The Sentient Fire
Book One of the Seven Signs
By
D. W. Hawkins
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Sentient Fire
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Copyright © 2011 Daniel Wesley Hawkins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Cover Art Design: Jason Peek and Daniel Wesley Hawkins
Cover Art: Jason Peek
Interior Maps and Illustrations: Jason Peek
Copyright © 2011 Daniel Wesley Hawkins
Edited by: Judy Brooks
Visit the author website: http://www.dwhawkins.com
For my father, who gifted me with a love for books.
For my wife, who gave me love, patience, drive, and support.
For Jason, who’s been on this journey with me since the beginning.
And for you who are reading this now.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Escape
Dark Tidings
Lords, Swordswomen, and Fools
Lord’s March
Close Calls and Rude Awakenings
The Fall of House Llewan
Betrayal
The Festival of Frost
Ripples in the Water
The Marked and the Blessed
To Purchase the Passage
The Stormy Sea
Betrayals
Seylia Six Strings
Swords versus Strings
Veltasi, Veltasya, Veltastajum
Crossing Spears
Waking the Fire
Hidden Unrest
Reunion
Revelations and Betrayals
Soul of the Fire
Unsanctioned Operatives
Echoes in the Dark
Seeking a Path
Tamasis
Uncomfortable Conversations
Easy Run
A Slug in a Mud Pit
The Worst Laid Plans
Echoes of a Tragedy
The Ghost of Regret
To Dance with the Dead
A Barrow to Lie In
Epilogue
Prologue
Ishamael stood on the balcony of the newly built Hall of Chiefs and gazed out over the growing city. It was young, yet. The chiefs had all insisted upon naming the city for him, and though he’d disliked the idea right away, their fervor had won out, and so the city took his name. It was a strange contrast, in Ishamael’s mind – a young city carrying the name of a tired, old man.
He sighed, watching the construction of some new grand idea of Indalvian’s. His shamans, wizards, he was calling them now, using the old word, were busy blasting out holes in the earth and piling dirt into enormous mounds. They had scores of common laborers working for them, carting this or that around or shoring up the walls of the great hole they were digging. Ishamael had feared that they would blast open the tunnels that had already been painstakingly laid over the past years, but Indalvian had assured him that the greatest care would be taken.
“Brooding again?” said the familiar voice from behind him. Ishamael turned to regard the man he’d been thinking on. Though Ishamael knew that Indalvian was well into his sixtieth year, just as Ishamael himself was, the damnable man appeared no older than his late forties. Clean shaven and solemn, Indalvian approached and offered Ishamael a slender tankard of what smelled like warm, spiced wine. Ishamael accepted it with a nod and turned back to look over the city.
“No matter how many years pass, I still return to this spot and wonder whether I’ve done the right thing, old friend. I wonder if she’d be proud of me.”
“Ah,” Indalvian said, leaning out and placing his elbows onto the railing, “I see. I believe she would have. You’ll worry yourself into your grave if you brood ever much on this, Ishamael. There was only one course of action that would keep us from more civil war, and you took it. I’d say that you not only did the right thing. You did the only thing you could do.”
“And the Gatha? Do you think the Gods approved of my punishment of my own people?”
Indalvian grew quiet at this. He didn’t like to speak on the matter, and Ishamael couldn’t blame him. Ishamael himself didn’t enjoy the discussion, but as he got older, his mind returned to it more and more.
“I do not presume to know the minds of the Gods, Ishamael,” Indalvian sighed, “I do, however, worry about your own. If you truly wish it, we could reassemble the fragments of the Nar’doroc and lift the curse.”
“No,” Ishamael said, “I have given my word on that matter. If I were to call the chiefs back and demand the pieces from them, it would mean more strife. They must stay separate, and hidden, perhaps forever. No good can come of the thing. It is a tool of war.”
Indalvian sighed, as if he’d expected the answer, and continued, “You grow more and more distracted, my friend. The chiefs send their clan heads here to inquire on your condition, though they pretend to be bringing routine news of their own lands and tribes.”
“I’ve told them not to do this. We are a free people. They are not beholden to me.”
“They respect you, old friend. They look to you for guidance. Your…abjection causes them distress. They still wish you to lead them, or name a successor.”
