The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  “You are a god compared to them,” Maarkov retorted. “I’m just your toy—your gods-damned experiment!”

  “Now is not the time for this, brother.”

  “And when is the time, Maaz? You did this to me. You can end it.”

  “You don’t want me to end it,” Maaz laughed. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”

  “Oh, my blinded brother,” Maarkov smiled, the chaos of the storm a fitting backdrop for his state of mind. “You have no idea what I want. All I want is an end. It is what I dream about when I let myself sleep. It is what I long for.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” Maaz hissed. “Go get your things. You will delay me no longer.”

  Maarkov felt an instant of fury, a white-hot spike of rage so palpable that he could almost taste it, like bile in the back of his throat.

  “My things? Oh, I don’t know,” Maarkov said, feeling the cold anger take residence in his chest. “I think I might have misplaced them. It will probably take some serious time to find them.”

  “Then leave them.”

  “I can’t—there’s something with them that I really need.”

  “What?” Maaz growled, his tone growing dangerous.

  “My whetstone.”

  “Your…whetstone,” Maaz said. “Your fucking whetstone?”

  “A blade has to be sharp, Maaz. What would you do if you needed me to carve up a nice mother of three for you, or maybe a child? They have the sweetest meat, don’t they? Still tender. Have to get them before they start working in the fields, so their muscles aren’t all tough and sinewy—”

  “Brother, I swear by all the gods in the Void, I will leave you on this rickety piece of garbage if you waste one more moment of my gods-damned—,” Maaz spat, but he trailed off as a loud cracking noise rang out from somewhere nearby. Maaz paused, looking past Maarkov toward the bow of the ship, a horrified expression blossoming on his face. “Maarkov! Get—”

  There was a crash, and everything went dark.

  **

  Dormael’s room was almost as he remembered it as a child, like a memory frozen in time. His old wooden bed still sat huddled into a corner near a window facing the southern horizon. He’d enjoyed gazing out at the landscape as a boy, dreaming about roaming through the highlands. There was a dresser on the opposite side of the bed against the eastern wall with a few knick-knacks scattered about its surface—treasures he’d acquired as a boy.

  Dormael smiled as he picked things up and turned them over, trying to remember where he’d gotten them. A pile of old arrowheads had come from a hill that he and his brother had discovered, where their grandfather told them that a battle was fought between the Red Hills Clan and the Pinedale Creek Clan over a hundred years past. The old man had never been at a loss for stories to tell them. The next item he picked up was a rock, a piece of a strange footprint frozen in its surface. The print looked similar to something a lizard, or perhaps a bird, would have left—if a bird could have grown to the size of a small horse. Dormael’s grandfather had asked him, with an ominous tone, what sort of animal he thought could leave footprints in hard stone.

  For the rest of that summer, Dormael and all his cousins were searching the Red Hills for this mysterious beast. They’d never found anything, of course, but those summer hunts were some of the best times in Dormael’s life. He and his cousins found a great tree that had been struck by lightning—proof, of course, that the beast could breathe fire—and a secluded stream that was the perfect size for swimming on hot summer days. They found a rusted sword, which led them to an ancient skeleton, half-buried in the dirt. He and the other children had promptly decided that this unknown warrior had died fighting the fire-breathing beast, and spent the rest of that afternoon burying him, and building a makeshift shrine. Dormael smiled, remembering how many times he and his brother had said prayers to the unknown warrior—someone who had probably been a brigand, or something equally unsavory.

  The following year, Dormael’s Kai had awakened. He was sent off to the Conclave, and his cousins were scattered around the Red Hills, or elsewhere. His grandfather died before Dormael had been able to see the old codger again, or hear any of his stories. That summer had been his last as a child.

  Sighing, he turned toward the bed, and the reason he’d stomped up the stairs to his old room. He crouched down and reached under the bed frame, looking for what he knew he would find. His hands alighted on a wooden case, and he slid it out onto the floor.

