The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Stupid ones.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like—how do you measure if a barrel is half full or not?”

  Dormael thought for a moment. “And what did you say?”

  Bethany’s face soured. “Well, I said I didn’t know, and she added a rock. Then, the second time, I said I didn’t know. Two rocks. She hasn’t asked again, but I know she will.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  Bethany glanced back to Lacelle, then down at Dormael.

  “I thought about how stupid it was,” she muttered. “I don’t know how to measure things like that. Water in a barrel. Why would I even need to know that?”

  Dormael narrowed his eyes at the girl. She had never balked at her lessons before. Most of the time the youngling soaked up knowledge at a furious pace. Her letters and numbers were coming along, and she loved tales about history—any kind of story, really. Why was she acting so sullen?

  “What do you mean by that, Bethany?” he asked. “That the question is stupid. That you shouldn’t need to know it.”

  “Well,” she said, puffing out her chest, “I need to learn the things that you know. If I’m going to be a Warlock like you, I don’t know why I need to know anything about stupid barrels. Uncle Allen is already teaching me to fight.”

  “Is he?” Dormael knew, and had encouraged it. The confrontation in her tone, though, surprised him.

  “He said you didn’t mind,” she replied.

  “I don’t, little one,” Dormael laughed. “You’ll learn all you want with time, but everyone has to start somewhere. Do you think the first thing I learned how to do was fight with my magic?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, all shrugs and sullen expressions.

  “Think of it this way,” he said. “The most powerful weapon anyone has—Philosopher, Warlock, Blademaster, or beggar—is their mind. You have to hone your mind the same way you do everything else. The barrel is a puzzle, dear, a challenge. If you stop being so stubborn about it, I know you can think your way through it.”

  “I’m not being stubborn.”

  “You are.”

  “Fine,” Bethany sighed. “But I don’t even know how to measure water, or ale, or whatever.”

  “Liquids,” Dormael put in.

  “Liquids,” Bethany repeated. “I don’t know how to measure them.”

  “Why would you need to know that?”

  Bethany turned a confused look on him.

  “Because you need to know how much is in there, right?”

  “Do you?”

  Bethany narrowed her eyes. “That’s not funny.”

  “Well, what was the question?”

  “How do you know whether a barrel is half full or not,” Bethany sighed.

  “Exactly,” Dormael said. “So to answer that question, do you really think you need to know how to measure liquids? A barrel is a unit of measurement itself, really. Not to mention the fact that different people measure things different ways. If you’re a brewer in the Sevenlands, you’re measuring in pints and barrels. The Mage Tower in Lesmira has its own standardized units of measure for everything, but no one else uses them.”

  “You mean there’s not one way to do it?”

  “Nope,” Dormael smiled. “Measurements are funny things. D’Jenn told me once that some of the tribes on the Dannon Steppe quantify their distances on reindeer piss.”

  “Gross,” Bethany said. “Why would they do that? How do they do that?”

  “Well, they’re hunters. Their whole society revolves around the migrations of what they eat—the reindeer. Apparently the unit they use is called a jarrat, and it’s the distance between the places where the same reindeer takes a piss. They have another one that’s basically the distance across the Steppe that you can hear a dog barking.”

  “What’s a Steppe?” Bethany asked.

  “It’s a big stretch of land north of Cambrell. It’s a cold, hard place that breeds harder people.”

  “Well, if nobody measures things the same way, how am I supposed to know which way is right?”

  “It doesn’t matter which way you cross a river, as long as you step foot on the other side. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” she sighed. “None of that makes the question any easier, though.”

  “The question is designed to make you think, dear, to help you visualize. You’re focusing on finding a correct answer, and there is none. There is just a problem to be solved. Do you understand?”

  Bethany wrinkled her brow and gave him a pensive look. Biting her lower lip, she turned her attention back to the trail they were following, and nodded. She was quiet for a short while, and Dormael sank back into his own thoughts.

  “Will this help when people come to hurt us again?” she asked.

