The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Shawna fell in beside him as he walked forward, and he gave her an anxious nod.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  She snorted. “You think those amateurs could’ve hurt me? It was like fighting with children—larger, smellier children. Why? Were you worried?”

  “Not for a moment,” he said, offering her a smile. The levity helped to keep his mind off the task ahead of him. “I hope you’re ready for more. There’s a scuttled ship in the water ahead. Things are about to get interesting.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  Dormael took a deep breath, and tried to push his stress out with the exhale.

  “Something impossible.”

  ***

  The longships were coming on fast, like wolves sensing the kill. D’Jenn stared through the haze, but it was his Kai that let him sense them. To his eyes, they were nothing but muddy outlines accented by the flames of their torches.

  “What are we going to do?” Allen asked. He’d brought his bow and arrows, just as D’Jenn had bidden.

  “You’re going to shoot arrows,” D’Jenn said. “I’m going to do magic.”

  “So that’s why you had me bring the bow,” Allen muttered. D’Jenn sighed and gave him another flat look, but decided not to rise to his bait. Allen had been that way since they were children.

  “Can you make a shot on them from here?”

  Allen peered through the mists. “I could if I could see them better. They’re close enough, but the fog would make things tricky. I could land an arrow into one of their boats, I’m sure, but I can’t promise I’d hit anything.”

  “And without the fog?”

  “I’ll run out of arrows before I miss.”

  D’Jenn nodded. “Very well.”

  He closed his eyes and reached out with his magic, listening to the sounds the mist played through his Kai. He whipped out with a thin thread of power, and touched the vapor like a child popping a bubble. The moisture began to coalesce, falling back to the surface of the river. The spell whispered across the space separating the Midwife from the longships, leaving the water rippling as it went.

  The pirates jumped into clarity, their dirty, screaming faces outlined by the multitude of torches they waved about. A few of them balked at the trick with the mists, but most were too caught up in the moment to notice anything strange. They began to row in earnest, whooping in excitement for the coming end of their chase.

  D’Jenn reached into Allen’s quiver, and pulled a handful of arrows into his fist. He closed his eyes and tossed them into the air, where his Kai caught and held them ready. Allen favored him with a smirk, and waved the Hunter’s Tongue sign for showoff. D’Jenn grabbed a second handful of arrows, and began weaving his power into them. It wasn’t exactly Infusion, as the spells would hold no longer than a single burst, but it would be enough to get the job done.

  He returned Allen’s smirk, and handed over the bundle of arrows.

  “Aim for something in the center of their decks,” D’Jenn said. Allen took the arrows and held them in his off-hand, nocking the first to the string. He wiggled his eyebrows at D’Jenn, and drew the bow to its limit.

  “Let’s see what sort of tricks you’ve got,” Allen said.

  He loosed the arrow, and it flew into the silence of the night. It made no sound as it went, nothing to indicate it was anything other than a normal missile. D’Jenn saw one of the screaming shapes go down, tumbling into others who had been nearby. Fire suddenly whooshed from the dead man, catching the clothes of the men next to him. Chaos erupted on the longship as others scrambled to deal with the problem, and the ship began to flounder.

  “Alright, that was a good trick,” Allen said. “What else can you do?”

  “You’ll miss before I run out of tricks,” D’Jenn said.

  He closed his eyes and flicked his wrist, sending the other arrows flying into the air. These uttered a piercing scream as they flew across the distance, trailing sparks like Moravian fireworks. D’Jenn heard protests erupt from the pirates as a few of them realized what was happening, that they faced a wizard aboard the Midwife. A few began to back water, but others still charged across the distance.

  D’Jenn made the arrows fly around like hornets in the intervening space. He’d hoped that these would scare the pirates into holding back, but there were three ships that continued regardless of his magic. If he wanted to turn these men back, he’d have to make a devastating example.

  He selected one of the arrows and split his consciousness, imbuing it with even more power even as he took control of its flight. It flew in a wide circle, coming around the aft end of the Midwife and zinging toward the lead longship. It blazed through the dark like a miniature star, lighting up the water as it went. With an echoing crack, D’Jenn rammed it into the prow of the closest longship, and released his power through its hull.

  The whole ship shuddered, and a few men tumbled over the side. It groaned as it began to take on water, and ropes snapped as the ship rattled itself apart. D’Jenn had to pour a bit too much power into the spell, and he felt the fatigue in his Kai as the evocation ran its course, but the longship was crippled. The others turned away, their oars rising above the water as the men saw what happened to their compatriots. Shouts rang out in confusion, and the charge was defeated as the men were forced to duck the arrows buzzing in the space between the ships.

  Then, Allen landed a second arrow on one of the floundering ships, and it burst into flames. The confused shouts became shrieks of pain as men started to burn, and others abandoned ship for the safety of the water. D’Jenn shared a nod with Allen, who smiled as he drew yet another arrow to his chin.

  The Midwife uttered a groan as a shudder ran through the entire hull. D’Jenn’s view shifted as the stern rose from the water, and he was forced to hold the railing to keep from sliding toward the mast. He cursed, and almost slipped before the vessel righted itself, teetering back to the water with a great splash.

