The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Taking a deep breath and gesturing slightly with his outstretched hands, he seized the thing in the grip of his Kai and coaxed the magic down into the wood, willing the damage to spread through the timbers like cracks over the surface of ice. He could have just used a current of water to try and wash the mud from around the wreck, but that would take a long time and could be more detrimental than beneficial. They needed to work fast, so Dormael decided to go the hard route.

  He wrapped the ship in his magic and pulled.

  It resisted him at first, and his muscles began to strain as if he were trying to lift the damned thing with his bare hands. His hands clenched into fists and began to shake. His head began to throb in time with his heart, and he felt sweat bead on his forehead and trickle slowly down to his neck.

  “Come on,” he grunted, pouring more effort into the spell.

  He pulled harder.

  Suddenly there was a great crack from beneath the surface of the water, and a sucking noise as the ship came loose from the mud of the river bottom. Before Dormael realized what was happening, the bow of the Midwife began to dip steadily toward the surface of the river, as if Dormael were the on the opposite end of a scale with the shipwreck and his magic was pushing him downward while it pulled the ship upward.

  He quickly threw one hand to the rear and diverted some of the power he was using to balance the force and spread the weight of the wrecked ship around a bit. It worked, if barely, and the dipping motion of the Midwife abated as the shipwreck teetered in the water. Dormael growled low in his throat, straining with the weight of the thing as he willed more power into the spell.

  He pulled even harder.

  He focused his mind as he never had before, pulling with every ounce of power he could will out of the magic. The masts of the ship became clear, and Dormael kept gradually pulling the thing from the water, trying to let as much of the river run clear of the wreck as he could while it slowly surfaced from the river bed.

  His whole body began to shake and grow hot – whether from physical strain or some run-off of random energy, he wasn’t sure – and still he pulled. He began to scream a little as the force seemed to crush against him, and Dormael had to divert even more power in order to brace himself before the weight of the ship. Still, he pulled.

  He opened his eyes, realizing that at some point he’d clenched them shut with the strain, and saw fully half of the ship poking from the waters. The bow was pointing straight at the sky and framed by the moon as it rose slowly from the depths. Water ran off of it and drained from inside of it, causing a great cacophony of noise as it sent the surface of the river into choppy chaos.

  Still, Dormael pulled the wreck from the dark water of the river.

  Finally, there was another great cracking noise, and the stern of the ship shattered into broken timbers. There was a great release of weight that Dormael felt as the rest of the ship rose a few links into the air before he could arrest the force he was exerting on it. The deck of the Midwife suddenly rose sharply under his feet and began to rock violently as the force on it lessened. He held tightly to his concentration, riding the rocking motion out while he held onto the shipwreck with every ounce of power he could glean from his Kai.

  His arms began to shake with strain, and something in his head began to send sharp jolts of pain to his eyeballs, but still he held on. Focusing, he pushed the ship slowly to the side and into the swampy islands that divided the twin channels. Water still poured from places in the ship, and runnels of it poured over the cattails and other vegetation that choked the muddy little island. Finally, feeling that it was safe to do so, Dormael released the ship from his magical grasp.

  It crashed into the muddy island, practically disintegrating as it hit the marshy earth. A wave of water washed out from it, affecting even the deeper channels of the river, and Dormael had to steady himself against another violent rocking motion as the cog was disturbed in the choppy river once again. It took several seconds for the noise to abate.

  Dormael’s head hurt violently, and he crouched to the deck of the prow and held his hands to his forehead, trying to massage the pain away. Of course, it didn’t help. He wiped the sweat from his face, and as he did he swiped a bit of blood that had come from his nose onto his hand. He hadn’t realized that his nose had been bleeding.

  He turned, trying to find D’Jenn, and found the entire crew of the Midwife staring at him with a mixture of expressions ranging from amazement to downright horror. D’Jenn and Allen were pushing through the crowd, shouldering sailors aside who started and appeared to only just realize they were there.

