A fire crackled merrily in the grate, but the group huddled in the corner of the tavern didn't look as though they felt its warmth. Blane's knuckles were white around his tankard. His old friends from the guard sat around him, equally numbed.
"What a carry on, eh?" Jase said weakly. He took a drink of lager quickly, as if wanting to rinse his mouth of the words.
"Don't envy you boys," Blane replied. "Did well, lads. Did well."
They lapsed into a brooding silence, another in a series of many. Blane looked around the circle; bruises and scabbed-over cuts greeted him, dark hollows for eyes and grim pinches for mouths. It made his sleepless nights look like a minor inconvenience; his temporary leave from the guard may well have saved him a far worse time of it. He hadn't been able to look long at the papers that had appeared across the city proclaiming the names and numbers of the dead, and a call to come forward if a relative was missing. Sometimes the demons left very little to identify their victims by.
Blane raised his glass to his lips and frowned, then noticed he'd finished his drink. He sighed and got heavily to his feet.
"Anyone else for another?"
"Aye," said almost everyone, except for Arun, who had neither touched his drink nor said a word, and Blane was starting to wonder how he'd made it to the tavern in the first place. Jase had taken him aside and told him Arun's brother had been carried off by a Marrowhawk, and Blane had not enquired further.
He went to the bar with his empty tankards. He was grateful for the tavern's thick stone walls, so that the noises of the night were shut out. He suspected it was the reason behind a lot of visits tonight, because the whole city had the jitters over the attack on the castle. Harkenn's rune wall, falling – almost as unprecedented as the portal appearance weeks before. It was a fact of life that Harkenn's wall would never fall to demons.
Yet if one walked along the base of the hill which housed it, the sounds of constant construction echoed through the streets and the breach yawned like a mouth.
"Any news?" Blane asked the barkeep, who was taciturn to the extreme but still more lively conversation than was at Blane's table. He appreciated the quiet; his wife hadn't quit fussing over him since the incident with the Unspoken murder in the courtyard. He had put in for transfer to a new house in the light season, because looking down into that courtyard made him see ghosts these days. He was quite certain his wife thought he was losing his grip.
Kiel's teeth, sometimes it felt like he already had.
"Two Unspoken dead," the barkeep muttered, refilling the tankards and slamming them on the wooden top so foam spilled over. "One killed in action, another died of wounds after the fact. They haven't announced it, mind," he tapped the side of his nose, "but the missus works in the laundry at the castle. Bad times."
"That's four," Blane said weakly, and suddenly the lager didn't look strong enough. "In one season."
"Bad season, though," the barman said, wiping the top down with a dirty rag.
"Aye."
Another silence fell over the tavern, and then Blane sighed and gathered up their refilled drinks. No one had exchanged a word since he'd left; it was so quiet he'd have heard it. The whole city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something that no one seemed able to put a name to. The portal had unsettled people, true, but the demons behaving so strangely was not nearly as easy to push to the back of the mind. The portal was new, strange, and easily explained as such. The demons' attack was an assault on the very little certainty any Nictavians had. Blane could already sense the scars this season would leave on the city.
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?"
Blane took a long drink of a lager to give him room to think. It was a non-starter; the whole point was that it had been unnatural, unheard of. But he gave it a crack. "My bet would be on the Whispering Wall."
"Those were my thoughts, too." Nika sounded as though he'd smiled. "Though what stumps me is why the castle in particular would prove a target."
"Lots of magic in the runes, maybe," Blane said, shrugging. "Some kinda... What?"
Nika had straightened on his stool, eyes gently glowing in the depths of his hood. Blane couldn't bear to look at them for too long.
"It is the biggest rune net in Nictaven," he breathed. "You might be onto something. But how..."
He trailed off and pulled a journal out of one his cloak's hidden pockets. Under Blane's perplexed stare, he also brought out ink and pen from the small satchel he carried and began to write furiously. Blane eyed the scratchy network of strange symbols already on the page. Looked like witchery to him, and he didn't trust it despite its uses. It gave him the shudders.
He used the opportunity to escape back to his table, but before he had put his arse down on the seat he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked at the latticed windows, but the night outside was still. A chill ran down his spine.
"Give me your sword," he muttered to Jase.
"Captain? Did you see something?" The young man also got to his feet, peering at the windows like Blane.
"First, stop calling me captain, and second, no, probably not, but I'll sleep better tonight if I check," Blane growled. "Wouldn't surprise me if the quiet tonight has brought out a few of the more opportunistic types."
Jase looked at him uncertainly, and Blane knew what he was thinking – seeing danger where there was none, again. Blane scowled. He'd been right twice, and those times had been grim enough for him to check every time after, no matter how many cats he scared witless.
"I can't give you a sword, sir," he said slowly, and Blane's scowl deepened. It was demonshit that a man trained to use a sword in the lord's army was now deemed a danger to society if he carried one, all because he didn't wear the crest anymore.
