“I’m guessing that there is a good chance that this Vilth that currently pursues us has the text,” D’Jenn said, stroking his goatee, “What was your student’s name, and how will we know the book when we find it?”
“His name was Asher,” Indalvian answered, “but I never actually saw the book. He told me of its existence before he died.”
“How do we destroy the Signs?” Dormael asked.
“Of that, I am not completely sure. I have a few theories, but I never got the chance to try to put them to practice. The pieces themselves – the vessels that contain the Signs – cannot be destroyed. You can test that for yourself. They cannot be crushed, frozen, or melted, and it seems that entropy does not affect them.”
“But if your student discovered some way to pull the powers out of the Nar’doroc and place them into another vessel, couldn’t we just do the same, and destroy the vessel?” D’Jenn said.
“That very question was a hypothesis of my own,” Indalvian nodded, “Though it has never been done. There is much that we still do not know about the Nar’doroc or the Signs themselves. Their very nature makes them difficult to study. Everything I knew and theorized about the subject you will find in my writings.”
“Wait,” Dormael said, holding up a hand, “If it were all as simple as just pulling the Signs out of the Nar’doroc and eating whatever you put them into, why not just use anything? It seems so easy.”
“That is a gross oversimplification of the process,” Indalvian said, “Furthermore; I believe that the vessel must be born on the same day that the Nar’doroc came into our world. In those days, it was common to make a sacrifice to the Gods when praying, and Ishamael had always been fond of the plant ivy. He’d made a cutting of the berries and placed them into the bowl as an offering. When the Nar’doroc fell from the Void, the berries – and the seeds, you see – were gone, and in their place was the Nar’doroc. I think that perhaps the Signs inhabited these seeds, and changed them somehow. If one was to try and pull the Signs forth and put them into another vessel, then one would need a vessel that was birthed on the same day of the year, and more specifically the correct alignment of the stars, that the Nar’doroc was.”
The ivy! Dormael had wondered at that bit of the dream and what it had meant. The vine had seemed so out of place with the rest of it all, and now Dormael knew why.
I fear that she may play some part in our enemies’ plans…
The Mekai’s words echoed in Dormael’s mind, and he looked down at Bethany, an idea starting to slowly take shape. Cold realization filled him, and he felt suddenly very afraid for the little one. If she did play some part in their enemies’ plans, then there was only one part that she could play. The armlet seemed to hold some strange affinity for her – was it because she was born on the correct day?
“I will fade from this place soon,” Indalvian said, his eyes seeming to stare inward, “I wonder if you would mind doing an old man one last courtesy?”
“Of course,” said D’Jenn.
“Tell me, how have the Vendon lands turned out since my death? Were we able to keep the tribes united?”
D’Jenn smiled at Indalvian, “Yes, though we call ourselves Sevenlanders now, instead of Vendon. There are still small skirmishes between clans and tribes now and then, but we have ever been united against common enemies.”
Indalvian smiled broadly and let out a relieved breath, as if a great weight had just been taken from his shoulders, “Ah, good. That makes me happier than you can imagine. You said that you were ‘Wizards of the Conclave’? Does the Hall of Shamans still stand, then, in Ishamael?”
D’Jenn’s smile grew a little forced at the question, and Dormael imagined that thoughts of Victus and his plans played through his cousin’s mind. Indalvian, however, didn’t seem to notice the slight twist of anxiety that crept into D’Jenn’s features. He waited patiently for D’Jenn’s answer.
“I believe the Conclave and this Hall you speak of are one and the same. It stands, and has for as long as any of us can remember,” D’Jenn said. Dormael felt bitter about the lie, and he could tell from D’Jenn’s expression that he did as well, but it would have been worse to try and explain to Indalvian about Victus, or the current political situation. Sending Indalvian off happy was easier, and left the old man – or shadow, or whatever he was – content.
“That is good…that is good, indeed. I hope that it stands forever, as it was meant to. I only have one last question, and I can sense my time dwindling now. What is the current year? I would like some perspective as to how long it has been, before I bid you all farewell,” Indalvian said.
“It is near Winter’s End in the year 1164, by the same calendar that you devised,” D’Jenn said, but when Dormael looked back toward Indalvian, the old man was gone. He’d simply disappeared as if he’d never been there, and it left the room feeling strangely empty. Dormael actually felt a little despondent about his disappearance, as if they’d just witnessed the death of someone who they’d studied and idolized for years.
In a way, they had. Dormael suddenly felt very alone.
Everyone stood frozen for a moment after he’d gone, waiting to see if anything else would happen, and not wanting to disturb the solemnity of the occasion. Finally, D’Jenn walked around the circular table and began to pick up the books, thumbing through them a bit before gathering them up. He added the scrolls to the leather case that the Mekai had given them, and carried the books in his arms so that he could add them to their packs, which were with their horses on the surface.
“Let’s leave this place,” D’Jenn said, “I don’t know how the rest of you feel, but I’m ready to see the sky again.”
****
Maarkov sat astride his horse and gazed up the low sloping hill to the old ruined temple. Grasses waved back and forth as the wind picked up before the coming storm. The sky grumbled with thunder and the clouds grew darker by the minute. There would be a downpour soon. It was fitting weather for his mood.
