The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Not to mention that we don't yet know the nature of the thing she's carrying,” Dormael added. “She may not know the nature of it either, and magical items are unpredictable for those who don't know how to use them. It might be that taking it to Arla would invite even more trouble.”

  “What do you propose, then?” Alton asked. “Where else would you go?”

  “There is a place that's used to dealing with this sort of thing,” D'Jenn smiled. “And people who are trained to do so.”

  “The Conclave, you mean,” Alton said, letting out a stressful breath of air. “You want to take her to the Sevenlands.”

  “I know that might sound crazy to you, but it's the safest place on Eldath for her. Our superiors will know what to do about this, and it's too far for the Empire to try and pressure anyone with military force. Your king might turn her over if the emperor threatens invasion. He wouldn't dare attack the Sevenlands, and certainly not the Conclave,” Dormael pointed out.

  “No one wants anything to do with the Conclave,” Alton muttered, then realized what he'd said. “Ah...sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it,” D'Jenn muttered in a dry tone. Alton favored him with an apologetic expression and shrugged his shoulders.

  “This is all assuming, of course, that she wants to go, and is able to make the trip in the first place,” Dormael said. “The Stormy Sea is gathering its power, and the ocean will be impassible until next spring if we wait to make the crossing.”

  “The girl still hasn't woken, either,” D'Jenn said. “What do your healers say?”

  “They stopped drugging her last night,” Alton shrugged. “It's in the hands of the gods, now.”

  “They've certainly taken good care of her so far,” Dormael muttered. No one had a reply for that.

  “In any case, we need to get ahead of the Imperials,” D'Jenn said into the uncomfortable silence. “Make our next move first, before they make theirs. Waiting around will only leave the decision to our enemies.”

  “The Sevenlands,” Alton sighed. “If she doesn't wake in the next few days, she won't be able to move. The journey might be too hard on her.”

  “I don't think she has much of a choice,” D'Jenn said. “Unless she wants to wake up in Imperial custody—which means not waking up at all.”

  “Point,” Alton sighed. “I can see the wisdom in going to the Sevenlands. It's far from Imperial influence, and they'll know what to do about...the magic.”

  “We'll take good care of her, and she'll be free to do as she pleases, of course. If she doesn't wake first, that is,” Dormael said. “If so, the decision is hers.”

  “Which brings us to the next point,” D’Jenn said. “We need a favor, Alton—another one, I mean.”

  “Anything within my power,” Alton replied.

  “We’ll need a ship to take us over the Stormy Sea—one with a captain willing to sail and the sort of disposition accustomed to late-night departures without asking any questions. Do you know anyone like that?” asked D’Jenn. His tone was light, but the insinuation in his words was clear.

  “A captain that will not object to a late-night, secret departure? Now why would I know anyone like that? Are you suggesting that I’m in the smuggling business?” Alton smirked.

  “Any smart businessman—especially one who runs an importing business—who finds himself in a position to ship goods at a reduced tax rate stands to make a good bit of money,” D’Jenn shrugged. “I was only asking if you knew someone.”

  Alton shook his head and chuckled, “No one in my line of work survives long without greasing the right palms, or having a fleet of able captains. I might know someone who's used to that sort of thing, sure. It's not smuggling, you understand—just smart business.”

  “Of course,” D’Jenn smiled.

  “I'll send someone down to the docks to see who is in port right now. The last I heard, the only captain down there was Roldo, but he’s not exactly the trustworthy type. He might be our only option, though. Not many will make the run at this time of year.”

  “I'll leave that to you,” D'Jenn nodded. “Right now we need to figure out how to get into the castle.”

  “You mean you don't know?” Alton asked.

  “We could always change into birds and fly through a window,” Dormael offered, but D’Jenn shook his head.

  “I was never very good at flying, coz. The wind tosses me around like a feather. There’s a little trick I learned while I was sneaking into Thardin Keep. It’s simple enough, and it will be easier than making a landing on a windowsill, or slamming into the side of a tower, for that matter. We need to know more about the castle itself, though.”

