The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2)

by D. W. Hawkins

  From east to west as far as they could see, there ran a great canyon. It cut through the terrain in a snaking line, leaving a crooked wound in the land itself. The other side of the canyon was over a hundred links away. Spanning the distance was an impossibly long bridge that looked to have been woven in curving, artistic lines.

  The road across the bridge was paved in smooth flagstones whose lines fit together with a precision that spoke of great artistry and craftsmanship. Two great, curving arches of bronze rose on either side of the bridge, hanging the actual road beneath them. Swirls of the bright alloy snaked their way downward to the rail, which was made of white stone that looked to have been poured from a decanter and captured in a moment of beauty. Shawna gave a sharp intake of breath at the sight of it.

  “What is it?” was all that she could say.

  “It’s called Indalvian’s Passage,” D’Jenn said, resting his hands against his saddle horn as the party stopped to take in the sight.

  “It was built thousands of years ago, by the first known wizard,” Dormael said. “He was the one who established the Conclave, and helped build the Sevenlands.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Shawna breathed, one hand going to her chest.

  “He built lots of things,” D’Jenn said, “but I believe this is his greatest achievement. It’s a marvel of artistry, engineering, and magic.”

  “It’s magical?” Shawna asked, then shook her head. “Of course it’s magical.”

  “The bridge has spells woven into the very material that help it to self-repair,” D’Jenn said. “It resists the cold, it drains itself of water—this thing could stand forever, given that nothing moves underneath it.”

  “Here we go,” Dormael muttered. “You got him excited.”

  D’Jenn ignored him. “It’s said that Indalvian and thirty of his students constructed the pieces and had them brought here. They worked from both sides of the canyon, with help from the local tribesmen. Before the Passage went up, Soirus-Gamerit was two lands, instead of one. Soirus, and Gamerit.”

  “It’s an amazing sight,” Shawna agreed.

  “Let’s have a closer look, shall we?” Dormael said, gesturing towards the bridge.

  The road sloped downward into a stone landing that had been dug out from the side of the canyon. Retaining walls of hard granite had been built around it. A brass plaque hung against one of the walls, swirling inscriptions written into its face. Shawna swung down from Charlotte’s saddle and strode to the metal plate, squinting at the engraved text.

  “It’s just like your tattoos,” Shawna said to Dormael. “Come tell me what it says.”

  “It says ‘look what we did’ in Old Vendon,” Dormael smiled.

  “You’re an ass, you know that?” she replied.

  “Alright,” Dormael sighed, climbing down from Horse. He strode over to the metal plaque and brushed some of the raindrops from the inscription.

  “It says something like ‘Here Indalvian healed a wounded land, he brought two worlds together. Order conquered chaos and enemies became one’. Then, it’s a list of names—men who worked on the bridge on the southern side.”

  “What a strange inscription,” Shawna said.

  “It rhymes in Old Vendon. I imagine it was poetic,” Dormael said.

  “Are any of your ancestors listed on the plaques?” Shawna asked.

  “Yes, but on the northern side, not the southern. We Harluns were Gamerits, not Soirii.”

  “We Pikes, too,” D’Jenn said. “The sooner we get across the bridge, the sooner we can show you.”

  They set off across the Span at a walk. As they left the landing, the view of the great canyon opened beneath them. The ravine snaked as far as they could see from east to west, curving with the patience of the river below. It was deep—dizzying, in fact—and Dormael couldn’t help but feel vulnerable as they made their way across the Passage, as if an errant gust of wind could blow them all off the side. They could hear a vague rushing noise, and as Dormael glanced over the edge, he could see the mist rising from the depths that told of the river below.

  Bethany clutched to his arms from her place on his saddle, but looked around with wild, excited eyes. She bent far out over Horse’s flank in order to look toward the bottom of the canyon, and Dormael grabbed hold of her cloak, fearing the girl would slip. Bethany had no fear of heights.

