The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Fine, fine. There’s ale, wine, and dinner’s on the stove, boys. Oh, and Kendall’s here, to,” Yanette said, turning to walk inside and dragging Bethany along with her.

  “Kendall’s here?” D’Jenn and Dormael both said in unison.

  “Stopped in two nights ago, looking for you two actually, but decided to hang around a few days,” Allen explained, “He’s out with some of the workmen clearing away some scrub brush.”

  “Who’s Kendall?” Shawna asked, turning a curious look on Dormael.

  “He’s an old friend. We grew up together, and he went to Conclave around the same time as we did. He’s in the same line of work.” Dormael put a small amount of emphasis on the word work, and Shawna nodded slightly, picking up on his meaning.

  “Well, don’t hang around outside all afternoon, boys! Stable those horses and come on, there’s plenty of food for everyone,” Yanette said over her shoulder as she entered the large house.

  Harlun homestead was a sprawling compound. The main house was three stories high, with the outermost walls constructed of small, red bricks lined on the inside with red cedar. The rest of the house was built from the same soft-toned, fragrant wood, and its effect was pleasurable on the eyes and the nose. Dormael always remembered the smells of his boyhood home – cedar wood, polish, spices, wines, ales, and just the slightest hint of tobacco smoke. He took a deep breath as he crossed the threshold.

  It sufficed to say that Harlun homestead was never an empty, quiet place. Between the workmen that lived alongside his family and the constant presence of this or that uncle, of friends stopping in, and customers who always came to buy the fruits of his mother’s labors, Dormael had always felt that his home was a place of gathering. There were children running underfoot, chased constantly by the cries of mothers who were helping in the kitchen or tidying up. There were workmen who gave curt nods and warm greetings to the party as they hurried in or out of the house, seeing to this task or that job. Yanette waded through all of it, giving advice and commands in equal turns with a smile and a kind word for everyone. Dormael always thought of it as his mother’s own personal touch of magic. She gave little bits to everyone around her, moving on to the next thing that needed her attention without pause or complaint. He smiled to see it happening just as he’d remembered it.

  Their bags were handed to children who spirited them off to hastily-prepared rooms for a smile and a pastry, and the companions were bustled through the kitchen, loaded down with food and wine, and then hurried off onto a back porch to eat. There were chairs lining the platform with curved wooden bottoms for rocking, and in one at the very far end sat a man who was in his own world.

  He was an older man; that was evident by the slate-gray hair that was tied at the nape of his neck and hung down to his back. He had a full beard of the same color, trimmed close to the skin so that it was ever hovering between long and stubbly. He sat playing an old, battered guitar made of some dark, soft wood that sang with deep, full tones, and the music that flowed from it was haunting and sad. His eyes were closed as he plucked the strings, moving his big callused hands across the frets in almost unbelievable delicacy. He hummed with the music rather than sang, and his voice was gravelly and deep. He wore a pair of slippers that were the husbands to the ones on Yanette’s feet, the folds of loose, dark woolen pants bunched up at the ankles atop them. His shirt was tight and black and long sleeved much like Dormael’s own.

  “Pop!”

  Saul Harlun looked up from his guitar with an almost bleary-eyed expression, the music cutting off suddenly. He smiled a deep grin and set his guitar aside, rising to give Dormael a one armed embrace.

  “Hey old son,” Saul said warmly, patting Dormael roughly on the back and trying to avoid dumping the plate of food in his hands at the same time, “It’s good to see you. You, Allen, and D’Jenn all in the same house again. I smell trouble coming, alright. Kendall’s here, did your mother mention it?”

  “She did. She’s off in the kitchen, seeing to the food and all that.”

  “I imagine she put some of her wine in your hands, then?”

  “She did.”

  “Well, here, try this instead and let me know what you think,” Saul turned and bent over to pick up a large clay mug that was sitting on the other side of his rocking chair, and handed it to Dormael, “It’s my own new recipe. You try it to, D’Jenn.”

