Page 150 of Swordheart
He was over the table before his sword had cleared its sheath, aiming for Bartholomew’s throat. “Hehas her? Where did he take her? Tell me or I’ll kill—”
And he stopped.
The sword hovered inches from the other man’s face, and Sarkis had an intense desire to twist around and throw himself in front of the blade.
He tried to move the sword, and found himself leaning forward, leading with his opposite shoulder, determined to get in the way.
Sarkis stared at his sword hand as if it belonged to someone else.
He reached out with his other hand, toward Bartholomew’s throat, and watched his own sword turn and press against his wrist.
And then he knew.
Bartholomew reached out, put his finger on the tip of the blade, and pushed it aside.
“She gave the sword away,” he said. “You heard her. And now I am the one who wields you.”
Sarkis went berserk.
The sword cut deep into his forearm, steel grinding on bone, before he flung it down.
Bartholomew jumped out of the way, eyes wide, as the servant of the sword fell down, thrashing violently on the floor. Rage warred with magic and magic had the upper hand. Sarkis clawed at his own throat with his bloody fingers, snarling, then slammed the back of his head against the floor and saw stars.
How far would the magic go to keep him from harming a wielder?
Apparently a very long way.
The world tilted and darkened. His breathing eased as the magic slowly decided that he was no longer a threat to his new master.
A door slammed. He heard footsteps as Nolan raced into the room. “What is going on here? What—no!You drew the sword?!”
“I did.”
“That wasn’t our agreement!”
“I didn’t trust your order to keep your end of the bargain,” snapped Bartholomew. “I required insurance. I will hand over the sword when I am paid, and not before.”
Nolan cursed.
The scholar knelt over Sarkis, lips twisted in annoyance. “If he dies, it will be weeks before we can draw him again and that will be time wasted. My order will hardly pay for a servant of the sword if they cannot at least see the servant first.”
Sarkis blinked the darkness out of his eyes and looked up into Nolan’s face.
He’s in it with Bartholomew. They planned this. This is why they came to the town. Not to help Halla at all.
He could do nothing to the wielder of the sword, but Nolan had no such protection.
Sarkis lunged.
His hands went around the scholar’s throat. Even with blood pouring down his left arm, even with it badly gashed, it was easy. Necks were so fragile, the windpipe right there, the jugular there, all he had to do was squeeze—
Nolan turned purple and gurgled. Bartholomew gasped and somehow had the presence of mind to sheathe the sword.
Sarkis’s curse was cut off as blue fire washed over him, freeing the traitor from his hands and taking him out of the world again.
Halla entered the house, feeling weary beyond all measure.
She had walked for hours, out into the lands around the town, and found herself at the same shepherd’s hut they had taken refuge in the first night. It looked as if it hadn’t been used since them.
