The Spirit Eater tloem-3

by Rachel Aaron

  “I know,” Josef said. “I fought him a little back at the hut. He’s got speed, shadow jumping, incredible strength, but I’ve sparred with you, remember? I know what seeds are capable of, and Sted’s on a different plain entirely, a lower one. He may be more dangerous now than he was in Gaol, thanks to that arm of his, but it’s a brittle kind of strength. He made a bad bargain when he left the League.”

  Nico pulled herself in tighter, and Josef looked over to see she was clutching her arm under her coat. “Don’t underestimate how dangerous he is, Josef,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t,” Josef answered. “But I also refuse to underestimate my own abilities. Even the crooked metal pokers down there will strike true if the swordsman wills them to. I know I will beat Sted, Nico. My only worry about this whole business is what happens when I do.” He heaved a frustrated sigh. “That part of things was always Eli’s job. I’m just here to fight.”

  Nico looked worried. “I don’t think he has a plan this time.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Josef said, leaning back. “Eli’s sleeves have more tricks up them than mine have knives. Well”—he shook his empty sleeve—“usually. But I’ve been with the thief a long time. If there’s anything he can pull off, it’s an escape. Trust him.”

  Nico lowered her eyes, leaving a lump of things unsaid in the air. Josef ran a frustrated hand through his short hair. He understood the silence even better than if she’d spoken. She trusted Eli to run, just not to take her with him. Josef gritted his teeth. He didn’t blame her for thinking that. It couldn’t be easy to trust the thief after the things Eli had said back in the cabin. But as he’d said, he’d known Eli for a long time, and for all his flaws, the thief had never left a companion in the lurch. It took him awhile sometimes, but he always came around. All Josef could do was put it out of his mind, focus on winning, and trust that today wouldn’t be the first exception to the rule.

  They sat the next half hour in silence, watching as the bandits hung every last one of the shoddy, pot-metal swords on the arena walls. It took a team of ten men to raise the giant log Izo had selected to hold the Heart. When it was fully upright, the log’s top was four feet above the arena’s edge, but a dozen from the sandy floor, too high for either Sted or Josef to reach. Josef kicked it a few times to make sure it was secure before plunging the Heart deep into the wood. The sword slid in easily, poking out the top of the pole like a trophy in a tournament. Satisfied, Josef returned to his seat beside Nico to wait. Tesset joined them this time, his face neutral as ever, despite his heated discussion with Sparrow.

  Neither Josef nor Nico asked him any questions, and he did not volunteer any information. Sparrow, however, had stomped off and was now sitting in Izo’s box, swinging a blue jewel on a leather thong and apparently talking to himself. Josef watched him awhile, and then put the fop out of his mind. Even if they were officially prisoners of the Council of Thrones, he had larger problems than Council business. Instead, he jumped down into the arena, circling and getting a feel for the sand, picking out some of the least warped swords to wear at his hips for the opening blows. Overhead, the sun climbed higher into the sky and the bandits began to settle into whatever seats they could find with a good view of the arena. Izo himself was up in his box, talking with the strange, thin man in black who seemed to be constantly at his side, while a bandit poured wine from a barrel into tall glasses. By noon, a hush had fallen over Izo’s bandit city. Though no time had been agreed on, everyone was waiting, craning their heads to be the first to catch a glimpse of Berek Sted when he entered the arena.

  “I don’t understand it,” Miranda grumbled, pressing her eye against Slorn’s leather-bound glass telescope and shifting her weight so that the root she was lying on would stop digging into her ribs. “And I don’t like it.”

  “What’s to understand?” Gin yawned beside her. “It’s an arena fight. You humans can be remarkably savage, considering your diet is mostly plants.”

  “Who lines an arena with swords?” Miranda said. “And my diet is mostly plants. I know people who could put your carnivorous ways to shame.” She shifted her position again, switching the scope to her other eye. “What’s Liechten playing at? There’s no way he’ll be able to reach the Heart from the arena floor if he leaves it up there.”

  “The man is a good hunter,” Gin said, his voice deep and approving. “If it’s up there, he has a reason.”

