As she stepped under the arches, deeper into the arcade, the silence struck her. Compared to the heat and cacophony of the battle, this place was like a tomb. Every hair stood on end as she crept farther in, grip tightening on her shield and spear.
Daschla had entered here. Had she been quick enough to reach the other end of the tunnel and escape? Or—
About halfway through the arcade, the arches opened on either side to galleries of a sort. Satara was just coming abreast of them when a shriek rent the air and Daschla lunged from the shadows.
When Satara saw the blur of black and purple headed for her, she raised her weapons. Daschla's blade collided with the rim of the shield but only left a tiny dent in the dwarven-forged metal. Satara jumped back, thrusting her spear at the false valkyrie's heart.
She dodged easily, jumping high, her wings skimming the ceiling of the arcade as she leapt over Satara in one bound. Satara rolled forward and turned, unwilling to show her back.
"So," Daschla said, spinning her sword in one hand, "Astrid's new shieldmaiden. We finally meet face to face."
"I haven't been a shieldmaiden since your mistress killed my battlemother." Satara readied her spear for another thrust.
"Still sore about that?" Daschla lunged again, but Satara slid to the side and lashed out with her shield, knocking her strike aside. "You should be thanking us. Astrid deserved to die."
"All Astrid did was her duty. Your only duty is to yourself."
The false valkyrie growled, circling Satara in the blink of an eye and slashing. She had no time to dodge; pain exploded in her arm, flecks of amethyst spraying her and Daschla's armor. With a grunt, she turned, staying defensive with her shield up and her spear ready to fend her opponent off from a distance.
"My duties are different than yours," Daschla said, "that's all."
"Then you'll never be a true valkyrie. You'll always be the malformed, broken, disgusting creature Indriði created."
Daschla wiped her blade on her thigh, eyes shining with hatred. "I’m here to make a difference, not follow warriors to Valhalla and bear them mead." She bared her teeth, slashing again and missing Satara's shield by a hair. "And what will you do, hm? Be a little servant and do as you're told, or seize your own fate? What are you here to do?"
Satara ground her teeth. "I'm here to fucking kill you."
She lashed out, and her shield flew from her hand, the runes on its surface glowing as it cracked against Daschla's jaw. The false valkyrie staggered back with a grunt but recovered quickly, rocketing toward Satara with one hand outstretched and sword at the ready.
Satara's shield returned to her hand with barely a second to spare, and she was able to deflect the blade. But a blast of magic materialized in Daschla's palm, hitting her squarely in the face and sending her flying backward. Wind whistled in her ears, then stone cracked, fine dust falling as she collided with one of the arcade arches.
She ignored the ache in her body as she pulled herself up, just in time to dodge another blast of magic. It hissed and sizzled as it hit the wall behind her, death and shadow magic mingling to create a deadly missile.
Deadly to most, at least. Satara didn't know if she could die in Midgard—not by normal means, anyway. Still, Daschla needed to be put down. And if Basile's theory was correct, without Odin's blessing, it could be done.
The more injuries Satara sustained, the harder it would be. The more time she wasted. The closer New York came to chaos under New Gloaming control.
She charged forward again, meeting her opponent. Blade clashed against shield, then against the spear's shaft. It was no wonder Daschla wanted to fight at melee range, in the close quarters of the arcade. It was nearly impossible to hold her at range enough for Satara to use her spear effectively.
With a bolstering shout, Satara knocked her opponent back a few feet, following up with another shield toss. It found its mark in the center of Daschla's chest, then boomeranged past Satara. She gripped her spear with both hands, spreading her feet.
She could feel the magic pulsing through the ancient weapon. She could win this fight. She was a valkyrie. All she had to do was listen to the flow and let it carry her.
Be ready.
Daschla roared and surged forward, the cracks in her skin glowing brightly as she raised her sword. Satara blocked, using the spear like a staff, but Daschla twisted, bearing down until the tip touched the cobbles. She slashed again, and Satara narrowly escaped a beheading, ducking and rolling forward.
