The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Scuttling noises sounded from somewhere up the hill behind him, and D’Jenn winced and tried to listen harder. Obviously the other Cultist hadn’t been killed by his and Shawna’s haphazard shots, perhaps only wounded. The man had recovered and returned fire. Now it sounded as if he were scrambling down the slope to finish off D’Jenn.

  Not today.

  Concentrating through the hot flashes of pain, D’Jenn opened his Kai and reached out to the magic. He quested out with his magical senses, trying to feel the man behind and somewhere above him, but instead of the usual bright pulsing of another human being, D’Jenn felt instead a cold darkness where he should be. It was almost as if the spot the man occupied was coated in a mirror-like substance that reflected magical energies. It was enough, though; D’Jenn could tell where he was. Thinking quickly, he reached out with his power.

  He pumped magic into the slope above. Where there was grass and semi-hard dirt, there was now slippery muck and loose, moving terrain as the edge of the slope began to give way a little and slide slowly down the face of the hill. D’Jenn braced himself.

  Loose rocks cracked against each other as they rolled downward, slowly at first but gaining momentum with each slippery foot. D’Jenn huddled against his sheltering rock and ducked as best he could, but he was still hit with small pieces of the slope as they came barreling down the hill. There was a great noise, a dirty grumble as the earth protested his rearranging of its face. Amid the tumult he could hear a startled shout, a curse, and then clanging noises as the Cultist finally fell and tumbled down with the rest of the debris. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The evening grew still as the last few pebbles came to rest in a pile at the bottom of the valley. D’Jenn looked up into the orange, fading light.

  The Cultist lay in a twisted heap a few links from D’Jenn, his neck turned at an unnatural angle. The Cultist’s eyes were frozen in a wide expression of shock and fear, his pupils dilated different sizes. At first D’Jenn thought he was dead, but then he realized that there were pitiful, choking noises coming from the man’s throat. D’Jenn sighed and drew his mace into his right hand. He rose, leaning heavily on his good right elbow, and strode stiffly over to the injured man.

  “Gods damn you, and all your brothers,” D’Jenn hissed, and he hefted his morningstar like a blacksmith’s hammer and brought it down on the man’s head. It broke with a wet cracking sound, and gore splattered D’Jenn’s face and arm. Bits of the man’s brain were dashed onto ground, grayish pink mingled with the red spray of the Cultist’s blood. D’Jenn spat on his body as he stepped over him.

  ****

  Night had fallen when Dormael caught sight of Shawna and D’Jenn riding back into camp. His cousin’s left arm hung useless at his side and he winced with every jarring step of Mist’s hooves. They led a train of three horses that Dormael surmised to be the mounts of the now dead Cultists. Dormael turned from the saddlebags he was tying up on Horse and rushed over to them.

  “What happened?” he asked, reaching a hand up to help his cousin dismount.

  “Damned whoreson shot me through the arm,” D’Jenn grunted as he was helped down, “we need to leave but I don’t think I can ride very far in this condition.”

  “What about you Shawna, are you alright?” Dormael asked.

  “I’m fine,” she replied, swinging a shapely leg down from Charlotte, “just see to D’Jenn.”

  Dormael helped his cousin to the fire pit they had dug earlier and with a vague gesture brought the wood inside instantly to light. He pulled a knife from his belt and with a protesting grunt from D’Jenn he cut away his cousin’s shirt so he could get a better look at his wound. He whistled through his teeth as he examined the injury. The bolt was still stuck in D’Jenn’s arm and wet, red blood still oozed from around it.

  “Shawna,” he said, looking over at the girl, “I’m going to need a pot of water from the pond, as clean as you can manage it. Bethany, go over to my rucksack and pull out the black wooden case, please. It should be somewhere near the top.” Both Shawna and Bethany rushed to obey him.

  “How in the Six Hells did you manage to get shot?” Dormael asked, touching the bolt gingerly and getting an angry growl in response.

  “Guess I ended up in the path of a crossbow bolt, coz,” D’Jenn replied, his voice dripping acid sarcasm.

  “Well just so you know,” Dormael quipped, “One should usually try to get out of the way of such things.”

