Special Smashwords Edition
The Sentient Fire
Book One of the Seven Signs
By
D. W. Hawkins
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Sentient Fire
Special Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2011 Daniel Wesley Hawkins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Cover Art Design: Jason Peek and Daniel Wesley Hawkins
Cover Art: Jason Peek
Interior Maps and Illustrations: Jason Peek
Copyright © 2011 Daniel Wesley Hawkins
Edited by: Judy Brooks
Visit the author website: http://www.dwhawkins.com
eBook published and distributed by: www.smashwords.com
For my father, who gifted me with a love for books.
For my wife, who gave me love, patience, drive, and support.
For Jason, who’s been on this journey with me since the beginning.
And for you who are reading this now.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
Close Calls and Rude Awakenings
Veltasi, Veltasya, Veltastajum
Prologue
Ishamael stood on the balcony of the newly built Hall of Chiefs and gazed out over the growing city. It was young, yet. The chiefs had all insisted upon naming the city for him, and though he’d disliked the idea right away, their fervor had won out, and so the city took his name. It was a strange contrast, in Ishamael’s mind – a young city carrying the name of a tired, old man.
He sighed, watching the construction of some new grand idea of Indalvian’s. His shamans, wizards, he was calling them now, using the old word, were busy blasting out holes in the earth and piling dirt into enormous mounds. They had scores of common laborers working for them, carting this or that around or shoring up the walls of the great hole they were digging. Ishamael had feared that they would blast open the tunnels that had already been painstakingly laid over the past years, but Indalvian had assured him that the greatest care would be taken.
“Brooding again?” said the familiar voice from behind him. Ishamael turned to regard the man he’d been thinking on. Though Ishamael knew that Indalvian was well into his sixtieth year, just as Ishamael himself was, the damnable man appeared no older than his late forties. Clean shaven and solemn, Indalvian approached and offered Ishamael a slender tankard of what smelled like warm, spiced wine. Ishamael accepted it with a nod and turned back to look over the city.
“No matter how many years pass, I still return to this spot and wonder whether I’ve done the right thing, old friend. I wonder if she’d be proud of me.”
“Ah,” Indalvian said, leaning out and placing his elbows onto the railing, “I see. I believe she would have. You’ll worry yourself into your grave if you brood ever much on this, Ishamael. There was only one course of action that would keep us from more civil war, and you took it. I’d say that you not only did the right thing. You did the only thing you could do.”
“And the Gatha? Do you think the Gods approved of my punishment of my own people?”
Indalvian grew quiet at this. He didn’t like to speak on the matter, and Ishamael couldn’t blame him. Ishamael himself didn’t enjoy the discussion, but as he got older, his mind returned to it more and more.
“I do not presume to know the minds of the Gods, Ishamael,” Indalvian sighed, “I do, however, worry about your own. If you truly wish it, we could reassemble the fragments of the Nar’doroc and lift the curse.”
“No,” Ishamael said, “I have given my word on that matter. If I were to call the chiefs back and demand the pieces from them, it would mean more strife. They must stay separate, and hidden, perhaps forever. No good can come of the thing. It is a tool of war.”
Indalvian sighed, as if he’d expected the answer, and continued, “You grow more and more distracted, my friend. The chiefs send their clan heads here to inquire on your condition, though they pretend to be bringing routine news of their own lands and tribes.”
“I’ve told them not to do this. We are a free people. They are not beholden to me.”
“They respect you, old friend. They look to you for guidance. Your…abjection causes them distress. They still wish you to lead them, or name a successor.”
“The wars are over, Indalvian. I am only an old man, now.”
“An old man who holds the first Vendon city that bears his own name. You must face the facts, old friend. Whatever has happened in the past, you are still their leader. You are the chief of chiefs. You led us through the darkest times in all of our songs, and the people still respect and love you.”
“And what would you have me do, Indalvian? My family is gone. I have no heirs, and I wouldn’t set them to power if I had any. It goes against our ways, my friend. I will not set up a kingdom like some fat, Eastern thug. I will build no dynasties.”
Indalvian laughed at Ishamael’s comment. Ishamael would have been angry at him, but he was too old and tired to worry on such things anymore. Besides, Indalvian was his shaman. He was Blessed by the Gods, and so he gained reprieve from the usual courtesies.
Sometimes, though, he did feel like throttling his old friend and advisor.
“Ishamael,” Indalvian said, “I’m not asking you to bed some maiden and father a child on her. We must look to the future, however. How would you like to leave this world, hmm? You have done something that no one has done in the past. You have united the tribes, my friend. We are no longer separate peoples roaming our lands. We are one people, now. We are united. You must leave us that way, or everything we have worked for all these years will come crashing down.”
Ishamael grew quiet at this. He knew Indalvian was right. If he didn’t do something, then everything would devolve back into civil war.
“What would you have me do?” Ishamael asked.
“What you always do, my friend. Do what you think is right.”
Ishamael turned his gaze back out over the young city. It truly was a wonder. Indalvian and his fellow shamans – Ishamael refused to call them wizards, it was just too strange – had been a blessing. They’d designed and helped with the building of everything here. Without them, this place would still be a riverside trading post.
“You mean to build a Hall of Shamans?” Ishamael asked.
“Something of the sort. I picture it as more of a school than anything else; a place where all of the Blessed can come and learn to use their gifts, and find common cause with one another.”
