The Legend of Eli Monpress(353)
“You see now, don’t you?” Sted laughed. “You’re right when you say I’m not a swordsman anymore. I’m so much more than that. So much greater than you or any pathetic human could ever be.”
“You say that,” Josef said, tossing the ruined swords aside. “But what happens when that black stain covers all of you?”
Sted shrugged. “Who knows? You’ll be dead long before that happens. After that, I don’t care.” He dropped into a crouch. “Come then, Josef Liechten. I’ll break your little swords until you’re forced to use the Heart, and then we’ll have a real rematch. Then we’ll have the fight I sold my soul for. Come,” he said and beckoned. “Give me my victory.”
Josef didn’t answer. They stood for a moment, sizing each other up. Then, in the same moment, they both moved, Josef dashing for the wall as Sted dashed for him. Josef got to his objective first, grabbing a fresh sword. Sted knocked the blade aside, his claws going through the metal like paper. He struck again and Josef ducked, scrambling out of the larger man’s reach. He’d dropped the ruined sword the moment Sted touched it, but he had another in his hand at once. He sprinted for distance, then turned and lobbed the sword with all his strength. The flimsy blade wobbled through the air, horribly off-balance, but it didn’t have to fly far. It caught Sted in the thigh, ripping into the flesh. For a moment Sted stumbled, then he was charging again, ignoring the sword in his leg even as Josef saw the black mark spreading beneath the rips in his trousers to surround the wound.
The moment he took to watch nearly cost Josef his head. Sted’s figure wavered in the air, and then the larger man was on top of him, raking his claw across Josef’s chest. Swordless, Josef did the only thing he could. He kicked Sted hard on his injured thigh, bashing the closing wound with his boot heel again and again. On the second kick the sword fell out, completely dissolved by the black mark that was spreading down Sted’s legs. Sted didn’t even seem to notice. He clung to Josef like a mad dog, biting and clawing, dragging the swordsman down under his weight. Josef’s legs began to buckle. Despite the flurry of clawing, Sted had yet to land a clean hit on him, but Josef could feel the sting from a dozen smaller wounds. Already his shirt was growing warm and damp as the blood trickled down. He had to get out, fast.
Josef dropped to the ground, going totally slack just as his old arms instructor had taught him in the earliest days of his training. It worked perfectly. He slid out of Sted’s grip like an eel, touching the sand with his hands for just a moment before ducking between the larger man’s legs, leaving Sted stumbling forward under his own weight. As he went down, Josef reached out, grabbed one of the discarded, ruined swords from the sand, and sliced the jagged, broken blade across the still-human skin of Sted’s lower back.
Sted bellowed and fell, landing hard in the sand. This time Josef didn’t wait for him to get up. He ran straight for the wall, grabbing for the next sword. But as he reached the edge of the arena, he felt a cold claw grab his ankle. He stumbled, slamming against the arena wall just as Sted’s fist slammed into his back. Grunting in pain, Josef fumbled for a sword. His fingers closed around the first hilt he found, but he was too slow. The hand on his ankle jerked up, and Josef felt himself lifted into the air. Sted rose from his crouch, holding Josef upside down by his leg, and then, with a great roar, he sent the swordsman flying.
Josef sailed through the air, tucking his feet instinctively toward where he thought the ground was. The world was a blur of sky and sand and the yelling crowd. Then he crashed into the dirt, and everything went black. For a second, Josef thought he was out. Then his breath came thundering back and he retched, coughing the gritty sand out of his mouth. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the enormous black spots that danced over his vision. Across the arena he could see Sted walking forward, kicking broken swords out of his path.
With a gasp that was half sand, half air, Josef forced himself up. His hands raced over the arena floor, searching for his sword. After what felt like a year, his fingers found the warped hilt, and he brought the blade up, holding it between him and Sted as he forced himself to his feet. Overhead, he could see the bandits cheering, see Izo sitting on the edge of his balcony with a worried look on his face, but he couldn’t hear anything. The blow had left him temporarily deaf. He took another breath and forced himself to focus, to tighten his vision until there was no more crowd, no more sting from the cuts on his arms, no more tickle of blood dripping down his chest. There was only him, Sted, and the swords. When he had his center again, Josef held the warped blade steady as Sted began to charge.