“Still keeping you in the dark, is he?”
“Yes. Is he here to teach me or just to watch over things?” Dustan worked a circle in the dirt with one boot.
“Oh, he’s here for your martial training. Any number of warriors would have sufficed, but Valefar insisted he see to your combat skills personally.” Geras leaned forward and hoisted himself onto his feet. “Looks like you are summoned.” He smiled and patted Dustan on the shoulder before heading toward the house and the warmth of the fire.
The dark-skinned man waved Dustan over. Dustan had waited so long for this, yet now, his legs shied and threatened to take him in the opposite direction. The demon warrior’s appearance seemed geared toward intimidation and excelled at it. His coat’s snowy fur collar framed a fanged, predatory smile and slow, fluid movements reminiscent of a stalking panther’s accentuated the image. Dustan eased up with all the caution a dangerous creature deserved. When Valefar narrowed his eyes and stared toward him, Dustan barely restrained a yelp. The demon pointed to a rope tied to a stake in the ground and pulled taut across the pond. He nodded at the line and gestured with a finger.
“You want me to walk that?” Dustan rubbed his chin, perplexed. The British soldiers never employed these training methods, at least not to his knowledge. He had often watched them at drills as they marched and negotiated obstacles, but never tight-roped. Only carnival acrobats did such things. Valefar did not seem in the mood for protestations, however. He squatted on his heels with an unreadable expression, his lazy dark eyes staring at Dustan, his head tilted to one side.
Dustan sighed with a shrug and placed the toe of his boot on the rope, testing his weight and the steadiness of the line. The cord swayed. Horrible memories of a stone bridge over an abyss and clawing hands from the black assaulted his mind. He felt lightheaded, half a dozen versions of the rope wiggled at his feet. Valefar prodded him with a long stick. Dustan stabilized one foot in front of the other and stretched his arms out to the sides. He teetered back and forth, inching forward. His balanced proved better than feared; he was more than a yard over the pond. With his confidence bolstered, Dustan tapped a toe on the rope and prepared for the next step. The cable bucked to the side under his weight and dumped him into the frigid water with a kerplunk. He squealed like the little girls he had teased with toads back in Southwark. His testicles crawled into his abdomen. Valefar might have chuckled or growled, difficult to determine which, tugged at the gold ring in one ear, and turned his back.
Dustan climbed from the pond, shivering. “I’ll be back. I’m going to fetch dry clothes.”
The demon warrior spun, slapped him across the thighs with the stick, and bobbed his head toward the rope.
“You want me to do it again? Now? I’m freezing. I’ll catch my death.” Dustan stared at the man, incredulous.
Valefar offered a sharp-toothed grin. It took Dustan a moment to comprehend. He healed quickly now. Doubtful he could even get sick, at least not the sniffles or a cough from being out in the cold.
“Shit,” he muttered.
It continued the rest of the day. Dustan felt certain he fell into the pond a thousand times, never making it more than a few strides across. At sunset, Valefar leaned forward and jerked his head back, tossed dreadlocks behind him, frowned, and nodded toward the house. Once indoors, Dustan found Shax sipping hot tea in the parlor.
“He’s trying to kill me.” Dustan stripped off his wet shirt and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
“Just the opposite, lad.” Shax pursed his lips and blew into the steaming cup.
“Humph. Why doesn’t he speak? A mute?”
The dwarf snickered. “No. He don’t think you’re worth squandering words on yet.”
“It’s impossible. I can’t do it.” Dustan threw up his hands and stomped one foot on the floor.
“Don’t be such a human.” Shax snorted and shook his head.
Dustan let out an exasperated sigh and headed off, grumbling under his breath.
The next day, they began again, and again Dustan spent more time in the pond than on the rope. He did progress another step toward the opposite bank, but the feat did not seem to impress Valefar. Dustan’s rapid healing proved fortuitous. Without the gift, his back and legs would bear stripes in rows from the demon warrior’s lashes.