Maaz sat to his left, astride his own mount. The horse kept trying to shy from the Hunter, which was crouched beside it and conversing with him, and Maaz had to take a firm hand with the beast. It would be a nice turn of events if the horse dumped Maaz into the grass. Though the only one who would have laughed about it was Maarkov himself – the Hunter didn’t laugh, and neither did the strega standing at their backs.
Maarkov felt tingly discomfort run down his spine at the thought of the forty or so corpses behind him. They stood as silently as they always did, unmoved and unaffected by the wind. He’d barely slept on the way here with those things surrounding him every night, and he’d dreamt again and again of that bloody sword in his hand.
And the faces of the family he’d slaughtered in that nameless village.
Maaz had said absolutely nothing to him about the headless women. He’d found Maarkov there, seated at the table with his bloody, sharp sword laid upon it, staring in abject silence at the bodies he’d left decapitated on the floor. Maaz had known why he’d done it, but for once had neither challenged him nor commented on the act. He’d simply come in, taken in the gruesome sight with his unfeeling snake’s eyes, and turned to walk out. One of his pet strega had come in afterward and dragged the father’s corpse away, since Maarkov had left his head intact.
We can’t have anything going to waste. Oh no, that would be just dreadful.
There were five horses resting just inside the outer wall of the ruined temple, idly reaching their necks down to the grass to chew contentedly on it. Their riders were nowhere in sight, and Maarkov guessed that they must be inside, exploring the dusty tunnels. They were unaware of what waited for them out here.
“How did you know that they were going to come here?” Maarkov asked his brother.
Maaz ended his conversation with the Hunter and regarded his brother. His hood flapped in the heavy wind, and it shadowed his face. All that gazed out were twin pinpoints of light reflecting off of Maaz’s dead eyes.
<
br /> “Because I was planning on coming here myself, brother. My suspicions were confirmed when the Hunter caught their scent and led us north. I hardly needed it to guess at where they were heading. This is convenient, you see. It saves us the trouble of having to go in and explore the ruins ourselves.”
“What is so significant about this old temple? Didn’t the Dannons pick the place clean during the war?” Maarkov asked sourly.
“Perhaps,” Maaz rasped, “and perhaps not. It is the birthplace of the artifacts. There is bound to be something of import here.”
“I thought you had all the information you needed in that book,” Maarkov said.
“One never has enough information, Maarkov. I do not see the need to discuss the finer points of my art with you. Just eat when I tell you to eat, kill when I tell you to kill, and all will be well, brother. And feel free to remove the heads of any of our friends in the temple today; the only one I need is the girl, and I’ll need her alive, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for your conscience today.”
Maarkov grimaced and spat into the grass toward his brother, “Swords have a way of slipping, you know.”
“So do the powers that I hold in thrall, brother. Cross me on this, and you will wish that you hadn’t,” Maaz hissed, his eyes alight with cold anger.
“What will you do, Maaz? Kill me?” Maarkov asked, smiling defiantly at him.
“Look behind you, Maarkov. There are more complex and sorrowful fates than death.”
Maarkov didn’t need to look.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he said, turning to regard the ruins again.
“Hang to the rear. Let the strega do what I made them to do, and you may not even need to draw that sword today.”
Then, at some obscure signal from Maaz that Maarkov didn’t hear or see, he heard the sound of forty or so feet hitting the earth at the same time. He sat still on his horse as he watched the strega advance on the hill. They ran faster than seemed possible, but Maarkov knew that the reason was because they could not tire, and did not feel pain. They would perform at the absolute top threshold that their bodies would allow for as long as they were still standing and able. The last one that passed by was the farmer he’d killed.
The sky rumbled with thunder as Maarkov climbed from his saddle. He preferred not to fight from horseback if he could manage it, and Maaz was right. He probably wouldn’t even need to draw his sword today. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh as rain began to patter to the earth around him. Shooting his brother one last venomous look, he strode slowly up the low hill, following the strega.
****
“You still should have told me,” D’Jenn said as they emerged from the temple and into the gray light of the overcast sky, “If you had something in your head, and you thought it was a demon, it could have been dangerous!”
“Gods be damned D’Jenn, I know! I’m sorry! It was all a little strange to me, and I didn’t even know what to make of it myself,” Dormael grumbled in response. They’d been arguing about Tamasis since they’d climbed the stairs out of the vaults, and Dormael was feeling a little idiotic about keeping the presence to himself for all this time.
“I can’t believe you didn’t speak to me about it. It’s not like you, coz,” D’Jenn said for the third time since the argument had started.
“And what would we have done about it? It was able to come into my head at any time that it wanted! It invaded my dreams, for Eindor’s sake! How would we have kept it out?”
“We could have tried something. You didn’t give me a chance.”
“Tried what? Asking it nicely to leave and go back to the Six Hells? We received the exact same training on mental defense, D’Jenn. I was already doing all that I could, all either of us could have done.”
“All this time, everything you’ve seen and perceived could have been reported right back to the Vilth.”
