The Spirit War (2 page)

“You know,” he said softly, “there’s a fine line between being determined and being an idiot. If you keep this up, I won’t have to lift a sword to kill you. You’ll kill yourself.”

Josef choked on the water. He tried to sit up, but he had no strength left in his back. In the end, he settled for lying back and letting the water trickle down his throat.

“Josef,” Milo said. “Give up, would you? When you’re as old as I am, you’ve seen enough of the world to recognize its patterns. You think you’re unique, but I’ve seen you dozens of times. Let me guess: You were the best swordsman in your village, or wherever you came from. Sword work came as easy to you as breathing, and soon there was no one who could give you a challenge. You took to wandering, fighting whoever was strong enough to teach you something. You’ve probably defeated a hundred men, haven’t you?”

“More,” Josef croaked.

Milo shrugged. “Your problem is you’re young. Impatient. You think that by beating me you can somehow jump to the top, but you can’t. You can’t beat me, and you can’t jump ahead. The sword must be earned, Josef. Strength that comes easily is no strength at all.”

Josef opened his eyes, squinting in the bright light. “I know that,” he whispered. “But I’m not fighting for strength.”

The old man’s face was too far away for him to focus on, but Josef felt him frown. “What are you fighting for?”

“I hurt a lot of people when I decided to be a swordsman,” Josef wheezed. “Let a lot of people down. That’s why I have to be the strongest.”

“Do these people care if you’re the strongest?” Milo said quietly.

Josef shook his head. “But they will,” he said. “I have to show them—”

His words broke into coughs as he choked on the water again. It didn’t matter, though. Milo finished for him.

“You have to be the strongest to give meaning to their suffering,” he said, tilting his head.

Josef nodded, breathing deeply as the coughing subsided. “I was the one who left. If I’m not the best, then I hurt her for no reason.”

“That’s a dangerous way to think,” Milo said quietly. “There’s a good chance you will never be the best. That you will die alone and forgotten, remembered only as a disappointment.”

“I don’t believe in chance,” Josef whispered. He looked at Milo and raised his sword. His hand shook as he lifted it, the sword sliding in his weakening grip. Josef forced himself to be calm, to be strong one last moment. The shaking slowed, and then, for one breath, stopped. That was when Josef moved.

He tossed his sword into the air, over Milo’s head. The old man’s eye went wide, but Josef grabbed the old man’s wrist where he was holding the water bottle, pinning him in place. Trapped, the old swordsman could only watch as Josef’s short sword flew through the air, spinning in wobbly arcs, and landed behind him, on top of the stick he’d laid aside when he knelt to help Josef. The blade landed sideways, bouncing away the moment it stuck, but the branch was old and brittle, and it was enough. The stick cracked with a soft pop, breaking into two ragged halves.

For a moment, all Milo could do was sit there, watching the broken remains of his stick rocking in the hot desert wind. Then he
turned and looked at Josef with a strange, bemused expression on his weatherworn face. Josef grinned back.

“I never stop fighting,” he said. “I’m holding you to your word, Milo Burch.”

“And I never go back on my word,” Milo said with a sigh. “Tomorrow, then. At dawn.”

Josef nodded and released the old man’s hand. He grabbed the water skin and drank until he drained it. When he was finished, he crawled across the baked ground and collapsed on a blanket just inside the cave, falling asleep instantly.

Milo picked up the broken pieces of his stick. When he had them both, he sat down with his back against the broad slab of scarred black metal that stood rooted in the sand and began feeding the pieces into the fire.

When Josef woke the next morning, the cave was empty. He took a long drink from the water barrel and helped himself to a breakfast of bread and dried apples from the swordsman’s supplies. When he finished, he grabbed his sword from where he’d dropped it and walked out onto the hilltop.

Milo Burch was already there, sitting beside the now cold fire pit with his back against the massive, black metal shape that dominated the open space. As Josef stepped into the sandy ring around the fire, Milo held out the sword Josef had thrown to break the stick. Josef took it, sheathing it opposite its brother on his hip. When they were both ready, he took his stance and waited for Milo to begin.