  They made it across in short order, and stopped their horses on the landing. Dormael dismounted and walked over to the plaque, brushing raindrops from its surface. He squinted at the lines of swirling text, and picked out what he was looking for.

  “Here,” he announced. “Ivan Harlun, journeyman mason and stoneworker.”

  “And what about the Pikes?” D’Jenn shouted the question from the top of the landing’s ramp, where he was gazing off to the north. Dormael ran his finger down the list of names, searching out his cousin’s ancestor.

  “Here it is—Straffon Pike, wizarding apprentice.”

  “Look at that,” D’Jenn smiled. “My side of the family were among the first wizards of the Conclave, and yours were still stacking bricks.”

  “That’s why everyone was so thankful when we Harluns finally came along, and became the best wizards in the Conclave,” Dormael shot back. “They were tired of you Pike bastards.”

  D’Jenn answered with an offensive gesture in the Hunter’s Tongue.

  “What does that mean?” Bethany asked, closing her fist and extending her pinky as she tried out the gesture for herself.

  “Nothing you need to repeat,” Dormael smiled, pushing her tiny finger closed with the rest of her fist. He shot D’Jenn a meaningful glance. D’Jenn answered by winking at Bethany, then turning his horse back to the north.

  “From here on out, we’re in the highlands,” he announced over his shoulder. “This is where Dormael and I grew up.”

  “Is that so?” Shawna asked as she mounted. “I didn’t think Dormael had grown up.”

  Dormael shook his head in answer, and everyone set off once again to the north.

  The rain let up as the gloom of dusk set in, leaving huge swaths of purple and orange painted across the sky as the storms chased the sunlight over the horizon. They camped on the northern side of a low hill, where a circle of stones had been set up as an ancient waystation along the road—one of many such waystations scattered throughout the northern highlands. Dormael found a pool of clear water nearby, and felt a need to bathe after all his time in and out of the damp. He felt slimy, like an old rock at the bottom of a pond.

  Dormael waited until everyone else was otherwise occupied and sneaked away to the pond. It was good to have some time alone, in any case, after the constant company of his friends. He didn’t chafe at their presence—far from it—but from time to time, Dormael enjoyed a little solitude. He doffed his clothes, left them hanging over a nearby scrub bush, and stepped into the frigid water.

  During training at the Conclave, all initiates had been dunked in freezing water, then made to summon and control their magic. Nothing shocked the body quite like a dip in water cold enough to send one’s privates scuttling up into the guts, and such things were considered a good test for a wizard’s concentration. Dormael closed his eyes, clamping down on his mind, and waded out until he was waist-deep in the pond.

  Closing his eyes, he went under.

  His body wanted to draw in a deep breath as the frigid water closed in around his chest. Dormael forced himself to sit under the water, waving his arms in order to stay under. He held his breath as his body spasmed, holding his concentration as the struggle bled away. When it was over, he hovered in the cold darkness, and let out a bit of air to sink deeper into the water. The silence was comforting.

  It was at times like these that he could feel his magic deep in his chest, rumbling like an awakening storm. When he put his body into distress, or achieved certain states of mind, he could feel his magic in its purest form. He spent a long moment just listening to its song, until he began to grow l
ight-headed, and knew it was time to come up for air. He broke the surface slowly, and resisted the urge to suck in deep, gulping breaths.

  “I was wondering if you were ever going to come up,” Shawna’s voice said from nearby.

  Dormael started, dropping back to chin-level in the water and turning to regard the woman. She stood on the shore of the pond, looking to his discarded clothing with a raised eyebrow. She also carried an armload of clothing, and a cake of soap in her hand.

  “It looks as if we had the same idea,” Dormael smiled. “I got here first.”

  “That you did,” she said. “Tell me, are your nipples always blue like that, or is it just that cold in there?”

  “It’s that cold,” Dormael laughed. “You should come in. It’s refreshing.”

  “Come in?” she said. “Dormael—getting into a body of water with you would not be a smart decision.”

  “Why is that?” he asked, unable to keep from smiling. His teeth began to chatter.

