The Spirit Rebellion (40 page)

“Is that all?” he roared.

And then he pushed back, throwing his tremendous strength into his sword until Josef was the one crouching under him.

Josef rolled before the man’s weight could crush him completely, his mind spinning wildly. How had his attack not worked? The Heart was unbeatable. It never lost. Sted should be dead, but he was on the attack wilder than ever, and Josef had to scramble to knock his blows away. Once again, Josef was falling back, but the Heart was not the unbalanced stick the Fenzetti had been. It danced in his grip, blocking Sted’s blows and then snaking up to strike the gaping openings in Sted’s defense. But even the Heart’s blows slid off Sted’s impenetrable skin. Josef struck again and again, harder and harder, but it did no good. Sted’s skin remained unmarred. Sted’s attacks, however, were beginning to get through. The long fight with the Fenzetti, his earlier wound, the enormous initial blow with the Heart, it was all taking its toll. Josef could feel himself getting slower, and cuts began to appear on his body as his parries grew closer and closer.

With every new cut, Sted’s smile fell farther, and his blows grew more vicious. “Come on,” he said, dragging his jagged sword across Josef’s shoulder, leaving a deep trail of jagged cuts. “Come
on
. You’re just swinging your sword. Fight me! Show me the Heart of War!”

He crashed an overhanded blow down on Josef’s head as he said this, forcing Josef to duck and roll. Josef was openly panting now. Blood ran down his sides, hot and slick under his shirt, but there was no time to stanch it. Every ounce of strength went into keeping Sted’s sword away.

“How disappointing,” Sted sneered, catching the Heart’s edge and dragging Josef up until they were eye to eye. “You’re not even a swordsman, are you? You’re just a man with a
sword
.”

He screamed the last word, matching it with a thrust at Josef’s unprotected stomach. This time, it was too fast. Josef couldn’t dodge. The jagged sword bit into him, and pain exploded. His vision went dark, his mind blanked out, and only his clenched muscles kept the Heart in his hand. Breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep his eyes on Sted, yet he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even raise his sword to block as Sted slowly, languidly, tossed him aside.

Josef landed on his stomach, the air crushed out his lungs, the Heart of War landing with a deep, resounding gong beside him. For a moment, Josef just lay there, not breathing, not moving, not knowing if he was dead or alive. Then air thundered back into his lungs, and reflex took over. He pressed his hand to his bleeding side, trying to stop his lifeblood from washing out onto the floor. He steadied his breaths and looked for his sword. It was right beside him, inches from his fingers. He forced himself to reach out. The Heart could get him through almost anything. All he had to do was touch it.

But when his fingers were a hair’s breadth away from the Heart’s hilt, an enormous boot came down on his wrist, crushing his hand and pinning it to the ground.

Sted looked down at him, his scarred face disappointed. “Just a man with a sword,” he spat. “And to think the Heart of War chose someone like you.” He knelt down and grabbed Josef by the hair, lifting his head up to whisper in his ear. “This next blow is for your sword. An act
of mercy. I’m going to set it free from such an unworthy master. Who knows”—he grinned against Josef’s skin—“maybe it will choose me.”

“The Heart wouldn’t have anything to do with you,” Josef growled, spitting the words.

Sted dropped him back onto the floor. “How would you know?” he said, turning Josef over with his foot so that he was lying on his back. “You aren’t even strong enough to protect a little girl.”

And with that, he brought his jagged sword down on Josef’s stomach. Josef cried out in pain, a hitching, sobbing sound. Sted just held him down with his boot, pushing the sword in deeper. When Josef stopped struggling, Sted pulled his blade out and slung it in an arc, flinging Josef’s blood across the room.

He picked up his cast-off coat and wiped his blade clean. Then he turned and started toward Nico, the clomp of his boots the only noise in the warehouse. He walked with his sword out, the curved blade awake and glowing hungry red. Yet, for all that he was her death walking to meet her, the girl wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were focused on the swordsman’s body.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, her hand twitched. Her head moved very slightly off the ground before being slammed down again. Her leg kicked a fraction, like a child’s in the womb. Sted saw this, and walked a little faster.

