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

by D. W. Hawkins

  There were a few tests that one could do on pieces such as this to determine their basic nature. The first was simply to toss magic at them—which Dormael had tried, earning himself the effect of being Splintered. The second was to delve them with the senses, and with the barest stream of formless magical energy. In very small amounts, magic did almost nothing—it did, however, highlight the armor’s reactions.

  The brass pattern in the steel was definitely a spell. No armor that D’Jenn had ever seen was joined so perfectly together, the brass laid into the steel in intricate, recessed patterns with no apparent seam between them. The most startling thing, though, was the effect.

  The armor created a dissonance, which would scatter magical energies. Splintering was the use of one’s magic to pierce the power of another. It worked like a needle piercing a bubble, if the bubble was the spell, and inside the bubble was contained magical energy. Burst the bubble, and one released the magic.

  The armor, though, looked to create a surface that was, as far as D’Jenn could tell, carpeted with magical needles. Any direct use of power against the armor would result in a Splintering, but only if the armor’s dissonance was at a sufficient level to scramble the magic. The two pieces before him uttered a low, irritating tone when placed side-by-side. However, when D’Jenn removed one of them to the other side of the room, the dissonance from either became less bothersome.

  The things must work as greater parts of a whole.

  If D’Jenn were to wear one of them, then it may not afford any protection against magic at all. Both of them might fend off benign magic, but in order to achieve the Splintering effect, it appeared that an entire suit was required. Where, though, would an anti-magic brotherhood like the Cult of Aeglar get magical armor—and high quality magical armor, at that? How did such a thing fit into their religious framework? D’Jenn had always assumed that the Cult hated all wizards, and wanted the eradication of all magic. No one had ever spoken of the Cult possessing infused armor, and such a thing would have been told from the hills to the valleys if it was known. Whoever had made this armor knew what they were doing—it was expert craftsmanship.

  This was a recent development. Someone had provided these things to the Cult, but who would have done such a thing? D’Jenn shook his head, and stopped trying to follow the mind-bending patterns.

  The problem of the armor could wait until later. His eyes were crossing, and it was time to get out of his rooms. All the other wizards in the Conclave were visiting with old friends. Perhaps it was time that D’Jenn called on some of his old classmates. Warlocks worked either in pairs, or alone, and were always on the move. Such a lifestyle didn’t lend itself to friendly visits, and it had been too long since he had seen some of his friends.

  The political turmoil offered the opportunity for a reunion. D’Jenn wished Dormael was awake, but there was no use wishing. With any luck, the bastard would wake up in time to have reunions of his own.

  He hid the Cultist armor beneath his bed, and left his rooms in search of old friends.

  **

  Darkness, cool and quiet, wrapped him in a thick, syrupy embrace. At times it felt like water, holding him upon its surface with soft hands and carrying him on its current. Other times, it felt like the opposite of water—a space, wanting and hollow, pulling against the very fabric of his consciousness, threatening to drag him into a silent oblivion.

  He would have fought it if he knew how.

  “Dormael,” said the red-head.

  Gods, she’s gorgeous.

  “You have to drink, you fool,” she grumbled. The sky above her was a bright gray hole of roiling clouds—or was that someone else’s dream? The answers fled from him like a squad of babbling children, taunting him as he chased them down one by one. The questions, though, remained like scowling hags.

  “Drink what?” he said. “There’s nothing here to drink.”

  The woman came with the headaches. Deep, pounding drums in his head made of bright copper, each beat threatening to pop his eyes from their sockets. He would groan and cover them when the world intruded, trying to hold them in against that terrible beat. Sometimes it felt like trying to hold his head together while his bastard skull was trying to break apart. Soothing hands held to him, struggling against his efforts. The hands couldn’t understand the pain.

  The darkness would come again when the drums shattered his head. It came on like a promise, a soothing companion too long kept from his embrace. With her arms around his chest, things were easier, warmer, silent. The trick was not to go too deep—he’d heard that somewhere—so he resisted when she whispered her promises to him, and tried to pull him deeper.

  “Oh no, I know your tricks,” he said. “It’s cold down there. We’re not supposed to go.”

  “Go where?” the red-head asked. “Where are we going?”

  “You tell me,” he grumbled, angry as the sky intruded on his sight. “You fucking tell me!”

  Drums, choking water over his chin, and agony against the inside of his skull.

  Sometimes things moved in the darkness—skittering, slimy things that he could hear in the distance. The blackness made it impossible to tell if the things could sense him, so he huddled, floating along this disembodied river of shadow, and hoped that nothing could swim by and take a bite. Sometimes he could hear wailing cries from somewhere in the dark, calling and answering each other in a mournful conversation.

  “You’ve taken me too deep,” he said. “There are things in here with me.”

  Only silence answered him.

  Once, he awoke to the beating of the drums and no one was there. His head was a series of bright explosions, each one building upon the one before. Above him the stars stretched as far as he could see, like a thousand thousand candles in the black river that carried him on the other side. No one came, but the stars comforted him until the darkness pulled him back into its embrace.

