Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  The same could not be said for D’Jenn.

  For some reason unknown to any but the gods in the Void, D’Jenn had never mastered the basic feel for flying. Dormael had attempted to teach him over the years, but D’Jenn remained the least graceful flier Dormael had ever seen. If birds could laugh, D’Jenn would have been a flock favorite. Luckily for his cousin, it was too dark outside for any onlooking bird to see him pawing through the air like a dog trying to swim.

  Don’t flap unless you must, Dormael said into D’Jenn’s mind. If you climb and get some stronger wind beneath you, it will be easier going.

  I don’t know why I ever agreed to this, D’Jenn’s voice came back. We could make good time on four legs, and not risk breaking every bone in our bodies.

  Be my guest, but when you finally catch up to me, you have to admit I’m the better Warlock.

  You should hold your breath until that happens, see if you pass out first, D’Jenn shot back. He struggled to an altitude closer to Dormael, despite his grumbling. Once D’Jenn got the rhythm down, he stopped floundering in the air and stabilized his body.

  If you feel like you’re going to lose control and fall out of the sky, spread your wings and aim for a snow drift. Dormael would have smiled if the gyrfalcon could grin.

  I hate this, D’Jenn returned.

  Taking the forms of animals was a strange experience. Each wizard had different affinities for different things, and even within the small group of Blessed who could muster the power to take animal form, skill with maintaining the spell varied. It took intense focus to make the change in the first place, and sliding into the physical form of another creature brought certain complications.

  Wizards tended to develop preferences for the forms they took, because each time an animal form was assumed, the wizard gained greater control over the change. Shape-shifting brought with it the essence of the form, the instinctual side of the animal. Staying in control was like riding the beast from within.

  Dormael had his own preferences for shapeshifting—he took the gyrfalcon for flight, the wolf for hunting, and he’d once been instructed to take the form of a lion for a mission. He kept it sharp in his memory for its prowess, but he’d never again tried to assume it. He could slide into other forms if he had time to prepare but staying in control was difficult. Mastering the form was like mastering the animal itself.

  D’Jenn found the forms of birds distasteful, and he hated to fly. Dormael had loved flying from the first time he’d tried. Flying was the whole reason he’d learned to shapeshift in the first place. His shoulder gave a painful twinge every now and then, but it was the only remaining indication he’d been injured.

  The rival gang leaders and their men had taken up residence in a sprawling forest to the east of Borders called the Darkroot. To hear Hadrick tell it, the Darkroot was a massive, old forest that stretched between three different lands. There were no roads through the Darkroot and few trails leading anywhere. Hadrick had told them tales of massive trees and rumors of dark spirits in the forest, but Dormael rarely bought into such stories.

  Dormael dipped his wings and headed east, putting the wind at his back. The land rolled beneath him, and the cold night air whisked through his feathers. The aura of light from Borders faded as Dormael led D’Jenn into the inky night.

  Lightning flashed through the sky to the north, a flickering beacon over the steppes of Dannon. The Darkroot stretched beneath them, the moonlight reflecting from the top of the canopy. The trees filled the valley to the horizon, dense and foreboding, with only blackness between the trunks.

  Dormael tucked his wings and pointed his beak at the trees, sliding into a shallow dive.

  Follow me.

  Just don’t get me killed.

  Dormael turned over the canopy, sweeping the trees with his heightened vision. He turned lazy curves back and forth, working his way to the east. Hadrick had no idea where these men had camped, but street toughs wouldn’t have ventured far into the primordial forest. After a few turns over the trees, he spotted moonlight playing through wisps of smoke in the distance.

  Stay close, we’re landing!

  Right behind you!

  Dormael turned to the north and wheeled in a circle. Holding his wings wide to slow down, he spiraled into the clearing and landed on a patch of leaf-covered ground. Turning his magic inward, he pulled his body back to its own form.

  His mind wrenched with vertigo as his flesh slid back to its normal state. Feathers pulled into his skin, his face distended and morphed, his torso exploded with sensation. When the transformation was complete, Dormael crouched on his hands and knees, staring at the wet leaves under his fingers.

