The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  The jarring noise of the necromancer’s magic sliced through the air and hit the stone, shattering it into an explosion of sand. The rain didn’t push the powder to the grass, though—instead, it continued to float in the air, undulating like the surface of a thick liquid. The cloud blocked the vilth from Dormael’s sight, but he could still feel the man’s presence in his senses. Before Dormael could toss another stone, though, the man appeared through the wall of floating dust.

  He stopped just in front of the haze, and gave Dormael a wicked smile. A Splinter came for Dormael’s magic, but he sensed it in the moments just before its deployment, and dropped his power in time to avoid being hit. Dormael cursed and broke to the side, running to try and get out of range.

  The vilth spread his arms wide, and tiny flames snaked through the undulating wall of pulverized stone behind him. They burned along random paths, resembling the way paper burned when it was ignited. Something whistled through the air near Dormael’s face, and he cursed as a hot line of pain cut into his cheek. Another whistle, and something thumped into his side, burying itself in his leather armor. A third whistle came, cutting into his arm, and on its heels another with an accompanying slice to the outside of his shin.

  Dormael cursed and yanked his Kai awake, filling his mind once again with his song. He pulled up a hasty shield between himself and the vilth, and split his consciousness to prepare other spells. A series of low thumps pattered into the magical barrier, and Dormael saw that the whistling blades were actually shards of glass.

  His mind solidified the split, and Dormael worked another thread of magic, sending the sharp little pieces of glass flying right back in the vilth’s face. The necromancer pulled up his own shield after the first few cut into him, but Dormael abandoned that line of attack. Instead, he ripped another stone from the ground, hurling it in the vilth’s direction with so much force that it displaced the rain as it flew through the air.

  The stone gave a sharp crack as it contacted the man’s shield, and Dormael saw light blossom from the impact point as the necromancer’s power was drained to counter the force of the blow. While the cadaverous man was grimacing in concentration, Dormael wrapped a tendril of magic around his ankle, and yanked him from his feet.

  He burst into a sprint as the vilth went down, trying to reach the bastard before he could stand. Dormael hopped over the crushed remains of a body as he ran, and spotted his spear lying discarded in the rain. He felt a moment of grim excitement, and pulled it to his hands with his Kai as he continued on.

  The vilth gained his feet like some otherworldly creature, body slithering into motion. Dormael was there just as the man stood, and thrust toward his belly with the tip of his spear. The necromancer fended him off with swipes of his twin knives, arms moving in a pale blur. Dormael choked out on the haft of his weapon and menaced the vilth with a quick series of long thrusts at his eyes. He forced the necromancer back on his heels, and the clacking of hardwood against steel played a lively rhythm through the rain.

  The vilth was faster than Dormael thought possible. He looked like a corpse, with skin as pallid as the underside of a lizard, and muscles that looked starved for blood. Even so, he moved with violent, confident motions, keeping Dormael’s spear at bay. For a short time the fight settled into a melee contest, though Dormael kept his magic poised. He could sense the vilth’s Kai doing the same, posturing around him like a half-rabid beast.

  The necromancer gave him a vulpine grin, then changed the rhythm of the fight. He came forward, his knives flashing as they sought to injure him. Dormael was pressed hard, forced to use both ends of this weapon to defend himself from the vilth’s deadly steel. He’d gotten better with the weapon since he’d taken it from his homestead—it was hard not to do so, given the sparring sessions with Shawna and Allen—but Dormael could sense that he wasn’t fast enough to defeat the man’s attacks indefinitely. He could feel the fight shifting in the necromancer’s favor, as each exchange saw him get closer and closer to being sliced open.

  Dormael swiped at the vilth’s face with the spiked butt of his weapon, forcing him to step away. When the bastard made to come back in for another cut, Dormael tossed his spear into the necromancer’s arms, as if he was offering it to him. The pale man gave him a confused look as he clutched it on instinct, the motion clumsy as both his hands were full.

  With a casual gesture, Dormael seized the spear in the grip of his magic, and pushed.

