The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  The bright flashes winked out, leaving them unscathed. Blurred forms rushed by as the horses thundered through the courtyard from the inner temple, vaulting the ruined section of wall and fleeing into the rain. Dormael hadn’t the time to spare them a thought, though—the vilth was still out there.

  “Stay behind me,” he said, squeezing Bethany’s shoulder as he moved her to his rear. “The first chance you have, I want you over the wall and away from this place as fast as you can go. Savvy?”

  “But—”

  “Bethany!”

  “Alright,” she growled.

  Dormael turned just as the vilth was running forward, and he reached out with a tendril of his power. He wrapped the necromancer’s ankle in his magical grip and pulled his leg out from under him, bringing him smacking into the ground. With an effort of will, he dropped the shield and pushed Bethany toward the wall.

  “Go!”

  Bethany screamed in frustration as she ran, but she didn’t disobey him. Dormael swatted at the vilth with his Kai to cover her escape, and was rewarded with the sight of him rolling across the dirt to slam into the stone at the other end of the courtyard. Dormael looked around as the vilth gathered himself, and his eyes fell on the discarded armlet. The ruby glowed with red light, and Dormael could hear its song lilting out through the ether.

  The necromancer took off toward it at a dead run, his legs carrying him across the ground at a frightening speed. Dormael hooked the armlet with his Kai and brought it hurtling toward his hand, keeping it from the vilth’s reach. He divided his consciousness to strike with another spell and end the necromancer for good, but his head gave a sharp tug of pain as he tried, and his Kai faltered for the barest second.

  It was enough for the vilth to reach him.

  Dormael’s head went fuzzy as the pale man ran into him. For a moment, all he could see was the gray sky above and a halo of light. He tasted blood in his mouth, and the sounds of the storm came to him through a haze, as if someone had stuffed wool into his ears.

  The necromancer filled his view of the sky, hateful eyes above snarling teeth. Dormael felt a cold hand seize his throat, another thrash about for the armlet that he’d somehow managed to keep during the collision. His breath cut off as they struggled, and spots appeared over his vision. The silver felt warm in his hand, charged like it had been sitting over a fire.

  “You cannot win,” the vilth hissed as they struggled.

  Dormael tried to roll to the side and break the necromancer’s grip, but his body would barely respond. His shoulders gave a weakened heave, and he was pushed back into the grass. His eyes felt like they were going to pop from his head, which pounded with every heartbeat. He made an effort to move the vilth with his magic, but his concentration slipped as the headache cut deep into his mind. Rain filled his eyes, and the song of the armlet filled his mind.

  “You are just a momentary distraction,” the vilth snarled. “I’ve been working at this for longer than you’ve been alive. The Nar’doroc is mine—do you hear me? It’s mine!”

  Dormael was wrenched from the ground by his neck and slammed down again. His head hit with a teeth-jarring impact, and his sight went blurry. Again he was jerked upward, and again his head smacked into the ground. The edge of the sky went dark, and his magic faded into the shadows, leaving him with nothing but a warm melody to accompany the darkness creeping into his eyes.

  He felt his wrist forced to the ground beside his head, and tried to clutch to the hot silver of the armlet. The vilth began to pry his fingers apart, and Dormael tried to fight him off with a last surge of energy, but it was too late. The man handled him like a babe, and held him to the ground with barely a struggle.

  The song of the armlet filled Dormael’s ears, chasing him down into the darkness. His mind was screaming at him to move, to do something, to fight back to consciousness. He could feel himself slipping, feel his body giving way. The heat against his palm was the only thing he could feel, the alien song all he could hear.

  Come.

  Dormael reached toward that song, clawing for anything that would keep him awake. The melody chased him into the black, following his descent. He could feel it reaching for him, opening itself to him.

  COME.

  “No!” the necromancer screamed, the sound coming to Dormael’s ears like a spectral echo.

  Dormael thought of Bethany, of what the vilth would have in store for her. He thought of Shawna, hoping against everything that she was still alive. Allen and D’Jenn were still out there somewhere, fighting for their lives under the driving rain.

