The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  The shape of a horse and rider came out of the night in the distance, appearing like ghosts out of the moonlit shadows. Dormael paused at the sight of them, something about them filling him with unease. Even from where he was, Dormael could hear the horse’s labored breathing, could smell its sweat. His magic was augmenting his senses, and singing lowly in his mind. The rider did not rise at the sight of him, and gave no indication that they were even alive. As the horse came ponderously closer, the smell of blood filled Dormael’s nose.

  He stepped within range of the horse, he was surprised to see that it was clearly of thoroughbred stock. It offered him a weak whinny as he stepped into its path and raised his hand in a wary greeting. The horse stopped short of him, but was too exhausted to balk with any real excitement.

  “Hello!” he called.

  Dormael was surprised to see that the rider was a woman. She had a wealth of long, fair hair that spilled from her head, though Dormael couldn’t tell what color it was in the moonlight. She was covered by a thick cloak, and it hid anything else from his sight. She said nothing in response—in fact, she didn’t even move.

  Fuck the gods, Dormael thought. If I’m caught on the road with a dead Cambrellian woman, I’ll be hanged before the sun reaches its zenith tomorrow.

  His Kai was ringing so loudly in his ears that it was hard to concentrate. It pulled at him insistently, reaching toward the girl, or something she had in her possession. Dormael wrenched down on his magic and moved to get a better look. The horse shied away from him, and that movement tumbled the poor woman onto the ground. Dormael started back as she fell, but moved tentatively closer to see if she was alive.

  She was very pretty—that much he noticed right away. The woman was his age, or just a few springs younger, with delicate skin. She had the sort of face that men wrote songs about, but it was currently locked in a sweaty grimace of pain. She moved unconsciously, which caused a flood of relief to wash over Dormael. He didn't want to have the responsibility of a dead girl on his hands, especially if someone turned up.

  “Can you hear me? Are you alright?” Dormael asked. The girl barely stirred in response. Dormael sighed and shot a look down both sides of the road, but the night was silent in both directions. Ferolan loomed to the north, silhouetted walls against the dull glow of the city's lights. The only sound was the constant crash of the waves against the nearby cliffs.

  “Eindor’s bloody eye,” he cursed. The horse gave a weak snort in response.

  The reason for her unconsciousness became quickly apparent. She had an arrow shaft sticking from her back on the left side, just too low to have gone through her ribs. Dormael hissed in sympathy as he rolled her over to look at the wound, and found her vestments stained with blood. He was no healer, but it looked to him that her life was hanging in the balance. It was probably a wonder she had made it this far on horseback. He sniffed at the arrow's point of entry, and was relieved to find no putrid smells coming from it. If the girl's guts had been nicked, she probably would have died despite anything Dormael could do for her. As it was, she may still have a chance to live through the night.

  “How does a pretty thing like you end up stuck with an arrow?” he mused aloud, looking over her belongings. She was horribly unprepared for life on the road. She only had two small saddlebags, a pair of waterskins, and nothing but the bloodstained cloak she wore to keep the wind off—which now had a hole in it, thanks to the offending arrow. She was wearing leather armor, of all things, and carrying two swords. Dormael was surprised yet again to find that the blades were resonating with his Kai.

  “Infused swords, as well? A fine saddle, a fine horse...this isn't good. Not good at all,” he said, talking to himself to distract his mind from the insistent tugs of his magic. “Somebody is either expecting you, or looking for you. But which is it?”

  Either way, Dormael had to do something. He couldn't just leave her here for the gods to decide her fate—they were capricious at the best of times. This woman was special, that much was obvious. Dormael had no idea what she was doing armed, skewered, and dressed for war, but she was obviously nobility. Mercenaries didn’t have such fine horses, nor did they tend to carry many Infused weapons. He dropped his belongings nearby and whipped a dagger from his boot.

  “You must be lucky to come upon a sap like me in the middle of the night,” he said to the horse. The horse didn’t reply, so Dormael went to work.

  He sliced the cloak away from where the arrow had pinned it to her armor, and moved it aside. Field medicine was no better than a leaky cork in a ship on most days, but right now his meager skill was all she had. Dormael turned the girl once again on her side and felt the head of the arrow poking through her belly. Dried blood was caked around the arrowhead, but fresh blood was steadily dripping from it, as well. He wasn't sure if he should remove the arrow or not. In his mind's eye he saw himself jerking it out, struggling to hold back a tide of hot blood, and watching the girl expire in the dirt. He settled with breaking the longer part off and stuffing it into her pack.

