The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Feet pounded down the dock and up the gangway as the strega moved. One of them went right for the watchman, taking him from his feet with a startled curse. He struggled but a moment before the corpse strangled the life from him. Other strega moved for the cargo hold, another few for the cabin. Maarkov took his brother’s advice, and left his sword on his belt as he climbed the gangway. There would be no need for it tonight.

  Maaz came aboard like a king surveying his holdings, and took stock of the ship with flat, appraising eyes. Sounds of a struggle issued up from the cabin at the aft deck, but Maaz ignored them. In a few moments, the night was as quiet as the cadavers crawling through the ship.

  “Good,” Maaz said to no one in particular. “This will serve us well.”

  The strega dragged the bodies of the sailors up to the center of the deck, and stacked them in neat lines like so much firewood. Maarkov watched with an empty feeling in his stomach. There were six dead shipmen in all, one of them a child of no more than thirteen springs. Sighing, Maarkov turned away to gaze across the river.

  Billingshold shone from western side of the shore, the lights reflecting on the rippling surface of the water. It was larger than its sister community on the eastern side, and more prosperous, which left Istinhold to serve as a catch-harbor for the traffic that either couldn’t afford to dock in Billingshold, or couldn’t find room. Istinhold’s docks were smaller, the harbor less populated.

  Even less so, now.

  “It will take a week, maybe more, to navigate the bogs in southern Farra-Jerra,” Maaz said, coming to stand by Maarkov. “The strega will man the oars, but they do not have the wherewithal to hoist the sail, or hold the tiller. That will be your job, brother mine.”

  “I’m not a bloody sailor,” Maarkov sighed. “I’ll just run us aground. Might do it on purpose, in fact. Press some other poor soul into service.”

  “Ah, but I do not have another poor soul, as you put it,” Maaz smiled. “All I have is you.”

  “Looks like you’re proper fucked, then.”

  “You will do this,” Maaz said, “or I will let the flesh begin rotting from your bones. Choose.”

  “Your threats are getting old,” Maarkov sighed. “Besides, I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “It’s a river, not the sea,” Maaz growled. “All you have to do is keep us pointed in the right direction, and stay toward the center of the channel. A child could do it. Children probably do it every day.”

  “And when we reach the bogs? What happens when we’re lost in the mists, and run through a mudflat? I don’t want to be trapped in that insect-infested soup with a dozen rotting corpses. We need a guide, Maaz.”

  “A guide,” Maaz said, sneering at him. “We need a guide, do we?”

  “Something like that,” Maarkov replied. “I don’t know the way through. Do you?”

  “Maarkov, there are ways to deal with such trivial—”

  A rustle made everyone on deck freeze, and the eyes of the strega snapped as one toward the offending noise. Maarkov tightened his hand on his weapon, but the strega moved before he could react. They rushed over the deck of the ship and dove into the source of the sound—a group of crates and coiled ropes that had been sitting on deck. A childlike scream issued up from the jumbled mass of crates, and the strega quickly stifled it. Maarkov winced as the voice choked off.

  Maaz said a single, unintelligible word, and the struggle ceased. Another, and the kid was pulled out of the pile by his ankle, and hauled from the deck to hang upside down. The strega held him above the deck, arm outstretched and unmoving. The strength of the things always surprised Maarkov.

  The boy regarded them with wild, terrified eyes. He was barefoot, and wearing mean attire similar to the other sailors. The lad couldn’t have been older than ten. He was probably some cabin boy, or a crewman’s git. His chest heaved as he struggled for air through his ravaged windpipe.

  “What have we here, Maarkov?” Maaz said, gesturing at the boy with sarcastic theatricality. “The gods must be listening to you tonight. Maybe they’re partial to your whinging.”

  “What do you mean?” Maarkov growled.

  Maaz turned and gestured to the boy, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  “Well, you said we needed a guide, didn’t you?”

  He uttered another word in that guttural language, and the strega walked toward the aft cabin. Maarkov watched the boy go with dread, meeting his terrified eyes as the corpse carried him to his fate. He made not a single noise of protest.

