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

by D. W. Hawkins

  Dormael panicked. He reached down into his being and pulled his Kai awake, trying to force it to bear against the magical pressure of the Circle that contained him. It was no use—summoning his magic was like trying to arm-wrestle with a giant. The Circle couldn’t be circumvented by battering against it with his power, which was the reason they were built in the first place. Dormael felt like an animal pacing in a cage, waiting for a predator to be locked inside with him.

  He tried to move on the chain, to swing far enough in any direction to gain purchase with his feet. If he could kick something across the sand that formed the Greater Circle, he could break it. He scrambled back and forth with his toes, trying to gain purchase on the stone. It was wet, filthy with his blood, and his feet only slipped back and forth as he struggled. The manacles dug into his wrists as his weight jerked back and forth. Try as he might, he could not reach the sand around him.

  Dormael’s heart beat against his ribs like it wanted to escape his chest. His eyes shot around the room, trying to find something that might help him, might get him out of this. Dormael had no idea what Inera—or the creature that now called itself Inera—had in store for him, but he knew he didn’t want to find out.

  Then, he saw something that made him freeze.

  The knife that had gone to work on Dormael’s body was lying on the wooden table, forgotten. The knife was glowing—or rather, his blood was glowing, giving off a rose-colored mist that wafted up from the blade like a strange, magical fog. In fact, there were splotches on the table that were emitting that same odd miasma. Everywhere his blood lay outside the Greater Circle, it was glowing. Inera’s men had their eyes locked onto her, fearing whatever she was about to unleash. No one, as of yet, had noticed his blood.

  The bastards don’t know where to look.

  It had to be D’Jenn. He would be following a blood trail, then. The crafty bastard might even be close. Dormael let himself feel an inkling of hope, then turned his gaze on Inera. He had to stall her at all costs, and give D’Jenn time to make it here.

  “Inera!”

  She ignored him.

  “Inera! Turn around and face me, you bitch!”

  She kept chanting, her back to him.

  “You can still walk away from this, leave the service of this vilth! It’s not too late!”

  She gave no reaction.

  Her chanting reached a crescendo as she spat angry, guttural words in the direction of the Circle on the wall. She tossed more blood on it—left, right, up, and down. It began to coalesce, sliding into the cracks between bricks, and became one undulating mass. The blood turned a deep black color, and the surface of the Circle became a mirror made of darkness.

  “Inera!” he shouted. “Inera, I still love you!”

  She paused, her spell caught at the apex, waiting like a headman’s axe at the zenith of its terrible swing. Inera turned her head toward him, keeping her body turned toward the Circle. Her eyes were sad, a pained grimace on her face. Dormael got the distinct impression that maybe, beneath the monster’s skin, there was something of the woman he’d known living in that body.

  “It’s too late, now,” she said. “Much too late.”

  This can’t happen this way!

  Dormael’s heart skipped a beat in disbelief. He pulled again at his Kai, trying desperately to wrench his magic out one last time. He raged and raged against the pressure of the Circle containing him, but it was a futile struggle, and he knew it.

  He was going to die.

  “Goodbye, Dormael. No matter what you think, I will always love you.”

  With that, Inera turned her head back to the blackened Circle, snarled another guttural word, and tossed another splotch of blood into the middle of the inky surface.

  There was a sound like nothing Dormael had ever heard, a strange sucking noise that tried to pull sound itself from his ears. The black fluid began to spin, and then the center of the Circle pulled away, as if it were opening into the Void itself. Everything in the room was pulled toward the portal, including Dormael. His toes were sucked toward that yawning abyss, the manacles once again biting into his wrists.

  Something reached a sinuous, wet hand from the black, grasping the edge of the Circle where it met the wall. Its skin was a grayish color, its fingers too long, disjointed and deformed. Its head appeared next—narrow and pointed in an odd, triangular fashion. Its eyes were glowing yellow embers along the sides of its face, though Dormael wasn’t sure if those were eyes at all. It didn’t have a mouth, but there was a hole at the tip of its face. A long, sinuous tongue whipped out and tasted the air as it slithered into the room, tendrils reaching out from the tongue like the feelers of some blind cave worm.

