He was not always alone. Most of the time in fact, he traveled with his cousin D’Jenn. It was a good arrangement; they were family and enjoyed each other’s company for the most part. They also shared the same occupation, and the same talent had manifested in both of them. He almost wished that D’Jenn were here with him now, at least then he would have someone to drag him out of this tavern before he got into trouble, or he would have someone to get into trouble with.
Dormael was definitely far from home. He hailed from across the Stormy Sea in the Sevenlands, and here in Alderak he stuck out like a sore thumb. Most of the men here were dark of hair and beard, and had the rough, callused hands of dockworkers or the swaying gait of sailors. Dormael, however, had blonde hair cropped close to his scalp, and a long goatee that flowed down from only his chin. It was braided and tinged with red, and it reached all the way to his stomach.
His garb was truly unique in this part of the world. He had a close fitting black wool shirt that covered him down to his wrists, and it was tucked into dark leather pants. The shirt was there not only for warmth, but also to cover the tattoos of archaic Sevenlander script that were scribed on his arms from shoulders to wrists. His pants were tucked into good durable walking boots that were perfectly worn to his feet. Over all of this he wore the traditional vestment of his people, the Mesavai, which was a sleeveless garment that slightly resembled a tabard. It was white and was embroidered with runes along the hems which told of his family’s history and lineage, and he wore it belted at the waist. His cloak was more like a heavy robe with a deep cowl and hood and was black in color. For now it was laying atop his packs next to him on the bench he was sitting on. His only other belongings were his traveling pack, his quarterstaff, and a beautifully made guitar which he played quite well. He used it sometimes to masquerade as a travelling musician. Sometimes he thought about actually becoming a minstrel, but he imagined that he’d become bored with the life, eventually.
The door to the tavern opened, admitting three merry looking men and a chill draft from the street outside. The autumns in port cities were always a bit cooler, with the sea churning up winds and throwing them towards the shore like titans playing a joke on humanity. Dormael thought that if he listened hard enough, he could almost hear them laughing at him, and he giggled to himself again.
A port city, he thought, that’s right! Ferolan! He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs further from his wits as he remembered a bit of where he was and what he was doing. He had just finished up his last assignment, and had bought passage on a cargo ship bound here to the eastern continent of Alderak. It was the natural landing place for half of the goods being traded from the Sevenlands to Alderak, and from here they were dispersed into various caravans and carted to their final destinations across the northern part of this land.
Dormael, however, was currently on vacation and bound for Tauravon, the Great River City. It was late in the autumn, and the Winter Solstice would soon be celebrated. Tauravon’s Festival of Frost celebration was world renowned, and Dormael intended to partake this year, and perhaps make a coin or two playing his guitar. He had stopped here to celebrate his landfall and have a drink.
Regretfully, Dormael called for his last mug of ale while gathering his belongings to set out and find a bed for the night. He had meant to buy a horse, but it seemed that the ale had decided against that financial venture. Walking was good for the soul, though, and Dormael was used to walking anyway.
The barmaid deposited his mug on the table and Dormael pressed some coins into her hand with a smile and a smack on the rump for good measure. She smiled in spite of his predictable gesture, and he winked at her as she turned to dodge her way back through the press of drunken merrymakers. He always did have a way with the fairer sex.
Shrugging on his cloak and shouldering his bulging pack, Dormael picked up his staff and his guitar as he rose to leave. Downing half the mug on his way out, he left the drink half full with another smiling red-nosed man who cheered and clapped him on the shoulder heartily for his trouble. Pulling his hood up against the chill wind, Dormael opened the wooden door and stepped out into the night.
The streets outside were virtually empty. It seemed that most people had retreated indoors for the night, leaving the cobblestones of the streets to collect the mist that came in off the sea. Autumn was waning, and the chill fingers of winter had begun to sink into everything with a cold grip that only the morning sun could burn away. The ruddy glow of street lanterns cast long shadows into the alleyways he passed, and the absence of people gave the night a lonely, haunting quality that made Dormael feel a little unsettled.
