Blood for the Dancer

by Dallas Mullican

  “There’s more,” said Kyra with a sour grin “They are expecting us. We can assume guards stationed inside and outside Zaphkiel’s chambers. Should we make it into the room, any angels will recognize our auras and sound the alarm. Little chance we can subdue them before more are summoned.”

  “Can I offer a suggestion?” Four heads swung in unison toward Lailah. She blushed and dropped her eyes. “I can help with the nandi and I can read the runes…probably. I can assume an angel’s form and get into the chambers.”

  “I’m glad you came with us. If I haven’t mentioned it before,” said Dustan, kissing her on the cheek. She blushed red.

  “Hmm, up until the angel form, it sounds good.” Kyra darkened as if hating to dampen the momentum. “Not just any angel would be allowed into those rooms. Only Zaphkiel.”

  “I can assume the form of any being I have seen. I’ve never seen this Zaphkiel,” said Lailah, disheartened.

  “Taking his form would be far too dangerous,” said Kyra.

  “There’s another.” Dustan’s father stood and paced around the table. “Seems Zaphkiel and Ariel have a not so secret relationship going. She’s gunning to become his successor and using all her talents to land the position.” He chuckled without humor. “She visits his chambers often.”

  “Still, we don’t know their schedules. We don’t want to get caught in his rooms when they return,” said Dustan.

  “Zaphkiel inspects the armies every day, takes some time. He’s extremely hands on. I think he enjoys letting his generals know their place,” said his father. “Ariel commands a force to the west.”

  “Is your information trustworthy?” asked Kyra, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Our friends among the angels hate their servitude, but can’t shake their beliefs and alter allegiance. Human soul recruits, mostly. In time, I believe they’ll join us here. I trust their word.” Dustan’s mother tugged at his father’s arm. Obviously, his pacing made her anxious.

  “Do you trust it enough to bank our lives on it? Dustan’s?”

  He considered this a moment and nodded. “Yes, yes I do.”

  “How does it help us?” asked Dustan. “Lailah hasn’t seen Ariel either. I have, but…”

  “You have seen her?” Lailah cocked her head and looked up at him.

  “What?”

  “Keep still.” She scooted next to him on the bench and placed her fingers on his temples. “Done. I have her.”

  “Don’t do that without my knowledge,” said Dustan, glancing at her with reddened cheeks..

  Lailah offered a bashful grin.

  “No offense, but the spirits do not appear well.” Dustan nodded toward a crowd of unaligned ambling past the doorway.

  “We are deep below the surface. The air makes it down to us, but the energy is less abundant here,” said his mother.

  “You suffer from malnutrition?” Dustan could not hide his concern.

  “Don’t worry, son. Many here have lived this way for thousands of years.” She placed a frail hand on his arm.

  “I’ll get you out of here. The In Between. You all should be there.”

  His father nodded. “That’s the goal. Someday.”

  Dustan balled his fists as resentment and frustration filled him, heat warming his face in spite of the surrounding ice. He shook his head and reminded himself Kyra’s mission remained paramount. Even so, he would not forget.

  His parents escorted them to the corridor leading to the rune gate and the nandi. Dustan hugged each of them. His father tried to remain strong and hold back his tears, but his mother made no such attempt, crying onto his shoulder. They embraced Kyra and Lailah as well. Lailah did not want to let go. Such a long time since she’s had friends or experienced affection. Dustan smiled at her expression, one perfectly suited to her child form. His parents swore to await their return and took up posts in the mouth of the hallway.

  The corridor snaked a few hundred yards under the ice and ended twenty feet above a circular vault. Below, an oval door inscribed with three glyphs sat on the far side of the cavity. The two nandi lay curled up as colossal white bundles on either side of the gate.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Dustan.

  “Kill them?” Kyra smirked.

  He was not a fan of her sarcasm, but it did lesson the tension a sliver. Lailah did not wait for them to plan an attack, leaping down into the pit. The nandi trudged to their feet, hand-length claws extended from enormous paws. One reared and roared, shaking ice from the ceiling. The other glared at Lailah, black eyes narrowed, a snarl exposing sharp fangs.

