Dormael felt a timeless anger in his chest, an echo that was a side-effect of the link he shared with Tamasis.
“Then how is Orm a wound?” Dormael asked. “What do you mean when you say that?”
“Something foul happened there,” Tamasis said. “I know not what, but I can feel its stain permeating from the site, persisting through years and possibilities.”
Years and possibilities? What in the Six Hells is he talking about?
“Possibilities,” Tamasis said. “Events. Causal relationships. We are once again reaching the limits of your vernacular.”
“Can you try and explain, at least?”
Tamasis paused. “Imagine a hypothetical situation. For thousands of years, a river has flowed down the same track. Birds and fish and all forms of life draw their sustenance from the river. Then, an earthquake. The river changes direction, and because all things seek equilibrium, it must seek before it can settle. For a short time, things with the river will be chaos.”
“Alright.” Dormael didn’t see where the man was going with this metaphor.
“Now—the birds and the fish also feel the consequences of the river’s shift. Many will die. Perhaps they can no longer find their food, and must prey on something new. For a short time, life amongst the animals along the river will be chaos.”
“I think I see what you mean,” Dormael said. “Tragedy begets tragedy.”
“But what you do not see is that the earthquake itself is a consequence of yet other forces, which are consequences of others. The possibilities radiate outward through existence like ripples on a pond. Do you understand?”
“What causes the earthquakes?” Dormael said.
Tamasis gave him a flat look. “Your world seeking equilibrium. Am I not expressing myself clearly?”
Dormael laughed. “By the gods, no. But I’ll take you at your word. Please, continue.”
“You may understand in time,” Tamasis said. He turned back to gaze into the distance. “Orm is a wound in the song of reality. It is chaos seeking equilibrium. I can sense it the same way you can sense a shift in the breeze, or a rise in temperature. Whatever happened there was a cataclysm, and in turn, has become an affliction from which abhorrent things have drawn sustenance. The pattern spreads.”
Dormael stared at the man for a moment, foreboding settling into his guts.
“And you?” Dormael asked. “Why are you here? What forces have drawn you out of your prison, and into my life?”
“I have already answered that question as best I can,” Tamasis said. “I seek balance, as do all things.”
“And I am part of your path to equilibrium?”
Tamasis smiled. “Perhaps.”
“Did you come here just to tell me this?”
Tamasis turned to look at him once again, his face concerned.
“I came to warn you,” he said. “You will soon travel to the heart of this darkness, to the place where something terrible was begun. Have a care not to catch yourself in its pattern.”
Tamasis’s glowing eyes filled his vision, until the dream was nothing else.
Beware the pattern, Dormael Harlun. Beware the possibilities.
***
Maarkov felt detached during his walk back to his hiding spot. His head felt like it was anchored by a string, and he was floating above his body. He’d finally said something to his brother, something more than just sarcasm and snark. He had spoken his mind for once, his true thoughts. It had been freeing.
When the screams reached him, though, echoing over the hills like calls from the Void, they stiffened him. He could imagine the scene in his mind, having seen it over and over again. He pictured the women huddling over their children, the men being brutalized before them. He could see the pure terror on the faces of those helpless people—after all, he’d participated in such things before.
Why did the screams crawl up his back, tickle at his conscience the way they did? Maaz’s words echoed in his thoughts. Your hands are drenched in blood, Maarkov. The sting of it was that the bastard was right. He’d sliced down screaming women, he’d stood by and watched while strega bludgeoned children to death. The images flashed before his eyes like ghostly accusations.
What can I do now?
Maaz was too powerful. Even if Maarkov had the wherewithal to stop what was happening down there, it would only stave off the destruction for a short time. The key to killing him lay back in Alderak, buried deep in the bowels of Shundov Castle. Here, all Maarkov could do was protest, and perhaps try to slow him down.