  Not today, he thought. We can’t die today!

  The armlet sang to him with more intensity, filling his mind with the warmth of its melody.

  Come on, then, he thought, hoping that it would understand. I accept.

  The song of the Nar’doroc roared in his ears, and his vision was filled with light. Warmth flooded his limbs, suffused his belly. His ribs still hurt, but their pain faded into the background as the armlet sang him back to life. Fire imbued his veins with power, his heart with rage.

  When Dormael opened his eyes, the vilth was still crouched atop him, but his hand was no longer around Dormael’s throat. He fought with the quicksilver tendrils of the Nar’doroc, trying to pry them from Dormael’s body. Dormael could feel the artifact crawling up his arm, pulling itself along like a liquid spider. It thrashed its tentacles at the pale wizard while he tore at it, scoring deep, singing cuts along his body, but he was heedless of the damage. His eyes snapped to Dormael’s as he came awake, and for once, Dormael saw something more than bare hatred in the depths of the necromancer’s gaze.

  “What have you done, you fool?” the vilth snarled.

  Dormael smiled as the armlet slid into place, wrapping sinuous, loving arms around his right shoulder. He could feel it pulsing against his skin like a hot, electric heartbeat. It caressed his neck, reached loving fingers up to touch his chin. His heart surged with energy, and he reveled in the warmth that it gave him.

  “What I should have done to begin with,” Dormael replied, amazed with the feeling of the thing. He laughed, unable to keep the excitement he felt hidden in his chest. The vilth’s eyes grew wide with fear, and he slithered away from Dormael like a bug caught in the light. He backed toward the far wall of the courtyard, and Dormael felt the necromancer filling himself with his magic.

  I should burn the piece of snake shit where he stands, Dormael thought. Immolate his corpse until only ashes remain. I can burn them all, everything on this stinking hill. The temple, the revenants, and this squiggling little worm—EVERYTHING!

  Dormael stood, keeping his eyes on the vilth. He looked around at the courtyard, the cracked ruins of the temple. His vision turned a warm color, as if everything were glowing like a campfire. The armlet sang to him, its music the melody of righteous indignation. It writhed against him, and flared its tendrils around him as he gathered his will, like a flower opening its buds to the sun.

  The vilth turned to flee, but Dormael struck with the armlet to block his escape. The stones in the courtyard wall screeched as they were set alight, bright flames shooting from sudden cracks as they started to glow. Steam hissed in a great cloud as the rain hit them, but the fire burned on without being affected. The necromancer turned back to face Dormael as the stones began to melt, dread painted across his scarred face.

  “It feels wonderful,” Dormael said, meeting the necromancer’s eyes. “Now—shall we get on with it?”

  The vilth screamed something that Dormael couldn’t understand, and began to dart around the courtyard, looking for a way out. Dormael smiled and watched him run about like a trapped animal, igniting sections of the wall as the bastard ran to them, turning him back with ease. The vilth cursed and started backing into the temple, watching Dormael as he retreated between the great statues of the gods.

  How fitting that it should all be destroyed.

  Dormael smiled as he floated upwards, the rain turning t
o steam as it touched his skin. He could feel only the warmth in his chest, the invigorating heat running through his veins. He watched as the vilth fled toward the temple ruins, probably hoping to find cover inside the complex.

  There would be no respite from his wrath. The insects could try and wriggle away if they chose, but they would burn like everything else. The whole world would burn, and there was nothing that could stand in the way.

  We’ll start here—it’s only fitting, after all. This is where it all began.

  The armlet sang its agreement.

  Dormael spread his arms wide and unleashed his rage. Cracks broke through the day, echoing across the hills as he superheated every stone in the temple. Flames burst forth from the structure, causing a great cacophony of sound as the rain vaporized upon touching it. The grass burned in an instant, the dirt popping and boiling with flash-fires as the ground beneath the ruin began to give way. The stones of the temple started to melt into a soupy mass, sinking into the hill as the flames spread outward.

