The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  So, the girl also spoke to the thing?

  Yes, Dormael replied. She said that she thought it was lonely. That it didn't mean to hurt us.

  That makes no sense, D'Jenn signed.

  It was trying to communicate, Dormael gestured. Have you ever seen something like that before?

  “Do you two think that I'm too dense to be able to tell that you're talking when you're wagging your hands about like that?” Shawna called from ahead of them.

  Dormael's hands froze in mid-sentence. He shared a look with D'Jenn, and then they turned their eyes on Shawna.

  “Don't you think it's a bit rude to be keeping secrets, considering that I'm the one that has to carry this thing around? I'd like to know what's going on,” she clipped, slowing her horse so that she came even with them.

  D'Jenn gave Dormael a shrug, and spurred Mist out ahead of them, leaving him alone with Shawna. She watched him go with a thunderhead forming behind her eyes, then turned them on Dormael. He held up his hands for peace.

  “Apologies, it's just habit. We've been doing it for so long that we don't even think about it.”

  “It's called the Hunter's Tongue,” D'Jenn said from ahead of them. “It's just a language of gestures. Most children learn it back home at a young age.”

  “What an odd thing,” Shawna said.

  “A useful thing,” Dormael countered.

  “What were you talking about?” she asked.

  Dormael sighed. “Your armlet. I think we may want to save the conversation until certain ears aren't around to hear it, though.” He gestured to the back of Bethany's head.

  “It already talked to me, I know about it,” Bethany said.

  “You're getting awful talkative,” Dormael growled, unable to keep a laugh from sneaking into his tone. “And I think you were supposed to be picturing a rock.”

  “But—”

  “Rock, dear,” he said, tousling her hair. She sighed and turned back around, closing her eyes.

  “Very well, then,” Shawna said, showing him her teeth. “Let's talk about my armlet.”

  “It's dangerous,” D'Jenn said, falling back to ride even with Shawna.

  “Obviously,” she snorted.

  “Shawna, remember when I told you how magic is in everything?” Dormael said. She nodded. “Well, it has a certain sound to it. Wizards can hear it—that's part of how we can sense magic. In turn, each wizard's magic also has a certain sound, and it leaves a unique signature behind.”

  “Imagine a group of musicians all playing the same song. The song is the magic. Every now and then, one of the players breaks out into a solo, or starts to improvise—that's using magic. The song is the same, but the signature is different. Understand?” D'Jenn said.

  “I...think so,” Shawna nodded.

  “Your armlet has a song, too,” Dormael said. “But it's not anything we've heard before. It's not like a melody from the same piece of music, it's an entirely different song.”

  “Whatever it is, it isn't magic,” D'Jenn added. “At least, not the way we know it.”

  Shawna's face went a little white. “Well...what do you think it is, then?”

  Dormael sighed, looking to his cousin. “We don't know.”

  “What's more, it obviously has a purpose. It can act on its own—at least, to some degree—and it can communicate. Whatever your armlet is, Shawna, it's aware. And we have no idea when or how it can awaken,” D'Jenn said. “None of that adds up to anything good.”

  “All the gods in the Void,” Shawna said, her eyes shooting to her saddlebags. “I hope your spell can hold it.”

  “It would hold anything else,” D'Jenn said, “but given what we already know about it, who can say?”

  “Have you known this the entire time?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at D'Jenn. “That the armlet was...alive?”

  “No,” D'Jenn said. “We didn't know that until this morning. And it may not be alive, in that sense of the word. These could be effects generated by resonance between our magic and the power of your armlet, or it could be reacting to some simple stimuli that we've yet to figure out.”

  Shawna sighed and gave him a grudging nod. “Alright, I guess—not that you made much sense. So what do we do about it?”

  “We're already on the right track,” D'Jenn said. “We find a ship, we get this thing to the Conclave. I've warded it, so hopefully that holds. We deal with things when they happen.”

  She took a deep breath, and the tension left her shoulders. “Very well. Now—teach me.”

  “Teach you?” Dormael asked.

