The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Dormael made a few test swings with the spear, wielding it more like a staff, just to loosen his arms up for the fight. Allen smiled and winked at him, declining to move around at all. Dormael caught sight of Shawna watching him, her eyes bleary with the haze of the Shaman’s Leaf. The woman was drinking wine, too, and he thought he’d caught sight of his mother sneaking her a sip of something stronger. Shawna smiled and winked at him much like Allen had, and Dormael couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Are you boys ready to fight, or do you want to keep blowing kisses at each other?” Saul called out, raising his hand for silence in the crowd.

  “I’m ready,” Allen called back. “For a fight, a kiss, either one.”

  “Ready,” Dormael laughed, shaking his head at his brother.

  “Alright, hope you lads have your loins girded, the gods are watching,” Saul said. “More importantly, boys, I’m watching.”

  The old man raised his hand high in the air. Dormael’s hands tightened on the haft of his spear, trying to get a feel for the unfamiliar wood. Allen’s smile widened, and he stepped back into a fighting crouch.

  “Fight!”

  Allen moved toward him, spear held low to his right side in one hand, balanced on the balls of his feet. Dormael stepped away, choking out on the haft of his spear to menace his brother. Allen followed him, trying to cut off his retreat around the circle. Dormael attacked, sending a few thrusts at his brother’s midsection to test the speed of his reactions. Allen knocked each blow aside with ease, trading blows with him as their spears thocked together.

  Allen reversed his motion then, disengaging from the attack and retreating to the edge of the circle. He blew Dormael a kiss, and waved to the crowd, turning his back. Dormael resisted the urge to rush in to attack his brother—the taunt was a trap. Allen was fast, strong, and one of the best damned warriors that Dormael had ever seen. He knew better than to fall for something so simple.

  When Allen realized that Dormael wasn’t going to be baited, he moved forward again, making a few tentative attacks with his spear. Dormael knocked a few aside, slipped aside from a few, and circled his brother without retreating. Allen laughed and attacked faster and faster, testing Dormael’s speed. The spear hafts whacked together over and over as the two of them thrust, slashed, swept, and parried. Dormael ducked under some attacks, and jumped aside from others, all while trying to find a weakness in his brother’s technique.

  Allen seemed invincible. He flowed through the fight with ease, slipping from the path of Dormael’s attacks, his spear stabbing down from angles that were increasingly hard to anticipate. Allen moved with dexterity and decisiveness, a brutality of motion that Dormael didn’t know how to match.

  Allen began to advance, thrusting in quick, straight motions at Dormael’s chest. Dormael was forced to retreat, knocking aside thrust after thrust, backing ever away from the barrage of attacks. He knew that if he didn’t turn things around quickly, he would lose the match.

  Dormael exploded into motion, whipping his spear in a circular parry and spinning to the outside. He gripped the haft the same way he would have used his staff, and swept at his brother’s ankles with the spiked lower end. Allen made a noise of surprise and lifted his foot out of the way, abandoning his advance on Dormael. Dormael followed up with a pair of spinning attacks, and a long thrust that his brother barely avoided.

  Dormael wouldn’t have been able to pull that off last season. Shawna’s insistence that they train as much as they could was paying off in spades. Allen hadn’t expected Dormael to move so fast—truth be told, Dormael hadn’t expected it himself. He could feel Shawna’s influence in the way he was fighting, and in the way he was interpreting the fight. He could read his brother’s motions now, see where he might be intending to strike. Dormael couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he saw the realization reflected in his brother’s eyes.

  Allen came forward, making three slashing attacks in quick succession, forcing Dormael to parry. Dormael met the attacks easily enough, but Allen tangled their spear hafts together on the third parry, and rushed inside Dormael’s guard. Surprised, Dormael caught part of his brother’s elbow in the ribs, and was almost tripped. He fought to keep his feet though, and spun away from his brother. Allen let him go.

  “You’ve gotten better,” Allen called as he spun away.

  “It was bound to happen,” Dormael grunted around the pain in his ribs.

