The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  “I’ve been saving something for the day I had both you boys here at the same time,” Saul said, a smile on his face. “D’Jenn—you’re coming, too. All the better that you’re here to partake in this.”

  “Partake in what?” Dormael asked.

  “Come and see, boys,” Saul Harlun said. “And may the gods weep for you.”

  **

  After Bethany had been stolen away by a mob of women and children, Shawna followed the men. She’d smiled at Dormael’s mother, but she had nothing in common with these women who ran the household, or raised children. Before any of this had started, she might have went along to play with the children, or something else her father would have thought proper. The last season had changed her on such a fundamental level that she couldn’t go back. Shawna’s life was now about the sword, about battle. Surrounded by those who had chosen family and home—had been given that choice, anyway—Shawna felt very out of place.

  No one said anything as Shawna followed them—Dormael, D’Jenn, Allen, and their father—around the side of the sprawling house, and to a backyard larger than her father’s pastures. Shawna looked around with awe, surprised at the wealth of Dormael’s family. If one judged wealth by the amount of land any one family owned, then his family was at least as rich as hers—maybe more so. The man spoke as if he came from the lowest class of society, yet his family owned more land than half the nobility in Cambrell.

  They made their way across browned grass, toward a long, low cabin tucked away by itself. The wood looked new, as if the thing had been built in the last season. Saul Harlun pushed open a door, and motioned everyone inside. The men ducked through the shadowed doorway, and Shawna slipped in after them.

  Her nose was assaulted with a pungent, earthy smell. Something about it made her mouth water, but made her want to sneeze at the same time. Shawna shuffled around in the darkness with everyone else, listening while Saul rustled around in the shadows.

  “Hold on, let me find the right…ah, here it is,” he said, throwing a lever.

  Shutters opened all along the walls of the cabin, letting in the afternoon sunlight. Down the center of the cabin ran a beam, with scores of tiny wooden arms extending from it. The arms themselves were bare, but beneath the arms sat rows of wooden crates, full of what looked like dried herbs—the source of the pungent smell.

  “You old bastard,” Dormael laughed. “I can’t believe you finally did it.”

  Saul had a huge smile on his face. “I got that friend of yours to bring me a bush. Jarek, the Mal.”

  Dormael smiled. “He would have, wouldn’t he?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re complaining, boy. The process isn’t much different from the tobacco your mother sends to you, either. Uses all the same equipment,” Saul said. “This is all from this past season, from the first test crop. Next planting, I’ve got a whole field of seed ready to toss out.”

  “You’re farming now?” Dormael asked.

  Saul shrugged. “We’re all farmers, boy—at least a little. In any case, I’m not doing the work myself. I’ll probably hire a troop of your worthless cousins to do the heavy lifting.”

  “Is this all curing, or is there something ready to smoke?” Dormael asked.

  “Did you think I’d drag you back here just to show you the process, my son?” Saul replied with a wink. He gestured to Allen, and the younger Harlun ran off to grab something. Shawna smiled at Saul as he regarded her.

  “Have you ever smoked the Shaman’s Leaf before, young woman?” Saul asked.

  “Is that what this is called?” Shawna said, gesturing around at the crates. “The Shaman’s Leaf?”

  “Aye,” Saul said, smiling around at the hut. “The Mals—our sister tribe to the southwest—smoke the Shaman’s Leaf before any important discussion. They have a story about the Leaf, even.”

  “What’s the story?” Shawna asked.

  Saul cleared his throat. “It’s said that after Evmir forged the world, he let the other gods come down to have a look. The gods walked over every part of Eldath, so that they could see his creation and give gifts to the world. The legend is that Devla fell so in love with the savannas of Tasha-Mal that she cried at the sight of it, and from her tears sprang the first sprigs of the Shaman’s Leaf.”

  “It’s a pretty story,” Shawna said. “I’ve never heard of the Shaman’s Leaf. Is this some sort of religious practice, then?”

  The men all laughed.

  At that moment, Allen came back with a long-stemmed pipe, packed with what Shawna assumed was the pungent Leaf. He handed it to Dormael, who shook his head and passed it to his father. Saul took the pipe, then gave all the boys in the room a withering look.

