The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Though he was more than a little uncomfortable from the cold and wet, Dormael had to admit that he was inwardly warmed by the closeness he felt within his little group of friends. Shawna no longer hated him, and she even came over to ride near him once in a while, shooting playful insults at him and speaking amiably with Bethany. D’Jenn was his usual aloof self, leading the procession and musing silently whilst ever stroking his beard in thought. Everything seemed to be in place.

  Dormael practiced speaking the Hunter’s Tongue with Bethany and Shawna to give them something to occupy their time while in the saddle, and both were becoming quite adept at the silent language. Dormael had to admit that he also did it to occupy Bethany’s hands so she would stop the constant rapping of his goatee against Horse’s saddle horn. Though he loved the youngling, her unconscious tapping was becoming unnerving.

  As the day wore on the rain came in waves as rain is wont to do, and the land around them rolled like a frozen sea in a storm. Wind blew across the hills and wailed through the draws, though it was not so hard a gust as to be dangerous or uncomfortable. In turns the smells of clean water and wet dirt came through the air, and Dormael for once thought it was quite pleasant to be outside, even in the wet weather.

  Late in the day the party rode suddenly onto hard flagstones as the road beneath them abruptly changed from a wide, muddy track to a paved thoroughfare. The stones beneath their horses’ hooves were old and worn smooth by time and use, and weeds poked between the large stones in random but frequent places. Shawna shot a confused glance at Dormael, who only smiled in return. She began to ask a question but Dormael cut her off.

  “I know what you’re going to ask,” Dormael said, “you’re going to say ‘what in the world are these paving stones doing in the middle of nowhere?’ Trust me, Shawna – you’re in for a surprise.”

  Shawna appeared as if she were going to speak up anyway, but finally breathed out her question and shrugged. Dormael smiled inwardly and gestured for her to keep riding. She continued down the road. As the four companions topped a particularly tall rise, they were met with a breathtaking sight.

  From east to west as far as they could see, there ran a great canyon. It cut deeply through the terrain in a snaking line, and the other side laid hundreds of links away. Spanning the distance was an impossibly long stone bridge that seemed not to be hammered, but woven in curving artistic lines.

  The road across the bridge was paved in smooth flagstones whose lines fit together with a precision that spoke of great artistry and craftsmanship. Two great, curving arches of brass rose on either side of the bridge, seeming to hang the actual road underneath them, and swirls of the bright alloy snaked and curved their way downward to the rail, which was made of marble that seemed to have been poured from a decanter and captured in a moment of beauty. Shawna gave a sharp intake of breath at the sight of it.

  “What is it?” was all that she could say.

  “It’s called Indalvian’s Passage,” D’Jenn said proudly, resting his hands against his saddle horn as the party stopped to take in the sight.

  “It was built hundreds of years ago by the first known wizard,” Dormael added, “He was called Indalvian the Noble, and it was he who founded the Conclave and helped to build Sevenlander society in wake of the First Great War.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Shawna breathed, one hand going to her chest.

  “He built many great things,” D’Jenn said, “But this, I believe, is his greatest achievement. It is a marvel of artistry, engineering, and magic.”

  “It’s magical?” Shawna asked, seeming surprised.

  “Well, the bridge itself is not magical,” D’Jenn explained, “but it was built with the help of magic. It’s said that Indalvian and thirty of his students constructed the pieces and had them brought here. With the help of our tribesmen, the Soirus – Gamerits, he built it into the sides of this canyon and forever linked the northern and southern portions of our tribeland.”

  “Just think of the careful work that went into that thing. The creativity, the math…I mean, it’s amazing that to this day, it stands unbending to the elements and time,” Dormael mused.

  “It’s an amazing sight,” Shawna agreed.

  “Let’s have a closer look, shall we?” Dormael said, gesturing towards the bridge.

  The road sloped downward into a stone landing that had been dug out from the side of the canyon and bricked up with large stones of hard granite. Upon the wall of the landing there hung great plaque made of brass with a swirling inscription upon it. Shawna immediately swung from Charlotte’s saddle and strode to the metal plate, squinting at text engraved into its face.

