The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  Candlelight shone from the edges of the shutters, orange peeking through shadow in straight, orderly lines. D’Jenn stared at the window for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. If Victus was in the study, then this would be D’Jenn’s moment.

  It would be Victus’s last moments.

  D’Jenn delved the room with his Kai, and found the man inside, bent over a scroll. There was a ward around the edge of the room, but only a general ward against magical intrusion. D’Jenn listened to the Mekai’s spell slipping off the edge of Victus’s ward, its effects nullified. The man was wide awake, and probably didn’t even realize that there was magic at work just outside the door. Victus always had a penchant for working late into the night, and it appeared that this night was no exception.

  D’Jenn sidled across the stone, working his way toward the window. He could sense Victus on the other side, face bent over the scroll on his desk. The man wasn’t even using his magic. D’Jenn gathered his power, and took a quiet second to center his thoughts.

  Summoning his anger, he slammed his Kai into the window.

  Glass shattered inward, blasting the wooden shutters into the room. Victus made a startled noise and cringed away from the flying debris, yelling a loud curse. D’Jenn felt his magic come awake with a snap, and he knew he had to act.

  He punched once again into the room, sending a wave of pure force rushing across the floor. The spell took Victus from his feet, and slid all his furniture to the wall with a clamor of wood. D’Jenn slid in through the shattered window, and looked to where his former mentor lay on the ground.

  Victus brushed the broken glass from the folds of his robe, and regarded D’Jenn with a stare that could have melted steel. His hair was as wild as ever, eyes alight with rage. D’Jenn’s skin crawled as Victus’s magic thrashed about in indignation—his body’s reaction to the deacon’s song. Victus planted a meaty hand on the floor, and pushed himself to his feet.

  He paused when D’Jenn whipped the axe from his belt.

  “You climbed all the way up the tower?” Victus asked.

  “I did,” D’Jenn nodded.

  “That’s a bastard of a climb, D’Jenn.”

  “I was motivated.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I need to know a few things, Deacon. I came to have a talk.”

  Victus’s face deepened into a scowl.

  “You could have walked to my gods-damned door and knocked, you bloody fool.”

  “We both know it’s not that kind of talk.”

  D’Jenn could feel the wood of the axe beneath his grip, and realized how hard he was squeezing the haft. The blade twitched eagerly in the air, drawing Victus’s eyes. D’Jenn clenched his jaw, trying to rein in the storm of rage that was kindling to life in his chest.

  “You need to put that bloody axe down, boy,” Victus snarled. “You don’t know what you’re doing, here. You’re confused.”

  “I am confused,” D’Jenn agreed. “You’re right. I’m confused about a lot of things, Deacon.”

  “Just put the weapon down, and let’s get this furniture put to rights. We’ll smoke a bit of the Leaf, and I’ll answer whatever questions you wish,” Victus said. He sighed as if D’Jenn were an errant child making some endearing mistake. “I can’t believe you actually climbed the bloody tower. Might be the first time that’s been done. Here, give me a hand with—”

  “We’re not going to touch the gods-damned furniture!”

  D’Jenn surprised himself with the vehemence that came out of his mouth. Victus froze, eyes regarding D’Jenn like a wild animal. The head of the axe twitched with his anger.

  “D’Jenn, do you forget to whom you’re talking, boy?” Victus asked. “I’m still the deacon of this discipline, and—”

  “Would you stop with the facade, Deacon?” D’Jenn said. “We both know I didn’t climb the side of the tower to come have a friendly chat. I want answers.”

  “I said we’ll talk about whatever—”

  “Kitamin Jurillic,” D’Jenn said. “You had him rescued.”

  Victus’s expression went blank as the mask dropped away.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I had a chat with his mother,” D’Jenn said. “She was under the strong impression that you had sent me there to kill her.”

  “The woman is a fool,” Victus said. “I don’t need to kill her, boy. She will be deposed by her clan leaders, and she’s already served her purpose. Frankly, I could care less about the woman, or her hand-less shell of a son.”