  Dormael unbuckled the straps that held her leather cuirass together, and winced again as he saw the padded tunic beneath soaked through with her blood. Her stomach was heaving with labored breathing, and each movement caused a fresh round of droplets to leak from the hole in her side. Dormael sucked in a breath through his teeth, wincing at the arrow wound.

  “Gods, girl. How far did you ride with that arrow in your back?” he asked. He looked back in the direction from which she had come, wondering if there was someone haunting her trail. Dormael felt a renewed sense of urgency at the thought of horsemen screaming out of the night.

  He grimaced down at the wound, unsure of what to do. He didn't have the materials nor the knowledge to dress a stomach wound, and he suspected that he didn't have the time, either. There was no way the guards at the south gate would just turn a blind eye to him returning with a wounded Cambrellian girl—a rich Cambrellian girl, at that. Sevenlanders weren't exactly hated, especially in a peaceful place like Cambrell, but they certainly weren't trusted. Chances were he'd see the inside of a cell for his trouble. If he didn't get her to a healer soon, though, she would die without a doubt.

  Dormael decided to secure the wound as best he could. Using his knife, he reached under the girl's padded tunic and cut a few strips from her shirt that weren't soaked through with blood. He popped the lid from his waterskin and poured some of the cold water over the entry point, carefully separating the clotted blood and fabric from her flesh. The girl let out an unconscious cry of pain as he worked, and he winced at the sudden noise.

  “Sorry,” he grumbled, but she didn't hear him.

  The arrowhead hadn't penetrated all the way through the front of her armor, but pulling the hard leather from around the shaft in her back proved more troublesome than he had anticipated. The arrow was lodged at a strange angle between her skin and the armor, and the pressure elicited another weak whimper from the girl. Dormael winced with sympathy, wishing that he could talk to her, but she failed to wake even as the arrow came loose from her armor.

  He took the strips he had cut and stuffed them around the arrow shaft. He wasn't sure if it would help, but he figured that they could at least soak up some of the blood, and perhaps provide a cushion to keep the arrow shaft from jostling too much. He tightened her armor back down around the shaft of the arrow to try and hold in place, and arranged the winter cloak to better cover her body.

  Dormael winced yet again as he looked at the lathered horse. The thing was exhausted, and Dormael half expected it to drop dead where it stood. Every movement it made would jostle the girl's wound, and threaten to spill her onto the ground. He couldn't very well carry her with his magic, though—that would certainly cause a ruckus with the guards, not to mention any Aeglar Cultists that might be lurking about. The Cult regularly kidnapped and killed those who used magic, and they had a strong presence in Alderak, though he was unsure of their power in Cambrell.

  Dorma
el didn't have much of a choice. He reached out with his Kai and let the magic take hold of the girl. He tried to be gentle, but she groaned in pain as he lifted her from the ground. He laid her body across the exhausted horse, and pumped a little of his power into her. Magic was no good for healing in general, but he knew that if he simply lent the girl some of his strength that it might have a positive effect. Once he had stowed most of her things—and some of his—on the horse, he started leading it back toward the city.

  Dormael’s magic was still flowing strongly through him, and that strange resonance he had sensed before was interacting with his power stronger than ever. It pulled at him, beckoning in a strange way he had never experienced before. Something in the woman’s possession was causing the interaction, but it wasn't her swords. His own magic was more content than before, but it danced with the strange new power as if it were greeting an old friend. Dormael had to clamp down on his mental control in order to keep his magic from doing random things on its own, which was something he had never had to do before.

  He spared a thought for searching through her things. If she held something dangerous, then it might be alright for him to relieve her of the burden. The thought of rifling through a dying woman’s belongings, though, filled him with repugnance. Chances were the girl would die before the morning, but Dormael was no thief, and he wasn’t going to let her die.

  If he could save her, maybe she could answer the question for him when she recovered.

  If not, well...he would worry about that when the time came.