  “It’s just like your tattoos,” Shawna said to Dormael, “come tell me what it says.”

  “Something akin to ‘blah-blah-blah, Indalvian is amazing and blah-blah-blah,’” Dormael joked.

  “Seriously Dormael, I want to know,” Shawna pleaded, turning a coy expression in his direction.

  “Alright,” Dormael relented, climbing down from Horse. He strode over to the metal plaque and brushed some of the raindrops from the inscription so he could get a better look at it.

  “It says something like ‘Here did Indalvian heal the wounded land, closing gap and linking span. Here was once a frightening border brought low by the laws of learning and order’. Then, it’s a list of names; men who worked on the bridge on the southern side,” Dormael explained.

  “Are any of your ancestors listed?” Shawna asked, almost excited.

  “Yes, but on the northern side, not the southern. There’s a Harlun listed,” Dormael nodded.

  “A Pike, too,” D’Jenn smiled, “The sooner we get across the bridge, the sooner we can show you.”

  “Harlun? Pike?” Shawna asked, confused.

  “Our family names,” Dormael explained, “I’m Dormael Harlun, and he’s D’Jenn Pike.”

  “Oh,” Shawna said, a grimace forming on her face, “I feel guilty that I didn’t know that before.”

  “It never came up,” Dormael dismissed, and mounted Horse. They set off across the bridge at a walk, and as they left the landing the view of the great canyon opened beneath them. The ravine snaked as far as they could see from east to west, curving with the patience of eroding water. It was deep – dizzyingly deep, and Dormael couldn’t help but feel slightly vulnerable as they made their way across the Passage. They could hear a vague, rushing noise, and as Dormael glanced over the edge he could see the mist rising from the depths that told of the river below.

  “If you fell off the bridge,” Shawna mused to the cousins, “Do you think that you’d just fall harmlessly into the water below?”

  “Evmir’s Hammer, no!” D’Jenn laughed, “Whoever told you that water is harmless?”

  “Well, I’ve jumped into rivers and the like,” Shawna protested, “I’m not that delicate. My father took us swimming and hunting and things like that.” Shawna’s face drew into an almost pouting frown.

  “Shawna, hitting water from a height like this would be the same as hitting hard stone,” Dormael explained, “It all has to do with how fast you’re falling. The faster you fall, the harder you hit.”

  “Have you ever jumped belly first into a river or pond?” D’Jenn asked. When Shawna nodded, he went on, “Remember how it stings your gut? Well, imagine doing that from this height.”

  That seemed to put her question to rest. The four of them continued across the great, ancient bridge in silence. Dormael was busy drinking in the sights of the landmark, and he could tell that the others were also too entranced to speak anymore of it. Reaching the other side, Dormael moved to the brass plaque that was sister to the one on the southern side. Running a finger down its smooth, cool surface, he found what he was looking for.

  “Here,” he announced, “Ivan Harlun, Journeyman Mason and Stoneworker.”

  “And what about the Pikes?” D’Jenn shouted the question from the top of the landing’s ramp, where he was gazing off to the north. Do
rmael ran his finger down the list of names, searching out his cousin’s ancestor.

  “Here it is; Straffon Pike, Wizarding Apprentice.”

  “We Pikes were among the first wizards of the Conclave,” D’Jenn proclaimed, brushing raindrops from the shoulder of his Sevenlander cloak.

  “Ah, but we Harluns have always been among the best!” Dormael joked, drawing mocking laughter from D’Jenn and a particularly dirty hand signal in the Hunter’s Tongue.

  “What does that mean?” Bethany asked, mimicking the signal with her fist closed and pinky finger extended.

  “Ah, nothing you need to be repeating dear,” Dormael laughed, pushing her tiny pinky closed with the rest of her fist and shooting D’Jenn a meaningful glance.

