It was a sickening, pathetic sight. Sted was thrashing on the ground, struggling to get his clawed arm up to his shoulder to pull out the blade while his human arm dragged on the sand beside him, useless. He finally got it, dragging the blade out with a pained roar. He tossed the broken shard away, glaring at Josef with eyes both too large and too bright.
“Don’t look… so cocky,” he panted, clutching his mangled shoulder. “Our duel isn’t anywhere near over.”
“Our duel never started,” Josef said. “Duels are tests of strength and skill between two equal combatants. This”—he swung his sword, taking in the bloody sand, Sted’s limp arm, the roaring crowd pressing in along the arena’s edge—“this isn’t a duel. This isn’t even a fight; it’s a slaughter. You’re not even a swordsman anymore. You’re an animal, an enraged bull wallowing in the dirt.” He flipped the flimsy swords in his hands. “I’m glad I couldn’t use the Heart on you now,” he said. “It would be a disgrace to the blade to waste it on blood like yours.”
Sted’s face went scarlet, and he began to pant, squeezing his butchered arm until the flesh bulged beneath his grip. “I’ll show you a fight,” he spat. “You’ll eat those words with your blood before the day is through.”
As he spoke, a horrible sound spread through the arena. It was an unnatural cracking noise, like hollow bones snapping, underlaid with the wet, sucking sound of something being drawn in. Josef stared at Sted, horrified, as the black stain from his demon arm began to grow. It leached across his chest, sliding under his skin, pouring into the rivulets of his scars like a black, hungry tide. As it spread, the horrible sound grew louder, and Sted’s shoulder began to pull together. Muscles sprouted out, bridging the gap between shoulder and arm. Bones pulled together, joints snapping into place as dark skin grew to cover the wound. It happened with blinding speed. One moment his right arm hung limp and useless; the next, Sted was pushing himself up with it, the gaping wound now no more than a patch of discolored flesh over his healthy, functional shoulder.
Sted grinned a horrid, feral grin and raised his fist to thump his chest, which was now completely covered with the black stain. “Slaughter, you said?” His voice had a strange double resonance to it that made Josef’s blood run cold. “How do you intend to slaughter a man you can’t even wound?”
“The same way you take apart any animal,” Josef said slowly. “One limb at a time.”
Rage flashed over Sted’s face, and he leaped forward with a roar. Josef sidestepped the mad charge in one neat movement, bringing his swords down across Sted’s open back. They struck in a clean slice, but Sted didn’t even flinch. He dug his feet into the sand and spun around, his clawed arm angled to smash into Josef’s face. But again, Josef was too quick. He jumped back, bringing his swords up for another swing. However, just before he struck, Josef stopped, staring at his swords in amazement. The blades were unbroken, but where the cutting edge should have been was a new curve in the exact shape of Sted’s back. The edges of the metal were still hissing, as though the blades had melted on contact. For a moment Josef just stared, trying to understand what had happened, and then he heard the hated, hollow sound of Sted’s laughter.
“Surprised?” Sted said. He was laughing like a jackal, showing all his teeth as he tilted his shoulders, showing Josef his back.
The moment he turned, Josef understood. Sted’s back was the same as his chest, covered in the horrible blackness, including the skin where Josef’s strike had landed. The wounds were still there, still open and puckered and smoking slightly, but no blood leaked from the inky flesh, and the muscles flexed beneath it with no sign of pain.
“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.
“Powers,” Eli muttered. “Sted’s going to carve him into little slices if this keeps up much longer.”
“It is a difficult fight,” Tesset said. He was standing at the arena’s edge just like Nico and Eli, watching the fight with keen interest. “Liechten is the superior combatant, but so long as Sted keeps regenerating, he has the upper hand. Your swordsman will have to land a finishing blow soon or Sted will simply outlast him.”
Nico clenched her fists, her eyes glued on Josef as the combatants went around again. Tesset was right; Josef was bleeding freely from a dozen small cuts. His movements were still lightning fast, but Nico had been watching Josef closely since the moment she woke up on the mountain, and she could see the telltale signs of exhaustion creeping in: the way his eyes narrowed even in shadow, the sloping set of his shoulders as he swung his swords, the slight hesitation when he jumped. The two men had been going full tilt for almost twenty minutes at this point, and while Sted seemed as ready as ever, Josef was pushing his limits.
“Let’s hope they finish it soon in any case,” Sparrow said, swinging Eli’s leash from side to side.
