The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

“You should rest.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Dormael,” Shawna sighed, pushing his shoulder to emphasize her words. “Staring into the darkness until your eyes fall out won’t change anything. D’Jenn will be fine.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Dormael asked, turning his eyes on her. Her own eyes were liquid and opaque, though her silence said enough. “I’ll sleep soon.”

  “The sky is turning blue, Dormael,” Shawna said. “And your restlessness is keeping me awake. Can you just lie down, already?”

  Dormael let out a long sigh, and forced himself to turn away from the river.

  “Alright. You’re right.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, softening her words with a smile. “Come on—if you need to get some of your nerves out, you can talk me to sleep.”

  He followed her to the camp, dodging the lumps of their friends’ sleeping forms. Lacelle and Lilliane were huddled on one side of the circle, though there had been no fire around which to huddle. Bethany, for once, slept alone, huddled into her cloak. The girl had fallen asleep with a fierce smile on her face, though Dormael had no idea where she had found such emotional resilience. He felt as if his life was over. Allen snored, but his hand hovered ever near his weapons—of course, that was only because he had so many of the things that it didn’t matter where his hand rested at any given time.

  Shawna laid down on her blankets, and gestured for Dormael to lay his own out beside her. He obliged her, and soon the two of them were lying side-by-side, if not touching. The stars were starting to wash out from the rising sun, but some of them still shone, defiant through the gloom.

  “What happens next?” Shawna asked.

  “Orm,” Dormael said. “We go to the cursed temple, and see what we can dig up about the Nar’doroc.”

  “How long until Victus comes after us?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dormael admitted. “He’ll send someone—I’m sure of that much. He’ll also have a lot of trouble here to take care of, so it might be a while before we have to worry much about him.” Thoughts of Victus brought thoughts of D’Jenn, and fresh worry twisted in Dormael’s guts. “If he killed my cousin, by the gods, I’ll rip his still-beating heart from his chest.”

  A moment of silence passed in the wake of his comment.

  “I’ll help you, if you want,” Shawna said.

  “You will?”

  “Of course I will,” she whispered back through a yawn. “We’re friends, Dormael. I’ve met your family. D’Jenn was my friend, too.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have questioned your fidelity.” He yawned on reflex, his jaw cracking with the effort.

  “You helped me with my revenge—or to start it, anyway,” Shawna said, another yawn mangling her words until they were barely intelligible. “I should help you back.”

  “If he’s dead,” Dormael said around another yawn of his own.

  “If he’s dead,” Shawna agreed.

  Dormael closed his eyes for a moment, just to rest them. The sky was turning to a predawn gloom, and it was bothering him. So many things were bothering him.

  “Shawna?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you remember visiting my homestead?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  Silence.

  Dormael rolled over and looked, only to find Shawna’s eyes closed, her mouth hanging open. Dormael let out a long sigh, and turned back over. He would have been irritated, but that sky was so damned bright.

  He closed his eyes—just for a moment, of course.

  ***

  Maarkov was watching the light turn from deep blue to predawn purple when the Hunter came limping back into camp. The thing was burnt, slashed, beat up, and missing one of its burning eyes. Maarkov couldn’t help but feel a small amount of respect for their quarry. If Maarkov had been gambling, he would have bet on the Hunters without a second thought.

  It appeared that he would have been wrong.

  Maaz was not happy, to say the least. He scowled at the Hunter for a long moment before hissing at it in that ugly language. Maarkov couldn’t speak the first word of it, but he knew an argument when he heard it. The Hunter was getting the sharp side of Maaz’s tongue.

  “Brother!” Maarkov called, packing some tobacco into his pipe. “Is everything alright?” He favored Maaz with a toothy grin, pouring a challenge into the smile.

  Maaz glowered, then went back to bickering with the Hunter.

  Maarkov sighed and returned to staring out over the valley. The sky deepened to pink as the Hunter argued with his brother. By the time Maarkov was watching the sunlight chase the shadow across the valley floor, Maaz appeared at his side.

  “Our quarry has eluded us,” he said.

