The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Maybe—one could hope, after all.

  The Conclave came into sight as he rounded a corner, the towers rising into the night against a full moon. Abdiel walked these streets every night on his way home, moving north through the East Market and skirting the edge of the Conclave grounds on his way back to his own district. Though some of the surrounding areas were poor, the presence of the Conclave kept criminals off the streets. Abdiel wasn’t sure if it was out of fear of the wizards, or respect for them.

  As long as he made it home safe every night, he didn’t care.

  The streets in this part of the city were dotted with entrances to the tunnels underground. In odd alleyways there would be a stone staircase leading downward, with an iron gate locked over the entranceway. Down the street he was walking, just on the other side of a main thoroughfare, Abdiel saw something crouched above one of the staircases that filled his guts with ice.

  Abdiel thought it was a man at first—just a man that was crouched over in an odd fashion. Maybe he was a Lirium addict, or a cripple. Then, the thing moved, sliding over the ground in a wolfish gait that made the hair on the back of Abdiel’s neck stand on end. It prowled back and forth at the entranceway, sniffing at the air like some sort of hound. It had long, thin arms that clacked every time they struck the stones under them—the result of the claws that stuck from its fingers. It was cloaked in heavy winter wool, and had a scarf wrapped around its head.

  Abdiel froze at the sight of the thing, his breath locked in his chest.

  What in all the Six Hells is that thing?

  He took a slow step backward, praying that it wouldn’t turn and see him. He tried to step into the shadow of the two-story building on his right, creeping backward with his eyes locked on the creature down the street. His heart pumped fear into every limb of his body, and he could hear it pounding in his ears.

  He froze again as he bumped against something that had the distinct feel of flesh.

  Abdiel turned, fear ratcheting down on his throat as he regarded the thing behind him. It was larger than he by a good margin, its limbs long and distended. It had the distinct smell of rotting flesh hanging about it, and it twitched as it moved, with muscles spasming in random places. It was cloaked in dirty cloth much like the other one, with an old scarf wrapped around its head. Two burning pinpoints of red light shone from eyes frozen over with death.

  The thing leaned forward and sniffed at him, crooning in its throat. Abdiel was frozen with terror, his limbs unresponsive to his mind’s desperate calls to flee. Fire was burning through him with every terrible heartbeat, but his body was frozen. The thing rose back on its haunches, and turned its head to the side, regarding Abdiel with a cold, lifeless stare.

  He felt the warm piss run down his leg, cold before it got to his ankles.

  Cold, long fingers clamped around Abdiel’s throat like thin bands of iron, and he felt his breath cut off. The thing had moved so damned fast that Abdiel hadn’t had time to utter a cry before his throat was locked in its grip. He felt his feet leave the ground in the same instant, kicking the air with desperation. He struggled, but it availed him nothing. He may as well have struggled to bend metal with his bare hands.

  The creature shook him—a single, violent movement that sent a hot explosion of pain rending through the back of Abdiel’s neck. After that, his body was just gone. He couldn’t feel it, but in an odd way, he could still feel its weight hanging from the creature’s grip. When the thing reached its long, distended fingers into Abdiel’s belly, he only felt a vague tugging sensation, and the sudden loss of weight accompanied by the sound of his guts plopping into the alley.

  The creature dropped him right into his viscera, and bounded across the street to join the other creature. Abdiel couldn’t move, but he had happened to land in full view of the things down the street. He smelled his own guts, could feel their warmth against his cheek. He tried to suck in a breath, but no air was able to fill the hole in his chest. Abdiel lay like a discarded pile of meat on the cobblestones, struggling to keep his eyes open.

  He watched the creatures bend the metal gate that led into the tunnels, and crawl into the sewers. A gang of people came into sight, sprinting for all they were worth, and followed the creatures underground. Abdiel tried to remember the face of his daughter, her laughing smile, the way Jalien felt against him. He watched his blood spread into the street, and struggled against the darkness that pulled at his eyelids.