  He breathed the cold air through his own nose and shook off the sensation of the change. The flutter of wings alerted Dormael to D’Jenn’s landing. With a quiet whisper of power, D’Jenn slid into his own skin and rose to his feet.

  “You had fun that time.” Dormael smiled. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “Dormael,” D’Jenn sighed, “I’d rather pull my teeth out through my stomach than do that again. I always lose my bearings in the air. Where was the smoke?”

  “Northeast, I think. If you give me a moment, I’ll try to catch the scent.”

  D’Jenn nodded. “I need to clear my head before we make another change, anyway. It always makes me nauseous.”

  “Kick your feet up, take a nap. It’s not as if we’ve got people to kill.”

  D’Jenn gave him a sour look. “I lead this time. I’m well acquainted with the wolf.”

  Dormael nodded. “If you want.”

  Once he’d caught his breath, Dormael turned his power inward once again. He visualized the image of the wolf in his mind, summoning the very essence of the beast. A violent spasm wracked his body, then it was fluid, sliding like a greased eel into the form of the wolf.

  He breathed, tasting the air of the forest. Scents assailed him from every direction, their myriad sensations telling him stories. A deer had passed nearby earlier in the day—female unless he missed his guess. Dormael’s mouth watered and his jowls opened, tasting the air along the deer’s trail. He resisted the strong, instinctual urge to snuffle along the ground and shoot off after the deer—they had more dangerous prey to chase.

  D’Jenn’s chosen form was a giant, black-furred beast. His eyes were deep gold, and they glowed like beacons in Dormael’s wolf-sight. His vision was sharp as if each movement in his field jumped out at him, and the moonlight glowed. Though the colors were washed out, he could tell when each individual leaf on a bush tussled in a breeze. Adding scent to the mix produced an entirely different way to see the world.

  The essence of the wolf pulled at him, eager to be on the hunt.

  Dorrmael pawed at the ground. Are you ready? It’s time to go.

  D’Jenn shook his black shoulders and sniffed the ground. Dormael tested the air again and smelled a faint odor that filled his body with tension—burning wood. His muscles were suddenly tense, full of the need to run.

  I’ve got them, D’Jenn’s voice whispered into his mind. We hunt!

  Like ghosts in the night, they were off.

  D’Jenn flew across the ground, dodging around trunks of ancient trees, loping over the litter of dead leaves without seeming to touch the earth. Dormael sprang over the ground after his cousin through the strange world of the Darkroot. They ran like whispers in the wind, as silent as flashes of moonlight.

  They followed the scent of cook-fires until the acrid stench of burning wood became thick enough to make Dormael sneeze. D’Jenn slowed to a stalk and Dormael fell in beside him. The trees stood like dark sentinels in the night, branches reaching out to block the light penetrating the canopy. The woods were alive with man-stench. The air tingled with steel oil, cured leather, sour sweat, and someone had even pissed nearby in the last few days.

  D’Jenn crouched low to the ground. There’s a guard ahead.

  A form materialized out of the darkness ahead. Moo
nlight glinted from a helmet and mail shirt. The sentry milled about in the woods, oblivious to the presence of the two wolves.

  I see him. Dormael peeled his lips from his teeth. Should we take him, or pass wide?

  We’re getting close, so let’s take him. D’Jenn dug his paws into the dirt. I’ll go high.

  Dormael’s mouth watered, and his legs twitched with energy. He itched for the guard’s blood in his mouth. Nothing beat taking a fresh kill after a good run.

  Dormael ghosted out to the guard’s side, circling to take the man from behind. The woods didn’t betray his presence, and Dormael moved through the brush with little more than a whisper. D’Jenn’s black-furred visage was nowhere to be seen. Dormael put his belly to the dirt and slinked forward, baring his teeth.

  Now!

  Dormael took three lightning-fast steps and slammed into the man’s legs, teeth champing shut around his hamstring. The barest hint of a scream escaped the man’s throat before D’Jenn slammed into his chest, taking him to the ground. With a vicious jerk of his neck, D’Jenn ripped out the guard’s throat.

