The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Dormael had moved as deep into the corner of the sheltering rock as he could, removing his shirt and cloak and laying them across a jutting finger of stone to let them dry out. His boots and socks were likewise removed, and he sat upon a large stone he had drug up for a chair, smoking a pipe and thinking quietly. He heard the squelching noise of boots striding through mud and turned to see Shawna approaching his little corner of the camp. He grew tense with dread at what she might say or do.

  She had also doffed her cloak and was wearing nothing but her loose-fitting white linen shirt. It was just as wet as Dormael’s clothing was, and the way it clung to the curves of her body made Dormael aware of just how pretty Shawna actually was. He pushed that thought quickly to the back of his mind as the girl reached his sitting rock.

  “Is there room for two?” Shawna asked, gesturing lithely at Dormael’s rock. Her voice was tenuous; as if she were holding something back she wanted desperately to say.

  “Of course,” Dormael replied, patting the space beside him and scooting to the edge. Shawna sat down facing in the opposite direction and took a deep breath, saying nothing for a few minutes. Though the rock was indeed large enough to accommodate the both of them, it was a close fit. Dormael could feel Shawna’s hip touching his own and her shoulder rubbed against his arm. He felt tense excitement bloom somewhere inside of him as he realized that he could feel her smooth, cool skin underneath the wet shirt. He pushed that down as well. Shawna turned and looked down at the tattoos that webbed around Dormael’s arms, touching his shoulder with a cool, wet hand and pursing her lips.

  “What does all of this mean?” she asked, tracing one of the lines of flowing script.

  “Different things,” Dormael tried to gloss over, not wanting her to touch them but at the same time, not wanting her to stop touching him at all.

  “Tell me,” she pressed on, “I’m curious.”

  Dormael sighed, “This one,” he nodded down at the line of script she had touched, “means Unyielding. Sort of…it’s in Old Vendon, and sometimes the translations are a little vague.”

  “This one?” she inquired, touching another tattoo on his forearm.

  “Wrath,” he answered.

  “And this one?” she ran her fingers down a large piece of script that swirled and repeated along his bicep and inner arm. Her touch gave him goose bumps and he betrayed himself with an intake of breath. He saw the edge of her mouth curl up in a smile.

  “Veltasi, Veltasya, Veltastajum. The three truths,” he answered, trying to cover his reaction.

  “Three truths?” she echoed, taking her hand away.

  “It’s a very old expression in Old Vendon. It translates loosely, but what it basically means is the truth of mind, truth of heart, and the truth of power.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s hard to say really…it means that the truth you know in your mind, the truth that logic tells you may be one thing, the truth in your heart that is based on your emotions may be another, and that power can buy the ability to make truth. Sort of,” Dormael shrugged, explaining to the best of his ability.

  “I think I understand,” Shawna said dubiously.

  “It was an expression in the old days that basically meant that truth is hard to find. The things you hear are always twisted by belief and emotion, and sometimes by those in power who want to cover things up. It’s sort of like saying ‘two sides to every story’, only a little more in depth. The ancient peoples of the Sevenlands used it as an idiom,” Dormael elaborated.

  “Listen, Dormael,” Shawna began in an awkward tone of voice, “I want to apologize about…about earlier. When I hit you, I mean. You didn’t really deserve it…”

  “Perhaps,” Dormael cut her off, “And then perhaps I did deserve it.”

  Shawna’s eyes regarded him with a questioning look. Dormael knew he was trapped in the apology now, and had to go on. He took a deep breath and tried to pick his words with care.

  “I know that maybe you…were angry at Seylia or something,” Dormael uttered, not wanting to say the word jealous, “I know that her presence made you uncomfortable and I didn’t do anything to stop her from baiting you. I’m sorry.”

  Shawna looked down at her feet and took a deep breath. Her hair was wet, and it lay against her back in sodden lines of auburn. She blushed furiously and toyed with the front of her pants, not wanting to look back at Dormael. The whole thing made Dormael realize that Shawna indeed was a very pretty girl.

