A change in the balance of power was always a delicate thing.
He had been polishing these plans for years, gathering his power, laying out the foundations for something great. Under him, the Warlocks had become deadly, and now they would use that power for good in the world—real good, not just protecting people from harmful magic. They could affect change in the world. They had the power to see their will done—to see his will done—and finally, the conviction to see it through to its inevitable conclusion.
The powerful ruled the weak, and such was the truth throughout nature. The lion takes the hart whenever it wishes. The wolf doesn’t ask the elk for permission before it culls from the herd—it takes. Such had been the truth for human beings since the beginning of time. The strong ruled the weak, raped the weak, enslaved the weak, murdered the weak indiscriminately. The world was full of wolves.
Eldath was full of people who fancied themselves wolves, but had never met a real wolf. Amongst humans, wizards were special, and had the power to do amazing things. Amongst wizards, Warlocks were a breed apart—trained to fight and kill with magic, and under Victus, so much more. Soon the wolves would meet the Warlocks, and the wolves would learn their new place in the circle of life.
Dormael was now rogue, and in control of a magical item more powerful than anything Victus had ever seen. That artifact was the one thing that Victus hadn’t anticipated. In the hands of a Warlock like Dormael, the threat the artifact posed was too serious to ignore.
Its mystery was confounding. It would be nothing to get his hands on the research the Mekai had been conducting. Lacelle’s people had as many secrets as anyone else, and anyone with a secret was a potential asset. Victus had many assets.
He’d have to send someone to kill Dormael and his friends, too. As much as he hated to do it, the one thing he could trust was that Dormael would make an attempt on his life at some point in the future. He wouldn’t stand for the death of his cousin. Victus hated to lose two talented Warlocks—he’d hated losing all the ones who had betrayed him—but there was nothing for it.
Victus lit a pipe, and started thinking about how to get it all done.
**
It had been a shit night for fishing.
“Who do you think he was, Torbi?” Berbin asked, bending over to peer at the dead man. “Do you think he fell out of the sky?”
Torbi and Berbin had been fishing on the river, hoping to pull in something to take home to their Ma. The dead man had splashed into the water somewhere nearby, which had nearly capsized their canoe. When they found the man in the water, Berbin had been sure he had fallen from some great height.
Berbin was dumb as dog shit.
“Don’t be stupid,” Torbi said, slapping his little brother across the back of the head. “Things don’t just fall out of the sky, dolt.”
“I’m not a dolt! Don’t call me that!”
“Dolt,” Torbi said again. “Dolt, dolt, dolt, fucking dolt!”
“If Ma knows you said that, she’ll whip you into next season!”
“Said what?” Torbi smiled. “Fucking? Do you know what it is, Berbin? Do you know what fucking is?”
“What?”
“It’s what Old Jorban does to Willi Thames’ mother in the back of his shop,” Torbi snickered. “Right up the skirts!”
“I don’t get it,” Berbin said.
“Of course you don’t, you idiot,” Torbi sighed. Berbin was only ten, after all. Torbi, though, was thirteen. He’d seen tits and everything—one of the girls in the East Market had let him pay her to kiss them. He could never tell his Ma that, though. She really would beat him into next season if she heard that.
“Do you think he’s rich?” Berbin asked. “He’s wearing nice clothes.”
“He’s not anything anymore, little brother,” Torbi said. “That’s the way of the world. He’s dead now, see? He don’t have no need for all that stuff. We can take it.”
“We can?”
“Aye, the gods won’t mind. Ma will thank us, too, if we come home with something nice.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” Torbi smiled. “It’s the way of the world.”
“Where did you hear about the way of the world?” Berbin asked. “Is there somewhere you can go to hear it? Like to the temple?”
“It’s not like going to the temple, you idiot,” Torbi sighed. “It’s just something you learn. One day you’ll get it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now—look in his purse.”
“What? Me?” Berbin asked. He looked terrified.
“Yes, you,” Torbi said. “I’m the oldest, you have to do what I say.”
“Do not!”
“Do so! Besides, it’s high time you touched your first dead body.”
“You’ve touched a body before, have you?”
“I have!” Torbi nodded. He hadn’t, but Berbin didn’t need to know that. “I do it all the time out here. Where do you think the street boys dump their victims, eh? Plop!—right in the river. I see them all the time.”
“Then how come I never see them when we go together?” Berbin asked.
“Because you’re a dolt, Berbin,” Torbi said. “A fucking dolt. Now—look in his purse.”
“Alright,” Berbin said. “But don’t tell Ma I touched it.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll make me go say a prayer at the temple, and I don’t want to say a stupid prayer!”
“Alright, alright,” Torbi said, holding his hands up for peace. “I won’t tell. This is our secret.”
“A brother secret?”
“A brother secret,” Torbi nodded, clasping forearms with his brother. “Now—look in the purse!”
“Fine,” Berbin said.
He bent down in the mud of the embankment and poked at the body, shying back with each poke as if the dead man was going to jump up from the mud and eat him. Torbi rolled his eyes and gestured for Berbin to get on with it. Berbin stuck out his tongue, then reached for the dead man’s purse.
“Berbin!” Torbi screamed, jumping at the boy.
Berbin squealed and scrambled through the mud, trying to get away from the corpse. Torbi broke out in a fit of laughter, unable to hold it in. Berbin stared daggers at him, growing so red in the face that his ears shone in the predawn light.
“You nearly pissed yourself!” Torbi laughed.
“Did not!”
“Did so! And you screamed like a girl!”
