Blood for the Dancer

by Dallas Mullican

  “Raise your guard. Foot here, not there. No, no. Pivot, then thrust.” Valefar barked orders over the clang of steel. Dustan soon missed the apathetic instructor and his menacing smile, growing to despise this pedantic bully.

  Dustan made a feint to the right, gathered himself, and swung the sword in a reverse motion. Valefar caught the strike and upended him onto his ass.

  “You shout out what you will do before you do it. You pause after the feint. Never hesitate. You cannot repeat moves or telegraph your next action. Any half-trained warrior will learn your habits and exploit them,” said Valefar.

  “I’m doing the best I can.” Indignant, Dustan stood, rubbed his aching arms, and brushed the dirt from his backside.

  “You’re best, ha. This best will see you in the Void against the weakest foe.”

  “You have a few thousand years of training and have seen actual battles, I have a few months. You can’t expect me to match you. You’re too fast.” Dustan knew his complaints would fall on deaf ears and felt humiliated the instant they left his mouth.

  “As are many of your enemies. This is not play.” Valefar pointed the tip of his sword. “Again.”

  Every day they sparred, and every day Dustan failed to touch the demon warrior with blade, kick, or punch. He soon concluded defeating the warrior an impossible feat. Valefar was too experienced, too strong. Dreading the next session, Dustan lay awake in bed and tried to ignore the pain and vexation. What if he couldn’t do it? Perhaps Aamon chose wrong, and he wasn’t the weapon they hoped. Since his mother died, his sole purpose lay in reaching the day he might avenge her. The demons offered a chance to make the angels pay for their callous disregard. They extended the blade, and he could not grasp it.

  He tossed and turned, waiting for another epiphany to strike, some trick or skill yet untried. Nothing came. No brilliant tactic or deceit leapt to his mind. Tomorrow, he would face Valefar again, and again he would fail. Defeat weighed on him, an anchor pulling him beneath turbulent waves. Perhaps the warrior sought to teach him humility and respect for the prowess of his foes. If the aim was to shatter his confidence before building him back up, Valefar best hurry or nothing would remain to salvage. Self-pity seemed the only talent at which Dustan excelled. In his dreams, blades rang, cuts bled, and a demon warrior grinned.

  Standing before Valefar the next morning, Dustan’s shoulders sagged, his eyes dull. He peered at the demon, reluctant to engage. He did not want to do this again. The thought of another gash in his body, another failure, froze him in place.

  “Come, boy. The day is not so long, and you have much to learn.” The warrior slung his head to one side, rows of dreadlocks whipping over his shoulder.

  Dustan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Head craned toward the sun, warmth mingled with the cold breeze. The voices of his teachers drifted into his mind—Shax, Geras, Saerna, Valefar himself—overlapped in a discordant song. Dustan concentrated. The voices shifted from garbled to distinct, each audible in pockets of his thoughts.

  Some may prove too powerful to contest. …surprise will become your greatest weapon.

  How could he fool Valefar, the man knew every maneuver, feint, and gambit?

  We always turn the unfamiliar into something we know, something we’ve seen before….

  You are both human and spirit.

  We are energy….

  Up until now, he had viewed his demon spirit exclusively in terms of how it affected his physical form. The strength, speed, healing, all fed his human skills. What if there was more? Dustan focused all his will, attempting to see beyond his experience and glimpse a world only dreamed of. He struggled to visualize the demon spirit swirling within him. Yes, a glow. Faint at first, but brightening. An aura. His energy mushroomed into view. But how to use it?

  Passion…lust…cold…a paradox—remain cold while unleashing all your passion….

  Dustan pictured Saerna disguised as his mother. He summoned all the rage and fury he had felt in that moment. All the hate he suffered as he watched his mother die, her prayers unheard by the angels. He recalled his helplessness before the soldier angel in St. Augustine. As his emotions ignited, his blood ran cold. Blood Dancer blazed in his hand, not of fire, but of spirit and energy.

