Blood for the Dancer
Dallas Mullican
Blood for the Dancer
The Horde and the Host Book One
© 2019 – Dallas Mullican
All Rights Reserved
This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any actual persons or events is coincidental. No portion of this work may be reproduced in any format without written permission from the author.
Cover design by www.miblart.com
Interior art by Luke Spooner
Interior design by Matthew S. Cox
ISBN: 9781097188697 (Paperback)
Contents
1. Aamon’s Token
2. Angel Spotting
3. A Lie Better Believed
4. Come Sail Away
5. Valkyries
6. The Ceremony
7. The Gryphons and the Bees
8. The Oedipus Complex
9. The Many Masks
10. Blood Dancer
11. Snatching the Pebble
12. Lest We Forget
13. Hot Totty
14. Two for One
15. A Glimpse of Things to Come
16. Dreams and Other Realities
17. Home Sweet Home
18. The Dancer
19. Friends and Other Enemies
20. Portents
21. Loved and Lost
22. Welcome to Hell
23. Turtles and Hags
24. Lailah
25. The Warrior’s Dance
26. Reunion
27. Above and Below
28. The Eye of the Storm
29. The Way Ahead
30. Faces on the Moons
31. Behind the Veil
32. City of Embers
33. A Whole is Two Halves
34. The Barrier
35. Feeling Blue
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Titles by Dallas Mullican
1
Aamon’s Token
London - 1862
An infection raged through Dustan Wheaton’s body, refusing to surrender its tenacious hold. His mother dabbed a cloth soaked in icy water across his brow and over his torso in an effort to cool the scorching fever. Frigid droplets streamed down his face and chest, pooling in the hollow of his neck and sunken belly. Coarse linen sheets clung to his skin, drenched with sweat. His skin blazed, yet he shivered at her touch. Delirium seized his mind, muscles convulsed, veins rose in black ropes crisscrossing his legs.
His mother prayed.
Dustan screamed.
He slipped into unconsciousness. The echoes of an endless shriek rose and fell on a wave of torment pushing him downward. A vertical tunnel, miles wide and pitch black, spun around him as he plummeted. Storms filled with cacophonous thunder and splayed lightning followed his descent. Electric tendrils snaked through him, shocking his body rigid as he tumbled in a crucified pose toward the mouth of waiting madness.
What seemed a thousand years falling through nothingness came to an abrupt halt. A bed of thistle caught him, sticking into his tender flesh at a hundred points. The stinging pain felt dull and distant after the initial shock of landing, and crawled across his skin like an army of tiny ants. Cradled in the bosom of prickly thorns, Dustan clamped his eyes shut, fearing to see what world his fever-ravaged mind had created. Distorted voices murmured from somewhere above and behind him. Soon, curiosity overcame apprehension and, through squinted eyes, he summoned the courage to peek into a shifting black-gray fog. His head rotated, trying to pinpoint the sound’s location.
“Give the lad three drops of this every few hours.”
Doctor Jamison, a gangly, dour man, handed Dustan’s mother a small vial. She hugged the precious elixir in shaking hands as if it were a holy relic. Dustan reached for her, his hand passing through an oval image cast in the miasma. Concentric swirls rippled out at his touch before coalescing smooth and undisturbed when he retracted his arm.
“Will he live?” Her voice quavered, her face contorted with worry. The muffled words sounded as if spoken through a metallic tube from far away.
“Keep him cool with water. The fever will break in a day or so, or not at all. We can but pray. The boy is in the Lord’s hands now.”
Dustan spun, the doctor’s voice now behind him. Doctor Jamison stood more than twelve feet tall, his body emaciated, a tiny oblong head perched upon his long, thin neck, crowned by an ebony top hat, which oozed black ichor down porcelain cheeks. His appearance reminded Dustan of the clowns traipsing about on stilts at the carnival. He loomed over Dustan’s mother, who cowered in a rickety rocking chair. She teetered back and forth, wringing gnarled hands around the vial and muttering to an absent god. Noxious vapors seeped over trembling fingers as blood-tinged tears streaked her face. Dustan yelled out, but she did not acknowledge his presence.
The image dissolved and another materialized to his left. His mother knelt in supplication before Father Samuel, her nose inches from his feet. She pleaded with him and rocked forward, resting her forehead on his freshly shined shoes.
“Please, Father, he is only twelve. God would not take him so young. Please, save my son.”
“A test of his faith, and yours, madam. Do not lose heart, but know God hears your prayers and will answer.”
Age creased the priest’s face with fissures of skin. His smile, dotted with needle teeth, grew until it touched the lobes of large bat-like ears. Bushy eyebrows arched high and lent an expression of sinister amusement to his visage. He leaned forward and shoved her face hard against the floor. The wooden boards cracked and splintered around her head with the force, shattering planks and grating flesh. Blood smeared jagged edges of a rent in the floorboards.
“Pray my child,” shouted the priest. “Pray without ceasing.”
His laughter joined her cries to produce a maddening din that resounded through Dustan’s brain. Nausea roiled in his belly. None of it was real. He repeated the phrase like a mantra.
