The Legend Of Eli Monpress

by Rachel Aaron

  “Eli,” it said. “It is good to see you.”

  Eli pulled his coat closed, covering his now unmarred chest. “You, too, old friend.”

  Miranda could not believe what she was seeing. The enormous spirit glowed like the heart of a smith’s fire, but the solidity and weight reminded her of Master Banage’s great stone spirits. The heat coming off it was more powerful than Kirik’s at full burn, and the giant hadn’t even done anything yet.

  “A lava spirit,” she said, not bothering to hide the amazement in her voice. “I’ve never met a wizard who could take one as a servant, not even Master Banage.”

  “You still haven’t met one,” Eli said. “Karon isn’t a servant. He’s my companion.”

  “But,” Miranda gaped, “how do you control him?”

  “I don’t,” Eli said, grinning. “I ask.”

  The enormous, burning spirit looked from Eli to Miranda, then back again. “You’re keeping strange company these days,” he rumbled.

  “Only temporarily,” Eli assured him. “Now, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I need these doors open.”

  Karon glared at the doors. “That’s a powerful command they’re under. I may have to kill them.”

  “At this point, that might be a mercy,” Eli muttered. He looked at Miranda, whose distress was obvious, and he sighed. “Be gentle, if you can. The Spiritualists have always been a bunch of bleeding hearts.”

  Karon nodded and turned to the doors. Miranda could feel them shaking through the marble, still too scared to open even when faced with death. As the lava spirit stepped forward, Nico and Eli retreated behind one of the support pillars, and, a moment later, Miranda followed. The hall shook as the lava spirit positioned himself in front of the trembling doors. Karon pounded his fists together a few times, getting them white hot. Then, with a hiss, he slammed his glowing hands into the quivering metal. The doors screamed when he made contact, filling the air with the bloody stench of iron. Melting gold flowed in glowing rivers down the door’s surface as the remaining scrollwork and flourishes dissolved under Karon’s fire like marzipan dipped in steam. Karon ignored the wealth flowing around him and wedged his glowing fist deeper into the iron’s screaming heart. At last, the terrified metal could hold no longer, and the doors began to slip away. Iron dripped like wax from Karon’s fingers, falling in large, hissing black drops to splash against the stone floor. Back in the hall, Miranda huddled behind Eli, cringing away from the splatters of liquid metal and the smelter blast of Karon’s heat. Her left hand clutched the empty finger where Allinu’s ring normally rested. Never in all her life had she wished so hard for her cool mist spirit.

  At last, the heat faded, and Miranda felt the thunderous stomp of Karon stepping back. She peeked around the corner. All that was left of the golden doors of Mellinor was a gaping hole, its melted edges bleeding liquid metal onto the blackened, cracked floor.

  Karon looked over at Eli, who was admiring the wreckage from a distance.

  “Good work,” the thief said, nodding.

  The lava spirit’s face rippled in what Miranda guessed was a smile. Eli strolled forward, stepping without hesitation over the still-smoking metal. “Very good work indeed,” he said, grinning up at Karon. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like it if you could hang around a bit longer. I have a feeling I’ll need your help again sooner than I’d like.”

  Karon nodded and squatted by the ruined doors, watching with intent as Eli stepped over the smoking threshold.

  Beyond the circle of Karon’s ambient glow, the throne room was as dark as the treasury had been. Miranda stepped forward, squinting against Karon’s glare, and, as her eyes adjusted, the room began to take shape. The first thing she noticed was that the royal banners that had lined the far wall were gone. So were the elegant lamps, chairs, and end tables that had once ringed the open room. In their place, the entire contents of the treasury—golden statues, jewelry, weaponry, overturned chests of embroidered silk, everything—had been stacked along the walls in sloppy piles. But most upsetting of all was what lay directly ahead of them. At the far end of the room, at the foot of the dais steps, the gilded throne of Mellinor lay on its side, broken and splintered, as if it had been kicked off its perch. In its place, standing like a trophy at the top of the tall dais, was a squat, gray pillar.