  Jalien will be expecting me anytime now.

  His last thought was the cold acceptance that Jalien would be expecting him forever.

  ***

  “Is there a river down here?” Bethany asked, listening to the sound of running water that permeated the sewers with a constant whisper. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. “A stinky river.”

  Dormael echoed Bethany’s sentiments.

  Everyone sat huddled under Lacelle’s magical light, taking a break from their walk through the tunnels. They had passed from the ancient corridors beneath the Conclave and into the sewers under the actual city—at least, Dormael thought that they had. The tunnels beneath the city were like another world, and he had long since lost his way. One stone hallway looked much like the rest of them—a deserted tunnel, locked in perpetual shadow.

  Dormael thought that the tunnels they currently walked through were part of an access system built alongside the actual sewer, probably for maintenance purposes. There was no effluvia-filled river running through these tunnels, though he could hear it nearby—and smell it, of course. The stink was bad enough to make him want to resist breathing.

  “A river of shit,” Lilliane sighed between gulps from her waterskin. She favored Bethany with a smile. “Did you use any of the latrines on the Conclave grounds? Any of the public toilets in the city?”

  “Well, I had to,” Bethany said. “It’s not nice to ask about it, though. It’s gross.”

  Dormael held back a snicker at the serious tone the girl had adopted.

  “Well excuse me, little princess,” Lilliane said. “I hadn’t realized your royal bottom was so special. In any case, dear—this is where all the shit and piss from the entire city comes. It all flows right down to this delightful place.”

  “Why?” Bethany asked.

  “Sanitation,” Lacelle said, riding over Lilliane’s comment and giving the woman a warning glance—probably for the profanity, but Dormael didn’t know. He hadn’t spent much time in the company of Philosophers, so their habits were unknown to him. He had never viewed the rest of the Conclave with the sort of disdain that some of his Warlock friends did, but he still hadn’t bothered to make friends with many wizards outside his discipline.

  It was odd, but Jev, Lilliane, and Torins were starting to grow on him. Even Lacelle had begun to make light conversation here and there, proving that despite all previous evidence to the contrary, the woman wasn’t made of ice and indignation. Bethany had begun to ask questions, and the four Philosophers couldn’t help but start teaching. Dormael found himself listening in, though he pretended distraction.

  “There was a time in our history that great things were achieved,” Lacelle said. “This city is testament to that time—these sewers, even more so.”

  “How?” Bethany asked.

  Lacelle smiled. “Ask any man or woman on the streets of any city in the world about wondrous things, and they’ll probably mention a few different places—Tauravon, the Great River City; the bridge between East and West Lodinburg in Shera; or the Keep, in Thardin. No one will mention the sewers of Ishamael, though they are a feat arguably as complex and wonderful as anything in Tauravon.”

  “How?” Bethany repeated.

  “Well,” Lilliane put in, “in Tauravon you’ll find bridges that go underwater, architecture that seems impossible, and more beauty than anywhere else in Eldath. But none of that provides a constant source of clean drinking water to the huddled, stinking masses. In Ishamael, that’s what we have. It’s the real benefit of living here
.”

  The woman’s expression fell in the wake of her words. The other two scholars looked at her, but none of them said anything. Dormael sympathized with them—he was feeling the loss of his home, too. The tunnels, however, were making him too anxious to pay much attention.

  “Maybe we can go to Tauravon,” Jev said in a hopeful tone. “Certainly the Mage Tower will take us in. They’re our allies, after all.”

  “You can’t go to Tauravon,” Dormael said. All eyes turned on him. “You can’t go to the Mage Tower, you can’t go to your families, you can’t seek refuge with any of your known acquaintances. Victus will find you there, and none of you have the skills to see him coming.”

  Lilliane looked sick, but Dormael could tell the girl was smart enough to have seen it already. Jev was smart enough, too, but the man was too hopeful by half. Dormael hated to do it, but he knew that he had to step on that hope like a cockroach, and crush it under heel. It would get them killed faster than anything else.

