The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  D’Jenn gave Dormael a surprised look, then glanced in the direction of the Cultist.

  “What is the bloody Cult of Aeglar doing in Gameritus?” D’Jenn asked.

  “I don’t think they’re popular,” Dormael muttered. “He mentioned Shawna, D’Jenn. Why in the Six Hells would a Cultist have information about Shawna?”

  D’Jenn peered across the room at the man, but made no attempt to answer.

  The Cult of Aeglar was a religious order dedicated to the eradication of magic on Eldath. They worshiped Aeglar, the Trickster—whom they called the Clever One. The Cult was quite popular in most of Alderak, where a strong anti-magic sentiment had always found fertile ground. In the Sevenlands, though, they were almost universally reviled. He was shocked to find them here.

  “Gods, coz,” D’Jenn said. “However they know about us, it isn’t good.”

  “We’d be doing all of Eldath a service if we killed him,” Dormael said. “Could probably get away with it, too.”

  “We have to do it quiet,” D’Jenn said. “Conclave or not, we’ll get arrested for murder in the streets.”

  “He’ll probably have someone watching the inn.”

  “Probably.”

  “Let’s lead them outside, then. We can have a friendly chat down a dark alley,” Dormael smiled.

  “Let me finish my ale,” D’Jenn sighed.

  A few moments later, they rose and drew their cloaks about their shoulders, then headed for the door. Dormael felt the Cultist’s eyes on them the entire time, like a predator watching a herd animal walk across a field. When they reached the door, Dormael turned and caught the Cultist’s eyes.

  With a smile, he gave the man a wink. He savored the bastard’s surprise for just a moment, then headed out into the cold. Dormael was sure the man would follow.

  Clouds kept the moon and stars behind a dark veil, and the windy streets of Gameritus were awash in shadow. The darkness was kept at bay by islands of flickering lantern-light, but these were few and far between. Rain began to patter to the cobblestones underfoot, and Dormael hunched his shoulders against the cold. He followed his cousin down an avenue headed for one of the poorer districts of the city, where the beggars and thieves had run of the ruins.

  He spotted the man behind them, passing like a wraith through a bubble of orange lantern-light. He was staying far enough back to keep from arousing suspicion from passersby, few as they were, but he was definitely following them. Dormael felt sure there was another, but he didn’t see him. His magical senses returned nothing.

  “I only see one,” Dormael muttered. “Well behind us.”

  D’Jenn gave an imperceptible nod. “Let’s have a talk with him. Be ready.”

  Dormael nodded, but D’Jenn was already moving. He rushed to their right, heading down a narrow alley toward one of the ruined sections of Gameritus. Dormael sprinted after him, opening his magical senses to help him stay on his feet during the mad rush through the darkness. They made it to an intersection, where the narrow street branched to either side. D’Jenn skidded to a halt around the corner, and put his back against the side of the building. Dormael went to the opposite side.

  Tingling along his arms warned him to D’Jenn’s use of magic, and he watched as his cousin scrambled up the side of the building, using the same spell that had allowed them to climb the walls of Castle Ferolan. Dormael, for his part, pulled the shadows around him, and edged away from the mouth of the alleyway. One man wasn’t enough to send him up a wall.

  Running steps echoed around a corner, and Dormael tensed his magic for the confrontation. He readied a simple strike with his Kai—a smack of physical force that would jar the man against the wall, knocking him senseless. Dormael smiled as the man’s blurry form appeared around the edge of the wall, and he reached out to slap the Cultist aside.

  Something, however, went wrong.

  There was a sound like a quiet thunderclap, and Dormael’s magic violently unraveled. He felt as if his mind had been slapped, and spots swam across his vision. As the energies he had gathered with his power eked back out into the world, strange things began to happen. Dormael was thrown from his feet to tumble into a stack of crates nearby, and cracks appeared in the walls to either side of the Cultist.

  The Cult member stood unharmed.