  “The Hunter's Tongue,” she replied, giving him a flat look. “I want to learn. Come on, don't look at me like that, just teach me.”

  D'Jenn smiled at Dormael, and flashed his hands in the silent language.

  This is why we made the Rule. I told you.

  He spurred Mist to the front of the line, and left Dormael alone with Shawna. It really had been too long since he had punched his cousin. Dormael sighed and shook Bethany from her silent reverie, too.

  “You might as well learn, too, kid,” he said. He closed his fist and moved it up and down. “This means 'yes'”. He opened his hand and swiped it left to right. “This means 'no'. Show it back to me. Wait, Bethany, when you move your hands up like that, it means you're asking a question.”

  The lessons went on for the better part of the afternoon.

  The first snowflakes began to fall as the sun crawled toward the horizon. Dormael had always hated snow. He dealt with it, as all travelers deal with the weather, but Dormael kept a special place in his gut for the hatred of snow. By the time D'Jenn pulled off the road and back into the trees, the horses were leaving deep tracks through the stuff. It was falling in a thick rain, though the trees kept the worst of it from their shoulders.

  The evening found them seated around the fire, huddled beneath their cloaks. Dormael puffed on his pipe, staring into the fire as D’Jenn helped Shawna change her bandages. He saw the bandages come off, and glanced over to see if he could get a look at the girl’s wound. D’Jenn was blocking his view, though, so he went back to staring into the flames.

  “This is healing quickly,” D'Jenn said. “How does it feel?”

  Dormael's ears perked up, and he listened in.

  “It's itching like mad recently,” Shawna hissed through her teeth as D'Jenn ministered to the wound. “Though, I haven’t been quite as stiff.”

  “Itching is good. Means it's healing,” D'Jenn grunted.

  “You're lucky they didn't nick your guts open,” Dormael said. “I thought you weren't long for this world when I found you.”

  “I'm tougher than I look,” she replied as D'Jenn wrapped a fresh bandage around her midsection. “What's wrong with you, anyway? Why so dour?”

  “He hates the snow,” D'Jenn said as he finished up. “Ever since we were children, he sulks every time the sky opens up with it.”

  “I'm not sulking,” Dormael said. “I just prefer the warm and dry to the cold and wet. If you’re going to hate a man for that, go ahead.”

  “Now I know there's something wrong with you,” Shawna replied. “Only a monster hates the snow.”

  “Lots of people hate snow,” Dormael said. He shrugged deeper into his cloak and turned back to the fire. A few blessed moments of warmth passed, and then Dormael was blinded by a wet, freezing explosion on his face. Laughter rang out from all three of his companions, though Shawna's voice had a distinct, vindictive tone.

  Dormael spit the snow from his upper lip, and cleared it from his eyes. “I can't believe you just did that.”

  “Why not? The evidence is all over your face,” Shawna said, shooting him a wide grin.

  “You know why it's not a good idea to pick a snowball fight with a wizard?” He answered her smile with one of his own.

  Just then, another snowball flew out of the night and struck him in the side of the head. Shawna burst out laughing, and D’Jenn was soon echoing her. Dormael turned his h
ead to see Bethany standing out in the snow, another snowball already raised for a second attack.

  “You too, little one?” he asked, smiling at the girl despite the snow covering his head.

  “She knows which side to choose,” Shawna smiled. She turned a conspiratorial wink on Bethany, who promptly hit her in the face with the second snowball. Shawna gasped as the wet snow burst over her face, then fell into her clothing.

  Everyone froze for a moment, waiting to see what each other would do. Bethany let out an unconscious giggle, as if there was a storm of laughter being held back by her teeth. Dormael feinted toward her, and she squealed as she darted away, piling handfuls of snow into her arms.

  The campsite devolved into chaos.

  Dormael opened his Kai and pulled snowballs up from the ground one right after the other, sending them zinging around to smack into any target that moved into his field of vision. Shawna fought valiantly, tossing snowballs as fast she as she could. Bethany decided to go for an all-out assault on D'Jenn, who humored her for a few moments before gesturing to the snow around her, covering her in a mass of snow larger than she was. The girl squealed with laughter so loud that everyone could hear it coming out of the giant pile of snow covering her.

