The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Point is,” Karv shouted over the laughter, bringing the noise to a low murmur, “you ain’t paid us, kid. You owe us—you owe me, by the gods. This girl, she’s pretty. Noble. A man gets one chance all his life to fuck a girl like that, and I’m taking it.”

  “No,” Jureus said, his voice shaking, “you’re not.”

  Bits of flame, like roiling balls of liquid, blossomed from the fire and hovered behind Jureus, casting a flickering reflection in Karv’s eyes. The campsite tensed. A few moments passed in silence, and then Karv turned, spitting to the side.

  “Fuck the girl, and fuck you, kid. I want my gods-damned money,” he said.

  He stalked to the other side of the camp from Shawna, and Jureus turned to the men gathered at the edges of the firelight.

  “All of you!” he called, holding his hands out. “If you’ve got any bright ideas about slitting my throat, or making a bold stand like our friend here, do it now! The fire needs blood before I can do my work, and yours will work as well as mine!”

  Only silence answered him.

  “Good,” he spat, turning back to the bonfire.

  The fire needs blood before I can do my work?

  Dormael watched, transfixed as Jureus began scrawling in the dirt. He held a stick out before him, as if he was an artist painting in broad strokes, and used the stick to direct a burning point of flame that charred lines through the rocky dirt. His Kai sang out into the night—a rough, unfocused melody that spoke of forced confidence and deep sorrow.

  Jureus whipped a long dagger from his belt, and let his eyes linger on Karv for a moment, conveying a threat. When he was satisfied, he whipped the blade along his arm, drawing a bright line of blood. As it dripped onto his fingers, he flung it into the fire, accenting words he spat in a harsh, guttural language that Dormael had never heard. The blood, when it met the flames, sputtered away in little wisps of black smoke, screeching discordant tones as they were consumed. Dormael’s heart stopped when he realized what was happening.

  The bastard was using necromancy!

  Necromancy was a thing so rare and reviled that not much was known about it, even at the Conclave. Dormael tried to put his stunned mind in order, so that he could recall what little he had read on the subject. He knew that necromancy required blood, or bodies, in order to fuel the abilities it granted. Those abilities, though, were debated, and the only thing that Dormael could remember was an ability to control dead bodies.

  “Master,” Jureus said, drawing Dormael’s attention back in his direction.

  A new person was in the campsite, standing over a kneeling Jureus in a flowing black robe. The form hadn’t been there just seconds before, and Dormael realized what sort of spell Jureus had been casting. The robed figure was still, and though Dormael couldn’t see its face, something in the posture conveyed a disgust for its surroundings, a subtle hatred for whatever its gaze fell upon.

  Jureus kept his face in the dirt. The rest of the camp had gone still as glass.

  “Your report?” the form hissed, its voice like snakeskin sliding over sand.

  “I have the woman, Master. Her belongings, too. I have succeeded in my mission,” Jureus said. Dormael could sense the sort of fervor in his voice reserved for religious awe.

  “What of the child, Jureus?” the cloaked figure asked. “The wizards?”

  “I…had the child, Master,” Jureus said, his voice faltering. “My men had her, but one of the wizards must have saved her. I couldn’t get to her in time. We had to make our escape—but we have the woman! I took her from those Sevenlanders, just as you instructed me.”

  Wonderful, Dormael thought. Someone knows a great deal about us, and we know nothing of them.

  The cloaked man stared at Jureus for a long moment, letting the silence fill the pregnant air between them. He moved then, pacing around the camp for a moment before turning his eyes on Shawna and stalking in her direction. The cloaked figure crouched, peered sideways at her, then rose to spin on Jureus.

  “You have the right woman, but that’s the only thing you managed to get right, Jureus,” it hissed.

  “Master, I don’t understand,” Jureus started, but the figure spoke again before Jureus could go on.

  “Yes, you fool—you don’t understand. That is the problem exactly,” it said. “ Your orders were to secure the girl and woman together, and to bloody make sure you killed these two wizards. Do you remember that part of your orders, Jureus? Kill the wizards. Are you telling me that you’ve left them alive, and at your back?”

