With every new cut, Sted’s smile fell farther, and his blows grew more vicious. “Come on,” he said, dragging his jagged sword across Josef’s shoulder, leaving a deep trail of jagged cuts. “Come on. You’re just swinging your sword. Fight me! Show me the Heart of War!”
He crashed an overhanded blow down on Josef’s head as he said this, forcing Josef to duck and roll. Josef was openly panting now. Blood ran down his sides, hot and slick under his shirt, but there was no time to stanch it. Every ounce of strength went into keeping Sted’s sword away.
“How disappointing,” Sted sneered, catching the Heart’s edge and dragging Josef up until they were eye to eye. “You’re not even a swordsman, are you? You’re just a man with a sword.”
He screamed the last word, matching it with a thrust at Josef’s unprotected stomach. This time, it was too fast. Josef couldn’t dodge. The jagged sword bit into him, and pain exploded. His vision went dark, his mind blanked out, and only his clenched muscles kept the Heart in his hand. Breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep his eyes on Sted, yet he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even raise his sword to block as Sted slowly, languidly, tossed him aside.
Josef landed on his stomach, the air crushed out his lungs, the Heart of War landing with a deep, resounding gong beside him. For a moment, Josef just lay there, not breathing, not moving, not knowing if he was dead or alive. Then air thundered back into his lungs, and reflex took over. He pressed his hand to his bleeding side, trying to stop his lifeblood from washing out onto the floor. He steadied his breaths and looked for his sword. It was right beside him, inches from his fingers. He forced himself to reach out. The Heart could get him through almost anything. All he had to do was touch it.
But when his fingers were a hair’s breadth away from the Heart’s hilt, an enormous boot came down on his wrist, crushing his hand and pinning it to the ground.
Sted looked down at him, his scarred face disappointed. “Just a man with a sword,” he spat. “And to think the Heart of War chose someone like you.” He knelt down and grabbed Josef by the hair, lifting his head up to whisper in his ear. “This next blow is for your sword. An act of mercy. I’m going to set it free from such an unworthy master. Who knows”—he grinned against Josef’s skin—“maybe it will choose me.”
“The Heart wouldn’t have anything to do with you,” Josef growled, spitting the words.
Sted dropped him back onto the floor. “How would you know?” he said, turning Josef over with his foot so that he was lying on his back. “You aren’t even strong enough to protect a little girl.”
And with that, he brought his jagged sword down on Josef’s stomach. Josef cried out in pain, a hitching, sobbing sound. Sted just held him down with his boot, pushing the sword in deeper. When Josef stopped struggling, Sted pulled his blade out and slung it in an arc, flinging Josef’s blood across the room.
He picked up his cast-off coat and wiped his blade clean. Then he turned and started toward Nico, the clomp of his boots the only noise in the warehouse. He walked with his sword out, the curved blade awake and glowing hungry red. Yet, for all that he was her death walking to meet her, the girl wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were focused on the swordsman’s body.
Subtly, almost imperceptibly, her hand twitched. Her head moved very slightly off the ground before being slammed down again. Her leg kicked a fraction, like a child’s in the womb. Sted saw this, and walked a little faster.
“I’m impressed you can move under the weight of the command,” he said. “I’m told that takes a tremendous amount of will. You must have been a very strong wizard before the demon took you.”
Nico didn’t even look at him as he spoke, but her hand edged forward, her short nails digging into the wooden floor.
“You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep trying,” Sted warned. He was a dozen feet from her now. “I’m no wizard, but the order you’re under has nothing to do with spirit talking. It’s a tool given to League members by the Lord of Storms himself, a sharing of his gift from the Shepherdess, or some such. I’m told it commands the spirit world’s inborn hatred of demons to create a crushing weight. Supposedly, with practice, a skilled League member can control its strength, make it less painful on the victim.” He stopped just short of her outstretched hand, grinning wide. “I never saw much point in that.”
He nudged her with his boot, turning her over, and held his sword above her exposed throat, just above her silver collar, which, for once, lay perfectly still against her skin. “Time to go to work,” he said, sighing. “May whatever is left of your human soul find peace with your precious swordsman in the next life.”