He did pass a few people, men headed to taverns or hurrying on an errand that only they knew about, or the ever-present City Watchmen. They hardly offered a greeting to him; the night seemed to make them wary of passersby. Dormael didn’t blame them. At this time of night most honest men had taken to drinking or sleeping, and the cutpurses ran the streets until sunup.
Dormael soon passed from the Docks District into a slummy residential area, and the brick warehouses and shops that lined the streets at the docks gave way to squat, two-story apartment buildings that were built mostly of wooden planks. Most of the windows were dark here, save for the occasional lighted bedroom, but the street lanterns still gave off their orange, ruddy glow. It was quiet here, and it made Dormael’s unease slightly more pronounced as he walked down the deserted streets, his boots rhythmically tap-tap-tapping on the cobblestones underfoot.
Perhaps it was the near silence, or maybe the drunkenness that still filled Dormael like an ale flagon, but a strange feeling began to tingle inside of him. At first, Dormael thought he was going to be sick, but as he thought about it he wasn’t feeling nauseated at all. This was something else…something else entirely. Dormael tried to shake it off, taking deep breaths of the cold night air, even pulling down his hood to bare his head to the chill, but nothing seemed to be working. More and more as he tread through this quiet city, Dormael began to suspect something was wrong.
Then it happened. With a feeling akin to jumping into an icy stream, his magic suddenly awoke with a feeling of warning and gut-wrenching dread. Dormael almost collapsed, and he had to lean heavily on a streetlamp to keep his feet underneath him. This had never happened before.
The magic was coursing through him with alarming power, and it seemed to be shouting at him, pulling him towards something that he had never felt before. It seemed that the air around him should be crackling with energy, but the night was quiet save for his heavy, misted breathing. For a moment, Dormael felt like he was losing control, and spots appeared before his eyes like the harbingers of insanity. Taking a deep breath and squaring his trembling legs, he forced it under control.
He concentrated on his Kai, the place where his magic slept inside of him, and tried to force it back down, but the magic would not leave him. Its subtle awareness seemed to be trying to tell him something, to pull him farther down the street. Dormael had never known the magic to react this way, and so he squared his shoulders and tread on down the path, letting the magic guide his steps.
After a minute or two of walking, the power quieted slightly, but still held that steady pull on him, and it seemed that he must obey. It was curiosity and a hopeful trust in the magic that kept him walking, though fear dogged his every step. Dormael continued walking the path, with beads of cold sweat forming on his skin.
It led him through the residential district into the market and through the market into another, richer area where the houses of merchants and officials were raised two and three stories above the streets. He walked on past these buildings unseeing, the magic pulling him down this blind path towards something unknown. He turned south at some point, passing through another trade district sprinkled with shops, alehouses and inns, but still the magic marched him on. Soon, the guardhouse of the South Gate appeared before him, and the guards on duty paid him little mind as he walked through it, past the safety of
the city walls and into the night on the road leading further south.
The wind was blowing unchecked from the sea, lashing Dormael’s cloak about him like a flag caught in a squall. The moonlight was shining brightly, though it did little to aid his blurry, drunken vision. The road was made of hard trampled dirt, and it loosed clouds of dust every time the wind blew. Dormael had to shield his eyes with his hand periodically. The only sound was the waves of the Stormy Sea crashing against the rocky beach of the coast. The land around the city was mostly coastal highlands, but the road snaked southwest into a dense forest some distance from the city. There were sparse trees dotting the land here, though they gave little shelter from the wind.
Grumbling to himself, Dormael continued his surprise journey down the road, though he was now irritated and wondered when the damned magic would leave off and let him lie down for the night. He was drunk, cold, and now he was aggravated and began a stream of curses to no one in particular. His foul mood only worsened as he trampled along.
