Page 157 of Swordheart
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.
