Soulwoven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

~58~

Len Heramsun’s legs thundered underneath him. The cavern roof dripped putrid liquid onto his head. His feet splashed through puddles of vile something on the ground. His body burned with the last, untapped reserves of a lifetime of energy.

Directly in front of him, for the first time in thirty years, stood his son.

D’Orin’s eyes flashed white in the dim light. Black dreadlocks trailed down his back. His teeth were straight and bright like his mother’s. His skin was the same dark sienna as his grandmother’s. His arms bulged like Len’s. His nose was pierced with a wedding band that had been missing from Len’s father’s hand when the body had been found.

All of him had been wasted. All of him had been perverted, stolen, and used against its intended purposes.

D’Orin could have spitted Len with soulweaving from afar.

But he did not.

The crystal ax of the Sh’ma felt awkward and heavy in Len’s hands, but he had fought with worse. He did not pause, did not stop, did not waste one second or iota of momentum. He swung hard and fast with the blade, knew it would miss, knew D’Orin would lean back and strike low. He spun away from his son’s first strike, ducked under the second—

The dance began, and his body moved automatically. The light around him and his son flashed and strobed, there and gone again, bright and lost in turns, but Len’s body was close to D’Orin’s, and he did not need illumination. He heard the clash of metal on metal. The others shouted and screamed.

It did not matter. The children and the Sh’ma were going to die. He was going to die.

The only question was whether or not he would take D’Orin Threi with him.

His son had not forgotten the dance. D’Orin’s axes flashed through the light and the darkness. His grin shone white and blue and red and violet and violent and mad.

Len darted forward and backward. He ducked. He spun. He swung. He pivoted. The dance swirled around the shadow-ridden cave. Twice, Len nearly caught his son with the ax. Twice, D’Orin slid out of the way and smiled.

He is toying with me, Len thought.

For most, Len was a dangerous person to toy with.

Once, he would have been so to his son as well.

Len’s arms tired. His legs slowed. His lungs struggled to draw in enough air to give him the strength he needed.

Please, he whispered to whatever power might be listening. Please, let me do this one thing.

One of D’Orin’s strikes nearly hit him in the calf. He stumbled and fell. His ax flew from his hands.

The fall was enough. His son jumped on top of him, axes forgotten, and let his fists fly.

Len tried to block the blows. He hid behind his hands and his forearms. He rolled and twisted and bucked his hips.

But he could not keep up, and he could not escape.

A fist hit his temple, then his cheek, then his chin, then his forehead. His skin swelled and bled. His skull screamed. His ears rang. The blows fell like rain, and Len clung to consciousness, praying that D’Orin would make a mistake and he would be able to do what he had sworn to do.

He lost track of how many times his son hit him. The world began to spin.

And then the storm of blows ended.