  As the gloom started to darken, after they had been riding north for another couple of hours, the rain stopped. The weather stayed a little gloomy, but the dark rainclouds looked to be dissipating and moving off to the south, as if they were saying goodbye to the companions. D’Jenn found a suitable camping spot inside the draw between three low hills and within walking distance to a clear pond that probably fed the raging river inside the canyon they had left behind earlier in the day.

  Dormael took care of the horses and hurried back to camp to retrieve a small cake of soap he carried in a wooden case for just such an occasion. While Shawna was settling Bethany in for the evening and D’Jenn was preparing dinner, Dormael snuck away to the clear body of enticing water. He quickly disrobed and washed his clothing in the pool, then hung them from a nearby tree and stepped into the cold mountain water.

  He gave a short gasp at the temperature, but swiftly waded out and submersed himself to get used to it as quickly as possible. Bathing in wintertime like this was risky, but with their recent mud battle and their hurried departure from Gammeritus he’d had no chance to see to his own cleanliness. He soaped quickly and was in the middle of undoing his braided goatee when he heard a voice speak up from the shore.

  “How’s the water?” he heard Shawna ask.

  Dormael quickly dipped into the pool neck deep and turned toward the girl, who was standing next to his wet clothes with a wry expression on her face.

  “Cold,” Dormael sputtered, “I’ll be out in a moment and you can come in yourself if you wish.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Shawna mused, looking over at Dormael’s clothing, “There you are, cold and naked….and here is your clothing.” Shawna’s tone was vaguely threatening.

  “Shawna,” Dormael said with a hint of warning in his voice, “don’t you do anything crazy.”

  “Crazy?” she asked, seeming taken aback. She indicated his clothes with a gesture, “I was simply going to take these and dry them for you. Put them near the fire, you know, so you’d be more comfortable when you dress again.” She picked up his wet clothing.

  “Shawna! Don’t think I won’t use magic on you!”

  “Have a good bath, Dormael,” Shawna called over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

  Dormael opened his Kai and reached deep into the water with the magic, drawing out a sizable amount and raising it from the pool. The water rose from the surface into a globe of clear liquid, and in a stroke of mean spirited genius he pulled just a slight bit of heat from it. The water would be freezing.

  “Last chance!” he called to her as she was stepping gingerly toward the path that led back to the campsite. She turned and looked in his direction, and her face went slightly paler than normal.

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, her eyes narrowing at the globe of suspended water. She tensed to run.

  “Oh, I would. In a heartbeat,” he threatened, indicating the spinning water held in his magic grasp with one hand. They stared at each other for a second, each gauging the other’s determination.

  Shawna turned to run.

  Dormael sent the globe of cold water hurtling at Shawna’s back. Shawna tried to duck unconsciously as she slipped and squelched her way back toward the camp on the muddy path that led to the pond, but her efforts were in vain. She stiffened as the water suddenly splashed loudly on her back, molding her white linen shirt to her pale, wet skin. She turned back toward Dormael’s laughing form, her face a mask of mock outrage.

  “How dare you?” Shawna gasped, still gripping Dormael’s clothes tightly in her hand.

  “How dare I?” Dormael challenged back, “You were going to steal my clothing away like a common thief!”

  “Common!?” Shawna scoffed, “There’s absolutely nothing common about me, Dormael Harlun.”

  “A pretty thief is still a thief, Shawna, and I knew I shouldn’t have told you my family name else you use it against me in that tone so common to you women.”

  “So you think I’m pretty?” Shawna coyly replied, and Dormael was slightly taken aback. She’d drawn that out of him on purpose, the sly little temptress. He’d have to tread carefully here, though part of him wanted to simply invite her into the pond with him. She seemed to have redoubled her efforts since Seylia had left, and Dormael still wasn’t sure what to think about the entire situation. It didn’t help that her shirt was soaked closely to her skin, and Dormael could see much of what lay underneath the fabric.

  “You’re changing the subject,” Dormael chided, trying to gloss over his comment, “and as for that matter, you were the one spying on me, remember? How long did you wait there in the underbrush watching me bathe, eh?”

  “Spying? I should come down there and smack your brains out, Dormael.”

