The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Then, with a hissing of displaced air, the plate swung slightly from the wall.

  “Not a decoration,” Dormael breathed out in an awestruck voice.

  “No,” D’Jenn agreed.

  “It’s a door.”

  ****

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  The Ghost of Regret

  Dormael looked to his friends. They were all standing there; mouths agape, staring at the bronze door. Bethany clapped her hands once and uttered a little excited sound, then seemed to realize what she’d done, and composed herself. She tugged on Dormael’s hand, and he looked down at the little one.

  “Aren’t we going to go inside?” Bethany asked. Dormael couldn’t help but smile at the girl.

  “Of course we are, dear,” he answered. Bethany nodded back at him with a serious expression painted over her features. Dormael looked to the others, and D’Jenn just shrugged at him. So, taking a deep breath, he braced himself and reached up to pull the door open.

  It was much lighter than he’d thought it would be. The door, which seemed to be made completely of bronze, swung outward with little effort, and made only the slightest noise when it did so. Dormael was surprised at the realization, and had to stumble a bit to keep his balance as he almost overdid the motion of pulling it open.

  “Be careful,” D’Jenn said, “If there are any wards in place, and I suspect that the door itself was the first, this is where they’d be.”

  The bronze door opened into a long hallway that was shrouded in darkness. Dormael sent his Kai questing down through the tunnel, trying to feel the currents of magic that ran within. He felt a low buzz of energy, but it was familiar to him and he couldn’t sense anything harmful. Reaching out, he touched his Kai lightly to the currents of magic he recognized.

  Bronze rails laid into the stonework slowly came to life, glowing with a pleasant, amber light. The glyphs and flowing designs of the metal were identical to those in the lower tunnels of the Conclave, near the Convergence Chamber. D’Jenn snorted in surprise and laughed a bit.

  “Indalvian’s design, no doubt,” he said.

  “Indeed,” Dormael nodded.

  As they stepped slowly into the somberly lit hallway, the armlet’s singing quieted and finally subsided entirely. Dormael looked down at it, perplexed, but didn’t worry about it. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own about a lot of things.

  Dormael continuously sent his senses out before them as they walked, trying to detect any dangerous magic. He was sure there must be something, but he couldn’t sense anything harmful at all. He feared he was missing something, so he dug deeper, but all he could find in the hall was the Infusion laid into the steel designs along the walls and floor that caused them to glow.

  “You may rest assured, good sir, that there are no gouts of flame, nor sprouts of acid, nor bolts of lightning ready to be hurled at you in here.”

  Dormael almost jumped out of his skin at the unfamiliar voice. He’d been walking along gazing at the floor instead of looking where he should have been – in front of him.

  An old man stood at the end of the hallway. His hair was white and cropped close to his head, much in the same style that Dormael wore his own, and he had a short and neatly trimmed beard on his face, also silvered. He wore a complex robe and mantle in shades of severe black and white, and a stole about his shoulders that was sown with a series of runes, the most notable being the Eye of Eindor – the official symbol of office for the Mekai. He had his hands clasped behind him, and had a somber but polite expression across his aged face.

  “You’re not going to suddenly turn into some monster, are you?” Dormael asked.

  “No,” the man said, his eyes growing melancholy and gazing out toward the vaults behind the companions, “I assume you’re referring to the creature that resides here, now. No.”

  “Are you…a ghost?” Dormael asked, feeling a little impolite as he uttered the question.

  “Follow me, please. We don’t have much time.” With that, the man turned and walked down the hallway. Dormael looked to D’Jenn, but his cousin only shrugged and gestured him to follow the old man. Dormael had to admit, this was a far shot from what he’d expected to find. If one more Gods damned ghost snuck up on him today, though, he was going to have a fit.

  The solemn old man led them to a circular room that was just big enough to accommodate everyone comfortably. There was a low table, also circular, that sat in the middle of the room. On it was a giant stone bowl identical to the one in the grotto, only without the cracks and verdigris. In the bowl was clear, clean water, and Dormael almost started in surprise to see it there. It sat as still as glass.

  The only other object in the room was a single bookshelf that contained a few scrolls and two books, preserved as if they were newly written and bound. The old man walked around the table and stood behind it, gesturing for everyone to come inside. Dormael followed him and shuffled into the room, making room for everyone to enter. The old man waited politely for everyone to come in and turn their attention to him before he spoke again.

  “I must ask you who you are and what you intend to do with the Nar’doroc. I see you have already obtained the Third Sign, but are declining to don it. That fact makes your intentions slightly ambiguous, and I would appreciate an explanation,” he said.

  The man’s tone was almost painfully polite, but his presence and demeanor suggested that the request was more of a demand. Dormael’s eyes fell to the stole around his neck and the Eye of Eindor stitched into it. Who was this strange old man, and how had he been here?

  How long had he been here?

  “We are Wizards of the Conclave,” Dormael began, speaking suspiciously, “and we aren’t wearing the armlet because we’re not entirely sure of what it is and what it can do.”

  “Ah. Wizards of the Conclave, you say? Well, I will answer your questions, should your intentions prove worthy of my judgment. How is it that you came to bear the Third Sign?”

