Maaz was always full of surprises, though.
“We head west from here,” Maaz said, nodding in the direction that the Hunter had gone, “My pet will track them for us, and we can follow from a distance.”
“You don’t want to ambush them and take the relic?” Maarkov asked, genuinely confused for once.
“No. Not yet. They escaped the city last night through the tunnels for some reason. I want to know why. For now, we follow, and we watch. I have a feeling that they will lead us to something eventually, and when they do it will be a simple matter to kill them and take whatever it is they’re after as well as the artifact.”
Maarkov sighed. He’d really hoped this ordeal was going to be over soon.
“Don’t fret, dear brother,” Maaz hissed at him, smiling mockingly as he drew his hood up over his bald head, “Your whores will keep.” With that, Maaz nudged his horse into a walk, and moved off into the darkness. The two strega stepped off silently after him, leaving Maarkov and his horse alone.
He grumbled as he nudged his own mount after his brother and his two servants.
This just keeps getting better and better.
****
Chapter Twenty Four
Uncomfortable Conversations
Dormael’s thoughts turned continuously to Tamasis throughout the next day. He was tormented by the questions that ran through his mind about the strange entity, and was silent for the better part of the morning. D’Jenn and Allen seemed to be deep in some important conversation and paid him no mind, but Shawna would shoot Dormael worried glances from time to time, doubtless wondering about the subject of his brooding silence. Dormael let her worry – he wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
This day seemed to be a perfect reproduction of the day prior, save for a cool breeze that whipped across the pleasant hills and chilled Dormael’s skin. It was a whisper of winter’s grasp on the land, slowly weakening before oncoming spring. It lent the day a comfortable quality, though, as if the weather were conspiring to keep his spirits high. Sadly, the weather did nothing to banish the questions about Tamasis from his thoughts.
He found himself staring at the back of Bethany’s head as they rode. Tamasis had been greatly interested in the girl, and Dormael wondered why the entity had asked about her. She sat in the saddle, gazing out at the hills around them silently, and for once disdaining the idle tapping of Dormael’s goatee against the saddle horn.
“Bethany? I need to ask you a few things, dear,” Dormael said, before he could stop himself from breaching the subject.
“Alright,” the girl replied, still looking out into the surroundings.
“Bethany…do you remember your parents?”
The girl grew quiet, and Dormael could feel the muscles of her back stiffen against him. He felt instantly embarrassed by asking her the question, but he couldn’t get the Mekai’s words and Tamasis’s interest out of his mind. He had to know.
“I…,” she started, then took a deep breath and looked down at her idle hands, “I don’t remember. Not much…it makes me sad to remember.”
Shawna looked back over her shoulder and frowned at Dormael and Bethany, having overheard the question. She caught Dormael’s eyes and shook her head slightly, as if imploring him silently to give off of the line of questioning. Dormael, however, gritted his teeth and continued. He had to know.
“Do you remember where you grew up, little one? Was it Ferolan?”
“No,” Bethany replied, “I was…taken there.” She clamped her mouth shut and continued to stare down at her hands.
“Bethany,” Dormael said in a soothing tone, “We don’t have to talk about this now, dear. But I need you to try and remember for me, alright? It could be important.”
“Do you want to send me back?” she asked; her voice small and quiet. Dormael grasped the girl’s shoulders and leaned over her side, looking into her face. Her eyes were amber today, and they looked up at him with pain and hope playing through them in equal tones. His heart almost broke to see it.
“No, Bethany. That is not why I want to know, dear, I promise you. You’re not going anywhere, Bethany; not without me, alright?” he said, emphasizing his words with tiny shakes to her small shoulders. She nodded and closed her eyes. Her shoulders began to shake slightly.
“I didn’t mean to hurt that man in the tunnels. Don’t be mad at me, please,” she said; her voice barely a whisper. Dormael sucked in a breath and felt cold dread creep into his gut at the comment.