  The coppery taste blood filled Dormael’s mouth, having leaked from the guard’s leg. It invigorated him, charged him with energy. He wanted to throw his head back and howl at the sky, he wanted to tear into the man’s soft parts before death cooled them to tastelessness.

  Dormael clenched down on the essence of the wolf, trying to wrench control of his psyche back from its baser instincts. The last thing he wanted was to become a cannibal—even though the thought of the meat filled his mind with a ravenous hunger.

  Perhaps it’s time we forgo the animal form. Dormael backed away from the body. It’s becoming hard to control.

  D’Jenn dipped his snout. Indeed.

  Turning his power inward once again, Dormael returned to his own skin.

  Once the vertigo was out of his system, Dormael gagged on the taste of the man’s blood. He spit and coughed into the dirt as quietly as he could. It took long moments of heavy breathing to calm his beating heart.

  D’Jenn’s hand on his shoulder signaled him to alertness, and he nodded to let his cousin know he was ready to move on. D’Jenn slipped into the cold darkness of the woods, his feet moving through the underbrush without a sound. Dormael took a deep breath and followed him, blinking his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. The world was more vivid with human eyes, but the darkness was much deeper.

  He followed D’Jenn through the silent landscape, moving toward an orange glow in the distance. Scattered noises floated through the woods—the tinkling of metal or bursts of harsh laughter. Tension settled into Dormael’s shoulders as they neared the camp. He focused on placing his feet with care.

  D’Jenn fetched up against a massive tree trunk and signaled Dormael to a place nearby. Dormael crouched in the shadow of a massive old tree and closed his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the camp through his Kai.

  D’Jenn’s voice came into his mind. Get a look at what we’re dealing with. I’ll watch your back for sentries.

  Dormael nodded to his cousin and turned his magic inward once again. He separated his consciousness with practiced ease and floated through the boughs of the ancient trees. The camp was little better than a haphazard gathering of tents and cookfires. Plundered carts lay around the encampment, their contents spilled over the ground or stacked in clumps. The only place where the camp had any organization was on the eastern side, where the horses were picketed in a long line.

  There were thirty tents in camp. None were larger than the others, and he couldn’t pick out anyone as definitive leaders. Men milled about in the camp, or huddled into their bedrolls, and all of them wore thick fur cloaks.

  He returned to his body and breathed through his own nose again, shaking his head as he settled back into his skin. His head swayed and his feet tingled. Too many shifts were taking their toll.

  Thirty tents, maybe sixty or seventy men. I couldn’t tell who was in charge.

  Eindor’s bloody eye, D’Jenn cursed. I’d hoped we could identify them, hit them from a distance, and get out of here in time to get some sleep.

  Dormael sighed. Any ideas?

  Hadrick had specifically asked—and somewhat unexpectedly—to spare anyone they could. Most of these men were just hired hands, according to him, and he could use them in cementing his own influence over the city. Without the men paying them, they would melt back into town rather than camping in the cold woods to raid a few farms and food caravans.

  Dormael glanced to the east, toward the horses. We need to cause a little trouble. If I slip around to the east and stir up something big, do you think you can pick out the leaders and take them down?

  Stir up something big? What does that mean?

  Dormael smiled. I’m going to set their horses loose. Just sit tight, coz. Be ready.

  D’Jenn shot him a murderous glare in the moonlight, but Dormael waved him to silence. He moved away from his hiding place, working out from the camp to avoid getting behind another sentry. Dormael entertained the idea of slipping back into wolf form. He could move easier as a wolf, and nothing spooked a bunch of horses like a natural predator. All he would have to do is get close enough for one of them to smell him, and the beasts would panic.

  The thought of human blood in his mouth was all it took to banish that idea.

  Dormael used every bit of woodcraft he knew to move through the night. Dead leaves crunched under his feet, but the noise was lost in the wind whispering through the boughs. He went from hiding place to hiding place, working his way past huddled groups of sleeping men, careful not to put a foot in the wrong place. It took an eternity to maneuver his way to the picket lines.