“The wars are over, Indalvian. I am only an old man, now.”
“An old man who holds the first Vendon city that bears his own name. You must face the facts, old friend. Whatever has happened in the past, you are still their leader. You are the chief of chiefs. You led us through the darkest times in all of our songs, and the people still respect and love you.”
“And what would you have me do, Indalvian? My family is gone. I have no heirs, and I wouldn’t set them to power if I had any. It goes against our ways, my friend. I will not set up a kingdom like some fat, Eastern thug. I will build no dynasties.”
Indalvian laughed at Ishamael’s comment. Ishamael would have been angry at him, but he was too old and tired to worry on such things anymore. Besides, Indalvian was his shaman. He was Blessed by the Gods, and so he gained reprieve from the usual courtesies.
Sometimes, though, he did feel like throttling his old friend and advisor.
“Ishamael,” Indalvian said, “I’m not asking you to b
ed some maiden and father a child on her. We must look to the future, however. How would you like to leave this world, hmm? You have done something that no one has done in the past. You have united the tribes, my friend. We are no longer separate peoples roaming our lands. We are one people, now. We are united. You must leave us that way, or everything we have worked for all these years will come crashing down.”
Ishamael grew quiet at this. He knew Indalvian was right. If he didn’t do something, then everything would devolve back into civil war.
“What would you have me do?” Ishamael asked.
“What you always do, my friend. Do what you think is right.”
Ishamael turned his gaze back out over the young city. It truly was a wonder. Indalvian and his fellow shamans – Ishamael refused to call them wizards, it was just too strange – had been a blessing. They’d designed and helped with the building of everything here. Without them, this place would still be a riverside trading post.
“You mean to build a Hall of Shamans?” Ishamael asked.
“Something of the sort. I picture it as more of a school than anything else; a place where all of the Blessed can come and learn to use their gifts, and find common cause with one another.”
“You mean to unite them under one authority.”
“Yes.”
“Yours?”
“For a time. Others will succeed me, of course. But my time on this world is not yet done, my friend. I still have much to do.”
“I can’t help but feel that my own time is drawing to a close, Indalvian. There have been so many things that I wish I could change. I wish that Liandri was still here. I miss her so much, old friend.”
“I know,” Indalvian nodded, sighing. They both stood there, looking over the city that they’d created, watching the progress. The sun crept slowly toward the horizon as the two old men kept silent company with each other.
“Do what I think is right, then?” Ishamael said, glancing over at Indalvian.
“As always, my friend.”
“It’s going to be difficult.”
Indalvian laughed again, and slapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. “It always is, old friend. It always is.”
****
Part I
Escape
Chapter One
Dark Tidings
The air was chill on Shawna’s tear-stained and wind-burnt face as she rode through the night. She could feel Charlotte’s muscles rippling slowly beneath her, but from the sound of her breathing Shawna would have to get off and walk her again soon. The poor horse had been ridden hard tonight, and if she kept up this pace then Charlotte would surely die before morning.
The arrow shaft that still protruded from Shawna’s left side sent shocks of pain through her body every time her cloak brushed it as it blew in the wind. She was still bleeding slowly, and the warm rivulets that ran inside of her padded shirt at least kept her warm until they dried, sticky and pooling along her left hip. Her breathing was coming shorter now, and her hands and feet were beginning to tickle with that needling feeling that inevitably leads to numbness. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to take her reins and defy the pain that was slowly gripping her midsection into agony. She would not die here, not tonight. She had made an oath, and she intended to keep it. Though soon thoughts of a cold, bleeding death here on the side of this lonely and quiet road became a reality all too quickly in her mind, and sent fingers of fear into her brain. The urge to give up was slowly working its way past her resolve.
Her father had instilled in her a sense of duty; duty to her family, a duty to her people, and a duty that she’d only taken up tonight. Her father was dead, now. She still wasn’t sure why it had happened. Her thoughts shifted again to that thing in her saddlebag, and she shook her head in consternation.
The heavy wind rose again and blew a gust into her face, driving her cloak hood back against her shoulders and filling her eyes with the grit of the dusty road. She tried to raise her left arm to shield herself but gave a little squeal in pain instead when she realized that moving it hurt too badly. She turned her head away from the wind instead and it drove her long reddish gold hair across her face. Shawna felt a bout of frustration welling up in her again and her eyes swelled with fresh tears. She had to get to Alton. If only she could make it before the Red Swords caught up with her.