“You mean to unite them under one authority.”
“Yes.”
“Yours?”
“For a time. Others will succeed me, of course. But my time on this world is not yet done, my friend. I still have much to do.”
“I can’t help but feel that my own time is drawing to a close, Indalvian. There have been so many things that I wish I could change. I wish that Liandri was still here. I miss her so much, old friend.”
“I know,” Indalvian nodded, sighing. They both stood there, looking over the city that they’d created, watching the progress. The sun crept slowly toward the horizon as the two old men kept silent company with each other.
“Do what I think is right, then?” Ishamael said, glancing over at Indalvian.
“As always, my friend.”
“It’s going to be difficult.”
Indalvian laughed again, and slapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. “It always is, old friend. It always is.”
****
Part I
Escape
Chapter One
Dark Tidings
The air was chill on Shawna’s tear-stained and wind-burnt face as she rode through the night. She could feel Charlotte’s muscles rippling slowly beneath her, but from the sound of her breathing Shawna would have to get off and walk her again soon. The poor horse had been ridden hard tonight, and if she kept up this pace then Charlotte would surely die before morning.
The arrow shaft that still protruded from Shawna’s left side sent shocks of pain through her body every time her cloak brushed it as it blew in the wind. She was still bleeding slowly, and the warm rivulets that ran inside of her padded shirt at least kept her warm until they dried, sticky and pooling along her left hip. Her breathing was coming shorter now, and her hands and feet were beginning to tickle with that needling feeling that inevitably leads to numbness. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to take her reins and defy the pain that was slowly gripping her midsection into agony. She would not die here, not tonight. She had made an oath, and she intended to keep it. Though soon thoughts of a cold, bleeding death here on the side of this lonely and quiet road became a reality all too quickly in her mind, and sent fingers of fear into her brain. The urge to give up was slowly working its way past her resolve.
Her father had instilled in her a sense of duty; duty to her family, a duty to her people, and a duty that she’d only taken up tonight. Her father was dead, now. She still wasn’t sure why it had happened. Her thoughts shifted again to that thing in her saddlebag, and she shook her head in consternation.
The heavy wind rose again and blew a gust into her face, driving her cloak hood back against her shoulders and filling her eyes with the grit of the dusty road. She tried to raise her left arm to shield herself but gave a little squeal in pain instead when she realized that moving it hurt too badly. She turned her head away from the wind instead and it drove her long reddish gold hair across her face. Shawna felt a bout of frustration welling up in her again and her eyes swelled with fresh tears. She had to get to Alton. If only she could make it before the Red Swords caught up with her.
The moon shone brightly down on the road tonight, as if it was trying to mock her. She could use some more shadows right now. There were sparsely-spaced trees about the sides of the road, throwing their long shadows in her path like dark barriers in the night, but these would do no good to conceal her. She rode on numbly, hunched over in the saddle, fighting the exhaustion and pain that was threatening to drag her down. Hope swelled within her as she began to notice the sound of waves crashing against rocks somewhere ahead, and her nose detected the tang of saltwater in the air. Soon, she rounded a corner and saw in the distance the lights of the great port city of Ferolan.
Shawna smiled to herself and relaxed somewhat, relief flooding through her. She had made it, and ahead of the Red Swords that were definitely chasing her by now. She let Charlotte walk towards the city, and though it would be another couple of hours before she made it there, she felt as if she had won. She heard no sounds of pursuit behind her, and Ferolan lay right in her path. Alton was in Ferolan, and he would help her.
A small sigh escaped her lips as Shawna slumped in the saddle, the pain and exhaustion finally pulling her into unconsciousness. Only chance kept her from falling into the dirt, and only experience and training kept Charlotte from spooking as her rider went suddenly limp. Uncomprehending, Charlotte continued her slow, ponderous walk where Shawna had pointed her.
****
Dormael sat upright suddenly, sending his head swimming fiercely with the ale he had been drinking. At least, he thought that was all he had been drinking. He couldn’t actually remember what it was. There was only one way to find out, so Dormael commenced to take another long pull from the mug in front of him. It was ale alright, and warm ale at that.
His vision blurred in two and he swept his arm before his face in a futile gesture to try and wash away the effects that the ale was having on his sight. Of course, the movement only caused his mind to swim even worse, and he grasped the edge of the table he was sitting at firmly to avoid an embarrassing fall, face first, into the floor. Taking a deep breath of the stale and smoky air that surrounded him, he slowly began to gather his wits.
Something had awoken him suddenly, and it wasn’t the usual tap from a barmaid to usher him to consciousness. While he had definitely been asleep with his head laid drunkenly upon the table, it seemed that he had escaped the notice of the serving wenches so far. Lucky me, he thought as he ran a single palm down his face in another of those futile drunken gestures.
The tavern around him was alive with noise and revelry. It was a dockside tavern, close enough to the wharves to catch the business of the sailors from the boats and the workmen of the docks. Barmaids dodged in and out of the boisterous crowd, ducking through small groups of singing men and only occasionally being caught with the familiar pinch on the bottom that drunken men seemed to dole out constantly. A man was perched on a table at the far end of the bar, strumming a guitar to a bawdy song that seemed to be about a merchant’s daughter’s naked adventures with his caravan guards. Every now and then during the song the avid listeners gathered around the musician would bang their mugs on their tables, shouting a boisterous “Hey!” and laugh raucously. Dormael smiled to himself, their happiness rubbing off on him just a bit.