The old swordsman stood with a sigh, rubbing the small of his back as he straightened. But his hands were empty as he turned to face Josef.

“Wait,” Josef said. “Where’s your sword? I’m here to fight the master of the Heart of War. Let’s see it.”

Milo shook his head and laid his hand on the wrapped handle of the great metal monster in the ground beside him. Josef’s eyes widened. The black slab was enormous. He couldn’t even think of what it must weigh. A man Milo’s size shouldn’t even have had the muscle to lift something that heavy, and yet the old swordsman pulled it up as easy as a farmer pulling a weed out of new-tilled dirt.

“I thought we agreed, no more games,” Josef said. “What is that thing? Where’s your sword? Where’s the Heart of War?”

“This is the Heart of War,” Milo said, swinging the black blade in front of him.

Josef almost laughed out loud. “
That
is the Heart of War? That… that
iron post
is the greatest awakened blade ever made? You’re kidding. It doesn’t even have a sharp edge. It couldn’t cut paper.”

Milo smiled. “A sword cuts whatever its swordsman wants it to cut. The Heart is no different.”

Josef scowled. “We’ll see.”

They took their positions on either side of the dead fire. Josef readied his blades, keeping the man’s movements from their earlier fights clear in his mind. He almost thought the old man should have stuck to the stick. There was no way he could move fast enough carrying that enormous weight. There had to be a trick or something. Maybe the sword was hollow? Something that large couldn’t be solid metal, not if a human was meant to lift it. Still, the few awakened blades he’d beaten had all had their own oddities. He’d just have to push and see what happened.

“You know,” Milo said. “You don’t have to go through with this. I meant it when I said you were a good swordsman. Give you a few years and you could very well become the best, but not yet. The Heart won’t let me hold back. You should stop now, while you still can.”

“I told you before,” Josef said. “I never stop. I can’t stop.” He raised his sword. “Guard yourself.”

The words had barely left his mouth when he lunged. He pushed forward, slamming his feet down faster than he ever had before. He would get only once chance. He’d learned the first day that he couldn’t beat the old man in speed, but yesterday he’d proven he could still trick him. He’d seen the strain in Milo as he stood up. The days of fighting had taken their toll on his old body. Now, weighed down with that enormous sword, especially after so long fighting with a stick that weighed nothing, there would be a hesitation in his first swing as his body got used to the weight difference. That was when Josef had to strike.

He rushed forward, boots pounding on the sand, watching the old man’s arm for the moment he lifted the sword to parry. He had to parry. What else could you do with a sword that big? But the old man didn’t move. He just stood there, watching as Josef came closer and closer. When he was one step away, Josef realized he might have been wrong. The old man might be too slow to catch him. There might be no need to wait for the hesitation in the parry. Already his swords were racing for the man’s torso, one high, one low, and for one shining moment, Josef thought he might actually land the blow before Milo could move.

One moment, that’s all it was. And in that moment, Milo Burch attacked.

It happened so fast Josef couldn’t see the blows, but he felt them. There were three in the space of a second. The first shattered his left sword, the second broke his right, and the third hit him dead across the chest. That last blow knocked the breath from his lungs and sent him flying backward. He hit the side of the hill like a stone hurled from a catapult. For a moment, all he could feel was the rough ground on his back and the strange sensation of air against his chest through his sundered shirt, and then pain like he’d never felt before slammed down and he hit the ground with a sound that would have been a scream had he still had breath.

He floundered in the dirt, his whole body convulsing. Somehow, he ended up on his back again. That was when he saw it, though it took him several moments to realize that the bloody mess he was looking at was his own chest.

A deep, perfect cut ran from his left shoulder to his right hip. It was perfectly straight, as though he’d been cut by a razor, but so deep he had to look away. When he turned his head, he saw Milo crouching beside him, leaning on the Heart of War as he bent down to whisper in Josef’s ear.

“Worst pain you’ve ever felt, isn’t it?”

Gasping, Josef could only nod.