“Bethany…is that what you think? That I’m angry with you for that?”
“He was your friend. I remember his face…and I…I killed him,” she replied. As if speaking the words had opened some gate inside of her, she suddenly began to sob quietly. Dormael felt her muscles slack beneath his hands as the girl went limp against him. He wrapped the girl in a tight hug as best he could on horseback and pulled her close, placing a light kiss into her brown hair.
“Bethany you listen to me, girl. I’m not angry with you for that. No one here is angry with you for that, do you understand?”
She nodded, sniffling.
“I would never let anyone hurt you, if I could help it,” he said, speaking into her hair, “But if anyone ever tries to hurt you, dear, and one of us isn’t there to help you – you do what you have to do to get away. Do you understand?”
She nodded again.
“I know it’s hard to think about, dear. I know it gives you bad dreams, sometimes. I’ve had them too, before. But you listen to me, Bethany. I’m proud of you for what you did. If someone ever tries that again, then you do it again. Do you understand?”
“You’re proud of me?” she asked, her sobs beginning to subside.
“Yes,” he said emphatically, “You did exactly what you needed to do.”
“But…but I didn’t like hurting him. I was just scared,” she said with her voice dropping off into a whisper.
“I know, dear, I know. And it’s alright; you should never like hurting other people. And you should never hurt anyone without a very good reason for it. Sometimes, though – like when someone is trying to hurt you or someone you love – it’s alright to hurt others. If you’re defending someone who can’t defend themselves, if you’re defending yourself, or if someone has done something to deserve it, then you hurt them, dear. You don’t let anyone hurt you, not ever again. Do you understand?”
Bethany nodded, but scrunched her face up in thought.
“What about…what about killing someone? Is that alright, when someone is trying to hurt you?”
“Yes, but only if you need to.”
“How will I know?”
Dormael grew quiet at the question. He wasn’t sure how to answer the little girl. Shawna cast a thoughtful look at the two of them, her eyes troubled. Dormael raised his eyebrows at the noblewoman in a silent challenge, but Shawna only turned away. He wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt his daughter, not ever again. If that meant teaching her when – and maybe even how – to kill, then so be it.
If anyone thought it was wrong then they could go to the Six Hells for all Dormael cared.
“Well,” he began, but his voice trailed off as he noticed that Shawna had pulled Charlotte to an uneasy halt, one hand gripping a sword. Dormael tensed and moved Horse up beside her. He squeezed Bethany’s arm – a signal to stay silent – and looked to see what the problem was.
D’Jenn and Allen sat upon their own mounts, staring at the road ahead of them. A creek crossed the path ahead, wide but shallow and slow-moving. The cart path ambled down into a shallow ford, and just beyond that the land rose up slightly into another of those smooth, low hills. A large, ancient valley oak tree sat on the lower face of the hill near to the stream, its limbs still mostly bare but just beginning to bloom with new life.
Beneath the tree, a man sat cross-legged, regarding the party calmly from across the creek.
He was a large man, which was apparent even from this distance. His head was shaved bare, and
the sunlight shone down on the smooth skin of his pate, illuminating a pair of tattoos that traced narrow, squared patterns down each side of his head to his brows. He wore a leather vest that his muscled build stretched to its limits, and his arms were bare. His legs were covered with sturdy pants in a dun color, and well-worn boots. A large staff leaned against the trunk of the tree behind him. He gave no greeting to the companions as they regarded each other from across the water, and made no move to rise.
He was an old friend of Dormael’s and he almost smiled and called a greeting out to him, but stopped himself. The man didn’t rise and offer the customary bow – the implication was not lost on Dormael. He meant to do them harm, or at least to forego the offer of safety. Bile rose in Dormael’s throat.
He was one of Victus’s creatures. The realization pained Dormael, who regarded the man as a dear friend. Still, the man made no move toward the party, and Dormael could feel no magic at work. Dormael understood. He sighed, and climbed down from Horse.