The sooty orange glow of lanterns lit the scene, casting a merry ambience on those gathered in the alehouse, and the enticing smell of roasting fish mingled with tobacco smoke floated through the air. Woodchips were scattered on the floor just in case someone decided to spill their stomach, and the acidic smell of vomit was kept at bay somewhat by the smell of the sawdust. All in all, it seemed like a nice place to spend the evening, and Dormael gave himself an imaginary pat on the back for coming here.
The only problem was, he couldn’t quite remember where here was at the moment. The constant illusion of the room spinning told him the reason for that, and he giggled in spite of himself. Dormael wasn’t too worried about it, he was just glad that he had awakened with his belongings and purse intact. Well, his purse was somewhat intact, anyway. Mug after mug of ale had taken its toll on his coin.
Dormael was a traveler, and he lived his life like a vagabond. It’s not so much that he didn’t have a purpose, far from it, he just made sure that whatever job he was currently tied to took him far abroad in the world. He quite enjoyed walking the roads and exploring the lands, and he liked to think that it was a romantic sort of life. It was just him, his meager belongings, and the road. He liked it that way, and he enjoyed living out the sort of adventure story that his life had become.
He was not always alone. Most of the time in fact, he traveled with his cousin D’Jenn. It was a good arrangement; they were family and enjoyed each other’s company for the most part. They also shared the same occupation, and the same talent had manifested in both of them. He almost wished that D’Jenn were here with him now, at least then he would have someone to drag him out of this tavern before he got into trouble, or he would have someone to get into trouble with.
Dormael was definitely far from home. He hailed from across the Stormy Sea in the Sevenlands, and here in Alderak he stuck out like a sore thumb. Most of the men here were dark of hair and beard, and had the rough, callused hands of dockworkers or the swaying gait of sailors. Dormael, however, had blonde hair cropped close to his scalp, and a long goatee that flowed down from only his chin. It was braided and tinged with red, and it reached all the way to his stomach.
His garb was truly unique in this part of the world. He had a close fitting black wool shirt that covered him down to his wrists, and it was tucked into dark leather pants. The shirt was there not only for warmth, but also to cover the tattoos of archaic Sevenlander script that were scribed on his arms from shoulders to wrists. His pants were tucked into good durable walking boots that were perfectly worn to his feet. Over all of this he wore the traditional vestment of his people, the Mesavai, which was a sleeveless garment that slightly resembled a tabard. It was white and was embroidered with runes along the hems which told of his family’s history and lineage, and he wore it belted at the waist. His cloak was more like a heavy robe with a deep cowl and hood and was black in color. For now it was laying atop his packs next to him on the bench he was sitting on. His only other belongings were his traveling pack, his quarterstaff, and a beautifully made guitar which he played quite well. He used it sometimes to masquerade as a travelling musician. Sometimes he thought about actually becoming a minstrel, but he imagined that he’d become bored with the life, eventually.
The door to the tavern opened, admitting three merry looking men and a chill draft from the street outside. The autumns in port cities were always a bit cooler, with the sea churning up winds and throwing them towards the shore like titans playing a joke on humanity. Dormael thought that if he listened hard enough, he could almost hear them laughing at him, and he giggled to himself again.
A port city, he thought, that’s right! Ferolan! He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs further from his wits as he remembered a bit of where he was and what he was doing. He had just finished up his last assignment, and had bought passage on a cargo ship bound here to the eastern continent of Alderak. It was the natural landing place for half of the goods being traded from the Sevenlands to Alderak, and from here they were dispersed into various caravans and carted to their final destinations across the northern part of this land.
Dormael, however, was currently on vacation and 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, and perhaps make a coin or two playing his guitar. He had stopped here to celebrate his landfall and have a drink.
Regretfully, Dormael called for his last mug of ale while gathering his belongings to set out and find a bed for the night. He had meant to buy a horse, but it seemed that the ale had decided against that financial venture. Walking was good for the soul, though, and Dormael was used to walking anyway.
The barmaid deposited his mug on the table and Dormael pressed some coins into her hand with a smile and a smack on the rump for good measure. She smiled in spite of his predictable gesture, and he winked at her as she turned to dodge her way back through the press of drunken merrymakers. He always did have a way with the fairer sex.
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 drink half full with another smiling red-nosed man who cheered and clapped him on the shoulder heartily for his trouble. Pulling his hood up against the chill wind, Dormael opened the wooden door and stepped out into the night.
The streets outside were virtually empty. It seemed that most people had retreated indoors for the night, leaving the cobblestones of the streets to collect the mist that came in off the sea. Autumn was waning, and the chill fingers of winter had begun to sink into everything with a cold grip that only the morning sun could burn away. The ruddy glow of street lanterns cast long shadows into the alleyways he passed, and the absence of people gave the night a lonely, haunting quality that made Dormael feel a little unsettled.
He did pass a few people, men headed to taverns or hurrying on an errand that only they knew about, or the ever-present City Watchmen. They hardly offered a greeting to him; the night seemed to make them wary of passersby. Dormael didn’t blame them. At this time of night most honest men had taken to drinking or sleeping, and the cutpurses ran the streets until sunup.
