The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Aye,” D’Jenn repeated in a flat tone. “Where, indeed?”

  Dormael took a deep breath, and let his shoulders slump as he confessed.

  “I heard it in a dream,” he said.

  “The armlet?” D’Jenn asked.

  “The Nar’doroc cannot speak,” Indalvian said. “Not in that way. I do not know why, but speech is denied her.”

  “It wasn’t the armlet,” Dormael said. “Do you remember the incident at the Conclave? The one that had Lacelle questioning my sanity?”

  “I remember,” D’Jenn said.

  “Something found me when I was hovering near death,” Dormael said. “It communicated with me. It tells me things, sometimes, and that was one of the things it told me—all things seek equilibrium. It said the same things about repeating patterns, a grand sense of order, all of it.”

  “It told you things, or tells you things, Dormael?” D’Jenn asked, his jaw tightening. “Which is it?”

  Dormael looked to his cousin. “Present tense.”

  D’Jenn cursed and turned away, muttering at the shadows around them. Shawna and Allen shot confused looks between them, but even they regarded Dormael like he’d just admitted to having some kind of disease. Indalvian shook his head, and let out a sigh.

  “Would that I was still alive to investigate this,” he said. “As it stands, though, I’ve not the time. That task will also fall to all of you. The liensdrim allowed Ishamael to interpret this so-called Song of All Things. He thought that he could predict events, understand the outcomes with such skill that it may as well have been divination.

  “Every time he tried to affect something, though, he failed. The more he meddled, the worse things became. He lost everything as a result of listening to it—his wife, most of his friends, people he tried to save. Even as it destroyed everything around him, he was compelled to use it again and again. Never don the thing, do you all understand? As I’ve said, its only true gift is ruin.”

  Dormael remembered the visions that had burst forth from the Sign at the site of the ancient altar. He had felt its abiding need to rage against everything around it, to unleash fury on a grander scale than Dormael could grasp. The armlet hadn’t followed him into this dream-place, or whatever it was. He hoped it wasn’t crawling around his throat back in the ruins of Orm, choking the life out of him with glimmering tentacles.

  “Why didn’t you manage to drop them into the sea?” Shawna asked. “You told your apprentice that you’d see it done, but it obviously never happened. What deterred you?”

  “Another mistake,” Indalvian said. “Whilst going after one of Asher’s supporters, I was struck with an odd bit of magic during the fight. It was an insidious piece of work. It gnawed at my power, at my mind, for years. When I realized I was losing the battle, I knew I had to build these places on the chance that I wouldn’t survive. I do not know what happened after my creation—I’m only a sliver of the real Indalvian, you understand—but the fact that you’re here means that I died before I could accomplish my work. It will be in your hands now.”

  Indalvian looked around at the endless dark, and nodded.

  “The spell is failing. You may have some time before the Signs fully awaken. Some of the wards may yet hold. Gather the pieces, and find a way to destroy them. I wish you all good fortune.”

  Dormael felt it when the illusory world began to wink out. He looked around at his friends, and watched as pieces of their bodies began to lift like embers rising from a campfire. They dissolved one by one, and Dormael felt a queer tingling sensation as his own figure began to dissipate.

  Indalvian came forward and grabbed Dormael’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Dormael was surprised, and he found himself staring into Indalvian’s cold, gray eyes. The old man held him as his body began to melt, waiting for everyone else to disappear before he spoke.

  “That thing in your head, boy—don’t trust it!”

  ***

  The sky rumbled as the next wave of clouds rolled south from the mountains. The old temple stood on the apex of a wide hill, a lonely husk in an abandoned landscape. It was difficult to discern the time of day through the ominous cloud-bank above, but Maarkov didn’t care to spend much thought on it. All his days were gray.

  “If all goes well today, brother, you needn’t draw your steel,” Maaz said, his eyes pinned to the temple across the expanse of wet, waving grasses. “Let the strega do their work. You can sit here and sulk if you wish.”

