The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  “I mean you need to get something stuck in it—like in its breastbone, or its skull. Somewhere it will stick,” Dormael clarified.

  Allen nodded, and flourished his sword.

  “I’ll put something right through the bastard’s eye, if that’s what it takes.”

  “Good,” Dormael nodded. “Because until you do—”

  “Incoming!” Allen hissed, cutting him off.

  Dormael crouched, hefting his spear to meet the creature’s charge. It darted toward them, trying to get them to separate and break apart. Dormael and Allen, though, kept their backs to where Shawna and Bethany crouched with the Philosophers. They met the monster’s attacks, just able to keep it at bay as they backpedaled. It came at them with renewed ferocity, the damned thing too fast by half.

  Dormael had an idea, though. Part of his epiphany was thanks to D’Jenn, who had saved his life from the Cultist in that dark, rainy alleyway in Gameritus. His words were ringing through Dormael’s head.

  If you can’t use magic on them, then just throw things at them.

  If he couldn’t cast magic on the creature, then perhaps he could just cast magic at it.

  Dormael whispered his power around the thing, thickening the air through which it moved. The creature snarled in outrage as it realized what was happening, and it began to slow down. The fight became less desperate, and hope kindled to life in Dormael’s chest. Allen snarled in excitement as the rhythm of the fight shifted, and his blade licked out with renewed purpose. His saber scored a glancing cut along the side of the creature’s thigh, then another on its ankle when it tried to slip out of range. The monster screamed in indignation.

  Dormael snarled and waded further into the fight, thrusting at the creature to drive it toward his brother’s whirling saber attacks. The thickened air slowed its reactions by just enough to make the fight winnable, but the thing still possessed unnatural speed and agility. It moved in amazing, disgusting ways.

  The creature turned its full attention on Dormael, lashing out at his throat with a long, delicate slice. Dormael threw himself backwards, whipping out a circular parry with his spear. The attack, though, had been a ruse, and the parry met nothing but air. Dormael slipped as he backpedaled, the attempted parry putting him off-balance enough to fall. The creature let out a triumphant screech, and pounced.

  The damned thing feinted, he realized as he fell. It has intelligence after all.

  Dormael threw up his hands and poured more power into the air-thickening spell, but it was no use. The creature crashed into him, driving him down to the stone. Dormael panicked, pushing against the monster as hard as he could with his Kai, which raised its body into the air. Dormael brought up a quick shield, which saved his life as the creature’s claws glanced from it. It slashed at his throat, trying to bash through his shield with its magic-resistant claws. Dormael’s magic pushed upward, his power sliding off the thing’s skin like water around a boulder.

  Allen’s arm snaked around the thin neck of the creature, wrenching back on its head. It screamed and thrashed about, but Allen had mounted its back, and the strange shape of its body wouldn’t allow for it to reach him. With his other hand, Allen shoved a long dagger into its eye socket, burying it to the hilt. The monster screeched in agony.

  “Now!” Allen screamed, leaping away from the creature and rolling clear.

  Dormael smiled, and seized the dagger in his Kai.

  The beast howled in rage as Dormael lifted it from the walkway. The dagger was wedged deep into its skull, and stuck fast into the bone. Dormael used his magic to shove it even deeper, eliciting another pained screech from the creature. It kicked its short, distended feet, and thrashed with its arms. It clawed at the dagger, but its fingers were deformed, and could find no purchase on the weapon in order to pull it out. It fought so hard that Dormael thought it would rip its own head to pieces.

  “What are you waiting for?” Allen asked. “Kill it!”

  Dormael didn’t hesitate any longer. He pushed against the dagger with all his magical might, and slammed the creature into the nearest boiling kettle. It hit so hard that a dent formed in the shell, but Dormael pushed down on the globe and crushed it around the beast, trapping it in a prison of warped bronze. The metal squealed as Dormael manipulated it, and water poured out of the backside, where it had cracked open. He could feel the creature inside fighting, even as he crushed the metal against its body.

