Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Lightning lashed out in a storm of power, illuminating the camp in flashes of intense blue light. Roburn was hit in the chest and flung backwards into the trees, collapsing a pair of tents as he tumbled away. Screams broke out as Dormael attacked blindly around him, striking anyone close enough to get scorched. Chaos broke out as men fled in panic, tearing through the camp.

  Grell fled into the trees, throwing his short sword aside. Dormael smiled and captured the man in the grip of his magic, ripping him from the ground in a violent, satisfying motion. Grell screamed in terror as Dormael’s power closed around him, but the sound cut off he threw Grell’s body into a group of other men. He landed with a meaty crack, and no one rose from the pile.

  Sudden pain stabbed into Dormael’s thigh, causing his leg to crumple. He cursed, rolling to the side as something flitted through the air nearby. Dormael covered his head as another arrow landed in the dirt next to him. The lightning had scarred bright lines across his vision, leaving him blinded.

  D’Jenn’s song wove around him, and low thuds sounded from near his head. He looked up to see the arrows caught in midair, vibrating like they’d been shot into a tree. Dormael breathed a sigh of relief. Grunting in pain, he pulled the bolt from his thigh and tossed it away.

  Get up, Dormael! We have to move!

  I’ve been hit! Wincing, Dormael tried to stand, but his leg gave a flash of pain when he settled his weight on it.

  If you don’t move, you’ll be hit some more! Come on!

  D’Jenn appeared out of the night, reaching down to grasp Dormael under the arm. He yanked Dormael to his feet, whipping out with a gout of flame to scourge a bowman who took a shot at them. A man ran screaming toward them, a sword raised high in his hands. Dormael lashed out with his Kai, cracking the man across the ankles and taking him to the ground.

  “Can you shift?” D’Jenn gestured to the side, tossing an attacker into a tree trunk. The man made a wet crunching noise as he hit.

  “Give me a moment.” Dormael grabbed his leg in pain. He walled away the sensations, using the mental discipline he’d learned at the Conclave to summon more power from his magic. “I can’t run, even in wolf form!”

  “We fly, then!” D’Jenn sent another gout of fire from his hand. “Just hurry!”

  Dormael turned his magic inward again, summoning the form of the gyrfalcon. He wasn’t sure what to expect with his wound when he changed, but found that as his body distended, the injury simply changed to something comparable. He still had a hole in his leg, but falcons had no need to stand on their legs for long.

  Let’s go! Dormael flapped hard, springing off his good leg and battling into the dead air under the trees. An arrow whipped through the shadows just to his right, sending the air into chaotic eddies under his wings. After considerable struggle, he managed to get things under control. D’Jenn tossed a few more spells before sliding back into the form of a black raven.

  Dormael flapped his wings and climbed through a hole in the forest canopy, calling a challenge as he burst into the sky. D’Jenn was right behind him, clipping a limb on his way through the hole. As the shouting faded behind them, the night closed in. The lights of Borders glowed on the coast, and Dormael turned his beak toward them.

  D’Jenn stuck close to his wing, flitting around the edge of his flight path. Dormael struggled on the flight back, exhaustion and pain warring to drag him to the ground. Borders wasn’t far from the wood’s edge, and the inn was easy to find from the air. Dormael’s body was flagging by the time they spiraled down for a landing.

  Dormael’s leg gave out as they came down and he stumbled in the soupy mud. Sacrificing what little energy was left to him, Dormael poured his power back into his body and slid into his own form once again. His stomach lurched and his head swam as he came back to his skin, lying in the muck.

  A startled curse to the side alerted him to the presence of one of Hadrick’s guards, standing sentry on the door to the inn. Dormael smiled at the man and gave a little wave as he tried to stand. His leg gave out with a stab of pain, toppling him to the ground. He clutched to his thigh, and his hands came away stained red with blood.

  The last thing he saw before the world went black was D’Jenn’s worried face.

  ***

  Dormael awoke to the smell of roasting fish. He stared up at a ceiling—old, knotted boards and thick beams. Dust drifted down between the cracks, and Dormael turned his face away with a sneeze. His bed was itchy, and morning light drifted through the window.