  The necromancer growled as he was thrown backwards, his feet sliding over the grass as he was dragged up the hill. Dormael ran after him, keeping the pressure on his spear. The vilth finally slid from underneath the weapon, pushing it over his head with his skeletal arms. The spear flew away into the rain, and the necromancer fell to his back.

  Dormael reached out with another thread of power and hit the pale man with a crushing blow from his Kai. He tumbled even farther up the hill, his knives flying away from his hands. Dormael continued running, and seized his distant weapon once again with his magic, bringing it whizzing back in his direction. It smacked into his palms, and Dormael raised it over his shoulder to pin the vilth to the ground by his belly.

  The necromancer’s song played through Dormael’s senses, and he felt something tangling his ankles. He bowled through it at first, but by the time he noticed what was happening, it was too late. The grass had turned against him, animated by the vilth’s magic, and tangled his legs. It wasn’t enough to hold him, but it was enough to upset his balance and bring him thudding face-first into the ground.

  Dormael busted his lip open with the impact, and tasted his own blood. He snarled as he pushed himself to his feet, kicking his legs to disentangle them from the angry blades of grass. He had just enough time to sense an attack coming, and rolled to the side to avoid the inert remains of one of the corpses, which slammed into the ground where he’d fallen only a moment before. It made a wet crunching noise as it hit, but Dormael didn’t wait around to gawk at it.

  He jabbed with a Splinter as he made his feet, but the vilth had already silenced his magic. Dormael rose from the ground and saw the necromancer rushing in his direction, but this time Dormael had enough space to react, and held his magic ready. He reached out and clutched the necromancer in the grip of his magic, bringing his mad dash to a grunting, painful end. With a roar of anger, he bashed the vilth into a section of the courtyard wall of the temple, causing a spray of black fluid to blossom on the stone behind him.

  The necromancer’s magic awakened, but Dormael was already prepared. He sliced into the man’s magic and Splintered him, scattering the energies in a violent expulsion of power. The backlash shattered an entire section of the wall into gravel, filling the air with a great clatter of noise. The vilth was pushed into the courtyard amidst the ruined stonework, as the pressure of Dormael’s magic was still against him.

  Dormael sprinted toward the newly-formed hole in the wall, and raised his spear once again. He vaulted the remains of the stonework, springing from an intact remnant of the original wall. The vilth lay on his back, watching Dormael come on with hateful eyes.

  You’re not getting away this time, you bastard. Now I’ve got you.

  Dormael felt the vilth’s magic come alive once more, and had a split second to be alarmed at the speed of his recovery. Before he could react, though, something smashed into him from the side. His world turned over, his sight full of blurred colors. He felt his body fetch up against something hard, and the wild motion of his flight ceased. Dormael rolled onto his belly and coughed, feeling sharp pains in his chest as he did. He tasted more blood in his mouth, and spat into the grass as he tried to push himself to his feet. All he could hear was a ringing in his ears, and the warbling song of the armlet somewhere on the periphery of his senses.

  He felt something grasp his torso, and his body was wracked with pain. Dormael clenched his teeth against it, and lashed out with his own power, trying to push the force of the vilth’s grip away from his body. He felt a mome
nt of panicked nausea as his magic was Splintered, and his power drained like water from a barrel.

  The vilth raised Dormael’s body from the ground and pinned him to the inner wall of the courtyard, holding him down like an animal he meant to torture. Dormael wanted to vomit, but with the pressure on his stomach, he could barely summon the space to breathe. The necromancer walked forward, regarding him with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

  “I have been careful over the long years,” he said. “As you pointed out, I’ve never had to face a Warlock trained by the Conclave before.” He smiled then, and turned his head to the side in mock consideration. “You’re a bit disappointing, to be honest. I expected so much more.”

  “Fuck yourself,” Dormael croaked through the pressure on his chest.

  The necromancer peered at the stone around Dormael’s body, nodding to himself like a butcher satisfied with his work. The armlet was yanked from Dormael’s belt, and floated toward the sallow wizard, who took it in a single, claw-like hand. Dormael felt his arms tingle in response to the man drawing more of his magic, and dust fell into his hair as the vilth carved designs into the stone around his body. Dormael felt another moment of panic as the words of Indalvian rang in his head.