  “None of you thought to offer it to the lady first?” he said. “You’ve all been on the road too long.”

  He held the pipe out to her, and Shawna suddenly felt nailed to the spot. She’d never smoked anything before, whether it was tobacco, or anything else. She took the pipe in delicate hands, though, and put her mouth to the other end.

  “It’s going to make you cough, now,” Saul said. “Keep your head, and you’ll see why it’s worth the trouble.”

  “If you say so,” Shawna muttered. She nearly squealed with surprise when D’Jenn used his magic to light the pipe for her, but she didn’t shy away from taking a long pull. The smoke filled her mouth, and she sucked a quick breath into her lungs.

  She immediately regretted it.

  The men all laughed while she practically coughed her head off. Shawna heaved so long that spots appeared before her vision, and she had to hold the pipe out blindly and wait for someone to snatch it away. Hands patted her back, and helped her to straighten when she was done. She tried to hide her embarrassment at having descended into such a fit, but felt her face begin to redden all the same.

  “Why would anyone want to do that?” she breathed.

  “You’ll see, young lady,” Saul said, a wide grin cracking his weathered face in two. “You’ll see.”

  Shawna was heartened to see every one of the men have a coughing fit comparable to her own. The good-natured taunting put her in a pleasant mood, and by the time the pipe made its way back around to her, the afternoon light had taken on a hazy, comfortable quality. She smiled and declined another pull on the pipe, letting it go past her to Dormael’s brother.

  Allen eyed her sideways throughout the time he took to take his puff of the Shaman’s Leaf, then took one of her wrists gently in his hand. Shawna was a bit taken aback by the forwardness of his gesture, but no one else in the room had noticed, so she made herself relax. She had thought she’d grown used to Sevenlander customs, and their lack of recognizable decorum, on the road with Dormael and D’Jenn. Some things still caught her off-guard from time to time, though—such as being grabbed out of nowhere.

  “Jumpy?” Allen asked, pulling her sleeve up to reveal the Marks on her wrists. “I knew it. No one carries two swords without the Mark.”

  “Is that right?” Shawna asked, pulling her wrist away from his light grip.

  Allen smiled. “Aye. It’s easy to use a sword and an axe, say—a child can use an axe, you know. The motions are simple. A sword, though…for an off-hand, that requires a bit of skill. Or a set of balls like a horse, and I’m assuming you don’t have a pair of those.”

  “I do not,” Shawna said, a smile creeping its way onto her face. Any other time, she might have been irritated by such a bawdy joke at her expense, but now the irritation was itself something to laugh about. She felt relaxed, and warmed by the murmuring voices around her. “But you’re right. Most people who carry two swords are just wasting steel.”

  Allen looked at her sideways again. “Sheran style blades, too?” He nodded to himself, looking her over with an appraising eye. It wasn’t the same sort of appraising look she got from Dormael, though. Allen was studying her, sizing her up. “Very interesting choice. How long have you been Marked?”

  Shawna fixed him with a level gaze. “The answer
to that question is only owed to someone with steel in their hands. Tradition, you understand.”

  “Tradition, eh?” Allen smiled, holding his hands up in surrender. “Very well. The sun is still shining out there. Let’s take advantage of it. How about a wager?”

  “You just want to challenge Shawna to a fight,” D’Jenn sighed. “You’ve been practically itching to do it since you realized she was a Blademaster.”

  “You’re a Blademaster?” Saul asked, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “Gods be damned. I think I’m in love, boys.”

  Dormael blew a long puff of smoke into the center of the room.

  “Leave her alone, brother. We’ve been on the road for weeks, and the sea before that. Besides—she’s never smoked the Leaf before.”

  All the eyes in the room turned on Shawna at once, and she could do nothing but laugh in the face of so many serious gazes. Something about the entire thing was just so damned funny, so ridiculous. She couldn’t stop laughing about it. Everyone else in the cabin felt the same way, and the pungent room filled with bubbling laughter.

  “He’s right,” D’Jenn said, after the fit had died down. “She’s not fighting anyone.”