  “Master, we have the high ground. The approach is watched. They cannot get within an arrow’s shot of my sentries without my knowing,” Jureus said. He probably would have straightened his back and clicked his heels together, were his face not planted in the rocky dirt.

  “You demonstrate your folly with each word that tumbles from your idiot mouth,” the figure said, exasperation clear in its tone.

  “Master, I don’t understand,” Jureus repeated.

  “Clearly!” the cloaked man roared, stomping over to Jureus and hovering there, as if he was about to kick the prostrate boy. “Think, you buffoon. You’ve gone and stolen something precious from two Conclave-trained wizards, and then left them at your back. You will be lucky if you live out the night.”

  “Master, I—”

  “Silence,” the man said, holding up a single finger. Jureus obliged him, and clamped his jaws shut. “Luckily for you, your better is only a few days’ travel from you. You will do your best to hold your position until she arrives. Because the more likely outcome will be your death, you will cast a tracking spell on that armlet. I want to be able to find it after your corpse is cold.”

  “Yes, Master,” Jureus grunted, straining his voice as if he was in pain.

  “If you somehow survive what is coming, Jureus, I will be so surprised that I will give you an honor, and carve another of the Secrets into your flesh. If not, then go to the Void knowing that you are a fool, and I regret the lost chance to kill you myself,” the figure spat.

  Then, without a sound, it was gone.

  Jureus continued to lie prostrate for a few moments after the cloaked figure—or his shade, Dormael supposed—had departed. When he finally climbed slowly to his knees, he had a dark look on his face.

  “Karv,” he said in a quiet, dangerous tone. “Go check the sentries.”

  “I ain’t been paid today,” Karv grunted. “Fuck yourself, kid.”

  Jureus turned a black look on Karv, his eyes expressing a warning of violence. Jureus couldn’t stand that level of humiliation in front of these brutes and survive it, not without carrying out some display of his power. His age, and the berating he had just received, would work together to propel him down the most brutal path available. Dormael watched with apprehension.

  Jureus reached out a hand and clenched it, as if he was grasping an apple from a tree.

  Karv cried out in pain and rose from the ground, his arms and legs outspread. The other men who had been nearby scrambled away from him, cursing as they scattered. Karv let out a noise somewhere between a squeal of pain and a scream of rage as Jureus tightened his magic down upon him. The hulking sell-sword rose his own full height above the ground, and floated over the fire, close enough for the fur on his boots to curl from the heat. He struggled in tight, controlled spasms, but Jureus’s magic held him like an invisible fist of iron. The man could struggle all he wanted, but Jureus would feel none of it.

  Dormael spread his wings and leapt from the branch, trying to glide down into the fringes of the camp, where the shadows were heaviest. Everyone was distracted by the show, and Jureus’s magic was employed—there was no better time to strike. If Allen and D’Jenn were in place, then they would know. If they were still making their way up the trail, then Dormael would have to hold his own until they arrived. His talons hit the dirt, and Dormael poured the magic back into himself. He felt the moment of change keenly, knowing that he was vulnerable. His heart beat in v
icious thuds that marked every passing second with anxiety.

  Then, it was over, and he was crouched in the dirt, teeth clenched as every eye in the camp turned in his direction. Jureus, hand still outstretched in Karv’s direction, went wide-eyed at the sight of him, and raised his second hand to point at Dormael. Dormael readied his magic, and rose to his feet.

  “To arms!” Jureus shouted, but the camp was already in chaos.

  Dormael heard startled cries from the direction of the trail, and the ring of steel on steel. He split his consciousness in two so that he could work two separate spells at once. It was the only way to fight another wizard—to have at least one attack hidden, or a defense readied to counter whatever spell your enemy might employ. Some wizards—D’Jenn, for instance—could split their minds into several compartments, each directing a separate thread of magic. Dormael could barely push four splits at once, and each of those needed to be simple. He rarely needed to push himself so far, though. Dormael had the brute strength in his Kai to compensate.

