World After

13

CROUCHED AND LOPING. Stunted black wings. The shapes of emaciated men.

I don’t know what they are, but my primal brain recognizes them, because even in my dream, my heart speeds up and my instincts whisper run, run, run.

The shadows leap toward us.

Two of them land on a woman, knocking her down. They claw at her. She begs Raffe with her terrified eyes.

One of his warriors loved this Daughter of Man. Gave up his whole life for her. Worried over her even as he was being condemned to the Pit. The why of it is beyond Raffe’s comprehension, but that doesn’t stop his compassion from blooming.

Raffe kicks off a hellion that lands on him and swings his sword at the demons attacking the woman.

Then a strange thing happens.

Strange even for this dream.

Raffe goes into slow motion.

And so does everything else—except for me.

I’ve never had a slow-mo dream before. I can see almost every muscle as Raffe shifts his sword and cuts into the hellions that are clawing at the fallen woman.

As one screeches its death cry, I get a decent look. It has a bat-like face, squished and wrinkled, with sharp fangs. Pretty damn ugly if you ask me.

I’m about to put up my hand instinctively to block the slow-mo blood coming my way, when I realize that Raffe’s sword is also in my hands even though he is already using it.

Every detail of Raffe slicing the demons as they attack is clear. In slow motion, I can absorb his stance, the shifting of his weight, the way he holds the sword.

When he cuts a swath through the wave of monsters, that part of the dream stops. Then the sequence repeats.

This is like an instructional video of the organic kind.

I must have been seriously frustrated by my lack of sword-fighting skills to make all this up. My dream head hurts just thinking about it.

I put my sword up, mimicking Raffe’s stance. Why not? He is a master swordsman, and it’s possible that my subconscious picked up details when I saw him fight in real life that my waking brain didn’t. I try to swing, mimicking Raffe. But I must be doing it wrong because his swing repeats.

I try it again. Raffe completes his swing, rolls the sword, and swings back to complete a figure eight.

I do the same.

Slice to the left, swing up and around, slice to the right and back up and around. He does this a couple of times and then switches his tactic and stabs. Probably not a bad idea to make sure your moves aren’t predictable.

The sword adjusts itself here and there to improve my technique. It practically works itself, letting me concentrate on Raffe’s footwork. I’ve learned through years in various self-defense training that footwork is as important as what the arms and hands do.

He glides forward and back like a dancer, never crossing his feet. I mimic his dance.

Sinewy arms burst through the ground, spraying slow-motion dirt everywhere to grab the women. They pull themselves out of the soil, tearing up the earth and spitting it out of their mouths as they climb up.

Some of the women panic and run into the night.

“Stay with me!” Raffe yells.

But it’s too late. The hellions pounce on them and their screams intensify.

Raffe grabs the nearest woman as she’s being pulled into the ground by demonic hands. The sharp claws hook onto her flesh as she thrashes in slow-motion panic.

Raffe pulls her up out of the dirt, simultaneously swinging his sword while cutting and kicking at the monsters.

This is the way a hero fights.

I copy him, motion by motion, wishing I could help.

We fight, Raffe and I, all through the night.

I WAKE up trembling in the dark in that quiet time before sunrise. This dream was so vivid that it’s as if I was physically there. It takes a few minutes before my heart rate slows back to normal and my adrenaline dissipates.

I shift so my sword’s cross-guard isn’t poking into my ribs under the blanket. I lie listening to the wind, wondering where Raffe is now.