  He was naked and covered with a thin blanket. His left thigh was wrapped in a tight bandage and he registered a dull throb from the wound as he examined it. His head felt like it was stuffed full of wool and his tongue was drier than a desert.

  He was alone in the room he had shared with D’Jenn. Clattering plates and the low, murmuring drone of conversation drifted through the floor from downstairs. With a pained grunt, Dormael tossed the blankets aside and climbed to his feet.

  The walk to the common room was a painful ordeal.

  In the middle of the dining room, a space had been cleared to accommodate two tables. A generous breakfast, complete with tankards of drink, was heaped on the table. Hadrick Lucius sat in the middle, and around him were Dormael’s friends. A man Dormael didn’t recognize sat opposite Hadrick.

  The newcomer was wearing thick pants and a billowing shirt. A large sailor’s coat was tossed over the back of his chair. His hair was braided into a multitude of thin plaits, and it stuck back from his head with roguish nonchalance. Small tattoos decorated his hands and the side of his neck, and he had a wide, friendly grin on his face.

  Dormael smiled. He’s a Sevelander! Maybe the gods have finally given us good fortune.

  Laughs erupted at a joke that Dormael didn’t hear, but the commotion clued everyone in to his presence. Bethany jumped from her seat and rushed over to wrap his waist in a tight hug. Dormael was surprised, but he accepted her hug with a smile and a ruffling of her hair.

  Shawna walked over to help him. “The conquering hero returns.”

  Dormael accepted her arm and laid his quarterstaff against the wall, allowing her to lead him to the table. The smell of breakfast tickled his stomach, stoking his appetite. A seat was vacated for him as he greeted everyone in turn, until he got to the unknown Sevenlander.

  “Dormael,” Hadrick said, “this is Mikael. He’s the captain of a rickety tub down in the harbor. What is it called? Haircutter?”

  “Seacutter.” Mikael snorted. “Which you know very well, you bastard.”

  Hadrick shrugged and took a long pull from a cup at his elbow. “Blame it on my memory. He’s the one that’s going to ferry you lot across the sea.”

  Dormael balled his fist and managed the best bow he could without standing. “Well met, Mikael.”

  “And you.” Mikael returned the customary Sevenlander bow. “I hope you slept well. Hadrick’s healers are little better than midwives with strange elixirs, so I’m surprised you lived at all.”

  Hadrick scoffed. “I don’t have healers. I have one old woman who has a mouth dirtier than half of my men. She’s been here for longer than most of them have been alive, though. She patched you up last night.”

  “It’s much appreciated.” Dormael gave Hadrick a thankful nod.

  I wonder if he still wants to punch me.

  Dormael’s stomach did a wild series of flips as he smelled spiced fish and bread. Shawna slid a plate in front of him with a pat on the shoulder. He thanked her with a nod and dug in, sighing in pleasure as the hot food filled his belly.

  “As I was saying,” Hadrick said, as if Dormael had interrupted an ongoing conversation, “the Legion short sword is the perfect weapon for almost any fight. It’s quick, dirty. It’s strong, and you don’t need a mountain of silver marks to maintain it.”

  Hadrick pulled his sword out and set it on the table in front of Shawna.

  “It’s thicker here, see?” He ran his finger along the center of the bla
de. “Perfect for the sort of up-close and personal blood-letting that occurs in the front lines of a battle, or the back alleys of this city. It will get right through chain mail, even with a woman swinging it.”

  “Even with a woman, eh?” Shawna smirked at Hadrick.

  She picked up his sword and held it up, regarding it with distaste. With a smile, she reached to her side and drew one of her own blades for comparison. Shawna turned and presented both to Hadrick.

  “Your Legion sword is a nice weapon, I’ll not deny it. It’s good for its intended purpose—the front lines of battle, as you say. Fighting in a group with these severe chops and stabs.” Shawna mimicked the motion with the Legion sword, shaking her head.

  “My Sheran short sword, though, has many uses.” She raised her own blade. “It’s thicker at the bottom, which adds strength to the blade. The edges are curved at the top—unlike those on your Legion sword—for slashing and draw-cutting your opponent’s wrists. My blades are fullered, which also makes them stronger, and the points are finer. Not to mention that my swords have guards. You might as well chop your fingers off for pride, fighting with a guard-less weapon.”

