The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  “A little cold, is it?” Dormael asked, disrobing and setting his clothing aside.

  “You want to help with that?” Allen sputtered through chattering teeth. Dormael opened his Kai and fed heat into the water, until steam filled the room like morning mist over a river. He stepped foot into the warm water, his muscles shivering in response to the sensation.

  “Is that better?” Dormael asked.

  “Aye,” Allen breathed. “I swear to the gods, Dormael, it must be nice being a wizard. Warm baths wherever you go—at least, that’s the way it would be if I was Blessed.”

  “Everyone says that.” He shook his head, remembering the conversation he’d had with Shawna on this very subject. He almost opened his mouth to explain, but thought better of it. Instead, he decided to broach another subject. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

  “Let me guess,” Allen sighed, leaning back in the water. “You’d like to know how it is that I’m so talented and good looking. Really, it’s just an accident of birth, Dormael. I think the gods just smiled on me when I was in the womb.”

  Dormael laughed. “You know you were born with webbed feet, right? Took pop three years to cut away your toes.”

  “Damn, I wish he’d have just left them. Then I could add ‘amazingly fast swimmer’ to my long list of talents and achievements. Anyway, what did you want?”

  “I’d like you to come along with us.”

  “To Ishamael, you mean?”

  “Even so.”

  Allen blew out a long breath and let himself float in the water.

  “You know I love you, brother,” he said, “and Ishamael is nice. There’s nothing for a warrior to do there, though—not a real warrior, anyway. I don’t want to spend my time lounging around the Conclave with a bunch of wizards. You’re all strange, and you talk on and on about mysterious, ancient, boring shit.”

  “You won’t be sitting around the Conclave,” Dormael laughed. “I don’t need you to be my gods-damned bodyguard, you know.”

  “Then why do you want me to come along?” Allen asked, raising his head from the water. “Do you have a real job? Something interesting?”

  “Definitely interesting,” Dormael nodded. “I can count on your discretion, I assume?”

  “Do you want a punch in the nose for questioning my honor? Looks like someone gave you one already.” He gestured at Dormael’s black eyes with a wide grin.

  “Listen, brother—Shawna isn’t just some woman we hired as a mercenary, and Bethany isn’t just my adopted daughter,” he said. Dormael started at the beginning, and told his brother the entire story. He told Allen about the armlet, the Red Swords, and the mystery surrounding them. Allen listened through the whole tale, asking a few questions, and nodding at the answers. By the time Dormael had finished, the water was growing tepid.

  “So…if I come with you,” Allen said, “I’d get a chance to do some actual fighting?”

  “I’d say so,” Dormael said. “Or haven’t you been listening?”

  “There’d better be,” Allen said. “I was planning on heading down to serve at the Southern Bastion for a year. Learn to fight in a unit, kill a few raiders. I’d be giving that up.”

  “Giving up the chance to chew on soldier’s rations in a fortress on the edge of the Golden Waste, and all for a soldier’s pay?” Dormael said. “Don’t let me get in the way of your little holiday.”

  “Are you going to pay me anything?”

  Dormael nodded. “Of course. The Conclave keeps money around for hiring your sort of help. More than a soldier makes, believe me.”

  “Well, I suppose I could take time out of my busy schedule.”

  “Busy,” Dormael scoffed. “You’re not busy. You won enough gold to last ten years. Bored is what you are.”

  Allen rose up and gave him a serious look.

  “Now that is the truth,” he said. “Alright, I’ll go. On one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “Take the spear with you. I can’t be seen with you in public if you’re going to be lobbing that stick around,” Allen said. “Besides, it would make the old man happy. Time for the both of you to stop acting like idiots.”

  “Fine,” Dormael sighed. “I’ll take the damned spear. I was planning on taking it in the first place.”

  “My puckered arse, you were planning on taking it,” Allen said. “You’re a horrible liar. Now—you want to get my back? My muscles are too big to get the middle.”

  “Get away from me,” Dormael laughed, retreating to the far side of the pool.