  Once the creature was trapped, he pounded the globe with lightning.

  The electricity struck with a violent crack, then hummed as it jumped between the globes in the boiling room, lighting the entire scene in bright, white flashes. Dormael screamed and hit the thing again, then again, and poured all the power he could into each bolt. The room flashed, sparks flew from the boilers, and magic hummed around him. When it was over, the only sound was the water pouring from the crack in the damaged globe.

  Dormael waited, watching the globe for any signs of movement. Allen came up beside him, saber held at the ready. They both stared up at where the creature had been crushed, waiting for something to happen. None of these creatures had died correctly, and Dormael wanted to be sure of this one.

  Moments passed in silence.

  “I told you,” Allen finally said, letting the tip of his saber relax.

  “Told me what?”

  “That I would stick something in that bastard’s eye,” Allen smiled. “I told you I’d do it, and I did it. I just wanted to point that out.”

  “I guess you did, at that. What do you want, a medal?”

  “From you?” Allen said. “Worthless. No—I just wanted to point it out to you, that’s all. You can buy me a drink at the next pub.”

  “I fried the bloody thing with lightning,” Dormael said. “How about you buy me a drink?”

  “Right, but you didn’t have to get close to do that,” Allen said, gesturing at the ruined globe. “I had to climb on that thing’s back. Do you think it smelled any better up close?”

  “It’s not my fault you can’t use magic.”

  “It’s your fault you’re not as good a warrior as me—that’s what I’m trying to say. You owe me a drink.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t argue.”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Seems like I’m doing it.”

  “What were those things?” Shawna said, coming up behind them.

  Dormael turned, feeling a load of relief at the sight of Bethany. She ran up and wrapped his waist in a fierce hug, which he returned. He pushed the hair back out of her face, looking her up and down until he was satisfied she wasn’t hurt.

  “I don’t know,” Dormael said, looking back to Shawna. “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “They were dead bodies,” Bethany said. “I saw them. Dead as rocks. Dead as dirt.”

  “The work of a vilth,” Lacelle said, gliding up. Lilliane came huffing in her wake, but Dormael didn’t see Torins. When no one offered any information, Dormael chose not to ask.

  “The two big ones—they were corpses, too, I think,” Allen said. “Certainly smelled like it.”

  “Do you know anything about vilthinum?” Dormael asked, turning to Lacelle.

  She shook her head. “I’ve only read a few stories, and I don’t remember much. It’s not exactly my area of expertise.”

  “I don’t care to stick around here and learn more about them,” Shawna said. “We should keep moving, get to the surface before more of those things show up.”

  “I agree,” Allen said.

  “Let’s get moving, then,” Dormael said. “Find the next turn, and let’s leave this place behind.”

  Everyone nodded and began gathering their things together. The remains of Jev and Torins—what little was left—were laid out on the stone, stripped of anything useful, and piled as neatly as possible. Even for Dormael, it was a sickening sight. Lacelle left a pair of copper marks over each of their eyes before turning to fol
low everyone deeper into the sewers, once again holding her magical light aloft.

  Dormael watched her go, and gave her a tight-lipped smile as she passed by. He waited for a few moments, watching the dark opening that led back toward the Conclave. It yawned before him, offering nothing but silence and shadow. He gritted his teeth, shoving down a sharp spike of worry for D’Jenn, and put his spear over his shoulder.

  He’ll catch up, he told himself. He always does.

  Turning, he left the boiling room in shadow, and followed his friends out of the tunnels.

  Epilogue

  “If you’re sleep-deprived, can you still use your magic?” Shawna whispered.

  Dormael almost jumped out of his skin. He had been staring off in the direction of the river, listening for any sounds other than the distant gurgle of water, and the swish of wind through the grasses. There had been nothing. Only the darkness, and the wind.

  “I should go back,” Dormael said. “Look for him. He’d look for me.”