  “You can barely keep your eyes off me when I’m clothed,” she said. “You think I want to tempt the gods?”

  “Has nothing to do with them,” Dormael muttered under his breath.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I said ‘I’ll be a perfect gentleman’. Like one of your country noblemen. I can bow and ‘my lady’ you to death. I know how to be proper,” he said.

  “Maybe you know how to pretend to be proper,” she laughed.

  “It’s your decision,” Dormael shrugged. “Regardless, I got here first. So if you’re not coming in, you’ll have to wait.”

  Shawna took a deep breath and sighed. “I followed you here on purpose, Dormael.”

  He paused.

  “You did?”

  “Remember how you warmed that rock for me the other night?” she asked, a smirk on her face.

  Of course, he thought. Don’t get too excited.

  “Ah, so you want to be my friend in exchange for the benefits of my magic?”

  “Dormael, it’s cold out here, and I don’t want to smell like the underside of a horse,” Shawna said. “What other benefits are there to being your friend?”

  “My charming demeanor, and illuminating conversation.” He favored her with a teeth-chattering smile.

  “Your inflated sense of self-worth,” she corrected.

  “My musical skills and impeccable taste.”

  “You never play anything for me, and impeccable taste for what? The swill we always drink in this little hamlet, or the swill we always drink in that little mud-village? Such taste, indeed.”

  “My dashing good looks, maybe,” he countered.

  “I believe I already said it—your inflated sense of self-worth.”

  “I’m starting to doubt our friendship.”

  She smiled. “No, you’re not. And it’s not going to cost you anything to—”

  Bethany’s voice rang out, high and terrified, from the direction of their camp.

  Dormael and Shawna spent a bare moment looking at each other in confusion before reality set in. Shawna’s eyes grew wide at the same instant that Dormael realized what was happening, and she gestured at him to get out. He came sloshing out of the water, battling his way to shore, heedless of his nudity. He stumbled in the mud, but Shawna caught his arm, helping him to keep his feet. She shoved his breeches at him, gesturing for him to put them on.

  “Your swords?” he asked.

  “Back at camp,” she cursed. “I don’t usually take them bathing, you know.”

  “Well that was a good decision, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re an ass, Dormael. Hurry up!”

  “I’m trying, dammit,” he cursed, almost falling over in his haste to get his pants on. He struggled into them, then reached to where the rest of his clothes were. He yanked his woolen shirt over his shoulders, then handed Shawna the only dagger he brought with him. She raised an eyebrow at first, but then gave him a nod of thanks. Together, they crept back toward the camp.

  The trail snaked around the saddle of a large hill which separated the campsite from the pond, and Dormael chose to creep up the side of the hill. He held out hope that it had been a fluke. Perhaps D’Jenn had played a joke on the youngling, or something benign had startled her. Instincts honed after so much time in danger had sharpened his and Shawna’s reactions both, and it could be that they were overreacting.

  There had been real fear in Bethany’s voice, though. It had cut into him like a knife. Dormael had a good idea of what he would see, even as he climbed to the crest of the hill and looked down upon the campsite.

  Six men had attacked their camp, all wearing the strange, brass-inlaid armor which had Splintered Dormael’s magic. This time the Cult was in its full regalia. Black surcoats covered their armor, each with the symbol of Aeglar—a mask, half laughing, half crying—displayed in gold on their chests. Two of them were on foot, slowly advancing on D’Jenn and Bethany. The other four were sitting astride their horses, crossbows drawn and trained on D’Jenn.

  Bethany was sprawled in the grass, rubbing at her temples as if she was disoriented. The girl must have attempted to use magic against the Cultists, and had her spell Splintered for the first time in her life. Dormael noted a small pool of vomit next to her.

  D’Jenn stood over her, his morningstar gripped in his hand. Dormael could feel his cousin’s magic singing out in the ether, reaching out for stones and rocks scattered along the ground. The four crossbows pointed at D’Jenn made Dormael’s hackles rise. Were they similar to the armor—able to pierce through magical defenses, or Splinter magical energies?