He wouldn’t, though. Maarkov knew it in the instant the thought crossed his mind, felt the certainty of it in his chest. He didn’t love his brother, not anymore, but there was still something in its place. A bond made of shared guilt, and the chains of magical slavery he’d so willingly put on all those years ago.
I’ll finally get the chance to repay you, Maarkov—this as his brother’s magic cut delicate lines along his chest. You protected me for all those years, and now I will protect you. We will be immortal, brother. We will become gods.
If this was the path to godhood, perhaps it was better to be a worm.
More screams cut into his back, and he stopped walking. Something about those voices froze the dead, blackened blood in his veins, something about this particular night, in this place. He realized his hands were clenched, and loosened them. His eyes flicked toward the darkened hills in the distance, straining to see the little homestead he’d been watching during the day. How long until the Hunter ran those poor girls down and reveled in their despoilment? How long until one of those stinking corpses ripped off their door and beat them to death while they sat at dinner?
“What can you do now, you fool?” Maarkov said aloud. “Their fates are sealed. It will be over soon. It will all be over soon.”
The Hunter’s shriek cut the night like a knife, and echoed over the hills.
“You’re a hypocrite,” Maarkov told himself. “The gods abhor a hypocrite.”
The sight of those girls running across the field wouldn’t leave him. The sound of their laughter tickled his mind, sent little jolts through his legs. He remembered their mother scanning the horizon.
Her fate would be worse than her daughters, worse than her sons and husband.
Maarkov wiped his brow—another reflex from before his change—and scowled at the lack of sweat on the back of his palm. Even though he’d been scarred for more years than he could count, there were some things his body still tried to do. He had nails that didn’t grow, muscles that didn’t twitch, and a brow that refused to sweat.
He paused, staring at his hand. His eyes snapped back to the horizon. He looked at his sword.
The sword has a singular purpose, Hassani had told him. It is made to kill, to cut, to maim. But it is not a weapon, no—you are the weapon. The sword is just a tool.
Maarkov undid the belt that held his scabbard in place, and let it fall to the ground. He grasped his sword by the sheath, just under the cross-guard, and made sure his boots were tight. He listened to the sounds from the village. It was difficult to tell if the assault had reached the edges yet, if it had overrun his little homestead.
Only one way to find out.
Maarkov dug his feet into the grass, and took off down the hill.
It was rare that he pushed his body to its limits. Feeling it move, feeling it do things it had no right to do, was strange to say the least. He tumbled into things if he ran too fast, jerked his bones out of place if he swung his sword with too much force. Unlike the strega, he still felt pain, and that complicated the act of taking his meat-suit to its limits.
Still, he pushed himself. He ran until his feet tossed clods of dirt in his wake. The wind whipped through his ears, washing out the sounds of his brother’s attack. The grass smacked his legs as he plowed through it, and he had to hold his sword at shoulder height to clear the more overgrown patches. Down the hill he ran, and up the side of another. He vaulted the low fence tha
t bordered the homestead’s fields, and almost pitched head first into the dirt when he jumped too far. His reflexes were quick, though, and he rolled through the fall and made his feet, still running.
The homestead came into view, the low-lit windows bouncing in his vision. He slowed as he neared the front porch, and had a moment of panic as he mounted the steps. What would he say to these people? How could he convince them to run?
The Hunter let out another howl, this one closer than its earlier cries. The screams were much louder down here, the chaos much closer. There was no time. He had to get these people out of here, had to send them into the hills. It was their only hope of survival.
Maarkov yanked the door open and stepped into the great-room, shooting his eyes around for the family. A scream sounded from the back of the room as he walked inside, and his eyes fell on a woman trying to shield her three daughters against the far wall—the mother. Maarkov opened his mouth, but another scream cut him off.
A young man came charging from his left, a spear leveled at Maarkov’s chest. Maarkov had just enough time to spin away, using his sheathed blade to push the haft of the spear aside. He backed into the room, holding his weapon like a shield before him.