  “Maybe,” Shawna said, coming up to sit beside him. She let out a long breath and settled against his shoulder, letting her hair tickle his face. “You know what he’d tell you to do, though.”

  “Not to look for him.”

  “And he’d be right.”

  “I know.”

  “You should rest.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Dormael,” Shawna sighed, pushing his shoulder to emphasize her words. “Staring into the darkness until your eyes fall out won’t change anything. D’Jenn will be fine.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Dormael asked, turning his eyes on her. Her own eyes were liquid and opaque, though her silence said enough. “I’ll sleep soon.”

  “The sky is turning blue, Dormael,” Shawna said. “And your restlessness is keeping me awake. Can you just lie down, already?”

  Dormael let out a long sigh, and forced himself to turn away from the river.

  “Alright. You’re right.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, softening her words with a smile. “Come on—if you need to get some of your nerves out, you can talk me to sleep.”

  He followed her to the camp, dodging the lumps of their friends’ sleeping forms. Lacelle and Lilliane were huddled on one side of the circle, though there had been no fire around which to huddle. Bethany, for once, slept alone, huddled into her cloak. The girl had fallen asleep with a fierce smile on her face, though Dormael had no idea where she had found such emotional resilience. He felt as if his life was over. Allen snored, but his hand hovered ever near his weapons—of course, that was only because he had so many of the things that it didn’t matter where his hand rested at any given time.

  Shawna laid down on her blankets, and gestured for Dormael to lay his own out beside her. He obliged her, and soon the two of them were lying side-by-side, if not touching. The stars were starting to wash out from the rising sun, but some of them still shone, defiant through the gloom.

  “What happens next?” Shawna asked.

  “Orm,” Dormael said. “We go to the cursed temple, and see what we can dig up about the Nar’doroc.”

  “How long until Victus comes after us?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dormael admitted. “He’ll send someone—I’m sure of that much. He’ll also have a lot of trouble here to take care of, so it might be a while before we have to worry much about him.” Thoughts of Victus brought thoughts of D’Jenn, and fresh worry twisted in Dormael’s guts. “If he killed my cousin, by the gods, I’ll rip his still-beating heart from his chest.”

  A moment of silence passed in the wake of his comment.

  “I’ll help you, if you want,” Shawna said.

  “You will?”

  “Of course I will,” she whispered back through a yawn. “We’re friends, Dormael. I’ve met your family. D’Jenn was my friend, too.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have questioned your fidelity.” He yawned on reflex, his jaw cracking with the effort.

  “You helped me with my revenge—or to start it, anyway,” Shawna said, another yawn mangling her words until they were barely intelligible. “I should help you back.”

  “If he’s dead,” Dormael said around another yawn of his own.

  “If he’s dead,” Shawna agreed.

  Dormael closed his eyes for a moment, just to rest them. The sky was turning to a predawn gloom, and it was bothering him. So many things were bothering him.

  “Shawna?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you remember visiting my homestead?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  Silence.

  Dormael rolled over and looked, only to find Shawna’s eyes closed, her mouth hanging open. Dormael let out a long sigh, and turned back over. He would have been irritated, but that sky was so damned bright.

  He closed his eyes—just for a moment, of course.

  **

  Maarkov was watching the light turn from deep blue to predawn purple when the Hunter came limping back into camp. The thing was burnt, slashed, beat up, and missing one of its burning eyes. Maarkov couldn’t help but feel a small amount of respect for their quarry. If Maarkov had been gambling, he would have bet on the Hunters without a second thought.

  It appeared that he would have been wrong.

  Maaz was not happy, to say the least. He scowled at the Hunter for a long moment before hissing at it in that ugly language. Maarkov couldn’t speak the first word of it, but he knew an argument when he heard it. The Hunter was getting the sharp side of Maaz’s tongue.

  “Brother!” Maarkov called, packing some tobacco into his pipe. “Is everything alright?” He favored Maaz with a toothy grin, pouring a challenge into the smile.

  Maaz glowered, then went back to bickering with the Hunter.