  Maarkov gave his brother an empty look. In his mind, his sword sank through his brother’s eye socket and buried itself in his skull. What beautiful noises he would make trying to drag the blade free.

  With a long sigh, Maarkov climbed down from his dead horse, and tossed his cloak over the saddle.

  “Anything to spend a few moments away from you.”

  Maaz snorted and turned his eyes back to the temple. “Have it your way, Maarkov.”

  The Hunter crouched nearby, now the proud owner of a new meat-suit. It still had the strange, crooked posture, and the burning red eyes, but this body was bigger than the old one. If it stretched to its full height, it would be four or five hands taller than Maarkov. It’s long, wiry arms were corded and pale, the claws long enough to make decent knives.

  The Hunter looked over at Maarkov, noticing his scrutiny, and uttered a strange, guttural hiss. Maarkov spat on the grass in the beast’s direction, and turned his eyes away from it. Rain began to patter from the sky in frosty little drops, tickling the bald skin of Maarkov’s head. Thunder cracked the sky as the storm gathered strength.

  “We can finally put things aright today,” Maaz said. He gestured with one of his hands, and the satchel at his side floated away from his shoulder. It rose through the falling rain and levitated some distance away from Maaz’s horse. With another gesture, Maaz caused the ground beneath it to swirl and open, digging out a keyhole. The satchel—containing Maaz’s knives and his eldritch book—buried itself in the hole, the dirt rushing to cover it from the rain.

  “I want the Third Sign, and the girl—alive,” Maaz said. “The rest of them are worthless to me.”

  The Hunter let out a snort and pawed at the ground. Maarkov just stared up at the temple. The air would have smelled wet with the rain, loamy with the dirt under their heels, but not for the strega. Maarkov shivered at their presence behind him, and turned to look at them.

  They stood in complete silence, arrayed in a loose group behind Maaz and the Hunter. The entire village, or most of it, all killed and animated, meat for his brother’s little army. Women and children stood amongst them, some with dark stains over their clothing. Over a hundred pairs of milky eyes stared straight ahead, not even blinking when water ran over their lenses.

  Maarkov’s gaze went back to the temple on the hill. There were a handful of horses tethered inside the courtyard, but no sign of their owners. The force of strega under Maaz’s command was probably more than enough to do for their quarry, but Maaz had ever been fond of overkill. Twice these wizards had eluded Maaz, but today he was going to grind them under his heel once and for all. Maarkov had seen what the strega could do once they were set to a task. Part of him hoped the people they were chasing might put up a good fight, but he doubted it.

  Arguing voices echoed from somewhere in the temple, flashes of heated conversation carried over the hill. Maarkov strained his eyes, and thought he saw movement from somewhere within the ruins. Sighing, he put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Ah, there they are,” Maaz said. “Let us give them a proper greeting.” He raised one of his hands, and the strega all broke into a sprint. They tore past Maarkov, coming close enough to send shivers up the back of his neck. The mass of animated corpses was scrambling up the rise before he could muster his irritation.

  Maaz was watching the temple with a fierce gaze, like a spider watching flies fall into its web. The Hunter tilted its head back and screamed before following the strega, leaving Maarkov alone with his brot
her. He had the idle thought to say something—maybe to argue, or take a cheap jab at his brother. Nothing of worth came to mind. The thunder rumbled again, the storm finally blowing into position.

  The rain began to pour, and Maarkov trudged up the hill.

  ***

  The room was dark when Dormael opened his eyes. D’Jenn’s song cut through the shadows, and low light flooded the spherical chamber. The lines and glyphs that had been written into the stone were now dead, and there was no sign of Indalvian. The silence was oppressive.

  “Let’s get what we came for and get out of here,” D’Jenn said. “I’ve had about enough of ghosts and old secrets for today.”

  “Is the old man gone?” Bethany asked, looking around. “I don’t feel his magic anymore.”

  “He’s gone, dear,” Dormael said.

