The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “One?” he whispered back, unsure what the thing meant.

  Yes. One. Only.

  “Alone,” he nodded, understanding. “You are alone.”

  Alone, the thing repeated, the word drawing out in his mind. Yes. Alone.

  Then, with more anger, ALONE.

  The word punched into his consciousness like a fist, vibrating everything that made him who he was. He held to the fabric of his soul, trying to keep the intrusive thing from destroying him. The being only sat in his mind, though, like a rock in a pond—or a piece of it did. The darkness continued to spin around them, the peaceful river of black becoming a storm.

  “Where do you come from?” he asked, his mind going blank of anything else.

  Not this place. This is not your place.

  “No,” he said, “this is not my place.”

  You must go, before they come.

  His mind gave an involuntary shudder at the the thing’s words. The black continued to whirl out of control, as if the presence of the thing were sending the darkness into chaos.

  “Before what comes?” he asked.

  The thing released him, leaving his mind like a flash of lightning. He reeled, the darkness around him shuddering with the pounding of drums. Something wailed in the darkness—something close. It’s voice was like the screech of some predator bird, if a bird could grow to be the size of a horse cart. The blackness undulated around him, vibrating with the anticipation of violence.

  You must go.

  “How?” he asked, but the thing was gone before he could get a reply. The darkness, once teeming with that ancient presence, was now empty around him. He floated inside, exposed to whatever beast was making that awful wailing. It was coming closer, as if it was casting around in the darkness, and it sounded angry. Its cries evoked a primitive response within him, a madness that made him want to find a hole in which to burrow until it passed.

  Something struck him in the chest, pushing him through the darkness. The black around him erupted with angry wailing. He felt the distinct sensation of being flung through some kind of barrier.

  Agony turned his world white.

  ***

  “Dormael!”

  Shawna restrained his shoulders, her hands cool against the touch of his fevered skin. She stared down into his eyes, a worried look passing between them. Dormael realized that he was clutching her wrists in a death-grip, and loosened his fingers. He could feel sweat coating his naked skin beneath the multitude of blankets, and his eyes hurt with every painful beat of his heart. His head was a throbbing jumble of pain.

  “Shawna?” he croaked. His throat was dry, too.

  Fuck the gods.

  “Do you know any other red-heads that would be taking care of you?” she asked. Dormael started to answer, but she held up a finger. “No—I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to know.” Her expression softened into a tentative smile. “Are you alright?”

  “I hurt,” he mumbled. “Water?”

  She went for a decanter on a bedside table, and Dormael blinked as his eyes absorbed the low candlelight in the room. His muscles felt sore and watery. Shawna pressed a wooden cup into his hands, and Dormael gave her the most grateful look he could muster. He’d have kissed her for that water.

  He’d have kissed her anyway, truth be told.

  A large fireplace dominated the room, all granite bricks and dark iron bars in flowing patterns. A roaring fire burned inside, filling the room with pleasant heat. Two tapestries hung from either side of the fireplace, adding large swaths of vivid color to the dark wood paneling that lined the walls.

  The first was a large depiction of a man in resplendent armor being pulled from his horse by a horde of angry beast-men. It was called The Fall of Tirrin, and depicted the very man whose story Bethany had heard on the road to Gameritus. Dormael had always liked it because of the moral behind the story of Tirrin—not to fall to hubris—and the mastery of this particular depiction. The amount of detail, even down to the teeth in the Garthorin, was astounding.

  The second tapestry, which hung on the right side of the fireplace, was half again as large as the first, and depicted two men facing off across the yellow-brown sands of a desert. The first man was wild, wearing flowing black robes and holding a large, curving scimitar. The second man was smaller, and wearing simple traveling clothes. Fire, lightning, and ice erupted between the two of them, the battle depicted at an impasse. The tapestry was called Gimmael Facing Down Morvlund the Mad.