  Maarkov sighed and returned to staring out over the valley. The sky deepened to pink as the Hunter argued with his brother. By the time Maarkov was watching the sunlight chase the shadow across the valley floor, Maaz appeared at his side.

  “Our quarry has eluded us,” he said.

  “Eluded you,” Maarkov pointed out. “I’m just along for the ride, or the occasional killing.”

  “As you wish,” Maaz said. “Regardless, we must adapt.”

  “And how do we adapt, brother? I imagine the process involves a lot more riding, and more time spent in your company.”

  Maaz gave him a long, dangerous look.

  There were times when Maarkov mocked his brother, and almost thought the bastard would finally end it. Maybe he would snap, and burn Maarkov where he stood. Maybe he would snap his neck, or rip his head from his shoulders. Whichever way he might get it done, Maarkov almost longed for it. He savored those murderous glances like precious gemstones.

  “It’s no serious feat to track your prey if you know where it’s going,” Maaz said. “The Hunter has the wizard’s scent. It can follow him no matter where he runs, no matter where he hides. Even that, though, is more than we need.”

  “More than we need?”

  “Yes,” Maaz said. “I already know where they’re going, and nothing could be better for us.”

  “Why?” Maarkov asked, taking another pull from his pipe and letting the smoke eke out into the morning sun.

  “They’ve been hiding in the city up to this point, huddled in the center of the one place I cannot chase them,” Maaz said. “There’s only one other place on this continent old enough to hold any answers for them, and it’s an ancient ruin in the middle of nowhere. They’ll have nowhere to run this time, no city full of wizards within which to hide. Out in the grasslands, they will be helpless to the full might of my power.”

  Maaz reached into his robe and pulled out the book he always carried with him—the ancient tome from which he drew all his knowledge. It had started everything, had sent them on this mad quest spanning so many ye
ars. Maarkov rarely caught sight of the thing, but when he did, Maaz caressed it like a pet. It gave Maarkov chills.

  “Is that in your little book, then? That’s how you know about this old ruin?”

  Maaz gave him a disdainful look, and shoved the book back out of sight. Maarkov waited for an answer, but one never came. His brother was tight-lipped about the damned book.

  Maarkov sighed, and stared back over the valley.

  “So where in the Six Hells are we going now?”

  “North, to the ancient ruins of Orm,” Maaz smiled. “The Place Where the Gods Listen.”

  “The Place That Can Kiss My Bloody Arse,” Maarkov intoned.

  “Laugh all you want,” Maaz sighed. “Be in your saddle by midmorning, or stay here and wither.”

  Maarkov watched his brother’s departing back with a scowl on his face. He was struck by the memory of the last time he’d stabbed his brother, of the way his steel had tugged ever so slightly on his hand as it entered through the fleshy split between Maaz’s ribs. He was struck with a sudden fit of blinding rage, a pure instant of white-hot anger that compelled him to move.

  Then it was over, and Maarkov persisted.

  Maarkov always bloody persisted—whether he wanted to, or not.

  **

  Victus Tiranan stood in his window, staring out over the dark expanse of the river.

  So many things had gone wrong. He had thought that Dormael and D’Jenn were two that would have joined him—surely they would have been able to see his logic, had he the proper chance to explain it to them. It angered him to think about the mistakes that had led to this night’s folly.

  “Why did you try it, boy?” he said aloud for the hundredth time. “Why in the gods’ name did you try it?”

  No one answered him, of course. The dead never answered, though they were the ones from whom answers were most needed. The only answer came from the wind—the same accusing howl it had given him all night. Sighing, Victus turned away from the window and walked back to his chair.

  This little attempt on his life meant several things. One—Dormael would be gone, having taken all his friends and the armlet with him. Two—the Mekai knew something, which confirmed the suspicions which he’d already held for quite some time. Three—he had to make his move soon, or risk losing everything he had prepared to the violence that would surely descend in the wake of his plans unraveling.