The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Please,” Dormael began, “This is not the time or place to delay me. Find someone else to steal from tonight, for my sake, and yours.”

  “Oooh,” the dry voiced thief laughed mockingly. His friends echoed his sentiment. “Come now, Sevenlander, there are three of us and one of you. I can smell your money from here, and we want a piece. That horse will fetch us a goodly price and that guitar you have tied to it will fence for even more. If you’re smart you’ll hand it over without a fuss, unless you want a knife in the gut.”

  “Sorry,” Dormael retorted, “but I rather need these things, so I think I’ll be going now, with my belongings.”

  “You’ll be dying, is what you’ll be doing. Kill him,” the snake-voiced mugger said, signaling his men to move in, but it was already too late. Dormael had laid his staff against the horse, and rolled up his sleeves. The thieves started towards him, smiling.

  Dormael reached down inside himself, to his Kai, where his magic slept. Suddenly he was filled with it, like a river of ice and fire flowing through him as he opened that invisible door which held the incredible power at bay. It seemed like time stopped around him.

  He could see the muggers, frozen in mid step, coming inevitably towards him. He could feel the mist hanging in the cool night air, every tiny droplet an individual entity. He could taste the steel of the knives they carried, hear their hands tightening on the leather grips in anticipation of the kill. He could smell the sweat of the horse, heavy and salty as she whinnied nervously. He felt every hair on his body tensing, building to a crescendo that would end in a violent expulsion of power. He could hear the thieves’ heartbeats, and his own heart began to beat in time. Through it all the magic flowed, connecting him to everything; to the buildings, the air, the muggers and even the moonlight and the distant waves rolling in from the sea.

  And it was begging him to use it.

  Slowly, as if he were moving through jelly, his arm rose and pointed at the rasping, dirty thief.

  The world leaped back into motion with a loud crack as lightning arced from Dormael’s outstretched hand to slam like a charging bull into the skinny, unwashed little man. He was lifted into the air and thrown back into a nearby building, his knife flying across the alleyway as he hit the wall with a dull thudding sound. He slid to the ground and lay motionless, his chest smoking where the bolt had burned a hole clean through his ratty shirt to sear the flesh of his torso. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The second thief had been thrown back as well, and was sitting on his rump in the alley, dumbfounded by this unexpected turn of events. He looked once from Dormael, who stood now with his unspent electricity arcing from his arm into the alley and crackling all around him, to his dead partner. Then, with a small cry of alarm he rose and bolted into the night, his panicked footsteps ringing off into the distance.

  Dormael turned to face the man at his rear, and found him standing wide-eyed with fear. He stepped back once, but only tightened his grip on his knife, as if tensing for the confrontation. Dormael sighed loudly, and then addressed the large man.

  “Listen, we don’t have to do this. Turn, please, and go back the way you came. Let’s both find somewhere to get in out of this cold,” Dormael said. The thief took his advice, and backed away slowly before finally turning and bolting down another alleyway. Dormael kicked a piece of trash in frustration before turning back to the horse. That had made just a bit too much noise, and he would have to get out this alley quickly before someone came looking.

  Suddenly, the girl coughed weakly, and Dormael rushed to her side. She was struggling to move about on the horse’s back, a futile attempt that ended in a weak cry of pain as she jostled the arrow shaft sticking from her side. Her breathing was becoming strained as she spoke.

  “Alton?” she implored, “Where…am I?” She tried to move again, but Dormael calmed her soothingly.

  “Don’t move, or you’ll upset your wound again. Who are you looking for?” Dormael asked her.

  “Alton…Alton Dersham…my cousin,” she managed between weak coughing, “Who…who are you? Take me…take me to Alton. He’s…nobility…a rich man. Where…”, and then she fainted again, her body obviously too weak to continue.

