Human for a Day (9781101552391) by Jennifer (EDT) Martin Harry (EDT); Brozek Greenberg Page B

lazy, but they spoke in earnest. He could not walk away without a proper answer, so he searched his mind. He knew words of battle and of mockery—words meant to wound and provoke. He’d heard his Master issue a thousand challenges, and watched a thousand men lured from their guard. He remembered how to fight with his voice.
    â€œMy betters,” he said, reciting an insult his Master had favored. “My betters do not eat themselves to death like pigs, then squat in the mud doing nothing of value.”
    Their faces flushed and their eyes grew wide. “How dare you!” they cried.
    The Master’s mind fell away as the leader came forward with an overhand strike. He moved without thought, drawing the Soulsword in a blur. Its steel glistened in the fading light. The man staggered as the sword sliced through tendon and bone, and his chest became a welling fountain of blood. He looked down, confused and horrified.
    Even as his foe fell to the ground, the Master flowed into a parry that knocked the second attacker off-balance. He grasped this one by the wrist, spun him around like a shield, and stopped a seeking spear with his body.
    The Master slashed down, opening the throat of the third attacker as the man struggled to pull his spear free of his friend’s ribs. The man fell to his knees, and his head slid off.
    Simple.
    The Master stood with his attention fixed upon the sword in his hand, smeared with lifeblood. The blade held immense power. Paired, the Bloodsword and the Soulsword could not be defeated: the corpses of three men gave that testament.
    Two, he corrected himself. The second of the youths was squirming, still alive. Blood turned his shirt to a sodden mess. He reached for it, and his fingers came away slick and trembling. He stared at his hand, disbelieving.
    â€œThis is death,” the Master said, realizing he needed to explain.
    The boy—he no longer seemed a man, but a pathetic boy—drew in a deep breath and coughed. Blood flew into the air and spattered the Master’s hand.
    â€œWhy?” the boy asked. “Why?”
    The Master pondered this.
    â€œWhy?” The boy’s breathing grew heavy and he trembled.
    â€œIt is my nature.” The Master raised the Soulsword high into the air. Blood dripped onto the boy’s forehead and rolled down his cheek. “It is what I am.”
    There was acceptance on the boy’s face. The Master put both hands on the hilt of the Soulsword, ready to thrust it into the boy’s chest. Wind whispered around him.
    Then he stopped.
    A terrified crowd had formed around them to watch. By their eyes, they had never seen such impossible, ruthless skill. They were innocents, even if some of them wore steel. The boy at his feet was one such, the Master realized. It was in his clumsy movements and his pathetic cowardice. He thought the boy had never shed blood, either his own or that of a foe. He was a fool to carry a sword—they were all fools.
    The crowd stared at him, and why not? His body was perfect in every muscle, unscathed by arrow or blade, newly born and fully formed. His skin was dark, his hair long, and his eyes crimson. He held in his hands the finest sword ever crafted by mortal hands, rivaled only by the Bloodsword—the only sword that truly mattered. Himself.
    And yet, not all eyes fell upon him. One of the women stared instead at the boy on the ground with fear and longing. Misery surrounded the old woman and no matter how the Master willed her to face him, she would not meet his eye.
    What was this hesitation? This cowardice?
    His thirst for death was gone.
    The Master turned his gaze to the sword, which quavered in his hand. He could not hold it still. “Why can I not beat you?” he asked. “I am stronger.”
    Finally, he lowered the sword and stepped away. The old woman ran forward and draped her arms around the boy’s neck, sobbing. Others in the crowd cried out, the silence that