Swordheart

by T. Kingfisher

  Halla propped herself up on one elbow and looked at their gear. She had a small travel pack with a change of clothes, and Zale had much the same. The crossbow, however, lay atop the two packs, unstrung but exuding quiet menace. “Are you sure we’ll even be able to kill them?”

  “No. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to find out. Unfortunately, I don’t think this is the sort of case that lends itself well to binding arbitration, so I’d rather be prepared.” They rolled partway over, a pained look on their narrow face. “Ah…Halla, I don’t know how to say this…I am not trying to shuffle this off on you, I promise. But all else being equal…it will be easier if you are the one who does the killing, should it come to that.”

  Halla lifted both eyebrows.

  “I am a better witness in your defense than you are in mine,” said Zale. “Priest and lawyer and all that.”

  Halla nodded. The thought had occurred to her. And she could not suspect Zale of trying to save their own skin—not after they had told her to run, knowing that Alver was far more likely to kill them than her.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, and closed her eyes.

  The next day was worse. Halla stopped even trying to make conversation, and now clung silently to the paladin’s back, hoping that her hip joints did not grind away to powder before they arrived. When Mare halted her horse and said, “We’re here,” it took Halla several long seconds before the words penetrated her private misery.

  She had to be helped down out of the saddle, where she stood, legs trembling, while Mare took her pack down from the horse’s back and offered it to her. “You don’t look so good,” the paladin said.

  “I’m used to riding donkeys,” Halla admitted. “Only donkeys. Actually, only one donkey. His name was Sugar.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to offer the donkey’s name, but Mare nodded gravely, as if this was indeed vital information.

  Zale looked better than she did, but not by much. They had their cloak draped over their crossbow, which made it look a great deal more suspicious than if they’d just been carrying it normally. Still, presumably it was the thought that counted.

  The paladins waved to the guards at the gate, who saluted. Halla abandoned any idea of sneaking into the city unnoticed.

  “Thank you,” she said to Mare, grabbing both of the paladin’s hands. She was wearing gauntlets, so this wasn’t much fun, but never mind that. “Thank you for getting us here. Maybe now we can get to Bartholomew before this scholar does something…well…regrettable.”

  “Glad to be of service,” said Mare, smiling. “And you did us a good turn, too. Jorge would never have agreed to stay out of a fight with demons. The half-day we might have lost bringing you here is more than made up for by not losing Jorge.”

  She waved to her comrade, tossed a casual salute in Zale’s direction, and mounted her horse. The last Halla saw of them was glints of light off armor, riding away into danger.

  Sarkis swam up out of the silver sword-dreams, and discovered that he was looking at a corpse.

  More specifically, he was looking at Bartholomew’s corpse. There was quite a large knife buried in his back, and he was face down on a cluttered table that Sarkis recognized from their previous visits.

  “I gather you’re the wielder now?” he said to Nolan, studying the corpse dispassionately.

  “I didn’t want to do it,” said Nolan defensively. “He left me no choice! He kept changing the terms of the bargain.”

  “You’ll hear no complaints from me,” said Sarkis, shrugging. If anything, the scholar had saved him the trouble. “Refused to sell, did he?”

  “It’s been a nightmare,” said Nolan, collapsing on the bench opposite the body. “First he contacted our order saying he had one of the Smith’s swords. I nearly killed myself getting here, only to find that his story had changed and now he just knew where the sword was and expected to have it in his possession. Then your whole entourage showed up, and Bartholomew was all for stealing the sword in the middle of the night, even though I told him that wouldn’t work, and anyway, you didn’t spend the night, so then we would go to Rutger’s Howe and take it as part of the bargain with Mistress Halla, even though it was blindingly obvious that if you were the sword, she wasn’t going to part with it. And I still didn’t have any proof that you were the sword.”

  Sarkis nodded, folding his arms. “I suppose he was working with her relatives, then?”