  Dormael tried to gather his wits, but his mind felt like it had been packed with wool. He tried to reach for one of the daggers that he kept stashed about his person, but fumbled with it when his hands refused to obey him. The feeling was fading quickly, but not quickly enough to save him.

  He heard the steel whisper from the man’s sheath as he drew his sword.

  Dormael tossed himself backwards, narrowly avoiding a cut that would have taken him in the side of the throat. He scrambled away, trying to find purchase on the rain-slick street, but the trash scattered in the alleyway prevented him from getting very far. The man feinted at him as he tried to gain his feet, and Dormael abandoned an attempt to stand as the blade sought his face.

  Dormael felt grim about his chances. He grasped again and again for his Kai, but it slid through his mental fingers like oil. It would not come to his call.

  If a dagger is all I’ve got, he thought, then so be it.

  Shawna’s training kicked in, and Dormael rolled toward the man’s legs instead of away from him. His sudden attack caught the man off-balance, and he hesitated. That hesitation cost him as Dormael threw all his weight into a straight kick aimed at the inside of the man’s knee. He felt his boot hit soft flesh, and the edge of something made of steel. The man cried out in pain as the joint buckled, and he fell to the dirty stones underfoot.

  Dormael brought his knee to his chest and pulled his dagger free of his boot. He clenched it point-down as he rolled to his feet, but was forced away from the Cultist as the man swung his sword wildly from his back. The Cultist was no amateur, and in the few seconds that Dormael took to get out of his sword-reach, the man rolled over in the opposite direction and struggled back to his feet. The two of them stood for a tense moment—Dormael crouched with his dagger, the Cultist moving his sword in a low arc.

  Suddenly there was a crash, and the Cultist went down in a cacophony of splintered wood as two crates were whipped from the ground and pounded into him. His sword tumbled across the alleyway as he crumpled to the ground. He didn’t get up.

  Dormael let out an excited breath and straightened from his crouch. His head still felt tingly from the reaction with his magic, and his face was hurting from the effort of all the grimacing he’d done in the course of the fight. Schooling his breathing into something manageable, he stuffed the dagger back into his boot.

  “He almost had me,” Dormael said. “Somehow the bastard Splintered my spell, D’Jenn.”

  “I saw that,” D’Jenn nodded. “I was waiting for him to use magic on you, but he didn’t.”

  Splintering was usually something that only happened in a fight between two wizards. It was a technique for defeating the spells of other wizards by infiltrating their power with enough force to scatter the energies involved—that was the official definition, anyway. Dormael had always thought of it like bursting a bubble with a needle.

  When magic was Splintered, it left the victim in a dazed state. Most Warlocks trained to narrow this dazed period to almost nothing, but it had been a long time since Dormael had encountered the technique. Not only did it leave the wizard numb, but random things also tended to happen when errant magical energies unleashed themselves on the world. Magic, when unfettered by the bounds of a wizard’s willpower, could do frightening things.

  Splintering was dangerous.

  “Cultists hate magic,” Dormael said, “so how did one Splinter my spell? No one outside of magical circles would even know what Splintering is.”

  “It’s troubling,” D’Jenn said. He walked over and nudged the man with his foot, but the Cultist didn’t move. D’Jenn rolled the man over and regarded his empty gaze, indicating to Dormael that he was
dead. Dormael nodded back, but watched with interest while his cousin began to rifle through the man’s belongings.

  “He’s wearing some sort of armor,” D’Jenn said. He reached around the man’s arm and unbuckled a bracer, fishing the thing out around the Cultist’s thick winter clothing. Summoning a low magical light, he held the bracer up so Dormael could see.

  “Pretty,” Dormael remarked. The thing was made of steel, but it had lines of brass inlaid in swirling patterns over the metal. It put off a strange echo in his Kai, but it also pulled on his magic like a subtle tide. Dormael regarded the thing for a moment through his magical senses, but couldn’t make much of it. He had never seen anything like it.

  “You think this is what Splintered my magic?” Dormael asked. “I’ve never heard of an infused item with the ability to do that.”