  Lailah morphed. A shimmering haze obscured her for a moment. When it dissipated, a gigantic chimera filled the vault. Its massive goat head thrust broad curved horns toward the nandi. Razor claws from a lion body swiped one of the beasts, tore slashes along its flank and sent it hurtling away. The second bear bit down on the chimera’s front leg with one head and snapped at its chest with the other. The chimera lashed with its tail—a great venomous snake.

  “What do we do?” asked Dustan, his eyes glued on the monsters’ fight.

  “I’m not getting in the middle of it,” said Kyra. “We can’t use our energy.” She nodded to the pit. “I think Lailah has the situation well in hand.”

  The chimera’s horns had driven clean through one nandi and lifted it from the ground. Multi-hued energy poured from vicious gouges scattered over the great bear’s body. The chimera tossed its head and threw the nandi to the side, spun, and faced off with the other. The bear had backed itself against the wall. Lailah stalked close and whipped the serpent tail, latching fangs onto the nandi’s hindquarters as it tried to flee. The bear’s rear legs wobbled and collapsed as if liquefied. She sank claws and teeth into the nandi, shook a huge head, and tore the beast to pieces.

  Dustan glanced at Kyra. “Easy enough.”

  Kyra rapped him on the arm.

  Lailah had returned to her little girl form by the time they descended into the vault. She breathed deep, inhaling the energy wafting into the air from the slain nandi.

  “Taste like chicken?” asked Dustan.

  She offered a puzzled expression as Dustan chuckled and hugged her. Lailah stepped to the gate and examined the runes. Tracing her tiny fingers along their outlines, she mumbled some words Dustan could not understand. They sounded somewhere between a gurgle and a series of long and short alternating grunts. A few moments later, energy seeped from her hands and into the door, which came ajar with a squawk.

  Dustan glanced inside. A narrow staircase wound up the spire. He nodded to the others and began the long climb to the High Commander’s chambers. They passed clear portals in the walls. One-way mirrors. An exclusive abode, high angels—lieutenants, captains, generals—resided in this central spire, though it was seldom used with the commanders often away for one campaign or another. Dustan assumed Zaphkiel liked to spy on his subordinates and monitor private conversations—the whispers thrumming the web.

  He was gaining a clearer sense of the archangel. Jealous with his power, Zaphkiel brooked no dissention. Dustan’s betrayal angered Aamon no doubt, and The Demon Lord proved more than capable of desperate acts to further his cause; still, he remained pragmatic and did not move in haste. Zaphkiel, on the other hand, appeared brash and easily provoked. The Horde fought because they believed in their cause, and as importantly, because they respected Aamon. The Host seemed as ardent in their zealotry, but they served Zaphkiel out of fear.

  Dustan tucked the musings away for safekeeping as they stepped onto a constricted landing at the apex of the spire. He glanced back at Lailah who had already assumed Ariel’s form. She wore a splendid green gown trimmed in gold, her short red hair sprinkled with glittering diamonds. Dustan’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide. Kyra poked him in the ribs with the hilt of a dagger, her face scrunched in an admonishing glare. He shrugged, red-faced.

  The runes adorned a solid panel on one side of the landing. Lailah worked the locks and the pan
el slid open. Dustan placed a hand against it to keep the opening at an inch or two and peeked into the room. More a closet, the space beyond appeared small and cramped. The three of them bunched into the nook. Dustan tried to maintain focus on their task, which proved difficult with their bodies pressed against him.

  The chamber circled the top of the spire. The panel emptied into an alcove behind some sort of slatted partition from where Dustan could see three arched doorways along the circumference. A fire blazed in a pit directly across from the opening, a pair of gleaming swords crossed over the mantle. The opulent chamber sported an array of gaudy furnishings and décor. Vivid tapestries hung on the walls. Jeweled cups and crystal vases sat on shelves and tables. He was surprised a spirit cared so much for wealth. Their incursions into the human realm had infected them more than they knew.

  He tapped Lailah and she crept out from behind the partition. A guard stepped into the doorway from one of the rooms. The angel’s sword remained at his side, but he scanned the room as though he had heard something. After a moment, he shook his head and disappeared beyond the opening.