  “Eluded you,” Maarkov pointed out. “I’m just along for the ride, or the occasional killing.”

  “As you wish,” Maaz said. “Regardless, we must adapt.”

  “And how do we adapt, brother? I imagine the process involves a lot more riding, and more time spent in your company.”

  Maaz gave him a long, dangerous look.

  There were times when Maarkov mocked his brother, and almost thought the bastard would finally end it. Maybe he would snap, and burn Maarkov where he stood. Maybe he would snap his neck, or rip his head from his shoulders. Whichever way he might get it done, Maarkov almost longed for it. He savored those murderous glances like precious gemstones.

  “It’s no serious feat to track your prey if you know where it’s going,” Maaz said. “The Hunter has the wizard’s scent. It can follow him no matter where he runs, no matter where he hides. Even that, though, is more than we need.”

  “More than we need?”

  “Yes,” Maaz said. “I already know where they’re going, and nothing could be better for us.”

  “Why?” Maarkov asked, taking another pull from his pipe and letting the smoke eke out into the morning sun.

  “They’ve been hiding in the city up to this point, huddled in the center of the one place I cannot chase them,” Maaz said. “There’s only one other place on this continent old enough to hold any answers for them, and it’s an ancient ruin in the middle of nowhere. They’ll have nowhere to run this time, no city full of wizards within which to hide. Out in the grasslands, they will be helpless to the full might of my power.”

  Maaz reached into his robe and pulled out the book he always carried with him—the ancient tome from which he drew all his knowledge. It had started everything, had sent them on this mad quest spanning so many years. Maarkov rarely caught sight of the thing, but when he did, Maaz caressed it like a pet. It gave Maarkov chills.

  “Is that in your little book, then? That’s how you know about this old ruin?”

  Maaz gave him a disdainful look, and shoved the book back out of sight. Maarkov waited for an answer, but one never came. His brother was tight-lipped about the damned book.

  Maarkov sighed, and stared back over the valley.

  “So where in the Six Hells are we going now?”

  “North, to the ancient ruins of Orm,” Maaz smiled. “The Place Where the Gods Listen.”

  “The Place That Can Kiss My Bloody Arse,” Maarkov intoned.

  “Laugh all you want,” Maaz sighed. “Be in your saddle by midmorning, or stay here and wither.”

  Maarkov watched his brother’s departing back with a scowl on his face. He was struck by the memory of the last time he’d stabbed his brother, of the way his steel had tugged ever so slightly on his hand as it entered through the fleshy split between Maaz’s ribs. He was struck with a sudden fit of blinding rage, a pure instant of white-hot anger that compelled him to move.

  Then it was over, and Maarkov persisted.

  Maarkov always bloody persisted—whether he wanted to, or not.

  ***

  Victus Tiranan stood in his win
dow, staring out over the dark expanse of the river.

  So many things had gone wrong. He had thought that Dormael and D’Jenn were two that would have joined him—surely they would have been able to see his logic, had he the proper chance to explain it to them. It angered him to think about the mistakes that had led to this night’s folly.

  “Why did you try it, boy?” he said aloud for the hundredth time. “Why in the gods’ name did you try it?”

  No one answered him, of course. The dead never answered, though they were the ones from whom answers were most needed. The only answer came from the wind—the same accusing howl it had given him all night. Sighing, Victus turned away from the window and walked back to his chair.

  This little attempt on his life meant several things. One—Dormael would be gone, having taken all his friends and the armlet with him. Two—the Mekai knew something, which confirmed the suspicions which he’d already held for quite some time. Three—he had to make his move soon, or risk losing everything he had prepared to the violence that would surely descend in the wake of his plans unraveling.

  A change in the balance of power was always a delicate thing.

  He had been polishing these plans for years, gathering his power, laying out the foundations for something great. Under him, the Warlocks had become deadly, and now they would use that power for good in the world—real good, not just protecting people from harmful magic. They could affect change in the world. They had the power to see their will done—to see his will done—and finally, the conviction to see it through to its inevitable conclusion.