As evening fell, the others departed to their realm and Dustan paced the yard alone. Sleep was not a consideration with his mind hounded by frustration. A full moon lit the world, imitating a miniature sun. The trees swayed in a gentle breeze as owls hooted in the forest. Dustan relished the beauty of the silver glow, though he could now see perfectly well in the dark. He stooped near the water’s edge, butt poised on his boots, and glared at the rope. Shax’s words drifted into his thoughts. Don’t be such a human. He sensed more there than a simple jibe. Training with Saerna had kept him occupied after the ceremony. An occasional jaunt into the forest, racing through trees and over rocky hills, but little time remained to toy with his new abilities.
Dustan rubbed the back of his neck as he thought. …such a human. But not solely human, not anymore. He bolted erect, the epiphany striking like a hammer. A demon’s spirit dwelt within him, stronger and faster, his body no longer bound to the limitations of muscle and bone. A grin spread across his face.
He placed a foot on the rope and allowed his new talents to guide him, a step, and another, gaining confidence and speed. When he stood on the opposite bank, pride swelled his chest. By morning, he could leap across the pond, springing off the cable in only a few strides. As Valefar looked on, Dustan bounced off the cord and flipped into the air. His foot grazed the rope, producing a second jump that landed him at the warrior’s side. The demon nodded and grunted before walking away. For Dustan, profuse accolades would have paled in comparison.
His time to revel in the accomplishment proved short lived. Valefar escorted Dustan deep into the forest the next day. Overcast and cold, ominous dark gray clouds hung over the wood promising rain, perhaps snow. The demon warrior, with a bow slung over one shoulder, halted at a line of massive oaks positioned on a ridge above the river. The roar of the rushing Mississippi filled the forest. Animals and birds kept to their havens and nests to avoid the impending weather.
“Take to the trees.” Valefar pointed with his stick. “Meet me at the far end of the ridge. Do not touch the ground before then.”
Dustan smiled. “Easy. I’ve done this before.”
A low rumble issued from Valefar’s throat. Not exactly a vote of confidence, Dustan shook it off and eyed the first tree. With a deep breath, he sprinted forward, placed his right foot on the trunk of the first oak and bounded up, grasped a limb and swung higher. Two hands clutched a branch twenty feet above the ground. Dustan pulled himself onto the limb and sprang forward, soaring through the air. He clambered up the trunk of a fat maple tree like a squirrel. At the top, a raccoon hissed from its hiding spot as Dustan dove down and swung along a series of near parallel branches. The coarse wood dug into his palms and fingers, but did nothing to steal his elation. He dangled from a limb, kicked his legs high, and spun around the branch. After two flips, he vaulted out into the open air. Pain stabbed into his leg as he extended his hand for the next hold. The branch seemed to twist away from his fingers and dart upwards. He was falling.
Two ribs snapped as he crashed to the ground. Dustan lay on his back, each breath an agony. Pinpricks of light shot past his eyes, head lolling on his neck. When he could move again, he felt along his leg. Something jutted from his thigh, his hand came away slick with blood. Valefar stepped close, leaned forward and wrenched the arrow free. Dustan howled.
“Easy?” The demon flashed his pointed teeth.
“Are you insane? You’re trying to kill me.” Dustan glowered at the demon.
“No. If so, you would be dead.” Valefar motioned back to the first tree. “Again.”
Dustan gingerly rolled onto his stomach and pushed to his knees. The pain in his side dissipat
ed, and the wound in his thigh closed. He spat and stormed down the trail. This time, after reaching a high limb, he paused and scanned the forest floor for Valefar. Finding no sign of him, Dustan leaped to the adjacent tree and again waited, keeping the trunk between himself and the ridgeline. The way appeared clear. He jumped up and out as an arrow whizzed by his head. Thunk. Bark sprayed, but Dustan landed safely several feet away.
Ha. Bastard.
He stood pat and mustered his courage. A peek, a sigh, and he dove for the branches below. A shaft grazed his outstretched arm, another struck inches to the left, sending him off balance, and again he tumbled. Only a single rib and a fractured ankle this time.
“Easy means something different to humans?” Valefar grinned.
Dustan was growing to despise the demon and his fangs.
He took two more arrows that day—one in his left calf, one in his left buttock. Three the next day. By week’s end, he made it across the ridge unscathed. Two more weeks and he could dodge Valefar’s projectiles almost every time…almost.