  Just as he was about to cut a picket line, something sharp pressed into the back of his neck.

  “You move, and I’ll cut your throat,” a gruff voice said from behind him.

  Dormael froze. If I kill him before he raises a—

  “Jarl! Jarl, you fucker—stop scratching your balls and go tell Roburn we caught somebody nosing around the camp!”

  Dormael cursed under his breath.

  A voice answered from the dark. “Fine, keep your knickers on. And don’t call me a fucker!”

  Dormael kept his face pressed to the dirt, held by the blade at the back of his neck.

  “Alright, little man.” The blade pressed harder. “We’re going to walk into camp so you can meet the big man. You make any threatening moves—you even sneeze with an attitude—and I’ll open your neck. Got it?”

  “I’ve got it,” Dormael said. “You can let up with the blade.”

  The man behind him let out a snort. “Move!”

  Dormael climbed to his feet, turning his eyes on the man holding the blade to his neck. He was a big bastard, pig-eyed, and unshaven. He scowled at Dormael and shoved him around, prodding him in the back with a short sword. Dormael went without complaint.

  Nice distraction, D’Jenn whispered into his mind. Was that your masterful plan the whole time—get caught and dragged before the leader as a prisoner?

  Dormael rolled his eyes, though D’Jenn was far away. It’s working. Just watch my back.

  If I wasn’t watching your back, Dormael, you’d have died long ago.

  Fuck yourself, cousin.

  “Walk, dead man!” There was another prod from the sword.

  He was led past mounds of sleeping men and smoldering fires, and Dormael’s captor kicked men awake at each site. Dormael’s stomach fell—he’d be surrounded by at least sixty men. The camp roused as they moved toward the center.

  A murmur moved through the crowd as people roused their neighbors. Shortbows and swords were brandished, though some of the men followed while wrapped in their blankets or spooning up steaming bowls of broth. Dormael got surprised looks from the men who got a good look at him.

  Gods, I hope D’Jenn is watching.

  They stepped before a group of men, and the man with the short sword punched Dormael in the kidneys, doubl
ing him over in pain. Dormael was shoved to his knees, and he bit his tongue as he went to the ground. He shot his captor a dark look, but the ugly bastard only smiled back with murder in his eyes.

  Three men stood before him, one just in front of the others. He wore a black tunic with gold trim, though the fabric had seen better days. It was tattered and dirty, hanging on the man’s shoulders like a loose blanket. He had a long, crooked nose, and a huge black mole on his left cheek. He held a large knife with a heavy blade—the ideal kind for removing limbs. The knife had old blood stains on the metal.

  “Roburn, I suspect?” Dormael asked, glancing at the man who’d captured him. “Was that the name you said back—”

  The big man kicked him in the ribs. Dormael hunched over in pain, stifling a chuckle. He fought back to his knees and shot the big fucker another evil glance.

  Roburn stepped forward. “Who in the Six Hells are you?”

  “I bring a message,” Dormael said.

  I hope you’re ready, he sent to D’Jenn.

  Always, his cousin replied.

  “A message? What the—?” Roburn looked at the big man standing behind Dormael. “Where did you catch this bastard?”

  “Sneaking ’round the horses,” the man replied.

  “You had a message for the horses?” Roburn’s words prompted a round of laughs from the men surrounding them. He stepped forward with a grin and waved his knife under Dormael’s nose. “Well go on, let’s hear it. I want some kind of fucking entertainment before Grell takes your head off.”

  Dormael clenched his teeth and pulled on his magic. The hairs on his arms rose as the power filled his body, his senses, his mind. There was a rushing noise in his ears and his heart thumped against his ribcage. His magic tensed like a scorpion readying to strike.

  Dormael glared up at Roburn. “Hadrick Lucius sends his regards.”

  Roburn’s eyes widened. He gestured to the side, making to say something, but Dormael didn’t give him a chance. In the moments it took for Roburn to open his mouth, Dormael let loose with his magic.