The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Do you so enjoy this, brother?” Maarkov asked him accusingly.

  “And why not,” the necromancer shot at him with a sneer on his face, “otherwise my life would be as empty and devoid as yours, flesh and blood.” Maarkov spat on the floor and stalked to the doorway, and had one hand on the handle before a word from his brother stopped him.

  “Maarkov,” the voice behind him rasped. He turned to look at his brother once again. “See to the captain’s crew. I want that ship re-crewed and re-outfitted to sail within the week.”

  “And the bodies of those thirty or so men?”

  “Burn them. Do it quietly, we wouldn’t want these military types in the camp getting up in arms about their countrymen failing the Empire would we?”

  “Maybe if they did, they would burn you, brother.”

  “And wouldn’t you just enjoy the hell out of that?”

  Maarkov gave one last hate filled stare to his sneering brother before stalking out into the camp to see to the crew of the galleon. “Fuck yourself,” was all he said in reply.

  ****

  Mistfall was a city alive with people. People trotted to and fro on errands, yelled happy greetings from second or third-story windows, screamed advertisements for their wares or news of recent events at large street intersections. Dormael smiled and took in the sights, smells and sounds of this sea of humanity.

  The Crescent City was built mostly of red bricks and grey stones, though the outer walls were granite, dark and foreboding in the cool mid day sun. Ivy climbed the walls in many places, and the Sevenlanders who lived here did little to discourage the creeper vines from growing. Sevenlanders were fond of the earth and its plants, and they actually preferred to add a little green flavor to the bare stone walls that surrounded the city. Dormael thought that perhaps it was a throwback to his tribe’s nomadic roots, and that all Sevenlanders felt slightly claustrophobic when enclosed in a city wall.

  Mistfall was born out of a need for trade, and the city had prospered in the wake of the treaties with Lesmira, and later Cambrell and other countries. In later years as the harbor was built and Rashardian piracy reached its heights, the Council of Seven saw fit to build walls and fortifications around the city. The Kansils realized long ago that though Sevenlanders rarely built cities, it was prudent to give an enemy something substantial to attack and most other cultures in the world seemed to have a burning need to break their armies against the walls of cities and castles. It also gave villagers something defensive to retreat to during times of war.

  Though she was not the Tribal Seat, the city in which the Clan Leaders of Soirus-Gamerit met for tribal councils and considered the base of power for the entire tribe; Mistfall was the wealthiest city in Soirus-Gamerit. A myriad of all peoples came through the Crescent City, and there was just as varied a collection of his countrymen that considered the city home.

  Looking out across the faces of the people he saw strolling along, he spotted Orrisans, Runemians, Teptians, Farra-Jerrans, and even a few people up from the savannahs of Tasha-Mal. Mals were ever a nomadic tribe, hanging on harder to their traditions than the rest of their Sevenlander brethren. A strong and robust people, they hunted lions on the veldt and held some of the most famous Festivals in the entire Sevenlands. Dormael greeted them as they passed him, and the motley group of hunters raised their spears in return of his gesture.

  He rode Horse at an easy walk down the boulevards headed north from the Temple District, where the Conclave chapterhouse was located. He meandered past a market district that sat just north of the Conclave docks, and as he came farther north the cries of merrymakers and merchants reached his ears as he neared the Western Tradefair.

  The Tradefairs were a tradition in Mistfall, as Sevenlanders from all over Soirus-Gamerit came to trade goods, stories, and to share in the company of their countrymen. They were the main reason that Mistfall had prospered so much, as many sailors and merchants from around the world came here to trade with the Sevenlanders. Firewine and the sweet pipeweed grown in the mountains were the two highest selling commodities in the Tradefairs, but Sweetpenny tea and jewelry were also high sellers.

  Tents and wooden stands carpeted the park that had been set aside for the Western Tradefair, and people of varied descent and dress moved among them, searching for goods or simply strolling in the cool midday winter sun. There were ale tents, and Dormael could hear the sounds of mugs clinking with toasts and even a few drunken voices rising in an off-key tune. It brought a smile to his face to be home again.