In one fluid motion, she unfurled to her feet and turned, blocking another strike. The blade bit into the spear's wooden handle but only left a small notch. Again and again, Daschla lashed out, and Satara blocked her each time, backing up.
"Hit me!" Daschla finally snapped, her voice shaking the arcade. "Hit me, you coward!"
If that was what she wanted…
Satara obliged wordlessly, thrusting forward.
The tip of the spear sank into the chainmail of Daschla's underarm, drawing an unearthly scream. Blood burst from the wound, coating her armor and the spear. As Satara jerked back, Daschla retreated, leaving a dark purple trail in the snow.
The false valkyrie's face twisted, breath coming heavier and fogging the air between them. Her lips pulled back like a wolf's, her pupils shrinking to little white points of light. "You fucking bitch," she rasped.
Keeping her spear in a defensive position, Satara stepped closer. She wasn't about to let Daschla bow out after one good blow. "Your one chance to prove you're worthy of being a valkyrie and I haven't even broken a sweat."
An easy taunt. And, Satara realized as she watched Daschla's face turn purple, a very effective one. She shrieked like a banshee, spreading her wings and shooting forward.
Satara tried to dodge, but Daschla clipped her shoulder, knocking her onto the cobbles. Before she could recover, the false valkyrie was on top of her. Eyes aflame, she discarded her sword and wrapped her hands around Satara's neck.
The pressure was much more intense than expected. Even though Daschla's soul was discordant, her strength matched any other valkyrie's, and Satara struggled to release herself. As she gripped Daschla's wrists, trying to buck her off, the grip tightened. Her vision blurred.
Panic snapped in Satara's mind. It shouldn't be this much of a problem. She didn't need to breathe, but Daschla seemed to be taking something from her that wasn't breath. The spirit magic wreathing her hands was weakening her; she could feel power draining from her into Daschla. As the power transferred, her grip became tighter and tighter.
She was fueling herself. She was using Satara's spirit to become more powerful. Was that what she had meant by feed? In that case—
The pain was too much to bear. Satara could feel her throat giving way. Almost nothing in Midgard could kill her ... but could another valkyrie? A valkyrie of equal strength?
Another surge of panic shocked her muscles, and she bucked again, exploding with death magic. It jostled Daschla, loosening her grip momentarily and interrupting her power drain, but it wasn't enough to knock her off completely.
Satara struggled, nails and heels of her boots scrambling and scratching against the cobbles beneath her. Daschla almost seemed to become bigger before her eyes, the cracks in her skin becoming thinner and thinner.
She's killing me...
Picturing the oblivion awaiting her, the one she'd sensed for Astrid, conjured screams in her mind. Alone—so alone, for the rest of eternity. Trillions upon trillions of years and more still. Her sanity slipped at the thought. She struggled harder, harder, desperate to escape that fate.
"The Wounded will come soon," Daschla whispered, her eyes cold, grip steady. "Lord Sárr will bolster my army and help us defeat yours. And when they're all dead, I'm going to feast on your loved ones."
"Like hell you are." A voice rang, rich and powerful, through the arcade. A voice ingrained in Satara's bones, in the grooves of her palms, at the roots of her hair. A voice she had known since the moment her soul had
winked into existence.
Daschla went stiff above her, grip on Satara's throat rapidly loosening as a sword—her own sword—grew from her chest, shining and slicked with purple.
A moment later, the blade twisted, and Daschla scrambled off Satara with a wail. The weapon slid from her middle.
Standing there, blade in one hand and staff in the other, was Priestess Amat.
Chapter Forty-Two
As Daschla staggered, Satara jumped to her feet. The world spun, but she grabbed her spear and called for her shield with a whistle. It was in her hand in a second, and she stood between her mother and Daschla, ready to finish this.
Daschla turned to look at them, clutching her middle. Dark purple blood poured from between her fingers, staining her front. She stood there silently, breath labored, for a few moments.