  Dormael placed his own wine on the floor next to the rocking chair beside his father’s and took a long pull from the clay mug. A slightly bittersweet taste, thick with spices and undertones of a fruit that Dormael couldn’t place, entered his mouth. The ale was thick and heady, and it was some of the best he’d tasted in a long while. He finished the draught with a deep sigh and passed the mug to D’Jenn.

  “It’s good, pop. It’s very good, in fact,” Dormael nodded, smacking his lips. D’Jenn finished his own drink and grunted his agreement, then took another pull.

  Saul snorted, “Good? I’ve been working on that since the Spring Equinox, and all you have to say is good?”

  “Good is an all-encompassing compliment, pop,” Allen piped up, walking over to join them.

  “It tastes like…goodbyes. Goodbyes and sweet memories – is that good enough for you, old man?” Dormael teased him, poking his father in the ribs.

  “Aye, now there’s a pretty good description. There’s a barrel in the kitchen, you can find the mugs yourself,” Saul seemed to notice Shawna for the first time, “Well hello, there girl. My, you’re the pretty one, aren’t you? How’d you fall in with these troublemakers?”

  “Hello,” Shawna smiled, offering the formal Sevenlander bow again, “I’m Shawna.”

  “I’m Saul, and there’s no need for all that formality here, girl. You showed up with my sons and my nephew, and that’s good enough for me. Well, you three have a seat, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “Ah, pop, you might want to wait a bit to sit back down. Mom is inside with your new granddaughter,” Allen said around a mouthful of food, “Dormael adopted a little girl.”

  “What?” Saul’s eyes grew wide and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face, “And this is the first you boys are saying about it?”

  “You hadn’t asked yet,” Dormael said. Saul snorted and shook his head, then rushed inside to see his new granddaughter for the first time.

  “He seems very nice,” Shawna said, sitting in the rocking chair beside Dormael’s and drinking a sip of wine.

  “That’s our dad. Forever the charmer, forever the drinker,” Allen laughed, stuffing another bite of food into his mouth. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  Dormael and D’Jenn looked to each other, and then began to talk. They told Allen everything, glossing over a few of the more minute details and focusing more on the breadth of their mission. He listened, inserting a few questions here and there, nodding and frowning into his food. Finally when the tale was done, he sighed and set his empty plate aside, then went back into the house.

  He emerged a few moments later with mugs of Saul’s heady ale for Dormael and D’Jenn, and another glass of wine for Shawna. He sighed and sat back down in his rocking chair, and gazed off at the view of the mountains that lined the northern side of the plateau. Finally, he began to talk.

  “So, basically what you’re saying is that the Galanians are after you for this strange piece of jewelry you’re carrying around. You have to get to Ishamael to find out what it is, where it came from, and why it is so important.”

  “That’s the gist of it, yes,” D’Jenn nodded, taking a drink of ale.

  “And it sounds like it’s dangerous. You said that it sort of…thinks? Is that the right word?”

  “We’re not sure. It has some sort of sentience; we know that because it tries to tell us things, through dreams and empathic messages. We’re not sure what it wants,” Dormael said.

  “And where are the Red Swords? It doesn’t sound like borders mean much to them, what with the way they cam
e into Ferolan uninvited and tried to apprehend you there. You haven’t seen them since Alderak?” Allen asked.

  “No, but we’re sure that they’re on our trail somewhere. We just hope that they’re far enough behind that it won’t matter right now. Dargorin had agents in place in Alderak. He’d sent money and word of our arrival ahead of us to Borders, but we got lucky with Hadrick. We’re hoping that he doesn’t have any agents here at home,” Dormael said.

  “Fat fucking chance of that,” Allen commented, “money buys a lot of friends, even here.”

  “We’re hoping to slip through as quickly as possible. The Mekai will know what to do about this,” D’Jenn said.

  “It could mean war, you know,” Allen said, “Galania has been on the warpath the past couple of years anyway. If they violate the Sevenlands…”

  “It could ignite another Great War, we know. That’s why we have to keep this business as secret as we can. We have to get the armlet to the Mekai. The Conclave is the only place it’s safe,” D’Jenn nodded.