  “So you did have him rescued.”

  “Of course I bloody did,” Victus growled. “You’re not an idiot, D’Jenn—I didn’t train you that way.”

  “Why was instituting that tax so important?”

  Victus sighed and gave D’Jenn a withering look.

  “D’Jenn, I want you to loosen your gods-damned grip on that axe, and think for a moment. Use your mind, boy! Think about what you know about the world, about the threats out there. Think about the damned Galanians, the Dannon, the Rashardians, and now this vilth—war is coming to our shores, boy. Whether we want it or not, something bad is going to happen soon. The money is a precaution against that eventuality—a coffer for the Sevenlands to use when the war gets here.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d gotten into soothsaying.” D’Jenn tightened his grip on the axe.

  Victus’s scowl darkened.

  “Do you know how many children were ripped from their homes, and taken into the desert last year?”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “One hundred and six,” Victus went on, “though that number is a loose estimate. The Mals don’t care much about the yearly census. Their kids are taken all the time, marched across the desert and sold into slavery. The ones that survive, anyway. I’m sure there are mountains of little Sevenlander bones under the sand of the Golden Waste.”

  “What’s your bloody point?”

  “The Galanian Empire now occupies a strip of some of the most fertile land in Alderak,” Victus continued, ignoring D’Jenn’s scowl. “Before long, they’ll grow fat on the tax revenue from the the trade now forced to travel through their lands. With more money will come more troops, and with more troops, more conquest. The march of war brings strife, starvation, rape, and the general upending of life for everyone in its path. The last report I received spoke of the success of the Empire’s winter campaign against Thardin. If the emperor conquers the Thardish, no one in Alderak will be able to stand against him.”

  “Are you drawing to the end of this little tale?”

  “This is the tale of the ages, boy—use that mind of yours!”

  “Tale of the ages,” D’Jenn scoffed. “My curiosity is wearing thin.”

  “A failing,” Victus said, “of your mentor.”

  Victus held up his hands for peace, then stepped to where D’Jenn had tossed his desk—a heavy, dark thing that looked older than the stone. He picked up a pipe and lit it with an errant flick of his magic, then rested his backside on the flat.

  “Do you think that allowing the Empire to grow unchecked is a good idea?” Victus asked.

  “Deacon, I didn’t fucking come here to talk about—”

  “Answer the bloody question, boy!” Victus snarled. “If you came here to kill me, then you can repay all that I’ve done for you by humoring me first.”

  D’Jenn’s eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t think it’s up to us what the bloody Galanian Empire does,” D’Jenn said.

  “Shouldn’t it be?” Victus asked, taking a long pull from his pipe. “Just think about what they’ve done in the last season, think about the thing they sought from your friend—that pretty baroness.”

  “That’s different,” D’Jenn said. “That’s magic—that is our business.”

  “And why shouldn’t we work to prevent the rest of the evils they have committed? Why is it not upon us to prevent the raiders from attacking the Mals, or the families on
the southern coast of Soirus-Gamerit? Why is it not our responsibility to protect those children? Because their enemies weren’t dangerous enough?”

  “Because that’s what armies are for, what soldiers are for—we’re not soldiers!”

  “Well maybe we should be!” Victus growled. “Maybe we should be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For the gods’ sakes, D’Jenn—you know what I mean,” Victus gave him an all-suffering glance, and shook his head. “If you walked down into the East Market tonight and saw a woman being raped, a child being killed, or a man being beaten—you’d intervene, would you not?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Of course you would—so why in all the Six bloody Hells does that change when you simply add more children into the mix? Why would you save one, but whine about principles when many are dying every day?” Victus shook his head, and blew another mouthful of smoke into the room. The tobacco smelled expensive, as if it had been treated with something sweet.

  “I don’t decide who lives and who dies,” D’Jenn said. “I’m not the gods, or fate, or whatever the bloody fuck you want to call it. Don’t try to pile their deaths at my feet.”

