Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  His mesavai, a traditional Sevenlander garment, hung sleeveless over a woolen shirt and was belted at the waist, leaving a swath of fabric to hang to his knees in both front and back. It was white with a wide, black hem, and within that hem were sewn flowing runes specific to one’s self and lineage. Dormael’s own mesavai was well decorated, but still incomplete. He’d only had twenty-eight springs to fill the hem.

  His Sevenlander cloak was thrown over his pack, but he knew it would evoke the same reaction from these easterners. It was voluminous and sleeved, sported a deep cowl, and was made of heavy material. People didn’t wear them in this part of the world, and it would mark him out just as certainly as his mesavai. As would his beard, which hung long, braided, and lacked a mustache—a style clearly unpopular in the east, judging from the looks he got.

  The door to the tavern opened, admitting three laughing men and a chilly draft from the street. The autumns in port cities were always a bit cooler, with the sea churning up winds and throwing them toward the shore. The weather on the Stormy Sea was notorious for being angry at this time of year, and Ferolan sat right beneath the meeting of the north and south winds. If Dormael listened hard enough, he fancied he could almost feel the power gathering over the ocean, waiting to come screaming toward the shore.

  He could do without the damnable cold, though.

  After his last assignment he’d decided to take some time to himself. He wasn’t escaping anything, but he’d been ducking his normal contacts since he’d decided to leave. Dormael didn’t feel like making explanations to anyone, and he needed some time to unwind. The last few years had been rough, and his responsibilities had begun to chafe. He’d been in dire need of some time to himself, so he had decided to take it. If his colleagues wished to track him down, he was sure they could find him.

  They always did.

  Ferolan was a temporary stop. He was bound for Tauravon, the Great River City. It was late in the autumn, and the Winter Solstice would soon be celebrated. Tauravon’s Festival of Frost celebration was world renowned, and Dormael intended to partake this year—perhaps he would make a coin or two playing his guitar. He had planned to buy a horse and take to the road, but it had been so damned cold that the tavern had been irresistible. His purse was much lighter as a result.

  Sighing, he called for his last mug of ale and gathered his belongings. The night was growing long, and it was time to find a bed. Dormael was used to walking, and he told himself it was good for the soul. The movement would keep his blood flowing against the winter chill.

  The barmaid deposited his mug on the table and gave him an offhand smile. Dormael pressed some coins into her hand and gave her a wink. She laughed and slipped back through the press of drunken merrymakers, but she returned his wink before she left.

  Always had a way with the girls, haven’t I?

  Shrugging on his cloak and shouldering his bulging pack, Dormael picked up his staff and his guitar as he rose to leave. Downing half the mug on his way out, he left the rest with a smiling, red-nosed man who cheered and clapped him on the shoulder for his trouble. Pulling his hood up against the chill wind, Dormael opened the door and stepped into the night.

  The streets outside were empty. Most people had retreated indoors for the evening, leaving the cobblestones to collect the mist coming in from the sea. Autumn had waned, and the chill fingers of winter gripped the city of Ferolan. The glow of street lanterns cast long shadows into the alleyways he passed, and the absence of people gave the night a lonely, haunting quality.

  Dormael shivered. Cities are always unsettling after dark.

  He passed a few people—men headed to taverns, hurrying after unknown errands, or the ever-present City Guards. None offered him a greeting. The night made people wary of passersby, and Dormael didn’t blame them. Honest men had long taken to their cups, and the cutpurses ran the streets until morning.

  Dormael walked from the Docks District into a slummy residential area, where the brick warehouses and shops lining the streets gave way to squat, two-story tenements. Most of the windows were dark, save for the occasional lighted bedroom, but the street lanterns still gave off their ruddy glow. It was quieter than the Docks, and Dormael’s boots tapped on the cobblestones underfoot. The noise bounced from the buildings around him, echoing in the cold night air.