  Dormael reached out and slammed a Splinter into Jureus’s power, puncturing the man’s magic and scattering the energy. Jureus reeled away, his hands going to his head as the magic numbed his senses in reaction. Karv, freed from Jureus’s magical grip, dropped into the flames. He cried in wild agony as he scrambled out of the bonfire. Jureus shouted something through a swollen tongue, but Dormael couldn’t tell what it had been. The boy was reacting as if he’d never been Splintered before, and Dormael was struck by how young he was.

  He felt an attack coming just before thumping boots sounded off to his right. Dormael reacted with instinct, turning his attention away from Jureus and erecting a magical barrier. A man carrying an axe slammed into the invisible wall, and knocked himself to the dirt. Dormael grimaced and swatted him aside with his power, sending the fool tumbling away into the shadows. The only sound the man made was a surprised grunt.

  Dormael’s magic rang out in alarm, and it was the only thing that saved his life.

  Another instinctive gesture brought the invisible barrier back up around him. Dormael almost fell from his feet as a boulder the size of a horse-cart smashed into it, shattering into a hundred pieces with a clamor like nothing he had ever heard. The force of the blow drained Dormael’s magic, and his head began to throb with the effort of holding to his Kai. The kid had recovered quickly from the Splintering.

  Dormael went on the attack and threw lightning at Jureus—one, two, three bright bolts of light—but the lightning met his hand and was reflected away in all directions, starting fires wherever it struck. Jureus countered him with fire, pulling a puff of flame from the bonfire and sending it toward him with a cry of desperation. The boy had messed up, though, and panicked. The fire fluttered out before Dormael had to do anything to counter it.

  Something burned a hot line across Dormael’s left thigh, and he turned to see three men standing at the edge of the clearing, ratcheting flatbows back into the armed position. He grimaced and erected a barrier behind him, turning his attention back to Jureus just in time to catch another large boulder. Bolts thumped into his shield from behind.

  He thought to pick up a boulder of his own and toss it in Jureus’s direction, but the boy beat him to it. First a large stone, then another, then another all flew at him in quick succession, pounding against the shield he’d erected. Dormael clenched his jaw harder with each successive blow as the force was absorbed by his magic. He knew that blocking the flying rocks with a stationary shield wasn’t the most effective way to defeat them, but he was thinking fast and dividing his attention. Dormael grimaced and split his consciousness a third time, seizing on another thread of magic.

  A sharp pain went through his skull like a lance of ice, but Dormael powered through it.

  Turning his eyes to the archers behind him, he whipped out with a tendril of power, and set their clothes on fire. They went up all at once with a whooshing noise, and began to scream in frantic peals. They stumbled until their bodies gave in, and the fire consumed their cries.

  Jureus tested his barrier, pushing hard with his Kai to test his strength against Dormael’s magic.

  Dormael turned his full attention on Jureus, bringing his own considerable strength to bear against the Nelekan youngster. Jureus looked desperate, and his Kai sang in frantic tones. Anything lying close enough was sucked toward the confrontation, and soon a line of shuddering, crumpled objects hovered in the air between them. Dormael could feel the boy’s Kai starting to bleed as he summoned more power, the magic starting to go unfocused.

  For all his inexperience, the boy was strong. His mind was undisciplined, but his magic had enough depth to resist a gift of Dormael’s caliber. Dormael saw his face, then—sunken eyes, sallow cheeks, and a wild expression of fear. He wondered if there was a mother somewhere that would cry for the boy.

  Jureus screamed, and pushed against Dormael’s magic with renewed fervor. Dormael grunted in effort and held the boy back, but his feet slid backwards through the gravel. The objects hanging between them vibrated like they’d been struck. Dormael shook his head, partitioned his mind again, and shoved another Splinter into the boy’s magic.

  Jureus wailed.

  When a spell was Splintered, odd things tended to happen. Magic was a formless energy, and needed the direction of a wizard’s mind to shape its purpose. Once it was summoned and put to use, magic was like an avalanche—stopping it was next to impossible. When a spell was Splintered, the remaining energy that had been under the wizard’s control was still there, still working, just without direction. That magic had to go somewhere, do something. Jureus had been pulling on every bit of power he could summon, and tossing it at Dormael in a blind fury.