  “Quite the display, coz,” D’Jenn said, his eyebrows climbing his forehead.

  “Your idea,” Dormael croaked. It seemed his throat was dry.

  “That was…impressive, brother,” Allen said, staring at the wreckage that was now settling into the muddy marsh.

  “Just get Binnael to start sailing again,” Dormael muttered, “And tell him I want two bowls of stew tonight – I’m suddenly ravenous.”

  Allen nodded and moved to speak to the captain. D’Jenn smiled at Dormael, shaking his head and crouched down to his level.

  “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know if you’d be able to do it,” D’Jenn said.

  Dormael couldn’t help but laugh a little in disbelief, “Then why in the Six Hells did you have me try it?”

  “Because if you thought that maybe you could, then you’d have managed it somehow. I know you, cousin. You’ve got the family stubbornness, just like me and your brother.”

  “Yes, and now I have a headache, a ravenous hunger, and a bleeding nose as a result of that stubbornness.”

  “I’ll see that you get some food,” D’Jenn said, rising, “I’m feeling a little famished as well.”

  “Good, good. I’m just going to lie here for a moment and rest. I need to try and let my headache fade,” Dormael muttered. He laid back on the forecastle deck, stretching his aching muscles and pulling out his wineskin to pour a mouthful of water down his throat. It tasted of leather, but he was thirstier than he’d ever remembered being, and leather flavored water was just fine with him for the moment. He closed his eyes and listened to D’Jenn’s steps fading away on the deck of the ship.

  He didn’t realize it when he drifted into a state of half-sleep. He felt Bethany curl up next to him sometime later; draping what was either his cloak or a blanket over the both of them, and Dormael lifted his arm so he could accommodate the youngling as she snuggled against him. For once, he didn’t care that he slept in his armor.

  ****

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The Worst Laid Plans

  Maarkov looked out at the grasslands. The only sound out here was the steady wind rolling unchecked across the hills, causing the tall grasses to wave gently, and adding a mild swishing to the noise. It was almost idyllic.

  The brothers camped now on a hill that lay a league or two – it was difficult to tell distance out here – outside of a village that sat like a pile of rocks in a sea of grass. It was still daylight, and his brother wouldn’t move until nightfall, but Maarkov had grown tired of the moonlight. He hadn’t fallen asleep when they’d decided to make camp. He’d only lain awake staring at the steadily rising sun, and had finally decided to rise and take a look at the village. It was one advantage of the spells his brother had worked upon his body – he didn’t need sleep as much as he had when he’d been more alive.

  The village was like many that Maarkov had seen before; in fact he and his brother had grown up in a village much like the one that now lay in their path. There were three outlying farms, workers like ants in the distance preparing the fields to take seed in the quickly approaching spring. A handful of buildings dotted the actual village. He could see smoke rising from what was probably a smithy, a large building that was probably a meeting hall of some sort, and another pair of buildings of a type that Maarkov could only guess at.

  Five, maybe six families made their h
omes here, but Maarkov wasn’t sure. He still didn’t understand the intricacies of the way these Sevenlanders governed themselves. Kansils, Clan Leaders, Patrons…it didn’t really matter, anyway.

  They’d all be dead soon.

  Maarkov turned and walked for a bit, coming upon a large boulder that stuck from the earth like a great stone knuckle. Sighing, he climbed to the top and found a place that he could swing his legs over the side and sit. The village still lay directly in sight.

  He reached into his belt pouch and pulled a whetstone from it, and a small skin of oil. He wet it, smearing the oil into the stone, and set it aside. He awkwardly drew his sword, and held up the blade to his eyes to inspect it. It had taken a few dings during the battle in the swamp, but otherwise was no worse for the wear. Still, a sharp blade was important. So he laid the sword across his knees and began to run the stone over the edge, honing the blade to a razor sharp keenness.