  “Did you just say 'change into birds'?” Alton asked.

  “More information never hurts,” Dormael nodded. He rose and strode over to the window to face the afternoon sun.

  “What’s he going to do?” Alton asked. The man leaned forward and watched Dormael intently, as if he was going to start shooting lightning or fire all over the room. Dormael had a hard time keeping a smile from creeping onto his face.

  “Nothing you’ll be able to see, Alton,” D'Jenn laughed.

  D'Jenn's words faded away as Dormael threw his mind out of the window and out into the sunlight. Suddenly he was flying in a large circle over Ferolan, looking down at the rooftops dotted on the hillsides and crammed into the valley. He spread out his phantom arms as he turned and sped towards the large stone bastion that was Ferolan Castle.

  The fortress was made of granite, and was an older, concentric design. The outer walls were lower than the inner walls, and as he flew over them, he could see that the two came close together on the seaward side of the castle. There were five guard towers on the landward side—two that flanked the main entrance, which sat on the meandering path up from the city, and three that were set at regular intervals facing east. Flying low over the guard towers, he could see two guards stationed atop the each tower, and at least three more pairs walking the ramparts above the walls themselves. There were no towers on the seaward side, but the walkway atop the outer wall was wider, and sported two ballistae and a small catapult to boot. The engines appeared old and ill-maintained, though. It had been generations since Ferolan had been attacked, so Dormael imagined that the guards had become somewhat complacent.

  The high inner walls only had four guard towers, set to face the four cardinal directions. The same amount of guards stood atop these towers, but there were no roving patrols on the walls. The keep—the main section of the castle—was built into the southern wall, and sported two even larger towers, one higher than the other. Flying near the windows, he caught a glimpse of a large balcony at the topmost part of the highest tower.

  The Lord's apartments must be at the top, with guests housed in the shorter tower, Dormael thought.

  There was bustling activity within the walls of Ferolan Castle. Carts came and went, stacked with supplies of one sort or another. Dormael didn't pay much attention except to look for a possible way in, but try as he might, he could find no easy way to get it done. They could use illusory magic to gain access and hide their identities, but Dormael could think of no ruse that would gain them unfettered access to the inner rooms of the castle, where the Red Sword commander was probably staying. Maintaining that sort of magic was difficult, too, and Dormael wasn't sure that they could get in and out without complications.

  D'Jenn's suggestion—to climb the very walls—seemed to be the most sensible, oddly enough.

  Dormael took one last turn around the balcony, hoping to catch sight of the Lady of the castle in the nude. The doors to the apartment were shuttered tight against the cold, though, and Dormael gave off with a mental sigh. It had been worth a shot, anyway.

  He opened his eyes back in Alton's study.

  “What was that?” Alton asked as Dormael stepped away from the window. “You just stood there, mute as stone, looking out at the sun.”

  “It’s called mind-flight,” Dormael smiled. “I
sent my mind out over the castle and took a look around, but left my body here. It’s just like flying, except you’re not really doing it.”

  “If you can send your mind outside your body like that,” Alton said, “why don’t you just find out what we need to know that way? You wouldn’t even have to sneak into the castle.”

  “There are many risks involved,” D'Jenn explained, shaking his head. “In order to touch anything while you’re mind-flying, you have to use magic to become tangible enough to touch it. Also, it only works at a certain distance with no interference. The more solid structures between your mind and body, the more difficult it becomes. On top of that, if you are tangible while in mind-flight and you’re harmed in any way, your mind just...dies. Your body, however, stays alive until it rots away.”

  Alton looked a little confused at this explanation, but he nodded his head as if he understood.

  “This is all a little strange to me, but alright.”

  “You'll get used to it,” Dormael smiled. “My brother did.”

  “You Sevenlanders are different, though. Your society is different,” Alton said.