  Dormael would have screamed, but terror had frozen the sound in his throat.

  The thing—whatever it was—plopped onto the floor with a wet squelch. It was about the size of a large dog, though the similarities stopped there. It didn’t have any legs, but two sets of arms instead, as if some mad child had designed the thing from a nightmare. It’s abdomen looked boneless, like a stomach that the thing dragged behind it. It got its bearings, then began to pull itself along the floor with those twitching, disjointed arms, tongue whipping out as it came toward Dormael’s Circle.

  Dormael started to panic. A primal instinct screamed at him to run. He kicked and struggled, slipped and grunted and screamed, but he continued to hang on the chain like a worm on a hook.

  His magic wouldn’t answer his call.

  Then, he felt a familiar sensation. Something ancient, something alien circling his consciousness like a beast from the deep. He knew that feeling, that presence—he’d felt it before, after his fight with Jureus, when he’d nearly died. The ancient presence was somehow here, somehow reaching out for him. Dormael gritted his teeth and reached back, grasping to it like a lifeline.

  Time slowed—or his perception of it sped up, he wasn’t sure. The creature was moving as if the air was thick jelly, and the expressions of everyone around him were frozen. He felt the ancient thing in his mind again, sifting through his consciousness to find some way to communicate with him. Pain, concern, and fear all faded into the background.

  This is an abomination.

  Sounds like a fair description, Dormael replied. Humor, though, was lost on the alien presence.

  The woman summoned this thing from the depths?

  Yes, Dormael said. What is it? What is it going to do to me?

  It is called a Taker. It will crawl into your body and eat your insides, then wear your skin, the ancient presence said into his mind. Every time it spoke to him, Dormael’s vision vibrated as if he were tumbling down a hill, and his sight went wildly out of focus. He could feel its voice in his chest.

  That sounds disgusting, Dormael replied.

  I do not understand this word.

  Nevermind, Dormael said. Why are you here? How did you get here? Through that Gate?

  I do not know. My memories are shattered, my being sundered.

  That doesn’t sound pleasant. Again, though, the thing didn’t react to the levity.

  I can sense you. I was once two, but I am now one, and now there is you. How can I sense you? The thing sounded confused.

  Dormael wondered if he was supposed to have an answer for it. Part of him had begun to believe that he had made up the entire episode, or that it was a result of his Kai, as Lacelle had believed. Now, though, he wasn’t sure how he felt about being vindicated. The consequences of being correct might be more than he wanted to deal with.

  How am I supposed to know? Dormael wanted to shake his head. I don’t even know what you are. Do you know? He kept his eyes on the Taker, which was crawling toward him in tiny, eking increments. His skin crawled at the sight, somehow more terrible now that it moved slower.

  I do not know. My memory is fragmented. Part of me is gone. I was two, and now I am one. But now, there is you, the ancient presence said.

  I don’t think I’ll be here much longer. Not if
that thing on the floor has its way, Dormael replied.

  If you die, what will happen?

  I don’t know, Dormael said. I’ve never died before—not all the way. The presence was quiet for a few moments, and Dormael could feel it pondering, trying to piece something together. Sharing his head with the thing was starting to give him a headache.

  I may be able to touch your world. I will try, it said.

  Time rushed back into place. The Taker squirmed, quivering toward Dormael faster than he thought it would be able to move. It reached the edge of the Greater Circle and stopped to gather its slimy, skinny arms beneath its body. It started to raise itself from the floor.

  Then, Dormael felt his head swim. His body tensed, as if he were falling from a great height, and his vision stretched, the far wall retreating from him as everything in his peripheral sight rushed closer. His mind reeled, and his vision blurred. Something moved from him, some strange, invisible force that felt wrong, like it didn’t belong in his world.