  Gimmael was a folk hero amongst the wizards of the Conclave—and, in particular, the Warlocks. Morvlund the Mad was a Rashardian Mystic—what the Rashardians called wizards—who had used his power to make a bid on the Holy Throne. Morvlund had committed a number of atrocities, and used his power to kill innocents. The Conclave had dispatched four other wizards to kill Morvlund, all of whom he defeated. Gimmael had been the least favorite wizard to take Morvlund down, as he was neither the most powerful, or most skilled Warlock that the Conclave had sent. It was Gimmael, though, who would finally end Morvlund’s reign of terror.

  This was Dormael’s room—they had made it to Ishamael.

  “When did we make it here?” he asked, after gulping down as much water as his stomach could handle.

  “A couple of days ago,” she said. “You’ve been out cold since the mountain. D’Jenn thought that you might not wake at all. Everyone has been worried.”

  “The Death Sleep,” Dormael said. “He thought I had entered the Death Sleep.”

  “The Death Sleep?”

  “It happens sometimes,” he said around a cough, “when a wizard draws too much power. They let things get away from them, let the energies spiral out of control. Sometimes having that much power running through you just…breaks the body. You fall asleep, you don’t wake. Your body just rots away beneath your slumber.”

  “Bethany will be so happy,” Shawna sighed. “She’s been silent again since you’ve been asleep. Won’t even laugh at your brother anymore.”

  “Things are bad, then,” Dormael said, smiling despite the pain banging around in his skull.

  “Should I go get them?” Shawna asked, rising.

  “Just give me a moment or two,” he said, catching her hand before she could leave. “My head feels like Evmir himself is beating my skull into shape.”

  She smiled, and sat back on the bed beside him.

  “Alright,” she said. “I suppose it can wait for a moment. They’re all scattered, anyway.”

  “And you stayed here with me?” he asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

  “It was my turn,” Shawna replied, raising a challenging eyebrow at his look. “Your brother took lunch, and D’Jenn, breakfast.”

  Dormael felt a regretful sting, but hid it behind it a long sigh.

  “How did you get me here? Drag me in a litter?”

  “There was a cart left from the bandits’ camp. We tossed you in the back. Thank you, by the way,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For coming after me, you fool.” She smiled, and wiped a bit of sweat from his brow.

  Dormael let out a breath. “I’d say we could call it even. You’ve been giving me water every day. At least, I think that was you. ”

  “It was,” she said, her cheeks turning a pink, rosy color. “I didn’t mind so much. You were a bit cranky, though. You’re a horrible patient.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’ll do better next time.”

  She slapped him on the arm, and they shared a smile in silence for a moment. He reached his hand up and prodded at the back of his head, relieved to find no soft spots. It still hurt, but the evidence of the blow he’d taken was gone. His chest throbbed beneath the blankets, and his whole damned body was sore.

  “So,” he said. “What do you think of the Conclave? Is it the haven of evil that you always imagined?”

  “No, actually,” she smiled, ignoring his jibe. “Everyone has been friendly. Someone important met us here—Victus, I
think his name was?”

  “He’s the deacon of our order.”

  “The what?”

  “The head Warlock,” Dormael clarified. “He’s in charge of all the Warlocks. He answers only to the Mekai, who is the head of the entire Conclave.”

  “I see,” Shawna said. “Things have been quiet since we arrived. I think your head Warlock has been keeping information about us a secret. No one has asked any questions, come calling, or caused any trouble. I think they’re waiting to see if you will come around, too. I don’t know what they’ve said to D’Jenn, though.”

  “It’s time to find out,” he grumbled, levering himself up to a seated position. “First, though, let’s get some food. I could use the walk down to the dining hall, in any case.”

  “Dormael, you’ve been asleep for days,” Shawna said, putting a restraining hand on his leg. “Your legs will buckle halfway down the stairs, and I’ll be carrying you. I’ll sit here with you, give you water, but I won’t carry you down a flight of stairs.”

  “You wouldn’t do that for me?”