  “Aye, and that fine point will be good for breaking on a shield somewhere,” Hadrick grunted. “And I’ve still got all my fingers.”

  “Normally it would,” Shawna nodded, “but mine are magical. You could throw them point-first at a boulder, and the boulder would yield. Besides, my blades would have to touch the shield—and not a throat or an armpit—for that to be a problem.”

  Hadrick laughed. “I guess I should know better than to argue blades with a Marked Blademaster.”

  “We all make mistakes.” Shawna smiled and handed his sword back to him.

  “Are you sure I can’t talk you into staying here?” Hadrick cocked a crooked smile. “I could use a good blade, and a pretty face never hurts, either.”

  “You’ll have to get in line, my friend.” Mikael smiled. “I’m going to marry her first.”

  Shawna laughed and dismissed their comments with a wave. Dormael gaped, and his food almost fell from his mouth. In Ferolan, Shawna had been as prim as a noble girl in a tight halter, and now she joked—no, flirted—in good nature with smugglers, and debated the finer points of killing with veterans of foreign wars. Oddly, a snag of jealously squirmed its way out of his belly. He stuffed it down with another mouthful of fish.

  “So,” he said, trying to change the direction of the conversation, “you’re an Orrisan?”

  “Of course.” Mikael indicated his tattooed skin. “We’re the finest sailors on the sea, and with the finest ships, too. Mine’s one of the best, so don’t you worry. You’re in good hands.”

  “The arrangements have all been made.” Hadrick nodded to Dormael. “Though Mikael drives a bargain tighter than a flea’s arsehole.”

  Shawna gave Hadrick a distasteful look, and surprisingly enough, his cheeks reddened.

  “I drive a fair bargain,” Mikael grunted. “I am not the one who’s the head of a criminal organization. I am the trustworthy one, surely you all can see that.”

  Hadrick scoffed. “You’re a gods-damned smuggler.”

  Mikael winked and raised a glass. “I’m just a sea captain, old boy. Man’s got to make his fortune somewhere, doesn’t he?”

  “That he does.” Hadrick raised his own glass, and the two shared a drink.

  Dormael returned to his meal and let the conversation wash over him, contenting himself with flicking pieces of rice at Bethany when she wasn’t looking. His eyes tracked to a dingy window, where gray light illuminated the dust hanging in the air. The wind blew, rattling the glass in its shabby frame.

  D’Jenn reached into his pouch to light a pipe, offering it to Dormael when he caught him looking. Dormael accepted and put his food aside, lighting the pipe with a whisper of his magic. No one at the table noticed except D’Jenn and Bethany.

  Hadrick spoke of his upcoming tasks in rebuilding and discussed swordplay with Shawna. Mikael told a few stories to Bethany about sailing, and mulled wine was brought to the table as the food was cleared away. Dormael sat in silence, letting the conversation go on without his input, and shared a pipe with his cousin.

  His mind kept returning to the Galanians. In the morning, he and his friends would board Mikael’s ship and strike out for the Sevenlands—far away from the grasping hands of the Empire. Dormael, however, couldn’t get the feeling of dread to leave his guts.

  The Red Swords must be close. Where are they?

  A Tide of Blood

  Dormael shielded his face from a spray of cold salt water. He gripped tight to a hand line on the port side of the ship and tried to rock with the motion of the sea. His leg, protesting his every movement, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. It would probably be weeks before he was well enough to do more than limp.

  Seacutter was a sleek, three-masted ship. She cut through the water with surprising speed, and her crew worked with expert precision. Mikael had all the laundry hanging, and the sails were taut with the wind.

  A squall threatened the sky to the northeast. Mikael had been running from it for four days, after the six days it had taken to skirt the edge of the Maelstrom Field. Dormael found his eyes drawn to it, as if it was some hammer of the gods waiting to come down, but Mikael assured him it was nothing to worry about.

  Another day and it’ll be on top of us. Then we’ll see about worrying.