  He nudged Horse on through the throngs of strolling passersby, and as the sun reached its noonday peak, the Golden Mug came in sight along the street. It was a large building, built of brick and mortar, and above its open double doors hung a wooden sign adorned with the painting of a mug filled to the brim with frothy, golden ale. It was one of the most famous Inns in Mistfall, and a destination for many travelling musicians who peddled their own wares before crowds of merry patrons. Even now as he gave his mount over to a stable boy, the sound of clinking silverware and the voices of many people floated easily to his ears. Above the general racket, the sweet sounds of a guitar lilted from the door like smoke from a pipe, playing an upbeat jig. Dormael clapped the hard faced man at the door on the back, and strode into the Inn.

  He spotted D’Jenn, Shawna and Bethany as soon as he walked in the door. D’Jenn, as always, had picked a table near the back wall of the Inn where he could see the door. He waved to them as he came in, and D’Jenn waved back, then his fingers began waggling in the Hunter’s Tongue.

  Look and see who’s on stage, cousin, D’Jenn signed. Dormael shrugged and jostled up to the bar to grab some ale from a smiling barkeep with a bald head and a stained apron tied around his thin frame. Once he had sufficiently satisfied his thirst, he turned to see what D’Jenn was talking about.

  He was struck dumb by who he saw. She was blonde, so blonde indeed that her hair spilled from her head like molten gold to fall in rich waves upon her narrow shoulders. It was braided in some places and loose in others, after the fashions of Runeme, and there were tiny silver bells and even a flower braided into the shiny locks. She wore leather travelling pants, tanned black, and shiny black shoes with a golden buckle upon each one. Her shirt was loose-fitting white linen, and her sleeves were pulled up to accommodate not only the strumming of her guitar, but also the multitude of golden bracelets that adorned her tanned, supple arms.

  She was the source of the upbeat music he had heard earlier, and she sang with her eyes closed and her heart open, pulling the crowd of merrymakers into her music and putting a smile on every face in the room to match her own. She was utterly enchanting, and Dormael himself had told her that often enough. When her song was over and she opened her eyes, she spotted Dormael at the bar and her smile grew even larger, her big blue eyes filling with joy. Dormael smiled back and nodded at her in greeting, and she bowed to the applause that was offered graciously before jumping from the stage and running to enfold Dormael in a warm and happy embrace.

  “You vagabond of a magus, where in the Six Hells have you been the past couple of years?” she exclaimed, planting a warm friendly kiss on his cheek.

  “Here and there, you know,” he replied, smiling just as friendly, “it’s good to see you again, Seylia.”

  “You to,” she admitted with a wry grin on her face, “I saw that crazy cousin of yours over near the wall. Tell me, who’s the girl? Which one of you womanizing goats has laid claim to her?”

  “Neither, actually,” Dormael protested, “she’s just a friend, Seylia. That’s no woman of ours.”

  “And the child? Did you finally get some poor maiden pregnant?”

  “Oh no,” he laughed, “That I surely haven’t done! It’s actually a long story. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  “So, the woman and child aren’t yours?” she ventured. Dormael shook his head in reply, and she eyed him with a sideways consideration and raised one eyebrow. “Interesting,” she
commented, and then she allowed Dormael to take her arm and lead her over to the table.

  Seylia gave D’Jenn a warm friendly embrace, laughing and planting a light peck on his cheek just as she had with Dormael. Dormael introduced her to Shawna, and they shook hands and gave wary smiles. Seylia then turned and eyed Bethany strangely, and with an expression of mock seriousness, she offered her hand. Bethany smiled and grabbed her hand with both of her own tiny hands, and the two shook hands, giggling like little girls. Seylia had always had a way with people.

  “So where have you two been for the last couple of years? I looked for you in Ishamael the last time I passed through, but you were nowhere to be found,” Seylia began, sitting down between the wizards and ordering a glass of firewine.

  “We’ve been out on assignment for a little while,” D’Jenn said elusively, “I was in Dannon for a while, and Dormael went down to Neleka and then on to Tasha-Mal.”

