will become comfortable with pain in the coming days,” the vilth said. “Let this be your first lesson.” The vilth moved, his hand shooting out toward the little girl. Dormael tried to scream against the spell holding him to the wall, but he was helpless. Bethany let out a scream of her own, and Dormael felt her power move like a giant snake striking at its victim. There was a loud booming noise and a bright flash, then Dormael felt his body slump to the grass.

  Bethany had Splintered the vilth.

  Dormael pushed himself from the ground, wincing against the sharp pain in his ribs. He stumbled as he sprinted toward the vilth, the afterimage of Bethany’s Splintering still burning over his eyes. The necromancer was dazed, moving back from Bethany on unsteady feet. Dormael saw the armlet in his hand, gem glowing with angry light.

  The vilth let out a surprised grunt as Dormael slammed into him, and the both of them went to the ground in a tangle of struggling limbs. Dormael managed to get his hand on the armlet, and tried to jerk it out of the vilth’s fingers. The man’s grip was like steel, though, and he clutched to the artifact with dogged hands. Dormael tried yanking the thing back and forth, twisting it, and working for more leverage. No matter what he did, he couldn’t pry the necromancer’s pallid hands from the armlet.

  Dormael began to rain angry punches into the vilth’s face, his free hand pounding again and again into his bloodless features. The pale wizard tried to keep his head moving, but Dormael had struggled atop him, and he couldn’t get away. The armlet gave a sharp tug on Dormael’s hand, and he almost lost his grip as the vilth tried to take it back. Dormael wrestled the necromancer’s arms over his head and tangled his fingers into the sinuous curves of the artifact, holding on with all the strength his hands could summon. The vilth growled something unintelligible, the words sandwiched between their struggling bodies. He tried to tug on the armlet again, but even with his eldritch strength, he couldn’t pull his arms back down to his chest. Dormael met his eyes, seeing the desperate hatred contained within.

  Gritting his teeth, Dormael raised up and came down with a vicious head-butt. The vilth grunted in surprise, but his hands didn’t loosen. Dormael hit him with another, slamming the crown of his head down onto the man’s nose. Still, the vilth’s grip was relentless. Dormael hit him again, feeling something crunch beneath the pallid skin, then again when even that had no effect. Again, and he opened a cut on his own forehead. Blood leaked down into his eyes, mixing with the rain.

  He felt the vilth’s magic kick to life once again, and a moment of panic went through his body. Dormael was lifted from the necromancer, and his chest filled with pain as it was compressed in his magical grip. He managed to keep his hands on the armlet, but he knew it would only be a moment before the man crushed him and tossed his body aside.

  Bethany’s Kai sang, and the vilth’s magic was Splintered for a second time.

  The necromancer screamed in frustration as his power scattered into the storm, and Dormael fell atop his chest. This time the bastard struggled even harder, his emaciated arms wrestling against Dormael’s for control of the armlet. He let one hand go from the artifact and tried to punch Dormael in the side of the head, but the blow glanced from the top his skull—it still hurt, though. The man’s strength was hardly believable, and Dormael didn’t think he could take many hits like that, much less strikes that were on target.

  Dormael managed to get his right foot on the ground, and let one of his hands go from the armlet to whip a dagger from his boot. He came out with it in a flash, and thrust the blade into the vilth’s chest. The necromancer grunted with pain as Dormael stabbed him over and over again, trying to loosen the man’s grip on the armlet. Black fluid welled out of the wounds, and Dormael felt a moment of disgust for its greasy consistency. It smelled putrid.

  Dormael went for one of the vilth’s eyes, but the necromancer caught his wrist in his free hand, stopping the blade before it could sink. Dormael leaned into the knife, putting all his weight against the dagger’s hilt. The necromancer’s arm was like stone, and it held Dormael at bay like he was leaning against a post. Dormael bounced against the arm, trying to force it downward, but it was no use. The vilth was too strong.

  Dormael reached for his magic, hoping that it was recovered enough to help him push, but it did not answer. He growled in frustration, and the vilth answered him with a wolfish smile. Something in the man’s eyes brought Dormael’s anger to a gleaming point. With a yell of pure hatred, he yanked the dagger away and brought it down again—right through the wrist that held onto the armlet.

  The vilth gave his own noise of protest as the knife sank deep, and the armlet was suddenly free. Dormael scrambled away, going for the piece of the Nar’doroc. He heard the vilth’s robe flapping about as he tried to scramble to his own feet, but Dormael was the quicker. He reached the armlet and dove atop it, feeling the necromancer’s weight on his back a moment later.

  Dormael got his hands around the silver, but felt claw-like hands snake around his face as he did. The vilth tried to shove his fingers into Dormael’s eyes, and Dormael was forced to shut them tight and shake his head, trying to keep from being blinded. He rolled, taking the vilth with him and bouncing over the necromancer’s chest as he tried to get free. He made his feet and turned to run, but was brought up short by another iron-strong grip around his ankle. The vilth jerked him once again to the ground.

  Dormael bit his tongue as he went down, and a moment of dizziness swept over him. He felt the necromancer claw his way over his back again, and reach for the armlet. They struggled back and forth, each trying to tear the other’s grip away. Dormael fought hard, but he could feel his body wanting to give way to the myriad injuries he’d received. His stomach wanted to heave, his chest was throbbing with sharp pains, and his limbs felt wooden. He tried again for his magic, but his Kai rebuffed his efforts like a wounded dog.

  “You are going to hurt for this!” the vilth snarled in his ear. He got his hands around one of Dormael’s and wrenched down. Dormael screamed before he could stop himself, feeling the bones in his hand start to crush together under the necromancer’s cold strength. “I’m going to make you—”

  In mid-sentence the man was ripped away with such force that it pulled Dormael from the ground as well. The world spun in his vision and he was dumped onto his back. Rain filled his eyes, and the armlet was gone.

  He pushed himself to his feet with a monumental effort, trying his best not to vomit as he moved. Dormael looked around the courtyard and found the vilth against the far wall, a spattering of his black, putrid blood against the stones behind him. Bethany stood nearby, wild eyes fixed on the necromancer
, hands outstretched toward him.

  Dormael could feel her magic, wild with her fear. Gravel from busted stones floated through the air in the courtyard, caught up in the power that Bethany could barely control. The girl was a quick learner, but she wasn’t ready to face something like this, even if she was too brave for her own good.

  “Bethany,” he croaked, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper. “Run, girl!”

  “He’ll kill you!” she replied, eyes still on the vilth. Dormael’s heart quailed at the fear in her voice. He looked across the courtyard and saw the necromancer climbing to his feet.

  “Go!” he cried, starting forward again. “Get to the horses and—”

  A huge stone ripped from the wall and came hurtling toward him, plowing the rain from its path. Dormael dove to the side, but he heard Bethany’s magic ring out once again. A great cracking noise sounded, and Dormael was pelted with gravel.

  Gods, the girl shattered it!

  “That is the last time, you little worm!” the vilth shouted, his eyes burning. Dormael heard the necromancer’s magic gathering, and he felt a moment of wild panic. He clawed his way from the grass and broke into a run, hoping to reach Bethany and cover her body with his own. He pulled on his magic in desperation, hoping one last time that it would come to him.

  His Kai flared to life, filling his body with power.

  Dormael lashed out on instinct, shoving a Splinter deep into the vilth’s power. The necromancer’s spell had already been forming, and the backlash was violent. Lightning arced around the courtyard, snapping into the stones with great, booming cracks. Dormael heard the horses scream with fear, and he reached Bethany just in time to wrap his arms around her and summon a shield.