Rachel Aaron - The Spirit Rebellion - The Legend of Eli Monpress - Book 2

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.