  The slow and steady grinding noise was therapeutic, and Maarkov was enjoying being alone in any case. Not for the first time, he thought of leaving his brother and striking out on his own. His body would die, he knew that. But perhaps he’d have long enough to see some of the things he wanted to. Perhaps he’d have long enough to come to terms with everything and make peace with himself.

  Probably not. Nothing could wash his hands clean of the blood that he’d spilled.

  He held the sword up with arms that weren’t yet strong enough to hold it, gripping the hilt as if it would suddenly fly from his hands. He heard his brother screaming in the next room, heard the crashing noises and the curses, heard the dull sounds of flesh hitting flesh, breaking bone and bruising skin.

  Maarkov shook his head. He had the dream every time he closed his eyes, lately. It had always haunted him, surely, but in the past few years it came back over and over again, and with painful clarity. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to banish the scene from his mind.

  He thought of his mother. Maarkov didn’t remember much of her, but what he did remember always soothed him a little. Her memory was fuzzy, and it faded a little more with each passing year. Now all he could remember of her was the smell of wildflowers and sweet rolls, a smile and a warm kiss planted on his head, and a ruffle of the thick head of dark hair he’d had as a child.

  Reaching up, he ran a callused hand over the pallid, smooth skin that covered his skull now. What would she say if she saw what he’d become? Her child, now scarred and broken inside, full of hatred and regret, and a pale shadow of the boy he’d been. Would she be horrified to see him as he was now?

  What would she think of the other son, the one she’d never known?

  Maarkov couldn’t but think that everything would be different if Maaz had known their mother. If he had the same memories that Maarkov did, would his mind have become the twisted, dark thing that it had?

  He went back to sharpening his sword. He wouldn’t have a dull blade. People died quicker on the end of a sharp sword, and Maarkov thought that the villagers below would thank him for his preparations, if they knew what was coming.

  How had he come here? How had everything become so awash in blood? How had Maarkov allowed this to happen? He had no one to blame but himself.

  Perhaps his father had been right about Maaz. It was a hard thought, but if he were here now, he’d tell Maarkov how much of an idiot he’d been. He’d tell him that he’d seen it coming all those years ago, and had tried to stop it. He’d tell Maarkov that it should have been his little brother on the end of the sword so many years ago.

  But no – their father hadn’t done what he’d done to prevent Maaz from hurting anyone. He’d been a boy then, incapable of harm. He’d been innocent, though their father had blamed him for that one, all-important death that had changed everything in all of their lives. Their father had been a broken man, twisted. He’d been something close to what Maaz was now, if not in practice, then in essence. He wondered what Maaz would say if he told him that.

  It was Maarkov that paid the price, though. It was Maarkov that could still remember the face of their mother, remember the way she’d been, and what she would’ve wanted. His father hadn’t been able to reconcile that with the way he’d been hurt by her death. It had only twisted him, writhing inside of him like a snake until it drove fires of hate and blame.

  Blame for the child that had killed her before he’d taken his first breath.

  Maaz had grown up with that fact hanging over his head. You killed your mother, boy, their father would tell him at least once a day. Maarkov seemed to escape the wrath of their father, but he could remember being very afraid of him. In his memories of his father, all he could recall was the screaming, the beatings, and that incredulous stare. His face was frozen into that expression in Maarkov’s memories, and no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t remember any other look on his father’s face except the last one he’d given his eldest son.

  Had that been the day that all of this had started? Could Maarkov have changed all of this during that one fateful moment all those years ago? Could he have saved his brother from madness if he’d only just put that sword down? Would things have been better in the long run if Maarkov had let his brother die?

  He knew it was true. He knew that all of this – the demons his brother trafficked with, the pain he’d caused, and the mountain of bodies he’d left in his wake could be laid directly at Maarkov’s feet. His brother wasn’t the true monster – Maarkov was. He knew it.

  He could end it. The thought wriggled into his brain more and more as time went on. He was the only one who knew the secret to his brother’s power. He was the only one who knew exactly how to kill him.

