The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Well, you could go down to the south, and deal with the Rashardians for awhile, and that could be fun,” Dormael said with the tone of someone offering a better option, “Or you could come with D’Jenn and I, get some of the same experience fighting Red Swords or Aeglar Cultists, and get the chance to learn to fight alongside some wizards. Not everyone gets that chance, since you’re not going to get it in a tournament or turning back raiders or even in a full pitched battle. Plus, Shawna is a full Blademaster, and believe it or not she could teach you a thing or two about the blade.”

  Allen grew quiet as he thought about it. Dormael knew he’d piqued his interest. “Plus,” Dormael went on, “We need you, brother. We’re not sure where this journey is going to take us. Originally we thought that we’d just skip up to Ishamael, deliver the armlet and be done with it, but now I’m not so sure. With what Kendall told us yesterday, there seems to be more going on than what we’d originally thought, and if there really is a power struggle in the Conclave then things could get murky before it’s all over. It would be a chance to do something important.”

  Allen sighed and grunted his assent, “I’ll go. All you had to do is ask, anyway. I do have one condition, though.”

  “What condition?” Dormael asked, smiling.

  “You take the spear. Dad made it for you, so take it with you. If things get as bad as you say they will, then you’ll need a good weapon anyway. I’ll go if you take the damned spear.”

  Dormael hadn’t expected that. When he was younger he’d viewed the weapon as a statement of what his father had wanted for him, to be a spearman in the tribal army. Though his dad had been happy when they’d discovered that Dormael was Blessed, he’d always been just a little more in tune with Allen and his victories in the Tournament. As Dormael had grown a little older, though, he’d started to see it with a more mature point of view. He’d realized that it had simply been a gift, the passing of a legacy from father to son, and his reasons for not taking it changed from resistance to regret. He’d left the symbol of what his dad could give him to help him out in the world behind, and he knew that his father felt that he’d rejected him. Though it wasn’t the truth, Dormael hadn’t addressed the subject for fear of bringing those feelings out into the open. Men just didn’t do that.

  “Done,” Dormael said, nodding, “The spear comes, then. To tell you the truth I’ve been meaning to come up here and get it, I’ve just been caught up with my own work lately and haven’t been able to come home.”

  “Liar. You’ve been avoiding it like the plague is what, but the important thing is that you’re going to take it. When do we leave?”

  “As soon as everyone is ready. Time is of the essence.”

  “I’ll need to pack my things, then. Give me an hour or two to get ready.”

  A few hours later Dormael found himself held in a tight embrace by the tiny form of his mother, who was crying quietly into his chest. He would have extricated himself from the embarrassing hug, but Yanette was his mother and if she wanted to cry then she could damn well do it. He murmured soothing things into his mother’s wild expanse of red hair and told her that they would all be fine. D’Jenn was smirking at him from behind her, and he just smirked back and shook his head. His mother cried every time she saw them, during greetings and goodbyes.

  Saul seemed to be awash in his own stream of quiet emotion. Upon seeing Dormael with the spear he’d simply smiled and clapped his eldest son on the back, but Dormael knew that the old man was feeling a good deal more than what he was expressing. His father’s emotions generally only came out in his music.

  Both Yanette and Saul doted over Bethany as much as they could, as if they were cramming a lifetime’s worth of grand-parenting into a few moments, and they gave up the girl almost jealously as she was placed up into Horse’s saddle. Bethany was smiling like the sun and she took it all in with the exuberance of childhood. Dormael felt a little guilty for bringing her by for such a short visit before taking her straight to the Conclave. He promised himself (and both his parents, on threat of violence to his person) that he’d bring her back for a holiday or two and an extended visit as soon as her studies and his schedule allowed.

  D’Jenn received warm hugs from Yanette and a rough handshake from Saul, and promised them that he would not only return soon, but would visit his own parents when he got the time. D’Jenn took it like he always did, saying only what needed to be said, and not lingering on conversation. Dormael admired his ability to slide easily from such things.