Dormael soon passed from the Docks District into a slummy residential area, and the brick warehouses and shops that lined the streets at the docks gave way to squat, two-story apartment buildings that were built mostly of wooden planks. Most of the windows were dark here, save for the occasional lighted bedroom, but the street lanterns still gave off their orange, ruddy glow. It was quiet here, and it made Dormael’s unease slightly more pronounced as he walked down the deserted streets, his boots rhythmically tap-tap-tapping on the cobblestones underfoot.
Perhaps it was the near silence, or maybe the drunkenness that still filled Dormael like an ale flagon, but a strange feeling began to tingle inside of him. At first, Dormael thought he was going to be sick, but as he thought about it he wasn’t feeling nauseated at all. This was something else…something else entirely. Dormael tried to shake it off, taking deep breaths of the cold night air, even pulling down his hood to bare his head to the chill, but nothing seemed to be working. More and more as he tread through this quiet city, Dormael began to suspect something was wrong.
Then it happened. With a feeling akin to jumping into an icy stream, his magic suddenly awoke with a feeling of warning and gut-wrenching dread. Dormael almost collapsed, and he had to lean heavily on a streetlamp to keep his feet underneath him. This had never happened before.
The magic was coursing through him with alarming power, and it seemed to be shouting at him, pulling him towards something that he had never felt before. It seemed that the air around him should be crackling with energy, but the night was quiet save for his heavy, misted breathing. For a moment, Dormael felt like he was losing control, and spots appeared before his eyes like the harbingers of insanity. Taking a deep breath and squaring his trembling legs, he forced it under control.
He concentrated on his Kai, the place where his magic slept inside of him, and tried to force it back down, but the magic would not leave him. Its subtle awareness seemed to be trying to tell him something, to pull him farther down the street. Dormael had never known the magic to react this way, and so he squared his shoulders and tread on down the path, letting the magic guide his steps.
After a minute or two of walking, the power quieted slightly, but still held that steady pull on him, and it seemed that he must obey. It was curiosity and a hopeful trust in the magic that kept him walking, though fear dogged his every step. Dormael continued walking the path, with beads of cold sweat forming on his skin.
It led him through the residential district into 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 walked on past these buildings unseeing, the magic pulling him down this blind path towards something unknown. 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 South Gate appeared before him, and the guards on duty paid him little mind as he walked through it, past the safety of the city walls and into the night on the road leading further south.
The wind was blowing unchecked from the sea, lashing Dormael’s cloak about him like a flag caught in a squall. The moonlight was shining brightly, though it did little to aid his blurry, drunken vision. The road was made of hard trampled dirt, and it loosed clouds of dust every time the wind blew. Dormael had to shield his eyes with his hand periodically. The only sound was the waves of the Stormy Sea crashing against the rocky beach of the coast. The land around the city was mostly coastal highlands, but the road snaked southwest into a dense forest some distance from the city. There were sparse trees dotting the land here, though they gave little shelter from the wind.
Grumbling to himself, Dormael continued his surprise journey down the road, though he was now irritated and wondered when the damned magic would leave off and let him lie down for the night. He was drunk, cold, and now he was aggravated and began a stream of curses to no one in particular. His foul mood only worsened as he trampled along.
Suddenly the sound of hooves clopping in the dirt grabbed his attention, and he stopped dead to listen. It was well past midnight by now, and most riders would have set up camp for the night. He tensed his grip on his quarterstaff and strained his ears to hear the clopping that seemed to be coming ponderously closer.
Some distance down the road before him, the shape of horse and rider came out of the night. There was something strange, though; the horse was going at a slow walk, and the rider appeared to be slumped in the saddle. From the sound of the horse’s breathing it had been ridden hard, and as it got closer he could see that its legs were clearly unsteady. The rider did not rise at the sight of him, and gave no indication that he or she was even alive. Warily, Dormael moved forward to investigate.
As he moved within range of the horse he could see that it was a fine and well-kept mare, and heavily lathered in sweat. It offered him a weak whinny as he stepped into its path and raised his hand in a wary but curt greeting.
“Ho, there, friend, it’s certainly a cold night to be out riding. What’s your name?” he hailed. The rider said nothing. In fact, the rider didn’t even move. He could see now the rider was a woman, and a wealth of long, red hair spilled from her unmoving head. Her cloak covered her slumped body, and Dormael began to fear that she was dead.
“Excuse me…?” he uttered, moving forward guardedly. Slowly he reached up and grabbed the horse’s reins and in that instant the magic sang to him that he had reached his target. As he reached for the rider to investigate, the horse turned slightly and that small movement caused her body to slide from the saddle. She thumped onto the ground, but still gave no indication that she was alive. Dormael feared the worst, and knelt down to examine her.
She was a pretty girl, though her face was a mirror of pain. She was wearing a leather battle kit over a padded tunic, and had two fine short swords belted at her waist. Her cloak was now spilled open on the ground under her, thanks to the fall. She was not dead, Dormael could see; her chest rose up and down slowly with her strained breathing and her face was flushed heavily. The reason soon became apparent.
She had an arrow shaft protruding from her side, and he could see dried blood staining her padded tunic around it, as well as fresh blood leaking from the wound. It couldn’t have been a new injury, though it also couldn’t have been more than a day old, at that. Dormael was no healer, but he could see that the injury was serious and required immediate attention. Feeling a pang of sympathy, he gathered her into his arms and grunting with the effort, placed her across the saddle of her horse, paying special attention to the arrow wound. Then he turned and hurriedly led the horse down the road back to Ferolan.