  **

  A few hours later, Dormael found himself held in a tight embrace by his mother, who was sobbing into his chest. He gave everyone else a helpless look, and patted her on the back. His mother cried every time she saw them coming or going, during both greetings and goodbyes. As embarrassing as it was, Dormael endured it, and hugged her fiercely in return.

  Saul wrapped both of his sons in rough embraces, and grasped forearms with D’Jenn. There wasn’t much of a reaction from his father upon seeing the spear tied to his saddlebags—a relaxing of the shoulders, a deepening of his smile lines, and a small nod to himself. An acknowledgment passed between Dormael and his father, and that was all the two of them needed to say. After the exchange, Dormael felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he hadn’t realized had been there.

  Bethany was passed around from grandparent to grandparent, the victim of a storm of hugs, kisses, and hair-rufflings. The girl looked a little bewildered at the treatment, but weathered it with as much smiling grace as she could muster. Dormael’s mother loaded her with an entire bag full of clothing, and ribbons had been braided into her hair. Luckily, the horses they’d taken from the Aeglar Cultists provided ample space for luggage.

  Shawna looked terrible.

  Her eyes were red around the edges, and her skin had a sallow tone that made Dormael’s stomach clench with sympathy. She had to be feeling nauseous, but she held herself together with a dignity that would have honored her noble station, could she stop squinting so hard into the light. Her hair was still wet from the bath she’d taken, though she was huddled deep into a fur-lined cloak. Shawna gave a stiff traditional bow, and mounted her horse with muttered goodbyes.

  Dormael wondered if the woman remembered anything about the night before. What did she recall about their clumsy, lustful dance into his bedroom? She’d given him no indication, and had endeavored to avoid conversation with anyone at all. Hangovers could be terrible that way—Dormael knew the feeling well.

  Allen came trundling out of the house loaded down with weapons. Dormael might have expected such a thing, knowing his brother, but the amount of weaponry the man lugged around was ridiculous. In one trip he carried a long spear over one shoulder, and a baldric over the other shoulder which held a long, curving saber. On his arm was a targe—a small shield with a spike in the center—and he carried a short sword clutched in his hand. After lugging all this down to his horse and tying some of it in place, he went inside for a second load.

  When he appeared again he had a pair of short bows in leather cases, complete with a quiver full of arrows. An Orrisan style handaxe swung at his belt, which had a bearded blade and a hardwood shaft. A leather harness stocked with throwing knives attached to the light, segmented armor he wore. His fists were covered in a type of spiked gauntlet that would have turned a punch into something disfiguring. Under his arm, he carried a steel helm.

  Dormael just watched his brother loading up, shaking his head.

  Allen sensed that everyone was looking at him, then turned to take in all the incredulous glances.

  “What?” he said.

  “We were just wondering where the war is,” D’Jenn said, stifling a yawn. “How many weapons do you really need? The rest of us get by with one.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Shawna muttered. D’Jenn gave her a bland look, and she shrugged in response.

  “The rest of you can get by with one if you
want,” Allen said. “My level of skill, however, requires a bevy of choices. Sometimes I want to shoot things—hence, the bow. The spear is good for mounted charges, and hunting boar, too. Obviously, the sword is for stabbing people. You’d be surprised how often steel gets stuck in a body, and you have to spend precious moments wrenching it out—”

  “That’s enough!” Yanette said, throwing up her hands. “I don’t want to hear that shit!”

  Laughter issued up from everyone standing around them, but Allen stalked over and gave her a noisy kiss on the cheek. She rolled her eyes and hugged him again, plucking at his armor as if she could straighten it.

  “You know I love you, you old witch,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied, a sob escaping her chest. “You’d better get going, or I’m going to start crying again.”

  Within a few minutes, they were heading down the road away from the homestead, their remounts trailing along behind them. Dormael turned to watch his home fade into the distance, wishing that he could have spent more than one night. When they made the edge of the land owned by his family, he felt a bittersweet twinge in his chest. He vowed to return when this was all over, and spend a little more time at home.