  “And because you’ve never seen it, it must not exist?” D’Jenn said. “I’ll take this little piece with me. We can learn more about it as we head north.”

  “I wish you hadn’t killed him. Did you find the other one? I assumed you were moving around to out-flank anyone trying to out-flank us, and that’s why you took so bloody long to come to my aid,” Dormael said.

  D’Jenn let out an exasperated breath. “Bastard got away. He spotted me before I saw him, and scuttled away like a cockroach. I lost him in the alleys, and didn’t want to get too far from you.”

  “It’s a good thing, too,” Dormael nodded. “You pulled me out of the fire.”

  “You might have beaten him,” D’Jenn smiled. “He’d probably have cut you pretty good, though.”

  “How did you use magic on him without getting Splintered like me?”

  “It’s simple. If you can’t use magic on them, then just throw things at them. Flying Rock, Dormael—it’s the first thing we learn for a reason.”

  Dormael couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

  “This still doesn’t answer any of our questions, though. How would they know anything about us? About Shawna?” D’Jenn went on. “I think the empire is still trying to reach us.”

  “It does look that way,” Dormael said. “None of our old enemies would know a damned thing about Shawna. It bothers me that the empire can do this—try and interfere in Conclave business right here in the Sevenlands. With everything that Administrator told me, this is all starting to paint a suspicious picture.”

  “Perhaps,” D’Jenn said. “But then, perhaps not. We know why the empire wants Shawna—wants what she carries, anyway. I’m not so sure about the rest of it.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Dormael sighed.

  “Sooner rather than later. We’re leaving tonight. Let’s get back to the Kneeling Mare and pack our things,” D’Jenn said.

  Dormael wanted to protest, but he knew D’Jenn was right. If they stayed where they were, chances were high that the dead Cultist’s friend would return with reinforcements. The companions might wake up to find themselves surrounded by hostiles, and followed into the countryside. If they left tonight, they would at least have a good chance of escaping an ambush.

  “What about him?” Dormael asked, indicating the dead man with his chin.

  “Leave him,” D’Jenn sighed. “The inhabitants of this part of the city will pick him cleaner than carrion eaters. He’ll be gone before we’re back to the inn.”

  Dormael nodded, and followed his cousin into the rain-soaked darkness.

  If the empire could reach them here, even through third parties, then the safety of home was nebulous at best. He didn’t like the thought of Galanians employing killers on the streets of a Sevenlander city, but he knew there was little he could do about it. All of Eldath seemed to be falling apart. The Cult of Aeglar had come to Soirus-Gamerit, the empire had agents working within Sevenlander borders, and a piece of armor had Splintered Dormael’s magic. Wizards were apparently returning to the Conclave like birds on a migration, and an ancient weapon of immense power rode in a little silver box in Shawna’s saddlebags.

  Dormael had the feeling that things would get worse before they would get better.

  The Nature of Heat

  Dormael was soaked to his bones. Their leave-taking of Gameritus had been tense, but otherwise uneventful. D’Jenn had insisted on haste, though no signs of pursuit had followed them. They had stopped to camp only after the gray haze of dawn could be seen over the eastern horizon, and huddled in a copse of trees far back from the road. A few hours of fitful sleep later, the drizzle from the night before had grown into a cold, unforgiving downpour.

  The land north of Gameritus was a sodden expanse of rolling foothills, though without the wavy grasses that marked the land closer to Mistfall. The southwestern part of Soirus-Gamerit was characterized by scrub brush and stone. The hills frequently revealed hidden caves, massive boulders peeking from the ground, or burbling creeks that meandered through the maze of the lowlands. The trees were all low and stunted, and the layer of dirt over the ground was thin, where it was present at all. The environment forced the companions to slow down, lest they turn the ankles of one of their mounts. The hills hid them from pursuers, but likewise hid pursuers from them.