Suddenly the sound of hooves clopping in the dirt grabbed his attention, and he stopped dead to listen. It was well past midnight by now, and most riders would have set up camp for the night. He tensed his grip on his quarterstaff and strained his ears to hear the clopping that seemed to be coming ponderously closer.
Some distance down the road before him, the shape of horse and rider came out of the night. There was something strange, though; the horse was going at a slow walk, and the rider appeared to be slumped in the saddle. From the sound of the horse’s breathing it had been ridden hard, and as it got closer he could see that its legs were clearly unsteady. The rider did not rise at the sight of him, and gave no indication that he or she was even alive. Warily, Dormael moved forward to investigate.
As he moved within range of the horse he could see that it was a fine and well-kept mare, and heavily lathered in sweat. It offered him a weak whinny as he stepped into its path and raised his hand in a wary but curt greeting.
“Ho, there, friend, it’s certainly a cold night to be out riding. What’s your name?” he hailed. The rider said nothing. In fact, the rider didn’t even move. He could see now the rider was a woman, and a wealth of long, red hair spilled from her unmoving head. Her cloak covered her slumped body, and Dormael began to fear that she was dead.
“Excuse me…?” he uttered, moving forward guardedly. Slowly he reached up and grabbed the horse’s reins and in that instant the magic sang to him that he had reached his target. As he reached for the rider to investigate, the horse turned slightly and that small movement caused her body to slide from the saddle. She thumped onto the ground, but still gave no indication that she was alive. Dormael feared the worst, and knelt down to examine her.
She was a pretty girl, though her face was a mirror of pain. She was wearing a leather battle kit over a padded tunic, and had two fine short swords belted at her waist. Her cloak was now spilled open on the ground under her, thanks to the fall. She was not dead, Dormael could see; her chest rose up and down slowly with her strained breathing and her face was flushed heavily. The reason soon became apparent.
She had an arrow shaft protruding from her side, and he could see dried blood staining her padded tunic around it, as well as fresh blood leaking from the wound. It couldn’t have been a new injury, though it also couldn’t have been more than a day old, at that. Dormael was no healer, but he could see that the injury was serious and required immediate attention. Feeling a pang of sympathy, he gathered her into his arms and grunting with the effort, placed her across the saddle of her horse, paying special attention to the arrow wound. Then he turned and hurriedly led the horse down the road back to Ferolan.
His magic was still flowing strongly through him, and he could feel a strange aura of power somewhere hovering about the girl’s belongings. He may have had some bad habits, but Dormael was not a thief, at least most of the time, and rifling through the unconscious girl’s things was beneath him. So he felt compelled to help the young girl, half out of curiosity and half out of pity. Taking control of himself, he seized control of his Kai, and forced his magic to sleep once again.
As he hurried back down the road he went over the last few hours in his mind, trying to remember if he saw a healer’s shop on his way out here. He cursed himself for not being more attentive, but kept up his pace, sure that he could find one somewhere. The wounded girl groaned a little but said nothing and didn’t wake up during the trip toward the city. Dormael stopped just out of sight of the gate guards and began to puzzle at his next step, wracking his mind for what he could do.
The girl was obviously a warrior of some sort, and she was running from something. Hells, for all Dormael knew she could be a highway brigand. Whatever the case, he sensed that alerting the authorities would not be the most prudent course of action. He didn’t want to leave a trail of her presence here, and for some reason his magic had led him to her. That made her his responsibility, as much as he disliked this turn of events. There was definitely something strange going on with the girl.
It would take some finesse and deception to get her past the gate guards in her state, and somehow he was going to have to hide her. Though hiding a full grown woman with an arrow in her side would be an impressive accomplishment, indeed. An idea began to form in his mind, though, and he turned to set up the con.
First, he removed her swords and tied them to her saddlebags, along with his pack and guitar. Then, he wrapped her up in his cloak and hers, setting her upright and sideways in the saddle. Holding her there, he gave a quick apology to the horse and climbed up behind her, holding her in place in front of him with his staff clasped around her body. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he nudged the horse into a walk towards the gate.