  “Not at first,” said Nolan. “Dreadful woman. I’d have stabbed her if I thought I could get away with it. Once we had proof you really were a servant of the sword, he said it would be the best way to keep Mistress Halla from following after and claiming he’d stolen the blade. But he wasn’t supposed to draw it! The bargain was never that he’d be the wielder.”

  Privately, Sarkis suspected that had bought Bartholomew several days more life. Nolan, for all his whining, was clearly not above a little murder to get what he wanted.

  “So what happens now?” he asked.

  “We’ll be returning to my order’s compound,” said Nolan. He looked over at Bartholomew’s corpse, lip curling. “I’ve already been away far longer than I intended. Smith’s grace, this has been miserable.”

  He sounded so much like an ordinary person complaining about travel delays and unreliable merchants that Sarkis would have felt a pang of sympathy for him, if it wasn’t for the dead body.

  “So what are you doing with the corpse?” he asked. Why is so much of my life these days related to corpse disposal? It never used to be. I used to just leave them where they dropped. I could really get to hate the south.

  Nolan smiled. There was a shine in his eyes that reminded Sarkis of something…something bad…

  Ah. Yes. Of course. The zeth eyes of the Sainted Smith.

  “There’s so much junk in this house,” he said, waving a hand casually toward the ceiling and the second floor. “I expect it’ll go up like a torch, and take anything else in the house with it.”

  Sarkis said nothing. The house shared a wall on either side with its neighbors. Presumably Nolan wasn’t concerned or didn’t care that the fire might not limit itself to the contents of Bartholomew’s back bedrooms.

  He wondered how much the sword would let him get away with, in terms of stopping a wielder bent on arson.

  He did not have to find out. The front door opened. Sarkis heard footsteps in the hall and turned to face the intruders.

  “The door is locked!” hissed Nolan. “What the hell is going on?!”

  “Bartholomew’s kept a spare key in that gargoyle for the last twenty years,” said the intruder, stepping into the room. “Hello, Sarkis. Hello, Nolan. Hello, Bar…oh. I see.”

  Nolan was making demands. Nolan was cursing. Sarkis had eyes only for one person.

  “Halla,” he said.

  Chapter 56

  “You!” said Nolan. “You’re here? How the devil are you here?”

  “Mostly luck,” admitted Halla. “Or, since it was paladins, maybe grace. Zale? Was that grace?”

  “I’m willing to call it grace,” said Zale, who was standing behind her in the doorway to the dining room. “Whether divine or simply human kindness, which is its own form of grace. Hello, Sarkis.”

  Halla stepped sideways, until she was standing in the portion of the kitchen that adjoined the dining room. She was carrying a cloak slung over one shoulder, hanging down past her hips, and limping a little. The notion that she might have been injured sent mingled rage and shame slamming through his veins.

  “Are you hurt?” he said.

  “Just saddlesore,” she admitted, not meeting his eyes. “We rode very fast. Or what felt like very fast, anyway.”

  It was terribly stupid, he realized, to be trying to work out if she was furious at him based on how she was looking at him when there was a murderer directly behind him and a corpse sitting at the table. Nevertheless, the fact that she wouldn’t make eye contact seemed like the worst of signs.

  “Well,” she
said. “You murdered Bartholomew, then?”

  “I had no choice,” said Nolan. “He was the wielder and refused to give up the sword. I knew he always intended to double-cross me.”

  “He was the one who sent the footpads in Archen’s Glory,” said Sarkis.

  “Ah. Yes. And left me to Alver’s tender mercies. Still, I’m sorry he’s dead.” She sighed. “I suppose it is you I must negotiate with, then.”

  “What?” said Nolan.

  “I will buy the sword from you,” said Halla, in a clear voice. “I never meant to cast it aside, but I realize that things have become muddled.” She looked at Zale. “How much is my inheritance worth?”

