Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1) Page 3

  Shawna glared at the sky, eyes blurring with fresh tears. “If this is what you want, if this is what you demand of me, then so be it.”

  She dropped her saddlebags from her shoulder and looked at her sword. The sunlight flashed from the steel and returned a distorted reflection of Shawna’s bloody face. The screams from the other side of the manor cut into Shawna’s ears. Laughter followed, stoking her anger.

  Shawna turned her glare on the clouds. “Look here, Aastinor! Look here, Father of War, Sword of Vengeance! Look down from the Void and see me now!”

  Shawna drew the sword across her palm, and blood welled up from the cut.

  “I am Shawna of House Llewan, and I swear this oath in your name! I will seek vengeance on my enemies, and the blood will spill in your honor if you grant me the reckoning I seek! Open your eyes and watch!”

  Shawna closed her eyes and rubbed her palm down her face, smearing the blood down the center of her forehead. A breeze whipped stray locks of hair into the blood, sticking it to her skin. Shawna took the breeze for an answer and drew her second blade.

  “This oath I swear, so mote it be.”

  She stepped around the side of the manor in a haze, a quiet part of her mind incredulous at what she was doing. Her limbs were afire with cold energy, and her stomach held a thousand butterflies. The sounds of the attack came closer, each scream tightening Shawna’s grip on her swords.

  She was burning with rage when she turned the corner.

  Three men stood in a semicircle with their backs to her. They were taking their ease and passing around a decanter—doubtless looted from the manor. They laughed like old chums out for a nighttime romp. One man put his arm around another and slapped him on the shoulder.

  The fourth man was on the ground in the middle of the group, his weapons discarded nearby. A girl younger than Shawna struggled beneath him, clawing at his face and kicking her feet. Her fight was earning her little more than sporting laughter from her attacker.

  Shawna’s hands tightened on her hilts and she quickened her steps. The one in the center would be the first to die—she could turn her blades on his friend in a heartbeat, and she’d have just the pantsless one and the other fool to deal with. She could take the fool before the fourth man got his pants up, and—

  The man in the center turned, grinning ear to ear, and spotted her. “What?—To arms!”

  The two men to the side cursed and backpedaled, yanking their swords free. The one in the middle just managed to wrestle his blade from his belt before Shawna was on him. She kicked his hand aside without losing a step and opened a wide gash in his throat. He went down with a surprised exclamation, blood pouring from the wound.

  “Tarmon!” The man to Shawna’s right charged with his sword raised over his head.

  Shawna side-stepped, careful not to slip in the first man’s blood, and moved to the attacker’s weak side. She lunged before he could recover from his slash, putting a hand’s worth of steel into his side. When he cringed over the wound, she dealt him a hard blow across the face. He fell with a scream, and Shawna spun to face the remaining two.

  The pantsless man was struggling to extricate himself from the girl on the ground, who was snarling and raking at his eyes. Shawna put a long, deep gash down the middle of his back, and he toppled to the side with a pained gasp. The girl kicked him away and scrambled from Shawna’s path, pulling her clothes around her body.

  The last man swallowed as Shawnwa turned to him. This one didn’t attack with clumsy slashes, or rush in with amateur thrusts. He held the tip of his sword in her direction and kept his distance. Shawna settled into a loose guard.

  “Think about this, girl!” The Galanian flicked his eyes over Shawna’s shoulder. “There’s more of us coming. You got no choice but to run. If you leave now, I’ll let you go. I’ll give you a chance to get away!”

  “Is that right?” Anger coiled in Shawna’s chest. “You’ll let me go, will you?”

  Shawna rushed forward, attacking him high and low. He put up an admirable defense for someone with marginal skill. He held her at bay with wide, sweeping parries, but Shawna slipped behind his guard. She kicked his knee out in mid-stride, fumbling an attack, and thrust one of her blades into his side.

  The Galanian’s longsword tumbled to the grass as he fell to his knees. He grasped to folds in Shawna’s armor, his mouth working to form words. All that escaped was bloody foam and pained noises. Shawna put the tip of her sword in the crook of his shoulder and thrust hard into his heart. He fell to the grass beside his sword, and Shawna let out a cleasing sigh.