  Dormael laughed, reveling in the destruction. He knew the vilth was screaming, could see him writhing as he burned. He could hear the necromancer’s magic at work, but it would not save him—not from this. The fire reached the catacombs under the hill, and the structure of the temple collapsed inward. The ground gave a shudder as the melted stone rushed down into the hole, filling the space with fire and light. Dormael screamed and poured more heat on the pyre, bringing the whole blasted temple down into a smoking, melted ruin.

  He spun in midair, climbing higher into the sky. He imagined flames from horizon to horizon, burning the very mountains to ash. The skies would blaze around him, the seas would boil.

  He caught sight of Bethany farther down the hill, huddling with the rest of his friends behind a magical shield. He could hear her song at work, and the barest hint of D’Jenn’s. The armlet sang to him, filling him with the urge to turn them all to ashes.

  We will turn the whole world into a glorious ruin.

  Just as he had raised his hand to see it done, Dormael stopped himself. The armlet sang to him with insistent tones, pulling against his consciousness like a leashed dog. Dormael held it back, trying to clear his head of its influence. Had he really been about to burn his friends where they stood, to turn everything he loved to charred remains?

  The armlet pulled on his mind again, and Dormael struggled against it. He could feel its desire to keep burning, to continue this mad storm of destruction until nothing remained. Dormael clenched his will down on the Nar’doroc, and for the space of a bare moment, a vicious fight ensued between them. His mind was disciplined by his years of training at the Conclave, and it didn’t take long to regain control.

  He reached down into the melted, smoldering ruin of the temple, and seized the heat he’d poured into the stones. The damage was done, but he could keep it from spreading further. With a gesture like yanking a weed, Dormael pulled the heat out of the melted stone, being careful not to let it happen too quickly.

  The Nar’doroc began to go quiet, and he floated down amidst the steam and destruction. The superheated vapor touched his skin, but the temperature did nothing to damage it. By the time his feet hit the hill, the residual heat was once again bearable, and the vast cloud of steam had blown away in the storm.

  It left a grim landscape behind. The entire hilltop was destroyed. Black, melted stone filled the space where the temple had once stood, sitting in a hole created by the destruction of the underground level. Dormael might have expected there to be pieces of towers left behind, or perhaps a hand leftover from one of the statues, but there was nothing. As he surveyed the destruction, the armlet went quiet, and slid back into a cold piece of jewelry.

  As soon as it fell asleep, Dormael felt the assorted injuries he’d gotten come roaring back into his body. He hurt from every joint, every bruise, every scrape. His tongue was bleeding, though he’d been lucky enough not to bite through it.

  Bethany appeared just as he removed the armlet, and wrapped him in a fierce hug. D’Jenn, Shawna, and Allen were limping in her wake, but Bethany had run ahead to get to him first. Dormael took the girl in his arms, and returned her affections as best he could—though his ribs protested.

  “You saved me,” he said. “That was a brave thing to do, girl. Stupid as all Six Hells, but brave.”

  “Are you alright?” she asked, ignoring his admonishment.

  “I will be. Were you listening to what was happening?” Dormael asked. “How did you know I needed your help?”

  “I wasn’t listening,” Bethany replied. “I was hiding. The man told me you were in trouble.”

  “The man?”

  “The dark man,” Bethany said. “The one with the green eyes. He said you’d know.”

  Dormael’s veins filled with ice.

  He hugged the youngling close and kept his whirling thoughts to himself. Tamasis had spoken with Bethany, too? Dormael hadn’t even known that was possible. Was this the first time, or had it happened before? Indalvian’s face filled Dormael’s memory, his last words echoing through Dormael’s mind.

  That thing in your head, boy—don’t trust it!

  Epilogue

  Nalia Arynthaal, Princess of Thardin, watched as her father was led into his own throne room under guard. His head was high, eyes forward, back as straight as she’d ever seen. Nalia knew her father, though, and no amount of posturing could hide the defeated look in his eyes. Even dressed in a resplendent coat of deep blue trimmed with cloth-of-gold, even with his black hair and voluminous beard groomed to near perfection, his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil. Nalia wished she could run to her father, wrap him in her arms one last time before his sentence was meted out. She knew she’d never get past the Red Swords surrounding him, though, much as she hated it.