  Of course it’s still here, he thought. The old man is more stubborn than I am.

  Inside the box was a spear. It was a bit longer than Dormael’s staff, which put it at around three hands taller than his full height. Its haft was made of a dark wood that had been sanded to perfection, and hardened through some process that only his father knew how to explain. The bottom end of the thing was surmounted by a steel spike that could be used either as a weapon, or to anchor what was on the other end. This particular spear was made to the Gamerit design, mounted with a wide, leaf-shaped blade more than a hand long. The steel bore the stamped initials of his father—S.H.

  “He comes up here once a week and oils that thing down for you,” Allen said from behind him.

  Dormael almost jumped to the ceiling. He turned, clutching the spear, and scowled at his brother. Allen stood with a horn of ale in his hand, a wide grin on his face.

  “Just thought I’d take it out, have a look at it,” Dormael said.

  “Before I whip you despite the craftsmanship of the weapon our father made for you?”

  “If I’m going to fight in the damned spear tournament,” Dormael said, holding out the spear to his brother, the shaft balanced on his outstretched fingers, “I’m not going to use some crooked stick from the woods, am I?”

  “I suppose not,” Allen smiled, snatching the spear from his hand and looking at it. “It’s a nice spear. If you’d have taken this with you when you left, he’d have made you three more by now, each better than the last. He’s made me a lot of weapons.”

  “You know it’s not that simple,” Dormael said.

  On the day he’d discovered that he was Blessed, he and his father had been arguing. Dormael couldn’t recall what it had been about, but it was probably something ridiculous. He did remember, however, how angry he had been. The argument had provoked his magic into action, and a tree near to them had burst into surprising, hot flames.

  That day had been a starting point, and had planted a seed of tension between the two of them. It wasn’t long until a Scout had come around, and Dormael had been packed up and sent to the Conclave. Years passed between the intervals when Dormael could even make it home to see his family, and the gap between him and his father had deepened, though they pretended it didn’t exist.

  One day, he had come home to find the spear waiting for him. Saul never said anything about it, never tried to foist it upon him, he just left it where Dormael could find it. The spear was more than a weapon crafted by a master weaponsmith—it was an apology for years of distance, and an offer of reconciliation. Dormael had left that offer where it sat for years.

  Perhaps it was time to take it up.

  “I know it’s not that simple,” Allen said. “Just try it out. Let the old man see you using it. Hells, Dormael—take the damned thing with you when you leave. It can be as simple as you want it to be.”

  Dormael took the spear back from his brother, and looked it over.

  “I’ll take a few swings with it. I’ve got my staff, though, and I’m used to it.”

  “That walking stick you carry around?” Allen scoffed. “Bah! A weapon for children.”

  Dormael scowled. “It does its job. You forget—I have other weapons at my disposal.”

  “That’s not something you just forget,” Allen said. “Still, a walking stick is no weapon for a Gamerit, and sure as the Six Hells isn’t good enough for a Harlun. Regardless of what else you are, you’re still one of us. That’s all the old man wants to see, you know.”


  Dormael looked away, sighing. “I know. I said I’d take a few swings with it. Go bother someone else.”

  Allen laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’ll see you on the lawn, brother.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Dormael smiled.

  **

  By the time he faced off with his brother across the circle designated for spear matches, the sun was starting to sink below the horizon. Bonfires had been lit in intervals around the lawn, and the yard was both bright and warm. Dormael had doffed everything but his shirt and pants, and held the spear his father had made for him out in both hands, tip toward his smiling brother. Buzzing conversation make a constant hum of noise around them, though the people in the immediate vicinity of the spear circle were quieter.

  The spear circle was a Gamerit tradition, upheld since only the gods knew when. Fathers were expected to teach their sons how to fight, and everyone would compete in festivals held at every level of Gamerit society. The champion was given a gift, however small or large, and celebrated until the next fight. Dormael had never had the pleasure of competing himself, since he had left before the age of maturity, but he had fought in spear circles at family gatherings.

