Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)
Page 33
The shabby office, a room in an out-of-the-way building in a corner of Shundov’s harbor, stunk of seawater and fish carcasses. The whole damned city smelled that way, truth be told, but one grew accustomed to it, after a fashion. A single candle burned in the room, throwing long, dancing shadows on the floor. Maarkov leaned on the wall near the door.
“I saved that boat from the storm and barely made it back here.” The captain shook his head. “We’re lucky we had enough spare sailcloth to rig something, or we’d have died out in the blue. Only thirteen of your boys survived.”
The captain cowered under Maaz’s intense stare. Maarkov couldn’t blame the man for his discomfort. Maaz’s presence had that effect on people.
Maaz leaned forward. “And the commander of your expedition? Colonel Grant?”
“He left for the Orrisan ship. Never came back.”
Maaz sighed and placed his hands on the table. “I see. Who is in command of the unit now?”
“A young officer named Havram. Seems like a good sort. He was very courteous, see?”
“How wonderful.Tell me, Captain—why in the Six Hells have you come here today?”
The captain stiffened at Maaz’s tone. Maarkov reached down and fingered the hilt of the long, thin sword he wore at his hip, and watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. When that tone entered Maaz’s voice, there was likely violence to follow.
“I…ah…well, I’m still owed payment, see? And damages.”
“Damages?” Maaz’s tone was full of feigned interest.
“Aye.” The captain glanced over his shoulder at Maarkov and cleared his throat. “I lost a full rig’s worth of sailcloth to this expedition—something the original contract won’t cover—plus a fortune in hull and deck repairs. Not all the men who died on that voyage were Imperial military, either. What am I to pay their families?”
He thinks he’s speaking to an Imperial functionary, like a governor. The poor fool.
“You misunderstand me, Captain. How did you make it here, to this room?” Maaz put his clawlike hands on the table. “Who sent you to me?”
“The Lieutenant sent me to the Imperial Registrar, who gave me this office as a place to seek recompense.”
The captain shot a dubious glance in Maarkov’s direction. Maarkov didn’t care enough to try to smile at the man. He met his stare with a flat expression.
“I see.” Maaz sighed. “Did they give you a name?”
The captain looked sideways at Maaz. “No, sir.”
“Very well. You shall have your recompense, Captain, and so shall the families of your dead crewmen.”
“They will?”
“No.” Maaz chuckled. “I was lying.”
“Lying? What…what is this?”
Maaz looked up and caught Maarkov’s eye.
Maarkov pulled his sword from his belt and stepped into a long lunge, sticking the captain through the back. The captain gave a pitiful cry of surprise as Maarkov’s blade exited his belly, and he leaned over the desk, gurgling in pain. His hands scraped at the wood, and he grunted as Maarkov pulled the sword out of his back, twisting the blade to widen the wound. Maaz watched it all happen with intense interest.
The captain cursed and sputtered as his blood leaked to the dusty wooden floor. He tried to rise, but Maarkov stuck him through the hips. Cutting the muscles there ended his little rebellion, and the bastard slumped back into the chair. The man coughed and hissed, and his shoulders relaxed as he laid his head on the desk.
Maaz reached out his hand just as the man was hovering on the brink of death, and the captain’s body went rigid. Veins popped to the surface over every inch of the man’s skin. His muscles contorted so violently that he twisted on the chair, but his eyes stayed locked to Maaz.
“Oh no, you can’t die just yet,” Maaz hissed, looking the body in the eyes. “You’ll serve a purpose before I send your worthless soul to the Void.”
Maaz held out a thin, gray finger, and gestured toward it with his other hand. A cut appeared there, leaking dark fluid that barely resembled blood, and Maaz pressed it to the captain’s forehead. The man wailed in pain, but Maaz paid him no heed. With quick little motions, Maaz drew something on the captains’s forehead.
“There are rules in place, you see—rules more ancient than either of us, Captain. There are routes to power that few have the gall to tread, but for everything…a price.” Maaz leaned back and regarded his work, nodding like he’d just built a sturdy section of wall. He held out his hands like a puppeteer and gestured at the man’s contorted body.