  “The Conclave may not be as safe as you remember, coz,” Allen said, “There’ve been rumors of an altercation in the wizarding community. Some sort of struggle over leadership.”

  “That’s absurd,” Dormael spat, a little anger rising in his voice, “The Mekai serves for life.”

  Allen held his hands up in a placating gesture, “Just repeating what I’ve heard. I have no idea how politics work inside the Conclave. No one does, except wizards. You’re a secretive group.”

  The words were just out of Allen’s mouth when a man walked up towards the porch. He was tall, leanly muscled and moved with a happy bounce to his step. He smiled, his teeth splitting a cleft chin and a strong nose, and his eyes were a deep green. He ran a hand through brown, messy hair as he mounted the steps to the porch. He wore a thick waist-length coat with thorns embroidered down the arms and dark leather pants tucked into traveler’s boots.

  “Kendall! I’d heard you were around here,” Dormael smiled, rising to greet his old friend.

  “I was helping out around the vineyard. Scrub brush and such things, you know. I came looking for you, actually, but your dad’s ale has kept me here a few days longer than I’d planned to stay.” Kendall grasped hands with Dormael and D’Jenn, shot Allen a nod and was introduced to Shawna. He went inside to grab a mug of ale and came back out to sit with the companions.

  “You two on vacation? Did you make it to Tauravon for the Festival of Frost?” Kendall asked, pulling a rocking chair up and plopping down in it.

  “Actually no, something came up and we’re headed back to Ishamael,” Dormael said.

  “Damn. Just when you get some free time, they take it right back from you, eh?”

  “I’ll drink to that,” D’Jenn said, clacking mugs with everyone and taking a drink. Dormael’s nose was beginning to get tingly from the ale.

  “I’m actually heading to Alderak now. The Galanians are on the move again,” Kendall said off-handedly, taking a drink from his mug. Dormael and D’Jenn looked at each other, but kept their faces flat.

  “Finally pushing into Moravia then? They stopped there last time, after they sacked Shundov. No one seems to know why,” Allen said.

  “No,” Kendall shook his head, “They’re moving north, into Thardin, believe it or not.”

  “Thardin?” Dormael, D’Jenn, and Shawna all exclaimed in unison.

  “Doesn’t make any sense, I know,” Kendall shrugged, “The Mekai wants me to find out why.”

  “But how is he going to hold Shundovia and Neleka? How is he going to keep the Moravians from pushing north into his conquered territories? Evmir’s Hammer, he almost had Solace Island in his claws, and that could finance a war for years and years!” D’Jenn added, shaking his head.

  “I don’t pretend to know the mind of the tyrant Dargorin,” Kendall replied, “But I’m supposed to get over there and find out what is so important in Thardin. There has to be something there that Dargorin wants.”

  The companions all looked at each other, and Dormael’s stomach filled with dread. Could there be another artifact with the kind of power that Shawna’s armlet wields, just laying around out there for someone to find?

  “Thardin is rich with iron ore, and their smiths are purported to be the best in Alderak. Perhaps that is what he is after,” D’Jenn said vaguely, “Or perhaps the Thardish King has slighted him in some way.”

  “More chance of the latter,” Allen said, “He had weapons enough to expand into Neleka and Shundovia, so why suddenly get a craving for Thardish steel? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not to mention that marching to war in the middle of winter will cost him more than he could gain. The Thardish are notorious for being hardy warriors, and it’s mountainous country up there. Right now Thardin is probably waist-deep in snow. They’ll keep him stalled until spring, at least,” Dormael added.

  “The whole country is dotted with castles and keeps as well,” Kendall said, “The Galanians will have to take them one by one, or risk getting attacked from behind. The old Hammer and Anvil tactic works wonders up there, with the mountain passes restricting troop movements. He’s risking a great deal.”

  “Foolish,” Allen nodded.

  “It could be a feint of some sort,” D’Jenn mused, rubbing his goatee, “A distraction from something else he is up to.”

  “That’s a damn expensive distraction,” Kendall said.