“Take that back!”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll hit you—that’s what!”
“You won’t,” Torbi smiled. “You’re too sissy for that.”
“Am not,” Berbin said. “I’m the one who was going for the purse. Why don’t you go for it? Let’s see how big and tough you are!”
“I’d get that purse any day,” Torbi said. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Get it, then,” Berbin said, raising his chin. “I dare you.”
“You can’t dare me, I’m older than you,” Torbi said with a sneer. “Don’t you know anything, you dolt?”
“If I’m a dolt, then you’re a sissy,” Berbin said. “A sissy who won’t even take a purse from a dead body.”
Torbi raised his chin, echoing his brother’s stance. Nobody called Torbi Numarian a sissy—not even his own brother! He thought about punching Berbin in the face, but he’d have to explain that one to his Ma, too. He’d just have to show his brother what was what.
“A sissy, eh?” Torbi asked. “Would a sissy do this?”
Torbi bent down and wrapped his hands around the corpse’s belt, then made to rip the man’s purse from it. It didn’t come free right away, and the cold leather was slippery in his hands. He gritted his teeth and worked at the buckles with his fingers, but couldn’t get it loose.
The corpse seized his wrists in wet, cold hands.
Torbi screamed, petrified with fear. The corpse let go of Torbi, and he scrambled awa
y, gathering Berbin close. He dug his fingers into his brother’s shoulders, wondering if he should tell him to run away. The man—who wasn’t dead—retched and turned to the side, coughing into the mud. He spat a bellyful of the river onto the embankment. Berbin stood transfixed, mouth agape. Torbi was right on the verge of telling his brother to run.
The man looked around, wiping the wetness from his beard. He tossed his long, wet hair out of his eyes and squinted at the two boys, then at the canoe. The man grimaced.
“Is that yours?” he asked, gesturing at the canoe. His voice was a throaty growl, but anyone who had swallowed that much of the river Ishamael was lucky to be able to talk at all.
“It is,” Torbi said, holding Berbin behind him.
The man gave Torbi a sour look. He grimaced and sat up, looking over his shoulder at the city in the distance. Looking down, he yanked the purse from his belt and held it out to Torbi.
“It’s yours, kid, if you take me up the river.”
Torbi hesitated.
“How do I know you’re not going to kill us, or do something weird to us?”
The man scowled at him.
“I’m not going to hurt you, kid. Here, look,” he said. The man opened the purse and spilled the contents onto his hand—a pile of silver the likes of which Torbi had never seen. He heard Berbin let out an awed sigh as the money tumbled into the man’s palm, and Torbi couldn’t help but feel the same. That was more silver than Torbi thought he would ever see. The man tried to smile, though it looked forced.
“One canoe trip, kid. No weird stuff, I promise.”
Torbi favored the man with a long look, pondering. His Ma always told him not to talk to strangers, that strangers made off with children and did all manner of things with them. This one didn’t strike Torbi as the weird sort, but he had to be dangerous. Nobody that was pulled out of the river with that much money in their purse could be harmless.
“Fine,” Torbi said. “But if you hurt my brother, you’ll have to answer to me.”
The man surprised him with a laugh.
“Deal, kid,” he said. “It’s a deal. Here.” He replaced the coins in the purse, and tossed it over. Torbi caught it in his hands, terrified that the money would tumble into the mud and be lost forever. He clutched it with reverence, unsure where to put it. How was he supposed to carry so much money?
“Oh—wait,” the man said. “You can have all of those, except one.”
He gestured, and the purse floated up from Torbi’s hands and hovered in midair. Torbi froze, but Berbin let out another awed sigh and clapped his hands. Berbin had never seen a wizard before.
Neither had Torbi, but Berbin didn’t need to know that.
The wizard gestured, and a single copper mark leapt out of the purse and floated over to his palm. He snatched it out of the air, then dropped the purse back into Torbi’s open hands.
“Not this one,” the wizard said. “I need this one.”
The canoe was large enough for the three of them, even with the wizard lying down in the stern. The man slept so hard that Torbi had to check and see if he’d died after all. Every time he got close, though, the man opened one eye. Torbi decided to leave him be.
Ma would be so proud with all the money. They could finally move out of the Market and into the countryside like she wanted. Maybe Pa would come back. Regardless, his family wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time. For that, he’d row the wizard all the way to Orris if he wanted.
It had been a fine night for fishing, after all.
THE END
Of
BOOK TWO
Of
The Seven Signs
A Note From the Author
I’m stoked you’ve decided to come this far on our little journey. The series is only getting started, and there’s much more to come. I might have said somewhere before that I’ve got plans.
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Thanks for everything, and I hope to see you in book three.
About the Author
D.W. Hawkins lives in southern Arizona.
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More from D.W. Hawkins
The adventure continues in book three of The Seven Signs:
The Old Man of the Temple
An archaic power awakens, but the shadows of antiquity conceal a terrible truth.
Fugitives from the Conclave, Dormael and his friends flee with the armlet in their possession. Hounded by their former allies, they undertake a dangerous trek to an ancient ruin—a place where the only things older than the stones are the secrets buried beneath them. Pain and darkness wait in the halls of the dead, but something worse may be closing in from behind.
With evil stirring, the fate of the world hangs in the balance. Will Dormael and his friends uncover the mystery of the artifact, or be destroyed by those who wish its power for themselves? For Dormael, D’Jenn, and Shawna, failure could mean the destruction of everything they know.
The war is just beginning, and the gods will weigh the price in blood.
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The Knife in the Dark Page 48