The Spirit Thief (27 page)

“One touch,” he said.

Coriano didn’t answer. He lunged with a snarl, and they began a complicated dance around the treasury. Coriano’s blows fell lightning fast, and it was all Josef could do to dodge them. There were no wasted strokes in Coriano’s style, every white flash was a killing blow, and only Josef’s instincts, sharpened over years behind the sword, saved his skin from a new collection of holes. He blocked when he could, but the white blade whittled his sword to shavings. By the time they came around again to where the Heart had fallen, he was down to a chunk of hilt.

Josef was panting now, and even Coriano was looking strained. He was leaning to the right, favoring his uninjured leg, but even though the pain must have been blinding, the one-eyed swordsman never gave an opening. His sword flashed like a silver fish, and Josef gasped as the tip flew across his chest, leaving a burning trail. He stumbled, and the broken hilt flew out of his hand and clattered off into the dark. A hard kick followed the cut, and Josef found himself on his back again, gasping painfully, with Coriano standing over him. The swordsman’s face was twisted in disgust. He laid his white sword against Josef’s neck, where the artery pulsed, and the blade’s light flickered.

“She’s angry,” Coriano whispered. “Angry enough that even your deaf ears should be able to hear her. All this time, chasing you through country after country, and when we finally catch you, this is all you can give us.” He flicked his wrist, and the white sword’s tip plunged into Josef’s previously injured shoulder. “You’re slow, and your guard is sloppy. You rely on gimmicks and refuse to fight with your full strength. Is this the master of the Heart of War?” He plunged his sword into Josef’s other shoulder. “The greatest awakened sword in the world, with all of humanity to choose from, why did it choose you?”

The white sword slid down his blood-soaked chest, and Josef bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

“You are a waste of time,” Coriano sneered, and, with a smooth thrust, he plunged his sword into Josef’s stomach. When Josef struggled, Coriano looked him square in the eyes and twisted the blade, wedging it deeper. “You’re not even worth dragging back for your bounty,” he whispered, his voice sharp and deadly as the metal in Josef’s flesh. “Lie here and rot, Josef Liechten.”

He yanked his white sword out, and Josef couldn’t stop the groan as his own blood ran hot and free down his sides and onto the cold ground. With a final disgusted look, Coriano turned away, casually wiping his blade on his sleeve.

He walked over to the Heart of War, still lying abandoned where Josef had dropped it. Its surface was ink black in Dunea’s pearly light as Coriano kneeled, running his fingers over the sword’s dull, dented edge.

“Not a whisper,” he murmured. “Not even a presence. Can this truly be the Heart of War?” He glanced over at Josef’s prone body. “They say it was forged at the dawn
of creation. The Heart of War is a legend that Dunea and I have dedicated our lives to finding, the greatest awakened blade, the ultimate test.”

He reached out and grabbed the Heart’s crudely wrapped hilt, but when he pulled, the sword did not budge. He scowled and pulled harder. The sword stayed completely still, as though it were part of the floor.

“The weight of a mountain,” Coriano murmured, rocking back on his heels. “It is the real thing, the true Heart of War. Only the hand it chooses can lift it.” He traced the hilt one last time, and the awe on his face faded. “How tragic that we should meet it now, when it chose so poorly.”

He stood up, sliding the River of White Snow back into her sheath. “The Heart will lie here, then, until it chooses a new master.” He looked sadly at Josef. “You, on the other hand, will be carted off and buried alone as a thief. A fitting end for the man who failed his sword and denied us our great ambition.”

He shook his head and turned away, limping toward the treasury door. Josef lost track of the uneven footsteps’ sound almost as soon as they began. The dim cavern was growing darker, and the cold stone pulled at him until he was as heavy and motionless as the floor itself. However, even as the sound around him faded, the mantra in his head grew stronger, one word echoing through his fading consciousness.

Move.

It had been there since he took the first blow, soft at first, easily lost in the heat of combat. Now, when things were still and his life was leaking out of him, it was deafening.