  Finesse and deception would be required to get her past the gate guards in her state. He could just put them all to sleep, but if a Cultist was lurking around the city, that would certainly put them on his trail. Perhaps a small use of magic wouldn't hurt, though.

  Dormael removed her swords and tied them to her saddlebags, along with his pack and guitar. Then, he wrapped her up in both of their cloaks, setting her upright in the saddle. Apologizing to the horse, Dormael held her in place with his magic as he climbed up behind her. When everything was situated, he nudged the horse toward the gate.

  As he did, he weaved a bit of 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. Ferolan’s walls were high and imposing, but hadn’t seen real usage in a very long time.

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

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

  “Come to seek passage on a ship for me and my sister here,” Dormael lied, patting the unconscious girl's shoulder.

  “That’s your sister? Is she awake?” the guard inquired, nodding his head at the unconscious girl.

  “Ah...no. She had a bit of a problem on the road,” Dormael said, trying to affect an apologetic smile.

  “Problem?” the guard asked.

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

  “Your sister sounds like a keeper, savage,” 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 that the magic was covering the bloodstains, which were more than apparent to him. As the guard slid his eyes over them, though, he said nothing.

  “You might think so,” Dormael replied, “but you should ask her last husband. Why do you think I'm coming to take her home? She was unbearable. I know why the man wanted rid of her, I just wish he’d have kept her.”

  “That so?” the guard asked. Dormael was getting tired of the conversation, and he felt every moment ticking away like the blood dripping from the girl's wound.

  “Aye. He put up with her moods and her drinking for a few years, but then the stabbing happened,” he lied, mind racing for something that would move his entrance along.

  “Stabbing?” the guard started.

  “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,” Dormael said. “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 said, gesturing 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,” the guardsman spat. “Get her somewhere with a bath. I don't want to have clean up her shit, Sevenlander.”

  “Much obliged,” Dormael said, wincing down at Shawna’s backside. He clucked to the horse, and she stepped through the gate, snorting in irritation. For one brief moment a shudder ran through the beast’s flanks, and Dormael thought the mare would fall. She didn’t, though, and Dormael heard the men at the guard station laughing at his back as they disappeared behind him. When he 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 that 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.

  Patting the horse’s neck, he pondered his next set of problems. First, he was going to have to avoid notice while he was here. The sight of him leading a horse with a body laid across it might raise a few questions with any authorities that may appear, so he would have to stick to back alleys. For another thing, he didn’t even 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. He thought he could feel the girl's life trickling away with the blood she was still 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. He was hoping that he could find a healer’s shop there, and somehow convince them to help. Under the circumstances, it was the best plan that Dormael could come up with at the moment, and time was of the essence. His purse was light, but he was banking on the fact that the healer wouldn’t let the girl die—though he had met plenty in his life that would turn him away without any marks for payment.

  Suddenly, in a narrow space between two squat buildings, two men moved into his path and blocked him. Groaning inwardly, Dormael turned only to find another, larger man barring his retreat. Dormael cursed silently at this turn of events. Someone in the Six Hells had it out for him tonight.

  “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,” one of the smaller men in front of him rasped. Dormael wondered idly why every thief that ever robbed someone found it necessary to spit what they thought was witty banter at their marks. 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 entirely finished the job.

  What a pity, Dormael thoug
ht.

  The men were all dressed in throw-off clothing, and they smelled of piss and sweat. They were unshaven and their eyes darted quickly in one direction and then the next, ever watchful for someone to interrupt their little mugging. The one with the raspy voice looked to be the leader, and they were all holding daggers that looked more suited to whittling than killing. Dormael could see that these were desperate men, though, and desperate men were the most dangerous.

  “Please,” Dormael began, “It's a cold night, we're all tired here. 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 all of us that way.”

  “Sorry,” Dormael replied, “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 had hoped.

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

  “Last chance to walk away,” Dormael said through gritted teeth, setting his staff and rucksack against the side of an adjacent building.

  “Appreciate your offer, but we're quite set on leaving you to bleed in the gutter. Things are simpler that way. Besides, we need your stuff. Dangers of the road, and all that,” the man replied to him through a smile that showed cracked and broken teeth.

  “Very well,” Dormael sighed. He pulled up his sleeves as the men moved in around him, baring his arms and the Sevenlander script that was tattooed upon them 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.