  Great, Dormael thought, who in the Six Hells is Alton Dersham? Whoever this person was, Dormael was going to have to find him, and fast. The sky was beginning to turn a sullen blue with the rising of the sun, and eventually people would be in the streets again. Gathering his gear, he began leading the horse in search for this Alton Dersham. Well I guess it’s a good thing that I didn’t finish that last tankard, Dormael thought, chuckling ruefully, or I might have hit myself with that lightning.

  ****

  Chapter Two

  Lords, Swordswomen, and Fools

  Alton Dersham turned out to be a friendly, dark-haired man of medium height and build, with an open and honest face and an easy-going manner. At first he had been suspicious of Dormael, who had carried Alton’s cousin in with an arrow sticking from her side. After some quick questions were answered, however, Alton relaxed his suspicions seeing that Dormael had taken nothing from his cousin’s belongings, and had offered him a place to sleep. After a few days had passed, the two men began to become tenuous friends. It was an odd thing, but Dormael couldn’t complain. He simply couldn’t leave until he found out more about the girl and why she’d caused such a reaction within his Kai, and in the meantime Alton seemed to be pleasant company.

  Her name was Shawna. That was what Alton told Dormael, and she was from a noble house in the southern part of Cambrell. Apparently, her family was quite wealthy. Wealthy people don’t ride around alone in leather armor, however, and they also didn’t normally receive arrows in the side; the wealthy usually received their arrows in the back. Alton offered no information on the matter, and Dormael thought it would be rude to ask of it, but he constantly pondered the problem and wondered what in the Six Hells she was doing riding around dressed like that and getting shot in the process. There was something odd going on here, and Dormael intended to find out.

  Alton never asked Dormael why he stayed; it became apparent that he was not her traveling companion or indentured man because he didn’t know how she had come by the wound. Alton simply assumed that Dormael stuck around out of general concern for Shawna’s well-being, since he had rescued her, and it wasn’t an altogether untrue statement at that. There were, of course, other reasons for Dormael to be there. His magic sang to him constantly with that eerie feeling every time he was in her presence. That, Dormael definitely intended to find out about. Of course, he didn’t let those reasons become known, he simply didn’t object when Alton came to his own conclusions about his motives. It wasn’t really lying, just absence of information, so to speak.

  Alton lived in what was called the Merchant’s District in Ferolan. It was not strictly just a district of merchants, but all who lived in this port city with money and stature made their homes here in lavish fashion. Alton just happened to be one of the richest men in the city, and his large manor house reflected his earnings. He ran an importing and exporting business, sending goods from all over Alderak to the Sevenlands and the western islands and back.

  Alton’s manor house was a sprawling compound of three stories, with its own chapel and stables as well. It was surrounded by an eleven-hands-high brick wall with a beautiful iron gate, which was made to look like vines twining together around the name “Dersham”. It was mostly constructed of modern masonry; all through the house high arches marked entryways, and the floors were of hard, polished wood. It was definitely a pleasant setting, and Dormael quite enjoyed exploring it and stealing bits of food from the kitchen, much to the chagrin of the household staff.

  Alton’s chief maid was a plump, ever-smiling woman who called herself Nan, and she always seemed to have some ancient anecdote or pearl of wisdom to share with Dormael. She was a delightful old lady, but she ruled the household with an iron fist, and kept everything scrupulously t
idy and neat. Dormael, however, could do no wrong according to her.

  Alton himself seemed to have none of that sneering disdain that came along with rank and coin, and he was interested in Dormael’s homeland and customs. Often they would sit together, puffing on long pipe stems and engaging in long conversations about one thing or another. Alton also played chess, and the two men sometimes sat closeted in his study, conversing idly over the chess board while contemplating the other man’s next move. They were becoming fast friends, under the circumstances.

  Shawna’s recovery was coming along slowly, and she remained in an intermittent state of unconsciousness. Her wound had taken an infection, and being so close to her vitals it was unknown if she would fully recover. Alton had the local healer stop by daily to change her dressings, administer medicines, and check on her progress, but there was really little he could do at this point. So Dormael and Alton simply passed the time, hoping that the young woman would awaken and explain what had happened to her.