  “That’s…kind of sad,” she replied, running her fingers along the lines in the Dreamstone. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving, little pig,” Allen said, ruffling her hair as he gathered his things. “Keep eating like that and you’ll be a big pig one day.”

  “A big pig like you?” she shot back, throwing punches at his legs. He held her at bay with little effort, and together, they left the room. D’Jenn watched them go, then turned his eyes to Dormael. Their weight settled on him like bricks, and he steeled himself for the argument he knew was coming. Shawna noticed the look that passed between them, gathered her own weapons, and followed Allen and Bethany from the room.

  D’Jenn turned away as Dormael stood. He went to the wall, where a small shelf had been carved into the curved stone. Upon the shelf sat a pair of thick books and a scroll case, which D’Jenn seized with his Kai and brought to his outstretched hands. He turned back as Dormael picked up his spear, and paused a moment before speaking.

  “So—this thing, whatever it is, has been talking to you since you left Ishamael,” he finally said. “Hells, since before, I reckon.”

  “Aye,” Dormael said. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.”

  “Hard to describe,” D’Jenn repeated, a cynical twist to his mouth. “That must be why you kept it to yourself.”

  With that, he turned and walked from the room, leaving Dormael in the dark. Dormael stood for a moment, anger starting to bloom in his guts. With a curse, he took up his spear and followed his cousin through the passageway into the catacombs. He caught up with D’Jenn and the rest of them in the tunnel.

  “It’s not like I meant to hide anything,” he said, coming up behind D’Jenn. “I just didn’t know what to say, how to go about explaining it. Hells, I couldn’t be completely sure that Lacelle wasn’t right, and I was going bloody insane.”

  “Which would be another thing worth sharing with the rest of us,” D’Jenn said, not even looking at him. “We’ve been working together for years, Dormael—years. We’re family.”

  “I know, dammit,” Dormael grumbled. “I’m not saying—”

  “We’re all in the same cooking pot, here, all risking our lives alongside you,” D’Jenn said.

  “I know that.”

  “For all we know, this could be the work of the vilth,” D’Jenn went on, ignoring Dormael’s protests. “I don’t know the full capabilities of vilthinum, much less one that might have the writings of Indalvian’s apprentice to draw upon. Do you? No? Then why in all the Six bloody Hells would you keep something like this to yourself?”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Mistrust us?” D’Jenn finished, shooting him an angry look. “Mistrust me? Because that’s what you did.”

  “Stop being an old woman about this,” Dormael said. “You’re overreacting.”

  “Does anyone else think I’m overreacting?” D’Jenn asked, raising his voice. “Anyone else think I’m being an old woman?”

  “Oh, no—you two work this out on your own,” Allen called from farther ahead. Bethany ignored them, and Shawna just shook her head when D’Jenn looked at her.

  “I won’t be yanked between the two of you,” she said. “I’m tired.” With that, she threw up her hands and moved to catch up with Allen and Bethany.

  D’Jenn returned to glowering at Dormael. “You should have said something.”

  “Aye, I should’ve.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Things have been moving so bloody fast,” Dormael said, throwing his hands up as they made the stairs leading out of the catacombs. “Between the Nar’doroc and Victus, I haven’t had enough time to sit and think about everything. I haven’t figured out what he is, or why he’s here. There’s a lot I just don’t know.”

  “He?” D’Jenn repeated, giving him a strange look.

  “Tamasis,” Dormael clarified. “The one who’s spoken to me. Who speaks to me.”

  “He’s got a name, does he?” D’Jenn snorted. “Didn’t you have a dog named Tamasis when we were children?”

  “Aye,” Dormael said, trying to affect a smile. “I needed to name him, and that was the first thing that came to mind.”

  D’Jenn shook his head, giving Dormael a bewildered look.

  “You named the thing after your childhood pet?” he said. “What does it even tell you? What does it talk about?”

  “Not much,” Dormael said. “So far, anyway. This thing…it’s big, D’Jenn. It’s old.”

