Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  He weaved magic around the two of them, altering small details about their appearance. It wasn’t a full illusion, but it would be enough to get past a few sleepy guardsmen. He hoped it would, anyway. The gate loomed out of the night, the torchlight a painful blight on his vision after the moonlight of the road.

  As Dormael approached the gate, one of the guards lazily moved to bar his path. The City Guardsmen were armed with long halberds, and they leaned on them as Dormael pulled the horse to a stop. The one who had stepped into the road spit to the side before challenging him.

  “Alright, now. What business do you have in Ferolan?”

  “Come to seek passage on a ship for my sister and I.” Dormael patted the unconscious girl’s shoulder.

  “That’s your sister? Is she awake?” The guard nodded his head toward her.

  “Ah…no.” Dormael gave the guardsman an apologetic smile. “She had a bit of a problem on the road.”

  “Problem?”

  “Yes—a drinking problem.” Dormael smirked. “She put down a whole bottle of firewine.”

  “Your sister sounds like a keeper, Sevenlander.” The guard laughed. “Any woman who can put away that much of the strong stuff must be quite the catch.” He turned his head sideways to leer at her, but the cloak was covering most of her body. Dormael hoped the magic was covering the bloodstains, which were more than apparent to him.

  “You might think she’s a keeper,” Dormael replied, “but you should ask her last husband. Why do you think I’m coming to take her home? She was unbearable—drunk all the time, angry for most of it, too.”

  “That so?”

  Dormael gave he man a tight smile—every moment, the woman bled a little more. “Aye. He put up with her moods and her drinking for a few years, but then the stabbing happened.”

  Come on, move it along.

  “Stabbing?” The guard stepped back and raised his eyebrows.

  “Indeed. She got drunk, got angry, and he got a knife through his leg. Put him down for a whole season, I think. Tragic, really, he was a good-natured sort.” When the guard laughed and looked to his friend, Dormael continued. “And then, there’s the issue with her sickness.”

  “Sickness?”

  “It’s the alcohol, see? It’s taken a toll on her body—particularly her bowels.”

  “What?”

  “She has absolutely no control over when she…well…when she goes.” Dormael gestured to her backside. “That’s why it took us so long to get here from the back country. I had to stop every few hours to dump water over her, and—” Dormael paused and looked down at the girl in mock surprise. “Oh Hells, I think she’s going now.”

  The guard made a disgusted noise. “Go on, then. Get her somewhere with a bath. I don’t want to have clean up her shit, Sevenlander.”

  “Much obliged.” Dormael clucked to the horse, and she stepped through the gate, snorting in irritation. A shudder ran through the beast’s flanks, and Dormael thought the mare would fall. He prayed to what gods were listening that the animal would last just a bit longer.

  The men at the guard station laughed as they disappeared behind him. When Dormael felt safe to do so, he dismounted and lightened the horse’s burden as best he could. He checked on the girl and was relieved to see she was alright.

  “If you live through this, those men will forever remember you as the self-shitting drunk. You can thank me later.” He smiled and patted the horse’s neck.

  His next set of problems were no easier to overcome. First, he was going to have to avoid notice. The sight of him leading a horse with a body laid across the saddle might raise a few questions with the authorities. Back alleys were a necessity.

  For another thing, he didn’t know where he was going. A healer’s shop would be the best bet, though he hadn’t noticed any on his walk out of the city. The girl’s life was trickling away with the blood she was losing, so he set out through the darkened streets of Ferolan. Walking in any direction was better than standing still.

  There was, however, another problem—Dormael was still drunk. His steps were not the quietest, and they were wrought with the occasional stumble and muttered curse. Tromping about in the darkened alleys was hard enough when he was sober, much less after so much ale and excitement. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he startled an alley cat from its slumber, and it went hissing into the night.