“I’m impressed you can move under the weight of the command,” he said. “I’m told that takes a tremendous amount of will. You must have been a very strong wizard before the demon took you.”

Nico didn’t even look at him as he spoke, but her hand
edged forward, her short nails digging into the wooden floor.

“You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep trying,” Sted warned. He was a dozen feet from her now. “I’m no wizard, but the order you’re under has nothing to do with spirit talking. It’s a tool given to League members by the Lord of Storms himself, a sharing of his gift from the Shepherdess, or some such. I’m told it commands the spirit world’s inborn hatred of demons to create a crushing weight. Supposedly, with practice, a skilled League member can control its strength, make it less painful on the victim.” He stopped just short of her outstretched hand, grinning wide. “I never saw much point in that.”

He nudged her with his boot, turning her over, and held his sword above her exposed throat, just above her silver collar, which, for once, lay perfectly still against her skin. “Time to go to work,” he said, sighing. “May whatever is left of your human soul find peace with your precious swordsman in the next life.”

He swung his sword up in a whistling arc, and then brought it down. A great cloud of dust and debris went up as the jagged blade crashed through the girl and into the floor, obliterating everything. The deed done, Sted straightened up, swinging his sword back to inspect the damage. But as the dust began to clear, his confident smile faded. He could see the black outline of the girl’s body, clearly crushed by his sword, and yet there was no smell of fresh blood. He waved his arms frantically to clear the last of the dust, and his teeth clenched in a snarl. There, in the crater his sword had made, flat and empty as a shed skin, was the girl’s coat.

He whirled around just in time to see the girl,
surprisingly thin and bony in her torn shirt and threadbare trousers, clutch the swordman’s body before vanishing again into the shadows.

Sted snatched the shed coat with the point of his sword and tossed it away. “What are you?” he bellowed. “A damned cicada? Come out and fight!”

Silence was his answer.

On the other side of the warehouse, behind a stack of crates she’d scouted out yesterday as a potentially useful hiding place, Nico gently set Josef’s body on the floor. At some point after Sted’s final blow, his hands had managed to grip the Heart, which was the only way she’d been able to move it. The black sword followed no hand but Josef’s.

Quiet as a shadow, Nico pulled a length of dyed silk out of the crate beside her and wrapped Josef’s wounds as best she could. She worked quickly, tugging the bandage with shaking hands. Even though he was spirit deaf, Sted was a League hunter. Without her coat, it was only a matter of minutes before he found her.

She looped the crooked bandage over Josef’s chest one last time and tied it tight. The blood was already seeping through, but it would have to do. She was out of time.

Nico ran her hand over Josef’s face, feeling his dim, ragged breath on her fingers. “Keep breathing,” she whispered. “This time, I’ll save you.”

With that, she vanished, skipping through the shadows to the far end of the warehouse. She reappeared behind the pile of splintered wood Josef had crashed into earlier. Sted’s back was to her. He was standing near where she’d hidden Josef, studying the crates. Soundlessly, Nico reached up to the line of dusty tools hanging from the
rack above her and took down a heavy iron hammer. It woke instantly at her touch, and she could feel it getting ready to scream.

“Don’t.” The command was a whisper, but it was more than enough. The hammer froze in place, terrified, and Nico lifted it to her mouth, her lips moving against the cold, trembling metal. “Strike him quietly and true,” she whispered, “or I’ll eat you whole.”

She felt guilty as she spoke, and the image of Eli’s serious face as he held her sleeve flashed through her mind. Nico crushed the feeling. The thief had had it easy. He didn’t understand that survival meant doing what had to be done. Anyway, beating Sted and saving Josef meant far more to her than a stupid hammer. Decision made, she drew back her arm and, taking careful aim, threw the hammer as hard as she could. It flew unnaturally straight, balancing itself as it spun, and landed right at the base of Sted’s skull.