“What is this?” D’Jenn asked as Dormael walked past him, headed for the ford.
“It’s Jarek,” Dormael replied, “I’ll deal with this.”
“I know who he is. You know what this probably means?”
Dormael nodded at D’Jenn and looked back to where his old friend sat, calmly watching the exchange between Dormael and D’Jenn now. “If I need you, you’ll know it. For now, let me see what he has to say. He hasn’t attacked, and that has to mean something.”
D’Jenn nodded and settled back in his saddle, turning his intense blue-eyed gaze back toward Jarek. Dormael sighed and continued on toward the ford, stepping down into the biting cold water of the creek and across as quickly as he could without falling. He reached the far bank and approached the oak tree cautiously, watching Jarek for any signs of violence. Jarek nodded to him and gestured to a patch of grass beside him. Dormael sat, using his magic to dry his boots before tucking them beneath his knees, imitating Jarek’s posture.
Jarek sighed, looking back at Dormael’s companions, and reached into a traveling pack beside him. Dormael stiffened, but all that came out was a long pipe carved with sigils in Old Vendon. Jarek turned his gaze on Dormael and raised one craggy brow in question. Dormael nodded his assent, and Jarek rummaged a little more in his pack, producing a leather pouch of the pungent herb that the Tasha-Mals smoked in the place of tobacco.
After the pipe was packed and Jarek lit the bowl with a quick touch of his Kai, he inhaled deeply of the herb and passed it over to Dormael, who partook of it, holding the smoke deep in his chest before letting it out slowly. The two of them passed the pipe back twice more before Jarek knocked the bowl clean on his boot and put it away. Dormael began to feel the effects almost immediately.
In Tasha-Mal, it was customary to offer the herb during any discussions of import, and it was regularly enjoyed by the nomadic tribes of the Great Savannah. It was a slight narcotic, but the Mals also believed that it opened the mind and relaxed the emotional responses, allowing for logic to win through. However, in great amounts, it was also a powerful drug. The only tribe to regularly use the stuff was the Tasha-Mal, and the rest of the tribes of the Sevenlands didn’t so much condemn the herb itself as its use for anything but recreation. The Mals didn’t let that stop them, though. They called the plant, a weed that grew abundantly in their tribe lands, Shaman’s Leaf.
Taking a deep breath, and obviously feeling the relaxation that the plant offered, Jarek shook his head. “You know why I am here,” he said.
“Yes. You are with Victus, I see,” Dormael replied, looking over at his friend.
Jarek ground his teeth, the motion making the muscles in his jaw undulate with the motion. He nodded, and looked down at the dirt. He didn’t offer up any more information.
“So. This is what – the calm before the storm? The offer to come back with you peaceably, to join the ranks of Victus’s rogue Warlocks? Jarek…how could you have gotten caught up in something like this? I thought you were more…I don’t know…loyal,” Dormael spat, unable to keep the venom from his voice.
Jarek actually looked slightly abashed, but squared his shoulders and turned to Dormael before he answered, “Dormael, do not mistake me for some pawn, caught up in some plot that I cannot piece together. I believe in what the Deacon is doing. I believe in his vision. Do you not see, Dormael? Do you not agree that so much good can be done in the Sevenlands by us? The Conclave is the one beacon of understanding and logic in the Sevenlands. It is the one entity that is universally respected, here. How many times have you wished to do something about injustices that you are forced to witness with your own eyes, but are powerless to stop – and for what? Politics? Bah!” Jarek picked a few blades of grass from the ground and tossed them aside in frustration. “We could do so much more, Dormael. We could be so much more.”
“My friend,” Dormael said, holding up a hand in a placating gesture, “I know how you feel. There have been times that I’ve wanted to rip entire cities apart in frustration, but don’t you see? The Conclave is respected because it’s impartial, Jarek. What Victus is doing is going to change that. It will no longer be a beacon of understanding and logic. It will become a center for a tyrannical power. It will become an engine of destruction.”