  Another wave sloshed over Seacutter’s port side, and Dormael cursed as the ship rocked in response, putting pressure on his wounded leg. With the violent motion of the winter sea, he’d had trouble navigating the deck since the first day. Staying belowdecks had always made him uncomfortable, and he did whatever he could to avoid it, wounded leg or not.

  Bethany had traipsed around the deck since the first day like she was born to the sea. Dormael had caught her hiding in piles of rope or hanging from anything she could reach. The crew of Seacutter took to her like a group of ill-gotten friends, and even helped her along in her mischief. On the third day around the Maelstrom Field, Dormael had found her leaning out of the crow’s nest with one of Mikael’s men, trying to spot a whirlpool in the distance. He’d been unable to climb the rigging, so he’d watched her the entire time, magic poised to catch her if she fell. He’d given serious thought to hiring a governess once they reached the Sevenlands.

  Shawna had spent the first two days at sea in her cabin, green with seasickness and ill-tempered. By the third day, she had taken breakfast, and two days later her nausea seemed to have mostly subsided. She spent most of her time resting in her narrow cabin.

  Dormael summoned his Kai, using a bit of magic to keep warmth huddled under his cloak. The wind whipped unchecked over the waves, and the water was frigid. Thunder rumbled in the sky, and Dormael could hear it echoed in the ether.

  “Sails!” called the lookout. “Sails on the horizon!”

  Dormael stiffened.

  No one made an issue of the call, though Mikael pulled out a looking glass and gazed into the distance. A shudder ran down Dormael’s spine, his mind going to the Red Swords and their commander. Could the man have procured a ship?

  It was probably another trader, pushing the edge of his weather window to make a big haul. Few captains would risk an oversea crossing at this time of year, and they were well out of reach of any ports. Why would there be another ship so far north and so close to the Maelstrom Field?

  Cursing under his breath, Dormael struggled down the deck to speak with Mikael.

  Pulling his way along the pitching deck was difficult. Dormael cursed his carelessness in getting wounded for the thousandth time since it happened and gritted his teeth against the pain. By the time he struggled to the poop deck, he was sweating from the effort.

  “A ship?” Dormael breathed through his teeth to banish the ache in his thigh.

  “Aye.” Mikael peered through a long spyglass at a speck on the horizon. “Square-rigged, tall bitch, she is. Can’t tell much el
se. She’s too far out.”

  “What do you think about it?”

  Mikael regarded him with a speculative look and snapped his spyglass shut. His wild, braided hair was wrapped in a scarf against the weather, but the wind still flitted some of the tiny braids. He took a deep breath and shrugged.

  “Don’t know as I need to think much about it. She’s coming our way, but so’s the wind. She won’t be close for awhile now, anyway—if she even gets close.”

  “Is it normal for ships to be out here this time of year?”

  Mikael peered at him askance. “You got someone chasing you, Blessed? Is there something I need to be worrying about?”

  Hadrick had arranged the whole passage between himself and Mikael, and it had become apparent that he had told the sea captain a few things about their situation—Dormael and D’Jenn’s identities as wizards, and Shawna’s status as an Imperial fugitive—but he had also left some things out.

  “Is it normal, or not?” Dormael pressed.

  Mikael pursed his lips, returning his eyes to the distant speck. “There ain’t many ports to sail for on the eastern coast of the Sevenlands. Minsdurim—though nobody goes to Minsdurim this time of year, it’s too far north—and Mistfall. What I wonder is where that big ship came from. From her angle, she must have been south of the Maelstrom Field, or west of it. I don’t know why she’d turn in our direction, but the gods give us a strange world to live in. Why do you ask, and why do your eyes say you’re worried?”

  Apprehension tightened Dormael’s guts. “It just gives me a bad feeling.”

  “That storm has been brewing up for a few days.” Mikael shrugged. “Could be she’s running before the wind, just like us. Trying to get away from the blow.”

  “Maybe. I think I might have a look, though, in any case,” Dormael said. “Do your men have any weapons?”

  Mikael’s face darkened. “Just what we use to keep stowaways from climbing in the crates and a few crossbows. My men aren’t pirates, Blessed. We’re a trading ship.”