As he approached, the guards lazily moved to bar his path. They were armed with long halberds, and they leaned on them slightly as he pulled short before them. One of them spit into the dirt before challenging him.
“Halt. What is your business in the city?” he asked.
“Trying to buy passage on a ship, friend. I have to get my sister home,” Dormael lied.
“That’s your sister, there? Is she awake?” the guard inquired, nodding his head at the unconscious girl.
“I’m afraid not, good sir. You see, she takes heavily to drinking. Tonight she put down an entire bottle of firewine. It was the bane of her poor husband. I’m taking her home, you see. He sent word to us that he was sending her back to her family, and that he wanted one of us to come grab her up. She’s violent, you understand. I think that he sent her home because of the stabbing.”
“Stabbing?” the guard started.
“Truly. Apparently, she put a knife in his leg. Put him down for a whole month, I think. Tragic, really, he was a good natured fellow,” Dormael said, “And then, there’s the issue with her sickness.”
“Sickness?” the guard sounded truly taken aback now.
“I’m afraid that her years of heavy drinking have taken a toll on her body, particularly her bowels.”
“What?”
“Sadly, it seems that she has absolutely no control over when she…well…when she goes. That’s why it took us so long to get here from the back country. I had to keep stopping and cleaning, and…,” Dormael look down at the girl suddenly, sighing, “Oh Hells, I think she’s going now.”
“Alright, Sevenlander, you take your sister and get her out of here,” the guard almost shouted, waving him on through. Dormael didn’t waste any time, he simply tipped his head at the guardsmen, and tapped the horse into a quick walk through the city gates. When he was out of sight of the gate, he dismounted again and laid the girl across her saddle, taking care to avoid upsetting the arrow shaft. He laughed at his masterfully executed con, and shook his head at the outrageousness of his story.
Patting the horse’s neck, he pondered his next set of problems. First, he was going to have to avoid notice while he was here. The sight of him leading a horse with a body laid across
it might raise a few questions with any authorities that may appear, so he would have to stick to back alleys. On top of that, he didn’t even know where he was going. A healer’s shop would be the best bet, though he hadn’t noticed any on his walk out of the city, and finding one was going to be a tedious task at best.
On top of all of this, Dormael was still drunk. His steps were not the quietest, and they were wrought with the occasional stumble and usually accompanied by a muttered curse. Tromping about in the darkened alleys was not as easy as he thought it would be, and he frequently stumbled over mounds of trash or startled sleeping alley cats from their slumber, who would go dashing into the night with a protesting mewl and a hiss for good measure.
He worked his way generally back the way he had come, heading for one of the market districts. Perhaps he could find a healer’s shop there, and somehow convince him or her to help. Under the circumstances, it was the best plan that Dormael could come up with at the moment, and time was of the essence.
Suddenly, in a narrow space between two squat buildings, two men moved into his path and effectively blocked him. Groaning inwardly, Dormael turned only to find another, larger man barring his retreat. Dormael cursed silently at this turn of events. Someone in the Six Hells had it out for him tonight.
“Well, hello there, friend. Fine horse you got there. I wonder what’s in your saddlebags,” one of the smaller men rasped. His voice was like dry scales rubbing together, and it sounded as if someone had cut his throat and didn’t entirely finish the job. What a pity, Dormael thought. He wondered idly why every thief that ever robbed someone found it necessary to spit what they thought was witty banter at their marks. It was irritating.
The men were all shabbily dressed in throw-off clothing, and they smelled of piss and sweat. They were unshaven and their eyes darted quickly in one direction and then the next, ever watchful for someone to interrupt their little mugging. The one with the raspy voice seemed to be the leader, and they were all holding daggers that looked more suited to whittling than killing. Dormael sensed that these were desperate men, though, and desperate men were the most dangerous.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 2