  “What in the Six Hells was that?” Allen asked. “Did we hit the wreckage?”

  D’Jenn glanced toward the bow, where he could feel Dormael’s magic crackling like a storm.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What was it, then?”

  D’Jenn favored him with another smirk.

  “That was your brother.”

  ***

  Dormael planted his feet behind the bowsprit, and summoned his Kai.

  “You’re going to pull that thing out of the water?” Shawna asked.

  “I’m going to try,” he said. He opened and closed his hands a few times, and shook the tension out of his shoulders. He had no idea if he was powerful enough to get it done.

  Shawna looked out over the water, taking in the mast just visible through the haze.

  “Looks like a big ship,” she said.

  “Bloody heavy, too, I’m sure.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she replied, giving him a little smile. “Don’t be such a child about it.”

  Dormael chortled, her comment shattering his doubt. He wondered if she did that to him on purpose, knowing the effect her flirtation would have, or if it was a natural side-effect of her personality. When he regarded her for a moment too long, she gave him a meaningful look and shot a glance in the direction of the wreckage. Dormael shook his head, and returned his concentration to the task at hand.

  What is she doing to me?

  He gathered his power, and pushed it down into the river.

  The water played with his senses, making it difficult to perceive anything that didn’t have his full attention. Different materials had unique effects on magic, and in turn, magical senses. Running water was hard to penetrate with his Kai, as the constant noise of the moving liquid was blinding. He had to concentrate to understand what was beneath the surface.

  He could feel the wood of the ship as more of an absence of sound than anything else. Dormael ran his senses along its hull, searching out the location of the breach. Sh
e was a wide cargo vessel of similar design to the Midwife, though smaller. He felt along the bottom, delving at the places where the boat had settled into the mud. She was full of the river, and half-buried in soupy muck.

  “If I fall down,” Dormael said, “just hold me up.” He didn’t open his eyes to see if Shawna responded, but he could imagine her peculiar look boring into the side of his head. He could feel her tensing beside him.

  First, he began to clean the mud away from the bottom of the ship. He felt every strained moment as the Midwife drifted forward, and worked with urgency. He used currents of water to wash the muck away, and was heartened that the scuttling had been done recently—else, the old boat would have been buried deeper.

  The water in front of the Midwife roiled in protest, and even in the moonlight, Dormael could see the mud bubbling to the surface. He washed out the bottom until he saw the mast of the scuttled vessel shift with the churning water. Taking a deep breath, he planted his feet and took hold of the wreckage with his power.

  Seizing it in his Kai was a strange sensation. It was enormous, oddly shaped, and heavier than anything he’d ever tried to lift. Grasping it with his power felt like holding a mountain, or trying to lash himself to a cloud. His mind tried to rebel against the idea for a moment, a last protest of doubt worming its way to the surface. Gritting his teeth, Dormael shoved it down.

  Doubt is a road that leads to failure.

  First, he pushed against the vessel, like he was trying to wiggle it free from the bottom. The mast swayed back and forth as the river boiled around it, and waves slapped against the hull of the Midwife in angry protest. When Dormael was satisfied the wreckage was free of the bottom, he took another deep breath and planted his feet.

  Dormael stoked the fire of his magic, and pulled on the sunken ship.

  The Midwife gave a sickening groan as he applied his power to the wreck, and the bow began to dip toward the water. Shawna let out a curse and grabbed him by the shoulder, and Dormael felt his balance going. He lessened the energy he was applying to the derelict, and threw a hand behind him to try and keep his feet. Closing his eyes again, he anchored his spell to the river-bottom instead of the deck at his own feet.

  The Midwife fell back into place, the deck pitching beneath them. Shawna steadied Dormael as the ship bucked in protest, but Dormael was too wrapped up in his spell to notice. His magic burned like the sun.

  With his power anchored to the bottom of the river, he made headway on pulling the wreckage free. He could feel his nails biting into his palms as he tried to wrestle the boat from the bottom. His body grew hot with the struggle. Sweat poured down his face, and he could taste it on his lips. His magic sang in his mind, all other noises fading into the background.

  With a sudden yank, the wreck came free of the mud. The water roiled, and the Midwife rocked beneath them as the derelict rose to the surface. Water poured from the ship, and a roaring cacophony issued from the river. Dormael felt his power start to wane, and demanded more from his magic. He opened his palms, spreading his arms wide, and growled as he applied more force to the spell.

  The weight increased tenfold as he tried to clear the boat from the river. The water held to the scuttled boat like a jealous child, screaming its protest as it poured through every hole it could find. Dormael tasted blood in his mouth, and his teeth hurt with the pressure of his jaw.

  Screaming, Dormael lifted with all his might.

  The ship emerged from the water, and Dormael’s legs shook with the amount of magic needed to hold it up. Something in its hull shattered, and yet more of the river rushed out of its hold. Dormael felt the weight decreasing, but not by enough to make the task easier. He heard astonished curses break out on deck, and even Shawna gasped as the boat was outlined by the moonlight.