  Dormael made a few test swings with the spear, wielding it more like a staff, just to loosen his arms up for the fight. Allen smiled and winked at him, declining to move around at all. Dormael caught sight of Shawna watching him, her eyes bleary with the haze of the Shaman’s Leaf. The woman was drinking wine, too, and he thought he’d caught sight of his mother sneaking her a sip of something stronger. Shawna smiled and winked at him much like Allen had, and Dormael couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Are you boys ready to fight, or do you want to keep blowing kisses at each other?” Saul called out, raising his hand for silence in the crowd.

  “I’m ready,” Allen called back. “For a fight, a kiss, either one.”

  “Ready,” Dormael laughed, shaking his head at his brother.

  “Alright, hope you lads have your loins girded, the gods are watching,” Saul said. “More importantly, boys, I’m watching.”

  The old man raised his hand high in the air. Dormael’s hands tightened on the haft of his spear, trying to get a feel for the unfamiliar wood. Allen’s smile widened, and he stepped back into a fighting crouch.

  “Fight!”

  Allen moved toward him, spear held low to his right side in one hand, balanced on the balls of his feet. Dormael stepped away, choking out on the haft of his spear to menace his brother. Allen followed him, trying to cut off his retreat around the circle. Dormael attacked, sending a few thrusts at his brother’s midsection to test the speed of his reactions. Allen knocked each blow aside with ease, trading blows with him as their spears thocked together.

  Allen reversed his motion then, disengaging from the attack and retreating to the edge of the circle. He blew Dormael a kiss, and waved to the crowd, turning his back. Dormael resisted the urge to rush in to attack his brother—the taunt was a trap. Allen was fast, strong, and one of the best damned warriors that Dormael had ever seen. He knew better than to fall for something so simple.

  When Allen realized that Dormael wasn’t going to be baited, he moved forward again, making a few tentative attacks with his spear. Dormael knocked a few aside, slipped aside from a few, and circled his brother without retreating. Allen laughed and attacked faster and faster, testing Dormael’s speed. The spear hafts whacked together over and over as the two of them thrust, slashed, swept, and parried. Dormael ducked under some attacks, and jumped aside from others, all while trying to find a weakness in his brother’s technique.

  Allen seemed invincible. He flowed through the fight with ease, slipping from the path of Dormael’s attacks, his spear stabbing down from angles that were increasingly hard to anticipate. Allen moved with dexterity and decisiveness, a brutality of motion that Dormael didn’t know how to match.

  Allen began to advance, thrusting in quick, straight motions at Dormael’s chest. Dormael was forced to retreat, knocking aside thrust after thrust, backing ever away from the barrage of attacks. He knew that if he didn’t turn things around quickly, he would lose the match.

  Dormael exploded into motion, whipping his spear in a circular parry and spinning to the outside. He gripped the haft the same way he would have used his staff, and swept at his brother’s ankles with the spiked lower end. Allen made a noise of surprise and lifted his foot out of the way, abandoning his advance on Dormael. Dormael followed up with a pair of spinning attacks, and a long thrust that his brother barely avoided.

  Dormael wouldn’t have been able to pull that off last season. Shawna’s insistence that they train as much as they could was paying off in spades. Allen hadn’t expected Dormael to move so fast—truth be told, Dormael hadn’t expected it himself. He could feel Shawna’s influence in the way he was fighting, and in the way he was interpreting the fight. He could read his brother’s motions now, see where he might be intending to strike. Dormael couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he saw the realization reflected in his brother’s eyes.

  Allen came forward, making three slashing attacks in quick succession, forcing Dormael to parry. Dormael met the attacks easily enough, but Allen tangled their spear hafts together on the third parry, and rushed inside Dormael’s guard. Surprised, Dormael caught part of his brother’s elbow in the ribs, and was almost tripped. He fought to keep his feet though, and spun away from his brother. Allen let him go.