Dustan continued to practice navigating the ridge, but Valefar also supplemented the routine. The great rock fords along the river were more open and added a significant degree of difficulty. Boulders of varied sizes, yet all larger than the stones lining the banks, covered a bend where the river darted beneath them for a few hundred yards. It emerged at the far side and crashed off a steep fall to resume its snaking trek toward the Gulf. Dustan felt like a pincushion by the time he finally avoided taking wounds several times in succession.
Each day, Valefar provided a new exercise for Dustan to master—usually involving a good deal of pain. Dustan complained and moaned. He quit at regular intervals, insisting Valefar could find another whipping boy and do impossible things to himself with his stick. Yet, he always returned and eventually succeeded, a burning hatred for the angels overwhelming his exasperation. He thought his training would take a turn for the better when he entered the yard and found Valefar standing over an array of weapons. Beautiful steel glinted in the sunlight. Swords, axes, spears, flails, maces and others Dustan had never seen before. His eyes lit up at the sight.
“Choose,” said Valefar. “One.”
Dustan raked his fingers along blade after blade and tested the heft of the hammers and axes. A sword near the far end caught his eye. He lifted it and smiled.
The hilt and pommel were etched with ornated runes, its guard fashioned into razor sharp points, reselming talons. The blade gleamed in deep-hued gray steel, four feet long. A work of art.
“A good choice.” The demon received the sword and brandished it in a high arc, lancing downward. “A bastard—hand and a halfer. The hilt is long enough for two hands, but the sword is light and can be wielded with one.” He looked Dustan up and down. “Yes, a good choice. You are strong and quick. The hammer is a crushing weapon, slow. The axe, mace, spear—also slow, and no good in close quarters. The rapier or cutlass would suit you as well.” He shrugged and motioned to Dustan. “Come.”
Dustan followed Valefar into the house and up the stairs. Though he did not use it often, the warrior’s room sat two doors down from the landing. They entered the bedroom and Dustan watched Valefar place the sword onto a wooden rack above the bed.
“When you can retrieve the blade without my knowledge, it is yours.” The demon smiled and Dustan groaned.
He crept into the hall barefoot. The floor was freezing, but boots would make noise on the floorboards. Outside Valefar’s door, Dustan paused and tried to keep his breathing and heart rate under control. This was his third attempt. First, he had tried climbing in through the window. That effort earned a shove from the demon at the sill, and a steep fall straight into the thorny shrubs below. The second seemed clever at the time. He managed to sneak in and crawl under the warrior’s bed while he slept. Only afterward did he realize Valefar remained wide-awake. The sword plunged through the mattress and halted inches from his nose.
Dustan slid into the room and braced against the wall. Valefar’s bed sat empty, the covers rolled back. The demon could be in the spirit realm ready to emerge, in the closet, or hanging outside the window by his fingernails. Dustan put nothing past the crafty snake. Another hesitant step. Crunch. His Adam’s apple plunged into the pit of his stomach. He failed to look down entering the room, the floor littered with husks from the hickory tree. The stick tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to find that infernal grin beaming in the darkness.
In the end, Dustan cheated…or so Valefar insisted, none too happy with being deceived. Saerna, disguised as Dustan, rushed into the room and out again, clutching a sword in her hands. She ran down the stairs with Valefar swinging his rod at her back. The demon caught up and slid the pole between her ankles, tripped her, and sent her sprawling on the ground. He smiled and chuckled.
“What are you two doing?” asked Dustan from several yards behind. The warrior spun, confusion written on his face. He glanced back toward the Dustan he had left nose down in the dirt to find Saerna standing before him, a sword in her grasp, but not the sword from his room. It was Dustan’s turn to smile as he wagged the blade for Valefar to see.
“You violated our agreement.” The demon tried to calm himself and appear indifferent, but even his ebony skin could not hide the blush of anger.
“You said when I retrieved the sword it was mine. I did. You didn’t say I couldn’t have help.” Dustan bit his lip and fought the urge to gloat.