  “Where are we supposed to go, Deacon?” Jev asked. “You say we’re running, then fine—but where? Don’t we have a plan?”

  “East, to Alderak,” Lacelle said. Her expression, though, betrayed the uncertainty.

  “There are lots of places in Alderak,” Jev said. “Alderak could mean Lesmira, or Cambrell. It could also mean the Dannon Steppe, though, or Thardin—not to mention the Galanian Empire.”

  “I heard they’re kidnapping wizards, using them in experiments,” Torins said.

  “That’s just a rumor, you drooling idiot,” Lilliane said.

  “I don’t want to be experimented on,” Jev said. “They burn wizards at the stake in Alderak! Or hang us, or stone us to death. I’ve read the stories.”

  “We’re not going to be burnt at the stake,” Lacelle sighed.

  “Just this morning, I’d have said that there was no way I’d be stumbling through Indalvian’s bloody tunnels with these two,” Lilliane said. “Here I am, though. The gods and their bloody humor.”

  Shawna touched Dormael’s shoulder, and he looked up as she spoke.

  “You can go to Cambrell,” she said. Lacelle gave her a sharp look, and the other three regarded her with frightened interest. “In Ferolan there’s a man by the name of Alton Dersham. He’s my cousin, and he’ll take you in.”

  “Can we ask that of Alton?” Dormael whispered in her ear. “We’ve asked so much of him already. This will put him in direct danger.”

  “Alton understands what is at stake,” Shawna whispered back. “And he’s already in danger. Sending him four wizards sounds like a smart thing to do, don’t you think? Look at them, Dormael—they don’t know what to do. They’re pitiful.”

  Shawna was right—they did look clueless. It wasn’t very long ago that Shawna herself had been the clueless one, but no longer. Dormael hadn’t realized just how much Shawna had changed until this moment, with the Philosophers’ ineptitude on display before him.

  “He’s your cousin,” Dormael said, shrugging. “It’s your call.”

  “We wouldn’t want to impose on anyone,” Lacelle said. “Are you certain?”

  “Alton helped us escape Ferolan when we fled the city,” Shawna said, nodding. “He won’t shy from offering our friends aid when it’s needed. He’s the most honorable of men.”

  “Thank you, Lady Baroness,” Lacelle said, inclining her head. “Genuinely, thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Shawna said. “We’re all in this fight together now, like it or not.”

  Lacelle narrowed her eyes at Shawna, giving her a considering look. Dormael wondered what Shawna would say if she knew that Lacelle had referred to her as his ‘concubine’. He decided to keep silent, though—Lacelle would change her opinion of Shawna in time.

  Dormael looked down the corridor in the direction from which they had come. He fingered the copper mark in the pocket of his cloak—the twin to the one he had spelled and given to D’Jenn. Anxiety kept gnawing at him, worrying him. D’Jenn was the most capable man that Dormael knew.

  The most capable, anyway, except for Victus.

  Dormael had called the halt to give them a bit of a rest—after all, Lilliane looked like she was going to keel over and die at any moment—and to give D’Jenn a bit of time to catch up with them. Dormael couldn’t help but glance back down the tunnel every now and then, worrying at its emptiness. Only silence stared back at him.

  “We should get moving,” Dormael sighed.

  Shawna gave him a knowing look, glanced down the empty corridor, and pushed herself to her feet. Allen followed her, and Bethany scrambled after the gladiator, questions about his weapons rolling from her tongue. The others—except for Lacelle—all gave him reluctant expressions, making a big show of shouldering their gear and getting their feet moving. Jev had a unique gift for melodrama, uttering grunts and whines and groans with every protracted movement. It had been so long since Dormael had been confronted with such behavior that he was unsure what to do about it.

  He smiled at them and walked on by, leaving them floundering behind him. Lacelle stepped off beside him, bringing the light with her. Jev, Torins, and Lilliane rushed to keep up, and the complaining noises died off.