  The other strega started dragging bodies into the cabin, until the deck was clear. Maaz gave his brother a vulpine grin, and turned to walk toward the cabin, which would serve as his lair until they departed this vessel. He gestured at the strega as he went, and one by one they manned the oars at the fore of the cargo boat. Another gesture, and the ropes binding them to the dock snapped. Maaz paused before he entered the cabin, and gave Maarkov a pointed look. He smiled and gestured to the tiller, then disappeared inside.

  The strega began to row, and the boat pulled into the river faster than Maarkov had anticipated. He was forced to rush to the tiller and take control, lest the mindless meat-bags run them into another boat. Part of him wanted to let go out of spite, and allow the creatures to row the vessel onto the mud of the shore, or right into another ship. Even as he thought of it, though, he dismissed the idea. It would only result in more death.

  The sound of water splashing was the only warning that Maarkov had before a weight suddenly pushed him face-down to the deck. He tried to roll, but claws dug into his back and forced him down again. They sank painfully into his skin, but didn’t move once he was pinned. The dead-house stench of the Hunter filled Maarkov’s nose, and he could feel river water dripping onto him from the fiend’s body.

  Maarkov tried to swat at it, but the motion made its claws dig farther into his back. The brute flipped him over so he could look in its single pin-point of an eye. It leaned close, making bizarre little motions like a bird about to swallow a worm. Then, it raised its good hand, and a made a slicing motion in the air above Maarkov’s throat.

  In answer, Maarkov sank the dagger he’d managed to pull from his belt into the monstrosity’s side. When it didn’t react, Maarkov twisted the blade, but still the Hunter showed no signs of pain. Instead, it looked down at the dagger and plucked it out of Maarkov’s hand, twisting the blade again as it came out. It gave him a long, flat look as it dropped the knife onto the deck beside him.

  Then it leapt away, and crawled into the shadows like some over-sized cockroach.

  Maarkov lay on the deck for a moment before he was forced to climb to his feet and take the tiller in angry hands. Had the fiend been making an open threat, or only letting him know that it could kill him if it wanted? Maarkov tried to drum up the energy to care, but failed. If it came for him, then so be it—he’d been looking for a good challenge, anyway. He could take satisfaction, at least, in having been right about one thing.

  The only thing that smells worse than dry corpse, he thought, is wet corpse.

  Gods, he hated this.

  ***

  No one in camp would look at Shawna all throughout dinner. No one, that is, save for Bethany and Allen. The two of them huddled together across the fire, staring at both Shawna and Dormael for the entirety of the meal. Allen had an open grin on his face, and chewed his food loud enough so everyone could hear, all the while making whispered comments to Bethany that made the little one erupt into a snickering mess. Shawna, for her part, kept her eyes on her food. Dormael gave his brother an all-suffering glare, and tried his best to talk around it. No one, however, was primed for conversation.

  No one except Allen, anyway.

  “Let me tell you, Bethany,” he said around a mouthful of rabbit, “were I you, I’d avoid the both of them.” He gestured at Dormael and Shawna with the rabbit in his hand, ignoring the horrified looks from Lilliane and Lacelle.

  “Why?” Bethany asked, all to
o happy to break out in bubbling laughter at everything Allen said.

  “Well, you don’t want to catch their sickness,” he said. “The next thing you know, you’ll be kissing every boy that crosses your path. Maybe the girls, too.”

  “I would not!” she laughed.

  “You might! You never know. Kissing is like a disease. If you touch one of them it will rub off on you, and it will get out of control. You’ll touch me, then one of the other fine ladies here, and just like that, they’ll all be kissing me the next time we make camp. We can’t have that, can we?”

  “That would most certainly not happen,” Lacelle said, giving Shawna an apologetic glance.

  “It would if we all get the disease,” Allen said. “I’m just telling the young lady to be careful, you understand. How would we get anywhere if all we did was lay around lip-wrestling all the time?”