  “I’ll try and remember that,” D’Jenn grumbled as Shawna came back with the pot of water. Bethany brought Dormael his case and he opened it, laying out a long curved needle and a length of dark thread. Then he rose and stalked over to D’Jenn’s saddlebags, pulling out one of his cousin’s dark grey shirts. Using his knife, he cut the shirt into long strips.

  “Do you have to use that?” D’Jenn asked irritably.

  “Your wound, your shirt,” Dormael shot back. D’Jenn just sighed and stared back into the fire. “Shawna, do me a favor and hang that pot over the fire.” Shawna obliged him, and with another vague gesture he brought the water to a sharp boil. He dumped the strips of D’Jenn’s shirt into the water. Sighing, he sat down next to his cousin, scooting close so that he could get his hands easily on the wound.

  “Are you ready, coz?” Dormael asked, gripping both sides of the bolt sticking into D’Jenn’s arm.

  “Eindor’s eyes, cousin, get it over with,” D’Jenn grunted through clenched teeth.

  With a sharp motion, Dormael broke the head off of the offending bolt and pulled the rest quickly through D’Jenn’s shoulder. His cousin stifled a cry of pain and pounded his good hand into the dirt a few times, eyes squeezed shut. D’Jenn’s eyes scowled murder at Dormael, but the wizard only went on about the business of cleaning the wound.

  Using one of the strips of his cousin’s shirt, Dormael wiped the blood and dirt from D’Jenn’s arms with careful ministrations. When he was done he discarded the piece of grey cloth and took up the needle and thread. D’Jenn hissed quietly with each poke as the needle went into his skin, pulling the thread through behind it. Four stitches later, Dormael began wrapping his cousin’s shoulder in the makeshift bandages and began to clean up his healing supplies.

  “I didn’t know that you were trained in the healing arts,” Shawna commented, bending down to inspect the bandages around D’Jenn’s arm.

  “All wizards are taught some basic human aid at the Conclave,” Dormael replied, stuffing his dark wooden case back into his rucksack, “Especially wizards in our particular line of work.”

  “We must make ready to ride,” D’Jenn grunted, struggling up from his sitting position by the fire, “There could be more Cultists coming, not to mention the carrion eaters all this blood will attract.”

  “Not tonight, coz,” Dormael argued, “You’re injured and in no condition to ride right now, not to mention that in this country we could risk one of the horses turning an ankle in the dark.”

  “Or we could stay here and risk getting shot full of arrows or chopped up by swords,” D’Jenn shot back.

  “The blood has been cleaned, the bodies moved, and I can set up some wards around the campsite. They’ll not take us by surprise, and there will be surprises waiting for anyone who tries to get through the wards as well.”

  “Remember their armor? The magic won’t work correctly on them. Things could go very, very wrong,” D’Jenn said.

  “I can trigger the wards on something besides them, like surrounding rocks or something. I can do it, cousin, they’ll not get past, and if they do we’ll be ready for them,” Dormael assured him. D’Jenn appeared to be considering it, and Dormael knew that his cousin didn’t want to climb back in the saddle for another long ride. Finally, after a minute or two, D’Jenn nodded his head.

  “Fine, we’ll stay. What are the chances that there are more of them anyways?” D’Jenn agreed.

  “Good, I’ll get everything ready then. Shawna, pull out the bedrolls if you please. We’ll be sleepi
ng simple tonight.” With that, Dormael slipped off into the night to prepare their defenses.

  Two hours later Dormael returned and began stacking piles of rocks and pebbles around the campsite. He walked around, dropping the rocks unceremoniously to the ground, and when Shawna looked at him with the question in her eyes he simply shrugged and said, “Just in case.” Shawna only shrugged and turned over to try and get some sleep.

  Dormael sighed and plopped to the ground atop his bedroll, running through a mental checklist of the protection he had laid about the camp. The first ring of wards was an alarm – a spell that would wake him when the grass on the inside of the ring was trampled. After that, they only got nastier. First there would be flying rocks, then knee – deep mud to trample through. The mud would also buy Dormael time to use the pebbles he had collected. Pebbles weren’t much of a weapon by themselves, but when they were racing at immeasurable speed towards someone’s head, they were quite formidable.