  The morning went silent, save for the sobs of the girl she’d saved.

  Shawna cleaned the blood from her swords and sheathed them. She turned to survey the carnage around her, taking deep breaths to slow the beating of her heart. The Galanians had been stacking the corpses on the lawn, and now Shawna had added their own bodies to the tally.

  “Did you see that, Aastinor?” Shawna whispered through her teeth. “Did you see?”

  Her family had cared for a large staff of servants and holdsmen, many with families of their own. The bodies, when laid out together, occupied a sizable section of the manor’s manicured yard. Crows were already picking through the pile, and Shawna turned away in horror.

  A dust cloud gathered on the horizon, rising from the southern road.

  Shawna’s muscles went rigid. Now I know what the Galanian was looking at when he glanced over my shoulder. How many men does it take to raise such a cloud?

  “Lady Shawna?”

  Shawna turned to find Taiba—one of the kitchen girls—sobbing and holding a ripped dress around her body. She was a slight thing, younger than Shawna by a few springs. Bruises decorated her face and arms, livid against her pale skin. Her hands were bloody, and judging from the fight she’d given her attacker, not all of it was hers. Taiba’s mother had been in her family’s service for years. Shawna’s heart broke to see her in such a state.

  “Taiba.” Shawna’s voice cracked. “Taiba…I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.”

  “You saved my life, Lady Shawna.” Taiba took a fluttering breath and looked around. “What do we do?”

  Shawna grabbed Taiba by the shoulder and looked hard into her eyes.

  “Taiba, listen to me. There’s more of them coming. Do you see that?” Shawna pointed toward the road at the growing cloud of dust in the distance. “We have to leave! But first, we have to slow them down!”

  “Slow them down, Lady?” Taiba gave her a horrified look.

  “If we don’t, they’ll catch us,” Shawna said. “I’m going to get us horses. I need you to do something for me, Taiba. Can you help me?”

  Taiba took a moment to rip her eyes from the dust cloud, but she squared her jaw and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. Go into the house. Get all the lamp oil you can find, Taiba. Set everything on fire. Understand?”

  Taiba blinked. “The—the house, Lady?”

  “Burn it to the ground, Taiba. I won’t let them despoil this place, come here and eat our food, sleep where they’ve killed our loved ones!”

  Taiba’s eyes hardened, and she nodded.

  “Go!” Shawna ushered the girl into motion. Taiba ran for the house, holding her ripped dress around her knees. Shawna winced at the state of her clothing, but they had no time to worry about such things now.

  Maybe I’ve got something in my bags she can wear once we’re safely away from here.

  Shawna ran around the side of the manor and gathered her saddlebags. She headed for the stables, swords flapping at her waist. There were too many men under that cloud to fight, and Shawna needed to buy some time. A plan came to her as she ran, thought its necessity put a fresh wound in her heart.

  The horses reacted with unease as she ran into the long corridor between their stalls. Her breath misted before her face in the cold air, and the sharp smell of horse dung filled her nose. Charlotte—the mare she’d planned to ride—and
two other horses were already saddled. Shawna gathered Charlotte and another mare together, tying the second horse to Charlotte’s saddle with a long lead. The horses sensed her anxiety and scraped the dirt with their hooves, shaking their heads in protest. She got them ready despite their fear and led them outside, snatching a horsewhip from the wall as she passed through the door.

  Anyone who kept a large stable of horses feared one thing above all others—fire. Wooden barns could go up like burning hay, especially during the dry winter seasons. A single accident could kill entire teams of horses, so Shawna’s father had hired an engineer from Lesmira to ensure it wouldn’t happen. The strange little man had built a system of levers, counterweights, and springs into her father’s stable. The emergency system was held in place by a single rope and counterweight, so the whole thing could be activated at once.

  Shawna went back into the barn and ran down the center of the stalls, screaming and raising a clatter. The horses responded to her urgency, neighing and shuffling in their stalls. Shawna ran to the end of the barn and back again, stopping by the emergency mechanism.