  “Not the gods, no,” Victus agreed. “But think on this, D’Jenn—why is it that we call wizards born with the spark ‘Blessed’? Do you think it’s because it rolls off the tongue easily, or that it’s a nice thing to say about them?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Of course not!” Victus yelled. “It’s because we’re different, D’Jenn—we’re better. Some even believe that we are chosen.”

  D’Jenn felt cold disgust well up in his belly. Nothing was quite as repellent as a fanatic, and words like ‘chosen’ only ever rolled from the tongues of raging zealots. Hearing it come from Victus’s mouth was like a slap in the face.

  “Chosen?” he asked. “Chosen by whom, Deacon? Fate? The gods?”

  “Whatever the bloody fuck you want to call it.”

  “You’re mad,” D’Jenn said. “You’ve been stuck in this tower, neck-deep in tragedy for years, and it’s driven you mad.”

  “D’Jenn, we have the power to change things for the better! We can decapitate the Galanian Empire before it eats everything in Alderak alive! We can fly directly to Sul’Shuram, and end the Rashardian slave trade for good! We can destroy anything we wish—we can build a better world!”

  “And who gets to decide what sort of world is better?”

  Victus raised his chin.

  “We do.”

  “Because we’re chosen?” D’Jenn grimaced down at the head of the axe.

  “Because we can, D’Jenn—and we should!”

  “What did the others say when you sold them this little story?”

  “Ask them,” Victus said, gesturing toward the door to the Conclave Proper. “Any of them will tell you. They’ve all known my heart since this began.”

  The head of the axe came up so fast that it made a swishing sound in the air. Victus started back from it, but D’Jenn had only pointed it at the man’s face. The blade gleamed between the two of them, an accusation made of steel.

  “What about Vera?” D’Jenn asked. “What did Vera say? And Taglion?”

  Victus’s eyes went flat.

  “Vera went down in the—”

  “—Sea of Storms,” D’Jenn finished. “Her ship lost at sea, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  Victus kept his forehead as smooth as a paving stone, though his eyes tightened with the lie. D’Jenn saw it painted over his expression like a splash of color, and he was seized with the urge to spit at the man. Anger began to make his hands tremble.

  “But she knew—before her accident, I mean?” D’Jenn asked. “You’d spoken to her of your plans. What did she say when you tested her loyalty?”

  “I don’t see what this—”

  “What did she say?” D’Jenn shouted, moving a step toward Victus in what nearly turned into a headlong, murderous rush. He drew himself up short after starting forward, but only just. Victus didn’t move, but D’Jenn could see the readiness in his stance.

  It was only a matter of time now.

  “D’Jenn,” Victus sighed, blowing another heavy cloud of sweet-smelling smoke into the room, “you need to calm down, son. You need to listen—you’re not thinking.”

  “Here’s the thing, Deacon,” D’Jenn said, waving his axe blade at Victus’s eyes. “Vera would never have signed on to your little cabal—of that, I am completely sure. She was gathering evidence against you—she told me so herself.” The letter felt like lead in his pocket. “Taglion wouldn’t have done a damned thing that Vera didn’t tell him to do, and Jastom—Jastom had plans to marry! He had a woman, and a child with her. The bastard was going to become a Hedge Wizard and settle down in the country. Told me himself in a letter.”

  “How bloody adorable,” Victus said, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “So there’s no bloody way that Jastom would have decided to join the secret Warlock cabal, either—and that leaves only one explanation, doesn’t it? Why don’t we drop the bloody charade, Deacon, because we both know I’m not stupid enough to believe your line. You killed them. Vera, Jastom, Taglion, Kiriael—you had to get them out of the way.”

  Victus stared at D’Jenn, the space between them charged with energy. D’Jenn stoked the fire of his magic, ignoring the discordant note that rang out from the bracer. He divided his consciousness into four segments, one of them ready with a Splinter. He kept the rest ready to counter whatever Victus decided to conjure.

  His magic coiled like a scorpion.

