We need to cause a little trouble, Dormael said. If 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?
I'm going to set their horses loose. Just sit tight, coz. Be ready, Dormael sent back. 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. After all, 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 that whispered through the boughs above. 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, but he made it without having been detected.
Just as that thought passed the threshold of his mental dialogue, he felt 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. His mind raced, running through possibilities as he lay under the blade. He could lash out with his magic, kill the man before he raised the alarm.
“Jarl! Jarl, you fucker—stop scratching your balls and go tell Roburn we caught somebody nosing around the camp!” the voice at his back said.
Dormael cursed under his breath. This was not going as well as they had planned.
“Alright, alright, keep your knickers on. And don't call me a fucker,” the one called Jarl answered. Dormael couldn't see their faces, as his own was pressed to the dirt by the blade at the back of his neck. He heard a rustling noise before someone tromped into the distance, and surmised that Jarl had gone to obey the orders of the man holding the sword.
“Alright, little man. We're going to walk back through the trees here, into the camp so you can meet the big man. You make any threatening moves—you even sneeze with an attitude—and I'll open your guts. You got it?” the man growled from behind him.
“Oh aye, I’ve got it,” Dormael said. “You can let up with the blade, you know.”
The man behind him let out a snort. “Get up, little man. 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 to turn him away, prodding him in the back with his short sword. Dormael went without complaint, his mind working like a storm.
Nice distraction, D'Jenn whispered into his mind. Was that your plan to find the head of this snake? Get caught and dragged before him as a prisoner? D'Jenn's tone suggested that he knew the answer already.
Well...it's working, anyway, Dormael returned. Just watch my back, alright?
If I wasn't watching your back, Dormael, you'd have died long ago.
Fuck yourself, cousin.
“Walk, dead man,” his captor growled at his back. Dormael had gotten distracted by his conversation and let his feet slip. Another prod with the tip of the man's blade was all Dormael needed to get his feet moving again.
They passed mounds of sleeping men and smoldering fires, and Dormael’s captor began kicking men awake as they moved by them. Dormael’s stomach fell, watching as the gods tied up every loose end around him. He would be surrounded and in the center of attention, the subject of the eyes—and bows—of somewhere around sixty men.
A murmur moved through the crowd as people began to rouse their neighbors, and make their way toward where Dormael was being led. He spotted shortbows and swords being brandished, though most of them opted to come wrapped in their blankets, or spooning up steaming bowls of broth. Dormael's eyes shot around, looking for some way out, but he could see nothing.
Gods, he hoped D'Jenn was watching.
The hulking bastard who had captured Dormael punched him in the kidneys, doubling him over in pain as they stepped before a group of men. Dormael bit his tongue as the man shoved him to his knees. He shot the man a dark look, but the big side of beef only smiled back at him with murder in his eyes.
Three men stood before him, one just in front of the others. He wore a black tunic with golden trim, though the tunic had seen better days. It was tattered and dirty, hanging on the man's shoulders like a loose blanket. His pants were solid black leather, though, and didn't match the tunic at all. Perhaps he'd had to get rid of his previous pair of breeches. If they had matched that fine tunic, then the weather had probably torn them apart in short order. He held a large knife in one hand—the kind of blade that was heavy at the end, and ideal for removing limbs. Dormael swallowed hard at the sight of the knife, which had old blood stains decorating the metal.
“Roburn, I suspect?” Dormael asked, prompting a kick in the ribs from the man behind him. Dormael hunched over in pain, but fought back to his knees and shot the big fucker another evil glance. The man only smiled back.
“Who in the Six Hells are you?” Roburn asked, peering down at Dormael through beady eyes. The man had a long, crooked nose, and a huge black mole on his left cheek. It distracted Dormael as the man glared at him, and he forced himself to look away. Roburn's teeth were crooked and brown, and he ran his tongue over them in a strange, annoying twitch.
“I bring a message,” Dormael said.
I hope you're ready, he sent to D'Jenn.