  For a long time the only sounds were running water, echoing footfalls, and muttered conversation at the edges of Lacelle’s magical light. The Deacon of Philosophers kept pace with him in silence, making his walk more than a bit uncomfortable. Lacelle had never liked him—or, at least, he thought that was true. Even now, being in his presence stiffened her back, and chilled her expression. She stared straight ahead as they walked, jaw muscles clenched tight. Every once in a while she would glance over at him, as if she was going to say something, but then the moment would pass. Dormael didn’t press her—he had no real desire to talk to her.

  They passed through what Dormael was thinking of as ‘the maintenance tunnels,’ and moved into an older part of the corridors that branched off from the main path. Dormael hoped that the Mekai’s escape route would take them wide of the main sewer, but the constant sound of churning water hovered just at the edge of hearing.

  The smell also hovered, and so strong that it was almost a taste.

  Dormael had studied Ishamael’s sewers during his First Four. They had been built to last a thousand years, so the scholars said, and had lasted longer. The tunnels ran deep into the ground—so deep, in fact, that entire parts of the sprawling complex were beneath the river. Dormael cringed at the thought of the water that might be overhead even now, waiting to fall through the ceiling and drown them all.

  After all, he thought, these tunnels have been here for over a thousand years.

  “Have you ever been down here?” Lacelle asked, startling him from his reverie.

  “Just today, actually,” Dormael said, favoring her with an empty smile.

  “I got lost down here when I was a girl,” she replied, looking around at the stone. “I thought I was going to die. Do you know how I found my way out?”

  “How?” he asked. Anything to get the conversation over with.

  “I followed the water,” she said. “I knew that the water had to go somewhere—back up into the city, or out into the countryside—so I followed it until it led me back to the surface.”

  Dormael nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “My friends had all dared me to come down here, called me a sissy,” she went on. “I was too afraid back then to stand up to them, so I went into the tunnels instead. I nearly died.”

  “Did your friends get in trouble for daring you to go in?” Dormael asked. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he uttered the response without really thinking. D’Jenn kept intruding on his thoughts. An urge to run back the way they had come and catch up to him was making his bones itch.

  Lacelle smiled. “The little cowards tried to say that I had dared them into the tunnels, and got lost myself when they refused. This was a very long time ago, back when I was in my First Four…with your deacon.”


  Dormael looked up at her.

  “He was different when we were children,” she said. “We hated each other back then—he used to throw things at me in class. Thought it was hilarity of the highest order. I was always nervous around him, because I knew that every day he would irritate me until I wanted to scream.”

  “He was one of the kids who dared you into the tunnels?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “That was a group of girls I had thought were my closest friends—at the time, anyway.”

  “Some friends,” Dormael said.

  Lacelle smiled. “Some friends, indeed. No—Victus found out what happened from them, and went to find one of the Masters. I had already made my way back into the streets only to find that a search had been organized, and the whole Conclave was in an uproar.”

  “What happened after?”

  “We had to stand before the Mekai,” she said, smiling at the memory. “All of us—the girls, Victus, and me. I’d had no idea at the time that Victus was even involved. I was so frightened.”

  “I can imagine,” Dormael said. “If I’d had to stand before the Mekai during my First Four, I’d probably have been wetting myself.”

  “I would have, but I was too nervous to let anything out,” Lacelle said. “Victus, though…he stood right in front of the Mekai and called every one of those girls liars. He wasn’t frightened at all. He told the Mekai that he’d be stupid to punish me because the fault lay with my ‘bitchy friends’, as he put it.”

  “That sounds like something he’d say,” Dormael replied.

  “I was in love with him for a very long time after that,” she said. Dormael almost fell over in surprise. It was strange enough to learn that Lacelle was human in the first place, but hearing those words come out of her mouth made him stumble. Lacelle raised an eyebrow at him, but kept walking.

  “What?” she said. “Is it such a strange thing to hear? I know you Warlocks talk. The Philosophers do, too—in that, at least, you’re all alike.”