The swordsman stumbled and roared, whirling around to face his attacker. This time, Nico didn’t blink away. She stood her ground, staring Sted straight in the face as he raised his arm to throw the immobilization on her again.

“You said you wanted a fight,” she growled, dropping into a crouch.

Sted’s arm fell. “I don’t like to fight girls,” he said with a sneer. “But for that”—he kicked the fallen hammer—“I’ll make an exception. I only hope you’re more of a challenge than your guard, demon.”

Nico’s answer was to flit behind him and slam her fist into his back, right below his liver. Josef had already learned Sted was uncuttable, but every human had the
same organs. Still, punching Sted was like punching a rock, and about as effective. The League man didn’t even grunt. Instead, he spun with his blade, forcing Nico to skip away through the shadows or get sliced in half. She emerged panting on the other side of the room, shaking her hand to get the feeling back. Sted turned slowly to face her, looking cockier than ever.

Nico clenched her fists, pressing her buzzing manacles against her skin. Without her coat she could feel the spirits all around her, easy prey, easy power. She could feel the demon inside her waking, scenting food. The spirits were beginning to wake as well, to notice what she was, and she could feel the panic growing. She couldn’t fight like this much longer, and from the look on his face, Sted knew it.

“Jump while you can,” he said, walking toward her with terrible, slow steps. “Every power you use gives me more allies. Soon, you won’t even have a place to stand.”

As if to prove him right, the boards beneath her feet began to groan, working up the courage to snap and trap her. Nico leaped before they got the chance, blinking through the dark to the air above Sted’s head. Sted just laughed and raised his sword to block.

At that moment, deep inside Nico, in the places she never went, something woke, and the wailing demon panic exploded all around her.

T
he outside of the duke’s citadel was utter chaos when Eli, Miranda, and the elder Monpress finally emerged from the tunnels below. Soldiers were running everywhere, carrying rope and spears, far too busy to notice three people in the shadows as they rushed to get to the square. Squinting into the dark, Miranda could see why. Even from this angle, she could see the cobblestones moving like waves, chasing something she couldn’t see. There were clouds overhead as well, winds ripping across the sky, forming a tiny tornado right in front of the citadel. From the top battlements, she could hear the duke shouting orders, his voice carried far and wide by the spinning wind. He was shouting for them to catch something.

“Ah,” Monpress said, locking the door again behind them. “Splendid.”

“Splendid?” Miranda said, looking in horror as a sheet of roofing tiles flew off a nearby house at whatever was circling in the front courtyard. “This is utter madness.”

“Chaos is the thief’s best friend,” Eli said with a shrug. “Where’s our ride?”

“Busy, from the looks of it,” Monpress said, pointing at the courtyard.

“Ride?” Miranda said. “Do you mean—”

She cut off midsentence as Gin appeared around the corner, followed by a hail of clay roofing tiles. He was running full tilt. They barely had time to jump out of the way before he barreled past. He gave Miranda a wink as he flashed by, and she saw at once what he was planning.

“Get in a line against the wall,” she said, jerking Eli’s chain and pushing Monpress with her other hand. “Be ready to jump on when I say so.”

“Jump on?” Eli said. “You mean throw ourselves at the dog when he comes around again?”

“Pretty much,” Miranda said, hiking up her skirt and tucking it under her belt so it wouldn’t get tangled. “Get ready, here he comes.”

They all whirled to look at Gin. He was still running full tilt away from them with the stones right on his tail. But just as he was about to hit the tall bank that separated the castle grounds from the river, he dropped to a crouch and skidded to a stop. The stones, not made for high-velocity anything, sailed straight over him, landing with a splash in the river beyond. The moment they were over his head, Gin was back on his feet racing toward Miranda. She held out her hands, motioning for Eli and Monpress to do the same. The ghosthound ran low, and as he passed they grabbed on to the thick fur of his back. Gin’s momentum took them off their feet, and suddenly they were flying along with him down a side alley while the wind howled overhead.

“Letting yourself play decoy,” Miranda said, digging her fingers in a little harder than was necessary as she climbed into position on his back. “That was a foolish thing to do, dog.”