“Listen!” he said. “Listen, you have to—”
“Get the girls out of here, ma!” screamed the youth. He stabbed at Maarkov’s face, but Maarkov was able to swat the attack aside with his sheath. The boy was big, and thick through the shoulders. He had the beginnings of a beard, and his eyes were wide with terror.
“Kid! Stop! Just—”
“You’ll not take our home!” screamed another, deeper voice from behind him. Maarkov slipped aside on instinct, feeling the air sliced by a blade as it almost cut into his face. He pulled his sword as he did, and knocked the man’s next cut aside with ease.
“You need to go!” Maarkov said. “Take your family and go!”
“This is our home!” the man bellowed, coming at him with wide, circular chops. His technique was rudimentary, and Maarkov tapped each attack aside, backpedaling.
“Listen!”
“Get out!” screamed the youth, trying to take him in the flank with a long thrust. Maarkov side-stepped him, putting the father between the son and himself. The father feinted with his old sword, but Maarkov didn’t rise to the bait.
“Listen, you’re all going to die if you stay—”
The father bellowed again, and rushed him, blade seeking his throat. Maarkov cursed and parried him, having to move toward the wall. The man was no expert swordsman, but he was like a wild beast backed into a corner. His eyes were crazed, pupils dilated. He roared nonsense as he swung over and over again, trying to spill Maarkov’s blood.
Maarkov parried each strike, trying to ensure that he didn’t lose his footing. The man swung again and again, bellowing with rage. The son tried to get an angle on him, and thrust at his flank once again. Maarkov avoided it by a narrow margin. The women in the corner let out terrified screams with each cut.
The man forced Maarkov into the corner, tried to pin him down. Maarkov tried to say something, but the bastard was screaming with such fervor that his words fell on deaf ears. The father tried to gut him, swinging a horizontal slash at his midsection. Maarkov answered with the motion he’d burned into his muscles, the familiar ebb and flow of his sword-forms rising to the surface on instinct.
His blade swiped the father’s aside, and slithered toward his guts with lethal purpose. It sank into the soft flesh of his belly, and Maarkov yanked it free with a practiced motion. His eyes watched in horror as his body completed the familiar task, his reflexes too quick for his mind to intervene. The father tried to take another swing—the man had barely noticed the wound—but fell as he stepped forward.
“Pa!” roared the boy, rushing Maarkov with the spear leveled.
Maarkov cursed and quick-stepped to the side, then had to slip backwards to avoid the boy’s clumsy slash at his head. He brought his sword up to parry another thrust, and opened his mouth to tell the kid to stop. All that came out was a frustrated scream when the spear point came for his eyes. The kid choked out on the spear, thrusting in quick little jabs at his face. Maarkov backpedaled again.
“Kid, listen!”
“I’ll kill you!” the boy screamed, stabbing for his guts. Maarkov swiped the haft aside, but the kid bowled into him, pushing him to the floor. They fell, the hulking youth atop him, and Maarkov felt the boy’s meaty hands clamp down on his throat. The sword was pinned between them.
Maarkov had no need to breathe, but with his windpipe clamped shut, he couldn’t speak. The boy’s eyes were enraged, wild with the desire to see him dead. Maarkov felt pain as the boy’s hands tightened around his neck, and something in his throat give a creaking protest.
He reached for the kid’s hands, but with the boy’s weight atop him, he couldn’t get the leverage to pry them apart, even with his preternatural strength. Maarkov tried to get one of his legs free to knee the kid in the ribs, but the muscled youth was crouched atop them, pinning them with his shins. The boy knew how to wrestle.
His neck gave another sharp stab of pain.
Maarkov whipped his long, thin dagger from his waist and stabbed the kid in the side. Just a quick wound, nonlethal, something to get the kid off him. The boy screamed with rage, but ignored the wound, raising up to put more weight on Maarkov’s throat. He bore down on Maarkov, and made a sharp tug like he was trying to break his neck. Maarkov reacted.