  Zale wiggled their hand back and forth. “My inventory is nothing like complete. Based on what I have catalogued so far, I would say at least fifty-three hundred, give or take, including the house. The outlying lands are not included.”

  The realization of what Halla was doing sent Sarkis a step forward, hands outstretched. “Halla! No!”

  “Fifty-three hundred, then,” said Halla, ignoring him. “There may be more in the outlying lands, but I have recently learned that they were mortgaged without my permission, so I can’t speak to their value. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Halla, you can’t do this!”

  A small, unworthy part of Sarkis was overcome with relief. She did not hate him. Indeed, she had chased down his captors and was offering everything that she had to get him back.

  A much larger part was screaming that yes, she was giving up everything she had—her home, her newly acquired fortune, the future dowries for her nieces that Sarkis had not even met—to buy him back from the scholar.

  “Halla,” he said, trying to sound calm. “I’m not worth this. Don’t do this.”

  “You’re my friend,” said Halla, not looking at him. Sarkis did not know whether to crow with joy or writhe in shame.

  His captor snorted. “Don’t be stupid. A relic of the Sainted Smith is beyond any price.”

  “Are you certain?” said Halla.

  “Very certain. Quit wasting my time, woman.”

  Halla nodded. “I was afraid of that,” she said, a bit sadly. “I really hoped you’d be reasonable.”

  She pushed her cloak back and swung the crossbow she’d been concealing up to aim at Nolan.

  Oh great god, she’s going to shoot at him. Sarkis didn’t know whether to be amazed, horrified, or both. Can she hit him? Did Zale teach her enough?

  Zale was leaning against the doorframe with a polite, interested expression on their face. This did not fill Sarkis with confidence.

  Nolan, meanwhile, stared at the bolt, then back at her. “You won’t kill me,” he said.

  “I won’t?” said Halla. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You’re not a killer,” said Nolan, although he sounded a bit doubtful.

  “Well, obviously not yet,” said Halla. “But I can start with you, and then I will be. I think that’s how this works, isn’t it?”

  Nolan started to back up. Halla made an apologetic sound. “Please don’t move. I’ve never shot at anything but trees, you see, and while my aim’s not bad for an amateur, if you move, I don’t really know where I’ll hit you. It could be anywhere. And then what if it wasn’t fatal?”

  “I don’t want it to be fatal!” yelled Nolan.

  “Oh, but you do,” said Halla. “You really, really do. Because if I hit you somewhere that doesn’t kill you, but it just hurts a whole lot, then I’ll have to finish you off, right? And I don’t have any idea how to do that, so I’ll just be stabbing you in random places with a knife until I hit a good one.”

  Nolan’s jaw dropped.

  The great god have mercy. She’s found a way to weaponize ignorance.

  “I’ll feel very bad about it,” Halla assured the scholar, gesturing with the crossbow. Every time the tip of the bolt moved a quarter inch, both Nolan and Sarkis flinched. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. That’s why it would be best if you held very still, I think?”

  “Servant!” said Nolan. “Servant, defend me!”

  Sarkis winced. He had known all along that he was going to have to get involved. The magic of the sword left him no choice. “Halla,” he said, “I’m afraid if you try to kill him, you’ll have to go through me. I’m forced to defend him as long as I’m alive.”

  “You can’t fight it?” she asked. “Not even a little?”

  I’m trying. I’m trying.

  He tried to set his feet. Compulsion dragged him forward anyway, one step at a time.

  “Please,” he said. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  He dragged his sword out of the sheath as if it were made of mud.

  “Quit talking!” shouted Nolan. “Kill her!”

  “I will do nothing of the sort!” Sarkis shouted back. And to Halla, his voice cracking with strain, “Please. This isn’t safe.”

  She took a step back. She didn’t look frightened, just thoughtful.

  Oh great god, don’t let her trust me. Please don’t let her think that I’ll pull off some miracle.

  “I thought you were used to betraying people,” Halla said.