The moon shone brightly down on the road tonight, as if it was trying to mock her. She could use some more shadows right now. There were sparsely-spaced trees about the sides of the road, throwing their long shadows in her path like dark barriers in the night, but these would do no good to conceal her. She rode on numbly, hunched over in the saddle, fighting the exhaustion and pain that was threatening to drag her down. Hope swelled within her as she began to notice the sound of waves crashing against rocks somewhere ahead, and her nose detected the tang of saltwater in the air. Soon, she rounded a corner and saw in the distance the lights of the great port city of Ferolan.
Shawna smiled to herself and relaxed somewhat, relief flooding through her. She had made it, and ahead of the Red Swords that were definitely chasing her by now. She let Charlotte walk towards the city, and though it would be another couple of hours before she made it there, she felt as if she had won. She heard no sounds of pursuit behind her, and Ferolan lay right in her path. Alton was in Ferolan, and he would help her.
A small sigh escaped her lips as Shawna slumped in the saddle, the pain and exhaustion finally pulling her into unconsciousness. Only chance kept her from falling into the dirt, and only experience and training kept Charlotte from spooking as her rider went suddenly limp. Uncomprehending, Charlotte continued her slow, ponderous walk where Shawna had pointed her.
****
Dormael sat upright suddenly, sending his head swimming fiercely with the ale he had been drinking. At least, he thought that was all he had been drinking. He couldn’t actually remember what it was. There was only one way to find out, so Dormael commenced to take another long pull from the mug in front of him. It was ale alright, and warm ale at that.
His vision blurred in two and he swept his arm before his face in a futile gesture to try and wash away the effects that the ale was having on his sight. Of course, the movement only caused his mind to swim even worse, and he grasped the edge of the table he was sitting at firmly to avoid an embarrassing fall, face first, into the floor. Taking a deep breath of the stale and smoky air that surrounded him, he slowly began to gather his wits.
Something had awoken him suddenly, and it wasn’t the usual tap from a barmaid to usher him to consciousness. While he had definitely been asleep with his head laid drunkenly upon the table, it seemed that he had escaped the notice of the serving wenches so far. Lucky me, he thought as he ran a single palm down his face in another of those futile drunken gestures.
The tavern around him was alive with noise and revelry. It was a dockside tavern, close enough to the wharves to catch the business of the sailors from the boats and the workmen of the docks. Barmaids dodged in and out of the boisterous crowd, ducking through small groups of singing men and only occasionally being caught with the familiar pinch on the bottom that drunken men seemed to dole out constantly. A man was perched on a table at the far end of the bar, strumming a guitar to a bawdy song that seemed to be about a merchant’s daughter’s naked adventures with his caravan guards. Every now and then during the song the avid listeners gathered around the musician would bang their mugs on their tables, shouting a boisterous “Hey!” and laugh raucously. Dormael smiled to himself, their happiness rubbing off on him just a bit.
The sooty orange glow of lanterns lit the scene, casting a merry ambience on those gathered in the alehouse, and the enticing smell of roasting fish mingled with tobacco smoke floated through the air. Woodchips were scattered on the floor just in case someone decided to spill their stomach, and the acidic smell of vomit was kept at bay somewhat by the smell of the sawdust. All in all, it seemed like a nice place to spend the evening,
and Dormael gave himself an imaginary pat on the back for coming here.
The only problem was, he couldn’t quite remember where here was at the moment. The constant illusion of the room spinning told him the reason for that, and he giggled in spite of himself. Dormael wasn’t too worried about it, he was just glad that he had awakened with his belongings and purse intact. Well, his purse was somewhat intact, anyway. Mug after mug of ale had taken its toll on his coin.
Dormael was a traveler, and he lived his life like a vagabond. It’s not so much that he didn’t have a purpose, far from it, he just made sure that whatever job he was currently tied to took him far abroad in the world. He quite enjoyed walking the roads and exploring the lands, and he liked to think that it was a romantic sort of life. It was just him, his meager belongings, and the road. He liked it that way, and he enjoyed living out the sort of adventure story that his life had become.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 1