  He worked his way back into the city center, heading for one of the market districts. Perhaps he could find a healer’s shop there and somehow convince them to help. Under the circumstances, it was the best plan Dormael could come up with, and time was of the essence. His purse was light, but he was hoping to find a healer who wouldn’t let the girl die—though he had met plenty in his life who would turn him away without any marks.

  Suddenly, in a narrow space between two squat buildings, two men moved into his path. Groaning inwardly, Dormael turned only to find another, larger man barring his retreat. Dormael clenched his teeth over a curse—someone in the Six Hells had it out for him tonight.

  One of the smaller men stepped forward. “Greetings to you, my friend. It’s a cold night for a stroll, eh? Time for good boys and girls to be in their sheets.” The man’s voice was like dry scales rubbing together, and it sounded as if someone had tried to cut his throat but hadn’t finished the job.

  What a pity.

  The men were dressed in throw-off clothing, and they smelled of piss and sweat. They were unshaven, and their eyes darted around in nervous ticks. They held daggers that looked more suited to whittling than killing.

  “Please,” Dormael said, “It’s a cold night. We’re all tired. Let’s just forget this ever happened and go find a warm bed for the night. What do you say?”

  Mocking laughter rolled into the night around him.

  “Come now, Sevenlander, there’s plenty of your stuff for everyone. Well, plenty for me and mine, anyway. You can keep your little cunny, just give us the bags, the horse, and that guitar you’re carrying around. Things will go much easier for you that way.”

  “Sorry, but I rather need these things. Dangers of the road, and all that. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be going now—with my belongings.” He gave the little man a glare that promised violence, but it didn’t have the effect he’d hoped.

  “The only place you’re going is the Void, Sevenlander.” The mugger signaled his men to move in. “Go ahead boys, kill this savage and let’s get off the streets.”

  “Last chance to walk away.” Dormael set his staff and rucksack against the side of an adjacent building.

  “We’re quite set on leaving you to bleed in the gutter. We need your stuff. Dangers of the road, and all that.” The man smiled through cracked and broken teeth.

  “Very well.” Dormael sighed. He pulled up his sleeves as the men moved in around him, baring the Sevenlander script tattooed on his arms to the night. The horse shied a little as the men moved in, but Dormael paid it no mind.

  He reached out with his Kai and grasped control of his power.

  Time slowed as the world sharpened. The mist hung in the cool night air, every tiny droplet an individual entity. The muggers appeared frozen in midstep as they came towards him. He could taste the steel of the knives they carried, hear their hands tightening on the leather grips in anticipation of the kill. Every hair on his body tensed, building to a crescendo that would end in a violent expulsion of power. He heard the thieves’ heartbeats, and his own heart began to beat in time. Through it all, the magic flowed like an invisible song, connecting him to everything—the buildings, the air, and even the muggers.

  Slowly, as if he were moving through jelly, his arm rose and pointed at the rasping leader.

  The world leaped back into motion with a loud crack. Lightning arced from Dormael’s outstretched hand to slam like a charging bull into the skinny, unwashed little thief. He was lifted into the air and thrown back into a nearby building, his knife clattering to the side. He slid to the ground and lay moti
onless, his chest smoking where the bolt had burned a hole through his ratty shirt. He was dead before he stopped smoking.

  The second thief had been thrown back as well, and was sitting on his rump in the alley, dumbfounded. He looked from Dormael—who stood with unspent electricity arcing from his hand—to his dead partner. With a small cry of alarm, he rose and scurried into the night, his panicked footsteps ringing in the distance.

  Dormael turned to face the man at his rear and found him standing wide-eyed with abject terror. The thief stepped back, shuffled his feet. He hefted the knife in an uncertain grip.

  Dormael sighed. “Listen, we don’t have to do this. Turn and go back the way you came. Let’s both find somewhere to get warm.”

  Taking his advice, the thief backed away and disappeared down another alley. Dormael kicked a piece of trash before turning back to the horse. He had to hurry—the lightning had made too much noise, and someone would probably looking.