  The cut went deeper than a physical wound. He’d honestly rather that she shot him.

  Still…

  “I deserved that.”

  “You did.” She took another few steps back, putting the kitchen table between them. A kitchen was a very stupid place to have a battle, but apparently this was where they were going to have it.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarkis said. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I kept thinking we had to sort the inheritance first because if you were angry and wanted nothing to do with me, you’d sheathe the sword and then I couldn’t protect you and then…” He raised his free hand, let it drop. “That doesn’t matter now. I’m begging you. Please run away or back away or drop the crossbow, or something. If I have to kill you defending this bastard…”

  He trailed off. He didn’t know how to finish.

  It will destroy me. It will gut me. Every time someone draws the sword, I will look for you, and when you aren’t there, I will remember that you’re gone and that I failed you twice over and I will pray for the great god to grant me a quick death.

  The words choked him. He stared into Halla’s gray eyes and hoped that she understood a little of what he could not say.

  She shoved the kitchen table at him with her free hand. He caught it, set it down. The magic wanted to flip it over, slam her against the wall, defend the wielder at all costs.

  She’s no threat, he pleaded with the sword. She won’t shoot. Let her go. This isn’t a danger I need to defend against. Please.

  Halla feinted to the right, swung the crossbow up over his left shoulder. It was so transparent that he wanted to scream. The magic wouldn’t let him ignore it. It wanted him to strike out with his sword, but Sarkis would be damned to the great god’s lowest hell before he did that.

  He shoved the table instead. The edge struck her stomach, driving the air out of her. Halla grunted. The big gray eyes that lifted to his were full of surprise—and pain.

  “Stop dancing!” screamed Nolan. “Finish her off!”

  Sarkis felt something snap inside his head.

  He could not kill his wielder. He had to defend his wielder against all threats.

  His wielder would make him kill the woman he loved.

  I will kill him, thought Sarkis. I will destroy him. I will pull him apart, joint by joint, bone by bone. I will carve him up into a thousand pieces to make the dying last.

  I will hurt him until he hurts like I hurt.

  The magic pounded in his temples like blood.

  He had never hated a wielder like this before. He had loathed them and he had held them in contempt, but even the one who cut out Sarkis’s tongue had, perhaps, been no more than he deserved.

  Halla did not deserve it.

  The magic would never let him kill his wielder. That was the one power that it had, above all other. He
would throw his own body between Nolan and any threat. He had no choice.

  I will kill him. I will end him. I will find a way to destroy him.

  I am the greatest threat.

  The magic wavered.

  He had only a moment, but a moment was all that he needed.

  Sarkis flipped his sword around, set the point under his sternum, and threw himself at the ground.

  Chapter 57

  Halla’s first thought was, Oh, I guess that’s what they mean by falling on your sword.

  Her second thought was, Dammit, and then her thoughts dissolved into a wordless scream of horror.

  “Sarkis!” She dropped to her knees, the crossbow held out awkwardly to one side. Shooting him or herself wouldn’t help. “Sarkis, you idiot, you didn’t have to do that! Why did you do that?!”

  He was on his knees, both hands grasped around the hilt of the sword. A foot of steel protruded from his back, slicked with red.

  “…had to…” he rasped. Blood coated his lips and began to run over his chin. “…couldn’t…couldn’t let you…get hurt…”

  “I wasn’t going to get hurt!” She wanted to scream. Possibly she was screaming. She was furious and horrified and if she let either emotion slip for even a second, guilt was going to rush in and swamp her.

  With agonizing slowness, he unlocked his fingers from the hilt. He put his hand against her cheek and wiped the tears away with a bloody thumb.

  She clasped his hand with hers. “You wouldn’t have hurt me.”

  “Couldn’t take…the chance…” he said. “Not…not with…you…” and then he died.

  She stared at her fingers, watching the blood turn into a faint blue iridescence, and then it was gone.