  Dormael visited her often, with the pretense of watching over her and playing a tune or two on his guitar to sooth her unconscious mind. In reality, he was reaching out with his magic to coax the sickness from her. Healing abilities with magic, however, were not really all that powerful, but he did what he could to speed her recovery along.

  Mostly, he mulled over the reason his magic would react to her so strongly. This had never happened before, though he had heard stories of wizards whose magic reacted to ancient places of power in a similar fashion. In those cases, however, there was no record of magic leading them to something. It was altogether strange and a little frightening, and Dormael needed to speak to someone on the subject. But who was going to listen to him and not scoff at his story or assume he was losing control? There was only one person he could trust on this matter. He decided to contact his cousin, D’Jenn.

  He found Alton in his study, poring over a ledger with a business associate, a graying man with a stiff, proper manner and a perpetual frown on his face. Alton’s friend was clearly surprised to see Dormael standing there in his house, and the Alderakian prejudice was clear on his sneering face. The man looked Dormael up and down, sniffing disdainfully.

  “Alton”, Dormael began, “I didn’t know you were indisposed. I’ll come back later.”

  “Nonsense, Dormael. I was only seeing to a small matter of business, it’s of no moment. “Grant,” he said, motioning to the man at his side, “this is Dormael, a new friend from the Sevenlands.”

  “My Lord, I didn’t know that you were currently keeping with savages,” Grant replied.

  “Grant!” Alton began, but Dormael cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “It’s quite all right, Alton,” Dormael said cheerfully, “it’s a natural reaction for a man with a small mind. I’m used to people being intimidated by me.” Grant sniffed, scoffing at him.

  “I will not tolerate my guests being disrespected in my house. If that is all, Grant, you may leave,” Alton reproved.

  “As My Lord wishes,” Grant said, bowing stiffly. The man grabbed the ledger from Alton’s desk, and stalked out of the room with one last sneer for Dormael. When the door shut behind him, Dormael chuckled and shook his head.

  “That’s a good man you have there,” Dormael said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the now departing Grant.

  “It’s an old prejudice, I fear, and many here share his views. I’ve always found that it’s better to judge a man on his merit, rather than where he hails from,” Alton shrugged. Dormael smiled, encouraged by Alton’s comments.

  “I was wondering if I may ask a small favor of you. I have a cousin who is in the vicinity, and I was wondering if you’d mind terribly if I invited him to stay. He’ll be departing with me when I go, of course, and we have business of our own to attend to,” Dormael asked.

  “Does he play chess as well as you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then put him up in an inn. It’s despairing to constantly lose in your own house,” Alton laughed, “Seriously, though; I’ll prepare a room for him. I’ll be honored to receive your cousin here.”

  “You’re most gracious, My Lord. Surely only the Gods are as generous and saintly as My Lord Dersham,” Dormael said, bowing mockingly to Alton.

  “At least his conversation may not be as grating on the ears as his coz,” Alton shot back. Dormael laughed and walked out the door, leaving Alton to his business. He would have waited until nightfall to contact D’Jenn, but this was important, and he needed some insight. He made his way quickly to the room that Alton had given him, and moved to look out the window.

  With his face in the sun, Dormael closed his eyes and opened his Kai, feeling the torrent of the magic rush into him. Feeling completely alive, his senses augmented by the touch of the magic, he sent his mind flying over the city. He flew low over the docks, slowing to take in the view of the sea and the ships that slowly rocked in time to the water in the harbor. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining its blessing upon the world, and Dormael loved the sensation of Mind Flight. Though his body was standing in the window back at Alton’s manor, his mind was soaring now northward over the rocky coast of Alderak, and Dormael spread his phantom arms and spun in midair with delight. This wasn’t the time for games, however, and he regretfully turned east and headed back overland to parallel the road running north from Ferolan.

  Forming the image of his cousin in his mind’s eye, he sent his thoughts in search of D’Jenn. It took but a moment before he could feel his cousin’s presence, like a pulsing beacon in the distance. He flew slowly northward over the road, following the thought that he had attached to his kin. Finally, he came upon him, a lone man strolling down the road towards Ferolan.

