“I have found a home here, as shabby and run-down as it is, and a semblance of command again. I didn’t intend to head up a crime syndicate, indeed the position just sort of fell into my lap. I was a mercenary for a time, and sold my services here to many of the syndicates. There came a time when I was backed into a corner, I had lost some money to a high ranking member of one of the syndicates, you see, and he was using the debt to force me into jobs that I found distasteful.
“I was being used as a strong arm, to collect money from the shop owners here in town. I finally reached a point where I was disgusted with myself, and when one of his contracts with me involved the killing of the local butcher, I refused. I told him that I was done with that kind of work, and he should find someone else.
“Naturally, he tried to have me killed. He was not successful. I killed at least four men who were sent after me, and after the fourth man fell I got fed up, and took my fight to the man himself. I killed him in his home and nine of his bodyguards as well.
“The funny thing is that, unbeknownst to me, the townspeople saw what I was doing, and got behind it. I guess that I had obtained a little fame with the people here in Borders, and before I knew it I had men of my own. The people here saw me as their champion, all because I refused to push around a butcher. It was only a matter of time before the heads of the other syndicates saw me as a threat and came after me, and sure enough, it happened.
“Most of those men were never soldiers, though, and they know nothing of battle. I trained my men, I made them disciplined, and I made them strong. After a few open fights in the streets, I ran the other syndicate heads out of town. Right now they’re out in the hills somewhere, gathering their own men back together to try and retake Borders from me.
“Sadly, I lost many good men in those battles, and my force is small in number right now. To make matters worse, the other syndicates have taken to banditry and have disrupted many traders on their way into town from Dannon. Our food is running dry, as we have no grain here in Borders and we must depend on the trade to stay alive. The Maelstroms prevent us from doing enough fishing to support ourselves, so as you can see times are hard. I have sent word out to my former men in Neleka, but it will take those men months to get here. You can see my dilemma, I’m sure.
“I was offered a good amount of gold and supplies to capture you, and I am in dire need of it. These people here in town are depending on me to put things right, and I cannot let them down. So, unless you happen to have a wagon train full of weapons, food, and gold to buy support from the Dannons I’m still right back where I started, and even worse considering that you killed eight of my men. I don’t suppose that I could ask you to come along out of the goodness of your hearts?”
All three men shared a shaky laugh at Hadrick’s last comment, and the wine bottle was once again put into rotation. Dormael looked to his cousin, who only shrugged and gazed back at him. He thought carefully before making his next move, but in the end he decided to take a chance on Hadrick, who had struck him oddly as a respectable man, if a criminal by trade.
“We do not have weapons, nor supplies, friend Hadrick,” Dormael conceded, “But I must say I am surprised at you. You were not exactly who we expected you to be, with your reputation as the most feared man, head of the real power here and all that. I…well; I feel that your cause is just. I take it you mean to keep these other gangs out of town, and to keep order here?” Hadrick nodded wordlessly, and Dormael went on, “Then, I think that we can help you.”
“What help could two men possibly give me that would be worth a damn?” Hadrick asked gruffly, “I’m out of food, out of supplies, and out of time. Eventually the people will begin to blame me for their plight, and perhaps they would be right. Even so, it is only a matter of time before I lose my support with them as well.”
“You forget, friend Hadrick, that we have certain talents at our disposal,” D’Jenn stated. Hadrick stopped in mid drink, and took the wine bottle slowly from his lips.
“What help could your talents be to me, then?”
“We could take out the entire camp, if you point us in the right direction. It is a distasteful thing to do, indeed, but these are desperate times for us all. You have your problems, and we have ours. Our problem, you see, is equally as important if not more so. We must make it across the sea with the Lady and her jewelry in tow, my friend. It is of the utmost importance. You have heard of Dargorin, King of Galania?” Dormael asked.
