The Spirit Rebellion (39 page)

Sted’s scarred face broke into an enormous grin. “Wonderful! If you put up a good enough show, I might even add something of yours to my trophies.” He cackled and pounded his chest, making the grim collection on his sash clatter.

“I’ll pass,” Josef said, dropping into a defensive crouch.

“Suit yourself,” Sted said. “Start whenever you’re ready.”

Josef balanced on the balls of his feet, swords out. The Heart was on the other side of the room still, but that was fine. He was going to win this without the Heart’s
help. Across the room, Sted watched him, arms slack at his sides. Josef chose his spot carefully, a stretch of unguarded muscle to the left of Sted’s ribs, just above his stomach. When he could almost feel his sword cutting the man’s flesh, he sprang.

He threw himself forward, moving with a speed that would have impressed Coriano had the other swordsman been alive to see it, and dashed hard to the right, making a feint toward Sted’s leg. Then, at the last second, he swung his swords around to bite into his true mark, plunging the flashing steel straight into Sted’s flesh. But as the blow came down, Josef knew something was wrong. Sted wasn’t blocking. It wasn’t that he’d seen through the feint; he hadn’t even moved. The man just stood there, smiling as Josef rushed him, not even flinching when both of Josef’s swords landed in his undefended side.

Josef felt a shock move up his arm as the strike hit, but it was all wrong. The impact was far too strong. It was like hitting stone, not flesh. Josef slid with the blow, letting his momentum carry him past Sted. The moment he was behind the larger man, Josef flipped his swords, turning and thrusting them into Sted’s back. Again, the blades struck true, and again that horrible reverberation went up his arm, only this time it was accompanied by a sharp crack. Josef’s eyes widened, and he jumped, landing in a crouch on a crate several feet away.

He held his swords in front of him, grimacing at the two inches missing from the top of his left-hand weapon. The tip had snapped clean off, leaving a square nub where the point should have been. But Sted, who had just taken four killing blows, stood the same as ever. He looked over his shoulder at Josef, and then reached behind him,
picking the broken tip of Josef’s sword out of his coat. Beneath the holes the swords had torn when they entered, his skin was smooth and whole.

When he turned, Josef saw Sted’s side was also uninjured, the skin not even reddened from the strike. Sted’s grin grew wider as he watched the realization sink in.

“You know,” he said slowly, tossing the broken sword tip casually in his hand, “when you get an invitation to join the League of Storms, they give you a gift, sort of a consolation prize for leaving your life behind. Some guys choose a longer life, some choose an endless supply of beautiful women, some just want to get drunk with no consequences.
I
didn’t want any of that. Instead, I asked for skin that couldn’t be cut.” He grabbed the sword tip midtoss and jabbed the broken end straight into the soft flesh below his wrist. Josef flinched, but the jagged metal slid harmlessly over Sted’s skin without leaving so much as a scratch. Point made, Sted tossed the sword tip over his shoulder, where it clattered across the unseen crates and vanished into the dark.

“I probably should have told you that before you agreed to the fight,” Sted said, sinking into a combat stance for the first time. “You can still run if you want.”

Josef’s answer to that was to lob his broken sword right at Sted’s head. Sted dodged easily, but Josef was already moving, running along the crates. He flipped a knife into his empty hand and, before Sted could turn to face him, launched himself at the larger man.

Again, Sted didn’t try to dodge. Josef came in high, aiming for Sted’s shoulder. But then, at the very last second, he switched up and thrust his knife hand up, stabbing not for the shoulder, but straight at Sted’s left eye.

Sted caught Josef’s arm before the blow could land, and he heaved the swordsman off. Josef landed with a crash in a pile of crates, filling the air with dust. Sted watched where he had landed cautiously, but when the dust cleared, there was Josef. He was sitting cross-legged on the splintered crates with both his blades still in his hands, and looking enormously pleased with himself.

“So,” he said, grinning. “Judging from that little display, uncuttable skin doesn’t account for the eyes. I wonder what other parts your ‘gift’ missed?”

Sted grinned back. “Why don’t you come see?”

