Page 7 of Swordheart
“In the sword. I thought you came out when I drew the sword but it occurs to me that it could have been a coincidence and you just happened to appear as I was drawing the sword…”
“Yes. That’s why I’m the servant of the sword. I’m in the sword.” He pointed to the sword in her hands. There was a look on his face as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or begin yelling.
“This sword here?”
“Yes. That sword. That you’re carrying. Which just summoned me.Because that’s what it does.”
Halla had no idea what to say to that, so she settled on, “That’s very interesting.”
He rubbed his face. “So we’re not in battle, then.”
“No. Err. Sorry?” The dressing gown was proving to be a problem. She needed two hands to get her arms through the sleeves and tie it and that would involve putting down the sword. It seemed, for some reason, enormously rude to put the sword down in front of its… owner? Spirit? Djinn? But she couldn’t very well hold the collar of the dressing gown in the hand she was trying to put through the sleeve.
I don’t think I can hold the sword in my teeth. That would probably be rude.
“You don’t need to apologize for that,” said the man. “A battle’s not… a… oh, for the god’s sake. Turn around.”
She turned around. He held up the dressing gown so that she could get her arms into it, although she had to swap the sword between hands.
“I’m a warrior, not a lady’s maid,” he said. “If you’re summoning me to help you dress, there’d better be assassins in the garderobe next time.”
“Oh, I don’t have a garderobe,” Halla assured him.
“Or assassins?”
“Well, I don’t think there are any. I suppose if they were any good, I wouldn’t know, would I?”
She thought this was quite logical, and did not know why he stared at her for so long.
Finally, he looked around the room again, shaking his head. “Not that I see where you could fit an assassin in this place. Under the bed, maybe. Have you checked?”
“For assassins? No, I—”
He promptly dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. “Nothing,” he said, sounding slightly disappointed.
Halla stared at him as he rose to his feet.
He was only about an inch taller than she was, but the breadth of his shoulders made him look much larger. He had deeply tanned skin and long hair that curled when it reached his shoulders and was gray mixed liberally with black. His close-cropped beard was shot with gray as well.
Not a young man, then.
Sword.
Being.
He was wearing a leather surcoat which left his upper arms bare, heavy leather gauntlets that covered his forearms, and he also seemed to be carrying quite a large sword of his own. That struck Halla as bizarre.Why does a sword need a sword?
He made a circuit of the room. Halla sat down on the bed to give him room. He checked the great wooden wardrobe, lifted the lid on the chest, and then, apparently satisfied that there were no assassins anywhere, turned back to her.
“So whydidyou summon me, then?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Halla said. “Sorry?”
“Well. I am the servant of the sword. I serve the one who wields the sword.”
“Uh. It was my great-uncle’s sword, but he died. And left everything to me.” Did that count as wielding? The warrior was looking at her like it might. She gulped, remembering suddenly what kind of trouble she was inbecauseSilas had left everything to her. “I’m Halla.”
“Lady Halla.” He inclined his head. “Then I’m to be a lady’s guardsman, am I?” The thought seemed to amuse him, but Halla caught bitterness in the quirk of his lips. “I’d draw my blade and swear you fealty, my lady, but I’m afraid it would stick in the ceiling. So we’ll wait on a more convenient moment.”