  “Neleka, eh? Before or after the Galanians moved in?” Seylia asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Directly before the invasion,” Dormael answered, “I had some business to attend to there, but I got out in time.” Memories came unbidden to Dormael, and he pushed them down to the back of his mind. He noticed Shawna looking strangely at him, a sort of pitying expression, and he wondered what she was thinking.

  “What were you doing up in Dannon, D’Jenn?” Seylia inquired.

  “Freezing, mostly,” D’Jenn quipped, “You know how the weather is up there.”

  “Why are you two so elusive all the time with your goings on?” Seylia sighed, taking a dainty sip from her wine glass.

  “You know why, Seylia,” Dormael admonished her. This whole thing was a routine that they always went through, a sort of elaborate greeting.

  “Still, if you keep it up for much longer, I may have to consider finding you two to be tedious friends to have in a few years or so,” Seylia commented slyly.

  “You haven’t found us tedious yet,” Dormael countered, “not with all the men of the Sevenlands vying for your attentions.”

  “Well, you are mildly interesting, after all,” Seylia giggled. She then turned to Shawna and placed her elbows on the table, leaning forward. “So tell me, Shawna, how is it that you came to be Island-trained? A female Blademaster is a rare thing, indeed.”

  Shawna tensed impulsively at Seylia’s mild, conversational tone and looked around as if she were expecting the Red Swords themselves to jump from the corners of the room and subdue her. Seylia noticed her discomfort and laughed a sultry peal deep in her throat. She waved her hand dismissively in a comforting gesture to Shawna and took another sip from her wine glass, which only seemed to embarrass and anger Shawna even more.

  “Don’t worry, dear, I’ve seen a few things in my travels, and those tattoos on your wrists are like battle standards to anyone who knows what to look for. There are no enemies here, though,” Seylia said comfortingly, but with a slight undertone of disdain that set Dormael’s hackles up a bit. He hoped that Shawna hadn’t caught it, but the look on her face clearly said that she had heard it, and heard it well. Dormael jumped in to quickly change the subject.

  “So Seylia, how long have you been here in Mistfall?” he interrupted. Both women eyed him askance. Shawna had a slightly injured and insulted look on her face, her cheeks beginning to twinge pink with embarrassment, but Seylia had a sly twinkle in her eyes that bespoke clearly of her intentions of baiting the young noblewoman. Dormael hoped things didn’t get out of hand.

  “A week or two,” she replied in an offhand manner, “I’ve been playing around town, you know. I played the House of Nero two nights past.”

  “A booking worthy of applause, there,” D’Jenn commented, “Mansar Nero is considered to be the richest man in Soirus-Gamerit.”

  “Dormael, did you know that Allen went back to the Ring this year?” Seylia asked abruptly.

  “I thought that he might, but I was in Tasha-Mal on the Summer Solstice and I couldn’t make it out there to see the tournament. Directly after, I went to Alderak to meet up with D’Jenn,” he answered.

  “Well you know that he won, right? He was declared the Champion for the fourth year in a row,” Seylia commented, which brought an immediate smile to Dormael’s face. He turned, grinning to his cousin and D’Jenn clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Allen is quite the warrior,” D’Jenn agreed, “I think he’d even give you a hard contest, Shawna. He may even beat you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what any of you are talking about,” Shawna said icily.

  “Every year on the Summer Solstice, there is a contest held in Tept,” Dormael explained, “It’s a tournament to determine who the best warrior in all of the Sevenlands is. Allen, the man of whom we are speaking, is my brother. He’s a regular competitor, as you’ve heard. I’m sure you can put the rest of it together.”

  “What are the rules of the tournament?” Shawna inquired, suddenly interested.

  “Well, you have to be a Sevenlander to enter it,” D’Jenn began, counting off the points with his fingers, “You have to win a certain number of preliminary tourneys. The competitors are very plentiful, so only the top six fights are held on the Solstice. The contestants aren’t allowed to bring weapons, they’re only allowed to use what the crowd or the officials throw to them, which could end up being anything.”