  “How about you, big brother?” Allen asked, taking a pull. “The men will be having spear fights as soon as the meat starts roasting. What do you think? Do you remember how to use a spear?”

  Shawna’s eyes swung to Dormael. He regarded his brother with a narrow gaze, a smile coming to his lips even as the rest of the men in the room began to laugh. He shook his head, then let out a long sigh.

  “It’s been awhile, but you’re gods-damned right I remember. I’m a Gamerit,” he said.

  “You’re a Harlun,” Saul grumbled. “You’d better remember how to use a spear, boy.”

  “Unless you’ve been getting fat at the Conclave.” Allen said.

  “Do I look like I’m getting fat?” Dormael said, a challenge in his tone.

  “Are you sure you want me to answer that?” Allen shot back.

  “Fine,” Dormael said. “Let me at least get a horn or two of ale in me first, then we can fight.”

  “D’Jenn?” Allen asked, a wide grin forming on his face.

  “No,” D’Jenn said without hesitation. “Have fun hitting each other, though.”

  “Father? Think your skeleton could handle a beating?”

  “I fought in a spearline before you were more than a thought, my son,” Saul said. “And no—I’ll be getting drunk and watching.”

  “It really is too bad, Lady Shawna,” Allen sighed, reaching out to take the pipe from Dormael. “I would have expected more of a challenge from someone like yourself.” Allen moved to take a pull from the pipe, but Shawna snatched it from his hands before he could put it to his lips. The Leaf had filled her head with a pleasant, relaxed feeling, but she still had the quickest hands in the room. She took a long pull before blowing a bit of smoke in Allen’s face.

  “Can I see your wrists?” she asked.

  “My wrists?”

  “You do speak the World Tongue, don’t you?” she smiled. The rest of the people in the room snickered. Allen smiled, and bared his wrists so that she could see them. Shawna leaned forward and gave them a disdainful look, then shook her head as she straightened.

  “You don’t seem to have one of these,” she said, showing her own Marks to Allen for the second time. “We couldn’t fight, anyway—it wouldn’t be fair, you understand. If you’d like instruction, though, we could arrange a time for me to show you how to fight with a real weapon. Until then, dear, have fun playing with your…sticks.”

  The room erupted with laughter.

  “Until that day, then,” Allen smiled, giving her a flourished bow.

  Shawna was warmed by the laughter. She’d felt tentative when they had first arrived at Dormael’s homestead. Her experiences with Sevenlanders in general had been trying, since Dormael and D’Jenn were the first two with which she’d ever spent any time. Coming to the west had made her anxious. She was constantly wondering what would happen if she made some unknown social blunder, or made someone angry by accident. Then, there had been Seylia—Shawna didn’t even want to think about her.

  Part of her had been nervous about meeting these people, and being surrounded by them. Sevenlanders were strange. They had strange artwork, they had strange customs, and even stranger hairstyles. She had wanted very much to maintain her dignity, to be seen as respectable.

  Now, though, she saw something wonderful in all the brusqueness. The constant badgering that Dormael and D’Jenn threw at each other had been forged here, in this idyllic landscape. She would never forget the sight of Dormael calling down lightning from a stormy sky, or of D’Jenn braining the Cultist just a few days before. Here, though, they were sons, brothers, family. She realized that she very much wanted these people to like her.

  For the first time since the morning of the attack on her home, she felt happy. She felt welcome. She was actually looking forward to the party. Through the shutters, she saw people hauling tables and chairs out onto the grass, preparing a series of small fires—complete with stumps for seating—and others clearing odd farming implements out of the way.

  Dormael’s mother appeared, sleeves rolled to her elbows in the chill, organizing the chaos even as it spiraled around her. She supervised two young boys as they set up a large brick stove that sat out on the lawn, ushered a troop of frolicking toddlers toward the porch where they weren’t underfoot, and personally directed the seasoning of various pieces of meat.