His magic was still flowing strongly through him, and he could feel a strange aura of power somewhere hovering about the girl’s belongings. He may have had some bad habits, but Dormael was not a thief, at least most of the time, and rifling through the unconscious girl’s things was beneath him. So he felt compelled to help the young girl, half out of curiosity and half out of pity. Taking control of himself, he seized control of his Kai, and forced his magic to sleep once again.
As he hurried back down the road he went over the last few hours in his mind, trying to remember if he saw a healer’s shop on his way out here. He cursed himself for not being more attentive, but kept up his pace, sure that he could find one somewhere. The wounded girl groaned a little but said nothing and didn’t wake up during the trip toward the city. Dormael stopped just out of sight of the gate guards and began to puzzle at his next step, wracking his mind for what he could do.
The girl was obviously a warrior of some sort, and she was running from something. Hells, for all Dormael knew she could be a highway brigand. Whatever the case, he sensed that alerting the authorities would not be the most prudent course of action. He didn’t want to leave a trail of her presence here, and for some reason his magic had led him to her. That made her his responsibility, as much as he disliked this turn of events. There was definitely something strange going on with the girl.
It would take some finesse and deception to get her past the gate guards in her state, and somehow he was going to have to hide her. Though hiding a full grown woman with an arrow in her side would be an impressive accomplishment, indeed. An idea began to form in his mind, though, and he turned to set up the con.
First, he removed her swords and tied them to her saddlebags, along with his pack and guitar. Then, he wrapped her up in his cloak and hers, setting her upright and sideways in the saddle. Holding her there, he gave a quick apology to the horse and climbed up behind her, holding her in place in front of him with his staff clasped around her body. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he nudged the horse into a walk towards the gate.
As he approached, the guards lazily moved to bar his path. They were armed with long halberds, and they leaned on them slightly as he pulled short before them. One of them spit into the dirt before challenging him.
“Halt. What is your business in the city?” he asked.
“Trying to buy passage on a ship, friend. I have to get my sister home,” Dormael lied.
“That’s your sister, there? Is she awake?” the guard inquired, nodding his head at the unconscious girl.
“I’m afraid not, good sir. You see, she takes heavily to drinking. Tonight she put down an entire bottle of firewine. It was the bane of her poor husband. I’m taking her home, you see. He sent word to us that he was sending her back to her family, and that he wanted one of us to come grab her up. She’s violent, you understand. I think that he sent her home because of the stabbing.”
“Stabbing?” the guard started.
“Truly. Apparently, she put a knife in his leg. Put him down for a whole month, I think. Tragic, really, he was a good natured fellow,” Dormael said, “And then, there’s the issue with her sickness.”
“Sickness?” the guard sounded truly taken aback now.
“I’m afraid that her years of heavy drinking have taken a toll on her body, particularly her bowels.”
“What?”
“Sadly, it seems that she has absolutely no control over when she…well…when she goes. That’s why it took us so long to get here from the back country. I had to keep stopping and cleaning, and…,” Dormael look down at the girl suddenly, sighing, “Oh Hells, I think she’s going now.”
“Alright, Sevenlander, you take your sister and get her out of here,” the guard almost shouted, waving him on through. Dormael didn’t waste any time, he simply tipped his head at the guardsmen, and tapped the horse into a quick walk through the city gates. When he was out of sight of the gate, he dismounted again and laid the girl across her saddle, taking care to avoid upsetting the arrow shaft. He laughed at his masterfully executed con, and shook his head at the outrageousness of his story.
Patting the horse’s neck, he pondered his next set of problems. First, he was going to have to avoid notice while he was here. The sight of him leading a horse with a body laid across it might raise a few questions with any authorities that may appear, so he would have to stick to back alleys. On top of that, he didn’t even know where he was going. A healer’s shop would be the best bet, though he hadn’t noticed any on his walk out of the city, and finding one was going to be a tedious task at best.
On top of all of this, Dormael was still drunk. His steps were not the quietest, and they were wrought with the occasional stumble and usually accompanied by a muttered curse. Tromping about in the darkened alleys was not as easy as he thought it would be, and he frequently stumbled over mounds of trash or startled sleeping alley cats from their slumber, who would go dashing into the night with a protesting mewl and a hiss for good measure.
He worked his way generally back the way he had come, heading for one of the market districts. Perhaps he could find a healer’s shop there, and somehow convince him or her to help. Under the circumstances, it was the best plan that Dormael could come up with at the moment, and time was of the essence.
Suddenly, in a narrow space between two squat buildings, two men moved into his path and effectively blocked him. Groaning inwardly, Dormael turned only to find another, larger man barring his retreat. Dormael cursed silently at this turn of events. Someone in the Six Hells had it out for him tonight.
“Well, hello there, friend. Fine horse you got there. I wonder what’s in your saddlebags,” one of the smaller men rasped. His voice was like dry scales rubbing together, and it sounded as if someone had cut his throat and didn’t entirely finish the job. What a pity, Dormael thought. He wondered idly why every thief that ever robbed someone found it necessary to spit what they thought was witty banter at their marks. It was irritating.