  Stretching, Dormael lay back on his pallet and pulled his blanket over his body and up to his neck. He ran the events of the day through his mind, and shuddered a bit when he thought about taking the form of the great lion. In two short minutes, sleep took him down into darkness.

  It wasn’t the sudden magical screaming of an alarm ward in his head, but the pleasant smell of Sweetpenny tea that woke Dormael the next morning. Turning over in his blankets, he spotted D’Jenn by the fire brewing up a batch of their morning favorite. Dormael rose and joined him.

  The cousins drank their tea in silence, and didn’t break it when Shawna rose and came to sit by the fire as well. The morning was gray and overcast, and the washed-out color of their surroundings seemed to bleed over into the companions and bring their moods to a somber weariness. Dormael drank his tea slowly, letting it fill him with warmth and energy.

  After Bethany woke the party began to break camp, still with the silence laying over them like a thick blanket. Bedrolls were packed, dirt was kicked over the coals, and the horses were prepared. Dormael released his wards as they mounted up, and as the first drops of cool rain fell from the clouds above they rode northward once more.

  Around midday they began to climb into the northern highlands of Soirus – Gamerit, and the light drizzle became a heavy, cold thunderstorm. The gentle hills became craggy, and the road snaked steadily upwards. The Runemian Mountains appeared on the horizon, wreathed in misty clouds that Dormael suspected were the cause of the current downpour. Still the road climbed into the mountains.

  The footing grew treacherous on the muddy road as the grade became steeper. After they almost lost a pack horse to a slipped hoof, D’Jenn called a halt and they made camp well before dark inside a large cave. Since there was ample time between the making of camp and the cooking of supper, Dormael took steps to care for his guitar in the cool wet elements. Since the mood was still weary and quiet, no one begged for a song and Dormael put his instrument away after performing his maintenance and didn’t pluck one string.

  He sat instead in quiet meditation, tuning out the noises of those around him and becoming lost instead in the steady whisper of the rain outside. Thunder rolled across the darkened clouds with a sound not unlike a rockslide, and Dormael could feel his magic thrumming in time with the awesome power of nature. He opened his Kai and reached out with his senses, losing himself in the storm and riding the currents of wind that tore through the passes with reckless abandon.

  He thought that no more than a few minutes had gone by, but he was drawn from his reverie by Shawna’s light tap on his shoulder.

  “Dinner,” she said, offering him a piece of dried beef between two slices of peasant bread and a piece of yellow cheese. He took the food without a reply and began to gnaw dejectedly on the tough sandwich. The interior of the cave was inky black, like a hole in the night itself. The rain continued to whisper and the thunder continued to rumble, and Dormael washed his sandwich down with a draught of cool water from his water skin.

  He used magic to dry himself and his clothing, not wanting to spend the time performing the action by more usual and mundane methods. Dormael moved his bedroll farther back into the dark cave and found a corner to be alone. Climbing into his blankets, he let the sound of the storm outside carry him down into another deep sleep.

  Over the next two days they climbed higher and higher into the mountains as the road snaked along sheer drops, up steep grades, and doubled back on itself to avoid obstacles. The sky was a shifting expanse of leaden grey as the sunlight tried without success to beat its way through the cloud cover, and it seemed to Dormael that the rain would never let up. The weather was either a light, cool drizzle or a driving, frozen downpour and Dormael wished that spring would hurry and come around the bend.

  Shawna continued to flirt with Dormael from time to time, and Dormael continued to allow it. D’Jenn continued to smile, shake his head, and send Dormael sly expressions that implied a world full of dangers if he let it go on. Dormael continued to ignore him.

  In the afternoon of the third day, as the sun finally found a hole in the clouds and the rain finally moved on into the valleys of the south, the party crested a particularly steep rise, and the highlands of northern Soirus – Gamerit spread out before them. In the distance the Runemian Mountains towered over the landscape like silent, snow-capped guardians, and the highlands spread out below them like a rumpled, brownish green blanket. Evergreens grew freely along the gentle hills and plateaus, and the wetness of the passing rain reflected the sunlight and caused the scene almost to sparkle. Dormael smiled and took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air.

  “We’re only about a day’s travel from home, now,” he declared to his friends, “This time tomorrow we’ll be drinking firewine and telling stories by the hearth.”