  It took them a few hours to make their way back to the fork in the trail and turn again to the northwest. The day was clear, and freezing. The biting wind whipped through the highlands, stifling any conversation. Signals were passed up and down the line with the Hunter’s Tongue, as no one cared to come out of their hoods long enough to scream over the wind. The Runemian Mountains loomed in the distance, rocky crags carpeted in greens and browns. Here and there a light dusting of snow could be seen in the passes, but the Runemians didn’t reach high enough to maintain constant snow-caps, even in winter. They made steady progress northward throughout the day, until they found a copse of trees and made camp on the edge of the foothills.

  “What’s the Conclave going to be like?” Bethany asked as they huddled around the fire that evening. Dormael looked down at the girl, who was snuggled under his arm and wrapped in her own cloak. She had remained close to him throughout the day, sharing silent company.

  “What’s it going to be like?” Dormael repeated, taking a deep breath. “Where to start, girl? It will be different from anything you’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s…well, it’s where I’m going, isn’t it?” she asked, risking a look into his eyes.

  “That’s the plan, little one,” Dormael nodded. “Isn’t that what you want? To learn to use your power?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “At least, I think so. Are you going to be there?”

  Dormael wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t stay with the girl during her training, or huddle over her like a mother bear with her cub. Initiates were separated from their families for a reason, and Dormael would be expected to disavow her unless she was on holiday. He would be able to visit, of course, but he also had duties as a Warlock. Dormael quailed a bit as he realized that she would spend a great deal of her time alone—or away from him, anyway. He had adopted her only to drop her at the Conclave’s doorstep, and fly off to his next assignment.

  “I will be there sometimes,” Dormael said. “I will be able to visit you, and I will hear about everything you do. I live at the Conclave, you know, so I will be close by.” He took a deep breath. “The thing is, Bethany, I also have duties. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You have to take care of the armlet.”

  “That’s part of it,” he said, a smile coming to his face. “There are, however, other things I do. For you, though, the Conclave will be different. It’s a school. You will learn things, be required to pass tests. Do you understand?”

  Bethany nodded.

  “You’ll be put into a class—a group of children close to your age and skill level. You’ll live with them, you’ll become something like a family,” he said.

  “But…aren’t we family now?” she asked, confusion wrinkling her brow.

  “We are,” Dormael said, rubbing her shoulder. “But your classmates will be something close, too, eventually. Nothing wrong with more family, right?”

  “Right,” she said.

  “You’ll learn all sorts of things—history, mathematics, philosophy…”

  “What about magic?” she asked. “Aren’t I going to learn magic?”

  “Of course,” he laughed. “We’ve been teaching you a bit already. At the Conclave, though, they’ll teach you the right way. D’Jenn and I are just improvising. There, you will have real instructors.”

  “I want to learn to make roasts with magic,” she smiled. “Roasts with gravy and roasted carrots. And rolls. Rolls with honey and butter.”

  Dormael just laughed, and ruffled the girl’s hair.

  Their trek through the foothills lasted for days. The weather stayed dry, which was a blessing from the gods as far as Dormael was concerned, but it was damnably cold. The wind tore at their hoods, and blew dust into their eyes. Dark clouds formed over the passes, and blew gusts down through the hills like icy bellows. Dormael thought about using magic to keep warm, but decided against it. As the days passed by, he huddled deeper into his cloak, and tried his best to get used to it.

  Around six days out from Harlun homestead, they began the climb into the Runemian Mountains. The road was wide and easy on the horses at the bottom, but as they twisted higher into the mountains, it became narrower, rockier, and more eroded. They were forced to slow down over the next three days as they went higher, and D’Jenn scowled at the delay.

  On the fourth day of their slow, careful climb, they made it to a point where the trail leveled off. The road squeezed into a narrow ravine, just wide enough for three horses to ride abreast, and disappeared behind winding switchbacks. Allen led the way, with D’Jenn and Shawna following close behind. Dormael had drawn remount duty for the day, and was leading the train of horses they had taken from the Cultists, with Bethany humming from her spot on his saddle. He looked around as they entered the pass, trying to guess how far up the mountain they had come. The highlands behind them were a patchwork of folded lands with brown grasses blowing in the cold wind. Ahead there was nothing but craggy boulders, evergreens, and stunted bushes on all sides.