  “It…belonged to my mother. It was a gift from the King of Cambrell on her wedding day,” Shawna said, eyeing the old man strangely.

  “Cambrell…I am not familiar with this place. You have the look of the East about you. Am I correct in the assumption that this Cambrell is not a Vendon land?” the old man said, his face growing troubled.

  “It’s in Alderak,” Shawna replied. The last statement that the old man had made struck Dormael strangely. He’d said ‘Vendon’ instead of Sevenlands. Who was this strange person?

  “It has come to pass, then, as I’d feared so long ago. The Signs have been scattered to the winds, free for anyone to come along and pick them up. This is...a dire occasion, indeed. Tell me, what do you know of them so far, and how did you come to know it?”

  “We don’t know anything,” D’Jenn said, “We have a few theories, but most of them are what led us here to search for answers. Beyond that, we know very little. Who are you?”

  The old man smiled and peered at each of them in turn, and then looked down at Bethany. The little girl smiled at the old man, and his face seemed to react in turn, a genuinely happy smile cracking his teeth and breaking his solemn façade for a moment. He squinted at her then, and Dormael could feel magic moving through the room, though it was muted, as if it were just an echo of actual power. The old man’s eyes took on a knowing expression, and he took a deep breath before speaking.

  “I cannot sense the feel of Necromancy about you. You do not have the scars, and the magic in this room is designed to reveal the presence of demons, in any case,” the old man said. Dormael looked askance at D’Jenn, but his cousin only shrugged and turned his attention back to the old man as he began to speak again. “Though you,” he said, turning his eyes to Dormael, “have been touched by an otherworldly power. I do not sense any malice from you, though. Would you care to explain before I continue?”

  Everyone’s eyes shot to Dormael, and he felt cold dread rise in his gut. How had the old bastard known about Tamasis? How could
he have sensed such a thing?

  “I was…near death,” Dormael said, feeling sheepish and pointedly not looking at any of his friends, “and something found me. It took me some time to figure out what it was, but once I had, I banished it. It is no longer with me.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed a bit as he looked at Dormael, his expression one of pensive consideration. He felt the man’s power reach out and brush against his own, and was again struck by the impression that it was muted somehow, as if Dormael were sensing it from far away or through some strange barrier.

  “No,” the man said, “this entity you commune with is not malicious, at least as far as my own power can tell. It is strange, but I do not know what it could be. It is nothing like the demons I have…or had…seen in my time, though. You are right to be cautious.”

  D’Jenn’s steely eyes bored holes into Dormael’s head with blue intensity, but Dormael did not look at his cousin. The old man’s cryptic words echoed in Dormael’s brain, and he felt suddenly laid bare before the stranger’s scrutiny. Had he meant that Tamasis wasn’t a demon, or that he wasn’t like other demons? He opened his mouth to ask, but the old man held up a hand to forestall him.

  “That matter seems to be eclipsed by the more important ones at hand, young man. I would speak with you at length about it if we had more time here, but alas, we do not.”

  “How is it that you know all of this?” Allen asked, his face a suspicious scowl.

  “I created this room you are standing in now. Over the many years of my life, I worked very hard to ensure that the Nar’doroc would never again see the light of day in the hands of anyone whose purpose was to use it, once again, as it was intended,” he said.

  Everyone grew quiet, and Dormael did look at D’Jenn now. He felt that his own expression must mirror D’Jenn’s own amazed mask, because he certainly felt his heart beating in excitement and wonder. If this man had created this room…it meant that he’d also designed the Conclave and the Crux. It meant that he’d designed the Span over the rift in Soirus-Gamerit, and the sewers beneath Ishamael, and any number of wondrous creations scattered over the face of the Sevenlands.

  They were speaking to Indalvian himself.

  “Indalvian?” Dormael uttered in an astonished breath.

  “You know of me? Well…I say, I never expected that, certainly.”

  “You’re considered to be the greatest wizard who ever lived,” D’Jenn said, staring at the old man, “How is it that you’ve been here, all this time? The things that could’ve been done, had we known…”

  “The greatest wizard who ever lived?” Indalvian said, smiling. He snickered a bit at that and shook his head, “No, I most certainly am not that. I am only an old man who was never able to complete his most important work. And, in truth, this body you see before you – me – is not truly Indalvian, either, so to speak. I am a projection, a piece of consciousness stored here against the event that anyone ever found this place. I am a security measure, of a sort.”

  “You’re a ghost?” Dormael asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, I am a ghost. Before I died, I was able to split a piece of myself and store it in an Infused item that I designed and put here. When you opened the door, the item activated and released me. However, the power that holds me here will soon be spent, and I will fade away just as my body has probably been long dead by now. We must speak of more important things, so please, pay attention, if you will.”

  Everyone nodded, and the old man took a deep breath before starting.

  “First, what you must know is that the Sign you now bear holds dominion over the element of fire. From what I was able to glean from the different pieces in the short time that I was able to study them, it seems that they all have some sort of sentience. A consciousness, not unlike our own magic, if a little more pronounced.”

  “We’ve put that together,” D’Jenn said wryly.