He slipped the blade of the dagger into the boy’s armpit, driving it deep into his ribcage. The youth gave a sharp gasp, and his body jerked. His hands loosened, but didn’t let go. With a heavy heart, Maarkov stabbed him again, and twisted the blade as it came free.
The boy crumpled. Maarkov pushed his weight aside, and climbed to his feet, surveying the damage. The father was bawling, hand outstretched toward his dying son. Blood leaked across the floor from the wound in his guts, and Maarkov knew the man wouldn’t have the strength to stand. The wound was intended for that purpose.
The youth gave a last cough, and his leg twitched. Maarkov watched as the body relaxed, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. The mother wailed, and the daughters all began to cry.
“Kellen!” she screamed. “Kellen! You killed my son! You killed my son!”
Maarkov felt the accusation hit him in the stomach like a punch. He’d come here to save these people, to warn them. Was he doomed to this fate? Was he doomed to kill and kill and kill until his hands were so stained with blood that nothing could wash it away? The gods were laughing at him, reveling in his torture.
His eyes went to his sword, sliding along the length of the Hassani steel. The sword had been made with a singular purpose, after all. Was he like the sword?
“I tried to help you,” he said, looking to the father. “I tried. You need to understand that.”
The man didn’t hear him. He stared at his son, at his daughters, at his wife. Tears fell into his beard, and he said the same thing over and over. His stomach heaved as his blood leaked onto the great-room floor.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you all so much.”
Maarkov could do one last thing, one last kindness for these people. They wouldn’t understand, could never understand, but Maarkov knew he had to do it. The strega needed heads to function. Maarkov didn’t know why, but he knew from watching his brother over the years that a headless body was useless to him.
He started with the father, and went one by one. The mother came next, then the three daughters. The son he had to reposition on the floor before he could make the cut, but in a few moments, it was done. His blade performed its function with ease—after all, Maarkov always ensured it was ready. A sharp blade was important.
He was still sitting amongst the ruin when the strega came in and dragged the bodies away. He stared at the floor, at the bloodstains, while the corpses did their work. He felt empty, weightless.
Doomed.
***
&nbs
p; The next few days passed under a gray sky.
Dormael rode through the hills paying little attention to anything. He brooded on Tamasis’s words, turning them over in his mind. He said little to anyone except Bethany, and even with her, his attention was divided.
Shawna began teaching the little one the series of exercises she did in the mornings—the Siyane, it was called. Dormael watched them going through the motions, working into ever more complicated poses that ended with the two of them standing on their hands, legs stretched toward the sky. Bethany took to them like a fish to water, and had little trouble with the practice.
The hills became increasingly bare as they made their way to the east. The Gathan Mountains towered to the north, a line of blue silhouettes in the distance, only visible when the murk in the sky decided to clear up. The wind blew without end over the long grasses, sending the countryside into a waving frenzy. The temperature was warm, though the breeze carried the long chill of the north on its wings, which bit into Dormael’s neck when his hood was blown from his head.
The armlet began to croon during the daylight hours, whispering a song of anticipation. Dormael watched Bethany during the thing’s performances, looking for any sign that she might be listening. They hadn’t had an incident with the Nar’doroc since their escape from Cambrell. Dormael couldn’t help but feel that the artifact was due for some kind of fearsome display.
Beware the pattern, Dormael Harlun.
“Do you think you can get into the air in this wind?” D’Jenn asked. Dormael looked to the sky, which had been darkening by degrees for days. A storm loomed somewhere to the north, but the mountains had yet to toss it in their direction.
“Aye, I can get up there,” Dormael replied. “You think we’re getting close?”
“We have to be,” D’Jenn said. He squinted into the clouds. “I’m thinking it should be somewhere to the northeast, maybe a day’s travel distant. I’d like to get a better idea before the rain comes.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 108