  Dormael turned to meet her eyes, but the girl was staring straight ahead. He wanted to tell her than she needn’t worry, that no one was going to try and hurt them. His eyes, though, flashed to the sky, and its dangerous expanse of cloudy blue.

  When he had taken Bethany from the window of Castle Ferolan, some part of him had wished to save her from her torment at the hands of the Galanian Colonel Grant. Her life since meeting him, though, had been anything but safe. She was resilient, and braver than most children her age, but there was no mistaking the haunted quality of her voice when she’d asked the question. He wanted to tell her that everything would be fine, but she would know the lie of an empty promise before the words departed his lips.

  “It will,” he said. “More than anything else, it will.”

  Bethany gave him an inscrutable look, but nodded and turned her eyes forward again.

  Dormael was going to ask another question, but the sound of a horse approaching brought his attention back to the trail. He opened his Kai, and felt Bethany do the same, but it was only Allen coming over the hill. Dormael made to put his magic to sleep, but the look on Allen’s face brought him up short. Allen pulled his horse to a stop as he came even with Dormael, and let the animal dance in a circle to work off some of its excess energy.

  “What’s wrong?” Dormael asked. Allen scowled down at him, and motioned him to mount up and follow.

  “Just come and see, brother,” Allen said. “We’ve got company. It could be trouble.”

  ***

  “This definitely looks like trouble,” Shawna said.

  Dormael stared out at the spear planted in the ground, and the length of vivid blue fabric fluttering from its butt. It sat on a lonely hilltop, a bald spot in these lightly-forested river lands. A man lounged nearby, lying in the sun like he didn’t have a care in the world. Even from their hiding spot, Dormael could make out the size of the man, and some of the tattoos that covered his skin.

  “Jarek Suriah,” Dormael said, turning to Shawna, Allen, and Lacelle. Lilliane had stayed some distance from the edge of the tree line, keeping watch over Bethany.

  “The big one from the Conclave?” Shawna asked.

  “The same one,” Dormael nodded.

  “What does this mean?” Lacelle asked, her eyes full of worry.

  “He sits under a peace flag,” Dormael said.

  “That’s the meaning behind the fabric?” Shawna asked.

  “Aye,” Allen put in. “The Tasha-Mal symbol for parley.”

  “Do you think it’s wise to trust such conventions?” Lacelle asked. “I know how prickly the Mals are about their customs, but Jarek Suriah is a Warlock. It may be foolish to consider his peace offering as genuine.”

  “I know Jarek,” Dormael said. “He wouldn’t betray his word that way, even if it meant displeasing Victus.”

  “You knew him, maybe,” Allen said. “I thought Victus and his cronies killed all your real friends. If you ask me, that’s as good a demonstration of his values as anything else, peace flag or no.”

  “Good point,” Dormael said. “Still—I don’t think he’s here to kill us. The fact that
he’s sitting in our path says he could have attacked at any time. He knew where we were, he knows which direction we’re traveling in, and I’m willing to bet that he knows we’re standing here now.”

  “You’re not making me feel less stabby about the situation,” Allen muttered, fingering the hilt of a knife.

  “I’m with him,” Shawna said, putting a hand on Dormael’s arm. “This stinks like a trap.”

  “The only thing that worries me is the absence of Mataez,” Dormael said, turning his eyes back to where Jarek waited. “The two of them always work together. Jarek might not kill under a peace flag, but Mataez is a different animal altogether. I’ve been waiting to catch sight of him, sense his presence, maybe, but there’s been nothing.”

  “Probably waiting to fry the lot of us with magic,” Allen said. Dormael gave him a grudging nod.

  “Then why hasn’t he done so yet?” Lacelle asked. “If Suriah knew of our presence here, then surely his partner would know. Why, then, hasn’t he struck?”

  “Maybe Jarek has information,” Dormael said, a tiny hope kindling in his chest. “Maybe we’re not the only Warlocks who stand opposed to Victus—the only living ones, I mean. There could be more going on here than we realize. Hells, there’s always more going on than we realize.”