  Dormael moved the ship through the air, pushing it away from the Midwife. Water poured from the wreckage, which shuddered under the force of Dormael’s magic. He pushed it over a shallow mudflat, extending his power to its limits. Dormael’s entire body shook with the effort, and black spots appeared over his vision.

  With a cry of pain, he dropped the ship into the swamp.

  It came down with a deafening crash, shattering as it smashed into the surface of the water. The river heaved in wild protest, and crewmen scrambled over the deck to watch. Waves splashed against the hull of the Midwife, pushing her to port. Somewhere in the confusion, Dormael heard the captain’s voice barking a string of commands.

  Shawna snaked an arm under Dormael’s shoulder, and helped him keep his feet. Dormael released his magic, and let his Kai slumber. His feet were shaky beneath him, and he felt nauseous. His body poured sweat, and it took him a few tries to form a coherent sentence.

  “Did it work?” he asked, his voice shaking with fatigue.

  “Oh,” Shawna said, “it worked. By the gods, Dormael.”

  “What?” He tried to take a step, but his knee gave out beneath him, forcing Shawna to wrestle him back up.

  “You’re just full of surprises,” she grunted, trying to steady him. “Do you need to sit? You’re too heavy for me to carry, you great brute.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he breathed, “just give me a moment.” He leaned on her, gulping the hot, swampy air. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth, and he felt like retching over the side of the ship. He saw D’Jenn and Allen coming in their direction, and relaxed. “I guess the pirates found something else to do.”

  “I would, if I saw something like that,” Shawna said. “Not bad, Dormael Harlun.”

  “Impressive, was it?” he asked.

  “Don’t push it.”

  “I think I deserve another kiss for all that—”

  She dropped him to the deck, and gave him a wicked smile as she walked away. He grunted as he fell, but breathed out a laugh as she retreated. Wrestling himself up by the railing, he settled his back against it.

  “Firewine, then?” he called after her.

  She ignored him, but the sight of her walking away was rewarding enough.

  A Terrible Mercy

  The sword was unique.

  It wasn’t pretty, ornate, or otherwise ostentatious. It hadn’t been made to wave about in front of adoring crowds, or to inhabit the jeweled scabbard of someone wearing too much thread-of-gold. This sword had been made with a singular purpose—to kill.

  The blade was thinner than most longswords in its family. It was straight and elegant, simple in its practicality. The hilt was leather and wood, and had been repaired many times over the long years. The pommel was the only piece that lent itself to its maker’s artistry, and had been made with a twisting design called the Rashardian sunburst. The guard was straight, and without adornment, save a pair of initials—H.N.

  Hassani Noman had been a fabled swordsmith. A desert nomad from the Golden Wastes of Rashardia, his work was treasured over all of Eldath, and even more so now that he’d been dead for over a generation. Hassani made only two thousand blades over his lifetime. Scholars dedicated their lives to cataloging his work, tracking down the various Hassani blades, as they were called.

  Maarkov’s sword had never been cataloged in any book.

  Hassani had discovered a secret to smelting the steel—a secret that had died with him. Rashardian steel was already a valuable commodity in Eldath, but Hassani blades utilized a unique mix of metals found nowhere else in the world. Maarkov had no idea where the steel had come from, though there were many stories. Some said the gods summoned a special rock from the Void for him, and from that hunk of metal, he made his fabled two thousand blades. Maarkov had talked to a man in Neleka who believed it was a trick of mixing steel together, but his explanation had been too complicated for Maarkov to follow.

  Whatever the source of their strength, all Hassani blades shared certain characteristics. They were hard, but would not shatter. Stories had been told of Hassani swords slicing through the steel of lesser weapons, though Maarkov had never seen it. Hassani steel had a particular color
, a dull sheen darker than normal steel. The swords were resilient, and could go for years without oil. Maarkov had heard that, but had never tested it himself.

  His own blade was doted upon like a child. He oiled it, kept it repaired, and ensured that it was never without a keen edge. A sharp blade was important.

  Sharpening his sword had always been a soothing activity for Maarkov. The sword-forms were supposed to be meditative, but Maarkov had always been too concerned with their perfection for any relaxation to find him. The Siyane was good for his strength and agility—though he knew he no longer needed that exercise. He’d never been able to lose himself in those motions, either.

  For Maarkov, caring for his sword was where he found his silence.

  Laughter came to him, carried by the wind from the hills beyond his perch. Maarkov had been watching a lonely homestead for most of the day, gazing down at them like a carrion bird abiding its chance. It was on the outskirts of a small village, and boasted enough farmland to serve half the residents living nearby. The rock shelf he sat upon bordered the edge of one of their fields, and allowed him to see the whole ill-fated expanse of the farm.

  Two laughing girls were running through the fields, their dresses trailing behind them as they went. One girl was holding her hands out in front of her, chasing the second with squeals of delight. Maarkov wanted to smile as he watched them—he felt the urge—but it would not come. Even as the tiny spark of enjoyment flashed through his chest, it did not travel to his face.

  He watched the girls with his dead eyes, feeling only dread.

  Maarkov had been born on a farm much like theirs. His father had been a legionnaire, though his legion had long since disbanded, even by the time Maarkov had come along. In another time, in another place, he had run through a field much like this one, chasing his little brother.