  In the end, no one escaped the onslaught. Everyone was covered in wet, icy snow, and it took a bit of magic to dry everyone out. Even until they laid down to sleep, though, Dormael heard scattered bits of laughter roll out randomly into the night, and he had trouble holding it back himself. He closed his eyes and settled in with a warm feeling for the first time since this ordeal had begun.

  ***

  Shawna stood on the sprawling lawn near her father's manor, sunlight beaming down on her back. The summer heat was devilish, and sweat ran unchecked down the curve of her spine. Severin, though, would hear nothing of the heat.

  “Faster,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of her.

  Shawna gritted her teeth and focused harder on her task.

  She was currently being made to juggle. As the rudimentary sword movements had been taught, built upon, and perfected, Master Severin came up with increasingly difficult—and strange—activities for her to master. She'd had to catch balls while standing on her head. Once, he had made her speak to him all day long while walking backwards, unable to see where she was going. He still pulled that one on her from time to time, but Shawna had learned to step lightly after the first ten or fifteen times she fell on her ass in the dirt.

  “The Blademaster is not some back-alley thug, stabbing at his target like a side of meat,” he said as he paced back and forth. His lilting accent made every sentence a musical performance. “The Blademaster is not a soldier, fighting in a line of men, chopping with his sword like he is felling a tree—no.” He turned his eyes to her again. “Faster, girl.”

  “I'm working on it, Master,” Shawna said through clenched teeth. She almost dropped one of the three balls she was juggling, but saved it at the last possible moment.

  He held his stone-gray eyes on her for an instant longer, then returned to his pacing. “The Blademaster is an artist. She knows where to put her steel because she can feel the fight, because she knows the secret. The sword is not a weapon.”

  “I am the weapon. The sword is a tool,” Shawna intoned, continuing the mantra he had hammered into her from the beginning.

  “If your sword is not fast enough, it is your hands that are slow. If your sword is not true, it is your aim that needs improvement. If you disgrace yourself—or your Master—by falling to the ground in a fight, then it is your footwork that needs attention. Do you understand, girl?”

  “I...think so, Master,” she said, trying her best to keep the three balls in the air.

  “Let us see,” Severin clipped. He whipped his practice sword from the sheath at his waist in a smooth, vicious movement. Pain exploded from her right hand, causing her to cry out and abandon the attempt at juggling. She spun away, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest.

  Severin, though, came on with another attack. “Defend!”

  Shawna dodged an overhead slash, then stepped aside from a smooth thrust toward her midsection before finally gaining her senses. She quick-stepped away from him, reaching to her side to draw the practice sword from her belt. Hot pain blossomed in her hand as she tried to close it, and she grunted with frustration.

  She tried to fight through the pain, but her hand sang, and buckled.

  Master Severin closed the distance between them with a long lunge for her face, but Shawna stepped aside. He continued his forward momentum, slashing the air so near her face that she felt the wind from his sword against her skin. She ducked and rolled away from him, but she could only dodge the man for so long. Each attack put him at a greater advantage, and Shawna had to do something to turn the tide.

  She slipped aside from an upward slash and reversed her motion, whipping her sword from its sheath with her left hand. She countered him with a wide, awkward slash toward his torso. Severin sucked in his gut and danced backward, his girded robe fluttering around surprisingly muscular legs. She had him on the defensive, though, so she continued her rush.

  She thrust, but stepped into his path when he tried to dodge aside. Their blades met in a quick series of cuts and parries, Shawna barely keeping her Master at bay with her off-hand. She felt odd and off-balance, and each blow made her bones vibrate. Her left hand wasn't seasoned to the sword like her right, and she clutched to it like a lifeline, afraid that each blow would tear it from her grip.