  “If that were the case, he would be risking an awful lot to deliver it,” Lacelle said. Dormael looked to the woman, finding a thoughtful expression on her face. Lacelle finally shrugged, and let out a long sigh. “I’m not used to all of this scheming. You know the man better than I, Warlock Harlun. I will listen for magical threats if you want to go and speak with him, but my advice is that this is a trap.”

  “I think you’ll be roasted on the spot if you go out there,” Allen said. “Or the rest of us will.”

  “I’m with them, Dormael,” Shawna added, squeezing his arm again. “We should pass by, or kill the man and be done with it.”

  Kill the man and be done with it, Dormael thought. Gods, how she has changed. The Shawna he had met last winter would have balked at such wanton violence, but her experiences had hardened her into a warrior. She had gone from a refined noblewoman to something new. Dormael realized, as doubt crawled through his bones at her words, how much he had come to trust her in the days since they had met.

  Still, his instincts ran counter to their advice.

  “I’m going to talk to him,” he said. “If I don’t, he’ll just chase us down again. If it comes to a fight, then we fight.”

  “Can you kill him, if it comes to that?” Lacelle asked. Dormael couldn’t tell if she was referring to his magical ability, or his willingness to kill one of his former brothers. Dormael took a deep breath, and shouldered his spear.

  “If it comes to that,” he said, “I’ll do what needs doing.”

  With a final nod to his brother, Dormael stepped out into the midday sunlight. He trudged up the hill, keeping his eyes on Jarek, and his Kai listening for danger. Jarek rose from his lounging position as Dormael approached, and moved to stand. Dormael tensed, but didn’t stop his approach. Reaching the place where Jarek had grounded his spear, Dormael shoved his own into the dirt beside it.

  Jarek Suriah stood three hands taller than Dormael, and was half again as wide in the shoulders. He kept his head shaved bald, and geometrical tattoos wound in stylized loops down the side of his pate. His arms were likewise decorated, though he wore a dark shirt that covered him to the wrists. Dormael spotted his gear lying nearby, and took note of a trio of throwing axes propped against his pack. Jarek regarded him with a sad smile, and nodded. Then, he balled his right fist over his heart, and affected a bow.

  Dormael bowed in return, and took the man’s offered wrist in greeting.

  “Jarek.”

  “Dormael.”

  Jarek turned and gestured for Dormael to sit. Dormael waited for Jarek to sit first. The hulking Mal watched Dormael with an amused glint in his eyes, but said nothing about the subtle posturing as he lowered himself to the grass. He reached into a case nearby, and pulled out a pipe. He loaded the bowl with some Shaman’s Leaf, and sparked it to life with his magic. After the huge man had taken a pull, he passed the pipe to Dormael. Dormael took it from him, and kept his eyes on Jarek as he took his own hit.

  “You’re standing on quite a lot of ceremony, old friend,” Dormael said. “Afraid I wouldn’t trust you?”

  Jarek’s expression showed only the slightest hint of pain at the comment, though it was gone in an instant.

  “I only wish to display honesty,” the big Mal rumbled. “We are enemies, Dormael. Enemies can treat one another with honor. Honor is the reason for all this ceremony.”

  “Honor,” Dormael said, passing the pipe back to Jarek. “I wonder what all the dead Warlocks would have to say about honor, Jarek. What would the Mekai say?”

  “All chieftains have their time,” Jarek replied. “That is the way of things everywhere. Victus deserves to lead, Dormael. The gods have given him a cunning mind, and he has never led us astray.”

  “Or maybe he’s always led us astray,” Dormael said. “How could we know? We were still boys when we began our Warlock training. He hand-picked us all, he groomed us the way he wanted. Think about that for awhile, Jarek.”

  “Perhaps you should think on it awhile. Maybe it would change your mind about which of us is the betrayer.”

  Dormael scowled. “That’s easy to see, old friend. One has the blood of his brothers on his hands, the other does not.”

  For a moment, Dormael thought Jarek would punch him.

  “It was not a fight that we wanted,” Jarek said. “The others broke from the rest of us, and a few of them fled before things came to a head. There were threats of violence, talk of a magical war. It was a stressful time. What happened is a tragedy.”