Move.

Move.

MOVE.

Josef closed his eyes. He had to be very close to death indeed to hear this voice. Finally, he answered. “I can’t.”

Get up
, it shouted, loud enough to make him wince. He turned his head slightly. The Heart of War was barely a foot away. All he had to do was reach out, but his arm would not move.

Take me,
the deep voice said.
Fight with me
.

“I can’t,” Josef said again. “How will I become stronger if I rely on you to win my battles?”

The strange voice sighed.
If you don’t draw me, Josef Liechten, you will die here, and this pathetic weakness will be the height of your achievement
.

Slowly, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, Josef moved his arm. Slowly, he dragged his hand across the stone floor, now damp and sticky with his blood. He reached out, one finger at a time, inch by painful inch, and gripped the long, crude handle of the dull, black sword.

Now
—the Heart of War gave a satisfied sigh—
we can begin
.

Coriano had just reached the iron treasury door when he heard the scrape of metal on stone. He looked over his shoulder, and his good eye widened. At the center of the room stood Josef Liechten. His head was down, and his wounds were still bleeding sluggishly, but he was standing straight, in a fencer’s ready position, and in his hand was the Heart of War.

Coriano turned and drew his sword. Dunea was quivering with anticipation, her light bright and eager, but the
Heart of War looked no different than it usually did, and Coriano felt a stab of disappointment.

“Is your blade still asleep?” he asked, circling. “All awakened swords gain their own light as they grow. I expected the Heart to shine like the sun, but you can’t even manage that.”

Josef didn’t respond. He stood perfectly still, breathing deeply. This close to death, he could feel Coriano’s sword—a sharp, cold, feminine, bloodthirsty presence. By contrast, the sword in his hand was heavy and blunt, but with that weight came the absolute knowledge that, when he swung, it would cut.

Coriano raised his sword. “If you disappoint me this round, swordsman,” he said, sneering, “I’ll take your head.”

He sprang forward, aiming high to strike Josef’s injured right shoulder. However, right before his blow landed, Josef moved. His actions were slow and deliberate, so different from his frantic dodges before. The Heart of War moved with him, following the curve of his blood-streaked arm. Together, they struck, forcing Coriano to change up in midstride, bracing Dunea with both hands to block the blow.

It was like being hit with a mountain.

Coriano flew backward, slamming into the wall. His ribs cracked like kindling, and only his instinctive reaction to tuck in his head saved his skull from shattering against the stone. However, before he could even process his body’s reaction, Dunea’s voice shot through the blinding pain, and he almost retched. The River of White Snow was screaming, her light undulating in wild patters across her blade, save for one section. Where the Heart
had struck, the white steel had caved in. Coriano could not believe what he was seeing. Nothing he’d fought before had ever been able to scratch his awakened sword. He opened his spirit without hesitating, forcing his calm over her panic, forcing her to straighten out. She extended slowly, reasserting her shape. As she drank in his calm, he felt her spirit sharpen to a cutting edge. He looked up and found Josef waiting, still standing in the middle of the room, the Heart of War held loosely in one hand.

Coriano pushed away from the wall, forcing himself to ignore the pain. This was it at last, their shared ambition, a true duel between awakened blades. His palms were sweaty against Dunea’s red-wrapped hilt as he took his ready position. This was what they had been training for. This moment was why they had chased Josef across half the known world. He held Dunea before him, and her light was nearly blinding. He’d never felt her so alive, so ready to strike. He brought his spirit as close to hers as he could and matched her killing instinct with his own, a musician tuning a chord to its true tone. When there was no more dissonance between them, he leveled her blade at Josef’s chest and lunged.

He moved faster in that moment than he had ever moved before. With his spirit fully opened and roaring through him, his body felt as quick and weightless as sunlight. Only Dunea had weight, a heavy, killing quickness that could slice through bone, stone, and steel. Together, they were on Josef before he could have seen their movement, sword and swordsman moving as one to strike the larger man’s heart.