  Allen shrugged and attacked again, forcing Dormael to parry and retreat. Dormael tried to get the upper hand in the exchanges, but his brother was too fast. Every time he attempted to take the initiative, he found Allen’s spear already coming for him, and was forced to parry. He grunted with the effort of keeping Allen’s spear at bay, and retreated around the edge of the circle, looking for a way out. The crowd started to yell things at him.

  “Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!”

  “Step in with your left, no gods-dammit, your left!”

  “—got to stay out of his range—”

  The excitement reached a fever pitch, and Dormael felt his speed beginning to flag. The screaming family members gave him a bit of strength, though, and he pushed his way through the attacks, demanding more out of his flagging arms and legs. Allen thrust twice at his eyes, forcing him to slip backward, but failed to follow through with his attacks. His belly was wide open.

  Dormael smiled, stepping forward to thrust at his brother’s unprotected middle. He could practically taste his victory, could hear the screams of the adoring crowd. Maybe he could con Shawna out of a kiss for his win.

  His brother, though, proved the quicker. The opening had been a trap, Dormael realized, as his brother tapped his spear haft downward, stepping to the side and forcing the blade of Dormael’s spear into the dirt. Before Dormael could pull it out, Allen swiped at his fingers with this haft of his spear. Dormael sucked in a breath and jerked his hands from his weapon, growling in pain.

  He felt the cold steel of Allen’s spear point rest on his neck, and the crowd erupted with cheers. Dormael cursed, laughing at how close he thought he’d come, and jerked his spear tip from the dirt. He shook forearms with his brother, and then offered him a salute.

  “Not bad,” Allen said, returning the salute. “Not good enough, but not bad, all the same.”

  “You were always quick with the spear,” Dormael said. “I never practiced as hard as you did.”

  “I never practiced that hard, I’m just naturally dangerous,” Allen said. “Now—bring your spear, let’s go see who can drink a flagon the quickest.”

  “Why do I have to bring the damned spear?” Dormael laughed.

  “I won the match, Dormael,” Allen said. “That means you have to carry it around for the rest of the night. Winner makes the rules, and that’s my rule.”

  “That stopped working on me when we were children,” Dormael said. “Besides, I can just do this.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the spear leapt into the air, hovering just over his shoulder. Allen started back from the thing and gave his brother an irritated look.

  “That’s cheating.”

  “According to whom?”

  “According to the gods, who do you think?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t use it on you during the spear fight,” Dormael laughed. “That’s the real secret, you know. I fought you with one giant hand tied behind my back.”

  “A giant extra hand, you mean,” Allen said. “Untie the bastard, I’ll still beat you.”

  Dormael flicked his wrist, and two ale flagons floated over to them from the table nearby. A voice rose in protest from the crowd of chattering family members, but Dormael ignored it. He snatched one out of the air, and floated the second one over to his brother.

  “How about we get drunk instead?” Dormael asked.

  Allen smiled, and cheers once again erupted from the watchers as they clinked their cups together.

  ***

  As was customary at all Harlun gatherings, musical instrume
nts began to appear amongst the crowd. Saul came from an upstairs room with a trio of old guitars, which he handed out to different people. Dormael sent one of the younglings to retrieve his own instrument, and D’Jenn appeared with his doomba. Songs filtered out into the night between the bonfires and bubbles of conversation.

  The night drifted along in a warm, drunken haze for Dormael. There was music and dancing aplenty, and he found himself taking spinning turns across the lawn with Bethany, his mother, and even Shawna a time or two. Shawna’s smile was deeper than usual, though it was probably a result of all the wine, and the Shaman’s Leaf. Still, it was good to see her letting loose.

  Hells, it felt good for him to let loose, too.

  Dormael found Shawna’s eyes tracking him throughout the night. She gave him a deep, inscrutable look that he couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t a lustful glance, or even an admiring one. She seemed to be ruminating on him in some way, and her thoughts played out across her drunken, uncaring features. Whenever she caught Dormael looking at her, and realized that he had noticed her regard, she would wink at him.

  Damnable, confusing woman.