Sizzling patterns appeared on the captain’s skin, burned into its surface by Maaz’s power. The captain grunted like a beast in a feral rage. Maaz continued his work, deaf to the man’s bleating, and examined him one last time as the magic faded. When he was satisfied, Maaz raised his hand and clenched it into a fist.
The sailor’s body went completely still.
“Where is the Third Sign of the Nar’doroc?” Maaz asked.
“It is above the sea, below the sky,” whispered the captain, though Maarkov wasn’t sure if the man still occupied his own skin. He’d seen enough strange things to last two lifetimes in his brother’s service, but the revulsion still came anew every time. “It is on a ship, and in a box.”
“To where does it travel?”
“West, to the land of seven tribes.” The captain’s body twitched. “West, to the city of magic.”
“Where is the child I seek?”
“She is over the sea, and under the sky. She is on a ship, and in a cabin.”
Maaz tilted his head. “Is she with the Nar’doroc?”
“She is with a part of it,” the thing whispered.
“Very well.” Maaz made a dismissive gesture. “Begone.”
The body went limp and slid to the floor, rolling in its own blood. Maarkov chanced a look at its face and shivered at the expression of terror frozen on its features. Maaz rose from the head of the desk and walked around to look down. He shook his head and sighed.
“Gather up the men left under Grant’s command and kill them. Kill the crew of the ship, too. We’ll hire more men and restock it for the journey.”
Maarkov raised an eyebrow. “You mean to follow them?”
“Of course, I mean to follow them,” Maaz snapped. “It’s obvious I can’t count on anyone else, isn’t it? We shall go to the Sevenlands. We leave as soon as you prepare the ship.”
“You want to chase them into the west? That…thing…said they’re traveling to the city of magic. We both know that means Ishamael. What do you think the Conclave will do if they catch you traipsing around the countryside, eating people as you go? Is this thing really so important?”
Maaz gave him a withering look. “My dear brother, allow me to fill your mind with something other than swordplay and the running price for Shundovian whores.”
Maarkov stiffened, but he was used to this sort of vitriol from his brother. For all the hatred Maaz spat in his direction, Maarkov added more reasons to stab him through the heart. He despised his brother and had despised him for a long damned time.
He was, however, bound to him forever.
“How about I fill your neck with steel instead?” Maarkov asked.
Maaz ignored him, as he always did.
“Nothing could be more important than this, Maarkov. All our preparations over the long years have led to possessing the Nar’doroc, and we cannot allow the threads to sever now.” Maaz looked to the west, as if he could see the Sevenlands through the wall. “The ancient weapon, sundered into seven pieces—seven signs of power over the world. No, Maarkov, there is nothing more pressing. Make our preparations. We hunt as soon as they’re complete.”
THE END
Of
BOOK ONE
Of
The Seven Signs
A Note from the Author
Now we’ve come to the part of the book that’s sort of like one of those scenes from a movie where the camer
a floats into a warm livingroom. Maybe it’s snowing outside, maybe it’s raining. One thing you notice, though, is that it sure looks warm by that fireplace. Oh—who’s that guy in one of those smoking jackets that no one ever wears sitting in that recliner by the fireplace? Is that whiskey in his hand?—and in such a fancy tumbler!
My, sir—what a lovely livingroom you have.
Except this is me we’re talking about, I’m the guy that’s supposed to be in that smoking jacket. The only thing is, I don’t have a smoking jacket, nor a fancy livingroom, or nice tumblers (hehe). We’re standing in a garage, I have tattoos, and there’s certainly no fireplace. I’m just a dude.
I’m a dude that hopes you liked my writing enough to pass it along to your friends, maybe your Bridge Club, or your mom. Moms always need something to read. You wouldn’t keep a book from your mother, would you?
What are you, some kind of monster?
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(Now imagine me raising a fancy tumbler in your direction, like that meme with Leo DiCaprio’s face on it.)
Also, thanks for taking a chance on a dude with tattoos who has nothing fancy. I hope you stick around for the rest of the adventure, and the others that are coming in its wake. I got plans like a supervillain. Much love and respect to you all, and I’m sincerely thankful for your time, smartassery aside.
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About the Author
D.W. Hawkins lives in southern Arizona.
You can find out more about him here: www.dwhawkins.com
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