  As he was readying to leave, the girl let out a weak cough.

  Dormael rushed to her side, steadying her with nervous hands. She struggled to rise from where she lay across the horse’s back—a futile attempt which ended in a weak cry of pain. Dormael brushed hair out of her face and crouched to speak with her.

  “Alton?” Her voice was strained. “Where…am I?” She tried to move again, but Dormael calmed her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t move, or you’ll upset your wound. Who are you looking for? Who are you?”

  “Alton…Alton Dersham…my cousin.” She coughed, grunting with pain, and gave him a bleary look. “Who are you? Take me to Alton. He’s…nobility…a rich man. Where—?”

  She collapsed with a pained sigh and went quiet.

  Great. Who in the Six Hells is Alton Dersham?

  Dormael cursed and got to his feet. The sky was turning a sullen blue, and people would soon be in the streets. Gathering his gear, he led the horse down the alleyway. It snorted and tossed its head as they stepped past the body of the thief.

  Dormeal shook his head as he headed deeper into the city. I’m never getting drunk in this part of the world again.

  Lords, Swordswomen, and Fools

  The room smelled like blood and char.

  It had taken some time to put out the fire the girl had started during her escape, and even longer to clear out the corpses littering the manor’s halls. Despite the efforts of his men, Colonel Rengard Grant now stood in a smoking ruin. He should have been sharing tea with a Cambrellian Baron, but instead, he was forced to endure the smell of burning corpses. Grant wanted to kick something, wanted to scream. His men, though, were watching.

  “Explain it to me again.” Colonel Grant paced in front of the two idiots before him. “How was it that the two of you—trained by the Empire in the arts of horsemanship, archery, melee, and tactics—were evaded by a single country sweetheart?”

  The scouts stood at rigid attention, though Formin—a youth with barely a beard grown—was regarding him like a confused cow. Grant stood a head taller than both his soldiers, and he was wider across the shoulders. He loomed over them, barely holding back his rage. His left eye twitched uncontrollably, and Grant took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to lose his military decorum in front of his men.

  A whole contingent of scouts lost, the locals slaughtered, the manor burnt, and this fool blinks at me like a herd animal.

  Grant raised an eyebrow. “Speak, Formin.”

  “She had a fresh horse, sir.”

  “A fresh horse, did she? Oh, well that certainly changes things, doesn’t it? And I imagine, being the intelligent and resourceful members of the Emperor’s elite forces that you are, you employed your bows against this dashing little minx?” Grant forced a smile.

  “Ah…we did, sir.” Formin nodded.

  The fool was off balance, and Grant gestured for him to go on.

  “Tamst put a shaft through her back.” The little cunt puffed his chest out like a puppy with a trophy. “I killed the other one myself.”

  “And a fearsome target she was, Formin—almost the weight of a large boy and wearing that terrible dress. Have you notched your dagger to mark the glory? Have you offered her kill to Aastinor?” Grant widened his grin.

  “Ah…no, sir.” Formin looked at the floor.

  “No?” Grant glanced between Tamst and Formin, still smiling, though his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth together. “Why is that?”

  “Because…well, she was a girl, sir.”

  “A girl.” Grant turned away. “A girl in a ripped kitchen dress, wielding nothing but the fabric itself. You must be so proud.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Shut your fucking mouth and stand at attention!”

  Formin and Tamst stiffened.

  “Do not brag to me of killing a defenseless girl, Formin. In the event I order you to do so, I expect the challenge will be negligible to your level of skill.” Grant took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Now—what I want to know is how this other young lady managed to kill eight of my scouts and escape with the very fucking thing we’re looking for. Can you tell me that, Formin?”

  “She…she outran us, sir.” Formin glanced at Tamst. “Our horses expired before we could bring her down.”