“And what would we have done about that? Have me ride around with a blindfold on? Plug my ears with bits of cloth? Besides – I didn’t even know that it was a demon then. After what Indalvian said, I’m not entirely sure that it was, now. I’m right back to where I started with him.”
“Him?”
“The demon.”
“Oh, so it’s a him, now.”
“What?”
“Did you give it a name? Feed it? Have it follow you home and scratch its belly?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous, cousin.”
“Am I? Dormael, your mind has been invaded by something that we know nothing of! And you speak of it as if it’s your Gods forsaken friend! What is wrong with you?”
The companions reached the courtyard, and Shawna came over to take the books and scrolls from D’Jenn so she could put them in his saddlebags. Dormael stood and faced his cousin, and D’Jenn barely noticed Shawna as she took the items away. He was too busy arguing with Dormael. Allen took Bethany’s hand and the two of them followed Shawna, giving the wizards a little space.
“D’Jenn, you’re right. I should have told you. But Gods be damned I’m not a fucking child. I’m a Warlock of the Conclave of bloody Wizards, just like you, and my judgment is still sound!”
“But you don’t know that, Dormael. It could have gotten into your head and muddled around with your judgment, among other things! This entire time everyone has been talking about how strangely you’ve been acting, and you expect me to trust your judgment?”
“Oh, everyone has been talking, have they? Everyone look at Dormael the monkey, dancing on a Gods damned string, always doing things the same way. Step one foot differently and everyone thinks I must be insane!”
“Oh, Gods – now who’s being ridiculous?”
“Guys!” Allen called from the horses.
“What’s ridiculous is this entire conversation! Of course I’ve been acting differently! I was tortured by the one woman that I ever really loved, tossed in the middle of a folk tale gone mad, and now I’m going to be outlawed by the very organization that I used to believe in! That’s a bit much to take in all at once, don’t you think?” Dormael said, his voice climbing into a shout.
“Dormael…D’Jenn!” Allen called again.
“You speak as if you’re the only one who is going through this! You don’t think that this entire affair scares me halfway into the grave? Of course it does! That doesn’t give me the right to keep things from the group that could get us all killed, though, and that’s exactly what you did, Dormael!” D’Jenn shouted back.
Allen stomped over to the two wizards and grabbed them both roughly by the armor, pulling them toward the horses.
“What are you doing?” Dormael growled at his brother, but Allen’s face was a mask of angry determination and his hands did not let go.
“If you two would stop bickering like children for a second, there’s something you need to see!” Allen said, and then he shoved them both roughly toward the low stone wall that encircled the ruined temple.
Dormael brushed himself off angrily and got his balance, shooting one last look at his cousin. D’Jenn was red-faced with anger as well, but he clamped his jaws shut and turned his gaze to the hill below them. Dormael followed his eyes.
There were people running up the hill. Something about them stole the breath from Dormael’s chest, and killed the argument he’d had with his cousin before it could gain any more momentum. Chills ran down his spine at the sight, and it took him a moment to realize why.
They were completely silent. They weren’t close enough yet to see their faces, but he could make out vague expressions – and they had none. Their faces were completely devoid of any exertion while they ran. And Gods, they ran fast. As one of them got closer he could see a blotch or a stain that dirtied the front of a homespun tunic, running down from a similar stain that ran across the man’s throat…
It was blood. The man’s throat was cut.
It was an animated corpse.
Dormael summoned his Kai and began to summon his mag
ic, readying it for the attack. His eyes tracked past the small horde of corpses – there had to at least thirty or more of the damned things – to where a lone man strode up the hill behind them. Further back and on the rise of another low hill that faced the ruins, another figure stood watching.
He wore a black cloak, just like the one he’d seen back at Jureus’s camp.
“Bethany!” Dormael shouted to the little girl, “Get inside the temple and find a place to hide! Don’t come out until I come to get you, do you understand?”
The girl ran over to him, sensing the fear in his voice and tried to see what he was looking at, but he pushed her backward toward the entranceway into the courtyard. He didn’t want her to see what was coming for them. It would only scare her more.
“What’s happening,” she asked, tears coming to her eyes.
“Just go, dear! I’ll come and get you in a little while, but don’t come out for anyone except one of us, alright?”
“But what’s happening?” she insisted, sobs beginning to seep out through her words.
“Go, dear! Now!”
Bethany’s steps faded up into the courtyard, and he could hear her starting to cry as she ran. Dormael hated yelling at her like that, but it was for her own safety. He hoped she would find a good hiding place.
Rain began to fall from the gray sky as Dormael strode back to the wall, holding his spear in his hands and readying his magic for a fight. Allen was hurriedly settling his weapons around his person, checking that everything was in place and ready. He had his shield and spear, but was festooned like a holiday decoration with other implements of war, as always. Shawna had drawn both her swords, and was holding them tightly, looking to the others with tense unease. D’Jenn was pulling on his gauntlets as Dormael walked up.
“Do you remember the tune we played that night in Moravia, at the Festival of Fire?” Dormael asked.
“The same night we convinced that innkeeper to let his barmaid go out with us to the celebration? I remember,” D’Jenn nodded, whipping his morningstar from his sheath.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 93