D’Jenn looked slightly bewildered as he gained his feet, but said nothing. The three of them spread out, getting some distance and squaring off for the next attack. Shawna balanced easily on the balls of her feet, stepping lightly and flowing like a spring creek from stance to stance as she tried to bait one of the cousins into attacking her. D’Jenn and Dormael were getting better, however, and neither was deceived by her ploy.
Shawna suddenly feinted towards D’Jenn, stepping toward him and throwing a quick left handed thrust in his direction, but D’Jenn’s parry met nothing in mid air as he instinctively brought up his mace in answer. Sensing the opening, Dormael stepped in, swinging his staff in a sideways attack that would have slammed into the ribs of a slower and less trained opponent. Shawna, however, was a trained Blademaster.
Dropping her thrust towards D’Jenn, Shawna suddenly stepped into Dormael’s attack and brought her right blade up to block his swing. The staff whacked and vibrated as it met the magical steel, and Dormael’s arms reverberated with the painful backlash of force. Spinning like a dancer, Shawna slammed her left elbow into Dormael’s nose, and the sudden hot flash of pain blinded him for an instant and brought him to his knees. Her next attack drove the wind from his lungs as her full-force kick hit him squarely in the chest; knocking him on his back and making white spots appear in his vision.
D’Jenn recovered and moved to attack her from behind, throwing a quick combination of mace swings at her. Shawna was already facing him, however, and the night rang with the musical sounds of steel on steel as she checked his blows and danced backwards, opening distance between them. D’Jenn’s last swing put him slightly off balance, and Shawna suddenly sprang forward and tipped her sword point into his belly, pulling the blow at the last instant so as not to bruise him.
“Kill,” she said lightly, and then danced over to where Dormael was groaning and trying to rise. Dormael’s only clue to her next move was the whistle her sword made as it came down towards his neck. He pulled his staff up instinctively, and was only able to block her swing at the last instant, but it was enough. He threw his leg out and contacted her ankles, sweeping her from her feet. Shawna rolled backwards easily, but it was enough to allow him to get to his feet.
He could feel hot blood on his face, undoubtedly pouring from his nose in answer to her elbow. He was bewildered and more than a little out of breath, but he had the presence of mind to start swinging his staff in slow circles; a move she had taught him to keep his opponent guessing. She gave a light giggle at his defense, seeing that her lessons had begun to sink in.
She came on like a thunderstorm, striking at him first high then low, turning and swinging and thrusting in a blinding sequence of attacks that even with all his skill he wasn’t good enough to fend off. She got inside his defense in the space of seconds, and stomped hard down upon his foot, sending a hot explosion of pain up his leg. He had time to utter a quick growl of irritation before her pommel caught him in the face and more spots appeared in his vision. She moved forward with him as he stumbled backward, and while he was trying to keep his feet he felt the cold length of one of her blades lay gently across his neck.
“Kill,” she stated as he fell to his backside.
Sheathing her swords, she turned back to the fire without another word. Dormael lay in the cool wet grass for a few moments, blinking his eyes to try and clear the spots from his sight and to keep his head from swimming. Eventually he saw D’Jenn’s dark form standing over him, offering a hand in assistance, and Dormael took it with a grunt as D’Jenn pulled him to his feet. He brushed grass and dust from his clothing.
“A little rough, wouldn’t you say?” he commented to his cousin, wiping blood from his face and spitting it into the dirt.
“More than a little,” D’Jenn agreed as he helped his cousin limp back to the fire. Shawna had already shed her weapons and was turning in for the night. Dormael decided to let it lie, and Seylia came and squatted next to him when he sank to the earth to rest against his saddle. She pulled a handkerchief from her jacket and began to dab at the blood on his face.
