The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Nothing. Dormael blew the smoke out through his nose, and settled against the old tree at his back. The evening was pleasant, and his body felt more relaxed than it had any right to be—a result of the healing potion they’d found in the vilth’s saddlebags after the battle was done.

  Dormael had spared a moment to wonder at the method by which the potions were created, but D’Jenn was concerned that Allen would bleed to death without a healer’s attentions. Once Allen had taken one of the healing lights into his mouth, allowing it to stitch his body together, it was hard to argue against anyone else using them. Dormael had used them once before, after all, and they’d been in a hurry.

  There had been nothing else of note in the vilth’s belongings. D’Jenn had hoped that they might recover a grimoire, especially considering what Indalvian had told them about Asher Timmian, and the possible existence of his writings. The only things left in the necromancer’s belongings, though, had been the potions. There hadn’t even been something to hint at the man’s identity, or where he’d come from.

  D’Jenn had searched the glob of melted stone that had once been the temple, trying to sense what might lay within. There had been nothing, but Dormael was sure the vilth was dead. The memory of him burning, of the temple’s destruction, was one that would stick with him forever. He still had dreams about it, reliving the feeling of righteous glee that had accompanied the deed. The armlet, for all the noise it had made at Orm, lay dormant in the days following the fight. Dormael sometimes heard it singing at dusk, but only at the edge of his senses.

  The wind brought the smell of the fields to his nose, and he closed his eyes. They’d found a friendly homesteader on their journey east from the ruins who had offered them his hospitality. For the past couple of days, they had filled their bellies with food, and slept in an empty barn on the farmer’s property. The homesteader had offered rooms in the house, but D’Jenn had refused. Given the sort of conversations they all needed to have, privacy was more important than comfort.

  Dormael felt an odd sense of emptiness in the wake of their ordeal at the temple. He couldn’t say if it was just burnout from the sheer speed at which things had happened, or the magnitude of everything they’d experienced. Part of him was afraid it was the memory of having all that power at his disposal, and having to push it away. His logical side told him that he couldn’t have done anything else, but a deeper, more jealous part of him longed to take up the Nar’doroc again. It was a hard thing to admit to himself, but there it was.

  “Having a party?” Shawna said from behind him. Dormael peeked around the tree to see the woman holding a bedroll under her arm, carrying a waterskin. Her hair was undone, and it blew in the wind around her face. It was the first time in a while that he’d seen her outside of her fighting kit, and Dormael smiled at the sight of her.

  “Just listening to the wind,” he said. “Care to share your water?”

  “It’s wine,” Shawna replied, tossing it down to him. “Our host’s father makes it from the fruit trees on the other side of the property. Give it a try.” Dormael obliged her, moving aside so that she could sit. Shawna stuffed her bedroll against the trunk of the tree, and settled back against it.

  “What’s going on back there?” Dormael asked, gesturing at the barn a small distance away. Bethany’s laughter echoed from the open doorway, and Shawna glanced back in their direction with a smile.

  “Your brother is watching Bethany,” she said. “Probably teaching her all sorts of nonsense, or telling her ridiculous stories.”

  “Probably,” he laughed.

  “D’Jenn is communicating with Lacelle.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “No. He’s been in a trance for a good while, now.”

  Dormael sighed, and looked back out at the fields. He and D’Jenn had yet to finish the conversation they started back at Orm, and there was tension between them. In the days following the battle, they had said little more than a handful of words to one another.

  “What about you?” Dormael asked. “What have you been up to, besides stealing the homesteader’s wine?”

  “I didn’t steal it, Dormael,” she said. “I wasn’t doing much. I thought I’d come and see how you were. You’ve been quiet since we left Orm.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Just ruminating on things is all. Trying to unwind.”

  “I suppose it’s been a strange few weeks, all things considered.”

  “Since you’re here, can you answer me a question?”

  “Sure.” She took another swig from the wineskin, and handed it back to him.

  “The swordsman,” he said. “What was that about?”

  Shawna sighed and looked out over the fields. “What if I can’t give you a direct answer?”

  “Try,” he said. “If you don’t mind, anyway.”

  “I don’t know, Dormael,” she said, letting out a breath and leaning against his shoulder. “He treated me with respect.”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  “We were both warriors, Dormael,” she replied, taking the wineskin back from him as he took a drink. “It was a contest, and he adhered to the Blademaster’s tradition. I wanted to repay that respect is all, instead of leaving his body to rot in the elements.”

  “That’s commendable, I guess,” Dormael said. “Do you think he’d have done the same for you?”

  “No,” Shawna replied, her eyes looking inward for a moment. “But he promised to do something just as good. And besides, Dormael—I am not them, understand? Let others shit and piss on respect if they wish, but that’s not the person I am. I asked him to be buried because it was the right thing to do at the time.”

  “Shit and piss?” Dormael said. “My, you are acquiring quite a lot of vulgarity around here, Lady Baroness.”

  “It’s your fault,” she laughed. “You and your family. A troop of savages, the lot of you.”

  “Truth,” he nodded. “So—got plans for the evening, or do you want to spend all night sharing that wine with me?”