  “Lip-wrestling?” Shawna said, a warning in her tone.

  “Just imagine it,” Allen went on. “The next time we made camp, I’d be tackled to the ground by Lacelle and Lilliane, kisses flying all over the place. We’d never get anything done.”

  “No,” Lacelle said over Bethany’s disgusted laughter.

  “I want to know what makes you think it would be you we’re kissing, anyway,” Lilliane said.

  “Well, I just have more confidence in your choices,” Allen smiled. “The Lady Shawna…well, I think my brother might have cast a spell on her, or something. She’s lost to us, now.”

  “You are treading on dangerous ground,” Shawna said through her teeth. Bethany continued to laugh.

  “I know,” Allen said. “What if I can get the disease just by breathing? I might already have it. Everyone may already have it!”

  Bethany was having a fit. Dormael was struggling to hold back laughter, too, but when Shawna shot a look in his direction, he stifled it in an instant. Lilliane and Lacelle just stared at his brother, mouths agape.

  Shawna popped to her feet, looking for something to throw at Dormael’s brother. Bethany shied away from Allen, laughing all the while. Lacelle and Lilliane moved back from the burgeoning confrontation, gathering their food close. Dormael tried his best to hide his grin, but it escaped nonetheless.

  “No!” Allen said, scooting away from Shawna and pulling Bethany between them. “She’s coming after me now! I was right! The disease is spreading!”

  “I don’t want the disease!” Bethany screamed, trying to free herself.

  “Take her, not me!” Allen laughed, pushing a struggling Bethany toward Shawna. “I’m too young! Too handsome!”

  Shawna moved toward them, sidestepping Bethany with ease. Allen scooted away, hooting with laughter, and tried to defend the woman’s attacks with half-hearted parries and dodges. Shawna was fast enough to catch him, but all she did was throw punches at his midsection. Allen took the abuse, but screamed in dramatic terror the entire time, causing Bethany to start crying with laughter. Even Lilliane and Lacelle started to giggle.

  Shawna ceased her assault, and Allen laughed it off with good-natured curses. She got up and walked back to her seat beside Dormael, giving Allen a victorious glare. Allen, for his part, came back to the fire and sat down, holding his stomach. He took a deep breath and looked around, finally settling his gaze on Bethany.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t do anything to help me, little pig,” he said.

  “You tried to give me the disease!” she laughed.

  “Right, but it was only because I didn’t want it,” he said. “Surely you understand.”

  “No!”

  “Now I’m feeling strange,” he said.

  “Strange?” Bethany asked, leaning away from him.

  “Aye, my lips are a little itchy.”

  “Allen Harlun,” Shawna grated. “Haven’t you had enough?”

  “Enough of you, certainly,” he smiled. “Something is odd, though…something…no, never mind.”

  “What?” Bethany asked.

  “My lips are warm, now. I think they’re getting all puckery and kissable.”

  “Disgusting!” Bethany laughed, scooting away from him.

  “There is something wrong with you, Allen Harlun,” Shawna said, but she, too, was starting to snicker.

  “You know what? I think there is something wrong…,” he trailed off, and locked eyes with Dormael. It took Dormael a moment too long to recognize the mischievous look in his brother’s eyes. Dormael’s back stiffened, and he started to move, but it was too late.

  Allen shot from the ground and leapt over the campfire, bowling into Dormael and pushing his weight to the ground. Dormael went down laughing, and found himself in a wrestling match with his brother’s face. Allen puckered his lips and made loud kissing noises, all the while trying to pull Dormael’s face closer to his own.

  “What in the Six Hells are you doing?” Dormael grunted, laughing through the strain of holding Allen back.

  “I can’t help it! It’s the disease!” His face inched toward Dormael’s own.

  “Stop!”

  “I wish I could!” Allen laughed. “It’s not letting me!”

  As they were wrestling, something fluttered to the ground nearby, crashing into the party’s saddlebags. Before Dormael could disentangle himself from Allen, a raven hopped from the bags on awkward legs, and shook itself. A familiar song played through the ether, and Dormael nearly shit himself with surprise as the bird transformed.