  “You’ve gotten better,” Allen called as he spun away.

  “It was bound to happen,” Dormael grunted around the pain in his ribs.

  Allen shrugged and attacked again, forcing Dormael to parry and retreat. Dormael tried to get the upper hand in the exchanges, but his brother was too fast. Every time he attempted to take the initiative, he found Allen’s spear already coming for him, and was forced to parry. He grunted with the effort of keeping Allen’s spear at bay, and retreated around the edge of the circle, looking for a way out. The crowd started to yell things at him.

  “Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!”

  “Step in with your left, no gods-dammit, your left!”

  “—got to stay out of his range—”

  The excitement reached a fever pitch, and Dormael felt his speed beginning to flag. The screaming family members gave him a bit of strength, though, and he pushed his way through the attacks, demanding more out of his flagging arms and legs. Allen thrust twice at his eyes, forcing him to slip backward, but failed to follow through with his attacks. His belly was wide open.

  Dormael smiled, stepping forward to thrust at his brother’s unprotected middle. He could practically taste his victory, could hear the screams of the adoring crowd. Maybe he could con Shawna out of a kiss for his win.

  His brother, though, proved the quicker. The opening had been a trap, Dormael realized, as his brother tapped his spear haft downward, stepping to the side and forcing the blade of Dormael’s spear into the dirt. Before Dormael could pull it out, Allen swiped at his fingers with this haft of his spear. Dormael sucked in a breath and jerked his hands from his weapon, growling in pain.

  He felt the cold steel of Allen’s spear point rest on his neck, and the crowd erupted with cheers. Dormael cursed, laughing at how close he thought he’d come, and jerked his spear tip from the dirt. He shook forearms with his brother, and then offered him a salute.

  “Not bad,” Allen said, returning the salute. “Not good enough, but not bad, all the same.”

  “You were always quick with the spear,” Dormael said. “I never practiced as hard as you did.”

  “I never practiced that hard, I’m just naturally dangerous,” Allen said. “Now—bring your spear, let’s go see who can drink a flagon the quickest.”

  “Why do I have to bring the damned spear?” Dormael laughed.

  “I won the match, Dormael,” Allen said. “That means you have to carry it around for the rest of the night. Winner makes the rules, and that�
��s my rule.”

  “That stopped working on me when we were children,” Dormael said. “Besides, I can just do this.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the spear leapt into the air, hovering just over his shoulder. Allen started back from the thing and gave his brother an irritated look.

  “That’s cheating.”

  “According to whom?”

  “According to the gods, who do you think?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t use it on you during the spear fight,” Dormael laughed. “That’s the real secret, you know. I fought you with one giant hand tied behind my back.”

  “A giant extra hand, you mean,” Allen said. “Untie the bastard, I’ll still beat you.”

  Dormael flicked his wrist, and two ale flagons floated over to them from the table nearby. A voice rose in protest from the crowd of chattering family members, but Dormael ignored it. He snatched one out of the air, and floated the second one over to his brother.

  “How about we get drunk instead?” Dormael asked.

  Allen smiled, and cheers once again erupted from the watchers as they clinked their cups together.

  **

  As was customary at all Harlun gatherings, musical instruments began to appear amongst the crowd. Saul came from an upstairs room with a trio of old guitars, which he handed out to different people. Dormael sent one of the younglings to retrieve his own instrument, and D’Jenn appeared with his doomba. Songs filtered out into the night between the bonfires and bubbles of conversation.

  The night drifted along in a warm, drunken haze for Dormael. There was music and dancing aplenty, and he found himself taking spinning turns across the lawn with Bethany, his mother, and even Shawna a time or two. Shawna’s smile was deeper than usual, though it was probably a result of all the wine, and the Shaman’s Leaf. Still, it was good to see her letting loose.