  Valefar’s eyes went wide. After a moment’s shock, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Dustan wiped it away with the sword’s flashing arc, the ethereal force crackling the air. Valefar backpedaled under the assault. Pushing the advantage, Dustan pounded at the demon’s guard, twisting and turning, blows falling from one direction and then another.

  No longer grinning, Valefar rolled away and summoned a portal, sweat beading on his forehead. With a glance back at Dustan, he leaped through. Dustan recognized the tell. The warrior had pinpointed his location. A soft feminine voice spoke to him from his memory. Whenever a spirit enters a realm there is an unavoidable disturbance in the atmosphere at the site of the opening portal. A shimmer, like heat rising off a surface.

  He sought it out, his eyes darting about the area. There. The air wavered almost imperceptibly…almost. Dustan met Valefar as he reentered the realm, continuing a flurry of chaotic strikes and parries. The warrior roared and turned the attack, now fully on the offensive. He hacked Dustan’s upper leg, his side, a slash across his chest. Dustan ignored the pain, throwing a ferocious overhead slice followed by a sweeping roundhouse kick. Valefar ducked under the leg and rolled, coming up on the balls of his feet. Dustan sidestepped a thrust aimed at his abdomen and slashed down at an angle. The tip of his blade raked the dirt, but missed the demon as he twisted away. Valefar stormed forward, waving his sword in alternating X patterns. Dustan, forced to retreat, maintained distance and sought an opening.

  After the initial setback, Valefar now had the advantage. Their swords met with a thunderous metallic clang. The impact shook Dustan’s arms and took him to a knee. He extended his blade perpendicular to the ground and above his head to block a second blow. A third sliced through his shirt, narrowly missing the skin of his chest. He spun and gained distance, his strength beginning to wane.

  …you’re a valuable weapon.

  Aamon believes you will help us win the war.

  Valefar would not kill him, or even truly harm him. They needed him too badly for that. No, the demon was trying to take the fight out of him. It would not work. Again, surprise proved his sharpest weapon. The warrior seemed unable to comprehend how or why Dustan pressed on. He lunged with Blood Dancer, the tip of the blade found the demon’s thigh. A burst of clashing crimson energy sparked as pain raced down Dustan’s arm. He almost dropped the sword, but tightened his grip and prepared for another thrust. Valefar hurried a few strides away and held up his hands.

  “Enough. Enough, boy.” His hair hung across his face in a curtain of slender braids, his smirk nowhere in sight. “How…”

  Dustan smiled now, through heaving breaths. “I had good teachers.”

  12

  Lest We Forget

  Dustan sat on the cold, hard ground, legs crossed, with Valefar seated opposite him, their swords resting on their knees. He gazed on Blood Dancer. His abilities might finally match his fervor for vengeance and purpose. Not arrogance; if the warrior taught him anything, it was never to underestimate his enemy or overestimate himself. Still, the danger of undervaluing his own skills could be as detrimental—believing himself inadequate to the task. Confidence tempered with caution, as Valefar explained.

  “There are two primary ways to destroy a spirit. One, inflict enough damage to drain them. Each tear in their bodies will leak a portion of energy. Only returning to the spirit realm and feeding on the energy plentiful there will restore them. This method requires a dozen or so deep wounds in quick succession. If too much time elapses between, the wound will heal and force still more cuts to become necessary. Two, pierce the heart. No, not a blood pumping muscle as you have, but more a core, here…” Valefar tapped his chest, dead center. “The location humans call the solar pl
exus. The chakra is a closer analogy. Think of it akin to a lamp: The illumination spreads out covering an area, but the source is the flame. Of course taking the head off, or a number of other less artful methods will also do the trick.”

  Dustan nodded. The metaphysical explanations and descriptions of the spirit realm made an odd kind of sense to him now…most of the time. Geras still confused him on a regular basis, but he could follow much of it.

  “Angels will regenerate severed limbs, but this requires a great expense of energy, so it is a good tactic whenever you can accomplish it. They will attempt to escape this realm if they sense defeat, or if badly injured. You must push your advantage or face them again later when they are fully recovered.” Valefar lifted his sword and twirled it in one hand. “Angels will seek to kill your human self. As you are only part demon, it remains uncertain whether your spirit would appear in our realm if cut off from the human half. Regardless, they will choose to deal with that possibility in their world where you would be at a disadvantage.”