  The powerful ruled the weak, and such was the truth throughout nature. The lion takes the hart whenever it wishes. The wolf doesn’t ask the elk for permission before it culls from the herd—it takes. Such had been the truth for human beings since the beginning of time. The strong ruled the weak, raped the weak, enslaved the weak, murdered the weak indiscriminately. The world was full of wolves.

  Eldath was full of people who fancied themselves wolves, but had never met a real wolf. Amongst humans, wizards were special, and had the power to do amazing things. Amongst wizards, Warlocks were a breed apart—trained to fight and kill with magic, and under Victus, so much more. Soon the wolves would meet the Warlocks, and the wolves would learn their new place in the circle of life.

  Dormael was now rogue, and in control of a magical item more powerful than anything Victus had ever seen. That artifact was the one thing that Victus hadn’t anticipated. In the hands of a Warlock like Dormael, the threat the artifact posed was too serious to ignore.

  Its mystery was confounding. It would be nothing to get his hands on the research the Mekai had been conducting. Lacelle’s people had as many secrets as anyone else, and anyone with a secret was a potential asset. Victus had many assets.

  He’d have to send someone to kill Dormael and his friends, too. As much as he hated to do it, the one thing he could trust was that Dormael would make an attempt on his life at some point in the future. He wouldn’t stand for the death of his cousin. Victus hated to lose two talented Warlocks—he’d hated losing all the ones who had betrayed him—but there was nothing for it.

  Victus lit a pipe, and started thinking about how to get it all done.

  ***

  It had been a shit night for fishing.

  “Who do you think he was, Torbi?” Berbin asked, bending over to peer at the dead man. “Do you think he fell out of the sky?”

  Torbi and Berbin had been fishing on the river, hoping to pull in something to take home to their Ma. The dead man had splashed into the water somewhere nearby, which had nearly capsized their canoe. When they found the man in the water, Berbin had been sure he had fallen from some great height.

  Berbin was dumb as dog shit.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Torbi said, slapping his little brother across the back of the head. “Things don’t just fall out of the sky, dolt.”

  “I’m not a dolt! Don’t call me that!”

  “Dolt,” Torbi said again. “Dolt, dolt, dolt, fucking dolt!”

  “If Ma knows you said that, she’ll whip you into next season!”

  “Said what?” Torbi smiled. “Fucking? Do you know what it is, Berbin? Do you know what fucking is?”

  “What?”

  “It’s what Old Jorban does to Willi Thames’ mother in the back of his shop,” Torbi snickered. “Right up the skirts!”

  “I don’t get it,” Berbin said.

  “Of course you don’t, you idiot,” Torbi sighed. Berbin was only ten, after all. Torbi, though, was thirteen. He’d seen tits and everything—one of the girls in the East Market had let him pay her to kiss them. He could never tell his Ma that, though. She really would beat him into next season if she heard that.

  “Do you think he’s rich?” Berbin asked. “He’s wearing nice clothes.”

  “He’s not anything anymore, little brother,” Torbi said. “That’s the way of the world. He’s dead now, see? He don’t have no need for all that stuff. We can take it.”

  “We can?”

  “Aye, the gods won’t mind. Ma will thank us, too, if we come home with something nice.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I know so,” Torbi smiled. “It’s the way of the world.”

  “Where did you hear about the way of the world?” Berbin asked. “Is there somewhere you can go to hear it? Like to the temple?”

  “It’s not like going to the temple, you idiot,” Torbi sighed. “It’s just something you learn. One day you’ll get it.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Now—look in his purse.”

  “What? Me?” Berbin asked. He looked terrified.

  “Yes, you,” Torbi said. “I’m the oldest, you have to do what I say.”

  “Do not!”

  “Do so! Besides, it’s high time you touched your first dead body.”

  “You’ve touched a body before, have you?”

  “I have!” Torbi nodded. He hadn’t, but Berbin didn’t need to know that. “I do it all the time out here. Where do you think the street boys dump their victims, eh? Plop!—right in the river. I see them all the time.”