  “Your friend came through here not long ago,” his father said. Dormael looked up and regarded the old man, who held two flagons in his hand, one offered to his son, the other to D’Jenn. Dormael smiled and took the drink, then gestured for his father to sit down. They had chosen seats away from the rest of the merrymakers so that they could take a break from the constant attention, and get a bit of the cool night air.

  “You mean Jarek—the Mal who brought you the Shaman’s Leaf bush?” Dormael asked.

  “No,” Saul said, shaking his head. “The one with the mismatched eyes. Kendall.”

  “I see,” Dormael nodded. During the early years of their Warlock training, Dormael had nicknamed Kendall ‘Evil Eye,’ because the man had one brown eye, and one blue. “What did he want?”

  “Said he was passing through,” Saul shrugged. “We gave him a bed for the night, filled his belly. You know how your mother likes to dote on all your friends.”

  “Right,” Dormael said. “Which way was he going?”

  “North,” Saul said. “He said there was going to be some big meeting in Ishamael soon, that the whole Conclave was headed home to be present for it. I just assumed that’s why the two of you came through.”

  Dormael shared a look with D’Jenn.

  “No,” Dormael said, suddenly interested. “We were in Alderak, doing something else. Did he say anything about this big meeting?”

  “Just that I’d probably hear about it later, that it was big business,” Saul said. “Hells, boy—I’d hoped you would be able to tell me more. It’s the only reason I brought it up.”

  Dormael eyed his father sideways. His pop had always been the sort to grumble about politics. Having served in the army, he and a troop of his veteran friends were always interested in the moves of the kansils and clan leaders. His father was known locally as an outspoken man. If anyone had their ear to the ground about politics, it would be Saul Harlun.

  “Pop,” Dormael ventured, “I’ve been away for a while. What’s been happening here in the last year or so?”

  “Fuck all and horseshit, that’s what,” Saul said. “Not that I’ve ever believed anything the Council says, mind you, but this year has been especially bad.”

  “How so?” D’Jenn asked.

  “First of all, Berrul has failed to knock down a motion that the richest three tribes pay higher taxes on commerce,” Saul grumbled. “Orris, Soirus-Gamerit, and Duadan all have to give a higher percentage on their commerce every year, which means all the businesses do. Thing is, the bitch who proposed the damned motion couldn’t explain where all the new money is going.”

  Nilliam Berrul was the Kansil of the Soirus-Gamerits, and sat for their tribe on the Council of Seven, with the leaders of the other six tribes of the Sevenlands. Kansils were elected by the clan leaders of the tribe, and could only be deposed by those clan leaders. If Berrul was voting against the interests of Soirus-Gamerit, especially where taxes were concerned, then there must have been a damned good reason. Such a thing would make his clan leaders apoplectic.

  “Who proposed the motion?” Dormael asked.

  “Jurillic,” Saul said. “Of course that old bitch voted for it. Her gods-damned tribe doesn’t make anything, or have any business to tax. Tasha-Mal is full of pastoral nomads, for the gods’ sake.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense,” D’Jenn said. “What would Tasha-Mal clan leaders care for taxes on commerce? They’re all half-mad warrior bands out there. They only trade for what they use, most of the time.”

  “That is a bit odd,” Dormael nodded. Tasha-Mals were famous for their stance on self-reliance, and as far as Dormael knew, the Mals had never asked for anything from the Council of Seven, save for martial support to fight the Rashardians to the south. The Mals were the tribe that bordered Rashardia, and felt the brunt of their raiding.

  “Here’s the really odd bit,” Saul went on, motioning Dormael closer. “Jurillic’s son had been captured by the Rashardians last year. I remember, because she offered a reward for anyone who would lead an expedition into the Golden Waste to take him back. Your brother almost joined some fool expedition into the desert before I talked him out of it.”

  “I think I heard something about that,” Dormael said. If he remembered correctly, Nyra’s son had been a famous warrior in Tasha-Mal. The stories about him were almost mythical, and everyone had assumed he was poised to take the position of kansil from his mother. Then, he had been taken.

