Page 40 of Swordheart #1

A spear like that, in the proper hands, could be far more lethal than a sword, as Sarkis happened to know.

One of the lower scars in the mass scribbled on his chest had been from the point of a spear like that.

The wielder had used it like a staff, blocking Sarkis’s sword, and then jammed it directly up under his sternum so that Sarkis’s last moments had been spent being lifted several inches in the air, looking down the length of the shaft and feeling the sickening drag of metal through him.

Then he’d died. Again. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, but at least it had been fast.

A bird trilled in the woods, then another. Sarkis did not know even a tenth of the southern birds, but he narrowed his eyes, watching the deer-headed man’s ears move to catch the sound.

His suspicions were confirmed a moment later when the rune lifted his head. His throat pulsed and Sarkis heard another high, twittering call. It was strangely incongruous compared to the size of the rune.

Then another, even larger one stepped out of the trees and onto the track ahead of them. He had a massive rack of antlers coated in soft velvet. Another sign that the seasons were running late in these hills, Sarkis thought, assuming that deer in the south were the same as other deer.

Although I do not believe I would call this gentleman a decadent southern deer.

The rune was a good seven feet tall, and that was before counting the antlers.

His shoulders were at least as broad as Sarkis’s, although his height made him appear almost delicate, with inhumanly narrow wrists and ankles.

He held up a hand, palm out. His fingers were stiff and strangely jointed, with thick, hoof-like nails. He whistled a high, imperious note.

One did not need to be a genius to know what that meant. Brindle stopped the ox.

They stood in absolute silence for several long moments. The ox got bored, dropped its head, and began to graze. Sarkis glanced at Halla, worried that she might be frightened, to discover her gazing at the rune with her lips parted and an incredulous smile on her face.

“This is amazing …” she breathed. “What do you think they eat?”

Well, he should have seen that coming.

The rune cocked his head and trilled. Zale spread their hands helplessly. “I do not speak your tongue,” they said to the rune. “I am sorry.”

The tallest rune turned and whistled. Sarkis heard the whistle taken up by the others, then by still others farther back in the woods, until it faded out of his hearing.

Calling for reinforcements? It seemed strange—there were already far more of the rune than there were of… well, me and Brindle, if we’re being honest about our fighting capacity.

The rune squatted down on his long legs and settled in to wait.

“What do we do now?” whispered Halla.

“I suggest we do absolutely nothing,” said Zale. “And wait to see what he has in mind for us.”

It did not take long. A hornless figure made her way up the steep hillside, accompanied by a large rune. Before she had crested the hill, it was obvious that she was human.

The woman pushed back her hood. She had long gray hair and faded blue eyes that stood out against her darkly tanned skin.

She looked from face to face, then spoke in a language that Sarkis didn’t know.

“Damn,” muttered Zale. “It’s what they speak in Charlock, but I don’t know it. Halla?”

“My brother taught me about five words. I can say hello, goodbye, and something very unkind about their goats.”

“… let’s skip that.” They cleared their throat and said, “Do you speak this tongue, lady?”

The woman frowned, concentrating. After a moment, she said, “Yes, but… small.”

Zale relaxed. “Oh thank the Rat. Can you tell your companions that we mean no harm?”

She shook her head, not a negative shake but a confused one. “Too fast. Again?”

Sarkis waited while Zale slowly worked through the words with their new translator. Finally, the old woman turned to the large rune and made a series of noises, like high-pitched trills in the back of her throat. The rune whistled in reply.

“He says… no fight… unless you bring fight.”

Zale nodded. “Do you know how we came here?” They gestured to the hills around them.

She shook her head. “Here…” she gestured to the Hills as well, “want you come. But how…?” She spread her hands and gave an exaggerated shrug.

“Not even they know how it works,” muttered Sarkis. “Of course not.”

The rune gave a lengthy twittering speech. The woman nodded. “You,” she said, and pointed at Sarkis.