  “Everyone is getting ready to lie down in the barn,” she replied. “I thought I’d come out to the fields instead.”

  “It’s good to find time to be alone here and there. Being so close to everyone all the time can be irritating.”

  “I didn’t say anything about being alone.”

  Dormael gave her a confused look, noting the mischievous smile on her face. It took him a moment to realize what she was saying, but he couldn’t help but return the smile once he got it. She looked to the bedroll she’d brought with her, then shook the wine under his nose as she got up. She winked at him as she gathered the blankets under her arm, and started walking away into the low light of dusk.

  Dormael knocked his pipe out on a stone, and rose to follow. Shawna laughed as he caught up to her, and the emptiness retreated to the back of his cares. There was nothing in all the world that a little wine and a beautiful woman couldn’t fix, after all. Shawna took his arm, and they kept the conversation away from their worries as they found a place to be alone.

  The world, for all Dormael cared, could wait until morning.

  ***

  “There it is again,” Allen said. “The kissing disease. I told you.”

  “You told me what?” Bethany asked.

  “That it would spread. Now it’s getting worse. Did you see what happened there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shawna stalked him,” Allen said, gesturing at the pair of them sneaking off into the fields. “Sort of like a mountain cat. She waited until he was alone and vulnerable. Now she’s luring him into the woods to eat in solitude. That’s the way an ambush works, little one.”

  “You think they’re going out there to kiss?” Bethany said. “That’s gross.”

  “Agreed,” Allen nodded. “That’s definitely what’s going on, though. Now she’s going to control his every move. That’s how the kissing disease works, little pig. You watch.”

  “Watch for wh
at?”

  Allen gave her wicked smile, and leaned in close. “Tomorrow, you keep your eyes on the pair of them. You know how to watch people without getting noticed, right?”

  “I do it all the time,” Bethany said, returning his grin. “Big people never notice me.”

  “Good,” Allen said. “Now—tomorrow, there will come a time when Dormael is about to say something, and Shawna is going to put her hand on him, or give him a look. He’ll shut his mouth right up.”

  “How do you know?” Bethany asked. She knew better than to believe her uncle Allen’s stories, even if they always made her laugh.

  “That’s one of the early signs that the disease is catching. The next thing you know, they’re talking about ‘we’ and ‘us’ like they’re the same person. It’s creepy, girl, let me tell you. At some point it will get so bad that Shawna will be able to control him with nothing but a glance.”

  “How?”

  “Because Dormael has the little bug in his skull, but Shawna has the queen bug,” Allen said. “She probably doesn’t even know that it’s living in her brains, but it’s there. That’s how she controls him—she lets the bugs talk to each other.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Oh, I agree. It’s an awful disease.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Just trust me, dear. Don’t let either one of them get close enough to kiss you. They’ll give you a bug, too.”

  “Do you think they’ll be gone for awhile?” Bethany asked.

  She looked over the darkened fields, smiling at the sound of insects singing in the night. The wind was blowing, and the moon sat large in the sky. Her nose was full of the smell of the hills, and a rainstorm somewhere in the distance. The empty barn was spacious, and the lantern the farmer had given them emitted a warm, yellow light.

  “Oh, we’ve got all night, I think,” Allen said. He looked over to D’Jenn, who sat in the far corner with his eyes closed. He wore a necklace of silver, and glyphs of orange light glowed along its links. Bethany could hear the low hum of his melody, and feel a tingling sensation over her arms.

  “Do you think he can see or hear us?” Bethany asked.

  Allen smiled. “Let’s find out.”

  He picked up a piece of dirt and tossed it at D’Jenn. It bounced from his chest and fell into his lap, and Bethany couldn’t help but utter a laugh. D’Jenn didn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

  “Good,” Allen said. “Want to pick up where we left off?”

  “Definitely,” Bethany said, a wide grin cracking her face in two.

  “Alright.”

  He got up and looked around the barn for a moment, coming back with an old length of post with a few boards nailed to it. Bethany cleared the space on the floor between their seats and the target, sweeping away obstructions with her feet. When everything was ready, Allen came to stand next to her.

  “Pull out your knife,” he said. “Hold it like I showed you.”

  Bethany slid her dagger free of its sheath, and cradled the blade a finger’s width from the tip. She held the pommel up, and showed it to her uncle. Allen shook his head, and changed her finger position.

  “It’s not going to jump out of your hand. Loosen up.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Alright,” he said, turning her toward the board. “The whole point is to try and get it not to spin, understand? One, maybe two turns is all you want. If you fling it like a rock and it goes tumbling toward your target, you’ve already missed. You remember the motion?”

  Bethany mimed it, pulling her hand back and stepping forward, waving her arm in a smooth movement.

  “Don’t forget to release when you’re pointing at your target,” Allen said. “That’s where the knife is going to go.”

  “Alright.”

  “And no magic—magic is cheating, understand?”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Because it’s the truth, dear. You remember that for the rest of your life.”

  “Why?”

  Allen snorted. “Because I said it, and you should remember everything I tell you for the rest of your life. Speaking of remembering—what was your last battle cry? Do you remember?”