  “I just hope Sted doesn’t take too much longer,” Miranda said, getting up. “I’m going back to report to Slorn. Keep an eye on things.”

  Gin laid his head on his paws, patterns swirling lazily over his muzzle. “If anything exciting happens, I’ll let you know.”

  Miranda shook her head and started creeping through the undergrowth. They’d arrived early yesterday morning, setting up camp on the highest part of the rim of the stone canyon that shielded Izo’s camp from the outside world. It had been a breathless run. The legs on Slorn’s wagon weren’t there for show. The thing had scampered through the forest as fast as Gin could run, and Miranda still wasn’t sure who had been slowing down for whom. They’d cleared the distance from the mountains back to Izo’s in record time, slowing only when they reached the ring of patrols and towers that guarded Izo’s home base. There, creeping past lookouts, Slorn had led her to a place on a rocky outcropping both high and out of the way with a good view of Izo’s land. From the multiple flattened weeds in the hideout, it was clear he’d camped here before, but what had really shocked Miranda was what he’d left waiting for his return.

  It was so out of place up here among the scraggly bushes, she hadn’t even noticed it at first. Now it was always the first thing she saw whenever she came back to camp. Behind the bushes where Slorn’s wagon crouched was a large… something. It was squat and lumpy, about as tall as she was, and covered in a drab cloth. A line of empty barrels made a sort of makeshift fence around it, keeping her from getting a good look at its shape, but it moved sometimes, and she could just make out the sharp wooden ends of what looked like carved spider legs poking out from the edge of the cloth. Slorn hadn’t even mentioned it when they arrived, but something in the bear’s eyes kept her from asking, and she’d never found the chance to peek. She did wonder, though.

  As usual, Slorn was sitting on the stairs of his wagon, working something in his hands. It was roughly a foot long, round at one end and pointed at the other, vaguely off-white and soapy looking. At first, she’d thought it was the beginning of some Shaper project, an uncarved block he’d turn into something beautiful, but she never heard its voice and its shape never seemed to change. Slorn just kept turning it over in his hands, staring at it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

  He didn’t look up from the thing as she entered the clearing, creeping low even though she was well out of sight of the city. “How’s it looking?” he asked in his usual gruff voice.

  “No sign of Sted yet,” Miranda answered, straightening up. “Josef’s acting stranger than ever. He’s got them lining the arena with swords, really awful-looking ones. I’m no metalworking expert, but I can see the warping from here. Plus, he just put the Heart of War up on a stand like a trophy.” She stopped. “You don’t think he’s wagered it, do you?”

  “No,” Slorn said. “Josef knows better than anyone it’s not his to wager. Still”—he raised a hand to his muzzle, scratching it thoughtfully—“putting down the Heart is a clever plan. I wonder who thought of it, Eli or Josef?”

  Miranda gave him a funny look. “How is putting your best weapon out of reach for a hard fight clever?”

  “Think, Miranda,” Slorn said. “What good is the world’s greatest awakened blade when you’re fighting a demonseed who cares nothing for what it eats?”

  Miranda opened her mouth, and then snapped it closed. “Of course, that explains the awful swords. Metal with so many impurities is bound to have tiny, sleepy spirits, providing no meal for the seed even if he eats dozens of them. He’s set up the f
ight to protect his sword and keep Sted from getting stronger.” She nearly grinned at the simple cleverness of it. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  “Actually, Miranda,” Slorn said, looking up at last. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a favor. How strong is your sea spirit?”

  Miranda gave him a funny look. “Mellinor’s pretty strong. Depends on how much water is around.”

  “I see,” Slorn said, nodding over her shoulder. “And do you think Mellinor could fill those?”

  Miranda turned, following his gaze to the line of empty barrels around the cloth-draped shape. “Easily,” she said, turning back. “Why?”

  “I’m going to need some water,” Slorn said. “I’d been meaning to talk to a local stream about it, but I’ve run out of time. I was hoping your Mellinor could oblige me.”

  “Sure,” Miranda said, grinning. “What do you need us to do?”

  Slorn opened his mouth, but he was cut off by a low growl from the trees.