  “Big?” D’Jenn repeated, giving him a sideways glance. “Old? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it doesn’t…it’s…gods, I don’t even know how to describe it,” Dormael replied. “When it’s with me—which isn’t all the time—I can feel something odd about it, like its mind stretches into a vastness I can’t comprehend. It can read my bloody thoughts, sift through my memories like a bowl of its favorite soup.”

  “Well, if it has been sent by the vilth, it might be reporting all that back to our enemies,” D’Jenn said. His tone was weaker than before, though, as if Dormael had planted doubt in his mind.

  “I don’t think that’s the case, cousin,” Dormael said. “I can’t imagine anyone being able to control this thing. Besides, its own memory is fragmented. It’s looking for something, and it thinks I’m somehow related to its search. I can’t say how I know, but I don’t think it’s anything to do with the necromancer.”

  “The Nar’doroc, then?” D’Jenn mused, some of the anger gone from his tone.

  “I can’t say,” Dormael replied. “Maybe. It warned me about Orm. It told me that this place is a wound in the fabric of reality, that I should avoid being caught in its pattern. He said he could feel it the same way we can feel magic.”

  “That’s disturbing, given what Indalvian told us about the liesndrim,” D’Jenn said. “If this thing—your little friend—can sense this pattern Indalvian spoke about…I’m not even sure what that means. All that aside, you should have mentioned this at some point. Even if you’d only told me, you should have come out with it.”

  “I heard you the first bloody time you said that,” Dormael grated. “I’ve already apologized. I won’t grovel and beg for forgiveness, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Maybe you should fuck yourself first,” Dormael muttered. “It’s not like you’ve been in a talking mood since you came back from the dead.”

  “I have my reasons,” D’Jenn said, keeping his eyes forward.

  “Says the man who was just browbeating me for keeping secrets,” Dormael said. “What happened that night?”

  “I failed.”

  “I figured out that much when Jarek found us on the road,” Dormael shot back. “How did you escape? Why have you been so silent?”

  D’Jenn rounded on him, shifting the books from Indalvian’s chamber to his left arm. He reached beneath his armor, grasping something that hung on a leather cord, and held it up for Dormael to see. Entwined rings were threaded onto the cord, glimmering silver in the magical light.

  “Marriage rings?” Dormael asked, giving D�
�Jenn a confused look. “What is that supposed to—”

  “I killed Mataez, Dormael,” D’Jenn said, interrupting him. “These were around his neck when he died.”

  Dormael felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He’d expected violence with the rest of the Warlocks, of course, but he still held most of his friends in high regard, even with all that was happening. Jarek hadn’t offered them a fight, though Dormael knew that one day he would return and do just that. Still, hearing those words come from D’Jenn’s mouth was stunning. Dormael realized in the moment that part of him had held out hope they could escape the necessity of having to kill their former allies, that maybe all of this could be resolved before the killing began.

  “How did you do it?”

  “I poisoned him,” D’Jenn said, “and planted your brother’s axe in his throat.”

  “I see.” His mouth twitched to say something more, but there were no words behind his teeth.

  “Something more to say?” D’Jenn asked, jingling the lovers’ knots at him. “Want to salve my conscience with a few words, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You’re chewing on the air like you’ve got more to say—go on, out with it.”

  “D’Jenn—”

  “Go ahead!” D’Jenn snarled, moving close enough to make Dormael step backward. “Go on, condemn my actions. Tell me how it wasn’t necessary, how it was a terrible thing to do. Tell me how much better you are because you and Jarek talked things out like civilized men!”

  “That’s not what I was going to say!”

  “What were you going to say, then?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Silence, then,” D’Jenn said, shoving the rings back under his collar. “That must be your default position of late.”

  “That’s not fair,” Dormael hissed through his teeth. “Don’t blame me because you killed one of our brothers! I didn’t start this bloody affair, it’s not my fault that Victus is a treacherous bastard!”

  “You think it’s mine?”

  “No! By all the gods in the fucking Void, D’Jenn, I never said that!”