  Nalia felt sick to her stomach.

  Jaylenia squeezed her hand, offering her what comfort she could. Nalia gave her a quick glance to let her know that she understood, but turned her eyes from her First Maiden and pinned them back to the ceremony taking place in the throne room—if ceremony it was, and not execution. It was still too early to tell, and Nalia’s heart fluttered at the possibilities.

  The royal family was arrayed on either side of the throne, though placed below their station at the foot of the dais upon which the great chair sat. Aidan, her eldest brother and heir to the kingdom, watched the man that stood before the throne with burning eyes. Doubtless he wished to push his way forward, steal a sword, and start cutting men down, ending with the blade through the Galanian Emperor’s guts. Nalia entertained similar fantasies, though she didn’t have Aidan’s skill at swordsmanship.

  Dargorin Penethil I, Emperor of Galania, stood before the throne looking down at her father. He was younger than Nalia would have thought, and kept a pleasant look on his face despite the fact that he was an interloper here, and had seen countless numbers of her countrymen to the grave. He had a short beard on his face, and kept his hair trimmed in the style of the Galanian military—a look that was echoed by the utilitarian gray uniform he wore. On any other day, Nalia might have found the man attractive, but not on this day.

  On this day, she wished him dead.

  The throne room was filled with all her father’s vassals, their ladies, and retinues. The emperor had decreed that all would come to witness the fate of her father, to watch as Thardin itself was destroyed. The man had the audacity to give her father a pleasant smile as he approached, and Nalia wished she could claw the expression from his face with her bare hands.

  Dargorin turned to take up Ice Shard, which had been leaning against her father’s throne behind him. He caught Nalia’s eyes for a bare second, pausing for a moment to offer her a thin smile. Nalia kept her expression stony, and returned his gaze the way a Princess ought to—with cold disdain. He didn’t notice—or didn’t care—and turned back to her father with the huge sword point-down in front of him. The room went still as her father stopped at the foot of the dais, and raised hi
s chin to regard the Galanian Emperor with a blank expression.

  “Vardic Arynthaal,” the emperor said, his voice echoing around the chamber, “King of Thardin, Protector of the Winter Passes, Leader of the Sworn Men and Bearer of Ice Shard, be welcome to your seat of power.”

  The king kept his mouth shut, and his eyes on the emperor.

  Don’t give the bastard the satisfaction, Nalia thought, feeling a surge of pride for her father.

  The emperor nodded, and went on, “This has been a hard-fought war for us all. Doubtless, there are feelings of anger and resentment on both sides. Our people have suffered on our accounts, but today we declare an end to the conflict between us, and an end to their suffering as well.”

  There will never be an end to the conflict between us.

  Dargorin paused, and regarded the people gathered in the throne room. “Today Thardin embarks on a new journey—a journey from the darkened past to a bright future with the Galanian Empire. Our destination is a new world, a better world. A world where the lowest in our societies can seek recompense for wrongs committed against them, where the sick can be treated by the best surgeons in all of Eldath, where even the smallest person can achieve the heights of greatness—that is what the Galanian Empire brings with it.”

  The emperor descended the steps of the dais, carrying Ice Shard with him. Nalia watched the sheathed sword with trepidation, sensing that the moment was nigh. She prepared herself to watch the death of her father, steeling her emotions to firm rigidity. She would not look away when the moment came. She would watch and remember for the rest of her life.

  “Vardic Arynthaal, King of all Thardin, I offer you the chance to stride forward with your people into this new era of prosperity. Kneel, take the Oath of Binding to the Galanian Empire, and claim your place beside me in our ranks. Will you accept, King Vardic? Will you bring prosperity and peace to your lands?”

  Nalia’s father looked to his family, and Nalia caught his eyes. She tried to pour all the pride, indignation, fear, and love into that glance as she could. He glanced around the throne room, and for the first time, he spoke.