Page 22 of Swordheart
“I’m going to stand,” he warned her, and rose slowly to his feet.
Halla clung to the top of the wall, feeling her fingernails catchand tear against the stone. Her stomach lurched. She wanted to squeak in terror but that seemed humiliating, so she didn’t.
Don’t embarrass yourself in front of the magic sword.
She heard more shouts in the streets. Terror fired her muscles and she scrabbled at the top of the wall, flinging herself up with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Her arms ached.
She lay flat on top, gasping. “Now what? I can’t pull you up!”
“Now sheathe the sword,” he said calmly.
“What?”
“Sheathe the sword. Then unsheathe it and toss it down inside the wall.”
Halla blinked at him, then grinned. “Thatworks?”
“Remarkably well.”
She sat up, straddling the wall—her habit was going to be rather the worse for wear afterward, but there was nothing to be done—and fumbled the sword out from behind her back. The cords came loose and she pushed the blade into the scabbard with a click.
Blue light swirled through the shadows and he vanished.
“Eh!” someone shouted. “What’s that over there?”
“Oh blast…” whispered Halla, shaking the scabbard loose again and dropping the sword down inside the churchyard.
Sarkis reappeared. Halla flattened herself back against the wall and swung her leg over.
I am the picture of grace.
“Lower yourself down,” he whispered.
“I’m afraid I’ll fall!”
“Then I’ll catch you.”
This might be true—the servant of the sword did seem very strong—but Halla couldn’t quite make her gut believe it.
“Someone up on the wall!” shouted a voice. “Constables!”
She cursed, swung herself over, and prayed that she didn’t fall onto a tombstone and bash her brains out.
Well, here goes—
Arms locked around her waist, and Sarkis lowered her to the grass and handed her the sword.
“Out the lich-gate!” she whispered, slinging the scabbard back over her shoulder. “They’ll have to wake the priest to get the main church gate opened.”
They ran. It was an old churchyard and the graves were uneven, parts upthrust and others sinking. Halla skidded on a mossy stone slab and nearly went to her knees. Sarkis caught her, made three more steps, and then tripped over the hidden edge of a grave and sprawled across the grass himself.
Halla felt a sneaking satisfaction that it wasn’t just her.
“What god keeps this place?” said Sarkis, rising and slapping dirt from his knees.
“All of them,” said Halla. “I mean, it’s not a specific temple. Traveling priests come through and any of them who want to use it. And we’ve got the village priest, of course, for the marrying and burying. This one serves the Four-Faced God, but the last was out of the Temple of the White Rat.”
“Oh, the decadent south,” muttered Sarkis. “All these gods. Which way?”