  Lailah glanced to Dustan for approval, and he nodded. She marched across the floor, her gown swishing back and forth. The guard dashed into the main room at the sound.

  “What are you doing here?” Lailah snapped and pointed at the angel.

  His eyes widened through the visor. “I…I am guarding the artifact as ordered.”

  “Have you not been warned? We spotted the thieves in the square. All soldiers are ordered to take part in the search.” She glared at him, hands on her hips.

  “But…I-I was ordered not to move until relieved.” The guard shuffled his feet and refused to look her in the eye.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes…yes. General Ariel. You’re an archangel. And Zaphkiel’s…” He rocked and almost fell to the floor.

  Dustan stifled a giggle as Kyra poked him in the ribs again.

  “I give orders, and I am commanding you to join the search. These thieves must be captured. Do you understand?”

  The guard bobbed his head and rushed for the exit, happy to get away from Ariel. Lailah waved them over. A gold chest sat atop an extravagant pedestal speckled in sparkling gems. The top of the chest bore the same glyphs. Lailah made quick work of them and the chest popped open. Inside, the hilt gleamed in black crystal held by dark, gray steel woven around the base like vines. As Kyra lifted it from the chest, swirls of energy inside sparked against the glass. Dustan squinted and stared. He could not imagine it would be useful on a weapon, appearing decorative rather than practical. With a shake of his head, he hurried Kyra and Lailah into the main chamber. A stride from the nook, a harsh voice shouted from the adjacent room.

  “What is going on out here? I have been in battle for three straight weeks. I would appreciate quiet so I can rest.” Ariel stormed in and went stark still at the sight of them. The surprise faded, and a sinister grin crept across her face. “Dustan. So good to see you again.”

  “Shit. Move,” shouted Dustan, shoving Lailah into the alcove where she vanished behind the panel.

  Kyra remained the farthest from their escape passage. Ariel drew the two swords from the mantle and brought them surging to life with white-silver energy. Dustan moved toward Kyra, but she waved him away.

  “Go. I’m right behind you.” She hurled an orb at the archangel and rolled toward the nook, crashing into the partition. It shattered under her weight, a violent crack echoing in the ambient chamber.

  The orb caught Ariel low on the thigh, scorching a hole in her nightgown.

  “You bitch.” She dashed forward and swung a sword as Kyra’s feet slipped past the panel.

  Lailah returned to her child form and sealed the rune locks. Sirens bellowed, deafening in the confined stairway. The clang of Ariel pounding at the panel followed them down. Apparently, Zaphkiel had not entrusted her with the incantations to disarm the runes. The angelic general swore to make a sailor blush. They reached the vault and scampered past the dead nandi and up into the corridor where his parents waited.

  “The tunnels are flooding with soldiers. You’ve got to hurry.” Dustan’s father sprinted ahead.

  From the main artery, the tunnel branched in three directions—left, right, and back the way they had come. Returning only trapped them in the vault or passage. Angel warriors approached from the left corridor, and by the sound of it, a lot of them, metal clanging over shouts and commands. The right remained open, but it shot straight ahead, wide and long, allowing for hurled spears, arrows, and orbs. The angelic force would cut them down before they reached an escape route.

  His parents clasped hands and shared a look that made Dustan’s heart sink to the pit of his stomach.

  “You must go, son,” said his mother, kissing him even as his father pulled her away.

  “Go now. We love you,” said his father, hurrying her into the hall.

  He understood. Still, it took all his strength to will himself on. Far into the corridor, he looked back. His parents knelt holding each other, their heads bowed, blue auras blossoming and expanding around them. Brighter and brighter, the bubble grew until only their dim silhouettes remained visible. Dustan turned his head and ran. He could not watch.

  The eruption sent a violent wave of energy through the tunnels. He felt the heat on his back and heard the screams of the soldiers. Ice crashed into the passages, sending a thick mist to cloud the air. When he braved another glimpse, the corridor lay packed floor to ceiling with frozen blocks. They saved him. Knowing his mission held the only hope for the realms, they sacrificed themselves. A thousand knives stabbed into his heart, his legs gave out, and he tumbled to the ground.