  But, as it always did, the thought made him sick to his stomach. His hands grew weak and he let the sword rest on his knees, dropping the whetstone to the boulder. The truth of the matter was that Maarkov just couldn’t bear to be responsible for the death of his brother. He hated him. He hated what Maaz had become, hated the things that he’d done and the things he’d forced Maarkov to do. But somewhere deep inside his soul, he still loved him, too. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  He was a coward.

  Hours later, when the sun had retreated behind the western horizon and the villagers had all gone inside; Maaz came striding up to the boulder. Maarkov hadn’t moved.

  “Are you ready, brother?” Maaz asked quietly.

  “No. Do you really need me for this? I don’t want to do it. I’m tired of it,” Maarkov replied. It was a weak and futile resistance, and he knew it. It was a cowardly resistance.

  How fitting.

  “You’d rather sit here and wallow in self-loathing? How very noble of you, Maarkov. Don’t pretend that you’re anything but a killer, brother. You’ve done worse things than this, and you know it. Stopping now means nothing,” Maaz hissed, interspersing his words with a low chuckle.

  “I’m tired, Maaz. I didn’t sleep. Just go have your fun and send one of your pet corpses to get me when it’s over.”

  “You must eat tonight, brother. Do not forget that.”

  “Then send one when it’s dinner time. I’ll come.”

  “You will?”

  “I don’t have a choice. I will come,” Maarkov grumbled.

  “Fine,” Maaz said, and stalked back toward the camp.

  Maarkov was dumbfounded. In the past, his brother had always dragged him along no matter what he said to resist him. He’d never just left him to his own devices at a time like this.

  Maarkov watched in stunned silence as his brother rode past on his horse, the strega and the Hunter silently following behind him. Those people in the village were doomed. At least one of them would be sacrificed and eaten, and the rest would become more of his brother’s corpse retinue. Maaz’s little band cantered down the hill, riding for the closest of the outlying farmhouses.

  Maarkov looked down at his sharpened blade. He could do something. He could ride down there and fight those creatures and end the entire thing. He’d be a
hero.

  A fine hero you’d make, coward.

  But he couldn’t banish the thought from his head. He remembered his mother’s face, her smell, the way she’d ruffled his hair…what would she want him to do?

  She’d want him to ride, to save those people.

  She’d want him to save his brother.

  Maarkov felt nearly alive for the first time in years as that one simple thought passed through his mind. He leapt from the boulder and ran to the camp, checking that his gear was all intact along the way. He found his horse and vaulted into the saddle, kicking the beast into a gallop and making for the far end of the town, and the one farmhouse that lay on that side.

  He’d start there, at the opposite end. He felt sure that if he just rode down and confronted Maaz that he’d falter and fail. He needed a good beginning for once, one for himself that wouldn’t be interrupted.

  The horse’s hooves thundered on the soft ground as Maarkov pointed the beast in the direction of the farthest farm. He watched the lights come closer in the distance and tried to think of what he’d say to get these people moving. He had to get them out.

  He pulled his horse to a stop beside a small fence that surrounded the front lawn of the little house, not even bothering to tie it up as he ran through the gate and up to the front door. He skipped completely over the four steps that ran up to the raised porch, and a dog barked from somewhere nearby as he made for the door. He was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t even bother to knock or announce his presence, but there was little time for pleasantries in any case. He burst through the door of the little wooden farmhouse.

  A scream of fear erupted as he burst in, and it startled him a bit. The room he’d entered appeared to be a combination kitchen and sitting room, and there was a family seated around a table – mother, father, and three daughters. The mother was a middle aged woman wearing her hair loose. It was brown shot through with gray, and her dress was a plain homespun affair with no decoration whatsoever. The father was a large and lean man, with weathered features and a beard that grew wildly from his face. His hair was also long but tied back by a leather cord, and as Maarkov entered he rose from his seat and ran around the front of the table to put himself between Maarkov and his family. The daughters huddled up behind him before Maarkov could get a good look at them.