The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection
Page 126
If it weren’t for the weight of dirt atop him, he would scream.
The first few moments had been panicked, as he realized his mistake. For what felt like an eternity, he’d stared at the sky, rainwater filling his eye sockets. After they’d put him in the ground, it had been nothing but darkness. At least the woman had been kind enough to close his eyes for him before laying him to rest—if rest was indeed what he got. In the time since, Maarkov had been writhing on the inside, beating against the prison which his paralysis had gifted him.
What a fine fucking existence.
His only solace came from the knowledge that it couldn’t last forever. Without eating from his brother’s cursed altar, he would eventually waste away to dust, just like any other rotting thing. He would feel it when the graveworms found his body, would experience every agonizing second of wriggling madness as the bugs ate his motionless form. Time meant nothing in the dark, but Maarkov spent much of it trying to imagine what it might be like to be eaten from the inside.
How long is forever?
Phantasms visited him. His father came and laughed at him, clutching to the wound in his guts. He saw the face of a whore he’d spent time with in Moravia, a sun-browned girl that had made him laugh. His master came to chastise him for the choices he’d made, and beat him with an insubstantial switch. Once, he even summoned the ghost of his mother’s memory, and tried to picture every strand of wavy hair he could recall.
More than any other face, though, he saw the Baroness Llewan. He recalled the look on her face as she gazed down at his lifeless body, blood running down her chin. He remembered the vehemence with which she had argued for a separate grave for him, standing up to the protests made by her companions. For as long as he remained trapped in this decaying shell, he would at least have that moment of kindness to cherish, something to keep him company in the darkness.
His hatred was reserved for the rain. What a cruel joke the gods had played with the weather. If not for the storm, he knew, the wizards would have burnt his body. If decapitation couldn’t kill him, fire would certainly have done the trick.
Instead, the gods had left him in this hole to rot. It was fitting, in a way. Maarkov only hoped that the end would come sooner rather than later.
When the rumbling started, Maarkov thought it was in his mind. After a few moments, though, light blasted the other side of his eyelids, and he felt air on the outside of his skin. He was lifted free from the hole and dumped onto the ground, then felt a sharp sting against his lips.
Cold fire rushed through his veins. His neck burned, and itched like a thousand insects were digging a hole through it. His whole body gave a spasm, and he started to cough. He tasted dirt in his mouth, and rolled to the side to spit it out, grimacing at the black fluid that came with it.
Maarkov opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. The sun was blazing overhead, the sky a pale blue. His nose started working again, and he smelled the mildewed stink of his rotten clothing.
A dark shape blocked the light above him, and Maarkov blinked to bring it into focus. It was wrapped in bandages save for the eyes, and covered in a voluminous black robe. The skin around its eyes was melted, as if it had been burned. The orbs that regarded him from above the face-wrappings were completely black, like pools of night made liquid, but Maarkov would recognize that look anywhere.
“Maarkov,” Maaz said. “Get up. We have yet more work to do.”
THE END
Of
BOOK THREE
Of
The Seven Signs
A Note From the Author
If you’re reading this, then I suppose you’re here for the long haul. Three books—that’s a substantial investment of time that you’ve made in the story and these characters. So if your eyes are crawling across these words right now, I want to offer my sincere thanks for spending some of your most precious resource on me. I’m continuously humbled by the attention this series has been receiving, and believe me, I appreciate every bit of it.
There’s much more coming down the pipe for these characters, so keep your eyes open for the next installment, The City Under the Mountain. If you love the series enough, and feel a tickle in your knickers to let someone know, please click on the link below to leave the collection an honest review. I still believe what really helps a series move are customer reviews from honest people, so go ahead—prove me right.
CLICK HERE to leave an honest review.
If you want more from me, CLICK HERE to join the Conclave and get love letters from me here and there. If love letters aren’t your thing, I also give stuff away from time to time to my mailing list, not to mention being the first to know about everything happening in my corner of the interwebs.
Thanks again, and I hope to see you in the next book.
About the Author
D.W. Hawkins lives in southern Arizona.
You can find out more about him here: www.dwhawkins.com
You can also look him up on Facebook and follow him on Twitter @authordwhawkins
And, yes—he's on Goodreads.
He hopes you enjoy reading his work as much as he does writing it.
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More from D.W. Hawkins
The adventure continues in book four of The Seven Signs:
The City Under the Mountain
In the savage north, an ancient relic awakens.
Fugitives from the Conclave, Dormael and his friends must seek the next piece of the Nar’doroc deep within a perilous hinterland. Beset by vicious monstrosities, they uncover a place where ancient secrets lay forgotten, a graveyard abandoned to the march of time. Its revelations could lead them to the next fragment of the shattered artifact, but menace lurks in the shadows of its history. To survive it, a dangerous sacrifice must be made.
Across the Stormy Sea, Nalia Arynthaal, Princess of the Winter Passes, dives into the midst of an empire at war. With nothing but guile and icy resolve, she works to revenge herself upon those who disgraced her family. Surrounded by enemies, Nalia must embrace a treacherous ally to bring down an empire bolstered by thousands of angry swords. To restore her family’s honor, Nalia may have to renounce her own.
Everything may yet fall to powers darker still—the seeds for which are being sown beneath the surface. Will Dormael and company recover the shattered Nar’doroc? Will Nalia bring down her enemies, or be crushed by the unyielding march of empire? What secrets lie buried in the past?
TELL ME WHEN THIS COMES OUT