Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Seventy Three: Cracked

He was starting to feel like he'd got off lightly, and he couldn't remember the last time he slept without seeing that Unspoken die.

"Two more, eh?" Jase said dully. It seemed like a lifetime ago Blane had been ordering him around during the vestiges of the Light Fayre; the boy seemed to have aged years since then.

"Aye," Blane said. He opened his mouth to say more, looked into his drink, then just said again, "Aye."

"There'll be a memorial, though," Jase said. Blane realised the other soldier was waiting for a response, and blinked, shaking the malaise from his thoughts.

"There will, undoubtedly," Blane said, "Where is another matter. They won't be making any Barrens crossings after this." He swallowed. "Damn shame. They only have as many apprentices as trained Unspoken they lost, and one of those only just started."

"I saw him," Jase replied, nodding, "after the fight. Looked like someone'd tried to dismember him."

"Probably had," Blane said hoarsely, and fought back the onslaught of images that accompanied it. He still wasn't fond of Unspoken; they unsettled him no end. But he was feeling a damn sight kindlier towards them than usual.

The door to the tavern swung open, disrupting the stillness and letting in a gust of cold air. An Unspoken stepped in, and the tenor of the silence shifted, somehow becoming even more tangibly subdued. The demon hunter went straight to the bar and ordered two shots of very strong whisky. Blane recognised his voice from somewhere, and before he had really thought about it, he got up and crossed the room, taking the stool beside the Unspoken.

"I'll pay," he said. "On me."

The Unspoken looked at him. "No, it's fine." Then he stilled and looked again. "I've seen you before."

"I was there...when the Haunt..."

The Unspoken held up a hand to stall him, saving them both the awkwardness. "Captain Blane. Well met."

"Not captain anymore," Blane said gruffly, "Temporarily retired. Nika, was it?"

"Aye."

"Let me buy you a drink. For coming to my aid that night."

"If you allow me to return the favour for coming to mine."

Blane offered a grim smile and pushed a Cert across the table when the barkeep returned with a large brown-glass bottle sealed with a thick cork.

Silence settled on them like a blanket. Blane couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. He found Unspoken unsettling as it was, but Nika was the most unsettling specimen he'd ever met. He couldn't even pinpoint why it was, as such; he had airs, as Blane's mother would have said, strange airs. He was about to excuse himself and go back to his table when Nika spoke.

"I had hoped that coming here might clear my head a little," he said. He took the whisky glass in one gloved hand and gently swirled it, but didn't drink. "I think I've made it worse."

"Know that feeling," Blane said.

Nika looked at him. "Do you have any theories about what happened?"

Blane blinked. He was the last person to consult over magic – and he had no doubt it must have been some kind of magic. An Unspoken, too, asking about his theories as if he knew anything from squat.

"Magic," he said, nervously fiddling with his moustache. "Strange magic. Wasn't anything natural about any of it."

"Hm," Nika said, and Blane couldn't tell from the tone whether he'd just revealed himself as a total clotpole or not. "What if it was entirely natural? Theoretically. What would you propose caused it?"