  Dustan ran a finger along Blood Dancer, a caressing stroke, anticipation mingling with fear. He hoped he was ready. No longer overwhelmed by future prospects, he relished the idea of battle, and a chance to test his talents against an angel. Ten years spent training mind, body, and spirit had created an equilibrium. His confidence grew with his skill and his understanding of what he faced. Even so, doubt encroached whenever eagerness lagged. In the silent night, alone, ghosts whispered thoughts of failure into his mind. Lost in those quiet moments, the war within him raged as brutally as any contest of blades.

  “Though the angels will employ human weapons primarily, they’ll also use energy to distract and stun. What effect damage to your spirit half will have on the human is unclear. You are unique and will need to adapt quickly to new methods of attack. Learn as you go, I’m afraid. How deeply you can tap spiritual energies is also uncertain. Test your abilities, but never overextend yourself. The blade is a manifestation of your will and won’t weaken you, similar to our first forms. However, summoning other spirit-based weapons will. Any use of your energies, either offensive or defensive, diminishes your strength. Utilize too great an energy, beyond your control, and the results could be catastrophic.”

  “How so?”

  The demon smiled. “What happens if you fill a balloon beyond its capacity?”

  “Oh.” Dustan shivered.

  “Binding energy to a weapon is tied to the alignment of the spirit—a condition born from the outset of the war. Each faction displays a different strand of energy, as you have seen by the varied hues of our auras—similar to races evolving in distinctive ways. Consequently, a spirit cannot destroy a like spirit—that is, a demon cannot destroy a demon, angel an angel, or unaligned another unaligned.”

  “So, we could not have killed each other?”

  “I could have killed you, at least your human part. You, however, could not have destroyed me.” Valefar flashed a grin.

  “Why did it hurt when I cut you?”

  “The reaction of a like spirit wounding another. We are both composed of demon spirit, so the laceration produced a negative effect when our energies came into contact.”

  “What if I changed alignments?” Dustan arched his brows.

  The warrior’s eyes narrowed on Dustan as if gauging his seriousness. “I would not try it. Aamon, the Demon Lord himself, birthed your spirit. I imagine it would be akin to suicide.”

  “I wouldn’t, of course,” said Dustan in a coy tone.

  “No, you are one of us.” Valefar clasped him on the arm. “Come, let us find the fire.” Valefar led the way, his feline prowl gracefully covering the distance to the mansion. “I envy you.” A reflective expression came over his face. “I recall the eve of my first battle. The smell of terror and bloodlust drifted through the ranks of my legion. Ten thousand strong, yet I felt alone. I understand your apprehension. One can never know how one will react when the first blade strikes for real. Will I flee the field or prove my valor?” He shrugged and stepped into the house. “The questions haunting you are the same for all soldiers. No matter your present feelings, you are not alone.”

  “I want to do well and make everyone proud.” Dustan took a seat next to the hearth, rubbing his hands in the heat. “My life before Aamon’s token seems like a dream. Feels like it never happened. Only in my nightmares do I see my mother and father, or think about the strange journey into the In Between.”

  “Yours has been quite the adventurous life. Do not fear. We all have faith in who you have become. The haughty boy is now a determined and skilled man.”

  Dustan appreciated the encouragement more than Valefar could know. For a decade, he had lived and trained with the demons, and though he hated each of them at times, he now thought of them as family. In their own way, all of them cared for him, perhaps loved him. Geras taught him history and philosophy, but also treated him like a grandson, often lauding his accomplishments. Shax served as a best friend, always ready to lift him up or take him down a peg. Saerna, sometime surrogate mother, part-time lover, and always teacher, taught him things were rarely as they appeared and often revealed only glimpses of their true selves. All the while, Aamon hovered over his life, a father, a god. Although Dustan had only seen the Demon Lord twice, his approval stood paramount. The dread of disappointing Aamon frightened him more than death or the Void. Not fear of admonishment or punishment, but of losing esteem in his eyes.