  “It’s not ladylike to be seen kicking a man down a flight of stairs that way,” she said, a wicked smile forming on her lips.

  “You’re a terrible person, Shawna Llewan,” he said, a laugh making the muscles over his ribs and chest ache with every tug. “Fine. Just yell out the door for an Initiate.”

  “An Initiate?”

  “The kids wearing the blue tunics,” he clarified. “They’re students in their first four years of study. They have classes, duties, that sort of thing. They’ll do everything a full wizard tells them to do.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Shawna said.

  “Just tell them that Warlock Harlun needs two plates of food up here, and he needs them yesterday. They’ll run to see it done, believe me. If you want, make it harder on them and tell them to bring us some milk, too. I’ve a taste for milk, for some reason.”

  “Adversity does build character,” Shawna smiled, and the two of them shared a short laugh.

  Suddenly her expression changed, and she moved back from him in alarm.

  “Dormael!” she said. “Your…your chest. What is that?”

  He looked down to where the blankets had fallen from his shoulders, revealing his naked torso. At first he thought the woman was playing a joke on him, but when he looked down, he hissed in surprise. Across his chest, from his neck all the way down to his lower ribcage, was a giant bruise in the shape of a three-fingered hand.

  Dormael felt sick to his stomach all of a sudden, and poked at the painful bruise with one finger. It hurt to the touch just as any other bruise would. The memories of the black, of the ancient voice, of the creature that had pushed him from the darkness came flooding back to him in a moment of clarity.

  “Shawna…call for D’Jenn. Send an Initiate for him,” he breathed.

  “What is that thing, Dormael?” she asked, staring at the bruise in horror.

  “I don’t know,” he said, at a loss for words. “I just don’t know.”

  ***

  D’Jenn walked the halls of the Conclave Proper, nodding to people he knew in passing. He saw a few faces that he recognized from his First Four, in the days before he had been selected for Warlock training. Those people, though familiar, may as well have been strangers to him now. The years had dimmed his emotional connection to the memories of his early childhood.

  When an Initiate completed his First Four in the Conclave—which was full of classes on nature, philosophy, magical theory, literature, and mathematics—they were given a choice as to which Discipline they wanted to pursue. There was only one Discipline that was not open for choice—the Warlocks. Instead, the Warlocks chose their recruits from the most promising students. Once a child was offered a position in the Warlocks, they had one chance to make that choice. If a child declined, they were never offered a position again. Many declined.

  When an Initiate was accepted into the Warlocks, their training was intensified. While other students were perfecting crafts, or deepening their understanding of the world, Warlocks were trained to kill. Every day of training was a test. The children were organized into classes by their generation, and the classes were always small. In D’Jenn’s generation, there were only twenty-four students to be accepted. Only fifteen had completed the training.

  Students were pitted against each other in elaborate war-games. Other tests revolved around cunning, or strategy. Competition was the theme behind every situation—Victus believed that only adversity could hone his students’ abilities.

  Alliances and close friendships always developed as a result. D’Jenn often wondered, in quiet moments, whether Victus had designed things that way. Was the form of his training something the Conclave had always done, or was the entire thing the brainchild of Victus Tiranan? D’Jenn smiled as he remembered times when he had cursed his deacon, cursed the Warlocks, cursed ever having come to the Conclave for one reason or another. Warlock training was not easy. Looking back, though, he now felt as if those were the best times in his life.

  The first person that D’Jenn went looking for was Vera.

  Even as he thought of her name, a smile came unbidden to his lips. She would shit two golden marks to hear the story of this past winter, and he knew she would want to meet Shawna and Bethany. There was no one whose insight he would value more than hers.

  Her door, though, was cold and silent. He knew as soon as he knocked that no one was behind the door, and could feel the stillness of the room beyond. His magic fluttered in and sniffed about, but he could tell from the sound of the very air that she hadn’t been there in a while. Disappointment rose in his guts.

  “D’Jenn,” said a voice behind him.