“He has you there, Val. Sorry, I could not resist an opportunity to trick you. You are so handsome when humbled, rare as it is.” Saerna could barely contain her laughter. Shax and Geras, in on the hoax, stepped into the yard and offered their generous supply of chiding. Valefar eventually relented and allowed Dustan to keep the sword, but refused to acknowledge he had been bested fair and square.
“The blade is named Blood Dancer. It is your lover, your closest friend. Know it until it is as much a part of you as your own arms.” For the first time, he gave Dustan a genuinely warm smile and squeezed his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we begin.”
11
Snatching the Pebble
At sunrise, Dustan waited in the yard eager to start his training with the sword. He loathed setting the beautiful blade aside even to sleep.
“Put the sword away. You will not need it for some time,” said Valefar.
Dustan’s heart sank. “Why? I can fight. I got into lots of scuffles home in London.”
“You are an expert in combat?” Valefar sneered. “Very well.” He pitched the sword to Dustan who caught it, already sensing an error in judgment.
“On guard.” The demon waved his own weapon in slow circles.
Dustan lifted his sword and took a defensive posture. Valefar darted in, faster than his eyes could follow, and whacked his wrist with the flat of the blade. The bones cracked, a jagged edge protruding through the skin. Dustan dropped his sword and bellowed, cradling his mangled arm.
“Hmm, London fighting’s not so impressive.” Valefar grinned and flicked a canine with the tip of his tongue. He stepped to Dustan and worked the bones back into place. “Shall we try it my way?”
Dustan nodded, thoroughly defeated. The warrior propped the weapons against the gazebo.
“The sword is your arm, lengthened. Strike here…” He lashed out with his right hand, connecting with the sapling at his side. The tree shattered in two. “With the blade, here…” Valefar stepped back a stride and swung his sword in an identical motion. “The same. You see? Do not think of the blade as a weapon in your hand, but as your hand.”
For days, Dustan did nothing but practice stances and strikes against trees with his hand. Once Valefar seemed pleased, or at least not displeased, he offered Dustan a stick roughly five feet long. More days spent swiping the tree with the rod—a thousand times with the left hand, a thousand times with the right, followed by a two-handed grip. Day after day, adding new movements—rotations of body and stick, rolls and leaps.
Valefar of
ten added a new exercise. One morning, Dustan entered the yard with Blood Dancer in tow. Though he would need to set the sword aside before practice, he enjoyed the feel of it in his hands. The demon did not instruct him to disarm, but instead pointed to his old nemesis the rope, worked through a series of trees in a tight triangle an inch or two above head level. Two gnarled branches as big around as his leg hung vertically from each third of the line. Valefar stepped across from Dustan and behind the limbs.
“Do not allow the branches to touch you,” said the demon.
Dustan arched a brow, puzzled. In the next second, a limb clubbed him in the face.
“Shit,” said Dustan, rubbing his bloodied nose.
He opened his mouth to complain, but Valefar shoved another branch. It flew in from the right. Dustan spun as a third whisked toward him. For hours, the demon darted from branch to branch, hurtling them inward. Scores of cuts rose and healed on Dustan’s chest, arms, and head. Valefar huffed and stepped into the triangle. He touched a finger to the sword clutched in Dustan’s hands.
“Why did you not simply cut the branches down?”
Dustan cursed under his breath.
More than a month into the training, he faced off with Valefar, sparring with staves. At night, even with his accelerated healing, Dustan nursed a hundred bruises from head to foot. The warrior’s speed amazed him. He seemed to know every move Dustan would make before he thought of it. Frustration dug inside him as he started to think he would never master the tasks set to him.
Blunt swords proved more trying than the rods. An increase in weight threw all Dustan’s movements off balance. It took weeks to approximate the meager aptitude he had gained with the sticks. His contusions went deep, the wounds to his pride deeper still. After two more months, he finally felt adequate with the dulled swords. Valefar switched up yet again with edged weapons, allowing Dustan to wield Blood Dancer. Vicious cuts and slashes devoured the momentary elation of brandishing his prized blade. Often, his wounds did not fully heal until the next morning, carved so deep into his flesh.
Blood for the Dancer Page 9