“What makes you think that Victus’s leadership will lead to destruction? Dormael, I’ve heard him speak. He came to me, personally. I did not accept his offer lightly. What Victus wants is to bring stability to the Sevenlands; the kind of power it has never known before. He wants to destroy the Rashardians for good. He wants to liberate Neleka and Shundovia, and force the Galanians back to their own country. He wants to end slavery, Dormael, and not just in Rashardia, but in the entire world. He wants to bring peace to the world, and enforce it with the power of the Conclave. Dormael, he wants to build more wonders with magic, to research the work of Indalvian and usher in a new golden age. Change, that’s what he wants – and for the better, my friend. Do not judge him so rashly. I could throw that accusation about being loyal right back at you, my friend, for the way you and D’Jenn have abandoned him.”
Dormael sighed, and he couldn’t help but feel the sting of Jarek’s words. Victus had been his and D’Jenn’s mentor, just as he’d been a mentor to every Warlock currently operating in the Conclave. Dormael didn’t think he was a bad person – far from it, in fact. He did agree with some of the things that Victus was saying. He just didn’t agree with his methods, and he didn’t think that he was looking far enough into the future.
And he’d tried to abduct Bethany. For that reason alone, Dormael would never follow him.
“Jarek,” he said, “Victus may want to do some good, and I believe that. But what happens when the Warlocks rise to the kind of power he is seeking? You’re imagining this golden age, but he’s already bullying the Kansils, apparently. He’s already using the Warlocks as his personal mercenaries. How can you threaten our own people with magic, Jarek?”
“That I don’t hold with,” Jarek assented, looking down at the dirt once again, “But it is simply a means to an end, Dormael.”
“And what happens when you are called to kill one of them, simply because Victus disagrees with what they have to say? What happens when you are commanded to kill someone you know to be innocent of wrongdoing…like an old friend?”
Jarek grew silent at that for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “He gave orders to bring you back alive, Dormael. He wants to have the same discussion with you and D’Jenn that he’s had with the rest of us. He wants you with us. He expressed as much to me, I promise you.”
“And if we resist?”
“I think you know the answer to that, old friend. I do not wish it…but there are larger things at stake here than you and I.”
“Indeed there are,” Dormael agreed, and the two men sat silently for a few moments. Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed, and the only other noise was the creek gurgling by. Jarek finally took a deep breath and gazed back toward Dormael�
�s friends on the far bank.
“The youngling…you’ve adopted her?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel to be a father? I have to say, I’d always imagined you getting some maiden with child by accident before this. I never thought that you’d adopt. Ironic, don’t you think?” Jarek chuckled.
“A little,” Dormael said, a smile coming to his face.
“And the man sitting astride his horse there, the one that looks like a walking armory – he’s your brother, eh?”
Dormael nodded.
“I can see the resemblance. I’ve meant to catch one of his tournaments since you told me he’d won. I guess that’s…not going to happen, now.” Jarek sighed again, and sounded genuinely regretful.
“Jarek,” Dormael said, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
Jarek held up a hand and cut Dormael off before he could go on, “It does, Dormael. I am sorry about it, and I don’t like it. But that doesn’t change where my loyalties lie.”
“So…shall we get this over with, then? You’ll have to strike first, Jarek. If your beliefs are so strong, then by all means, attempt to strike me down. I will not go down easily, though. Please, my friend…I do not wish this to happen. Not this way,” Dormael said, rising and brushing off his breeches.
Jarek rose from his seat on the grass, cracking knuckles that were the size of small hams. He rolled his massive shoulders and turned to face Dormael. Dormael was suddenly glad that he wouldn’t be wrestling with his old friend, or getting into a fist fight with him.
“I did not come here to kill you, Dormael,” Jarek sighed, “I owe you this much for our friendship. You saved my life once. So I save yours, now.”
Dormael raised an eyebrow at his old friend and waited.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 78