Hadrick spat on the uneven timber floor at the mention of Dargorin. “A tyrant. An evil man, and ruthless in battle. He is responsible for the annexation of my country into his…his empire. A rotten thing, his conquest was. Dargorin is responsible for ruining my life, and my career in the Nelekan Legions. It is my dream to one day hang his severed head from my mantelpiece.”
“It is from Dargorin that we flee now. He wants the girl’s heirloom, as well. Doubtless it was one of his subordinates who offered you payment for our capture,” D’Jenn informed him.
Hadrick considered his words with a fire in his eyes. D’Jenn had found his passion, and had offered him a way to serve it. Hadrick looked to Dormael intensely, and the wine bottle was passed around once more before he gave his answer.
“If you Sevenlanders are enemies of the Galanian Empire, then you are friends of Hadrick Lucius. I accept your offer of aid to me, and will help you get across the sea in return. Come, I will point you in the right direction.”
****
Chapter Ten
To Purchase the Passage
The cold night air flowed through the feathers of Dormael’s wings as he rose effortlessly into the moonlit sky. He turned his head out towards the sea, into the prevailing wind, and used the drafts to push himself higher into the sky with relatively little effort. Turning his head upwards, he filled his sleek and pointed wings with the air as he rose higher still into the sky in the form of a large, grey gyrfalcon.
D’Jenn came up below him, beating his wings for height as he tried to climb along with his cousin. He had chosen the form of a raven, and though it was a serviceable bird, D’Jenn did not slip through the air as easily as his falcon-formed cousin did. D’Jenn’s wings beat with great effort as he struggled into the air alongside Dormael, and then began to maintain a shaky attitude.
Don’t flap unless you have to, Dormael said in D’Jenn’s mind, use the wind to help you climb. Once we get high enough, we’ll turn east toward the forest and the wind will push us a bit faster, though it will be harder to maintain our current height. Just spread your wings and let the air fill them, you’ll stay airborne.
I don’t know why I ever agreed to this, D’Jenn’s scathing reply came; I’ve never felt comfortable without the ground under my heels. It’s not staying airborne that bothers me so much, it’s the landing.
Just watch what I do and follow me, but stay off to the side of me. If you get caught in my wind drift, you’ll drop a bit before you can regain your lift, Dormael thought back.
Comforting, cousin, I’ll remember that when I’m plummeting into the rocks below, D’Jenn thought wryly.
If you lose control and feel you’re going to crash, aim for a snow drift. Remember, your bones are light and frail; you’ll break them easily if you land wrong, Dormael replied. He would grin if the gyrfalcon’s beak was capable of such an expression.
I hate this, D’Jenn declared in Dormael’s mind, but he stayed airborne and flapped his wings periodically to maintain his altitude. Once Dormael felt that D’Jenn was comfortable enough with flying to stay in the air, he dipped his wing to the right and began a long, slow turn back inland, toward the great fir forest that filled the valley beyond Borders.
The land rolled underneath them as they wheeled back to the east, the moonlit snowy valley coming into view as the cold night air whisked through Dormael’s feathers. The sky was a blanket of purplish-black, and the stars were twinkling and shining their frail and silvery light down upon the earth. As he pulled out of his ba
nk, and D’Jenn copied his movement a little off to his right, the expanse of the valley and the harbor below came into full view.
Borders had been built at the mouth of a natural harbor, at the lowest and furthest inland point of the ocean. To the north and south of the town, cliffs rose forebodingly into the air and the drops from them into the sea below were sometimes hundreds of links. To the north, where the country of Dannon began, Dormael could see a storm brewing in the distance, a cloud of gray and white haze hanging over the southern flatlands of Dannon. There were hours yet before the storm reached them, he knew. It was the heightened vision of the gyrfalcon form, and the aerial perspective he now possessed that allowed him to see the storm, and from the ground he would have had no clue what was looming to the north. He made a mental note of it and turned his attention back to flying.