  Perhaps it was the near silence, or maybe the ale, but a strange feeling tingled in Dormael’s stomach. At first he thought he was going to be sick, but he wasn’t feeling nauseated. He tried to shake it off, taking deep breaths of the cool air, even baring his head to the chill, but nothing worked. No matter what he did, the feeling only intensified.

  As he turned a corner onto a side-street, Dormael’s magic burst to life.

  He collapsed against a street lamp to keep his feet beneath him. His heart beat into his ears, playing a thumping rhythm to the furious song of his power. His senses were alive with clarity, and the night came into sudden, painful focus. The rush of the waves against the distant cliffs resonated in his chest. The air tasted so strongly of salt that Dormael’s mouth went dry.

  He concentrated on his Kai, the source of his magical power, and tried to force it to rest, but the magic would not leave him. His Kai was resonating with something far to the south, though it was difficult to hear through the tumult in Dormael’s senses. His magic tugged at him, urging him toward that distant noise like a dog pulling its master’s leash.

  Dormael rested his hand on a street lantern and tried to calm the storm inside him. Magic was a dangerous and volatile thing. If his power could wake of its own accord when he was blistering drunk, could it set a building aflame? Kill someone accidentally? Plenty of wizards had lost control of their power and paid the ultimate price.

  Sometimes scores of people paid that price along with them.

  Dormael cleared his head and embraced his power instead of fighting it. He was terrified of the prospect of losing control, and it seemed the only way to prevent it was to acquiesce. Shrugging his packs back onto his shoulders and grumbling the whole way, Dormael trudged in the direction in which his magic pulled him.

  After a few moments of walking, the power eased its wild insistence, but nonetheless kept him steadily moving. He could feel something out there in the night, some pulsing source of unknown power drawing the attention of his Kai. Dormael kept up the pace, apprehension building with every step.

  What in the Six Hells is that sound?

  His Kai led him through the residential district to the market, and through the market into another, richer area where the houses of merchants and officials were raised two and three stories above the streets. He turned south at some point, passing through another trade district sprinkled with shops, alehouses, and inns, but still the magic marched him on. Soon, the guardhouse of the southern city gate appeared before him.

  Dormael paused before walking through the gate. It was late, and colder than the underworld outside, and the last thing Dormael fancied was a tromp through the windy highlands around Ferolan. He had already been out in the cold for too long, and he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of allowing his magic to pull at him. He considered heading back into the city regardless of what his Kai wanted, but he knew he couldn’t ignore this. Squaring his shoulders and shrugging deeper into the voluminous Sevenlander cloak, Dormael trudged through the massive gate and into the night.

  The guards on duty paid him little mind as he passed. Cambrell had been at peace for a long time, and Dormael couldn’t recall the last time Ferolan had been attacked. The City Guards were more used to dealing with petty thieves than threats to the walls, and the lackadaisical attitude was apparent. He passed from the city into the darkness of the road beyond, and none of them said the first word to him. He felt exposed as the night closed in around him, but his Kai kept urging him onward.

  The wind blew unchecked from the sea, lashing Dormael’s cloak like a flag caught in a squall. The moon was bright, though it did little to aid his blurry, drunke
n vision. The road was made of trampled dirt, and it loosed clouds of dust every time the wind blew. Dormael had to shield his eyes with his hand each time the breeze picked up. The only sound was the noise of the Stormy Sea crashing against the rocky beach of the coast.

  The land around the city consisted of coastal highlands, and the road snaked southwest into a dense forest a short distance from the city. Sparse trees dotted the highlands between the city and the forest, though they gave little shelter from the wind. Most lay bare under winter’s touch.

  The trees are just as cold as I am.

  The shape of a horse and rider came out of the night, appearing like distant ghosts in the moonlit shadows. Dormael paused upon spotting them, glancing over his shoulder to the guards in the distance. He could see a pair of them speaking with one another, but without the augmented senses of a wizard, he doubted they could see him in turn.