  “I once saw a man win a fight with an empty sack,” Seylia laughed.

  “In any case,” Dormael continued the explanation, “The only other rule is that you aren’t allowed to kill the other contestant purposefully. The battle is to the yield, not the death.”

  “Purposefully?” Shawna asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well, it is a fight. Accidental deaths are bound to occur from time to time, but it’s rare that it actually happens,” D’Jenn replied. Shawna nodded and sipped her wine.

  “So,” Seylia asked, “are you two headed up to Dormael’s homestead?”

  “We may stop there on the way,” Dormael answered, looking sideways at D’Jenn, “but we’re headed towards Ishamael.”

  “The Conclave, eh? It’s always work, work, work with you, Dormael,” Seylia commented.

  “Not always, dear, you just always seem to catch me lately when I have something to do. I take vacations.”

  “Not with me, you haven’t,” Seylia winked. Dormael coughed into his hand and laughed to cover his slight embarrassment at her forwardness. Seylia had always had a way of catching him off-guard. D’Jenn smiled knowingly and took a long pull from his ale flagon. Shawna stared daggers at Dormael and Seylia, while Seylia pointedly ignored Shawna.

  The serving girl brought them all another round of drinks, breaking the awkward moment that was coalescing at the table.

  “So fill us in on the news, Seylia,” D’Jenn prompted, “we’ve been out of touch for a while.”

  “Well,” Seylia began, “the Rashardians have been raiding more than usual lately. They haven’t broken the Southern Bastion, of course, but they’ve been sending skirmishes more frequently. Some say they are getting ready for another war.”

  “I don’t really think so,” Dormael said, “if it was war they wanted the southern front would be quiet. Perhaps it is some sort of diversionary tactic, but I wouldn’t worry much about it. The Conclave keeps a close watch on Rashardia for the Council.”

  “I thought that the last war between the Sevenlands and Rashardia was the Second Great War,” Shawna interjected.

  “The last official war, yes,” Dormael explained, “but the Rashardians have ever been our enemies.”

  “The Sevenlander learns hatred of the Rashardian with his first words,” Seylia put in.

  “As long as anyone can remember, as long as history has been recorded,” D’Jenn added, “Rashardia has been hungry for our lands. As you may or may not know, Rashardia is a desolate place. They have deep mines and much gold, but the farmland is scarce. Rashardia invaded us long ago, and we pushed them out and built the Sout
hern Bastion to protect against further sorties by land. They send a few skirmishers out to the walls of the Bastion each year to test our mettle, and a great number of sea raiders to try and pillage our shores, but we keep them at bay. Rashardia’s hunger has never been sated, however, so we are in a constant state of silent war with them.”

  “I see,” Shawna said.

  “Apparently,” Seylia continued her recounting of local events, “Rashardia has a new emperor. Some people are saying that the increased activity in the south is his doing, and not the usual supply raids that the clansmen conduct.”

  “Still,” D’Jenn said, “if it was war he wanted, would he not mass his army for one large assault?”

  “It could be a diversionary tactic,” Dormael interjected.

  “Yes, but for what? Rashardia can’t make a move without the Conclave knowing about it and alerting the Kansils,” D’Jenn asserted.

  “It is as you say, cousin,” Dormael admitted, “But I can’t help but think that we haven’t heard the last of this.”

  “We’ll never hear the last of it until Rashardia is burnt and its empire crumbled to dust. It is as it ever was,” D’Jenn replied darkly.

  The day passed on into evening, and soon Dormael began to feel the effects of the ale and firewine warming his belly. The candles were lit in the common room and a warm, merry glow encompassed everything. Soon Seylia was called away to perform again, and Dormael listened only half heartedly to her music while he conversed idly with Shawna and D’Jenn. Bethany dozed in her chair.

  “So,” Shawna began carefully, “how do the two of you know the blonde girl? Is she…” Shawna wiggled her fingers in that gesture that she continually used to describe magic.

  “A wizard? No,” D’Jenn laughed warmly, “Seylia is an old friend. She’s just a travelling minstrel, and quite a good one at that.”