Josef leaped forward. This time, he went for Sted’s grinning mouth, holding his sword like a spear. Just as he was about to land, Sted drew his own sword, the great iron monster at his side, and met Josef’s blow with one of his own. The two swords crashed in a shower of sparks, and Josef’s blade shattered. Sted carried the blow, striking Josef straight across his now-unguarded chest.

Josef grunted as the jagged blade bit through his shirt and into his skin. He felt his ribs crack as the impact of Sted’s strike blew through him, and then he was flying backward in free fall. He hit the wall with another blow that knocked what little breath he had left from his lungs and toppled to the ground. For a moment, he felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. Then, finally, his lungs thundered back to life, and pain exploded through him. He lay gasping for a moment, barely aware of Sted’s hulking shape as the man came to stand over him, holding his enormous, jagged sword in one steady hand.

“The skin wasn’t the only gift I got.” Sted’s voice was far away as Josef tried to roll over, tried and failed. He
looked up, his blurry vision barely making out the shape of Sted’s sword as he held it over Josef’s prone body.

“Meet Dunolg,” the enormous man grinned, “the Iron Avalanche.”

Josef groaned and dropped his broken sword. Normal blades were no use against an awakened sword. He’d already learned that the hard way. Nothing for it now, he thought bitterly. He’d have to use the Heart. But the great sword was all the way across the room, and Sted was already raising his blade for the final blow.

Then, just as Josef was trying to think of a way to dodge, his fingers brushed familiar fabric, and he had an idea. Sted dropped his sword down on Josef’s bleeding chest, but just before the blow landed, Josef grabbed the wrapped bundle of the Fenzetti blade and held it over him. Sted’s sword crashed down, the jagged edge meeting the wrapped fabric with a deep, golden sound, like a great bell. For a moment, the swordsmen stared at each other as the sound rang through them, and the cloth fell away to reveal the bone-white blade holding back the jagged black one.

Josef used the moment of confusion to roll out of the way, sliding the Fenzetti’s dull blade along Sted’s with a shower of red sparks. He came up on his feet with the sword in front of him. His breath was back, his chest aching but bearable, and, most important, he was holding a sword Sted couldn’t break. The Fenzetti sat awkward and heavy in his hands, but he held it steady, watching as Sted turned to face him.

“What kind of sword is that?” Sted spat. “It doesn’t even have a cutting edge.”

“A cutting edge is hardly necessary for you,” Josef
answered. “Since I can’t cut you, we’ll see how you stand up to bludgeoning.”

Sted glared at him. “I didn’t give you this deal so that we could play-fight with dull sticks.” He stood aside, pointing at the enormous black blade in the corner, still leaning where Josef had left it. “Pick up the Heart,” Sted growled. “Stop this dancing and give me a real fight.”

Josef just grinned and brandished the Fenzetti blade, leaning in to balance the skewed weight. “The Heart is my sword,” he said. “I use it when I choose. You challenged me; you fight by my rules.”

Sted stabbed his sword into the wooden floor. “That’s how you want it?” He took off his coat, throwing it on the ground. It landed with a great crash, and Josef realized with a grimace that it was weighted, enormously so if the dent it made on the floor was any indication.

“That’s how you want it,” Sted shouted again, flexing his now-bare shoulders and rocking his head from side to side, cracking his neck in a hail of popping bones. “All right, little swordsman.” He grabbed his sword again. “Here I come.”

Josef barely had time to raise his sword before Sted was on top of him, the jagged blade flashing and flying across the Fenzetti’s bone-white surface. He pushed Josef back, and back again, raining a flying onslaught of jagged teeth across the dull blade of the Fenzetti. It took every ounce of Josef’s skill just to keep away, and even when Sted’s openings were enormous, which was common, the man was throwing everything into his attack, and Josef couldn’t break away from his defense long enough to take advantage of them. Sted was laughing now, pushing Josef back faster and faster with each blow, taunting him endlessly.

The Fenzetti, however, was living up to Slorn’s promise. No matter how hard Sted attacked, no matter what angle his blade hit the uneven, bone-colored edge, the Fenzetti never faltered. It formed an impenetrable wall in front of Josef, so long as he was fast enough to block. That, Josef thought, gritting his teeth, was the hard part. The sword’s unevenness and bad balance pulled at his muscles, but he didn’t dare slow down. Still, he was quickly using up his strength, and at this rate it was only a matter of time before he made a mistake. When that happened, it would be over.