  “There’s Gin,” Miranda whispered, dropping her voice even though there was no chance of being overheard.

  Slorn nodded and stood up, carefully placing the white lump of whatever it was on the wagon steps before coming over to join her. They crept back through the woods together, sliding in beside Gin, who was nearly over the cliff edge in his excitement. One look and Miranda could see why. The crowd of bandits, who’d been thick as flies over the city for the last day, were pulling away from a cloaked figure walking in from the north end of town. Even at this range, she could see Sted clearly, a head taller than anyone else, and behind him, stumbling through the dust on a rope leash like a petulant puppy, was a figure she knew even better.

  “Eli Monpress,” she said, frowning. “He doesn’t look good.”

  “He’s fine,” Gin growled. “Just making life hard for Sted, which is the most sensible thing I’ve seen him do.”

  Miranda nodded and looked over her shoulder for Slorn, but the bear-headed man was staying back, keeping to the trees, his animal eyes large and sharp as he watched Sted drag the thief into the center of town. Down in the valley, a ragged cheer went up.

  Josef stood on the arena’s edge, eyes squinting against the noonday sun as Sted strutted into the center of town. Bandits scrambled out of his way, whistling and shouting. Josef ignored them, focusing instead on the figure stumbling in Sted’s wake. Eli looked tired and disoriented, but unharmed. That was good enough for him, and Josef turned his attention to Sted. The enormous man came to a stop at the opposite side of the arena and grinned a wide, violent grin at Josef like he was the only man in the world.

  “Well, Sted,” Izo’s voice boomed down from his box, “you showed up. Hand over the thief, and the swordsman will fight you on whatever terms you like.”

  Izo’s words hung in the air, but Sted didn’t even seem to hear them. He stepped out onto the arena’s edge before tossing Eli’s rope in the dirt. The thief scampered away as Sted reached up and ripped the threadbare cloak from his shoulders. A great gasp went up from the crowd, and even Josef’s breath hitched. Sted’s black arm was there, same as ever, but it looked almost natural compared to his chest. The black rot no longer stopped at the shoulder, where the arm connected. It had spread down, spidering across the enormous man’s chest in long, inky tendrils. The blackness poured into his scars like tainted water, eating its way across the remnants of his tattoos.

  Quick as a flash, Sparrow stepped out from behind Izo’s booth to grab Eli’s rope, jerking the thief off his feet. He twisted the rope around his hand several times before leading the thief over to the far edge of the arena where Tesset was holding Nico. Sted didn’t even seem to notice what happened to his prisoner. He stood on the arena edge, drinking in the fear and revulsion as it rolled off the crowd, grinning at Josef like a wolf that’s finally cornered the running stag.

  But Josef was too distracted to be intimidated. “Powers, man,” he said in a low voice. “What have you done to yourself?”

  Sted’s smile faltered a moment before it was replaced by a sneer. “Nothing like what I’m going to do to you.”

  He leaped off the edge, landing on the arena’s sandy floor with a thud Josef felt through his boots. Josef cast one last look at Nico and Eli before jumping down as well. Realizing they were about to get the blood they’d come for, the bandits began to cheer, but the sound was very far away. Here in the arena, Sted took up every scrap of Josef’s attention, leaving none to spare for roaring crowds.

  “I see you’re able to stand again,” Sted said, walking across the arena. “Finally found your courage, eh?”

  Josef’s answer was to draw the swords at his hips, swinging the warped blades in a whistling circle before settling into a fighting stance. Sted stared at him, his eager expression turning to one of disbelief.

  “What is this?” he roared. “What are those, fire pokers? Is this some kind of a joke?” He looked around, spotting the Heart high on its post. “I didn’t call this fight so we could dance, Liechten,” he growled, thrusting his clawed arm into the air, curved fingers pointing at the Heart’s hilt. “Take your sword and fight me like a man!”

  “Why should I?” Josef answered, looking pointedly at Sted’s transformed hand. “After all, you could hardly be called a man anymore.”

  Sted’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to butcher you like a pig for that.”

  Josef raised his swords, a feral grin coming over his face. “Try it.”