Always, his cousin replied.
“A message? What the—where did you catch this bastard?” Roburn asked, turning his eyes on the huge man at Dormael's back.
“Sneaking 'round the horses,” the man rumbled.
“You had a message for the horses?” Roburn asked, prompting a round of laughs from the men surrounding them. “Well go on, let's hear it. I want some kind of fucking entertainment before Grell takes your head off. Go on, then.” Roburn gestured at him with his knife, waving it under Dormael's nose.
Dormael clenched his teeth and pulled on his magic. He felt the hairs on his arms rise as the power filled his body, his senses, his mind. He could hear a rushing noise in his ears, and feel his heart thumping against his ribcage. His magic tensed like a scorpion readying to strike. Dormael brought his power just to the verge of havoc, and held it in check with an effort of concentration.
“Hadrick Lucius sends his regards,” Dormael growled.
Roburn's eyes widened at the mention of the name. He gestured to the side, making to say something, but Dormael didn't give him a chance. In the spare seconds it took for Roburn to hear his words, Dormael let loose with his magic.
Lightning flashed 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 lashed out blindly around him, pulling electricity from the world and whipping out at anyone close enough to get scorched. Chaos broke out as men fled in panic, tearing through the camp in an effort to get away.
He turned and saw the big man who had captured him—Grell—fleeing into the trees. He 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 as he used Grell's body to take out a few others. He tossed Grell's lifeless form aside like a broken toy when he was done with it.
Sudden pain stabbed deep into Dormael's thigh, eliciting a surprised grunt as his leg crumpled beneath him. He cursed, rolling to the side as he felt something flit through the air nearby. Dormael felt exposed, and 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 in the midst of the chaos.
He felt D'Jenn's song weave around him, and low thuds, like rocks being tossed into a mud bank, sounded from near his head. He looked up to see the arrows caught in midair, vibrating like they'd been shot into a tree. D’Jenn had shielded him from the arrows, and he breathed an immediate sigh of relief. Grunting in pain, he pulled the bolt from his thigh and tossed it away.
Get up, Dormael! We have to move, gods-dammit! D'Jenn's voice screamed into his mind, spurring Dormael to movement. Wincing, he tried more than once to stand, screaming in frustration as his leg protested every movement.
I've been hit!
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 that took a shot at them. Screams still sounded through the camp, and Dormael awakened his power and sent a few shadows chasing men as he rose to his feet. It wasn't much, but the wound in his leg was taking a lot of his concentration.
“Can you shift?” D'Jenn asked, gesturing to the side and tossing an attacker into a tree trunk. The man made a wet crunching noise as he hit, and didn't rise.
“Give me a moment,” Dormael hissed, grabbing 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. “Even if we get into wolf form, I don't know if I can run.”
“Gods,” D'Jenn cursed. “Nothing is ever easy. We fly, then! Just hurry!”
“Can you get off the ground in these woods?” Dormael asked, preparing the spell.
“All the gods in the Void, Dormael, just go!”
Dormael nodded and turned the magic in on himself 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 very long.
Let's go! Dormael flapped hard, springing off his good leg and battling into the dead air under the trees. He felt an arrow whip through the shadows just to his right, sending the air into eddies that undermined his efforts to stay aloft. After considerable struggle, though, he managed to get things under control.
D'Jenn tossed a few more spells before sliding back into the form of a black raven. As the shouting faded behind them, the night closed in. Dormael could see the lights of Borders on the coast, and turned his beak in that direction.
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. He fought it, though, and before he realized how far they'd come, he was spiraling down for a landing in front of the inn where they'd left Shawna with Hadrick.
Dormael messed up his landing, stumbling in the soupy mud. The consistency was very different to his talons, and he left off any attempt to rise with the awkward limbs of the gyrfalcon. Sacrificing what little energy was left to him, Dormael poured his power back into his body and slid into his own form once again.
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 looked up from where he lay in the mud, struggling to rise to his feet. He smiled at the man, waved, and tried to stand. His leg, though, had other ideas.