  She had a moment of doubt as she glanced at the horses. These animals were thoroughbreds, known for their speed and endurance. Her father’s entire legacy was invested in the horses. If she left them, the Galanians would take them—of that, there was little doubt.

  I’m sorry. Shawna grimaced and sliced the emergency rope with one of her swords.

  Several things happened in quick succession. The rope gave way, causing a gear higher in the contraption to spin out of control as the absence of tension unfurled it. Heavy stone weights slammed to the floor all along the stable, trailing ropes that jerked the stall doors open. A thin steel cylinder attached to the rope screeched with an incessant clatter loud enough to jar Shawna’s teeth.

  The horses went mad.

  Shawna covered her ears and rushed through the door as the panic began. A few horses thundered past in their rush to leave the barn, missing her by a hair’s. She heard the rest of them screaming and bustling through the other side of the stable, away from the strange, clattering alarm.

  Charlotte shied and stomped her feet, sending the other horse into a similar state. Shawna took hold of her reins and brought the beast under control, mounting before the mare could protest. Shawna took a deep breath, grasped the horsewhip with her free hand, and kicked Charlotte into motion.

  The young mare responded with enthusiasm, breaking into a sprint past the manor and toward the road. The horses from the stable thundered down the hill, raising their own cloud of dust. A wooden fence was all that separated the field from the road at the foot of the hill, and Shawna had to beat the herd to the gate. She bent over Charlotte’s neck and gave the horse her lead, pointing her toward the gate and holding tight to the saddle.

  Charlotte pulled ahead of the herd, and reared when Shawna stopped her near the gate. Cursing, Shawna rode down the horse’s excitement and jumped from the saddle, eyes flicking to the approaching stampede. She rushed to the gate, undid the latch, and threw it wide.

  Charlotte danced as Shawna returned to the saddle. The thunderous sound of the herd grew to a storm as the horses rushed toward the open gate. Shawna nudged Charlotte through the gate and moved to block one side of the road. She unlimbered the horsewhip and stood in the saddle, arm poised to strike.

  The first horses burst through the gate, and Shawna snapped the whip in the air above their heads. They turned from the snap and headed down the road—directly toward the growing dust cloud. The stampede was spectacular up close, a veritable wall of unstoppable horseflesh. The noise rattled Shawna’s teeth, and she couldn’t help but cheer as she snapped the whip to usher the herd along.

  When the horses were past, Shawna tossed the whip aside and turned toward the manor.

  She was struck numb to see smoke rising from the windows of her home. The manor was framed against the cold morning sun, flames flickering in the windows. Taiba stood before it, her dress fluttering in the wind, clutching a bundle to her chest.

  Shawna spurred Charlotte up the hill and pulled up near Taiba, gesturing for haste. Taiba ran for the second horse and struggled to climb into the saddle, but her ruined dress caught in the stirrups. She wrestled with it, which made the horse shy away from her. Shawna turned to help, but she froze as her eyes passed over the road.

  Two Galanians sat astride horses at the edge of the tree line, drawing bows to their ears. Shawna cried out in alarm as Taiba threw her leg over the horse, but the girl never raised her head to see the danger. Arrows flitted down from the sky and buried themselves into Taiba’s back with a pair of meaty thumps.

  “Taiba!”

  Taiba gave a wet cough, a look of surprised pain on her face, and tumbled to the ground. Shawna yelled in anger and pulled the knot holding the second horse to Charlotte’s saddle, allowing the beast to run free. Charlotte danced away from Taiba’s mount as the horse was freed, and Shawna shot a last, pained look to Taiba’s body.

  Another pair of arrows sliced through the air where Charlotte had been, landing between the horse’s hooves. Shawna ducked on instinct and pulled the horse around, facing her to the west. With a final cry of anger, Shawna dug her heels into Charlotte’s flanks and urged her to run.

  Her back itched with fear as she bent over the horse’s neck. She turned Charlotte toward the road and the city of Ferolan, where her cousin made his home. She whispered to Charlotte as the horse ran—Come on, girl! Come on!—and prayed the gods would see her to safety.