  Sted clenched his fists with a roar, and then he was gone. Josef waited for the step from the shadows and whirled to his left, catching Sted’s clawed hand in his blades.

  “I’m not like your coward girl,” Sted whispered as his claws began to eat through the steel of Josef’s swords. “I don’t hold anything back. Take the Heart and fight for real or I’ll kill everyone here, starting with you.”

  Josef glared at him through the quickly vanishing cross of his blades. “You might have always been a monster,” he said. “But you were an indifferent brawler and even less of a swordsman. I don’t need the Heart to beat you.”

  “Have it your way,” Sted hissed, and brought his demon arm down, ripping Josef’s swords in two.

  But Josef had dropped the swords before Sted had finished speaking. He jumped nimbly back, hands going out to grab two fresh swords from the arena wall. The crude hilts slid into his hands and he brought the new pair forward just in time. Sted charged with an enraged scream, slamming them both into the arena wall hard enough to knock Josef’s breath out, but not hard enough to break his guard. For all its power, it was a sloppy hold, and Josef ducked under Sted’s arms with a quick step, his swords flashing in the sun as they raked under the larger man’s right shoulder.

  Josef turned as soon as he finished the follow-through and was greeted by the beautiful sight of fresh, red blood running from two large gashes across Sted’s ribs. Even with his ears ringing from being bashed against the arena wall, he could feel the crowd’s roar through the sand. Had he been younger, stupider, he might have raised his arms in triumph, but he settled for a smile as Sted whirled around, hands going to stanch the flow of blood from his wound.

  “No more iron skin, I see,” Josef said, flicking the blood from his blades onto the sand. “You’ll have to be better than that if you don’t want me to carve you up, Sted.”

  He paused, waiting for a comeback, but Sted just smiled, his eyes unsettlingly bright, and removed his hand. Josef blinked. The blood was still there, slick and red against his skin, but the wounds were already gone.

  “Yes.” Sted chuckled as Josef’s eyes widened. “Now you see. If you mean to carve me up, you’ll have to hit much harder than that.”

  Josef started to answer, but Sted was on him before he could open his mouth, claws going for Josef’s throat. Josef blocked wildly, losing half his left sword in the process. He blocked again on the broken shard, but Sted was faster than ever. He flitted through the air, feet barely touching the ground thanks to the demon-gifted speed. Josef had n
o time to square his defense before Sted’s right fist, his human fist, slammed into Josef’s side. Josef coughed and staggered, but his remaining blade held true, keeping Sted’s claws away from him even as they sliced through the discolored metal of the sword. Sted roared and punched again, but this time he hit only air as Josef spun away, abandoning his sword, now skewered on Sted’s claws, and lunged for the wall.

  The first sword he grabbed came apart in his hands, the hilt sliding off the blade as soon as he touched it. Josef swore and grabbed the next one, spinning just in time to keep from getting pinned against the wall. The second he moved, Sted switched up. Midcharge he turned and kicked off the wall with his legs, launching himself at Josef.

  It happened so quickly there was no time to dodge, no time to block, so Josef did the only thing he could. Holding the warped sword with both hands in front of him like a spear, he dug in his heels and met Sted head-on. This time it was Sted who didn’t have time to defend. He slammed into Josef, sending them both crashing to the ground. Josef felt his shirt rip, followed by the skin of his shoulders as he skidded across the sand. Sted’s weight bore down on him, and he could feel the man’s monstrous claw tearing at the ground beside them, trying to stop the momentum and get control back, but Josef’s eyes saw only his own hands gripping the now-broken hilt of his sword, the warped, discolored blade of which was now lodged deep in the bloody mess that was Sted’s human shoulder.

  Ten feet from where they’d started, the slide stopped, and the moment he could raise his arms again, Josef dropped the hilt, clasped his hands in a double fist, and brought them down hard on the broken blade lodged in Sted’s shoulder. It worked even better than he’d planned. The sword had landed not in Sted’s shoulder blade, but inside the arm socket. Josef’s fists hit the sword like a hammer against a wedge, and Sted roared in pain as the blade lurched sideways, disjointing his shoulder with a sickening crack.