East of Borders the land rose steadily upwards and began to roll again with hills, much like the land on the road to the south that Dormael and his friends had traversed to come to Borders from Ferolan. However, a few miles distant from the gates of Borders, there loomed a great forest, called the Darkroot by some. It reached very far to the east, almost to the border of Lesmira, and to the south it ran right up to the walls of Arla, the Cambrellian capital. To the north, it trespassed into southern Dannon.
The Darkroot was called such because the trees there were mostly undisturbed, and very old. It was said, though Dormael couldn’t verify because he had never seen it himself, that some of the trees there had enough wood to build ten full houses, and that one could even build a house in the upper reaches of some of them. The great firs, elms, and oaks that grew in the Darkroot shaded the forest floor so much as to keep it in perpetual twilight, even when the sun reached its zenith. That effect was what gave the Darkroot its foreboding name, and kept many travelers from entering it. It was quite easy to get lost in a forest so large, especially when the sun was constantly hidden from view. So the Darkroot was virtually uninhabited, and rarely travelled. Of course, there were stories that grew up in the wake of that fact, and the Darkroot had an evil reputation among those who lived nearby. It was into the outskirts of the Darkroot that Dormael and D’Jenn were headed.
Dormael could feel the wind at his back, pushing him on a little faster than before, and he flapped periodically to maintain his height. D’Jenn copied his every move, his nervousness evident by the jerkiness of his movements, though he offered no more complaints or fear. D’Jenn was stoic when it came to such things, and Dormael knew that he would hear no more about it tonight. Setting his course for the edge of the Darkroot, Dormael tipped his nose down and began to descend.
His angle of descent would bring him directly into the forest, among the trunks of the trees and below the quickly thickening canopy of the edge of the woods. He flew swiftly, and the trees gave the appearance of rising up from the ground which seemed to simultaneously rush up at him. As he approached almost to the point where he felt he would smack into the earth, he tilted his nose up again and was sailing quickly through the thick forest, the trunks of giant trees rushing by him on both sides. There was almost no wind in here, and Dormael had to flap his sleek wings more often to stay in the air, but he sailed on nonetheless, and soon broke suddenly into a clearing about two miles in from the edge. Wheeling around to the left sharply, he slowed his speed and drifted easily towards the ground below. Once he was slow enough, he flared his wings sharply and flapped a bit to slow himself even more before reaching out with his sharp talons and skipping lightly to a halt on the soft, cold ground.
He heard D’Jenn’s light footfalls in his raven form do the same, and soon the two figures shimmered slightly, and the two mismatched birds were once again a pair of bright-eyed Sevenlander wizards. Dormael stretched his shoulder a bit while D’Jenn brushed himself off and looked around in the dark of the quiet forest around them.
“Exhilarating, wasn’t it?” Dormael whispered to his cousin, who peered at him with his bright and searching eyes.
“It was definitely exciting, cousin, though I’m not sure I would want to have the experience again anytime soon,” D’Jenn answered curtly.
“One day, D’Jenn, you will share my enthusiasm for flying, I promise you,” Dormael declared.
“Perhaps,” D’Jenn replied, “but not tonight. Let’s find these gang leaders and be done with this business so we can get back to town.”
“Right; from here on out, let us speak in the Hunter’s Tongue as well. I wouldn’t want them to hear us coming,” Dormael said, and D’Jenn nodded his agreement before turning to gaze again at their surroundings. Dormael followed his example, and soon the both of them were searching the clearing for signs of passage.
The problem was that Dormael had not even the foggiest idea where to find these men. Hadrick himself wasn’t sure where to find them; he only knew that they had retreated into the Darkroot. All the cousins had were suspicions and theories about how such men might react when faced with this situation. The only thing that the two wizards had to go on was the notion that the men wouldn’t have ventured too far into the forest. All things considered, they were in for a long night.
Dormael blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness around them, and began to search the ground in the clearing while D’Jenn went from tree to tree examining the bark and roots. Hadrick said that there were roughly thirty or so men with these gang leaders they sought, and that many men left a mark on the land no matter how hard they tried not to. Their quick search of the clearing was to no avail, however, and finally D’Jenn approached his cousin in frustration.