  More and more, between the warm periods of darkness and the cutting light, something would keep him company in the shadow. He could feel it beside him, feel its silent regard as it slid its attention over him, along him, and through him. It crouched beside him in the darkness like a mountain, like something so massive that its breadth was beyond comprehension. It didn’t breathe so much as wax and wane with an ancient, terrible rhythm.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “I can feel you there.”

  “You know who I am,” she sighed. “You’ve been unconscious, you fool. Are you alright? You make a lot of noise in your sleep.” Her hair was like fire, the gray sky igniting it from behind.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” he grumbled.

  “Well, just let me know when you’ve got something to say.”

  She patted his chest, kissed his forehead, and filled his mouth with cold water.

  He knew the thing would be there when he went under again. It waited in the darkness like an old lizard, watching from a hole for its prey to wander by. He could feel its attention. If he had eyes in this place, he might be gazing at the thing from behind some thin, tenuous barrier—man and thing, wondering what to say to each other through the veil.

  The thought made him laugh, but the feeling flew from him like a bird from his hand.

  He reached toward it. He knew it was there, could feel it looking at him. He was tired of waiting for the thing to eat him, to pull him beyond the veil, or whatever the thing planned on doing to him. Some mad urge pushed him to act, so he pushed at the veil, poked at it, and reached toward that alien presence just beyond it.

  The thing reached back.

  In a blink, the pressure that had kept them apart popped like a bubble, and the thing was touching him, grasping his mind like a branch in a flood. He held to it, grasping the thing just as hard in return, as if it was a game between the two of them. The darkness seemed to spiral around them, though such a thought was senseless.

  Then, the thing entered his mind like a creature burrowing into the ground. He thrashed, fought, screamed i
nto the darkness, but nothing he did could keep it out. It felt alien, vast, and ancient. It rooted around in his thoughts, sifting through them as if they were documents stacked on a desk. He balked at such an intrusion, but there was nothing he could do.

  “You can’t just root around in my thoughts like that!” he grumbled. “They’re mine!”

  “I think you’re actually getting crazier as the swelling goes down,” she said. “Nothing in your thoughts I want to see—believe me.” She sighed, her eyes welling with pity. “You’re scaring the girl, you know. You need to get better.”

  More drums, always the drums. He didn’t know what the woman was talking about, but guilt gnawed at him like a starving dog. He held his eyes against the beating of those gods-damned drums.

  “Tell her I’m sorry.”

  Tell whom you are…sorry?

  The thing shifted in the darkness, turning its vast, terrible eye upon him.

  For what are you sorry?

  “I…I don’t know.”

  Odd. The ancient thing spoke the word to him as if it was unsure of the meaning.

  “What are you?” he whispered, the darkness around them pressing him into quietude.

  I am…I am one, the thing replied, tasting the words as if they were an old coat that didn’t fit. I am one where once there was two. I am one.

  “One?” he whispered back, unsure what the thing meant.

  Yes. One. Only.

  “Alone,” he nodded, understanding. “You are alone.”

  Alone, the thing repeated, the word drawing out in his mind. Yes. Alone.

  Then, with more anger, ALONE.

  The word punched into his consciousness like a fist, vibrating everything that made him who he was. He held to the fabric of his soul, trying to keep the intrusive thing from destroying him. The being only sat in his mind, though, like a rock in a pond—or a piece of it did. The darkness continued to spin around them, the peaceful river of black becoming a storm.

  “Where do you come from?” he asked, his mind going blank of anything else.

  Not this place. This is not your place.

  “No,” he said, “this is not my place.”

  You must go, before they come.

  His mind gave an involuntary shudder at the the thing’s words. The black continued to whirl out of control, as if the presence of the thing were sending the darkness into chaos.

  “Before what comes?” he asked.

  The thing released him, leaving his mind like a flash of lightning. He reeled, the darkness around him shuddering with the pounding of drums. Something wailed in the darkness—something close. It’s voice was like the screech of some predator bird, if a bird could grow to be the size of a horse cart. The blackness undulated around him, vibrating with the anticipation of violence.

  You must go.

  “How?” he asked, but the thing was gone before he could get a reply. The darkness, once teeming with that ancient presence, was now empty around him. He floated inside, exposed to whatever beast was making that awful wailing. It was coming closer, as if it was casting around in the darkness, and it sounded angry. Its cries evoked a primitive response within him, a madness that made him want to find a hole in which to burrow until it passed.

  Something struck him in the chest, pushing him through the darkness. The black around him erupted with angry wailing. He felt the distinct sensation of being flung through some kind of barrier.

  Agony turned his world white.

  **

  “Dormael!”

  Shawna restrained his shoulders, her hands cool against the touch of his fevered skin. She stared down into his eyes, a worried look passing between them. Dormael realized that he was clutching her wrists in a death-grip, and loosened his fingers. He could feel sweat coating his naked skin beneath the multitude of blankets, and his eyes hurt with every painful beat of his heart. His head was a throbbing jumble of pain.

  “Shawna?” he croaked. His throat was dry, too.

  Fuck the gods.

  “Do you know any other red-heads that would be taking care of you?” she asked. Dormael started to answer, but she held up a finger. “No—I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to know.” Her expression softened into a tentative smile. “Are you alright?”