  Bethany smiled. “I remember.”

  Allen gave her a bow, hand over his heart, and stepped aside. “Have at it then, Dread Queen of the High Seas.”

  Bethany stuck her tongue out at him and hefted her dagger. It was large in her hands, but Allen had been showing her how to use it. She looked at the target, judged the distance, and drew her arm back.

  “Shove off, pissy-pants!” she shouted. The dagger tumbled through the air.

  Thock.

  “Nice throw,” Allen laughed. “Much better than last time. I like pissy-pants. Think I’m going to steal it. Now, then—watch a real master at work.”

  Allen pulled a dagger from his boot and spun it on his fingers, giving her a wink. Bethany rolled her eyes and gestured at the target, but she made a note to ask him how to do that little trick later on. Allen hefted his dagger, and drew back.

  “Die, you lamb-farting shit spittle!”

  Thock.

  “What’s a shit spittle?” Bethany laughed.

  “What does it sound like?”

  Bethany wrinkled her nose, holding in a giggle. “I don’t want to say.”

  “But you know what it is.”

  “I think so. I’m stealing it.”

  “I suppose that’s what pirates do, after all,” Allen said. “Go on, little pig. Get the knives.”

  “Why do I have to go?”

  “Because you’re younger than me. That’s the rule for as long as I’m going to live, too, so you better get used to it, wimp.” Allen threw a few punches at her, but she always knew to watch for his attacks. She scampered away and went for the knives, walking past the oil lantern. The light threw long shadows over the walls. Bethany caught sight of hers when she jerked the daggers out of the wood, and froze.

  Her shadow wasn’t her own, but something different. A little girl with wet hair, maybe. She tilted her head far to the side—farther than anyone should be able to—and wiggled her fingers at Bethany.

  Bethany’s heart wanted to stop. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt pinned to the spot.

  What if it’s still there? What if it’s looking at me?

  With her heart beating into her ears, she opened her eyes.

  Not again, not again—please, not again!

  Her shadow was once more her own. Bethany gazed at it for a long time, waiting to see if the other one would pop out from a corner somewhere. Had she been seeing things? Had her mind played a trick on her?

  “What are you staring at, girl?” Allen said from the other side of the lantern.

  “My shadow,” Bethany murmured. Had he not seen it, too?

  “You know what my grandmother used to tell me?” Allen said from behind her.

  “What?”

  “She said that if you stare at your own shadow too much, one day it will start looking back. She said that shadows don’t tell any secrets worth hearing, so it’s best not to draw their attention. Stop gaping at the wall, girl, we got knives to throw.”

  “Did she mean it?” Bethany couldn’t help the chills that rolled up her back.

  Allen sighed. “Let me tell you another secret, Bethany—old people love scaring the soupy shits out of their grandchildren. It’s one of their greatest delights. The way they figure it, they can’t eat you, so they’ll settle for telling you horrible stories.”

  He hadn’t seen it.

  Was it really there? Was it just me?

  Bethany stared at her shadow for another long moment. Nothing strange happened. She’d been having bad dreams about the old priest in the catacombs since they’d left Orm. Maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

  “Come on, piglet,” Allen called. “I’m not going to wait around until the gods return.”

  Bethany took a deep breath and let it out. Th
ere was nothing in her shadow. It was just her mind.

  “Alright,” she said. She hefted the daggers and skipped back to where Allen stood. She tried not to think about the shadow.

  “Good,” Allen said, taking his dagger as she offered it. “Your turn again. You have to think up a new battle cry, don’t forget.”

  Bethany thought for a moment. He’d already taught her all the good words, but she wasn’t as good at putting them together as he was. It always took her a moment to think of something biting.

  “Alright, I think I’ve got one.”

  “Throw when you’re ready, then.”

  Bethany drew back. “Run away, you turd-chewing piss goblet!”

  Thock.

  Allen busted out laughing, and clapped her on the shoulder. “Piss goblet! I like it. Promise me you’ll call someone a piss goblet in the next village.”

  “I’ll get in trouble, though.”

  “Not my problem,” Allen said, giving her a wink. “My turn.”

  Bethany only half listened to his battle cry, something about wiggling shit sticks. She giggled, but her eyes kept going to the wall, where the lantern painted her shadow across the boards. It moved when she did, looked like she did, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t really hers.

  Every time she looked at it, she thought she could feel it looking back.

  ***

  Maarkov’s world was darkness.

  There was nothing but silence in the cool, wet ground. No scurrying, no shifting of dirt against his body, nothing. He was alone with the phantoms in his memories.

  He had been sure that if he was beheaded, he would finally end. He had been certain that he could seek his peace, that the woman would put an end to the never-ending struggle that his life had become. Having his neck parted through and through should have done the job, should have obliterated him as sure as it did one of the strega.

  You’re like them, she had said. Like the corpses.

  Oh, yes, just not enough. In the end, it appeared that his brother’s magic was more thorough than he had thought. No matter what he tried to do, Maarkov was doomed to suffer its grasp on his life.