This is a wild chase we are on here, cousin, his hands said, there is no sign of the men here. Perhaps we should move on, or think of a different way to search for them.
We do have other tools at our disposal, Dormael signaled back, let us put those methods to use and see where that gets us.
Agreed.
D’Jenn’s eyes closed and his head tilted back slowly as Dormael felt that familiar itchy feeling that told him his cousin was using his power. He recognized what D’Jenn was doing; Mind Flight. Dormael stretched his shoulder again and waited patiently for word from D’Jenn. After around a minute, D’Jenn’s eyes popped open and he sighed quietly.
I found nothing definitive, but I believe that the men may have headed north, there were some paths that had been cut into the forest in that direction, and signs of recent movement, D’Jenn signaled.
Let us proceed as wolves then, they have keen senses of smell and heightened night vision. They would be a normal inhabitant of this forest as well, as far as I know, Dormael signed back.
Indeed.
Forming the image of the wolf in his mind, Dormael opened his Kai and poured the magic into his own body, willing it to change into the shape of the wolf. He felt his body become fluid, obeying his commands, the magic melding the change and making it complete. Soon enough, where Dormael had been standing there was now a great silver and gray wolf. D’Jenn’s own wolf form was black as the night around them, and he stood gazing silently at Dormael, his yellow eyes glowing in the dim moonlight. Dormael dipped his head at his cousin, signaling him to lead the way, and D’Jenn turned and loped into the forest, with Dormael close behind.
The easy gait of the wolf was a bit of a challenge to accustom themselves to, particularly for Dormael who mostly spent time in bird form, but soon enough both cousins were running through the darkened forest, silent as a pair of ghosts. D’Jenn easily flew across the ground, dodging around large trunks of ancient trees, loping over the litter of dead leaves without seeming to touch the earth or make a sound at all. To anyone they passed, the cousins would have been a whisper in the wind and a flash in the moonlight before they were lost in the night.
The forest around them became thicker, and soon the moonlight all but disappeared to their wolfish eyes. D’Jenn slowed to a stalking pace, and Dormael fell in beside him. The trees stood like dark sentinels around them, branches reaching out above them as if to hide
the freedom of the sky. The smells of woody earth surrounded them, and then, like a stream of alien smoke, the scent of a cooking fire drifted through the trunks to the noses of the wolves. D’Jenn froze in mid-stride, and Dormael came to halt beside him, his yellow eyes glowing like tiny beacons in the darkness.
Dormael’s nose tested the air again and again, his head turning first one way and then the other, looking for the alien scent drifting through the woods, the scent that didn’t belong. It was still faint, like a teasing spirit brushing her hands across their faces, but it was there. D’Jenn’s sleek black form stalked slowly between tree trunks, head high, nose reflexively sniffing as he searched for a direction. Dormael was doing the same, pausing every now and then to sniff the earth as well, for signs of passage.
I’ve found it!, D’Jenn’s thought rang clearly in Dormael’s head, and the cousins were once again loping between the trunks of large, ancient firs, and twisted oaks. The feeling of the run was exhilarating in this form, and he felt the wolf seep deeper into his psyche as he followed D’Jenn through the thickening, ancient forest. He could feel his excitement for the chase, the hunt, as he ran silently below reaching boughs of old trees. He knew the feeling to be the essence of the wolf, and Dormael didn’t try to fight it. Instead, he embraced it, and used it.
The cousins ran for what seemed like a long time, but in reality was only around twenty minutes or so. The scent of the cooking fire became ever stronger, and until the cousins slowed to a stalk; dodging between tree trunks as they sniffed out their direction. There were signs of passage here; a broken leaf, a footprint, moss ripped from the roots of a tree, all signs that men had passed this way. In his wolfish form, Dormael found the scent of the cooking meat somewhere to the north almost overpowering, and his mouth began to water. He ignored the hunger in his belly, though, and concentrated on the matter at hand.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 29