  D’Jenn crouched where the raven had been, his body shaking with fatigue. He looked thinner than usual, and his face was swollen and inflamed. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirt between his knees, and regarded them all with an incredulous expression.

  “What in the Six Hells is going on here?”

  The Myriad Skills of the Killer

  D’Jenn slept like the dead.

  Dormael would have given him an extra day to recover before they moved on, but he knew the time that Jarek had promised was precious. D’Jenn had needed help into the saddle, and had remained in a fitful doze ever since. He was withdrawn for most of the day, and during his more lucid moments he answered most questions with single words, or simple explanations in the Hunter’s Tongue. Given the state of his mouth, Dormael didn’t challenge his silence. It had been poison, he’d said, and it would fade with time. He’d had to assure Bethany that it wasn’t some disease—a thing for which Dormael blamed the antics of his brother.

  They picked their way over hillsides, avoiding as many farmlands as they could. As they made their way north, however, avoiding populated areas became more difficult. A pair of lads hunting with slings crossed their path on the second day, and on the third they had to trade words with a shepherd who found one of Allen’s signal cuttings. The girl had been so impressed with Shawna that they’d had to run her off, and that was only after she’d grilled the Blademaster for questions about her Marks.

  By the fourth day, D’Jenn was able to eat something solid without bleeding from his gums. His voice was still a dry croak, but the redness around his mouth had mostly abated. He spent most of the ride listening to Lacelle ask questions of Bethany, snickering when the girl got a wrong answer, and nodding in approval when she was correct. Dormael left him to his silence so he could heal in peace.

  His own thoughts were occupied with Bethany. He watched as the girl frowned in concentration, attempting to hold six rocks with her Kai while thinking on a problem. Dormael was gracious that Lacelle had taken it upon herself to instruct Bethany. Lacelle had been a respected scholar before she rose to the position of deacon, and students at the Conclave would have fought for a single day under her tutelage. Bethany had no idea how lucky she was to have so many.

  There were so many dangers surrounding the girl. The armlet knew her, in its unusual way, and it was only a matter of time until it reached out to her again. It had been quiet for weeks, only singing in the quiet hours of the predawn morning. Dormael knew its fickle nature, and its attachment to Bethany was concerning.

 
Victus had already made one attempt to secure her, and it was possible he would try again. Even her closeness to Dormael itself exposed her to the wrath of the Warlocks. A day would come when the girl would be faced with more magical threats, and she was ill-prepared to defend herself. She had survived on luck and instinct so far, but such things were inferior to training and experience.

  In most situations, any initiate to the Conclave would train for eight years before being considered for Warlock training. Some children were groomed—many had been such under Victus, including Dormael and D’Jenn—but none were accepted without a grounding in other areas of study. After, a young Warlock recruit went through four more years of extensive training, and only then were they considered worthy of the title.

  Bethany, though, would not get the luxury of that education. She would need to learn as she went, to become comfortable with danger, and ready to defend herself. At the very least, she needed to know how to buy herself time to flee.

  On the fifth night, half a week since D’Jenn’s return, Dormael decided to breach the subject with his friends. He waited until Bethany had crawled into her blankets, and everyone else was settled in hushed conversation. He lit his pipe, and cleared his throat. Everyone looked up to listen.

  “I want to talk about Bethany,” he said. “To get your opinions on something.”

  “Of course,” Lacelle said. “The girl is coming along in her studies. She is frustrated by her failures, which is a good sign. She is a dogged student, and a joy to instruct.”

  Dormael wondered what she’d say had she heard Bethany’s complaints.

  “I’m grateful for the time you’re spending with her,” Dormael said. “What I’m worried about, though, is when another Warlock drops out of the sky, or the armlet decides to go on another rampage. I’ve been thinking about adding a new element to her education.”

  “You wish to teach her to fight,” D’Jenn rasped, clarifying his garbled words with the Hunter’s Tongue. You want to train her as a Warlock.