“Well, that was quite the performance,” she commented, “I think it was meant for the both of us, eh?” Dormael only grunted in answer, and he let Seylia clean his face off as the pain in his head became a slow throb. He relit his pipe, and puffed blue smoke into the night air as he leaned back against his saddle, letting his eyes fill with the stars above. He opened his Kai and fed some of his magic into his injuries; that would dull the pain and help with his natural healing. He wished, and not for the first time, that healing abilities with magic were much greater than what they actually were. The rest of the night passed by in silence, the awkward feelings pressing down again like the weight of the world on the companions.
The next morning dawned cold and misty as the one before, and the party was off again at dawn. Dormael’s nose had become a red welt, though his magic had kept the swelling down, and his foot ached something fierce. It made riding almost unbearable, and Horse was oblivious to his rider’s pains as they cantered-trotted-walked down the road toward Gammeritus. Each step jarred his aches and pains until he felt that his heart was pumping fire to his injuries with each beat of Horse’s hooves. The only noise that Dormael made the entire day was a muted grumble.
He sat out of the lessons that night, letting D’Jenn take over the teaching of Bethany’s letters, meditation, and Hunter’s Tongue phrases. Instead he brooded at the edge of the firelight, gazing out across the darkened plains toward the north. He closed his eyes for a time and meditated, reaching out with his magical senses into the world around him.
He sensed rather than saw D’Jenn striding up behind him, and pulled himself from his reverie. His cousin plopped down next to him and pulled out his pipe and tobacco, packing a bowl and then offering the bag of dried leaves to Dormael, who accepted it without comment and packed his own pipe full. Then, D’Jenn pulled out another bottle of wine, acquired from Gods knew where, and uncorked the stopper with his teeth before he took a long pull and offered it to Dormael.
“You can’t brood about this for much longer, coz,” D’Jenn began in a mildly sarcastic tone, “The madder you get, the more satisfied Shawna is with her own behavior. I say act like it never happened, that will frustrate her for sure.”
Dormael couldn’t help but laugh a little at his cousin’s straightforwardness. “And what then should I do to prevent future…ah, practice sessions…from happening, eh? Beg for forgiveness? I’ve done nothing wrong, cousin, remember that,” he answered, passing the bottle back.
“It’s really beside the point, and I would have thought that you’d have learned that by now, what with all the women you’ve known. Women all base their lives on emotion, not sense.”
“Better not let Shawna hear you saying that, or she’ll want to practice with you next.”
“I’m not the one that flirted with her from Borders to Mistfall.”
“I didn’t flirt with her!”
“Whatever you say cousin, something has her kicking you around, and on the verge of doing it to Seylia,” D’Jenn pointed out.
“I told you, the girl flirted with me. I didn’t do anything or make any promises,” Dormael grumbled.
“Why don’t you just toss her around the sheets a bit and get it over with?”
“I would, but that would only make things worse. Those practice sessions would get deadly serious,”
“Well,” D’Jenn said with a note of seriousness returning to his voice, “Whatever you do, do it quickly. This mood hanging over us is going to really get under everyone’s skin soon, and then we’ll start to get careless and make mistakes, and then we’ll start fighting with each other.”
“I think that’s already happened,” Dormael pointed out, tapping on his sore nose.
“Yes, well, a punch in the face is better than a sword in the gut. Sleep well, coz.”
“You too, D’Jenn.”
On the third night away from Mistfall
the companions settled into a small copse of trees off to the northern side of the road. As the twilight receded slowly behind the horizon, everyone sat down to a meal of Traveler’s Stew around a warm campfire. Dormael spooned his stew up hungrily and soaked up the remaining broth with some rough peasant bread that D’Jenn had picked up in the city. The conversation was amiable and the mood was surprisingly light as the two wizards lit their pipes and relaxed. Shawna was inspecting her battle leathers and repairing what needed it, and Seylia was strumming idly on her guitar.
“Tell me another story,” Bethany asked Seylia, breaking a long silence.
“Another story, eh? Well…what shall we tell you tonight? Any suggestions, Dormael?” Seylia asked lightly, elbowing him from a half dozing state and leaning against his arm. Shawna’s eyes narrowed across the fire, and he thought he saw Seylia’s mouth curl into a half smile as she settled more comfortably against him.