  A troop of children ran screaming past like a tribe of barbarians, and Shawna almost laughed aloud to see Bethany amongst them. Her hair had been transformed, with braids and ribbons streaming through it, and she held a pair of wooden swords over her head as she screamed an unknown battle cry into the winter air. The younglings ran through the yard like raiders, and even attacked one of the men who were helping to move things. He went down, screaming in mock death, and the vicious children moved on.

  “Saul!” Yannette yelled from the other side of the lawn. “Has anyone seen my damned husband?”

  “Get down,” the old man hissed, and Shawna followed everyone else’s example, crouching below the level of the shutters. “If she sees us in here, she’ll put us all to work.”

  “Saul!”

  “Do you think she sees us?” Dormael asked, raising his head a little to look.

  “Doesn’t matter, she’ll check the drying hut anyway,” Saul said. “Come on—out the back!”

  “Stay low,” D’Jenn snickered.

  “Saul!” Yanette’s voice was closer this time.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” Allen asked, proffering the pipe to his father.

  “Bring it, of course,” Saul said. “Now, come on—unless you want to be conscripted into the witch’s army.”

  Shawna followed the men from the drying hut, barely holding back her laughter.

  **

  Maarkov held tight to a slippery rope as the ship bucked beneath him, frigid water spraying in all directions. Thunder rumbled across the sky, chasing a flicker of lightning, which left a burning afterimage on Maarkov’s vision. He ignored the screaming sailors around him, the rushing water, the spray, and the fury of the storm. Maarkov kept his eyes in the distance, at what would be eastern Soirus-Gamerit. What filled his world was the sea, rain, lightning, and—just at the edge of sight—land.

  Just close enough to give you hope, he thought.

  He turned from the bow and picked his way hand-over-hand back toward the stern. His brother would still be in the captain’s cabin—though what he would be doing while the ship was being tossed about like detritus in a flood, Maarkov didn’t know. He was probably munching away at one of the cabin boys. A picture came to Maarkov’s mind of his brother presiding over the corpse of one of the young boys, an apple stuffed in its mouth like a festival pig.

  Come in and eat, he would say. The food is so good, the gods must think it s
inful.

  Maarkov tried not to snicker as he picked his way over the deck, and ignored the horrified glances the sailors sent his way. Despite Maarkov’s warnings, his brother had culled the crewmen down to a bare minimum needed to man the ship. The only thing that kept them from a general mutiny was the cold, hard fact that it would get them nowhere. Maaz knew it, they knew it, everyone knew it. Maarkov wondered what it must be like to be one of these men, holding their eyes to the planks underfoot and praying to the gods that Maaz didn’t notice them.

  He wondered if the pig felt something similar before it was spitted.

  He fought his way into the cabin, and slammed the door shut against the driving storm. Implements that had once belonged to the old captain—from oddities hanging in rope baskets to trinkets lying about—jounced around the room as the ship was tossed by the swells. Water dripped from every crack, seeped from every corner in the room, and wood shuddered under strain. Maaz was soaked in his voluminous cloak, gathering up a pile of his possessions in quick, desperate motions.

  “Maarkov,” he snapped, “go gather your things! We’re leaving this ship.”

  Maarkov looked at his brother like he was insane.

  “Leave the ship?” he asked. “And go where, Maaz? Have you noticed this fine weather we’re sailing in? I’d say our chances of staying afloat out there are about one in ‘fuck-the-gods’. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Stay, then—follow this box to the bottom of the sea for all I care. Let the crabs pick at your swollen corpse,” Maaz growled. “If, however, your mind starts working, then you’ll want to gather your things. I can get you and I out of this, but we need to make it to one of the rowboats.”

  “Aren’t you now the captain of this vessel?” Maarkov asked. “Shouldn’t you be making some noble last stand, going down with the ship? Shouting your defiance of Devla on the way down—or would it be Saarnok that bent an ear for you?”

  Maaz gave him a flat look, and shook his head.

  “Do you really care so much for them?” Maaz spat, his disgust boiling out of his tone. “For the meek, for the uninformed, for the sheep?! We have lived longer than any of them, and we will continue forever! They are nothing but meat to us, Maarkov—you would do well to remember that, and see them for what they are. We are gods compared to them.”