  CHAPTER

  22

  The two swordsmen stared at each other long after the sounds of the footsteps of the fleeing wizards had faded. Coriano held his white sword delicately in front of him, the blade shimmering with its own pearly brilliance. Brighter than the lantern at the bounty hunter’s feet, the sword glowed like the moon in the dark, empty treasury. Josef kept his eyes even with it, letting them adjust to the light.

  Coriano took an experimental step forward, but Josef’s only response was to tighten his grip on the heavy beam and hold his ground. Coriano stepped back again, resting his sword wearily on his shoulder. “You can drop your oversized matchstick,” he said. “I’m not going to roll over when you come swinging like those fools in the hallway. Draw your sword.”

  “You set all this up just to fight me,” Josef said. “Well, here’s your chance. Come when you’re ready.”

  Coriano chuckled. “You think this is about you? Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Liechten. You are just the trappings. You know what I’m after.” His good eye flicked up and focused just above Josef’s left shoulder, where the Heart of War’s hilt waited. “Draw.”

  “The Heart is my sword,” Josef said. “It chose me, so I’ll decide when to draw. If you’re so keen to cross blades with it, make this worth my while.”

  Coriano’s eyes narrowed, and there was no hint of humor in his expression when he raised his sword again. “Have it your way.”

  Coriano lunged, and Josef raised his beam just in time to keep the white blade from burying itself in his neck up to the hilt. The sword cut through the solid hardwood like it was taffeta, and Josef was forced to duck as the swing carried over his head. But Coriano was waiting. As soon as Josef’s head went down, the swordsman’s knee hit him square in the ribs. The blow opened Josef’s chest wound and sent him sprawling. He hit the stone floor hard and brought what was left of the beam up just in time to save his stomach from the next blow. The sword sliced clean through the wood again, but this time, Josef was prepared. At the split second when the white edge was buried deep in the beam, he twisted the beam. The blade caught, and Coriano’s eyes widened as, with one enormous heave, Josef sent beam, blade, and swordsman hurtling through the air.

  Coriano ripped his sword free and landed neatly. The beam clattered to the ground behind him, sending a shower of dust and splinters into the air. Josef struggled to his feet, clutching his chest, which was bleeding freely again. He drew his short sword and dropped into a defensive position.

  “You can’t be serious,” Coriano said, sounding almost annoyed. “You can’t really expect to beat my Dunea with that metal hunk. She was made by Heinricht Slorn himself, the greatest master of Shaper wizardry the world has ever known. She was forged to be a killing blade in the hands of a master swordsman. This is her purpose, her nature, and you would face her with a sword so deep asleep, it doesn’t even know which side its edge is on? Be reasonable, man. You won’t be able to land a touch, much less a blow.”

  Josef grinned. “Only inferior swordsmen blame their swords, Coriano.”

  Coriano’s eyes darkened. “We’ll see.”

  He lunged again. Josef sidestepped, sliding his blade along the flat of the white sword, going for Coriano’s knuckles. The older swordsman spun, and the white blade flew up to bite into Josef’s left shoulder. Josef gritted his teeth and dropped to one knee, spoiling the blow and saving his tendon, but the shallow cut was enough. Pain shot down his arm, and he felt himself going off balance. The cut had sliced through the leather strap that kept the Heart of War in place, and the enormous sword’s weight threatened to topple him. He twisted, slipping out of the harness before it could pu
ll him to the ground. The Heart of War rang like a bell as it hit the stone floor, and the entire room vibrated with the deep, clear sound.

  Josef didn’t have time to see where it had fallen. Coriano’s sword was coming again, a high blow aimed at his right shoulder. Josef dodged and swiped at the one-eyed swordsman’s side, hoping to catch him off balance, but Coriano’s white blade was there before Josef saw it move, and the top third of Josef’s short sword clattered to the ground.

  Coriano returned his sword to the ready position. “We’ve been here before, Josef,” he said calmly. “We both know how it ends. Pick up your true blade and fight.”

  Josef’s downswing caught Coriano off guard. The jagged edge of the broken blade bit deep into the bounty hunter’s leg, and only the older man’s speed saved his artery from being cut clean through. Coriano danced away, sword flashing. Josef grinned and swung his stub of a sword, flinging an arc of Coriano’s blood onto the dusty ground.

  “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 lik
e 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.