Page 59 of Swordheart #1
Sarkis materialized outside the sword again in a room filled with packing crates.
Some kind of storeroom, he thought. Not one he’d seen in Halla’s house, certainly.
He eyed the men across the room. Bartholomew and Nolan.
“Throw down your sword,” said Bartholomew.
“No,” said Sarkis.
There was a packing crate in the middle of the room, about waist high, with a lantern on it. He could not throw the lantern at Bartholomew. Nolan stood too far back.
The finger marks on the scholar’s neck were livid purple, going green around the edges. It had been at least a day, then.
How far could Bartholomew have traveled in a day?
How much damage could Halla’s cousin Alver have done in that time?
He had no idea how to get a message to Halla, or even where he was in relation to her. He could be five miles away or fifty.
Sarkis had tasted despair a hundred times in his life, but only a few times like this. He felt as if he stood on the battlements of the keep again, looking down at his men, outnumbered, outmaneuvered, doomed…
“Throw down your sword,” repeated Bartholomew.
“Come and take it,” said Sarkis.
“Perhaps I shall. You can’t very well use it on me.”
Sarkis curled his lip back. The man was right, loathe as he was to admit it.
He stood grimly while Bartholomew relieved him of his weapon. Even knowing that Sarkis couldn’t attack, the other man inched around him as if he were a wild beast on a chain.
“You will behave in a civilized fashion,” said his wielder, stepping back. “Or else.”
Sarkis spat on the floor.
“I don’t want to have to punish you.”
“Better men than you have tried.”
Bartholomew retreated around the packing crate and looked at Nolan. Nolan leaned over and whispered into his ear.
“If you do not cooperate,” said Bartholomew, sounding strained, “I will cut off your hand.”
Sarkis slammed his left forearm down on the packing crate. “Do it. Do you think I’m afraid of pain?”
“Fine!” snapped his wielder. “I’ll cut off something you’ll miss a lot more!”
Sarkis didn’t even hesitate. He yanked his trousers open and slapped his cock down on the packing crate. “Do your worst. It all grows back.”
Bartholomew’s mouth dropped open. So did Nolan’s. Sarkis had seen men who were holding their guts in with both hands who hadn’t looked nearly as appalled.
Honestly, he was a little surprised himself. Apparently he was much angrier than he’d realized.
The two men retreated to the other side of the room and had an urgent whispered conference. Sarkis wondered if he should put himself away or if it was more menacing if he just stood there with his good bits on the packing crate.
The relatively cold temperature of the storeroom decided him. Some gestures lost their effectiveness when your balls were trying to crawl back into your body to keep warm. He tucked himself back into his pants and stood with his arms folded, glaring.
It was going to hurt like a bear if they took him up on it, but at least everything grew back.
After a moment, Nolan stepped forward, hands raised. Behind him, Bartholomew held the sword in both hands, clearly ready to sheathe it at a moment’s notice.
“Ser Sarkis,” said the scholar warily, “I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here. I am not your enemy.”
Sarkis didn’t bother to dignify this with a reply.
“I don’t approve of how this was handled,” said Nolan, glancing back over his shoulder. “You have every right to be angry. My order wanted to purchase your sword legitimately. We did not intend for this deception.”
Bartholomew rolled his eyes. “If my procurer in Archon’s Glory hadn’t failed so spectacularly to acquire the sword, you would have been able to do so.”
Archon’s Glory. The red-haired man.
He figured out what the sword was when we were at his home, Sarkis thought. That’s why he agreed to come testify for Halla, when he couldn’t steal it away.
“If you agree to cooperate,” said Nolan, “when we have returned to my order, I will do my best to make certain that your friend Halla is safe and unharmed.”
Damn, damn, damn. Great god’s eyes.
It was the one thing that could have swayed him. He had to find a way back to Halla.
Bartholomew snorted. “You’re assuming that she wants anything to do with a war criminal. She’s better off with her cousin.”
The words slipped between Sarkis’s ribs like the blade of a knife. He would almost have preferred to have his hand chopped off.
Nolan met Sarkis’s eyes, hands still raised before him. “That is, of course, for Mistress Halla to decide for herself. I am certain Ser Sarkis wishes only to be sure that she is well.”
Sarkis knew he was beaten. If they kept him in the sword, he would have no way at all to get Halla away from her clammy-handed cousin.
Assuming she can’t get away herself. Assuming that Zale doesn’t find a way to help her.
He had to believe that the Rat priest was too clever to be taken in by Alver’s machinations. Zale knew exactly how Halla felt about her cousin.
“Please,” said Nolan. “We have a great deal to discuss. There is much my order wishes to learn from you.”
Sarkis curled his lip and looked away. “Fine,” he muttered. “If you give me your oath as a priest or whatever you are that you will send word to Halla immediately.”
“You have it,” said Nolan, without hesitation. “Tomorrow morning.”
Sarkis grunted.
After a moment, he said, “What does your order even want with me, anyway?”
“You’re the only person living who met our founder,” said the scholar. He smiled nervously, tucking his hair behind his ears. “The Sainted Smith. The woman who put you in the sword.”