  Shawna looked a little worse for drinking so much the night before, but she said her own goodbyes with grace and poise and radiant smiles. She’d cleaned up well, and though she was more pale than usual and her eyes were a bit sunken, she still carried herself with a casual beauty that made Dormael remember the way her body had felt against him. As for that, she acted like nothing had happened between them, and Dormael started to wonder if she remembered anything of it. It gnawed at him a little, but he pushed it down.

  Allen appeared during the goodbyes. He moved down the front steps of the house, laden with bundles and a rucksack that was as large as Bethany was tall. His appearance was startling to say the least, and everyone’s eyes turned to follow his movements incredulously.

  Allen carried more weapons than Dormael thought any one man could successfully learn to use, much less employ during the course of any fight they may encounter. He had the spear that he’d used during the sparring match with Dormael on the day prior, a targe with a long spike thrusting up from the center of its face, and an overly large curving sword that was sheathed on his left side – and those were only the large weapons he carried.

  Hanging from a loop on his right side he carried a one handed axe that Dormael knew Allen could throw as well as use in close quarters melee. He had a long dirk sheathed in each boot, one strapped to his thigh, and an old gladius-style short sword that he carried in his hand. On top of all of that, his right forearm and fist was covered in a steel bracer-gauntlet combination that augmented his knuckles with short spikes. It looked more like a brawler’s weapon than anything else, and Dormael shivered at the thought of getting punched with it.

  His brother sauntered over to the horse that the party had set aside for him, a painted mare that he’d named Old Girl, and began to tie on his saddlebags as if everyone weren’t staring at him. For armor his brother wore a lamellar-style cuirass and a leather battle skirt that had holsters for ten throwing knives worked into it, all of them full. He had a helm tucked under one arm, a simple steel skullcap with cheek and nose plates that was covered in a layer of embroidered leather. Allen dropped his bundles and rucksack and took a look back at everyone staring at him.

  “What?” he said, cocking a smirk back at the companions.

  “We were just wondering where the war is,” D’Jenn retorted, “and whether or not you were planning on outfitting the entire army or just a legion or two with those weapons. What happened? Couldn’t you decide on just one?”

  Snickers broke out among the party and Saul shook his head and laughed outright.

  “Well,” Allen said, taking a deep breath and taking up his spear, “This is for stabbing, lancing, and throwing.” He indicated his big, curving sword, “This is for slicing people in half.” He picked the axe up from its loop, “This is for chopping. Really, must I go on? Everything has a purpose.”

  “Yes, but why bring them all?” D’Jenn shot back, smiling at his cousin.

  “Why in the Six Hells not?”

  Everyone shared a laugh at that, and Allen finished tying his bundles and rucksack onto one of the pack animals. As it turned out, one of the bundles carried yet more weapons inside, including a longbow made of yew and a full quiver of iron headed arrows. Allen turned then to Shawna and looked her up and down, taking in her leather pants and white linen shirt underneath the cloak she was wrapped in for warmth.

  “You’re a warrior – don’t you wear any armor?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
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  “I do. I have a leather battle harness; I’m just not wearing it now.”

  “You may want to armor up, girl. If we make it into the mountains today there’ll be bandits in them without a doubt. It’s a nasty thing to be caught without your armor on.”

  Shawna’s eyes turned a little frosty at his comment. “I think I’ll be just fine, boy, armor or not. I don’t anticipate letting anyone hit me with anything.”

  “Neither do I,” Allen shrugged, “But it’s nice to have. Just in case you do happen to take a hit from something, you know.”

  “Well,” Dormael said loudly, cutting into the conversation before it could erupt into a full-blown argument, “we’d better be off. We have a long road ahead of us and I want to get a good start on it.”

  “Of course,” Saul nodded, stepping forward to clasp forearms with each of his sons and with D’Jenn. “You boys be careful. I don’t know what business you’re involved in of late, but I can tell when something is going on. You take care of each other, and take care of my little granddaughter.”