The men were all shabbily dressed in throw-off clothing, and they smelled of piss and sweat. They were unshaven and their eyes darted quickly in one direction and then the next, ever watchful for someone to interrupt their little mugging. The one with the raspy voice seemed to be the leader, and they were all holding daggers that looked more suited to whittling than killing. Dormael sensed that these were desperate men, though, and desperate men were the most dangerous.
“Please,” Dormael began, “This is not the time or place to delay me. Find someone else to steal from tonight, for my sake, and yours.”
“Oooh,” the dry voiced thief laughed mockingly. His friends echoed his sentiment. “Come now, Sevenlander, there are three of us and one of you. I can smell your money from here, and we want a piece. That horse will fetch us a goodly price and that guitar you have tied to it will fence for even more. If you’re smart you’ll hand it over without a fuss, unless you want a knife in the gut.”
“Sorry,” Dormael retorted, “but I rather need these things, so I think I’ll be going now, with my belongings.”
“You’ll be dying, is what you’ll be doing. Kill him,” the snake-voiced mugger said, signaling his men to move in, but it was already too late. Dormael had laid his staff against the horse, and rolled up his sleeves. The thieves started towards him, smiling.
Dormael reached down inside himself, to his Kai, where his magic slept. Suddenly he was filled with it, like a river of ice and fire flowing through him as he opened that invisible door which held the incredible power at bay. It seemed like time stopped around him.
He could see the muggers, frozen in mid step, coming inevitably towards him. He could feel the mist hanging in the cool night air, every tiny droplet an individual entity. He could taste the steel of the knives they carried, hear their hands tightening on the leather grips in anticipation of the kill. He could smell the sweat of the horse, heavy and salty as she whinnied nervously. He felt every hair on his body tensing, building to a crescendo that would end in a violent expulsion of power. He could hear the thieves’ heartbeats, and his own heart began to beat in time. Through it all the magic flowed, connecting him to everything; to the buildings, the air, the muggers and even the moonlight and the distant waves rolling in from the sea.
And it was begging him to use it.
Slowly, as if he were moving through jelly, his arm rose and pointed at the rasping, dirty thief.
The world leaped back into motion with a loud crack as lightning arced from Dormael’s outstretched hand to slam like a charging bull into the skinny, unwashed little man. He was lifted into the air and thrown back into a nearby building, his knife flying across the alleyway as he hit the wall with a dull thudding sound. He slid to the ground and lay motionless, his chest smoking where the bolt had burned a hole clean through his ratty shirt to sear the flesh of his torso. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The second thief had been thrown back as well, and was sitting on his rump in the alley, dumbfounded by this unexpected turn of events. He looked once from Dormael, who stood now with his unspent electricity arcing from his arm into the alley and crackling all around him, to his dead partner. Then, with a small cry of alarm he rose and bolted into the night, his panicked footsteps ringing off into the distance.
Dormael turned to face the man at his rear, and found him standing wide-eyed with fear. He stepped back once, but only tightened his grip on his knife, as if tensing for the confrontation. Dormael sighed loudly, and then addressed the large man.
“Listen, we don’t have to do this. Turn, please, and go back the way you came. Let’s both find somewhere to get in out of this cold,” Dormael said. The thief took his advice, and backed away slowly before finally turning and bolting down another alleyway. Dormael kicked a piece of trash in frustration before turning back to the horse. That had made just a bit too much noise, and he would have to get out this alley quickly before someone came looking.
Suddenly, the girl coughed weakly, and Dormael rushed to her side. She was struggling to move about on the horse’s back, a futile attempt that ended in a weak cry of pain as she jostled the arrow shaft sticking from her side. Her breathing was becoming strained as she spoke.
“Alton?” she implored, “Where…am I?” She tried to move again, but Dormael calmed her soothingly.
“Don’t move, or you’ll upset your wound again. Who are you looking for?” Dormael asked her.
“Alton…Alton Dersham…my cousin,” she managed between weak coughing, “Who…who are you? Take me…take me to Alton. He’s…nobility…a rich man. Where…”, and then she fainted again, her body obviously too weak to continue.
Great, Dormael thought, who in the Six Hells is Alton Dersham? Whoever this person was, Dormael was going to have to find him, and fast. The sky was beginning to turn a sullen blue with the rising of the sun, and eventually people would be in the streets again. Gathering his gear, he began leading the horse in search for this Alton Dersham. Well I guess it’s a good thing that I didn’t finish that last tankard, Dormael thought, chuckling ruefully, or I might have hit myself with that lightning.
****
Chapter Two
Lords, Swordswomen, and Fools
Alton Dersham turned out to be a friendly, dark-haired man of medium height and build, with an open and honest face and an easy-going manner. At first he had been suspicious of Dormael, who had carried Alton’s cousin in with an arrow sticking from her side. After some quick questions were answered, however, Alton relaxed his suspicions seeing that Dormael had taken nothing from his cousin’s belongings, and had offered him a place to sleep. After a few days had passed, the two men began to become tenuous friends. It was an odd thing, but Dormael couldn’t complain. He simply couldn’t leave until he found out more about the girl and why she’d caused such a reaction within his Kai, and in the meantime Alton seemed to be pleasant company.