  Again, he pushed those thoughts aside.

  “So you’re not angry with me then?” Shawna asked with a sheepish expression on her face.

  “I was never angry at you, Shawna,” Dormael countered with a smirk on his face, “you’re the one that hit me, remember?” Dormael nudged her playfully in the ribs.

  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty again? Because I just apologized and I’m fresh out of guilt,” Shawna said, poking at Dormael’s side with her small hands. Laughing, the two of them descended into a mock punching match. In the course of their playful wrestling, Shawna started to slide from the rock and onto the mucky ground around it, giving a squeal and clutching at Dormael. Dormael tried to hold on and keep them from falling, but it was too feeble an attempt to succeed. They fell together, Shawna landing on her hip and Dormael flat on his bare back.

  D’Jenn came around the corner at that precise moment to see Dormael lying on his back in the mud and Shawna resting on his stomach, both laughing uproariously at the entire thing.

  “Glad to see you two aren’t trying to kill each other anymore,” D’Jenn commented, “Glad you finally had that talk.”

  Dormael caught the slight emphasis that D’Jenn put on the word talk, and knew that he would hear about this later. Right now all he could think about was Shawna’s breast resting against his stomach.

  “Oh yes,” Shawna said between fits of giggling, “We’re just thick as thieves!” At the last word, Shawna slapped a handful of mud right onto Dormael’s stomach.

  “Oh, come on!” Dormael exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air dramatically, then scooping up a handful of muck himself, and tossing it onto Shawna’s shirt. Shawna’s face took on a mask of surprised indignation.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” she mused incredulously. With that, the two of them rolled away from each other and mud began flying in all directions.

  D’Jenn wasn’t immune to their exchange, and quickly found himself covered in black and brown mud from head to toe. Dormael was worse off, if anything; the only bare spots he had were tiny areas around his eyes that he had cleared out after taking a handful of wet grime in the face. Bethany had seen the makeshift mud war and came running out from under the boulder with the exuberance only children possess, and planted herself directly in the center of a deep puddle, laughing in silvery peals of merriment.

  The mud fight ended with all four of the companions dirty as they had ever been, and laughing at the childish game. Dormael finally abandoned his attacks and climbed to the top of the boulder to let the rain wash off some of the filth. D’Jenn followed him up as the girls went in search of somewhere to wash in private.

  “So,” D’Jenn prompted as he planted his rear next to his cousin, “I see your discussion went well.”

  “D’Jenn,” Dormael sighed, “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Oh, so I don’t have to say that flirting with Shawna and restarting your little…liaison…may not be the right way to go about apologizing?”

  “D’Jenn…”

  “I don’t have to say that leading her on that way will only make her angry in the end?”

  “Cousin, really…”

  “I don’t have to say that you’re a lecherous bastard at heart?”

  “Well that’s just insulting…if a bit closer to the truth,” Dormael objected, and the cousins shared a laugh with each other. They sat for a few moments letting the cold rain wash the dirt from their bodies and faces until finally D’Jenn sp
oke up again.

  “Really, though, cousin…I’m not going to make any accusations or anything. Six Hells, if the girl stops trying to kill you and decides to bed you instead, well at least she’s not trying to kill you. But just remember to tread lightly with her. She may seem strong willed, but really she’s just a scared little girl inside,” D’Jenn said seriously.

  “A scared little girl with a pair of swords and a Mark from the Island,” Dormael corrected in a dry tone, “Anyway cousin, is that concern I hear in your voice?”

  “I just want to make sure that she doesn’t spill your heart’s blood all over the ground,” D’Jenn refuted, but Dormael could hear the lie in his tone.

  “You do care about her,” Dormael said.

  “Perhaps as a sister, yes,” D’Jenn replied in a serious tone, “It’s hard to travel with someone for so long in a situation like this and not feel close to that person. Look what has happened with Bethany. For that matter, see what has happened to you and Shawna. The girl is infatuated with you, and I’m not altogether convinced that you’re not besotted with her as well.”