  D’Jenn turned to find Mataez, one of his classmates, standing in the hallway behind him. Mataez was a Runemian, with short, dark hair. He was a stocky fellow, but agile in his way. D’Jenn smiled as he saw the man, but the look on Mataez’s face made the expression die on his lips.

  “What’s with that look, brother?” D’Jenn asked.

  “You were…looking for Vera?” Mataez said, gesturing at the door. His tone was hesitant, which put D’Jenn on the defensive.

  “I was,” D’Jenn said. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  Mataez’s expression fell. “No one’s told you, I guess.”

  “Told me what, Mataez?” A cold feeling crawled into D’Jenn’s stomach.

  “Vera,” Mataez said. “I’m sorry, but she died, brother. She’s dead.”

  D’Jenn’s eyes went to the door. He had a spike of confused emotion that went through his chest before he could stop it. It was there and gone in a flash, like a sword made of ice.

  “She’s dead,” D’Jenn repeated.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” Mataez sighed. “Gods, somebody should have fucking told you. How long have you been back?”

  “A couple of days.” His voice felt empty.

  “Eindor’s blighted eye,” Mataez cursed. He came up and clasped arms with D’Jenn, pulling him into a one-armed embrace. “I’m sorry you’ve got to hear it like this, mate. From me, too—I’m the worst with this sort of thing, you know?”

  “When did it happen? How did it happen?” His head still felt a bit cloudy as he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. How could the woman have died? She was one of the most resourceful people that D’Jenn knew.

  That I used to know, he corrected. The voice in his head was angry.

  “D’Jenn,” Mataez sighed. “Let’s go down to the dining hall, brother. You’re going to want a drink in your hand to hear this story.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not just Vera, brother. It’s Taglion, Jastom, and Kirael, too.”

  D’Jenn felt like sitting down. That was nearly a third of their entire class, all dead. How could such a thing be true?

  “What? That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Why wasn’t I told of this?”

  “Did you check your missives, brother
?”

  “Of course I checked my fucking missives, Mataez,” D’Jenn snapped before he could stop himself. He took a moment, and held up his hand in apology. “I’m sorry. This is just…surprising.”

  Mataez waved off his apology. “I understand. We all know how you felt about her. She was family, you know. There’s so few of us, mate. We all loved her.”

  “I know,” D’Jenn sighed. “And the others? How did this happen?”

  “Lost at sea,” Mataez said. His voice was flat, wooden. “No one really knows, mate. But the speculation on the ship was paid out to the families of the crew—that much we do know. I looked into it myself. It’s been a rough year, D’Jenn. You and your cousin just disappeared on us. Where is he? Is he alright?”

  “He’s in his rooms,” D’Jenn replied, still reeling from the news. How could so many of them have died at once? It didn’t seem possible. “You should go and see him. He’s hurt.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” D’Jenn shrugged. His eyes wouldn’t leave Vera’s door. No wonder the room beyond had felt so cold to his senses. “Go, look in on him. I’m going to take a walk.”

  “I’m sorry you had to hear it like this, D’Jenn,” Mataez said, a grimace on his face. “The deacon will tell you what happened, I’m sure. He’s been busy all season. All of Eldath is going crazy, brother. The gods are shitting on us all.”

  “Looks that way,” D’Jenn said. He didn’t feel like talking.

  Mataez offered him a pained smile, and walked off in the direction of Dormael’s rooms. D’Jenn let out a long sigh and sat back against the wall. The reunion he had been hoping for would never happen. So many of his friends were dead. How was such a thing possible?

  D’Jenn’s eyes went to the door once again, and he contemplated going inside. The smell of Vera’s hair came to mind, a spicy scent she bought from a vendor in the East Market. The memory drove another cold spike into his heart, and he had to turn his eyes away from the door.

  There was no way he could go inside. The sight of the room, bare of her presence, would stick with him forever. He didn’t want to remember that sight, so he decided not to expose himself to it.