  Something punched through her back, and agony filled her left side from toes to hairline. She gasped and almost fell from the saddle, but she was able to keep her seat. Each jarring report of Charlotte’s hooves sent flashes of pain through Shawna’s body.

  I’ve been hit! They put an arrow in my back!

  Shawna yelped as more arrows fell around her. She thought one may have flown through her hair, but they were gone so fast she couldn’t tell. She screamed into Charlotte’s mane and prayed to the gods for her stamina to hold.

  Haven’t the gods sated their appetites for blood?

  Shawna certainly had. The faces of her loved ones flashed before her eyes as she rode, all ripped from this world and sent into the Void before their time. She was the last living person who could attest to what happened, and the responsibility weighed on Shawna’s soul.

  She carried their memories with her as she fled.

  ***

  Dormael came awake with a snap.

  His heart was thundering blood through his head, and the skin on his neck and shoulders felt as if it had been dipped in icy water. The sensation faded as the world came into focus, dissipating into a cloud of angry tingles before disappearing altogether. He was filled with an odd foreboding as he gathered his wits.

  What in the Six Hells was that?

  His head swam with the ale he’d been drinking—wasn’t it ale in the cup in front of him? There was only one way to find out, so Dormael commenced to take another long pull from the mystery cup. He tipped the drink back and grimaced at the taste.

  It’s ale, sure as anything, and warmer than a summer day.

  His vision blurred, and he swept his arm before his face, trying to clear the drunkenness from his head. The movement only caused his mind to swim even worse, and he grasped the edge of the table to avoid an embarrassing introduction between his face and the floor. Taking a deep breath of the stale, smoky air, he tried to focus his sight.

  The tavern was alive with revelry around him. It was a seedy, dockside dive teeming with workmen and sailors. Barmaids dodged in and out of the boisterous crowd, ducking through small groups of singing men and deftly avoiding the drunken advances of the same. A man was perched on a table at the far end of the room, strumming a lively melody on a country guitar. He belted out verses about a merchant’s daughter and her various sexual indiscretions with his household. Dormael winced as the crowd roared a boisterous “HEY!” and descended into laughter.

&nb
sp; The orange glow of lanterns lit the scene, casting a merry ambiance on those gathered in the alehouse. Wood chips were scattered on the floor, in case someone decided to spill their stomach, though the acidic smell of vomit still wafted through the establishment. The scents of roasting fish and tobacco smoke also floated through the air, and it made for a strange mingling of odors. The smell notwithstanding, it seemed a nice place to spend an evening.

  Dormael’s head felt like it was covered in wet mud, with his wits trying to swim to the surface. He sucked another deep breath and counted his belongings, uttering a sigh of relief as he found his pack and purse still intact. Mostly intact, anyway—his purse was lighter than when he’d stepped off the ship.

  How much do they charge for this ale, anyway?

  He had traveled lightly, bringing only what was necessary. He had a pack with a few changes of clothing, a bedroll, and various implements of everyday life. He carried a quarterstaff that was more weapon than walking stick—at least to an eye sharp enough to know the difference. It was two heads taller than Dormael, and was capped on either end with steel. In his experience, a staff didn’t set teeth on edge the way a sword did, and Dormael preferred to travel with as little conflict as possible.

  His only indulgence was his most prized possession—a beautifully made guitar. Normally he took great pains to hide his level of wealth, carrying only simple clothing and the trappings of the vagabond, but he couldn’t stand to be away from the instrument. The guitar itself would never be mistaken for the tool of some traveling minstrel. It was made of polished wood, and carved with the various semblances of the gods, all rendered in painstaking detail. He carried it in a weathered, nondescript case to hide its true value.

  Dormael spotted a few of the patrons giving him sidelong glances, and he took note of their faces as he continued checking his gear. He expected as much in this part of the world—his kind was widely regarded with ill favor in the east, and he wasn’t dressed to blend with the crowd.

  While the people in this part of the world were as light-skinned as his own countrymen, with various shades of hair, their dress was mostly what one would expect in any poor district in any city in the world. Homespun and leather was the fashion for those too poor to care about fashion, though there were sailors in the room sporting the odd affectation from far and wide. None of them, however, were dressed like Dormael.