  “Well,” Dormael said, rising from his seat as he finished his mug, “I need to get settled into my room and get a bath. I’ll see you all afterwards.” Dormael made his way into the house and mounted a wooden staircase that led up to the third floor. He mused on what Kendall had told them as his boots clomped up the stairs and onto the landing up top. He didn’t want to believe it, but with the events that had happened to Shawna it seemed like King Dargorin was collecting Infused items. If that was even what you could call Shawna’s armlet – it didn’t have the same power that an Infused item did. It was like comparing a mountain to a pebble.

  Still, how had Dargorin found out about the armlet, when wizards like himself and D’Jenn had never seen anything remotely like it?

  It only stood to reason that there was something written about it somewhere. If that was the case, then the Mekai would know something, or at least be able to point them in the right direction. Dormael hoped he could, anyway.

  A few minutes later Dormael lounged back in a large copper tub full of water that he’d heated with magic. He let his mind wander away from their mission and everything that had happened since Ferolan, and almost unconsciously began to meditate. The sounds of the bustling house faded away, and soon Dormael was adrift in the sea of his own mind.

  Shawna intruded on his thoughts, and he thought about the way she’d embraced him earlier. He thought about her supple body pressed warmly to his. He thought about her smile, her smell and the way she’d looked the day of the mud fight, wet shirt pasted to her breasts.

  Dormael realized what he was doing and stopped himself short of getting excited. He got out of the bath and dressed quickly, trying to banish the red-headed girl from his thoughts.

  His room was almost as he remembered it as a child. The old wooden bed still sat huddled into a corner near a window that faced the southern horizon. He’d enjoyed gazing out at the landscape as a boy, dreaming about roaming over the green hills and evergreen forests in the summertime. There was a dresser on the opposite side of the bed against the eastern wall, and there were still a few knick-knacks scattered about its surface. A rock with quartz growing from the side that he’d found as a boy, a piece of ancient wood hardened to stone with age, and another rock that had a strange footprint branded into it somehow. It was a large, three-toed footprint, like a bird – if a bird could grow to the size of a small horse.

  He smiled as he picked each thing up and turned them over, running his fingers over them lovingly and letting the feel of them transport him to the past. He remembered the day he and
Allen had found the footprint-rock (as they’d dubbed it, adding a note of mystery into their voices whenever they’d said it) and had set off in search of whatever beast could leave a print like that in solid stone. They had told D’Jenn of it when he came to visit for the summer, and the three of them roamed the forests around the homestead, hunting for The Beast. They kept it secret from Dormael’s parents, for such a great discovery was indeed earth-shattering, and couldn’t be trusted to adults who would only scoff at the existence of The Beast. It was up to them.

  They’d never found anything, of course, but those summer hunts were some of the best times in Dormael’s life. They would run into the woods everyday that they could, ranging out more and more each day, and the discoveries they’d made were indeed astounding to children of their age. They’d found a great tree that had been struck by lightning (which they’d promptly decided was proof that The Beast could breathe fire) and a secluded stream that ran into a small waterfall that was the perfect size for swimming on the hot summer days. They found an old rusted sword, which led them to an ancient skeleton, half-buried in the earth. They’d spent an entire day digging a grave and building a monument out of vines, sticks, and the old rusted sword itself, and had buried the remains inside and held a small ceremony. They dubbed that spot The Warrior thereafter, and of course deduced that the hero had died fighting The Beast.

  Dormael turned towards the opposite wall and looked upon an old wooden cabinet that reached from the floor to four hands above Dormael’s own head. He smiled widely again and strode over to it, opening the small brass hasp that kept it closed.

  Inside was a spear. It was nearly as long as the cabinet and Dormael had to tilt it slightly to pull it out. The haft was made of dark, almost black wood that was sanded just to the edge of smooth, so that it wouldn’t slide unintentionally through a sweaty hand, but also so that it wouldn’t split and leave splinters. Upon the butt end of the spear was a short, dully colored steel spike that could act in equal measures as counterweight, anchor, or punch. The head was surmounted by a leaf-shaped blade of gleaming steel, sharpened on all sides into a razor-edge. It was a weapon made for war, a tool for killing. It had been a long time since Dormael had handled it.