He felt D'Jenn's hands on his shoulders, and his voice shouting orders, as he drifted down into blackness.
***
Dormael awoke to the smell of roasting fish. He stared up at a ceiling—old, knotted boards that weren’t quite squared. Dust drifted down between the cracks as someone on a higher floor moved around, and Dormael turned his face away with a sneeze. His bed was itchy, but better than a cold bedroll, and morning light drifted in through the window. Dormael blinked his eyes and took stock of himself.
He was covered with a thin blanket, and underneath the blanket he was as bare as the day he came into the world. His left thigh was wrapped in a tight bandage, and he registered a dull throb from it as he looked down at his leg. 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. He could hear clattering plates and the low, murmuring drone of conversation downstairs. After the night’s ordeal, and his drug-induced sleep, Dormael felt odd at waking up alone in this room. He thought of a bath, and then realized that submersing his cut in water may not be the best idea, at least not with those bandages on. Cursing, he tossed the blankets aside, and climbed to his feet.
Once he finally made it down to the common room, wincing as he leaned on his quarterstaff for support, he stopped and stared in wonder at what he saw. A space had been cleared in the middle of the floor to accommodate two tables pushed together. Heaps of food and tankards of drink sat upon the table, and around it were all his friends, Hadrick, and a man he didn't recognize.
The newcomer was wearing thick pants and a billowing shirt that looked too thin for the cold, though Dormael did notice a large cloak 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 Dormael realized with a start that the man was a Sevenlander.
Laughs erupted at a joke that Dormael didn't hear, but the commotion clued everyone in to his presence. Bethany jumped up from her seat, where she had been kicking her legs in midair, and rushed over to wrap his waist in a tight hug. Dormael was surprised, and he almost fell on his arse, but he accepted her hug with a smile and a ruffling of her hair.
“We thought you weren't going to wake up,” she said, squeezing his waist like he was going to disappear. “I didn't believe them, though. I knew you'd come back.”
“Of course,” Dormael smiled. “You can't get rid of me that easy.”
“The conquering hero returns,” Shawna said, walking over to help. Dormael accepted her arm and laid his quarterstaff against the wall, allowing her to lead him to the table. 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 captain of a rickety tub down in the harbor called...what is it? Haircutter?”
“Seacutter,” Mikael answered with a smile. “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 nodded, returning 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.”
“I don't have healers,” Hadrick said. “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 sighed. He regarded Hadrick for a moment, wondering if the man still wanted to punch him. Dormael still hurt, and his stomach was doing a wild series of flips as he smelled spiced fish and rice. Shawna, having put a plate together for him when he wasn't looking, slid it 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 spoke, as if Dormael had interrupted an ongoing conversation, “the Legion short-sword is the perfect weapon for this kind of fighting. It's quick, dirty. It's sturdy, and you don't need a mountain of silver marks to maintain it.” He pulled his sword out and set it on the table in front of Shawna, as if to demonstrate his point. Looking to her, he ran his finger along the center of the blade. “It's th
icker here, see? 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 doing the stabbing.”
“Even with a woman, eh?” Shawna asked, smirking at Hadrick. She regarded the sword as if it was distasteful, picking it up and holding it in her hand for a few moments. Then, she reached to her side and drew one of her own blades for comparison. Dormael could see the differences in the blades at first glance, but Shawna turned and presented both to Hadrick.
“Your Legion sword is a nice weapon, I'll not deny it,” she said. “It's good for what it was meant for—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. Dormael listened as he chewed on a mouthful of fish, genuinely interested in the conversation.
“My Sheran short sword, though,” she said, raising her own blade, “has many uses. It's thicker at the bottom, and that adds strength to the blade. The edges are curved at the top—unlike those on your Legion sword—and that's good 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 the fact that my swords actually have guards. You might as well just chop your fingers off for nostalgia, 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 first. Besides, my blades would have to touch the shield—and not a throat or armpit—for that to be a problem.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 33