  There’s no telling what Asher’s writings may have contained.

  Was this man privy to the secrets of Indalvian’s disgraced apprentice? It seemed a certainty, given his interest in the Nar’doroc. How else would the bastard have known of it?

  “There’s no more caution, though—not now,” the vilth said. “All I’ve sought for generations is within my grasp.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The power to destroy your precious Conclave, or anyone else who deigns to oppose me,” the necromancer said. “The power to finally bring wrath upon those who deserve it, and the power to preserve what needs preservation.” His eyes went to the armlet, which was still singing its alien melody through the ether. “This is only a single piece of the whole—though I suppose it’s possible you’re aware of that now, given what you may have found in the temple. Care to share those secrets?”

  “Go on in,” Dormael sputtered, coughing out a mouthful of blood. “Find out for yourself.”

  “Perhaps,” the pale man replied, his eyes shooting toward the ruin. “But first, something more pressing.” He peered at the stone around Dormael, and once again went to work cutting glyphs into its surface, filling the area around Dormael’s body with symbols. He spoke as he worked, as if he were a baker laboring over a pie. “Your Blessing is substantial. I could sense its strength when we were fighting. It’s quite impressive.”

  “Are you going to keep talking?” Dormael asked, his voice a dry wheeze. He clawed for his magic, but it wouldn’t answer his call. He could feel his heart beating a fearful rhythm against his ribs.

  “I wonder how your friends will like it when I use your magic to kill them,” the vilth went on. “Will your companion recognize your song even as it flays the skin from his body? That is, of course, if they’re not all dead by now.”

  Dormael wanted to reply, to throw another insult in the necromancer’s face, but the air was gone from his chest. The stone continued to be cut into glyphs, and Dormael continued to struggle to bring forth his power. Try as he might, though, it betrayed him.

  “The process will be quite painful for you,” the necromancer said. “I am going to carve you open while you’re still breathing, and you’ll have to watch while I—”

  He paused, eyes shooting to the side. Dormael was confused at the interruption, but after a moment, he heard what had caught the vilth’s attention. A new melody was lilting through the air, clashing with the noise of the necromancer’s power. Even with his head quickly filling with wool, and his chest full of pain, Dormael could feel the strength of the new song. The vilth turned, leaving Dormael pinned to the wall, and made to face the unknown threat in the courtyard. Dormael wanted to scream, because he would have recognized that melody anywhere.

  The song belonged to Bethany.

  ***

  Shawna’s blades hummed as she sliced them through the air. They sang as they tapped Maarkov’s sword aside, hissed when the edges slid back and forth. Her world was flashing steel and falling rain.

  Maarkov was faster than anyone she’d ever seen. He slipped out of every trap she laid for him, was in and out of her defenses before she could riposte, and always just shy of cutting into her. The man fought like he was in a trance, his body moving by instinct more than strategy. His sword was everywhere.

  She aimed a cut at his eyes, but he slipped from the blade’s path and shot a thrust back at her face. Shawna moved her head just in time to avoid being blinded, but his steel left a stinging line across her cheek. She hissed in anger and batted his sword away with her other blade, but was forced to backpedal as Maarkov advanced.

  She kept her swords moving as she stepped backward, taking care not to slip in the dangerous footing. Maarkov slashed at her from below, then came at her with a thrust when she knocked it aside. Her steel whipped and danced to keep his at bay, but Maarkov was relentless. His form was too perfect, his speed too great. Shawna’s arms began to tire.

  Maarkov quick-stepped forward before she could attack, and pushed the blade of her right sword into the air. Shawna tried to slip away as she realized what he was doing, but she was flagging, and Maarkov showed no signs of fatigue. He reached over her blade and grappled her hilt, turning her wrist as he posted the flat of the blade against his arm. Shawna tried to pull away on instinct, but his grip was harder than stone.