Not real, only in my mind.
He shut his eyes so tight his cheeks throbbed from the exertion. Hands clamped over his ears sought to dampen the horrible noises. Apprehensive, his face rose as he lifted sweaty palms from his head and listened. Silence. He peeked out, watching the fog dissipate and reveal a narrow path. Extracting himself from the thistle, he eased over cobblestones fashioned of fossilized bones. The night sky floated starless overhead, scarlet ripped with black slashes as if mauled by celestial talons. The moon, a giant disembodied eye, wept rivers of putrid filth onto the horizon and followed his progress with a hateful glare. A land of perpetual darkness, the ghastly sphere’s red illumination provided the only light to guide his way.
The trail snaked through a desolate valley bordered by curved columns of bone, the ribcage of some monstrous leviathan. Here and there, human shapes hung encased in sticky webbing and swayed from the high tips. As Dustan passed, one of the macabre bundles began to writhe in its cocoon, a mumbled voice issuing from beneath layers of pasty fibers.
Dustan reached toward the undulating lump, but thought better of touching it, and drew his hand back. He spotted the calcified leg of some long-dead creature jutting from a crevice near his feet. A wrenching twist tore it loose with a snapping crunch and loosed a cloud of dust. With the bone truncheon clutched in his grip, he stepped close and raked the gummy threads from what he guessed to be a head, and discovered a woman staring down on him.
“Thank you. Oh, thank you.” Her eyes popped wide as she gulped the rank air.
She looked familiar, but he could not place her with the patches of web adhering to her face. Her voice croaked and gurgled. Dustan struck at the cords holding her casing aloft, but st
rong and pliable, they would not budge. He tore at the husk, unable to dislodge the woman from her cell.
“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to free you.” His voice carried regret and helplessness. The cudgel hung loose at his side, shoulders slumped.
“It’s alright. I can see now… and breathe.” Her eyes rolled in their sockets, attempting to make sense of the upside down world.
“What are you doing here? What happened to you?”
“I came here looking for someone—someone I needed to save—but I couldn’t find them. I can’t recall the look of their face. The air here makes one forget the days above. The terrible things, the pain and wounds inflicted in the below, stick in the mind like mud. A vile creature captured me, all legs and fangs, hence my present predicament.” She made a pathetic attempt to nod that only resulted in bonding her chin to her chest. Dustan used the bone to push her head erect.
“Guess I’d best not struggle too much.” The grin on her inverted face looked like a frown.
“I can’t leave you.” Dustan glanced around the gloomy area for anything to assist them.
“Perhaps if you swing me, the cords will break.” She peeked to the side, and may have shrugged.
He stared at the thick binding with a dubious expression. “I suppose I can try.”
With a hand placed at the curve of the woman’s hip, he shoved. Her body swung the length of his arm, his palm now stuck to the webbing. He tugged his hand loose and tried again with the bone. The adjacent rib was sunken enough to allow the cords to cut across its tip; threads tore loose with rewarding pops. Higher and higher, he pushed until the line broke with a snap, and the woman crashed to the ground. Dustan clawed at the webs, freeing her arms, and helped to remove the tacky mesh from her legs. She stood and stretched, beaming a grateful smile.
“Oh thank you, lad. Thank you so much.” She moved to hug him, arms wide, but Dustan retreated a step and shook his head. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”
“I need to keep traveling. Would you come with me? Though I admit, I’m not certain where I’m going. Do you know the way out of this place?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. It’s only a dream after all.” She swept her gaze across the landscape. “Not sure of the way out. Must be farther up the road.”
The woman nodded in the direction Dustan had been walking. Her chin caught on the residue still sticking to her neck. She giggled, pulled her head free, and offered a terse wave goodbye.
He continued along the path, eventually arriving at the leviathan’s gaping maw. Jagged fangs, taller than Dustan, encircled him, snarling at some unseen threat. He stepped over the lip and into a swamp bubbling with caustic fumes. Human and inhuman skulls lay stacked on moss-covered mounds protruding from the mire. A rattle spun his head to notice a figure a few feet away. The man leaned casually against a scraggy tree atop one of the miniature islands. Dustan recognized him by his ragged yellow shirt, the torn brown pants, and more so, by the stump at the end of his left forearm. He remembered his father wearing those clothes the day he died. An accident at the mill took the hand, staunching the blood loss proved futile.
Dustan gazed at his father through eyes coated in tears. His face appeared blank, a slight ridge where the nose should be with two indentions at the eyes, the forehead and mouth smooth, like translucent silk stretched tight over his head. He raised the stump to chest level. Elongated fingers sprouted from the fleshy stub. Spindly, they oscillated in the air, beckoning Dustan closer.
Dustan backed away, trying to put distance between himself and the creature who had once been his father. He stumbled over a log and collapsed at the swamp’s rim. Acidic liquid popped and gurgled near his hands. Inching away, he sensed movement behind him. The log swung around with a menacing hiss, and a massive snout snapped at the air, its thick, scaled tail thrashing the ground. Dustan yelped as a huge crocodile lumbered forward. Trapped between the beast and a poisonous bog, he resigned himself to death, craned his head to the heavens, and called out with a great bellow filled with anguish.