  “You use the word fight, but what I think you mean is purge,” Dormael said. “Victus couldn’t handle dissent, so he burned the non-believers from the Warlocks. It was about power, Jarek. This is all about power.”

  “You’re wrong,” Jarek said. “It’s about justice. It’s about finally using our gifts for what the gods intended.”

  “You sound like some kind of zealot,” Dormael said. “How do you know what the gods fucking intended? How does anyone? You think Victus is some kind of prophet? You think he knows the hearts of the gods?”

  “I think he knows the right way forward,” Jarek said. “That is all.”

  “Why are you here, Jarek?” Dormael asked. He took the pipe from the Mal and gestured at the blue fabric fluttering from the end of his spear. “Why the peace flag? Where is Mataez?”

  Jarek smiled. “He is not here. I am not the bait in some trap, Dormael. I told you—honor.”

  “What is this, then? A meeting before the battle? Saying our goodbyes?”

  “Would that be so objectionable? We can acknowledge our differences, and honor our past at the same time. But, no, I am not here to threaten, or posture, or reminisce. I am here to repay my debt to you.”

  “Ah,” Dormael said. When the both of them had been recruits for the Warlocks, Dormael had once saved the man when a freak accident had seen a tree nearly fall on him. Dormael had caught the tree with his magic, and the two of them had been friends ever since. Mals took those sorts of things seriously, and Jarek had carried that debt on his shoulders since they were boys. “And how do you mean to repay me?”

  Jarek sighed and took the pipe back from Dormael. He thought for a few moments, scowling at the tree line in the distance. When he passed it back, he began to speak.

  “My honor has left me in a hard position. On one hand, I owe everything I am to Victus. He is our deacon, and I am sworn to his service. On the other, I have sworn a blood debt to you, and the gods would punish me for betraying that.”

  Will the gods punish you for killing the others? The question was on the tip of Dormael’s tongue, but he held it back. That line of argument would get him nowhere, and he wanted to hear what Jarek had to say.r />
  “That’s what happens when you play loosely with your loyalties. They end up crossed,” Dormael said, the words more bitter than he’d intended. Jarek gave him a baleful look.

  “Even so,” he said, “the scales must be balanced.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Jarek frowned. “I owe you my life, Dormael. Honor demands that I give you one in return. Victus, however, commands your capture, and we both know it will lead to your death.”

  “So Victus is still alive, then. What of D’Jenn?” Ice crawled up Dormael’s spine. If Victus was still alive, that meant D’Jenn was probably dead. He’d known it, but coming this close to knowing for sure filled him with apprehension.

  “Unknown,” Jarek sighed. “The deacon thinks he is dead, though.”

  “His body wasn’t recovered, then?”

  “Not when I had been dispatched, but that has likely changed, Dormael. I am sorry.”

  “You’re sorry, are you?” Dormael said, looking away in disgust. “Even if I believe you, I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth again, old friend. Given the command, you’d have killed him yourself. Just like you killed the others. I know you must’ve had a hand in it, Jarek. Victus would have it no other way—the shared guilt of it binds you all together. Now my cousin has joined their ranks. I’m half a mind to take your life now in recompense.”

  Jarek tensed beside him, and a sharp tingling sensation ran up Dormael’s arms as the huge Mal gathered his magic. Neither of them made a move, but Dormael stared at the man with a black anger twisting around in his chest. Jarek’s eyes betrayed his guilt, even if his words denied it. Dormael let the moment stretch just long enough to make his point, then waved a dismissive hand.

  “We sit under a peace flag, though,” Dormael said, showing his teeth. “Far be it from me to shit on tradition.”

  The wind blew for a long moment before Jarek relaxed. He was silent for a few moments longer, as he packed his pipe away. Dormael wasn’t sure if he’d wounded the man with his words, but he hoped so. He hoped Jarek would twist in sleepless agony every night until the one that Dormael came along to collect his life. While Jarek gathered himself, Dormael planned the deaths of every remaining Warlock.