“Yes,” Sted said, laughing, as his sword flew. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve seen it in every man’s eyes, right before the end.” He thrust straight and then cut left, forcing Josef to overreach in the scramble to guard his shoulder. “It’s just one missed block, and down you go.” Sted switched up his attack again. “After that, there’s nothing left to do but butcher the girl. I’ll cut the seed right out of her heart.” Sted followed his words with a thrust that sent Josef spinning backward from the force.

Josef stumbled, looking for footing, and his feet touched something yielding. He threw his weight at the last minute and glanced down in surprise to see that he was standing over Nico. He hadn’t realized they’d come back around the room. She was still exactly as she had fallen. Only her eyes moved. They looked at him, bright and wide and filled with an emotion he couldn’t name but that he felt all the way to his core. The desperate need to fight, to live.

Sted was charging again, and Josef jumped to the side, leading him away from Nico, but the look in her eyes followed him, and, slowly, shame began to grow in his mind.
All this time, from the moment he first found her dying in the mountains, she’d struggled to keep living, to never lose the battle against the dark creature that lived inside her. And here he was, playing, throwing that struggle away because of his pride. Because he didn’t want the Heart to win for him again.

He looked down at the crooked sword in his hands, at the white metal that turned awkwardly in his grip. He couldn’t win like this. He wasn’t good enough to win like this, not yet, but that didn’t mean he was free to lose. After all—he turned, letting Sted drive him toward the far corner of the warehouse—this wasn’t just his battle anymore.

On Sted’s next blow, Josef let go of the Fenzetti. It flew out of his hands, and Sted, not expecting the sudden lack of resistance, fell off balance. It was only a moment, but it was enough. Josef sprang backward, reaching for what he couldn’t see but knew was there. For a moment he felt nothing, and then his fingers closed around the wrapped hilt of the Heart of War. Grinning, he brought the black blade around. The cloth unraveled like a veil, fluttering away into the dark to reveal the black, pitted blade. Its matte surface was impossibly old, crisscrossed with the scars of ancient battles no one but the blade itself remembered anymore. It sat confident and comfortable in Josef’s hand, the blade perfectly balanced against his weight, ready.

Sted grinned like a mad dog and, swinging his sword in an arc, took up a fencing position, the first Josef had seen him use.

“Now,” Sted growled. “Now we will fight. Now we will have the kind of battle worth dying for.”

As he spoke, his sword began to glow brighter. Its light swelled red-silver, the color of blood in cold water, filling the room. The Heart, however, stayed as dark as ever, but the feel of it, the endless strength, flowed in a torrent down Josef’s arms as he raised the blade for a swing.

What happened next happened in an instant. Josef charged forward, gripping the Heart’s long hilt with both hands. He was moving with the Heart’s impossible speed now, the kind of speed where the air is like jelly, and everything, every step, every heartbeat, slows to a painful crawl. Even so, even as he barreled down on top of him, Josef saw Sted lift his sword, setting it across his chest to block the Heart’s blow. It was the first defensive position he’d taken in the entire fight, and he took it just in time as the Heart, and the mountain of force behind it, crashed into him.

Time snapped back as they collided, and there was an enormous crash. Sparks flew from the clashing blades while wood and debris went everywhere as Sted’s braced feet ripped the floorboards to pieces, fighting to stop Josef’s momentum. Finally, halfway across the room from where Josef had struck, they stopped in a great cloud of dust. Josef stood panting. He could barely see anything, but the Heart was still in his hand, and he could see Sted’s crouched outline below him. It was over. No sword, awakened or not, had ever taken a full-on blow from the Heart and survived. And yet, even as the thought floated through his head, the dust began to settle, and his eyes widened. There, beneath the Heart’s blade, was Sted’s jagged sword, bent where the Heart had struck, but not broken. Its light shone brighter and hungrier than ever, and behind it was Sted, baring his teeth in triumph.