The Spirit Thief(70)

Miranda tried to run forward, but Eli’s hands wrapped around her shoulders and flung her with surprising strength against the doorframe.

“Let me go!” she shouted. “That idiot’s going to get us all killed!”

“Too late for that!” Eli shouted back. “He’s already going. If you interfere, he’ll have to watch out for you, and then he really will die.” He eased his grip a fraction. “Trust him,” he said. “Josef’s the best there is.”

Miranda wanted desperately to believe the thief, but at that moment a resounding twang cut through the battle as the archers in the back released a flight of arrows into the fray. She watched in horror as the arrows sailed over the crowd, almost scraping the smoke-stained ceiling before arcing downward straight at Josef’s unguarded head. Right before the barbed tips landed, they vanished. Suddenly, Nico was there, standing on his shoulders, her enormous coat swirling around her like water, the arrows clutched in her bony hand. She tossed them aside just in time to knock the next volley out of the air, effortlessly shifting her balance to match Josef’s swings, for the swordsman kept going as if she wasn’t there. Josef was laughing, moving in long, rolling arcs down the chaotic corridor, the beam flying in front of him and the Heart guarding his back. Whenever he left an opening, soldiers of all sizes and builds would lunge for it, only to be caught by a well-aimed kick and then swept into the wall with the others as the beam came down.

Miranda watched in amazement, not bothering to fight Eli’s grip any longer. “He’s a monster,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Eli whispered back. “That’s why the Heart of War chose him.”

When Josef’s path of destruction had almost reached the treasury door, Nico launched herself off his shoulders and began laying waste to the last few lines of archers, most of whom had dropped their bows and were frantically fighting with short swords. Nico moved between them like a shadow, jabbing each man twice between the ribs before he fell to the ground clutching his stomach, unable to do more than gurgle in pain. By the time she reached the end of the archer line, the remaining soldiers were fleeing in panic, stumbling down the hall as fast as they could and paying no attention to Eli or Miranda as the two stepped out of the shelter of the small stair.

The hallway was a mess. Soldiers lay slumped in moaning piles against the cracked stone walls, their bloody splashes obscuring the rolling mosaics. Still, while badly battered, almost all were alive and groaning pathetically as Miranda and Eli hurried past them. Josef sighed loudly, leaning the battered, bloody, but still intact wooden beam against the wall beside the treasury door. He was sweaty, dirty, and breathing hard, but he could have been plowing a field or digging a ditch for all Miranda could tell. There wasn’t a wound on him. Nico was the same way, leaning against the wall with a satisfied grin.

“That,” Josef panted, “was the best five minutes of this whole”—pant—“awful”—pant—“job.”

“Glad someone’s having fun,” Eli said, rolling one of the unconscious soldiers away from the door. “Now, let’s see if the reward was worth the mess.”

He took a step back and looked up at the enormous iron door with a low whistle. “Impressive.” He grinned wide. “Now I see why Renaud didn’t just enslave his way in as a boy. Sandstorms are chaotic and stupid, easy to control if your will is stronger. But metal, especially thick, old metal like this?” He rapped his knuckles on the door’s surface, making a strange, metallic echo down the ruined hall that only made him grin wider. “You’d use up all your energy just waking it up, never mind controlling it.”

Miranda stepped forward, running her fingers over the smooth, cold iron. “Can you open it?”

If possible, Eli’s grin grew wider still. “Who do you think I am?” he said, putting both hands palm down above the door’s handle. Miranda snorted, but said nothing, stepping back to watch him work. A moment after Eli’s hands settled on the iron, his expression changed from cocky to quizzical. He gave the door a push with his palms, and it swung inward with a faint scrape.

Miranda blinked in amazement. “I guess you’re not all talk.”

“High praise indeed,” Eli said, stepping back. “I wish I could claim it, but that wasn’t me. The door’s unlocked.”

Josef walked over to him and stared hard at the metal door, which was slowly drifting open under its own weight. “You realize,” he said quietly, “this is probably a trap.”