  “D’Jenn,” Victus sighed, “is there any point in moralizing any further here? If you’re not going to wake up to the realities of the world, then I see no value in trying to wake you.”

  “You killed my friends,” D’Jenn snarled. “I loved them! They were family—you said that!”

  “They were traitors!” Victus screamed, throwing his pipe against the far wall. It splattered in a shower of ashes and splintered wood. “When it came time, when things got tough, they turned their back on the rest of us, boy—just like you and your cousin are doing!”

  “We haven’t betrayed anything!”

  “Bah! Haven’t betrayed anything, eh? What does it mean, D’Jenn, when everyone you know is standing on one side of the line, and you’re the only one on the other side?”

  “That the rest are either wrong, or cowards,” D’Jenn spat. “And that you’ve killed the ones who would’ve stood beside me!”

  “Will I have to kill you, too, D’Jenn? Make your bloody choice, before it’s—”

  D’Jenn was tired of all the gods-damned talk.

  He lashed out with the edge of the axe blade, aiming a quick cut at Victus’s eyes. The deacon slipped out of his range, throwing his head away. D’Jenn felt his arms and legs start to itch, and heard Victus’s song ring out. A low table lifted from the floor and launched itself right at D’Jenn’s head, forcing him to lash out with his own magic to block. The table exploded with a loud clatter, sending splintered bits of wood flying around him.

  Victus spun away from D’Jenn and the axe, scooting backward along the edge of the desk upon which he’d been sitting. He looked a wild man with his hair and beard sticking out, face twisted into an angry snarl. His eyes, though, were bright and calculating.

  D’Jenn brought up a magical shield, a bubble of energy that would catch the brunt of most things Victus would throw at him—force, fire, or lightning. Just as the shield crystallized around him, Victus punched out with a thin stream of fire. It burst only a hand from D’Jenn’s face, blinding him for a split second. He growled as spots were burned over his vision.

  Victus tried to seize D’Jenn with his Kai, but the shield protected him. D’Jenn slammed a Splinter into Victus’s power, bursting his spell like a bubble. Light skittered over the floor in incandescent sparks, leaving tiny burn marks on the stone as Victus’s magic spiraled out of control. The man
reeled back, and D’Jenn advanced.

  D’Jenn took three quick swings—over, left, then over again—but he wasn’t used to the feel of the Orrisan axe in his hand. It was a great deal lighter than his mace, and he over-judged his swings. Victus threw himself to the side, rolling across the stone and coming to his feet with a long dagger in his hands. He smiled at D’Jenn as he made his feet.

  D’Jenn punched the man with his magic, throwing him into the far wall. He fell behind the piled furniture, and coughed with pain. There was no blood on the wall where he had hit, but the man was stunned. D’Jenn was hoping to have busted his head open, but no matter. In a fight between wizards, the first mistake was most often the last.

  D’Jenn gestured to the side, moving the furniture away from Victus’s prostrate form. The man lay on the stones, spitting blood onto the floor. The room was quiet in the wake of the quick, nasty fight—there was nothing but Victus’s fits, and the sweet smell of tobacco smoke. D’Jenn knew he should kill Victus quickly, get it over with, but he couldn’t. This was his mentor, this man had been like a father to him. Smashing his head with force, or breaking his neck, was too barbaric. Burning him alive was too excessive, too sadistic.

  The last thing D’Jenn could give to Victus was dignity—he would offer him that much. D’Jenn reached out with his Kai and pulled Victus upright, positioning the man on his knees. Victus hissed with pain, and started cackling as blood ran into his beard.

  “Whatever your last words, don’t make them something insane,” D’Jenn said. “I don’t want to remember you spouting some nonsense about being chosen by the gods.”

  Victus spat on the floor, and sneered up at D’Jenn.

  “The arrogance simply astounds me, boy,” Victus laughed. “Last words, indeed. You’re not going to kill me.”

  D’Jenn put the blade of the axe under Victus’s chin, and lifted the man’s eyes to his own.