  The tip of his blade came from above, trying to slice across her throat. Shawna slid it upwards with her left sword, and chopped down at Maarkov’s neck. The man pulled his head away, taking the blow on his shoulder. Shawna was stunned at the cold acceptance of the wound, though he did show pain on his face.

  Shawna kicked him full in the chest, ripping him away. Her sword came free as their hands were pulled apart, and it tumbled into the grass. Even as he was knocked backward—and with a wounded shoulder—he swiped at her with his longsword, scoring a stinging gash across the back of her left arm. Shawna hissed in pain and dove toward her fallen sword.

  She pulled it from the grass and was forced to knock aside Maarkov’s oncoming thrust with a clumsy swipe. The blades both rang in protest, but Shawna’s swords were infused with sorcery. Maarkov’s Hassani steel wobbled as it was knocked aside, and Maarkov had to claw for it when it almost flew from his hands. The fumble gave her a moment to get her footing, and she backed off to take up a guard position out of range.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone has scored a true hit on me,” he said, shaking his hands like they’d been burned.

  “If you were a normal man, you’d be dead.” She watched him, keeping her swords level. He kept his distance.

  “That’s certainly true,” he said, grimacing down at his shoulder. “It does pain me.”

  Shawna narrowed her eyes at him. When he had sliced the hamstrings of one of those cadavers, it had been crippled. It was still moving, of course, but its legs had no longer worked. Perhaps they still needed the underlying structure—the bones, the muscle—to move properly, even if they were hard as bastards to kill. Was he the same? Would the wound slow him?

  There was only one way to find out, and the day was growing long.

  Shawna rushed forward on the balls of her feet, feinting toward Maarkov’s eyes. When he moved to intercept her attack, she changed directions and slid his blade aside, circling toward his injured shoulder. She hacked down at the limb with her left sword, putting strength behind the blow.

  Maarkov slid aside, grabbing his blade at half-sword and shooting a two-handed pommel strike toward her face. Shawna moved from its path and swiped a cut at his eyes in response, but his blade was already in place to parry her. Shawna spun away as he parried, narrowly avoiding another cut as she disengaged.

  Growling, she charged again, refusing to be forced to her heel
s. She led with a low thrust, then another from her opposite blade when Maarkov smacked her first aside. He sucked in his guts and avoided the attack, but Shawna bowled into him with her shoulder and knocked him backwards. The bastard was nimble, though, and he kept his balance.

  He answered her attack by darting in, the point of his blade seeking her eyes. Shawna ducked and took a long stinging cut across her right arm, hissing in pain. She whipped her sword up to knock his blade away, lest he cut deeper on the way out. Their steel rang with the fight.

  Shawna swiped at his legs and came forward, forcing Maarkov to retreat. He tried an overhand cut as she rushed inside, but Shawna yelled with effort and bashed his sword away. It rang as her magical steel contacted it, and she heard Maarkov grunt against the pain in his hand. She made to run him through, but the pale swordsman was too fast. He sucked in his guts to avoid the thrust once again, and smacked her blade to the side as he recovered his position.

  Shawna came at him over and over. She tried thrusting at his face, he parried and riposted. She rained heavier and heavier blows onto his sword, but he adapted and stopped giving her the opportunity. He was too fast to trip, and try as she might, she couldn’t maneuver to his injured side quickly enough to do any real damage. The air in her chest grew heavy with her fatigue, and the rain blew from her face with every breath.

  He’s unbeatable, she thought. He’s had a Mark for ninety-four years! What good is all your training against that?

  Maarkov noticed her flagging. She saw the twinge of a smirk across his face, as if this contest was already decided. Anger kindled in her chest, fueled by the stinging cuts he’d given her, and the ease with which he slipped away from her attacks. Live or die, she wouldn’t leave this field without demonstrating how wrong he was.

  Shawna clenched her teeth and rushed back in, darting toward Maarkov’s good side. He twisted the grip on his sword and made to parry her attack, but she pulled her blade from its path before they could meet. Shawna spun toward him and thrust with her off-hand, attempting to run him through the side. He was again too fast for her, though, and moved forward just enough so that the blade opened a shallow cut across his lower back.