  By the second evening out from Gameritus, there had been no sign of the Cult of Aeglar. The Cult had started as a religious order, but had long ago morphed into something more militaristic. They followed the god Aeglar, the Trickster, but their religious traditions were widely unknown. Dormael had never had the displeasure of reading any of the holy texts that the Cult of Aeglar used to justify its existence, so he wasn’t sure what their dogma said. In practice, they were infamous for kidnapping wizards, who were never seen or heard from again. It didn’t take a scholar to know what was going on.

  Dormael was certain that he could deal with anything the Cult could throw at him—infused armor or not—but he wondered what would happen if the Cult found out about Bethany. What if, by some twist of fate, they got their hands on the girl? Would they show leniency to a child? Would they kill her, regardless of her age, simply for having Eindor’s Blessing? Dormael tried to keep those thoughts from entering his mind, but try as he might, they kept returning.

  He vowed to make sure that would never happen if he saw those Cultists again. He entertained thoughts of taking to the skies, seeking out where the Cult was hiding, and destroying them before they could hurt anyone else. Dormael almost broached the subject with D’Jenn, but thought better of it. Dormael was certain that inhabitation was sparse between this part of Soirus-Gamerit and the highlands that were still days to the north. They still had a long way to travel, and it was probably better not to invite trouble. If something happened out in the wild, and Bethany had to run, she would be lost in the wilderness.

  They found a gigantic slab of rock sticking from the side of a hill on the fourth afternoon, and decided to take advantage of the shelter it provided. The deluge showed no signs of letting up, and everyone was keen to get out of the rain. The road had become nothing more than a little-used trail, and picking over the rough terrain had taken a toll on the horses. Even Shawna’s thoroughbred beast was showing signs of fatigue.

  The rocky overhang provided enough shelter for everyone to find a place to dry out, even the horses. Dormael staked out a corner away from everyone else, and removed all of his clothing, save for his pants. He laid everything out on a rock that he dragged over with his magic, and sat down to dry out. The air was frigid, but days in this abominable weather had deadened him to it. He perched on a rock to keep his feet out of the mud, and closed his eyes to meditate.

  He sensed Shawna coming before she made herself known. Dormael kept his eyes closed and pretended not to notice her standing nearby. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to have any sort of talk with her—not because he was afraid, but more because he was tired. Being soaked and chilled to the bones didn’t leave him in a pleasant sort of mood.

  “Is there room for two?” she asked.

  Dormael opened his eyes, and let out a breath. “Of course.”

/>   He scooted to the side of the rock and indicated a spot beside him. Shawna picked her way over and sat down, being careful not to step in anything too muddy. She rubbed against him on accident, and Dormael became aware of how tightly her wet clothing clung to her skin. She had doffed her armor, and the wetness left little to the imagination.

  He concentrated on keeping his eyes above her collarbones.

  “Can’t you do some magic, maybe warm this rock a bit? It’s miserable,” she said, a tentative smirk trying to sneak onto her face.

  Dormael sighed, relaxing shoulders that he hadn’t realized were tense.

  “I suppose I could do something like that.” He closed his eyes and let his Kai sink into the rock, pouring the smallest amount of heat into the stone. It grew warm beneath him, and his body let out an involuntary shudder.

  Shawna let out a long sigh. “If I was a wizard, I would never be uncomfortable.”

  Dormael snorted. “People always say that.”

  “Is it not true? Couldn’t you just go around being warm and cozy wherever you went?”

  “I could, yes,” Dormael nodded. “But using magic isn’t easy, Shawna. It’s not like I can just ask the rock to be nice and heat up for me. You could walk around everywhere on your hands if you wanted to, but you don’t do it, do you?”

  “My Master used to make me stand on my hands all the time,” Shawna said. “I think you’d be surprised at my hand-walking abilities, Dormael.”

  “That’s not the point,” Dormael smiled.

  “Well what’s the point, then? How are you heating up the rock, for instance?” she asked.

  “Do you really want to know, or are you trying to trying to irk me?”

  “Tell me,” Shawna said. “I want to know.”

  “First you have to understand something about heat.”

  “Understand something about heat? Done.”

  “Done?”

  “Heat is fairly easy to understand, Dormael.”