  “Does Allen still make you heat his bathwater when you visit home?” D'Jenn asked.

  Dormael couldn't help but laugh, “Aye, the bastard.”

  “You...use magic to heat your bathwater?” Alton asked, his eyebrows climbing his forehead.

  “Aye, why not? There are advantages to being a wizard,” Dormael winked.

  “It just seems...I don't know. None of this is as I would have imagined it,” Alton shrugged.

  “Nothing ever is, friend Alton,” D’Jenn smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “As Dormael said, you'll get used to it. When this is over, I wager you'll be thankful for it. Now,” D'Jenn turned to Dormael, “tell me about Ferolan Castle, cousin.”

  ***

  “Sir, the reports from last night,” Havram said as he passed Grant a small sheet of paper. Grant took the small note and perused it from top to bottom. Nothing—nothing, nothing, and more of bloody nothing. He sighed and shook his head, but resisted the urge to toss everything sitting on the fancy writing desk onto the floor. It just wouldn't do to treat his host's things in such a way.

  “Where is she?” Grant murmured as he handed the letter back to his aide. Havram took the letter and folded it before stuffing it into his belt. “A damned noble, wounded and armed, should have raised a bloody hue and cry when she came through the gates. So where in the Six Hells has she gone?”

  “I couldn't dare speculate, sir.”

  “Have the men checked all the clinics in the city?”

  “Yes, sir—that was your first command, respectfully. There are no clinics here, just healers who sell their skills.”

  “Of course, of course, fucking savages. No clinics, indeed,” Grant sighed. He hadn't slept much since their ride to the city. The Duke of Ferolan had capitulated with surprising ease, and his men had been quartered inside the castle garrison with little to no fuss at all. The emperor hadn't anticipated the need to bribe anyone of the nobility, but luckily Grant never went on campaign without enough money to buy food for his men. It was too bad that all those marks had gone to grease Duke Eric Lindesholm's hairy little palm, but sacrifices had needed to be made. Sometimes better men had to pretend to pay tribute to those beneath them.

  At least, they did until blood needed to be spilled.

  “With the initial search drawn to a close, sir, I've drawn up a duty roster for patrols. I just need your signature,” Havram said, as disciplined as ever.

  “You don't need my approval for such matters, Lieutenant. You've been around long enough to have earned my trust in those affairs. See it done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are the men adjusting to their new surroundings? I trust there have been no incidents in the city, or with the City Watch?” Grant asked. His men were soldiers, not a police force. Doubtless they were beginning to chafe at the odd nature of their mission here, and that sort of thing wasn't good for soldiers. They grew bored with it, and things tended to happen when soldiers got bored—bloody things.

  Sergeant Janks had been a prime example of that.

  “Ah...not as of yet, sir. Nothing serious, anyway. A few fistfights with the guardsmen, but nothing too unfriendly. Competition, you know,” Havram said.

  “I trust there have been no issues with discipline since the manor house?”

  “None, sir. The crucifixion made its point.”

  “Bloody good. Maybe the next time someone gets their blood up for something, they'll remember who it is that they should fear.”

  “Without a doubt, sir.”

  “Is there anything else, Havram? I'm tired, and wanted to get some sleep before that preening shit invites me to dinner this evening,” Grant grunted. He felt like a lion in the presence of sheep every time he was forced into the company of the nobility of Ferolan. Too much gold did something to people, he was sure of it. They were soft, oily people with no awareness of the outside world. He had privately entertained fantasies of slapping Duke Eric Lindesholm in the face until he cried like a woman.

  The man had absolutely insisted upon showing off every relation to him, perhaps in the hopes of marriage. He had been bombarded with this third cousin, or that twice-removed niece. Doubtless the man had reached the end of his social ladder with the Cambrellian monarchy, and now thought that a bribe meant that he could start to weasel his way into Galanian social circles.

  If the man had any self respect he would have his servants strangle him to death.