  “D’Jenn, you know I don’t become…besotted with anyone,” Dormael said, his irritation rising a little.

  “Say whatever you want cousin, just don’t let your flirtations with her affect either of you too much. Shawna isn’t your run-of-the-mill innkeeper’s daughter to be bedded and forgotten. You’ll have to look at her from now until this business with the armlet is over. You know what kind of demons that can breed.” With that, D’Jenn clapped a wet hand on his cousin’s shoulder and climbed to the ground below.

  Dormael knew that his cousin was right, but he lay atop the wet rock and let the rain wash his face and body, feeling the irritation at having D’Jenn illuminate it all for him bubble to the surface. He knew Shawna was no conquest. He knew he couldn’t treat her like a common wench at some tavern.

  He did like flirting with her, though. If nothing else, it passed the cold days on the dusty roads. He found himself smiling and quickly wiped the expression from his face, as if D’Jenn were looking at him. Then, he felt irritated that he was worried that D’Jenn would be looking at him. Grumbling, Dormael stood and looked off to the north at the gray expanse of rain clouds ahead.

  Besotted, indeed!

  ****

  Maarkov watched the gray seas rise and fall in perilous waves around the ship. The skies were dark and foreboding and lightning arced from the almost-black clouds above to lance into the water somewhere in the distance. Rain lashed painfully across his scarred face, but Maarkov had known pain for years. Rain was nothing to him.

  The crew of the galleon, called the King’s Blessing, hurried around him in a storm of activity, but none of them paid Maarkov any mind. In fact, the sailors tried their best to pretend that neither he nor his brother even existed. Maarkov didn’t blame them. He sometimes wished that he didn’t exist.

  Sighing, he turned from the rail and made his way carefully to the captain’s room, where his damnable brother would be. He definitely wished that his brother didn’t exist. He wished that he could choke the life from his sibling and watch the light die in his brother’s eyes, knowing that Maarkov’s had been the hand that finished him. He relished the thought for a moment then pushed it to the back of his mind. That, he knew, would never be. It could never be.

  He found his brother sitting behind the great desk that once belonged to the captain of this ship. The man had died on the end of Maarkov’s dagger, and the new captain still hadn’t sat behind the large piece of furniture yet. That place was reserved for his brother, Maaz.

  Maaz sat with his hands making a small steeple, musing on one thing or another. The new captain stood before him, hands behind his back and eyes on the floor. Maaz gave no indication that he had seen Maarkov enter the room, and the captain knew that to take his attention away from Maaz might invoke his displeasure.

  Maaz’s displeasure usually ended with someone murdered, or worse.

  “If I must, captain,” Maaz rasped in his usual degrading tone, “I will spill the blood of one crewman a day until you move this ship faster. If I must, I will flay you and hang your bleeding husk upon the mainmast so that the next captain knows that haste is most important.”

  “Sir…I’m sailing her to her limit. We’re only as fast as the wind will push us, sir,” the captain pleaded, eyes still on the ground. Maaz made a spitting, hissing noise in disgust and made a slicing motion with one of his pallid, gray hands.

  “Just get it moving and get us to the Sevenlands or I will eat your flesh and feed your daughters to the soulless depths of the Six Hells!” Maaz rasped. The man bowed his way out, making inarticulate noises of submission and closed the door behind him. Maarkov sneered at his departing back.

  “Do you see what I am forced to work with, brother dear?” Maaz asked, indicating the door where the captain had left.

  “Railing at that little man won’t make us go any faster, Maaz. I’m sure they want us off this ship just as much as we want to be after that artifact,” Maarkov replied, sitting in a chair opposite the desk and plopping his legs onto it. Maaz looked at the bottoms of his brother’s boots and sneered at him from the depths of his black hood.