Josef moved as if underwater, slowly and deliberately raising his blade. It was as though he lived in a different
world, where time was a physical thing, a sticky morass between seconds that he swam through like a carp, faster than sound, faster than light, and inexorable as gravity. Even at his own blinding speed, Coriano could only watch as Josef turned, set his footing, and lifted the Heart of War to receive Dunea’s blow. He saw it happen, and yet Coriano could not change his strike. He could not move fast enough.

There was a flash of blinding light when Dunea struck the Heart, and Coriano felt himself falling. He hit the ground hard, skidding across the stone until he came to a stop several feet behind Josef. He lay still, unable to breathe from the impact, and tried in vain to see where he was. The room was suddenly very dark. For a breathless second, he lay there in confusion, and then he felt the warm slickness coating his stomach, and he understood.

His hand was stretched out in front of him, still clutching Dunea’s hilt. Just above the guard, the white blade ended in a ragged edge of torn metal. The rest of the sword was in a dull, tangled heap a few feet in front of him, and though he reached out to her with the shredded remains of his spirit, the sword did not answer. The River of White Snow was broken, and her light had gone out.

Coriano’s anguished cry echoed through the dark, empty room, and Josef forced himself to turn. The Heart of War’s spirit was still coursing through him, and he had felt it tear through the white sword and into Coriano’s chest as if his own arm had been the cutting blade. Coriano was lying in a quickly spreading pool of blood. His shoulders were shaking, and his hand still clutched
his sword’s guard, the only part of the blade that was still snowy white. As if he knew he was being watched, Coriano forced himself to roll over. When his face came into view, his skin was as strained and white as his sword had been, marred only by the dark purple stain of his scar and a thin trickle of bright blood on his lip.

Josef could feel the Heart’s power receding, but before he buckled, he forced himself to take a step forward. He plunged the dark blade into the stone floor and rested his weight against it. “You got your wish,” he said, panting. “Was it worth it?”

Coriano’s fingers tightened on the ruined hilt, leaving dark finger prints on the crimson silk. “No,” he breathed at last. “Nothing is worth losing her.” He brought the broken sword toward him, clutching it to his chest. “But it was the only end that could make us happy.” He smiled. “Our souls will remember your name, Josef Liechten, and when we are reborn, we will hunt for you. Do not disappoint us…”

The last words were a hiss as Coriano’s final breath left his body and he lay still, Dunea’s hilt cradled against his chest. Josef watched as long as he could as the Heart’s power faded. As it ebbed, the pain of his wounds came crashing back, and his heavy, tired body faltered under the impact. He slumped against the dull edge of his blade, fighting to breathe.

High above him, through the tons of stone, the castle began to quake.

I
see you’ve ruined my doors.”

Renaud’s voice slid through the darkness. Miranda jumped and squinted futilely against the lava spirit’s light, but still she saw nothing. Only when Renaud turned his head could she see him clearly, standing on the dais by the pillar.

“They were ruined long before I got to them,” Eli said, stepping forward. Karon bent down and glared menacingly through the warped remains of the doors, casting his fiery light over everything. Miranda and Nico walked under him to stand beside Eli.

“Step away from Gregorn’s Pillar, Renaud,” Miranda said.

“Well, well,” Renaud said. “I told the lie myself, but I never thought it would turn into the truth. The Spiritualist and the wizard thief, working together.”

“Your crimes dwarf his, at the moment.” Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Give up, Renaud. There’s no sandstorm to save you this time.”

“I have no need for such childish ploys.” Renaud turned back to face the pillar. “Not anymore.”

“Stop!” Miranda shouted. “Listen to reason! Gregorn was the most feared enslaver who ever lived. He was not the kind of man to leave a boon for his ancestors. Whatever he left in that pillar will only hurt the balance between man and spirit that all life depends on, even yours, Renaud. If you use it, I guarantee the power you gain won’t be worth it in the end. Step away, now!”