Then she turned, spread her wings, and fled the arcade.
Satara bounded after her, Mama close behind. She felt sluggish. Her body was so much heavier than usual, every step a challenge. Still, she followed Daschla back to the Mall, back to the battle.
She and Mama followed even when it seemed the false valkyrie was running blindly into the fray. As she passed spirits, they abandoned the battles in which they were locked to cling to her. She was drawing them to her somehow.
It wasn't until they reached a small, empty bit of green that Satara could actually see what was happening. Daschla stopped running and opened her arms wide, drawing the spirits—gathering them around her, closer and closer.
One by one, their translucent forms melted into her skin. Each time, she glowed brighter. She seemed to swell with power, the cracks in her skin tightening.
She was devouring them. Feeding. And, Satara realized as she watched her flesh and armor knit back together, healing herself.
When there was nothing left of the spirits but excess mist on the air, Daschla turned on Satara. In a half second, she was upon her. A swift, strong punch to the jaw knocked her back.
And it hurt. The world spun again. Satara remembered this feeling from previous battles, when she had been human ... from sparring practice with Astrid. This was the feeling of fighting someone who was much more powerful than you.
More powerful than she had been a few minutes before.
Satara threw her shield and released a bolstering battle cry. As her sister valkyir descended on Daschla, she turned to Mama. "Tell our defenders to corral the spirits away from this area. Daschla has to stand on her own."
"What just happened?" Mama demanded.
Satara gritted her teeth. Saying the truth aloud sent a jolt of ice through her body. "Every spirit she consumes makes her stronger. Soon, we won't be able to stop her."
"Incoming!" Edie shouted. She melted through the shadow of a large elm and rematerialized behind Marius, narrowly escaping the wave of spirits she'd lured toward him.
With a grunt, Marius lashed out with his plasma whip, cutting through a swath of unholy dead. As the whip came back, it curled and formed a shield, and a blade roared to life in Marius's left hand.
Behind his cover, Edie was in charge of crowd control, flinging gouts of death magic left and right.
But the defenders were pushing more spirits this way, like they were trying to separate them from Daschla for some reason, and Edie could feel her strength slowly draining. She'd only learned to control this power in the most basic ways weeks ago.
"Why are they coming toward us?" Edie called as she spouted another blast of death.
"It looks like orders from Satara," Marius managed between strikes. "To get them away from Daschla."
"Why?!"
"I don't know!" He spun and slashed again. A cone of sunlight burst from the tip of his blade, scorching the earth in front of him.
Even with his holy powers, though, the push toward them was overwhelming. He retreated, never turning his back on the spirits, and Edie followed suit.
"Can you hold them off for a moment?" he asked without taking his eyes off the mob.
"I can try."
Edie concentrated hard. During the battle in the Temple of the Rising Divine, she had done ... something. She wasn't even sure what to call it. Her death magic had coated the ground as a blazing blue sigil that had felled everything in its vicinity.
She could try to do it again, but it had completely drained her last time. She'd blacked out. If she could just—
A cry of pain drew her attention back to Marius. He sliced through the middle of a spirit in front of him but staggered back as it dispersed, his shield flickering out of existence.
A translucent spirit blade stuck out from between the pauldron and breastplate of his right side, buried in his underarm.
The weapon burst into wisps of spirit magic like its owner had, and Marius began to bleed. Strong, steady spurts of blood stained his alabaster armor.
That had to be an artery. With a gasp, Edie grabbed him by the other arm and began to run, searching frantically for somewhere safe to stop the bleeding. He tripped after her, dragging his feet, already weakened. All around them, defenders ran and spirits closed in.
Nowhere was safe.
She darted to the side, pulling him toward the nearest structure, a permanent stone bandstand. As they reached the side, she helped him sit at the base, pressing her hand tightly to his underarm.
"Edie," he whispered, face already ashen.
"Shh. Shut up. Be quiet. You're gonna be okay."