“This is the pain of defeat,” the old swordsman said. “You are dying. I have defeated you utterly. Even if I were to bind your wound right now, there’s no saving your life. This is the end. So now I’ll ask you: Was it worth it?”

Josef looked at him and wheezed, “Yes.”

Milo paused. “And if you’d known this was how it ended, would you still have broken the stick?”

“Yes,” Josef said, his voice little more than a grating of breath. “I would rather die trying than ever give up.”

“Is that so?” Milo said. “Then prove it. Take another breath.”

Josef grimaced and looked down at his sundered chest. He tried to talk, but he had no air for the words.

“I can’t,” he mouthed.

“If you can’t, then all your struggles to this point, all the pain you’ve caused, it’s all for nothing,” Milo said, his voice taut. “Take another breath, Josef Liechten.”

Josef closed his eyes and focused on his lungs. For an eternity, nothing happened. His body was going stiff. Nothing would obey him. He concentrated, pouring every speck of his consciousness into that one action. The pain was so intense now he could barely
think, but he felt his chest rise and fall, and suddenly he had air again.

His eyes popped open just in time to see Milo’s face break into a grand smile. The old man held out his hand, offering something. Josef blinked, it was dark and heavy and, he could see now, larger than it looked.

“If you walk the path of the swordsman, you will feel this pain hundreds of times,” Milo said. “You will never know a moment’s peace, even if you move to a hill in the middle of the desert. Your life will be brutish, violent, and most likely short but it will also be glorious. This is what it means to live your life on the sword. You said you would rather die trying than give up. Now you must try living, or die. If you want to live, Josef Liechten, then reach out as far as you can and take your sword. Rise a swordsman, the master of the Heart of War, or do not rise at all.”

His words fluttered against Josef’s ears. The world felt very far away now. Even the pain was going, but Josef could still see the black shape of the sword hovering high above him. With the last of his will, he lifted his arm. He saw his hand moving above him, his fingers stretching up to clutch the wrapped handle. The moment his fingers made contact, a voice deeper and broader than any voice he’d ever heard spoke through him.

Welcome to your rebirth, swordsman.
The words were more vibration than sound, but they were clear as carvings in his mind.
As you gave your life to become a swordsman, so did I give my life to become a sword. We are the same, you and I. Will you fight with me?

Josef could not speak, but the answer echoed in his mind.

I will.

It is done
, the voice said.
Welcome to your mountain, master of the Heart of War.

As the voice faded from his mind, so did the pain. Strength like
Josef had never felt flowed into his body. All at once he could breathe again. His eyes were clear and open to the world. His arms moved without pain, and he was able to stand enough to let Milo guide him back to the cave and wrap him in the blankets, all the while dragging the massive black blade behind him.

He fell asleep the moment Milo lay him flat, the Heart of War clutched to his chest. How long he slept, Josef never knew, but when he woke it was night and Milo Burch was gone. The cave was empty except for the bloody blankets Josef lay on, the water barrel, and a large supply of food. A loaf of bread and a water skin lay on the ground beside his head, and Josef ate greedily before falling asleep again. When he woke next, it was evening. This time he was strong enough to stand. He went looking for Milo, but the old swordsman was gone. There was, however, a message scratched in soot on the cave wall.

After fifty years as a swordsman
, it read,
I think I’ve earned the right to live my last few as just a man. Remember why you fight, Josef Liechten, and the Heart of War will never forsake you.

That was it. No name, no date, no direction. Josef smiled. Nothing else was needed. He read the note twice and then rubbed it out with his palm. He gathered the food and as much water as he could carry. Then, tying the great black blade across his back with strips torn from the blood-ruined blankets, Josef Liechten, master of the Heart of War, set off into the desert to become the world’s greatest swordsman.

CHAPTER

1

D
en the Warlord, unknowing owner of the highest bounty the Council of Thrones had ever issued, was bashing his way through a jungle. He ripped out the waxy green plants in wet handfuls, kicking the rotten ground whenever it tried to trip him. Insects whizzed by in the humid air above his head, flying at his eyes whenever they dared, biting and stinging and all the while buzzing, “Go away! Go away!”