  Dormael had to do something. He turned and gave Shawna a grave look, and she returned it in kind. Shaking his head, he started signing in the Hunter’s Tongue.

  I have to cause a distraction, he signed. Don’t get frightened.

  Can’t you just use your magic?

  What do you think I’m going to do, dance for them? Just stay behind me on the way down, he signed.

  Shawna nodded, and backed away. Dormael took a deep breath, and turned his magic inward. He needed to do something that would change the situation, and all he could think of was to summon a form which he hadn’t used in years. If he couldn’t use fire, lightning, or force against the Cultists below, he had to find some way to get their attention.

  He felt every agonizing second as his body changed. The base material that made up everything about his substance was shattered, and slid into something new. Dormael felt his teeth lengthening, his hands distending and rearranging themselves into paws the size of dinner plates. He struggled to hold his consciousness together as a new essence became part of him—one that was difficult to control.

  He took the form of a lion.

  Shawna stared, open-mouthed in what Dormael imagined was horror. He could smell her fear sweat, could almost taste the hot rush of blood that would herald her death under his jaws. Dormael dug his paws into the dirt and crouched, ready to end her life, when he wrenched control back from the essence of the beast.

  Much more meat below, he thought.

  Dormael turned his eyes to the hill, and crept over the hilltop with his spine perfectly straight over the ground. He made no noise, but it was hard to hide his bulk when he was outlined by the setting sun. Dormael jumped to a boulder that stood on the hill and roared, letting all the puny creatures below know the death that was rushing down upon them. He wanted them to run, to flee in terror before him. Dormael could pick off the slow, the fat, the injured, and tear into the soft bits right before their herd-mates.

  The organs in the middle were always the tastiest.

  The horses scattered, crying in terror as he rushed down the hill. The men atop them were either dragged along for the ride, or tumbled into the dirt. Some small, quiet part of him felt D’Jenn use his magic, sending some of the crossbows flying into the air as he crossed weapons with one of the Cultists. Dormael felt powerful as he pumped down the hill, mouth watering for the taste of blood. He leapt Bethany w
ith a single bound of his legs, landing atop the back of a Cultist who had turned to flee. The man whimpered as Dormael’s claws found purchase along the backside of his legs, and he crumpled into the dirt. Dormael smelled the sharp tang of urine as the man pissed himself. He snapped the Cultist’s neck with a single jerk of his teeth.

  Pitiful, weak little creature.

  Dormael took a piece of his throat as his prize, and turned to regard the running horses. The animals bolted down the trail in the opposite direction, kicking up mud as they clawed at the ground in their haste to get away. One of the men, who had been thrown from his saddle, rose and reached for a crossbow that was lying nearby. Dormael tensed, but he didn’t think he could get to the man in time.

  Shawna appeared behind the Cultist, and shoved one of her swords through his throat.

  Dormael thought of running after the horses, but there was no point. He had no interest in long sprints. The true hunter struck without warning, and overpowered their prey in an instant. Dormael licked some of the blood from his chops and turned back to his kill. The horses would live another day—he had plenty to eat already.

  Mouth watering, he pushed the corpse over on its side so the belly was facing the sky. The finest parts of the beast were always in the middle, and it was much easier to go through the belly than tear them out around the spine. Best to get the organs when they were fresh, before the body started to go putrid.

  Dormael tested his will against that of the lion’s essence, and wrenched control away from the beast. The urge to eat was so strong that he shook with the effort of fighting it, but he slowly asserted his control. He sat, and poured his magic back into his body.

  The taste of blood assaulted his mouth as it once again became his own, making him retch into the grass. He rolled over and heaved, remembering with a shudder how much flesh had been in his mouth. He vomited so hard that he grew dizzy from the effort.

  “Thank the gods for you two,” D’Jenn said. Dormael waved his hand without looking.

  “We need to go after the rest of them,” Shawna growled. “They must have been following us for days. They won’t give up so easily.”