  When the Splinter shattered Jureus’s power, the whole hillside gave a shudder. Dormael heard gravel and scree tumbling from the hillside like dust from a struck bell. The arrows, boulders, limbs and detritus that had been hovering in the air between Dormael and Jureus caught fire all at once, and Dormael had to shy away from the sudden rush of heat.

  Dormael’s own power began to be sucked into the maelstrom of Jureus’s writhing magic, and he tried to wrench it free. It leaked through his mental fingers like water in a flood. Another sharp lance of pain through his head brought Dormael to his knees, and his own control over his Kai started to falter. He took a moment to observe in horror how things had gone to shit, and then mustered his strength. With a jaw-clenching effort, he pulled harder on his magic, trying to rein it in.

  Blinding pain spread behind his eyes.

  He had time to look up at the sound of Jureus’s panicked wails as the magic took him. He rose from the ground, writhing as iridescent foxfire crawled over his skin. The boy’s screams cut off as his body was crushed, pounded into a globe by the weight of all the power rushing back into it. Everything—the flaming detritus, the dirt, even the bonfire—was sucked toward the hovering remains of the Nelekan wizard.

  The last thing Dormael remembered was the taste of blood.

  A River of Shadow

  Haunted, Maarkov thought, that’s what it’s called.

  No, that wasn’t it, either. Paralyzed? Petrified?

  Stunned, shocked, he thought to himself, trying to find the right word. Resigned.

  The man—the father of this charming little family—stared at the altar with that look in his eyes, the one that Maarkov couldn’t place. It was all of those things he’d named and more. It was deeper. None of the words he could think of—horrified, terrified, awestruck—could quite convey the depth of emotion he saw in the man’s gaze. It burned like a fire had been kindled inside of him, and his eyes were the only place it could escape. The veins stood out on his forehead, and he’d ceased making noises against the gag in his mouth hours ago, but he hadn’t taken those eyes from the table since Maaz had begun.

  And those eyes—that look.

  Despair, he thought, that’s it. Despair.

  His daughters—three girls with flaxen hair and narrow
shoulders—all huddled together, staring at the ground. Their shoulders bobbed in time with their sobs. Unlike their father, they refused to look.

  It was the boy that got to Maarkov. The boy had fought, had punched the strega over and over again, until he realized it was useless. He had screamed, he had kicked, he had snarled and spat. Not anymore, though. Now, the boy only stared, refusing to look away from what was happening. Maarkov didn’t know if the kid was trying to prove something, to honor something, or if he just didn’t know where else to look.

  Maarkov wished the boy would just close his damned eyes.

  The woman on the table lay spread-eagle, her arms and legs tied to stakes that had been driven into the ground with his brother’s magic. Maaz worked over her like a baker in a pastry shop, humming as if he were patting flour into dough, instead of cutting away the woman’s homespun dress. Maaz moved like a specter, running a long, thin blade from her hip to her armpit, and pulling the fabric aside as he went. When he was done, he yanked her clothing aside and discarded it into the wind. Before it hit the ground, it was burned away by some trick of Maaz’s magic. The woman whimpered into her gag, and jerked against the ropes that held her limbs apart. Her body showed the scars of motherhood, a record of the lives she had brought screaming into the world. Her nudity seemed a profane thing, the night air caressing her like an unwanted lover.

  The father made a noise somewhere between a scream of rage, and a howl of pain.

  Close your eyes, kid. Close your bloody eyes!

  But the boy was transfixed, and Maarkov didn’t dare to speak.

  Maaz began to cut into the woman’s skin. She spasmed and tried to move, but Maaz must have been holding her down with his power, like a scribe holding a piece of parchment to the writing desk. She whimpered and mouthed jumbled words into the gag, but Maaz paid her protestations little attention. Tiny trickles of blood ran down her sides and soaked into the table, and Maaz was soon bloody to the elbows from his work.