Her name was Shawna. That was what Alton told Dormael, and she was from a noble house in the southern part of Cambrell. Apparently, her family was quite wealthy. Wealthy people don’t ride around alone in leather armor, however, and they also didn’t normally receive arrows in the side; the wealthy usually received their arrows in the back. Alton offered no information on the matter, and Dormael thought it would be rude to ask of it, but he constantly pondered the problem and wondered what in the Six Hells she was doing riding around dressed like that and getting shot in the process. There was something odd going on here, and Dormael intended to find out.
Alton never asked Dormael why he stayed; it became apparent that he was not her traveling companion or indentured man because he didn’t know how she had come by the wound. Alton simply assumed that Dormael stuck around out of general concern for Shawna’s well-being, since he had rescued her, and it wasn’t an altogether untrue statement at that. There were, of course, other reasons for Dormael to be there. His magic sang to him constantly with that eerie feeling every time he was in her presence. That, Dormael definitely intended to find out about. Of course, he didn’t let those reasons become known, he simply didn’t object when Alton came to his own conclusions about his motives. It wasn’t really lying, just absence of information, so to speak.
Alton lived in what was called the Merchant’s District in Ferolan. It was not strictly just a district of merchants, but all who lived in this port city with money and stature made their homes here in lavish fashion. Alton just happened to be one of the richest men in the city, and his large manor house reflected his earnings. He ran an importing and exporting business, sending goods from all over Alderak to the Sevenlands and the western islands and back.
Alton’s manor house was a sprawling compound of three stories, with its own chapel and stables as well. It was surrounded by an eleven-hands-high brick wall with a beautiful iron gate, which was made to look like vines twining together around the name “Dersham”. It was mostly constructed of modern masonry; all through the house high arches marked entryways, and the floors were of hard, polished wood. It was definitely a pleasant setting, and Dormael quite enjoyed exploring it and stealing bits of food from the kitchen, much to the chagrin of the household staff.
Alton’s chief maid was a plump, ever-smiling woman who called herself Nan, and she always seemed to have some ancient anecdote or pearl of wisdom to share with Dormael. She was a delightful old lady, but she ruled the household with an iron fist, and kept everything scrupulously tidy and neat. Dormael, however, could do no wrong according to her.
Alton himself seemed to have none of that sneering disdain that came along with rank and coin, and he was interested in Dormael’s homeland and customs. Often they would sit together, puffing on long pipe stems and engaging in long conversations about one thing or another. Alton also played chess, and the two men sometimes sat closeted in his study, conversing idly over the chess board while contemplating the other man’s next move. They were becoming fast friends, under the circumstances.
Shawna’s recovery was coming along slowly, and she remained in an intermittent state of unconsciousness. Her wound had taken an infection, and being so close to her vitals it was unknown if she would fully recover. Alton had the local healer stop by daily to change her dressings, administer medicines, and check on her progress, but there was really little he could do at this point. So Dormael and Alton simply passed the time, hoping that the young woman would awaken and explain what had happened to her.
Dormael visited her often, with the pretense of watching over her and playing a tune or two on his guitar to sooth her unconscious mind. In reality, he was reaching out with his magic to coax the sickness from her. Healing abilities with magic, however, were not really all that powerful, but he did what he could to speed her recovery along.
Mostly, he mulled over the reason his magic would react to her so strongly. This had never happened before, though he had heard stories of wizards whose magic reacted to ancient places of power in a similar fashion. In those cases, however, there was no record of magic leading them to something. It was altogether strange and a little frightening, and Dormael needed to speak to someone on the subject. But who was going to listen to him and not scoff at his story or assume he was losing control? There was only one person he could trust on this matter. He decided to contact his cousin, D’Jenn.
He found Alton in his study, poring over a ledger with a business associate, a graying man with a stiff, proper manner and a perpetual frown on his face. Alton’s friend was clearly surprised to see Dormael standing there in his house, and the Alderakian prejudice was clear on his sneering face. The man looked Dormael up and down, sniffing disdainfully.
“Alton”, Dormael began, “I didn’t know you were indisposed. I’ll come back later.”
“Nonsense, Dormael. I was only seeing to a small matter of business, it’s of no moment. “Grant,” he said, motioning to the man at his side, “this is Dormael, a new friend from the Sevenlands.”
“My Lord, I didn’t know that you were currently keeping with savages,” Grant replied.
“Grant!” Alton began, but Dormael cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“It’s quite all right, Alton,” Dormael said cheerfully, “it’s a natural reaction for a man with a small mind. I’m used to people being intimidated by me.” Grant sniffed, scoffing at him.
“I will not tolerate my guests being disrespected in my house. If that is all, Grant, you may leave,” Alton reproved.
“As My Lord wishes,” Grant said, bowing stiffly. The man grabbed the ledger from Alton’s desk, and stalked out of the room with one last sneer for Dormael. When the door shut behind him, Dormael chuckled and shook his head.
“That’s a good man you have there,” Dormael said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the now departing Grant.
“It’s an old prejudice, I fear, and many here share his views. I’ve always found that it’s better to judge a man on his merit, rather than where he hails from,” Alton shrugged. Dormael smiled, encouraged by Alton’s comments.
“I was wondering if I may ask a small favor of you. I have a cousin who is in the vicinity, and I was wondering if you’d mind terribly if I invited him to stay. He’ll be departing with me when I go, of course, and we have business of our own to attend to,” Dormael asked.
“Does he play chess as well as you?”
“Naturally.”