  “Then how come I never see them when we go together?” Berbin asked.

  “Because you’re a dolt, Berbin,” Torbi said. “A fucking dolt. Now—look in his purse.”

  “Alright,” Berbin said. “But don’t tell Ma I touched it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’ll make me go say a prayer at the temple, and I don’t want to say a stupid prayer!”

  “Alright, alright,” Torbi said, holding his hands up for peace. “I won’t tell. This is our secret.”

  “A brother secret?”

  “A brother secret,” Torbi nodded, clasping forearms with his brother. “Now—look in the purse!”

  “Fine,” Berbin said.

  He bent down in the mud of the embankment and poked at the body, shying back with each poke as if the dead man was going to jump up from the mud and eat him. Torbi rolled his eyes and gestured for Berbin to get on with it. Berbin stuck out his tongue, then reached for the dead man’s purse.

  “Berbin!” Torbi screamed, jumping at the boy.

  Berbin squealed and scrambled through the mud, trying to get away from the corpse. Torbi broke out in a fit of laughter, unable to hold it in. Berbin stared daggers at him, growing so red in the face that his ears shone in the predawn light.

  “You nearly pissed yourself!” Torbi laughed.

  “Did not!”

  “Did so! And you screamed like a girl!”

  “Take that back!”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll hit you—that’s what!”

  “You won’t,” Torbi smiled. “You’re too sissy for that.”

  “Am not,” Berbin said. “I’m the one who was going for the purse. Why don’t you go for it? Let’s see how big and tough you are!”

  “I’d get that purse any day,” Torbi said. “Don’t be
stupid.”

  “Get it, then,” Berbin said, raising his chin. “I dare you.”

  “You can’t dare me, I’m older than you,” Torbi said with a sneer. “Don’t you know anything, you dolt?”

  “If I’m a dolt, then you’re a sissy,” Berbin said. “A sissy who won’t even take a purse from a dead body.”

  Torbi raised his chin, echoing his brother’s stance. Nobody called Torbi Numarian a sissy—not even his own brother! He thought about punching Berbin in the face, but he’d have to explain that one to his Ma, too. He’d just have to show his brother what was what.

  “A sissy, eh?” Torbi asked. “Would a sissy do this?”

  Torbi bent down and wrapped his hands around the corpse’s belt, then made to rip the man’s purse from it. It didn’t come free right away, and the cold leather was slippery in his hands. He gritted his teeth and worked at the buckles with his fingers, but couldn’t get it loose.

  The corpse seized his wrists in wet, cold hands.

  Torbi screamed, petrified with fear. The corpse let go of Torbi, and he scrambled away, gathering Berbin close. He dug his fingers into his brother’s shoulders, wondering if he should tell him to run away. The man—who wasn’t dead—retched and turned to the side, coughing into the mud. He spat a bellyful of the river onto the embankment. Berbin stood transfixed, mouth agape. Torbi was right on the verge of telling his brother to run.

  The man looked around, wiping the wetness from his beard. He tossed his long, wet hair out of his eyes and squinted at the two boys, then at the canoe. The man grimaced.

  “Is that yours?” he asked, gesturing at the canoe. His voice was a throaty growl, but anyone who had swallowed that much of the river Ishamael was lucky to be able to talk at all.

  “It is,” Torbi said, holding Berbin behind him.

  The man gave Torbi a sour look. He grimaced and sat up, looking over his shoulder at the city in the distance. Looking down, he yanked the purse from his belt and held it out to Torbi.

  “It’s yours, kid, if you take me up the river.”

  Torbi hesitated.

  “How do I know you’re not going to kill us, or do something weird to us?”

  The man scowled at him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, kid. Here, look,” he said. The man opened the purse and spilled the contents onto his hand—a pile of silver the likes of which Torbi had never seen. He heard Berbin let out an awed sigh as the money tumbled into the man’s palm, and Torbi couldn’t help but feel the same. That was more silver than Torbi thought he would ever see. The man tried to smile, though it looked forced.