“Ah,” he stuttered, “How about the Song of Tirrin?”
“Good choice my magical friend,” Seylia winked.
‘What’s Tirrin?” Bethany asked, intrigued.
“Not what, dear, but who. Tirrin was a Farra-Jerran Kansil many years ago. He died in the Gathan Mountains, on a raid against the Garthorin,” D’Jenn explained.
“The Garthorin?” Bethany echoed.
“Aye, the Garthorin…monsters that live in the mountains north of the Sevenlands. It’s been something of a sport in the north to send raiding parties into the mountains to kill as many of them as possible,” D’Jenn explained.
“They killed him?” Bethany asked in a near whisper.
“Well, Seylia can tell you the story,” Dormael informed, nodding toward the blonde Sevenlander woman.
“Ok, here goes…,” Seylia began, striking a minor chorded melody on her guitar.
“Cold winter winds blew, the ice formed anew
The day that Tirrin rode forth
With sword, shield, and lance and lover’s last glance
He made for the cold, barren north
Through low stunted tree and loose rocky scree
Tirrin and party rode past
Into the snow and no man would know
That this would be Tirrin’s last
Into the mouth of the storm he rode
Carrying his ring and his crown
Over the ice he met his foes
And they struck bold Tirrin down…”
Seylia sang the song in a light silvery voice, going through the stanzas with the practiced ease of a professional. Bethany listened raptly as she continued, swaying back and forth in time to the music and smiling as she was absorbed fully into the story. Entranced, Dormael leaned against his saddle and took long pulls from his pipe, imagining the Mountain Men tearing the foolish Farra-Jerran Kansil from the saddle and ripping him apart. Grim thoughts, but if the story was true, then that is what would have happened.
According to the legend, and what was taught at the Conclave, Tirrin was as foolish a Kansil that ever ruled the Farra-Jerrans. Exactly how he came into power had never been discovered, though the philosophers like to think that he weaseled his way into the position somehow. Dormael suspected that it was something a little different.
Apparently Tirrin had been something of an amazing warrior, incredibly skilled in melee combat and horsemanship. The Farra-Jerran Clan Leaders probably supported him for just that reason; speculating that prowess in battle would equate to a powerful leadership, which all too often is not the case.
The story went that Tirrin spent much of his time at sport, chasing women, and going on raids into the Garthorin territory. The Garthorin have a tendency to group together in the wintertime, when they can horde what they kill. Though the Mountain Madmen are utterly insane, they are semi-intelligent.
Tirrin apparently led a suicide charge into one such “village” of Garthorin; riding to his own death and taking twenty others with him. He had lost his crown and a ring of some sort; some kind of heirloom that was symbolic of something that no one knew anymore. Many hunts had been sent into the mountains looking for Tirrin’s lost treasure, though none returned with it. The story was that it was priceless and powerful beyond measure, and Dormael suspected that it never even existed, or that if it did, it was just a piece of jewelry or something of the sort. No one really knew, of course, seeing as how it all happened hundreds of years ago and history has its way of falling into the mists of myth and legend. To this day, many peddlers tried to sell cheap trinkets dubbed “Tirrin’s Lost Treasure” to anyone who was foolish enough to buy them.
As Seylia struck the last chord Bethany clapped and the two wizards offered a half hearted salute with their pipes. Seylia smiled like the sun and placed her guitar carefully to the side. Dormael, seeing Shawna watching him from across the fire, stood up and stretched. He bid everyone goodnight and moved his blankets off to the side of the fire to sleep alone. He could feel both of the women watching him as he did so, and could sense D’Jenn’s amusement at the entire situation emanating from him even though he gave no outward sign of it.