  “Come friends,” said Geras, entering the great room. “A toast.”

  The others received glasses and took seats near the fireplace. All save for Aamon were present. Saerna sat close to Dustan on the sofa, Shax on his left. Valefar remained seated on the floor, the fire’s glow flickering across his face. Geras plopped down in the high-backed chair, an uncustomary bounce to his movements.

  “A bittersweet day, in more ways than one. On this day, years past, our beloved Beleth departed into the Void. Only sadness can possibly take residence in our hearts thinking on her valiant spirit’s journey into the nothingness of the Abyss. Still, she loved us all and gave her life for our salvation.” Tears coated his eyes as he gazed down at Dustan. “You never knew her of course, but she is the reason you are here, as much so as Aamon himself. When you fell into the In Between, Aamon sensed the disturbance and soon suspected your potential. Zaphkiel ignored it for a time, but when knowledge of Aamon’s interest reached him, he sent a squad of his elite killers—the Hunters. I was present as a sort of advisor to our Lord. Valefar was Beleth’s second at the time. Saerna, who rarely left Aamon’s side following her rescue, joined the company. Shax, Aamon’s most trusted, completed the group along with three other warriors.”

  “Phenex, Focalor, and Balam,” said Valefar. The group raised their glasses as one. “Brave to the end.”

  Geras gave a solemn nod. “We traveled to the borderlands, rent a tear with ancient magics, and saw Aamon through.”

  Amazed, Dustan quivered. He knew portions of the story, yet to hear this version and learn what they had sacrificed for him swelled his chest with affection and sympathy. What he now accepted as reality, without doubt, astonished him more. He felt a sensation of floating and ghastly hands in the darkness, and imagined the scarlet glow of Aamon soaring toward him.

  “We stood guard while he sought you out. He hoped to snatch you from the In Between before your soul…” Geras cast a furtive glance nowhere in particular. “Before it passed into the Void. He succeeded, but the angels came while Aamon hunted for you. A violent clash, both sides fought with murderous skill and fury. Aamon reemerged with your spirit in tow, but the angels barred our escape. Our Lord could have easily dispatched the lot of them if not burdened with your spirit.” Geras glanced at Dustan. “No, we do not blame you or resent your presence.” He smiled and tugged at his robe’s belt. “You must understand. A great deal of power was required to contain your soul and travel with it. Even for one as strong as Aamon, the task almost proved too much.”

/>   Although the others knew the story, and had surely recited it countless times throughout the years, they listened transfixed by the old man’s retelling. Shax chugged an ale, belched, and hoisted his mug whenever Geras said something poignant. Saerna gazed into the fire, her eyes a million miles away. Valefar nodded and grunted agreement.

  “The bloody bastards ambushed us, tell it straight, Geras,” said Shax in disgust. “Wasn’t a fair fight, and we still kicked their asses.”

  “Yes, yes we did, but at a high cost. With Aamon weakened, Beleth took command and ordered us to protect our Lord. She demanded we see him to the human realm where he would depart with you. Beleth remained behind with Phenex, Focalor, and Balam, her lieutenants. They ensured our exodus and saved our lives.”

  “To the fallen, may we prove victorious in their names.” Valefar held his glass aloft and guzzled down the wine.

  The others cheered and drank. Dustan sipped his own wine, still growing accustomed to the effects of alcohol. An odd feeling tugged at him. At once a part of the family, but also outside it, he was an adopted son. The others embraced him, and looked to him as their future hope, but he could never share their history or fully comprehend their bond. Loneliness swept over him as his family’s warmth and comfort consoled him. The dichotomy left him at odds with himself. Half human, half demon, he supposed the tug of war within him a natural stage in his evolution. He hoped it would pass, and someday, he might feel whole.

  Geras nodded with a tight smile. “And to Dustan.” He gazed on him, a glint in his eyes. “All our hopes go with you, lad. Do us proud. For all those destroyed, and all those yet unborn.”

  Again, the demons shouted and turned up their glasses. Dustan felt an icy chill slither down his spine.

  No pressure.