Page 43 of Swordheart #1

“Halla, you’re dreaming. It’s a nightmare. Wake up. Halla…” The wagon creaked. Halla tried to fight her way free of the shreds of sleep, but the dream had been so monstrous and the wagon was so dark that she was not sure if she was out or if this was just another moment of it.

“Halla, wake up!” Zale sounded worried and exasperated all at once. Halla wanted to tell them not to worry but she seemed to be paralyzed.

Cold air rushed in as the wagon door opened and it dipped under Sarkis’s weight. “What are you doing, priest?” he roared.

“I’m not doing anything, you daft barbarian! Halla’s having a nightmare!”

The realization that she had to save Zale from Sarkis’s conclusions broke the paralysis. “Nothing!” she gasped. “Dream!”

“… oh.” She saw the faint outline of Sarkis’s face as he pulled the door shut, and then he was fumbling for her in the dark.

He found her shoulders and pulled her upright, and between that and the blast of cold, she felt the dream falling away at last. She drew a deep, grating breath, then another.

“They were following us,” she said.

Neither Zale nor Sarkis had to ask what they were.

“I looked back and they were on everything. Like there had been a hard freeze and a glaze of ice.”

Sarkis sat down on the bunk, banged his head on the wall, grumbled, and then pulled her into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t be having nightmares. You’re the one it landed on. I don’t get to have nightmares.”

“Oh for the great god’s sake,” growled Sarkis. She could hear his voice rumbling in his chest under her ear. “The person who has nightmares is the one who gets to have them. And if I dreamed like normal folk, I’d have them, too.”

“You don’t dream?” asked Zale, interested.

“I dream in silver. It’s like being in the sword again. If I dream at all, which is rare.” He began running his hand over her hair.

It was very comforting to lie in the dark and be stroked like a cat.

It was probably not respectable, but respectability seemed increasingly useless.

What did it matter, when there were monsters in the hills, not just stories to frighten children, but real, honest monsters that hung in the trees, waiting to land on the unwary?

She pressed her face against his shoulder.

“It will be all right,” he said. “We’re out. We don’t have to go back.”

“How else will we ever know if the rune can get you out of the sword?”

“We’ll find another way. Or we won’t. It’s been nearly five hundred years. A few more years won’t kill me.”

“That’s the problem !”

He laughed, a deep, subterranean chuckle that she felt through the side of her face. “Go back to sleep. We don’t need to sort it all tonight.”

“Nor are we likely to,” said Zale. “And we have survived, and that is as much as the Rat asks of us on any given day.”

“Practical,” said Sarkis.

“We’re known for it,” said the priest.

Amalcross looked just the same as it had when they left it. A gnole squeaked good-naturedly at them as the wagon rolled past. The ox was unimpressed, but the ox had not been impressed by anything so far, and was not about to start now.

Bartholomew looked more than a little startled to see them when he opened the door, then suddenly pleased. He ushered them inside to meet his guest, a short, owl-eyed man with shaggy brown hair.

“A visiting scholar-priest,” said Bartholomew, by way of explanation. “This is Nolan. Nolan, my old friend Silas’s niece, and her… ah…”

“Guard,” said Sarkis.

“… guard, Sarkis. And you are?”

“Zale of the Temple of the Rat,” said the priest, smiling warmly. “Brother Nolan, an honor to meet you. What temple do you hail from?”

“No temple, I fear. I am of the Order of the Sainted Smith,” said Nolan, glancing across the three of them. When no one seemed to recognize it, he smiled. “It’s all right. We are very small and somewhat obscure.”

“Are you a sect of the Forge God?” asked Halla.

“It is believed that our founder spent time in the Forge God’s service, but that was some centuries ago, and I fear the actual truth is lost to history.” He spread his hands. “We are mostly interested in artifacts.”

His presence was immediately understandable. Sarkis glanced around the central room, which was, if anything, even more cluttered than the last time they had visited.

He did notice that Nolan’s eyes lingered on the sword over Halla’s shoulder longer than he liked.

Is he looking at Halla or the sword?

Well, she is a fine looking woman and it is an old sword. He might be interested in either one.

This thought did not comfort him in any way. He drew his eyebrows down and folded his arms.

Zale had no such concerns. The priest turned to Bartholomew and began outlining the reason for their presence.

“… so you see, it is my concern that Mistress Halla’s relatives will attempt to claim that she is not who she says she is, or that she is of unsound mind or moral character.

A signed statement from you that she is indeed Silas’s niece and affirming her as a citizen in good standing will go a long way toward dispelling such a claim. ”

“Those vultures!” said Bartholomew, scowling. “Forgive me, Halla, I know they’re your relatives and perhaps I should not speak ill of them—”

“Speak as ill as you like,” said Halla cheerfully. “I’ll join in on the choruses.”

Bartholomew blinked at her, then broke into a rueful smile.

He glanced at Nolan, then back to her, and squared his shoulders.

“My dear, I’ve been remiss, and I must apologize.

You should have been able to come to me for help, instead of having to involve the Rat priests—with no offense to you, Priest Zale! ”

Zale shot Sarkis a humorous look. Sarkis wondered how many people told the priest, “No offense” on a weekly basis.

“It’s all right,” said Halla. “Really, Bartholomew. Things get strange when people die.”

“Yes. But my oldest friend made a will and instead of helping to see his last bequest carried out, I sat here wringing my hands. I’m sorry. Please forgive me for my failure.”

Halla looked surprised, and even more so when Bartholomew hugged her awkwardly. Sarkis had a sudden, startlingly intense desire to grab the man by the collar and fling him aside.

It is not just jealousy, he told himself. It is that she looks uncomfortable. And also jealousy.

Really, he had no reason at all to be jealous. The man was old enough to be her father.

And I am several hundred years older than he is, so what does that say?

He took a step forward anyway, ready to pull the man aside, but Bartholomew stepped back hastily.

“So.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Nolan again. “I will go with you to Rutger’s Howe and see that this is all settled.”

“What?” Halla blinked at him. “Really?”

“If I can help in any way, it is my duty.”

Zale inclined their head. “Indeed, sir, your presence would be even more helpful than a signed document.”

“Ha!” Halla grinned, clearly warming to the idea. “Yes! I can’t imagine Alver can twist his way out of that one.” She paused. “Although—uh—the wagon’s going to get a bit crowded…”

“I believe,” said Bartholomew, with some asperity, “that I can make my own way to Rutger’s Howe. I have done so many times before and I am not so aged and infirm that I cannot do so again for my good friend’s niece.”

“Sorry,” said Halla. “Yes. Oh, thank you! I can’t wait to see the look on Cousin Alver’s face!”

This time she was the one to hug him, and after an owlish blink at Sarkis, Bartholomew hugged her back.