  Even from where he stood, Dormael could hear the horse’s labored breathing and smell its sweat. The rider did not rise to greet him, and they gave no indication they were alive. As the horse came closer, the smell of blood filled Dormael’s nose.

  Dormael stepped within range of the horse and was surprised at its size. It had long legs and a deep chest, and the fact it was still alive after being ridden so hard was testament to its strength. It was well-fed and muscular, though its head was bowed with fatigue. The horse offered Dormael a weak whinny as he raised his hand in a wary greeting.

  Dormael cleared his throat. “Hello?”

  There was no answer from the rider, who had a wealth of fair hair. Judging from the size of the

  body, the rider was female, but she was covered in a thick winter cloak, which made it hard to tell. Dormael reached out to nudge her, but the horse shied from his touch, and the rider was dumped to the road in a motionless heap. A low, pained groan escaped her, but that was all the protest she gave.

  Fuck the gods. If I’m caught on the road with a dead Cambrellian woman, I’ll be hanged before the sun reaches its zenith tomorrow.

  Dormael’s Kai intensified, ringing in his ears. It pulled at him, reaching toward the girl, or something she had in her possession. He wrenched down on his magic and tried to clear his head. A bout of vertigo washed though him, but his Kai responded to his efforts and fell into a low hum.

  Taking another cleansing breath, Dormael bent over the girl to examine her.

  She was very pretty—that much he noticed right away. She was close to his age, or just a few springs younger, with delicate skin. She had the sort of face men wrote songs about, though it was locked in a sweaty grimace of pain. She let out another agonized grunt and muttered something under her breath.

  “Can you hear me?” Dormael glanced toward the distant city. “Are you alright?”

  The girl barely stirred in response. Dormael shot helpless looks down the road in both directions. Ferolan loomed to the north, silhouetted walls against the dull glow of the city’s lights. The only sound was the constant crash of the waves against the nearby cliffs.

  There’s nobody out here except us and the guards. Where did she come from?

  Dormael rolled her over and found her vestments stained with blood. An arrow stuck from her left side, its tip having pierced her armor just under her ribcage. Dormael was no healer, but it was easy to see the seriousness of her situation.

  It’s a wonder you made it this far on horseback. Dormael sniffed at the arrow’s point of entry and was relieved to find no putrid smells coming from the wound. If the girl’s guts had been nicked, she probably would have died despite Dormael’s assistance. As it was, she might still have a chance to live through the night.

  “How does a pretty girl on a fine horse get stuck with an arrow?” Dormael winced as he moved her body into a more comfortable position and looked over her belongings. She was horribly unprepared for life on the road. She only had two small saddlebags, a pair of waterskins, and nothing but the bloodstained cloak she wore to keep the wind off—which now had a hole in it, thanks to the offending arrow. She was wearing leather armor, of all things, and carrying two swords. Dormael raised his eyebrows when he touched the blades with his Kai.

  “Infused swords, as well? A fine saddle, a fine horse…this isn’t good. Not good at all.” Dormael glanced in the direction of Ferolan again. “Somebody is either expecting you or looking for you. But which is it?”

  Either way, Dormael had to do something. He couldn’t just leave her for the gods to decide her fate—they were capricious at the best of times. This woman was special, that much was obvious. Dormael had no idea what she was doing armed, skewered, and dressed for war, but she was probably nobility. Mercenaries didn’t have such fine horses, nor did they tend to carry Infused weapons. He dropped his belongings nearby and whipped a dagger from his boot.

  “You must be lucky to come upon a sap like me in the middle of the night.” Dormael crouched next to the woman and touched the arrow with careful hands. “Hells—it’s the gods’ own luck you’re still breathing.”

  He sliced the cloak away from the arrow and moved it aside. Field medicine was no better than a leaky cork in a ship on most days, but his meager skill was all she had. Dormael turned the girl once again on her side and felt the head of the arrow poking through her belly. Dried blood was caked around the arrowhead, but fresh blood was still trickling from the wound. Removing the arrow might be the right course of action, but Dormael hesitated. If he pulled it out, he might open a vein somewhere in her guts, and she could bleed out where she lay. He settled with breaking off the longer part of the arrow and stuffing it into her pack.