“Then put him up in an inn. It’s despairing to constantly lose in your own house,” Alton laughed, “Seriously, though; I’ll prepare a room for him. I’ll be honored to receive your cousin here.”
“You’re most gracious, My Lord. Surely only the Gods are as generous and saintly as My Lord Dersham,” Dormael said, bowing mockingly to Alton.
“At least his conversation may not be as grating on the ears as his coz,” Alton shot back. Dormael laughed and walked out the door, leaving Alton to his business. He would have waited until nightfall to contact D’Jenn, but this was important, and he needed some insight. He made his way quickly to the room that Alton had given him, and moved to look out the window.
With his face in the sun, Dormael closed his eyes and opened his Kai, feeling the torrent of the magic rush into him. Feeling completely alive, his senses augmented by the touch of the magic, he sent his mind flying over the city. He flew low over the docks, slowing to take in the view of the sea and the ships that slowly rocked in time to the water in the harbor. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining its blessing upon the world, and Dormael loved the sensation of Mind Flight. Though his body was standing in the window back at Alton’s manor, his mind was soaring now northward over the rocky coast of Alderak, and Dormael spread his phantom arms and spun in midair with delight. This wasn’t the time for games, however, and he regretfully turned east and headed back overland to parallel the road running north from Ferolan.
Forming the image of his cousin in his mind’s eye, he sent his thoughts in search of D’Jenn. It took but a moment before he could feel his cousin’s presence, like a pulsing beacon in the distance. He flew slowly northward over the road, following the thought that he had attached to his kin. Finally, he came upon him, a lone man strolling down the road towards Ferolan.
His coz was similar in appearance to himself, though their coloring and hair was different. D’Jenn wore his dark brown hair long and tied at the nape of his neck, as opposed to Dormael’s closely cropped blonde locks. D’Jenn’s goatee was long, reaching to his chest, but he wore it unbraided. It was tinged with red hairs, just like Dormael’s. His hair was in sharp contrast to his pale skin, another trait that the cousins shared. His eyes were a pale blue, and they always seemed to drink everything in. Hardly anything escaped D’Jenn’s knowing eyes.
His garb was like a mirror image of Dormael’s, though with differing colors. His cloak was dark and long, blowing out behind him in the wind. He wore a form-fitting woolen shirt of a smoky gray, covering him to the wrists, hiding the inked archaic script that was tattooed on his arms which was almost twin to Dormael’s own. His mesavia was black, with red runes embroidered on the hems, and his pants were dark, serviceable leather and tucked into good leather boots. Attached to the traveling pack that D’jenn had shouldered was a leather sack tied with purse strings that enclosed a Doomba, an ancient Sevenlander drum that he played expertly. Hanging from a loop on the right side of his belt was a dark iron morningstar. It was a mean-looking weapon, five hands in length and dotted with skull-crushing spikes on its rounded head, which was swinging menacingly back and forth on its chain as D’Jenn tread along the road.
Dormael lowered to the earth in front of D’Jenn and formed the image of himself in his mind. Using his magic, he infused that image to make it substantial, giving the illusion of him standing in the road there before D’Jenn, wearing a wry smile on his face. He poured his mind into the image, and bowed to his coz.
“Mind Flight, coz? I see you’ve been playing again,” D’Jenn greeted him, bowing low with his right fist balled up over his heart in a customary Sevenlander greeting.
“Playing? You know me better than that, coz. I’m about serious business right now. I’ve no time for childish games,” Dormael said jokingly, returning his cousin’s formal bow.
“I do know you, and I’m sure you’ve been very seriously flying over the sea turning loops in mid-air,” D’Jenn laughed, “tell me, how many flagons of ale have you quaffed today?”
“None as of yet,” Dormael shrugged, “But it’s early. There’s still time for that sort of thing.”
“Aye, still time yet. So, are you ready for the Solstice celebration? It’s going to be a long trip. Have you bought a horse?”
“Ah…about that trip, D’Jenn, something has happened,” Dormael said, becoming serious, “I don’t think I can make it this year. There’s been a strange turn of events here, and I need your advice.”
“Dormael…what do you mean? We’ve been planning this trip since Lammas and I thought we weren’t taking any more assignments until the spring. You went and got yourself arrested again, didn’t you,” D’Jenn sighed. He moved to the side of the road and set his packs down, sitting next to them and digging his pipe from his belt pouch. He motioned Dormael to sit beside him.
“It’s not an assignment, coz,” Dormael sighed, joining D’Jenn at the side of the road, “And certainly if I was planning on being arrested I would wait for you to get here so we could both sit in a charming little dungeon. No, it’s something else entirely. Tell me, has the magic ever just awakened and tried to tell you something?”
“No…what are you talking about?” D’Jenn asked, eyeing him strangely and appearing a little stunned at his sudden change from his usual joking manner to seriousness.
“It was strange,” Dormael began, sighing deeply and launching into the story, “about a week gone, I was sitting in a tavern drinking some ale. I got up to leave, and walked out in search of an inn to buy a bed for the evening. Then, the magic just…woke up…on its own, and it would not stop singing to me. At first I thought I was losing it, like old Corto did, you remember? It was singing in my ears, tugging me along down the street and I couldn’t get hold of it. I thought I was a few seconds from setting the whole city on fire, but all it seemed to want was for me to walk. The more I resisted, the worse it was. Finally I let it pull me down the street, and after a good bit of walking it…led me to something.”