“I am Sarkis,” he said, putting his hand over his heart and bowing slightly.

“You…” She pointed to the sword on Halla’s back. “You are… with sword?” She frowned and shook her head, apparently not content with that. “Sword is… your house?”

“Yes,” said Sarkis. It was as accurate as any other description. “The sword is my house.”

The rune whistled. “He says… bad house.”

“Yes,” said Sarkis, sighing. “He’s right. It’s a very bad house.” Brindle snorted.

She gave him a sympathetic look. He noticed that even when she smiled, she was careful to keep her lips together. Perhaps bared teeth upset the rune.

“He says… do you want… sword house gone?”

Sarkis felt his stomach lurch. Could the rune do that? Set him loose from his prison? Let him die for good? Get him off this wretched chain of battle after battle, life after life…

“Can they do that?” he asked.

The woman shrugged.

“Sarkis?” said Halla.

Reality rushed in. He couldn’t very well leave Halla. She still needed him.

No, she doesn’t. She’s got Zale and Brindle and once you’re out of the hills, she’s nearly home. She’ll be fine. She doesn’t need you that badly.

Maybe he just wanted her to need him.

“If the rune can help you,” said Halla, “then we should find out more. If they can get you out of the sword…”

She trailed off. Sarkis studied her face, the way her pale eyebrows had drawn down and her water-gray eyes. Could the rune help him? Could a group of strange deer people possibly unmake the zeth woman’s sword?

“It’s not that I want you to die!” Halla said, clearly misinterpreting his look. “I don’t! I think it’s awful! But if that’s what you want and it’s been hundreds of years and maybe the rune can fix it, then—”

“No,” said Sarkis. He felt strangely light, as if he had just shed a heavy load of armor. “No, it’s all right. I will see you safely home. And then perhaps, afterward, we can find our way back here. A few weeks is not so long, compared to five hundred years.”

He did not say what he was thinking, which was that Halla herself might live thirty or forty more years. Thirty or forty years is not so long either, compared to five hundred.

“We might not be able to find our way back,” said Zale quietly. “The Vagrant Hills are… unpredictable.”

“You don’t have to give this up for me,” said Halla. She seemed near tears. Sarkis wondered how long it had been since anyone had given anything up for her. Perhaps no one ever had.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Perhaps they could not help me, and perhaps they can only kill me. I find that I would rather wait until our task is done to take the chance.”

“But—”

“And perhaps I am not quite ready to die just yet after all.”

The woman watching them nodded. She had apparently followed enough to keen her translation to the tall stag-man, who flicked his ears.

He lifted his spear in front of him, crossed his forearm over the shaft in a gesture that clearly carried the weight of ritual, and then turned and walked away.

One by one, the other rune melted away into the woods, until the human translator was the only one left.

“Will the Hills let us go?” asked Zale.

She shrugged again. “Here… does what here wants.” She seemed to think for a moment, then added, “Now is… easy. Once was… not easy.” She waved her hands, taking in the sky and the ground. “Some day, maybe not easy again.”

Zale nodded. “Do you wish to come with us?” they asked. “I do not know who your people are, but we can take you with us.”

“What? No.” She seemed astonished by the suggestion. “These—” she keened a note “—they are my people.” She lapsed briefly into the language of Charlock, without any of the halting effort of translation, then tried again. “I am here. My house. My here. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Zale, and bowed deeply to her. “Thank you, madam.”

She nodded and vanished as silently as the rune, and then it was only three humans, a gnole, and an ox sitting alone on the hillside.

“Well,” said Zale slowly. “Well, well, well. I suppose I can vouch for some of the reports of the Vagrant Hills after all.”

“What did she mean, at the end?” asked Halla softly, as they climbed back onto the wagon.

“Rat only knows,” said Zale. “But she clearly didn’t want to leave, so it’s none of our business. Now let’s see if the Hills decide to let us go after all.”