  Dormael felt a tug at the rope he’d tied to the lead packhorse’s bridle, and turned to see what was causing the problem. One of the horses at the rear of the train was slowing to pluck at a sprig of grass, so Dormael sighed and let the beast have its snack. There was no sense in hurrying things along when they were making about as much speed as a blind man with a cane. The rest of the party disappeared around a bend in the trail, and Dormael let them gain a little ground while the remounts got moving again.

  “What is that man doing?” Bethany asked, drawing Dormael out of his reverie.

  “What man?”

  His heart froze as he turned his eyes to see what the girl was talking about. On a ridge overlooking the trail, a man was crouched behind a bush, drawing an arrow to his cheek. Dormael just happened to be at an angle where he could see the bastard—if he had followed everyone else into the pass, he’d never have spotted him. His hands tightened on Bethany’s shoulders, and he opened his Kai.

  D’Jenn! Archers!

  The thought was blasted out to his cousin’s mind in a fury of heart-quickened emotion, so Dormael didn’t know if his cousin had even received the garbled message. If he yelled, he would alert the ambushers and spring the trap. He could only hope that D’Jenn had heard him.

  He could hope, and he could fry the bastards with magic.

  Dormael raised his hands, and fire blossomed on the walls of the ravine, roaring into life and sweeping down upon anything that would have been hiding there. Horses screamed, reared, and tried to bolt. Men yelled in agony and stumbled out of the conflagration, a few of them leaping down onto the trail to escape the flames. In an instant it was over, and the roaring blaze died to a flickering remnant of its initial fury. The wails of the wounded a
nd dying stabbed into the stunned silence.

  Dormael dug his heels into Horse’s flanks and screamed for Bethany to hold on tight. They climbed around the narrow switchback and rejoined their friends, just as chaos was beginning to take hold. Steel whispered and rang as weapons were drawn, and the horses were tossing their heads in fear. A troop of excited voices rang out, echoing from the walls of the pass on either side of them.

  “Ride!” D’Jenn shouted, whipping his mace from his belt.

  He spurred Mist down the trail at a gallop, and everyone pounded after him. Dormael yanked on the remount line, trying to alert the horses to what was happening, but he needn’t make the effort. The panicked beasts followed as their instincts took over. Like thunder, they fled down the winding trail.

  Dormael rounded a bend just in time to see his brother lean out of the saddle and stab downward with his spear, killing a man in dark leathers as he rode by. Allen abandoned the weapon and drew his saber, turning his horse in a circle. Shawna and D’Jenn were also jammed into the clearing, and it took Dormael a moment before he saw the reason.

  A tree was fallen across the road, trapping them inside.

  Dormael cursed as the remounts flooded in behind him, choking the area like a holding pen. Horse swung around in a desperate circle, eyes rolling, while Dormael tried to fix his eyes on the fallen tree. He could hear D’Jenn’s song playing an angry melody in the ether, though he couldn’t tell if he was trying to move the tree, or defend against more assailants. Dormael spotted men here and there, but his damned horse wouldn’t stop spinning so he could get his bearings. Everything was chaos.

  Just then, Allen yelled and chopped down with his sword, killing a man in a spray of bright blood. Dormael spotted more of them coming from all sides—men dressed in cast-off leathers, all bright knives and hungry eyes. Arrows flitted through the air around them, and Dormael knew they had closed the trap.

  He saw one wild-eyed man running for them as Horse danced around. Dormael wrenched the bastard from the ground with his power, and tossed him screaming into the trees. He pulled ice from the air with his magic, and sent it hurtling into their attackers. Trying to avoid hitting the horses, or accidentally unleashing something that would hit his friends, was difficult in the swirling chaos of the fight. Dust was being kicked up everywhere, and Dormael was having trouble seeing.