  His coz was similar in appearance to himself, though their coloring and hair was different. D’Jenn wore his dark brown hair long and tied at the nape of his neck, as opposed to Dormael’s closely cropped blonde locks. D’Jenn’s goatee was long, reaching to his chest, but he wore it unbraided. It was tinged with red hairs, just like Dormael’s. His hair was in sharp contrast to his pale skin, another trait that the cousins shared. His eyes were a pale blue, and they always seemed to drink everything in. Hardly anything escaped D’Jenn’s knowing eyes.

  His garb was like a mirror image of Dormael’s, though with differing colors. His cloak was dark and long, blowing out behind him in the wind. He wore a form-fitting woolen shirt of a smoky gray, covering him to the wrists, hiding the inked archaic script that was tattooed on his arms which was almost twin to Dormael’s own. His mesavia was black, with red runes embroidered on the hems, and his pants were dark, serviceable leather and tucked into good leather boots. Attached to the traveling pack that D’jenn had shouldered was a leather sack tied with purse strings that enclosed a Doomba, an ancient Sevenlander drum that he played expertly. Hanging from a loop on the right side of his belt was a dark iron morningstar. It was a mean-looking weapon, five hands in length and dotted with skull-crushing spikes on its rounded head, which was swinging menacingly back and forth on its chain as D’Jenn tread along the road.

  Dormael lowered to the earth in front of D’Jenn and formed the image of himself in his mind. Using his magic, he infused that image to make it substantial, giving the illusion of him standing in the road there before D’Jenn, wearing a wry smile on his face. He poured his mind into the image, and bowed to his coz.

  “Mind Flight, coz? I see you’ve been playing again,” D’Jenn greeted him, bowing low with his right fist balled up over his heart in a customary Sevenlander greeting.

  “Playing? You know me better than that, coz. I’m about serious business right now. I’ve no time for childish games,” Dormael said jokingly, returning his cousin’s formal bow.

  “I do know you, and I’m sure you’ve been very seriously flying over the sea turning loops in mid-air,” D’Jenn laughed, “tell me, how many flagons of ale have you quaffed today?”

  “None as of yet,” Dormael shrugged, “B
ut it’s early. There’s still time for that sort of thing.”

  “Aye, still time yet. So, are you ready for the Solstice celebration? It’s going to be a long trip. Have you bought a horse?”

  “Ah…about that trip, D’Jenn, something has happened,” Dormael said, becoming serious, “I don’t think I can make it this year. There’s been a strange turn of events here, and I need your advice.”

  “Dormael…what do you mean? We’ve been planning this trip since Lammas and I thought we weren’t taking any more assignments until the spring. You went and got yourself arrested again, didn’t you,” D’Jenn sighed. He moved to the side of the road and set his packs down, sitting next to them and digging his pipe from his belt pouch. He motioned Dormael to sit beside him.

  “It’s not an assignment, coz,” Dormael sighed, joining D’Jenn at the side of the road, “And certainly if I was planning on being arrested I would wait for you to get here so we could both sit in a charming little dungeon. No, it’s something else entirely. Tell me, has the magic ever just awakened and tried to tell you something?”

  “No…what are you talking about?” D’Jenn asked, eyeing him strangely and appearing a little stunned at his sudden change from his usual joking manner to seriousness.

  “It was strange,” Dormael began, sighing deeply and launching into the story, “about a week gone, I was sitting in a tavern drinking some ale. I got up to leave, and walked out in search of an inn to buy a bed for the evening. Then, the magic just…woke up…on its own, and it would not stop singing to me. At first I thought I was losing it, like old Corto did, you remember? It was singing in my ears, tugging me along down the street and I couldn’t get hold of it. I thought I was a few seconds from setting the whole city on fire, but all it seemed to want was for me to walk. The more I resisted, the worse it was. Finally I let it pull me down the street, and after a good bit of walking it…led me to something.”