  Master Severin tried to turn the tide of the fight, but she cut off his movements and pressed him with a series of thrusts toward his midsection. He stepped backward, knocking each blow aside with tiny movements of his blade, but Shawna got close to scoring on him with a few of her attacks. She lost herself in the fight, anticipating the angles with which Severin would choose to attack her, and staying ahead of him by the skin of her teeth.

  Finally he stepped into her, swinging down toward her face in a deadly arc. Shawna whacked it aside and answered with a back-handed slash across the belly. It met nothing but air as Severin slipped out of range. Shawna had been sure the blow would land, but the tip of her blade just slipped past her master's flowing robes. She knew she was defeated in that moment, but she fought to bring her sword around in time, anyway, gritting her teeth as she drove the point back toward his flank.

  Severin's practice blade smacked into her neck at the shoulder, and he held it there as she froze.

  “Gods!” Shawna cursed, letting out a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding.

  “Look down at your hand, girl!” Severin said, an intense smile on his face.

  Shawna eyes tracked down to her hand, where the sword was still clutched in a white-knuckled grip. The tip of the sword was turned inward, and rested against Master Severin's side. It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing, but as she did, she couldn't help but crack a smile.

  I hit him!

  She looked back up to her master's face, and saw the pride burning in his eyes.

  Then, he swatted his practice blade against her thigh, causing sudden pain to whip through her leg. He moved like a snake, pushing against her shoulder and tripping her into the grass. Shawna cursed and cradled her leg, shooting Severin an evil look from the ground.

  “Good with the hands,” he said as he sheathed his practice blade, “but the feet still need work.”

  “The fight was over,” Shawna groaned. “That wasn't fair.”

  “Fair is for children, girl. I am not training you to fight children, correct?”

  “Correct, Master,” she sighed, moving to stand.

  Severin turned to walk back toward her father's manor. “When your hand is better, you will start training with two swords.” He didn't look back as he walked away. Shawna stared at his retreating back as she sat up, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart.

  She shielded her injured hand as she rose to her feet. Her leg stung, and s
he'd gotten dirt in her mouth sometime during the fight. Still—a smile from Master Severin was the rarest of things, and she had earned one. She may not have won the fight today, but she had won a small victory for herself.

  When she turned to head toward her family's home, she barely had time to register the Red Sword riding down on her. She didn't even turn to run before the man's raised sword came down and bit into her chest. Shawna screamed as the blade cut into her.

  ***

  Shawna jerked as she came awake. The dreams had been coming with more frequency in the past few days. She swept her hand over her forehead, but the cold had kept any sweat from forming overnight. Her body felt stiff, and the gray light leaking through her eyelids suggested another cold, overcast day.

  The smell of Sweetpenny tea, however, perked her up.

  Grunting, she started to unroll the blankets from her bedroll. Her body was stiff—both from the injury and the biting cold—but she gritted her teeth and pushed the pain away. Every day she awkwardly strapped on her weapons, and hated herself for the uselessness of the gesture. Her side was healing, but every time she twisted a certain way, a bright twinge of pain would bring her midsection into sudden weakness.

  And the itching, by the gods, she thought. Shawna resisted the compulsion to rip her bandages away and claw at the wound like a wild beast. Shawna had learned how to discipline her body against satisfying every urge—a legacy of her training. Still, she had never experienced an itching sensation from inside her skin before. It took all of her willpower to resist tearing at it whenever she had a fit.

  Her Master's words came unbidden to her mind, speaking in his smug, lilting accent. She wondered what he would have said, had he known what had happened to her. Would he comfort her? Would he join her in this revenge fantasy she had been entertaining, or would he recommend a different path?

  Some part of her blamed herself for what had happened. She felt like she should have died there, should have fought the lot of the Red Swords off, should have done something to stem the tide of blood that the gods had visited on her family. The logical part of her mind knew that such a thing was irrational, that the coming of the Red Swords was no fault of hers. That cool, sensible voice didn't penetrate to the place where her hatred lived, though. It huddled deep in her chest, sending her dreams, and idle thoughts of the men she had killed during her escape.