  “We will,” Dormael promised, with Allen and D’Jenn nodding in agreement. With that said, the party turned to go, waving goodbye to Dormael and Allen’s family as they made their way down the lane leading to the lonely road beyond.

  It took them a few hours to make their way back to the fork they had taken to get to Harlun Homestead and turn again to the northwest. The Runemian Mountains loomed in the distance, rocky crags carpeted in greens and browns, and toward the summits in snowy white. The air was cold and the sun bright as it reached its noonday apex, and the party all rode mostly in silence, taking in the sights. The going was easy for the first few hours of their travel across the Soirus-Gamerit highlands, but toward the end of the day the road started to snake upwards as they reached the foothills of the mountains.

  “We should make camp here,” D’Jenn declared, drawing Mist to an easy halt, “We’ll leave the climbing for the morrow. The horses could lame easily in the fading light.” Allen fell easily into the routine that the companions had established, and took the horses off to picket them nearby. Dinner was made and everyone settled near the fire to share it.

  Allen offered to show Dormael a few things about the spear, and Dormael accepted. They had a short sparring match and a quick lesson from Allen, who despite the fact that he acted overconfident and brash at times, turned out to be an excellent teacher. Shawna watched from her seat near the fire, taking in the session silently and gauging the abilities of the fellow warrior in a professional interest.

  Dormael still wondered what Shawna thought when she looked at him. She’d shown no behavior that indicated to him that she remembered anything at all about their short tussle the night before. He knew that he shouldn’t grow angry over it, but he couldn’t help but start to feel a sullen resentment to the girl for being so fiery one second, and then cold and silent the next. It was maddening.

  Over the next couple of days they travelled through the foothills leading into the mountains. The mountains themselves stood silent and enormous, like ancient guardians of the land beyond. Dormael began to feel a menacing quiet in his bones. Growing up, he and his brother heard horror stories from travelers and old men who claimed that the spirits of the mountains were hostile to men. The truth, Dormael learned after attending lessons in the Conclave, was that during the Second Great War many wizards had died in these very same mountains, ambushed by the Dannons and Thardish who cut them down with hails of arrows and crushed them with the force of sheer numbers. It had taken many campaigns to free the mountain passes of their presence.

  When a wizard died, it left a mark of sorts on the place the death occured. The effect had never really been studied at length, but the general theory was that the effect depended upon the wizard himself and the way he’d passed. If he died peacefully, then there would usually be a feeling of peace and serenity, a sort of imprint of magic that stamped itself onto the earth. However, these had all died violently, and there were many of them. Dormael, if he came this way, usually flew straight through in bird form and didn’t stop in the mountains. He’d never been through by land, but he’d heard a few horror stories of howling ghosts and curious coincidences that led to doom.

  Looking around, he could tell that his friends were feeling the odd sensation, too. Shawna sat scowling at nothing, twirling one long lock of red hair in her fingers. D’Jenn hunched his shoulders and peered suspiciously around at the trees, searching for enemies in the shadows. Allen rode at the forefront, knuckles white on the spear he carried point-up in his stirrup, and even as Dormael watched, he loosened the targe on his back and brought the shield to bear in his left hand, as if he expected an ambush. Bethany, however, rode along as usual, humming to herself and rapping his goatee on the saddle horn, as if she were the happiest girl in the world. Dormael couldn’t help but feel like the melody coming from her tiny form was just a bit creepy in the quiet setting when combined with the feeling in the air. He felt as if the mountains themselves were about to spring upon them from some unseen place.

  The feeling continued over the next couple of days, as they entered a narrow pass that snaked back and forth through the mountains and funneled wind through it in a perpetual breeze that bordered on being immensely irritating. Dormael grew sullen and snappy, responding to questions with one-word answers and avoiding conversation as much as possible. It wasn’t hard, considering that everyone else seemed to prefer to ride in silence as well. At night they could hear snarls and noises of things moving unseen in the dark around them, and instead of feeling at peace in nature as he usually did, Dormael felt hostile and on his guard, as if a predator stalked them from somewhere in the night. He began to ride with his Kai ready, and his magical senses told him that D’Jenn had started to long before he had. Everyone drew in upon themselves, and it was for that reason that no one saw the attack coming.