  “I hurt,” he mumbled. “Water?”

  She went for a decanter on a bedside table, and Dormael blinked as his eyes absorbed the low candlelight in the room. His muscles felt sore and watery. Shawna pressed a wooden cup into his hands, and Dormael gave her the most grateful look he could muster. He’d have kissed her for that water.

  He’d have kissed her anyway, truth be told.

  A large fireplace dominated the room, all granite bricks and dark iron bars in flowing patterns. A roaring fire burned inside, filling the room with pleasant heat. Two tapestries hung from either side of the fireplace, adding large swaths of vivid color to the dark wood paneling that lined the walls.

  The first was a large depiction of a man in resplendent armor being pulled from his horse by a horde of angry beast-men. It was called The Fall of Tirrin, and depicted the very man whose story Bethany had heard on the road to Gameritus. Dormael had always liked it because of the moral behind the story of Tirrin—not to fall to hubris—and the mastery of this particular depiction. The amount of detail, even down to the teeth in the Garthorin, was astounding.

  The second tapestry, which hung on the right side of the fireplace, was half again as large as the first, and depicted two men facing off across the yellow-brown sands of a desert. The first man was wild, wearing flowing black robes and holding a large, curving scimitar. The second man was smaller, and wearing simple traveling clothes. Fire, lightning, and ice erupted between the two of them, the battle depicted at an impasse. The tapestry was called Gimmael Facing Down Morvlund the Mad.

  Gimmael was a folk hero amongst the wizards of the Conclave—and, in particular, the Warlocks. Morvlund the Mad was a Rashardian Mystic—what the Rashardians called wizards—who had used his power to make a bid on the Holy Throne. Morvlund had committed a number of atrocities, and used his power to kill innocents. The Conclave had dispatched four other wizards to kill Morvlund, all of whom he defeated. Gimmael had been the least favorite wizard to take Morvlund down, as he was neither the most powerful, or most skilled Warlock that the Conclave had sent. It was Gimmael, though, who would finally end Morvlund’s reign of terror.

  This was Dormael’s room—they had made it to Ishamael.

  “When did we make it here?” he asked, after gulping down as much water as his stomach could handle.

  “A couple of days ago,” she said. “You’ve been out cold since the mountain. D’Jenn thought that you might not wake at all. Everyone has been worried.”

  “The Death Sleep,” Dormael said. “He thought I had entered the Death Sleep.”

  “The Death Sleep?”

  “It happens sometimes,” he said around a cough, “when a wizard draws too much power. They let things get away from them, let the energies spiral out of control. Sometimes having that much power running through you just…breaks the body. You fall asleep, you don’t wake. Your body just rots away beneath your slumber.”

  “Bethany will be so happy,” Shawna sighed. “She’s been silent again since you’ve been asleep. Won’t even laugh at your brother anymore.”

  “Things are bad, then,” Dormael said, smiling despite the pain banging around in his skull.

  “Should I go get them?” Shawna asked, rising.

  “Just give me a moment or two,” he said, catching her hand before she could leave. “My head feels like Evmir himself is beating my skull into shape.”

  She smiled, and sat back on the bed beside him.

  “Alright,” she said. “I suppose it can wait for a moment. They’re all scattered, anyway.”

  “And you stayed here with me?” he asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

  “It was my turn,” Shawna replied, raising a challenging eyebrow at his look. �
��Your brother took lunch, and D’Jenn, breakfast.”

  Dormael felt a regretful sting, but hid it behind it a long sigh.

  “How did you get me here? Drag me in a litter?”

  “There was a cart left from the bandits’ camp. We tossed you in the back. Thank you, by the way,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For coming after me, you fool.” She smiled, and wiped a bit of sweat from his brow.

  Dormael let out a breath. “I’d say we could call it even. You’ve been giving me water every day. At least, I think that was you. ”

  “It was,” she said, her cheeks turning a pink, rosy color. “I didn’t mind so much. You were a bit cranky, though. You’re a horrible patient.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’ll do better next time.”

  She slapped him on the arm, and they shared a smile in silence for a moment. He reached his hand up and prodded at the back of his head, relieved to find no soft spots. It still hurt, but the evidence of the blow he’d taken was gone. His chest throbbed beneath the blankets, and his whole damned body was sore.

  “So,” he said. “What do you think of the Conclave? Is it the haven of evil that you always imagined?”

  “No, actually,” she smiled, ignoring his jibe. “Everyone has been friendly. Someone important met us here—Victus, I think his name was?”

  “He’s the deacon of our order.”

  “The what?”

  “The head Warlock,” Dormael clarified. “He’s in charge of all the Warlocks. He answers only to the Mekai, who is the head of the entire Conclave.”

  “I see,” Shawna said. “Things have been quiet since we arrived. I think your head Warlock has been keeping information about us a secret. No one has asked any questions, come calling, or caused any trouble. I think they’re waiting to see if you will come around, too. I don’t know what they’ve said to D’Jenn, though.”

  “It’s time to find out,” he grumbled, levering himself up to a seated position. “First, though, let’s get some food. I could use the walk down to the dining hall, in any case.”