  “Quite a resourceful girl, isn’t she?” Grant shook his head. “If the manor was secured, she must have been in custody. Which means that somehow, she escaped, and in the process, killed eight of my men. She scatters my column with a stampede of horses, burns down her manor—unbelievable. I’m inclined to admire her resolve, but this…this is an embarrassment, Formin. A complete and utter embarrassment. Do you understand?” Grant came to stand in front of Tamst, who had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and his eyes forward.

  “Yes, sir.” Formin nodded.

  “I don’t think you do. Where was your Sergeant?”

  “He was at the manor, sir. I was guarding the perimeter. I didn’t see what happened to him.”

  “He was killed, Formin. That’s what happened to him, you drooling idiot. Why did he choose to attack the manor against my explicit orders to wait?”

  When the column had been charged by a stampede of thoroughbreds, Grant had nearly killed someone on the spot out of sheer anger. The mission had been to intimidate the Baron Llewan into selling the artifact. Violence was supposed to have been the last resort—a possible outcome, but not the first option. Sergeant Janks had ever been a problem, but this new transgression was too far. The man was lucky he was dead.

  “He—well, he—”

  “Speak up, Formin.”

  Formin swallowed. “Sir, he said the manor was ripe. That there were barely any fighting men, and we could get the job done and have everything ready when you got here, sir.”

  “No fighting men, indeed,” Grant said. “This woman, though, managed to kill most of you. She would have killed you all, had it come to blades between you. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m…not sure, sir.” Formin shuffled his feet.

  “The bodies of your comrades tell a different story,” Grant snapped. “I thought we had this little talk about bragging, Formin. What Sergeant Janks wanted was loot. Rapine. Doubtless he had you prepare a story?”

  “He said the point was to take the manor by storm in the first place, sir. He said we were just acting on our existing orders.”

  “Your orders were to scout the manor for defenses. That’s your job, Formin—you’re a fucking scout. What do you think the Baron would have done when faced with so many fearsome members of the Emperor’s Red Swords? Do you think he’d have bravely shut the door in my face and told me to go back to Shundovia? No, Formin. He would have given the thing to me, because he didn’t want everything he had to be burnt to the ground. People care about their place in life, Formin. They spend so long building it, you see.

  “Now we have a major problem. We’ve got a pile of bodies on our hands, and some of them my own men. My entire contingent of scouts, in fact. How bothersome do y
ou think that is for a commander, Formin? Not only that, but you bloody fools left someone alive—someone apparently resourceful and dangerous—and she escaped with the very thing we came here to find. Chances are she’s nobility, Formin—or do you think the kitchen girl learned the sword in her spare time between cleaning pots?” Grant stepped closer to Formin, pinning the little bastard with a scowl.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Not sure, indeed. So now we’ve gone and slaughtered a country Baron’s entire household, save for one girl—likely his daughter. Which means that now, she’s a Baroness. She fled to the north, and there’s only one thing in the path of that road, Formin. Do you know what it is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ferolan. One of the busiest ports in Alderak, and the center for trade in the entire kingdom. Doubtless she’ll go to the local nobility and make her case. Far and wide the cry will go that Galania has made an attack on another sovereign nation. Do you know what happens then, Formin?”

  “Ah…war, sir?”

  “War, indeed. Someone has to answer for this, you know.”

  “Sir?”

  Grant’s tone was cool and flat. “Sergeant Janks is dead, so someone must be punished.”

  He snapped his fingers twice, and two of his men grabbed Formin and Tamst by the arms. Neither man struggled, their military discipline winning out over their fear. Would that had been the case this morning, Grant would not be standing here.

  “Sir?” Formin gave him a confused look.

  “Gods, boy, you really don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?” Grant shook his head and took a few steps away from Formin. “You violated my direct orders. You participated in the slaughter of innocent people. Not that I particularly care about that, but then you left someone alive to tell the story. Do you think the Emperor won’t hear of this? He is going to shit on me, and I’m going to have to shit on someone. Guess who wins the honor of receiving it?”