  “Come on in. The water is very cold, though - but you already knew that didn’t you?” Dormael shot back, watching Shawna’s face darken into a playful scowl.

  “Very well,” Shawna said, and Dormael’s breath caught as Shawna began to loosen the laces at the neck of her wet shirt. She did it slowly, drawing out the moment as if demonstrating her intent and daring him silently to protest it. Part of him wanted to tell her that this would be a mistake, that it would only complicate things greatly between them. However, there was another, larger part of Dormael that sat there and watched it happen with a satisfied smirk on his face. D’Jenn was right about him, at least in part.

  He was a lecherous bastard.

  A scream sounded from the direction of their camp, a surprised squeal of fright that shattered the mood like a rock thrown through a glass window. For a moment, Dormael thought that Bethany had happened upon the scene at the pond and caught the two of them cavorting like adolescents, but he pushed that thought away, realizing that the cry was too far away and the timbre of it was too high, too sustained, and all too real. Something was wrong.

  Dormael came plodding from the pond, struggling against the water to reach the shore and rush back toward camp to see what had happened. He was tight with fear for Bethany and D’Jenn, and hoped that whatever happened he could get there in time to protect the youngling. Heedless of his nudity, he moved to rush past Shawna who was already turned in the direction of the screams. Shawna grabbed his arm as he rushed by, pulling him to a sliding halt and almost dumping the both of them in the slick mud under their feet. Dormael shot her a glance that implied irritation and urgency all at once, but Shawna held tight to his arm.

  “Hold, Dormael! We can’t just rush headlong into something that we know nothing of! Anything could be happening back there. We need to be careful,” Shawna pleaded.

  “Bethany could be hurt,” Dormael breathed, and made to yank his arm from her grasp. She held firm.

  “And if you go rushing in there blind you could die, and then where would the youngling be?” Shawna shot back, “Put on your pants, and we’ll ghost up the side of the hill and get a look at what’s happening.”

  Dormael was going to protest again, but he saw the logic in what Shawna was saying. He took his pants from her hand and shoved his legs into them quickly, and then at a second thought, he stepped into his boots as well. He made to pick up his staff, and realized with a surge of regret and anger that he had left it and his knife back at camp. Sha
wna saw the gesture and realized it for what it was.

  “I left my swords back there too,” she cursed, “we’ll have to make do without them for now.”

  Dormael nodded, and the two of them took off at a slow run, crouching low and trying to move stealthily. They made their way quickly and as quietly as they could up the southern side of the hill that blocked their camp from sight, keeping their eyes open for any dangers that might be in their path. As they neared the summit of the rise Dormael went to his belly and began to crawl to the top, motioning for Shawna to do the same. They crawled to the base of a large rock that would help block them from view and peeked down from either side at the scene below. Dormael cursed under his breath.

  There were six men in the camp facing D’Jenn, who had his mace out threateningly. Bethany huddled behind him, hands pressed to her head as if she were trying to hold back a painful headache. Two men were on foot, advancing slowly on D’Jenn with their short swords held low at the ready, the other four sat astride large destriers, two of those with crossbows drawn and trained on D’Jenn. The men all wore the black surcoats and brass inlaid armor of the Cult of Aeglar. Dormael looked around for their weapons, and found them. Both Shawna’s swords and Dormael’s staff lay behind the two men on foot and in front of the ones on horseback. Dormael cursed again.

  We have to get to those weapons! Shawna’s hands signed at him, why don’t you use some of your magic and blast those men to pieces?

  It won’t work on them for some reason, Dormael answered, It has something to do with their armor.

  Won’t work? Who are they? Shawna’s hands asked, her gestures angry and dramatic.

  “Cult of Aeglar,” Dormael answered in a low voice, knowing that Shawna wouldn’t know the Hunter’s Tongue signs for it.

  Here’s what we’re going to do, Dormael signed, I’m going to distract them and you’re going to grab your swords. It’s important that you follow me directly down the hill, and don’t panic at what I’m going to do.