“My God, please save me. Spare my life. I beg you.”
Again the fog rose, and after a moment, faded. Dustan now stood on the precipice of a chasm thrust deep into the bowels of an immense cavern. Rock walls fixed with cutting angles and razor points climbed around him, stalactites spiking from the cave’s ceiling. Droplets of condensation, pungent and sour, fell from their barbed tips to explode at his feet. Across the gulf, a thin slab jutted out and formed a bridge. Though stone, a foot’s nudge caused the span to tremble and sway—the distance across indistinct and vague, the way behind walled high, making retreat impossible.
From far below rose a soft wailing. The sound of the wretched lost, the damned, mustering a faint moan. Their whimpers, laced with sorrow and anger, sent an icy chill down his spine and echoed through the vastness. Apparitions bound to this place, chained against all will or control.
With no way out but forward, Dustan tested the bridge, attempting to retain balance, and edged along the narrow path. A breeze wafted up containing an ominous air, as if some malevolent force exhaled into the cavern. Stirred by the draft, the wailing entities sensed his presence and drew close, investigating the trespass. His heart raced and hands trembled as terror grew. Their first stroke on his skin sent a bolt of shock and horror through his body. The ghostly contact lingered an instant, abated, and returned with greater interest. The unmistakable touch of fingers spread wide, grasping, an inch out of reach to gain purchase.
The breeze increased to gusts that rapidly strengthened to shrieking winds, surging with intense velocity. Dustan tried to dig his toes into the stone, fearing at any second the winds would whip him from the slab. The bridge rocked side-to-side. His arms flailed, extended outward, fighting to retain stability. The hands grew in number, accompanied by hellish moans, grasping and roaring with fury.
Unable to see or fight the phantasms assaulting him, Dustan pushed on, seeking to gain some distance from the pursuers. His pace quickened to a full sprint as the gale grew to hurricane force, and the cries of the damned became overpowering. Claws sank in and held fast, ripping away tender strands of flesh. Icy gusts eroded skin to skull and bone. Dustan cried out when the ghostly creatures tore him from the walkway. Again he fell, screaming, until darkness claimed him.
“Enough?” The deep timbre of a male voice rumbled in Dustan’s mind.
He opened bleary eyes crusted at the corners. His chest rocked up and down as he fought to breathe, the lingering sights and sounds of the nightmare worming through his mind. He peered up at the man seated next to his bed—jet-black hair, and a thin mustache over full red lips. His smile seemed genuine, a playful mirth in his ice-colored eyes. His clothes carried the faint scent of smoke and musk.
“Who are you?” Perspiration slicked Dustan’s face and chest. He tried to push away from the man, but could not move his stiff, sore muscles. “I don’t know you. Why are you in my house?” Dustan’s weakness made him feel vulnerable. He craned his neck to find his mother.
“She is fine. I merely helped her to rest,” said the man.
“What do you mean? What did you do to my mum?” Dustan kicked rubbery legs against the heavy blankets.
Dustan’s mother slept in a rocking chair near the window. The man stepped close, slid a hand past her face, and her eyes snapped open. She stared at them, confusion drawing her cheeks taut. With a flourish of his long elegant fingers, she dropped fast asleep. Dustan again attempted to scurry away, and again remained fixed in place.
“What are you going to do to me?” Dustan asked in a whimper.
His eyes darted about the room as he fought a desire to yell for help. Jesus appeared apathetic from a cross on the wall, wearing an expression that seemed to say ‘Don’t look at me. I can’t even get myself down.’
“Why, nothing. Nothing at all. You called, I came.” The man’s smile widened, showing off brilliant white teeth.
“I didn’t…” Dustan shook his h
ead in disbelief. His eyes widened as the recollection dawned on him. “You… You’re an angel? You heard my prayer?”
“How dare you. Never. I am a demon.” He stood and offered a slight bow. “Aamon’s the name, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The man waved a hand. “No need to be frightened. Forget all the nonsense your priests pontificate. I mean you no harm. In fact, quite the opposite, I am hoping we might strike a deal.”
Dustan blanched. “You want me to sell you my soul?”
Aamon laughed. “Well… In a manner of speaking, I suppose so, but not in the way you fear. Do not compare me to Mephistopheles and besmirch my integrity.”
“I won’t do it. I won’t.” Dustan shook his head in defiance.
“You are dying, you know? You prayed, your mother prayed, did the angels break from their choruses and fly to your aid? No. I answered. Are you going to look a gift horse in the mouth?” Aamon arched an eyebrow.
“What would I have to do?” asked Dustan, his voice timid.
“We shall address the particulars at another time. For now, let us get you better. I will send an associate of mine to teach you what you need to know.”
“Will I have to do evil things?” Dustan felt queasy and lightheaded. Visions of horned monsters and lakes of fire assailed his mind.
“Not per se. I suppose it depends on how you look at it. Regardless, I will not ask you to harm humans or do anything you find distasteful. You have my word.”
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