  “Ah...one more thing, sir. This just arrived by pigeon.” Havram handed Colonel Grant a small scroll painted with red and white edges, and stamped with the Imperial standard. “From His Eminence, sir.”

  “I fucking know who it is, Havram,” Grant sighed, snatching the letter away from his stoic lieutenant. He took a deep breath and set the message on his writing desk before regarding his aide with a pained grimace. “Apologies, Havram. This whole thing is starting to get under my skin.”

  “Of course, sir. No apologies are necessary from superior to subordinate.”

  “Spoken like an exemplary soldier, Havram. Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir. I will inform you if any new information comes to light. Will you need me for the next few hours?”

  “No, I will be trying very hard to drool on my pillow. Take your ease, Havram. Get some rest.”

  “Yes, sir,” Havram saluted him, fist to chest, and turned on a stiff heel to stalk from the room.

  “Oh, Havram?”

  “Sir?” Havram turned around to face him.

  “Have the girl sent up. Dress her in something nice, too.”

  Havram's lip twisted in an almost comical expression of disgust. The look was there and gone before Grant could register its appearance, and Havram's face was once again schooled to a flat, disciplined stare. He betrayed nothing else.

  “Sir...some of the castle staff…,” he began.

  “Out with it, Lieutenant,” Grant said, his tone starting to grate. A cold, gnawing anger worked its way to the surface of his mind, but he forced it back down.

  “They've begun talking, sir.”

  “Talking?”

  “About the girl, sir. Rumors are going around.” Havram's face stayed flat, as if he had hammered the expression onto the front of his skull. His eyes, though, were full of his disgust.

  Grant stood slowly from his chair and turned to face his aide. Havram was of a height with him, but broader through the shoulders. He had the sort of chiseled jawline and light-colored eyes that women everywhere seemed to go crazy for. He had won high honors in the emperor's campaign against Shundovia, and had been raised from the ranks of the common soldier.

  Most of Grant's men were killers, trained and desensitized to the types of work that more respectable soldiers wouldn't take. The delicate jobs, such as the one that had brought them all here. Havram, though, still clung to his prickly sense of honor.
r />   Grant would have to remedy that, or watch the man closely.

  “Lieutenant,” Grant said, “I do not care about the rumors of chambermaids and stable boys. The common people will talk, because that is all that they do. What you do is obey fucking orders. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Havram replied, coming to attention and snapping out another salute.

  “Good. Send the girl up, then.”

  Havram's eye twitched unconsciously.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Havram once again turned on his heel and made for the door. Grant stopped him with a word as he put his hand on the door handle.

  “And Havram?”

  “Sir?” Havram turned his face just enough to hear Grant speak. He forgave the breach of discipline this time.

  “The next time I see that look in your eyes, I just might put a dagger through one of them.”

  A moment of uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them, but Havram made no move to leave. Grant could see the muscles in Havram's jaw working to clench down on the anger he must be feeling. It was just as well—he would need to harden up, to get used to the kinds of things he would be required to do.

  If not...well, there was always that dagger.

  “Understood, sir.”

  With that, Havram left the room. Grant listened to his footsteps fading down the hallway as the door closed behind him. He turned and regarded the large four-poster bed that dominated the room, and then walked to open the shuttered window and look out over the castle grounds. The sea air rushed into the chamber, and Grant filled his lungs with it. Fresh air always made him feel at peace.

  “Where are you, girl?” he muttered into the wind. “Where the bloody Hells are you?”

  When no answer came, he turned from the window and strode back to the writing desk. The emperor's message waited there like a soothsayer's curse. Grant felt that cold anger rise up inside of him at the thought of the emperor—or rather, at the thought of the emperor's displeasure with Grant's performance so far. The man was not above prosecuting his officers for offenses committed in the line of duty, and if Grant fell far enough, he had no doubt he would see the inside of an Imperial courtroom. Once that little formality was over, he'd be strangled to death in a dungeon.