  “We must keep moving.” Kyra tugged at his arms.

  Dustan pushed himself to his feet wearing a vacuous gaze, and allowed Kyra to pull him along in their wake. Later, once they exited the tunnels on the east side of the city, he could not recall a single step of their flight. Their trek out onto the tundra and the great expanse—a blur. A brilliant and horrible blue colored his mind’s eye. All the world—blue.

  28

  The Eye of the Storm

  The tundra gave way to a seemingly endless savannah, thin stalks of waist-high grass stretching out in a golden sea. Slight rises and sparse trees disrupted what otherwise constituted a flat, barren land. The tall weeds swayed as small, skittish creatures darted across their path in chaotic trails. One particularly spiteful critter took nibbles from Dustan’s ankles, dashing out of sight before he could lay a good kick into the little bastard. Not that he could muster the strength to so much as step on it. He staggered along, leaning on Kyra, and had not spoken since the tunnels.

  At first, Kyra attempted to elicit conversation, or simply ascertain his condition, but eventually, she kissed him and left him to his grief. His mind swirled in turmoil, images sharp and raw slicing through his thoughts. Twice he had lost his parents; the second hurt much worse. He had been so young when his father died, the memory carried dim memories and a dull ache. His mother’s death birthed his hatred and anger—a gift that gave him purpose through much of his life. He lamented her passing, but did not regret its aftermath. The angels he destroyed deserved their fate a hundred times over.

  Dustan had found a place of peace within himself at long last. He forgave his demon family and himself. Love, something he knew only as a child, entered his life with Kyra. Their mission lay fraught with danger and potential death, but his hope had been sufficient to quell any dread. Finding Mum and Da again fueled his belief. He and Kyra would succeed and spend their long lives in the In Between with his parents. Happiness after years of fighting someone else’s war, the future denied him in the human realm waited for him here.

  The dream shattered, the eruption echoing through his consciousness. Though he had shied away from watching their final moments, he felt their bodies explode. The blast detonated in him as a coldness throughout his body and mind. The clamor of metal and
the screams of disintegrating angels did not lessen his sorrow, though he relished their painful destruction. He would see the Host and the Horde in ruins if he could. But he could not. Too weak, too afraid. The admission squirmed in his belly like ravenous worms. The enemy stood at his back as he ran, leaving his parents to face them alone. Behind his eyes, open or shut tight, a million shards of life flashed into the Void.

  A scene from his childhood played in his memory. Dustan had dropped hints for weeks that his heart was set on a certain gift for Christmas—a train set complete with an engine, five boxcars, and red caboose. At the time, his family did not experience the crippling poverty he and his mother would suffer in Southwark, but they were working-class poor, and the collection cost more than his father made in a month. Dustan, too young to understand, felt certain his father would find a way to purchase the set. When Christmas day arrived, he flew to his stocking and found a dozen shiny marbles, a game of jacks, and some clothes. He threw an epic tantrum and tossed the toys into the river, disgusted and disappointed.

  The vision accosted him with shame. He later understood. The simple games and clothes, though far cheaper than the train set, required his parents to forego meals and necessities to procure. Dustan had never apologized. The hurt on their faces as he pitched his fit haunted him. His father left the house, hiding his face and wiping a sleeve across his eyes. Mum tried to pacify him. She promised they would save for his birthday. Dustan scoffed at the assurance and pouted for days.

  One event in a predominantly happy childhood, at least while his father lived, before forced to Southwark and times grew hard, tore a black hole inside him. He lurched across the savannah, plagued by regret and grief. An overwhelming need to go back to those tunnels, find his parents, hug them, and thank them for the gifts of one Christmas day, hammered at his heart.

  “You need to rest. You can’t push yourself like this.” Kyra put her arm around him.

  He tilted his head, trying to place the sound. The voice seemed familiar, but faint and distant, reedy, stalks of grain scraping his thighs or perhaps a tick had hitched a ride inside his ear. Lailah took the form of an eagle and soared ahead, scouting the area. She returned and set down on Kyra’s left.