He felt obligated to talk to Shawna about everything that had been happening, but he could tell from her demeanor that now wasn’t the time. As he settled into his blankets he gazed up at the stars in the clear night sky and tried to let the stress of the day bleed away. Within minutes he was content, employing his meditation techniques he learned at the Conclave to help him sleep. The last thing he remembered was the twinkling stars above.
****
Suddenly Dormael was standing on rolling hills. He knew immediately he was dreaming; the horizon was faded in all directions into the familiar haze he had experienced before, during the dream he had in Alderak. There was no sound save the blowing wind in his ears, but it was distant and faded. Everything seemed to move as if it was underwater, and the sky was a roiling mass of gray storm clouds moving into the distance.
His sight was twisted and strange, as if he were viewing everything through a looking glass. He tried to look around and get his bearings. The grass around him was waist high and tan in color, and as he ran his hand through it the strands undulated away from his touch, as if it were a thinking entity and found his fingers repugnant. In the distance, in the direction that he felt was north, there were high craggy mountains reaching toward the clouds like jagged teeth biting at the sky. Their summits disappeared into the haze and his distorted vision made them appear to twist toward the roiling clouds. As he moved his head his surroundings seemed to move, like the things in his peripheral vision were closer than they actually were. It was as if everything rolled across his eyes.
He felt suddenly sick as a wave ran though his world, putting pressure into his stomach and sending lightning through his skull. He turned toward the source of the feeling, and there was that ancient grotto in the distance, like a lonely monolith in a lost reality. He knew what was coming, so he stepped toward it.
The land blurred past him in a sickening torrent, and suddenly he was standing before the ancient temple. Grey cracked pillars rose like frozen fingers around the stone floor of the grotto, twisted with ivy that seemed oddly out of place in this strange landscape. It was a vibrant green that seemed to shine against the muted neutral tones of his surroundings. It tickled at his mind; teasing the edge of his memory with meaning, but the answers escaped him for the moment. He turned toward the giant bowl in the center of the temple.
The clear deep water that he remembered from before was gone. In its place was a roiling torrent, a mass of energy that reflected the vast sky above that he could only barely recognize as water. It was as if the bowl in that small rural temple held the whole of the Stormy Sea in its depths. Dormael moved closer to investigate.
“Ketha. Ketha liest uv magrim.”
The voice startled Dormael from his appraisal of the stone bowl. He turned toward the sound of the words, his heart racing and his eyes gone wide. There was a man kneeling there, a man in his middle years with dark hair and tanned skin. He was d
ressed in an ancient brigandine, metal scales overlapping over a leather backing, and was carrying a rounded shield. At his side swung a saber; a single edged blade slightly curved, designed for cavalry. His face was lowered in supplication, and his fist was placed upon the floor of the stone grotto. Dormael realized that the man couldn’t see him.
“Ketha liest uv mag colliyeta.”
His words were strained, almost a whisper, and Dormael could see the man’s shoulders lowered in a near-defeated expression. Please hear my call was the rough translation of his words. He was speaking Old Vendon; an ancient Sevenlander language that was long since lost to antiquity.
Suddenly another of those waves rolled through the dream world, and Dormael was nearly knocked to his knees from the dizziness it caused him. He grabbed the edge of the bowl to steady himself, and as he hauled his body back to an upright position he noticed that the water in the bowl had grown still as glass.
“Ketha…”
There was a warm breeze that wove through the pillars of the grotto, making the vibrant green ivy move lovingly in its caress. Again, Dormael was struck by a strange feeling that he was missing something about the ivy, that some strange signal was lost upon him. He turned back to the man genuflecting on the floor of the temple.
Suddenly he was assaulted by images and impressions.
Behind the praying man stood another, younger man; his eyes were a fierce green, burning like flaming emeralds behind the nosepiece of an ancient war helm. He was in full battle kit; a shining but dented breastplate over a chain hauberk that ended slightly above his knees. Across his shoulder was slung a great sheathed sword, terrible and awesome to behold as he reached over his shoulder to draw it. Wrath emanated from him like heat from a great fire.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 39