  Dormael unbuckled the straps on her leather cuirass, grimacing at the amount of blood staining the padded tunic beneath. Her stomach spasmed with labored breathing, and each movement caused a fresh round of droplets to leak from the hole in her side. Dormael peered at the wound, shaking his head.

  “Gods—how far did you ride with that arrow in your back?” He looked back in the direction from which she had come. Was someone tracking her? Dormael sighed and turned his attention back to the arrow wound—best to worry about what was in front of him.

  He didn’t have the materials nor the knowledge to dress a stomach wound, and if someone was after the woman, he was likely short on time. There was no way the guards at the south gate would turn a blind eye to him returning with a wounded Cambrellian girl—a rich Cambrellian girl, at that. Sevenlanders weren’t exactly hated, especially in a peaceful place like Cambrell, but they weren’t trusted. If he showed this to the guards, he’d likely see the inside of a cell for his trouble. If he didn’t get her to a healer soon, though, she would die.

  I’ll dress the wound as best I can and worry about the rest later. Using his knife, he reached under the girl’s padded tunic and cut a few strips from her shirt that weren’t soaked through with blood. He popped the lid from his waterskin and poured some of the cold water over the entry point, separating the clotted blood and fabric from her flesh. The mystery girl let out an unconscious cry of pain as he worked.

  “Sorry.” Dormeal winced.

  The arrowhead hadn’t penetrated the front of her armor, but it had gone right through the back. Pulling the hard leather from around the shaft proved more troublesome than Dormael would have anticipated. The arrow was lodged at a strange angle between her skin and the armor, and putting pressure on the shaft elicited another weak whimper from her. Dormael winced again, but she failed to wake even as the armor was pulled free of the arrow.

  He took the strips he had cut and stuffed them around the arrow shaft. Perhaps they could soak up some of the blood and provide a cushion to keep the wound from tearing further. He tightened her armor back down around the secured arrow shaft and arranged the winter cloak to better cover her body.

  Dormael grimaced as he looked at the lathered horse. The thing was exhausted, and Dormael half expected it to drop dead where it stood. Every movement it made would jostle the girl’s wound and threaten to spill her to the ground.
He couldn’t carry her with his magic—it would cause a ruckus with the guards, not to mention any Aeglar Cultists who might be lurking about. The Cult kidnapped and killed those who used magic, and they had a strong presence in Alderak, though Dormael had never seen them in Cambrell.

  Dormael didn’t have much of a choice. He reached out with his Kai and let the magic take hold of the girl. He tried to be gentle, but she groaned in pain as he lifted her from the ground with the invisible force of his power. He laid her body across the exhausted horse and pumped a little of his power into her. Magic was no good for healing, but if he lent the woman some of his strength, it might have a positive effect. Once he had stowed most of her things—and some of his—on the horse, he led it back toward the city.

  Dormael’s magic was still flowing through him, and the strange resonance he had sensed before was interacting with his power stronger than ever. It pulled at him, beckoning in a strange way he had never experienced before. Something in the woman’s possession was causing the interaction, but it wasn’t her swords.

  He spared a thought for searching her bags. If she held something dangerous, it might be right for him to relieve her of the burden. The idea of rifling through a dying woman’s belongings, though, filled him with repugnance.

  Maybe she’ll tell me when she wakes—if she wakes.

  Finesse and deception would be required to get her past the gate guards in her state. He could just put them all to sleep, but if a Cultist was lurking around the city, such a direct use of magic would put them on his trail. Could he risk even a small amount?

  Dormael removed her swords and tied them to her saddlebags, along with his pack and guitar. He wrapped her in both of their cloaks, sitting her upright in the saddle. Apologizing to the horse, Dormael held her in place with his magic as he climbed up behind her. When everything was situated, he nudged the horse toward the gate.