  “There are ways to deal with the weather, Maarkov. There are ways to deal with the wind. We must control these rats lest they mutiny against us. They must learn to fear us.”

  “They fear us greatly, brother,” Maarkov snapped, “All fear us! You saw to that years and years gone. I’ll never understand your unending taste for blood. You sicken me with every breath.”

  “Ah, the old hurts come to the surface once more,” Maaz hissed, mocking him, “Strike me then, brother mine! Run that Gods – damned sword into my heart!”

  In an instant, Maarkov had his feet on the ground with his hand going to the sheath on his left side. Faster than a snake, his thin bladed sword hissed from the leather scabbard and entered his brother’s chest with precise and terrible efficiency. Maarkov felt the vibration as the sword struck the wooden chair behind his brother, pinning him to the seat.

  Maaz coughed in surprise and clutched at the seven hands of cold steel that Maarkov left buried between his ribs. His weak, pale hands tried unsuccessfully to pull the sword from his chest, and finally fell to the desktop, scratching lines of pain into the wood.

  “Must we…always…do this, brother?” Maaz rasped. He lowered his head and coughed roughly in pain, spraying drops of black blood onto the sword and the wooden desk. It was dark, thick, putrid blood.

  It was dead blood.

  Suddenly pain wracked Maarkov as his brother’s magic held him in thrall. His feet rose from the deck of the ship and he slammed into the wooden planks of the wall. He felt something inside break as he was pressed harder and harder against the unyielding surface. He grunted, struggling against his brother’s power even though he knew it was useless. He felt sick and vomited a puddle of his own blackened blood against the wall, where it stayed as if the wall itself was the ground below.

  Just as quickly as it had started, it was over. Maaz released him and he slumped to the deck, clutching an arm to his belly in pain and nausea. The blood against the wall ran down the wood as it too was released. The thick, black liquid seemed to mock Maarkov as he lay against the wall.

  Maaz reached into a drawer and pulled forth a small bottle of water that seemed to hold swirling lights inside of it. Maarkov wished he could rise and strike the bottle from his brother’s wretched claws, but his body would not obey him. He had to watch in silent protest.

  Uncorking the bottle, Maaz spoke deep in his chest in that strange language he heard his brother use when he was working his dark magic. A single pinpoint of light rose from the water and Maaz quickly corked the bottle again as the light split and rushed into him. The other end of the light rushed into Maarkov.

  Maarkov gasped as he felt the broken rib knitting back into place inside his chest. He felt the organs mending, and his pain faded to nothing but
a memory. He rose slowly and watched as Maaz pulled the sword from his chest to clang against the desk and onto the floor in front of it. Maaz took a deep breath and placed his fingers to his chest, feeling the cut in his cloak.

  “One day that bottle will run dry, brother. When that day comes, I will be there to watch you wither and die,” Maarkov spat.

  “You understand nothing,” Maaz sneered, “What you do is folly and you can’t even see it. If you want so fiercely to die, then take it up with Dargorin. See if he will hear your pitiful cries.”

  Maarkov would see Dargorin dead as well. He hated Dargorin just slightly less than he hated his brother. One day, he would see them both perish at the end of his blades.

  “Get out of my sight,” Maaz spat, “I cannot abide to look at you just now.”

  Maarkov collected his sword and wiped the putrid black blood against the leather of his pant leg. He slid the deadly weapon slowly into its scabbard as he turned and walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  He went back to his spot against the rail of the fiercely bobbing ship and clutched hard at it to keep from going over. He knew that though he wished for death, if he went over the side of this ship he would lay at the bottom of the Stormy Sea forever.

  Forever alive, and forever alone; alone except for his hatred.

  ****

  The heavy deluge of the day before had died into a light drizzle by the time the party had awoken and started north toward the mountains. The mood in the group was noticeably better as they started off in the cold grey light of the rainy winter morning. The muddy road snaked northward over steeper and steeper hills, and in the distance the Runemian Mountains loomed, ancient and silhouetted against the leaden sky.