  “And your mother will be doting over Bethany like a mother hen, and Shawna will be dragged away for women’s talk,” D’Jenn added with a smile on his face.

  “Maybe we’ll have time for a hunt,” Dormael mused, and D’Jenn’s answering smile said that if they didn’t, they could make the time.

  “Do you two really think you’re going to go off hunting while you leave the two of us sitting around?” Shawna objected, her eyebrows rising in a dangerous expression.

  “In a word,” D’Jenn shot back, “Yes.”

  Shawna’s mouth dropped open in an expression of offense and insult and she looked to Dormael, perhaps for some explanation or help. Dormael only winked at her and spurred Horse after D’Jenn.

  “I want to go hunting,” Bethany announced, doing her best to turn and look at Dormael from her place at the front of his saddle.

  “And you will, dearest,” Dormael assured her, patting her on the head, “when you’re older.”

  Two minutes later Shawna caught up to Dormael and D’Jenn, who were riding together and discussing the weather. She handed off the lead to the train of horses they had acquired to Dormael and said, “I’ve been hunting before, you know. My father kept two packs of dogs and a pen of foxes just for that purpose.” D’Jenn laughed at her, earning another scowl from the noblewoman.

  “We’ll not be hunting foxes and using dogs to do our work for us, Shawna,” D’Jenn explained, “We’ll be on foot, hunting harts with bows most likely. You’re not that good of a shot, if I remember correctly.”

  “Still, I’m no washer-wife to be left back at the homestead cleaning dishes and making your dinner!” Shawna hissed.

  “You won’t be making our dinner,” D’Jenn objected, doing his best to hide the twinkle of mirth in his eyes, “You’ll probably just help to make the dinner, and probably only light scullery duty.” Dormael burst out in laughter at that point, unable to hold it back. Shawna turned cold, furious eyes on the both of them and rode a little ahead, unable to take their humor any longer.

  “Spirited girl there,” D’Jenn commented, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “Must be exciting under the sheets, eh cousin?” Dormael’s laughter choked off short.

&nb
sp; “I’m not bedding her, D’Jenn!” he argued, his voice rising to an embarrassing pitch.

  “Whatever you say, cousin,” D’Jenn laughed louder, “Whatever you say.” Dormael grumbled as D’Jenn rode past, bending over in his saddle and holding his stomach against his own amusement.

  “What does ‘bedding’ mean?” Bethany asked him, looking back at him again.

  “Nothing dear, it’s only a joke,” Dormael dismissed, and spurred Horse once again after his cousin.

  Dormael spent his time that evening practicing with his quarterstaff, working off some of his frustrations with the smooth, quick movements of imaginary battle. He spun his staff in a blinding circle, bringing it around his body and through the air around and above him, stepping, thrusting, and swinging the weapon in a blur of motion. Shawna’s lessons had paid off so far, and he was getting better. The Conclave did provide Warlocks with training on their weapon of choice, but those sessions were nothing when compared to sparring with a Marked Blademaster. By the end of his practice Dormael was covered in steaming sweat, and the air he sucked into his lungs had the thick taste of a hard workout.

  He found a small stream about a mile from camp to wash in, and he jumped quickly into it to get the shock of the cold out of the way. The creek was deep and quick, and it was nestled back into the shadows of the evergreens, away from prying eyes. The scene was really quite beautiful, and he was struck by a feeling of idle peace. The moonlight fell to the stream like silver mist, and reflected off of the water as it rushed by. It all made Dormael smile, even if the water was a little cold on his recently hard-worked muscles. He cleaned his body and his clothes, and used magic to dry off quickly. He didn’t feel much like enduring D’Jenn’s disapproving stares or Shawna’s flirtatious conversation, so he sat for awhile by the stream idly throwing rocks into the water.

  It was an eerie experience when the stag came to the stream and caught eyes with him. Dormael was certain that he’d been tossing rocks into that stream for a good hour, making enough noise to scare away any forest dwelling animal, but there it was. It strode proudly to the edge of the water, its head entering the moonlight from the shadows beyond and dipping near the brook for a drink. Dormael counted seven points on each of its fine antlers, and it was healthy and strong.