  Indalvian smiled at him and continued, “Yes, you would have to have realized it if you carried it for any significant amount of time. I will not spend time explaining the powers of the other Signs, but know that there are seven of them, and when last I saw them, they were entrusted to the keeping of the Vendon Chiefs.”

  “So the story is true,” Allen commented.

  Indalvian went on, “During my life, I was able to visit each Chief in turn, and I laid an Infusion upon the Signs – though it took me years to figure out how to do it – that would keep them from awakening and causing havoc.”

  “So that’s why they’ve lain dormant all this time,” Dormael said, “But how can your Infusions have been broken? We are not the first ones to come looking for the Nar’doroc. The purpose actually fell into our laps, because another is seeking them.”

  “Another is seeking them?” Indalvian asked.

  “Yes, an emperor from Alderak named Dargorin. We believe that he already has one piece, and is close to finding another,” D’Jenn added.

  “This is exactly the sort of situation I worked to avoid,” Indalvian said with a scowl on his face, “The Nar’doroc is a tool of destruction. It is possibly the most dangerous thing upon the face of the entire world. It must not be turned against humanity again. This is important above all things.”

  “But why would you make it if you believe it to be so dangerous?” Allen asked.

  Indalvian scoffed, “Make it? The Nar’doroc was not made by the hands of any man. It was sent here by the Gods, young warrior. I was there on the day that it fell from the Void – here, in fact. In this very bowl,” Indalvian said, indicating the stone bowl on the table, “is where it landed. Ishamael had been praying to the Gods for years to aid us against the Eastern horde. They answered him, and it may have been the absolute worst thing they could have done.”

  Everyone grew quiet, waiting for Indalvian to continue.

  The old man sighed, “He did many things, before the end. The Nar’doroc tore our people apart. Ishamael was a good man, however your histories remember him, and he wanted the best for the Vendon. He thought that sundering the Nar’doroc and entrusting each piece to a different person was the best thing that he could do. I was young and inexperienced, and I agreed with him. I had years to contemplate that decision, and after his death I tried to regain the pieces and destroy it. But the Chiefs all resisted me, foolishly insisting that the Signs were a symbol of their authority, and challenged me to remove them at my own peril. So, I did what I could.

  “I travelled to the homes of each Chief and studied the Signs, laying my Infusions upon them without their knowledge. I constructed this place, and stored the most dangerous writings about the Nar’doroc here – or I tried, at least.”

  “You tried?” Dormael asked.

  “Yes. There is something else you must know. One of my students accompanied me in my travels. He believed that I was mistaken about the Nar’doroc, and that it could be reassembled and used for good, to keep order not just in the Vendon lands, but in the entire world. He was young, but a good man, at first. He studied the pieces with me, and over time we inevitably came to disagree about many things. He split from the Hall of Shamans and escaped to the East, where he began studying things that he should not. He became a Necromancer, a Vilth, and devised a formula wherein a Shaman could collect the Signs, pull their powers from them, and place them into a vessel. He would then sacrifice this vessel and partake of its flesh, thereby gaining the power of the Seven Signs for himself.”

  Dormael’s eyes narrowed and he thought of the Vilth that was pursuing them.

  “Before I was able to kill him, he wrote his formula down in his grimoire. I had Shamans searching for the book for years. It was never found, at least in my time. So there is one text out there that explains the Signs and how they may be used in this spell. It explains how one may make himself a God, if he has the stomach for it.”

  “That explains their sudden reappearance, then,” D’Jenn said, “This Dargorin seems to be working with a Vilth and his apprentices. They’
re also searching out the pieces of the Nar’doroc. We are trying to find them before they do.”

  Indalvian nodded, “You must. The struggle between Shamans and Vilthinum is one that has been going on since ancient times. This one spell could change everything, and tip the balance finally in their favor. I do not think that I need to explain why you must collect them and destroy the Vilth.”

  Everyone nodded, solemn expressions creeping onto their faces, even Allen’s. Bethany nodded as well, mimicking Dormael’s own expression. Dormael looked down at the girl and smiled, and Bethany favored him with one of her own.

  “These,” Indalvian said, turning to the bookshelf and gesturing at the scrolls and books there, “are my own writings, concerning the Signs and other things. You may consider them my own grimoires. Take them. They are Infused to resist decay, water, and heat. Inside you may find the answers you came here seeking.”

  “What will happen to you?” Dormael asked, suddenly feeling worried about the old man. Indalvian turned his eyes to Dormael and smiled sadly at him. The expression revealed a web of wrinkles at the edge of his eyes, and he seemed very tired.

  “This consciousness will fade, I’m afraid. The magic that is keeping me here is almost gone, and I will either cease to exist, or I will rejoin the rest of me, wherever it has gone.”

  Everyone grew silent as Indalvian imparted that last bit to them. He seemed a regretful man at heart and not at all as Dormael had always imagined he must have been. He was just so…normal.

  “There is one other thing that you must do,” Indalvian went on, “Find my student’s grimoire and destroy it. Even if the Signs are destroyed there are other spells contained within that text that must be eliminated from the memory of mankind.”