  The presence moved out from Dormael, exploding from his chest like an invisible wind. Dormael swung backwards on the chain, crying out as the manacles bit into his wrists all over again. The ancient presence slammed into the Taker, struggling against its advance with what meager energy it could muster. They fought for a bare moment, and Dormael could feel the struggle happening in his mind as he communed with the alien entity, but soon the Taker gained the upper hand. The alien presence had only limited ability to touch Dormael’s world, and its power was soon broken. It retreated back to whence it had come.

  But not before it blew the sand of the Greater Circle in all directions.

  Dormael’s magic flooded into him as the presence in his mind was pushed back to its dark prison. He threw his power at the chain above him, snapping it with pure force. His feet landed on the cold, slippery stone, and he crouched there, naked, facing down the Taker before him.

  Inera screamed a command, rage pouring from her voice. The Taker rose up on its hands, tongue whipping at the air. Dormael smiled.

  There was a loud crack, and people started to die.

  **

  D’Jenn crouched in the tunnel, listening to the noises coming from the darkness in the distance. Allen was hunkered down near him, breathing heavy with anticipation. There was some sort of antechamber beyond them, and D’Jenn had discovered two guards watching the entrance to yet another chamber, and the noises coming from that room were more than disconcerting.

  There was screaming, words that D’Jenn couldn’t quite hear, and someone—a woman, unless D’Jenn missed his guess—chanting in a strange, guttural language. D’Jenn could feel something strange in the magic—a greasy, slimy, wrongness that was slithering into the room beyond them. D’Jenn wasn’t sure what it meant.

  We have to go now, Allen signed to him in the Hunter’s Tongue. His face had an urgent, excited expression, his jaw working as he ground his teeth.

  We need to deal with the guards first. And quietly, D’Jenn replied.

  Leave that to me, Allen signed back, and before D’Jenn could stop him, he was moving off into the darkness toward the antechamber. D’Jenn cursed, but followed his cousin down the tunnel. The water trickled around them, and every noise echoed from the stone.

  Allen had somehow drawn weapons when D’Jenn wasn’t looking. He held his hand-axe in his right fist, and a long, thick dagger in his left. Allen moved like a stalking predator, his footfalls silent underneath the sound of the running sewage. He crept down the tunnel to the edge of the torchlight in the antechamber, and tossed a wink over his shoulder. D’Jenn tensed for the confrontation.

  D’Jenn didn’t have Allen’s grace with weapons, and if he drew his morningstar, the guards would definitely hear him. To top it off, if he used any magic, then whoever was in that chamber beyond would sense him doing so. It was all up to Allen. D’Jenn settled back to watch, getting ready to rush in if he was needed.

  Allen reached into a pocket and drew out a coin, placing his dagger in his teeth. Then, with a quick gesture, he tossed the coin side-arm into the chamber. It struck the wall to the guards’ right, causing both of them to look in that direction, hands going to their weapons. They both turned away from the tunnel, and that was apparently the moment for which Allen had been waiting.

  He rushed forward, sending his hand-axe spinning through the darkness in an overhand throw. It sailed through the shadow and found a skull, sinking into the man’s head with a wet thump. The guard went limp, body slumping against the wall. His partner went for his sword and turned in Allen’s direction, but Allen was upon him before he could make the first move.

  Allen rushed up against the man, trapping his sword arm against his body and ramming his dagger through the side of the man’s neck. The guard made a gurgling hiss as his legs gave out, but Allen caught his body, and lowered it to the ground. Within a few moments, the only sounds were the noises coming from the other side of the wooden door. Allen recovered his weapons, and the two of them turned toward the closed door to the second chamber. D’Jenn strode out of the darkness, giving Allen a fierce nod, and took his place beside him.

  Torchlight seeped through the cracks in the door, throwing wild shadows over D’Jenn’s boots. The noises had stopped in the chamber beyond, but the silence felt ominous, and that feeling was reflected in D’Jenn’s Kai. There was a moment of quiet, and D’Jenn caught Allen’s gaze.

  On three, D’Jenn signed, and Allen nodded his agreement.