  As twilight drew long shadows across the road ahead of them and twisted their surroundings into a mass of dark spaces and hidden nooks, Dormael heard a thunking sound, as if someone were chopping wood somewhere nearby. He looked up to see Allen holding his targe out with a surprised look in his eyes, an arrow buried in the round shield just above the long, wicked spike. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

  “Bandits!” Allen roared, kicking his horse into motion and freeing his spear from his stirrup. There was a mass of flicking sounds, and Dormael looked up to see no fewer than ten men in the crags above them loose arrows into flight right down at the companions. D’Jenn reacted with lightning fast speed, calling up a magical shield that coalesced into being above them and deflected the arrows with little explosions of energy that caused some to break and others to go whirling off into the shadows.

  “Dormael! The archers!” D’Jenn called with an expression of strain on his face and beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. The effort of producing a shield that large was vast, and he wouldn’t be able to hold it for long. Dormael reached for his magic and called it up to bear against their attackers.

  Fire roared into being in the passes above them, rolling along in a tide of bright orange fury that set everything in its path alight with angry flames. Men screamed as they were set afire, and a few leapt from the rocks above in fright, only to land in broken heaps in the pass below with sickening thumps. Bethany screamed in alarm.

  “Ride!” Dormael shouted, and kicked Horse into a run, pulling the pack animals along behind him. D’Jenn and Shawna obliged, and whipped their own mounts into a gallop, following Allen down the pass. Shawna drew one of her swords as she spurred Charlotte forward while D’Jenn released the shield, and Dormael felt him gathering power and readying it. Dormael did the same.

  The road snaked over a small rise that obscured sight of the path beyond, and as Dormael topped it he saw his brother enter the battle like a raging animal. A group of men blocked the road before him, and at first glance there appeared to be only six of them, but
Dormael could see more in the shadows rushing towards the oncoming party, all the while pulling weapons from sheaths and hidden places in the rocks around them.

  Allen had crouched in his saddle, pulling his shield up to cover as much of his body as possible, and tucked his long spear up under his right arm as he controlled his mount with the pressure of his knees. The trained Cultist horse responded well to his direction, and at Allen’s bidding he bore down on one surprised bandit, the man crouching as if to roll to the side and away from Allen’s mad rush. The effort was in vain.

  Even as the man began to turn aside, Allen rose in his stirrups and braced his body, the point of his spear homing in on the man like a falcon turning to dive onto a fleeing bird. The spear took him in the ribs with a sickening crash of impact, and the man let out a pitiful gasp of startled pain as the weapon lifted him from his feet and sent him hurtling to the ground in a heap of ripped body and rigid spear. Allen abandoned the weapon as he rushed past, leaving it sticking from the disabled man like a toothpick sticking from an apple. He aimed a crushing kick at another bandit as he rode past that caught him square in the face, and sent him spinning away, blood flying through the air in a stream of droplets that spattered onto the dusty path underneath. Old Girl rode down another man that jumped into their path, and as Allen’s rush took him through the pack of men, he turned and with a sinuous motion pulled the large curving sword from its sheath and brandished it over his head, shouting a cry of rage and defiance at the startled bandits. Allen meant to turn and fight rather than rush through the group of bandits and flee.

  D’Jenn crashed into the melee at that point, laying his mace about him in large, circular swipes that crashed into shields and crushed men’s skulls with every other impact, but the bandits had successfully closed the gaps in their line that Allen had opened, and they stopped D’Jenn’s advance and hemmed him up on the other side, forcing him to draw his horse up into a rearing halt. D’Jenn kept his seat with practiced horsemanship and faced down the closing group of highwaymen attempting to surround him.