With shaking fingers, she unfastened his pauldron and let it fall to the side, but she couldn't get past the chainmail unless she wanted to undress him fully right here. This would have to do.
She pressed harder, trying to focus on the song his blood sang to her—gods knew there was plenty of it on her hands. It was sharp and warm and strong, and she closed her eyes, trying to become one with the sound, the smell.
By the time the blood stopped flowing, she was shaking. But with all her being, she pushed harder, trying to mend the cut in the artery. His tendon was sliced to shit, too, but it'd have to wait.
"Edie," Marius croaked.
"Relax!"
"No, Edie!"
She heard the spirit first. Its shriek echoed off the stone of the bandstand. When she whipped her head around to look, it was closer than she had anticipated, sword raised high in the air.
Marius grunted and fired a ball of light that hit it square in the chest, but when he lowered his hand, he was panting. She could tell from his eyes and the sweat on his brow that he was barely clinging to consciousness.
"Just rest." She brushed his curls away from his forehead, hand still clamped on his wound.
A moment later, another shriek echoed, and she watched helplessly as a mob of spirits dove for them, their faces twisted with hatred. Marius raised his left arm again, but only a few sparks belched from his palm.
No time to grab the Puretongue’s blade. Instinctively, Edie leaned over him, shielding him with her body.
Then, something blotted out the sun.
For a brief second, Edie thought this was the end. She was dying. She couldn't feel the pain, but the world was dimming.
But no—it was a shadow, and a familiar cold aura.
She looked up and saw Satara. Her wings were outstretched, shielding Edie and Marius as she fought off the spirits. Edie grinned, relief flooding her chest.
"Edie..."
For the fourth time, Marius said her name. She turned her attention back to healing him, but she could hardly keep the blood from flowing, let alone use any of it to heal him. He needed every ounce of what he had left.
With her free hand, she unsheathed the blade of truth and drew it across her wrist—not too deep, but deep enough. It was a clean slice; ruby blood welled from her pale skin. As she pressed harder into Marius's armpit, she concentrated on the brightness of it. Vitality. Oxygen. Life.
A chill raced down her arm. Before her eyes, the blood defied gravity, mistlike as it rose from her veins and slithered into Marius's.
Yet agai
n, Marius whispered, "Edie." His golden eyes looked into hers with the urgency of someone who was buckling under heavy weight, weight he was desperate to pass off. This time, she let him continue. "I want to— I have to tell you something."
Edie tried to focus on the call of the blood. "What is it?"
"When we first met," he said quietly, barely audible over the sounds of battle raging just over her shoulder, "I called you an abomination. I believed that was true. But ... over and over, you've proved you're not."
"Marius, it's okay. I know you—"
"Listen." The earnestness with which he looked at her made her uncomfortable. "The people who told me that were wrong. I was wrong. More than wrong. I've never known anyone as brave or as kind as you ... recklessly so, more often than not."
He reached out and clumsily grabbed a chunk of hair that had fallen out of her bun.
"Edie—"
"Hey! What's going on over here?"
Edie jerked her head up to see Basile running against the current of the battle, toward them. He'd gone full skeleton, but judging by his tone, she imagined that if he had facial muscles, he'd look very concerned. "Marius?"
It took a moment for Edie to find words. "He's hurt."
Basile looked from Marius to Satara. He raised one hand near where his lips should be, palm up, and opened his jaw. A wispy ball of energy floated from his mouth into his palm, and with a mumble, he released it.
The ball flew toward Satara and wreathed her weapons with more spirit magic, until they were glowing like neon. Her spear and shield cut through the unholy army like butter.
Basile turned back to Marius and Edie, crouching beside them to assess the damage. "You got this under control?"
"I don't know. I'm trying. One of them hit an artery. It'd be easier if I had some water."
The priest raised his head to scan the battlefield. Looking for water, Edie thought at first, though that seemed kind of absurd. But as the seconds passed, she caught on to the heavy hopelessness of his aura.
Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3) Page 44