  “What was the man’s name—Jurillic’s son, I mean?” Dormael asked.

  “Was? Try is, boy—the man is still alive. Kitamin is his name.”

  “He’s still alive?” Dormael asked. “Did one of those expeditions rescue him?”

  “No,” Saul said. “In fact, several were lost in the attempt. The Mals were in turmoil for awhile, deciding on whether or not Jurillic was strong enough to lead them, what with letting her son be captured in a raid. You know how the Mals are.”

  “True enough,” Dormael nodded. The Mals held tighter to their tribal roots than did many Sevenlanders.

  “Well, listen to this—at the last Council meeting, the man just appears in Ishamael with his mother. No word on how he got there, no ceremony, no type of public hubbub at all—and he looks bad, Dormael. I sent one of your cousins to Ishamael to sell a load of your mother’s firewine, and he was there to see him. He said that Kitamin looked like a corpse, and had both his hands cut off.” Saul leaned in, and gestured with his ale as if he’d just uncovered something dire. “Tell me how he escaped with no hands, boy.”

  Dormael shared an ominous look with D’Jenn. It was rare than anyone escaped Rashardian slavers. The few times it had happened were famous stories, and celebrated for their rarity. This story sounded far-fetched to Dormael, but he knew his father would have no reason to lie.

  “Did she say anything about it? Nyra, I mean,” D’Jenn asked.

  “Nothing that I’ve heard,” Saul replied, shaking his head. “Just the usual thing, you know—how happy she is to have her son back at her side. Kitamin, though…he won’t say a bloody word. I don’t blame the man. The gods only know what they did to him, other than chopping his meat-cuffs off, eh? But here’s the rub—a week after her son returns, she motions that these taxes be added to the yearly sum. No reason for them, not really, just some vague explanation like ‘to better protect the common good’. Bunch of horseshit, if you ask me.”

  “Are the funds going to set up an army, or to the Southern Bastion, maybe?” D’Jenn asked.

  “No,” Saul replied. “The Council is going to collect them, and then…,” Saul shrugged and waved his hands around. “They turn into smoke, apparently. Why would Berrul not vote against this, and why would Jurrilic propose the damned motion in the first place? It doesn’t make sense. It’s clearly just a money grab.”

  “I wonder how the man
got home,” Dormael mused aloud. That was the strangest part of the whole story. Rescuing the man, especially a year after his capture, would have taken vast resources, access to seedy contacts, and skilled people who were willing to undertake the mission.

  “The man won’t say anything at all,” Saul replied. “Nyra has been silent, too. There’s a lot of grumbling, you know.”

  “What do you think happened?” Dormael asked. He didn’t like to entertain his father’s conspiracy theories, but he did enjoy hearing them.

  “I think that someone rescued Kitamin Jurillic, then held that over Nyra’s head. Strong-armed her into proposing that motion,” Saul grunted, taking a pull from his flagon. “Why else would she suddenly want to collect a river of silver marks, when the Mals have never cared about money? Someone put that woman up to this.”

  “And Berrul?” D’Jenn asked. “Why do you think he voted for it? Maybe there’s a good reason. Maybe the Council just doesn’t want to share the reason with the public.”

  “Even if there’s a good reason, it doesn’t explain why the motion was proposed by the Mals,” Saul said. “Why would Jurillic give two golden shits about a secret fund? Why would she be the one to establish it?”

  Dormael opened his mouth to dismiss his father’s point, but brought himself up short. He was struck with a good reason why the woman would do it—someone powerful had done something for her. They had done something impossible, like rescuing her son when no one else could. If this shady person needed a secret fund created, and the Mals were the only ones over which he could find such leverage, then that could explain it.

  “Let’s say that someone did pressure Jurillic into making the motion,” Dormael said, trying to think the problem through. “If everything you said was true, then why would Berrul vote against his own interests, as well?”

  “If this unnamed entity can rescue a man from the depths of a Rashardian slave camp and bring him back with no hands, finding a bit of leverage over Berrul would be easy. I’ll bet that fat bastard has plenty of secrets that a person could use to twist him,” Saul grumbled.