  There was a sucking noise like nothing D’Jenn had ever heard. It pulled at him, as if there was a whirlpool in the next room. The door began to vibrate on its rusty hinges, making a loud clattering noise in its decaying frame. There was a wet sloshing, slithering noise from beyond the door, and D’Jenn looked over at Allen. There came a scream from the chamber, a high-pitched wail of rage, and D’Jenn felt Dormael’s song ring out in the magic, a triumphant symphony of power.

  “Three!”

  He sent a torrent of magic at the door, blowing its remains into the room beyond.

  **

  The tunnels beneath the Conclave were an exciting place.

  Bethany had known how to get to them—she had found the servants’ stairs on the first day, and the top level of the tunnels had a few rooms that the cleaning staff used to store their equipment. Servants and Initiates went to the top level of the tunnels all the time. It hadn’t been too hard to slip by them, though. The tunnels were dark, and the dark was always a good place for hiding.

  It hadn’t taken her long to find another staircase headed down. The level beneath the first looked much like the one before, only with fewer sconces for candles on the walls, and more darkness. Every now and then, Bethany would find a strange design laid into the wall, like knots turning in upon themselves. Other times she found the Eye of Eindor, or runes that she couldn’t read.

  For some reason, she got angry about that—she wanted to read everything.

  The corridors were peppered with old, wooden doors, shut tight against the dusty hallway. She tried almost every door she came to, but most of them were locked. Where they weren’t, what she found wasn’t much fun—old furniture covered with sheets, and dusty stacks of this-or-that. Never a magical chest, like she’d heard about in all the old man’s stories.

  I want to be like Leyton, she thought. Pirate-King of the Sea, Rescuer of Princesses.

  In all the old man’s stories, though, Leyton fought evil wizards for one thing or another. Bethany had never wanted to be the princess—after all, what good was just sitting in a tower, waiting to be rescued? And now, to add to the problem, she was a wizard. Who was she supposed to root for in the story?

  “I’m Bethany,” she said aloud, her voice echoing down the darkened hallways. “I’m here to save you—I’m a wizard, not an evil one. A girl, not a princess. I’ll save you, but you can keep the kiss, thank you very much.”

  She skipped down the hallway, wielding a length of wood she’d found in one of the storerooms.
She wanted to be on Leyton’s crew, and sail the seas in search of gold and plunder. She wanted to rescue princesses from evil wizards—she could use her powers for good—and be a hero to all her friends. She wanted to explore old ruins and magical caves, to slay ghosts and goblins and dragons and trolls.

  “I’m Bethany,” she growled. “Pirate-Queen of the Seas!”

  Her voice echoed down the darkened hallways.

  Pirate-Queen of the Seas…

  Brandishing her table leg, she chased her voice down the hall, further into the twisting labyrinth of corridors. She laughed the way she only could when she was alone, and laughed again as she heard the echoes. Her voice bounced from the stony hallways, and chased her around corners. She between isolated bubbles of candlelight, though the sconces began to get farther and farther away from each other.

  Then, the sconce she left behind her was the only one she could see. The hallway stretched into the darkness, branching off left and right, but no light peeked from anywhere. Bethany retreated back to the puddle of candlelight, eyes drawn to the blackness beyond.

  This was the sort of situation that Leyton would find himself in, and he always found a way to win through. Bethany knew that getting lost in the tunnels was a real danger, but she also knew that anything good hidden beneath the Conclave wouldn’t be tucked into a storeroom, guarded by dusty furniture. It would be beyond—in the dark.

  “Pirate-Queen of the Seas,” she growled.

  Shawna wouldn’t stand here in the torchlight, afraid to go on. Dormael wouldn’t be scared that monsters would come out of the dark. D’Jenn would simply ask her—are you not a wizard, Bethany? Leyton wouldn’t be afraid to go on, and neither would Bethany.

  Bethany was a wizard—a rescuer of princesses.

  She closed her eyes, sinking once again into the trance that D’Jenn had taught her. Her heart fluttered a bit, fear tickling at her mind like a ghost in the darkness. Bethany stilled her breathing and concentrated, walling away her fear.