"Fine," he muttered. He crossed the taproom and opened the door, disturbing the resettled warmth after Nika's entrance. Someone at another table cursed him under their breath.
"Do you see something?"
"Nict's balls," Blane gasped, whirling round and finding that the Unspoken had come up behind him and now stood no more than two feet away. "Make some noise, man!"
"Apologies," Nika said, and again, like last time, he really didn't sound all that sorry. "I thought you heard me. Did you see something?"
It reminded Blane of the reason he was over here freezing his balls off in the first place, and he peered into the dark street, still trying to calm his breathing. Aside from the orange glow in the few houses where people remained awake, it was impenetrable. Someone could be standing right outside the halo of light from the tavern door and he wouldn't know. He wished he'd wrestled the sword from Jase after all, and wondered how much his wife would mind if he stayed the night here. Something about tonight gave him all sorts of misgivings.
Something flickered across a lit window opposite; the end of a cloak, perhaps? His beer soured in his gut.
"Who goes there?" he called, in the most authoritative voice he could manage. No one replied. Movement at his shoulder told him that Nika had moved closer, but he was expecting it this time.
"Did you see that?" Nika asked, and before Blane could say anything, the Unspoken had vanished into the night, black cloak rendering him immediately invisible.
"Where are you going?" Blane called. He looked back, and found the Unspoken had left all his belongings behind. "Jase! If you won't let me carry the sword, you'll have to come with me."
He stepped outside before he got a response, but he was barely five paces from the door before Jase caught up, Nika's satchel slung over his shoulder. He reached up and plucked one of the porch lanterns off its hook, and Blane wished he'd thought of that first.
"He went that way," Blane said, pointing at the spot where Nika had vanished.
"Why are we following an Unspoken, sir?" Jase said, as if Blane hadn't already asked himself that several times over. He was polite about it, but doubt still showed in his voice.
"Just in case," Blane growled. He glanced at the floor to keep the rune paths in his line of sight. "Give me the lantern, would you?"
He couldn't explain it in a way Jase would understand, but that glimpse of the cloak had left him cold all over. He well remembered the unnatural nature of the thing he had killed that night in the courtyard, the chills it had given him just before he saw it shove a blade into the Unspoken. Nika must be cracked, he thought, to go after something that even might be another one of those things. Blane may not have been the fondest of demon hunters, but it would take very little brain to see how important they were, and that every loss left the city more vulnerable. He liked his safety as much as the next man.
Which goes hand in hand with chasing after unnatural murderers in the dark when you're not even on patrol, he thought sourly, but disregarded it immediately when something clanged nearby. He set off at a jog and Jase kept pace with ease, rounding a narrow corner to find a cloaked figure standing the next street watching lengths of metal piping roll to a stop on the cobbles. Blane's breath caught, until he recognised the cut of the cloak.
"Are you alright?" Blane gasped. He bent double, hands on his knees. He was really getting out of shape.
"Aye," Nika said in a strange voice.
"Sir?" Jase asked, stepping into the lantern light. "I have your things."
"Oh." Nika accepted the satchel, but didn't put it on his shoulder. He stared down the empty street, and though Blane squinted he couldn't see so much as a flicker of movement. "Thank you."
"Come back to the tavern," Blane urged. He didn't like the way the Unspoken was acting, and dreaded that his suspicions of what he had seen were correct. In his time in the army and part of the guard, he had learned well what it looked like when someone had seen something that disturbed them, and it took a lot to rattle an Unspoken. "I'll get you another drink."
"I really...should be getting back," Nika said. He visibly shook himself out. "I shouldn't have come out, really. Academic curiosity...you understand."
Blane bloody well did not understand, but he didn't say anything, and he was very aware that the falling piping had brought witnesses to the windows.
"Are you far?" he grunted, and glared at a woman gazing at him from an upper floor window. She met his eye, unabashed. "I'm in the merchants' quarter."
"Me too." Nika's voice had become very faint. "I would be grateful of the company, if you're offering."
He had been offering, he realised, without even noticing. And that was how, in one of an increasing number of surreal nights in his life, he found himself wandering the path home, alone – Jase had returned to the tavern for Arun - aside from a single Unspoken who wasn't talking much. He had led Unspoken to the sites of demon attacks, but he had never walked with one. Every now and then he glanced sidelong at Nika, waiting for some explanation of what madness had possessed him to chase after an unknown figure in the dark. Unspoken all needed to be a little bit mad – it was the only way to face down a demon without screaming and pissing your breeches – but that was insanity.
"I don't know if it was one of them," Nika finally admitted, right after Blane had just decided to make a lame comment about the quiet for something to say. "They didn't want me to follow. They knocked the pipes over."
Blane scratched at his chin. "Any reason why you followed, if there was a chance?"
Nika's voice, when he next spoke, was amused. "I don't really know. I think I had some mad idea about confronting them, or...or wrestling the weapon off them. I'm a medic, see. I thought maybe...if I could get hold of that weapon and study it...I could prevent more deaths."
He fell abruptly silent, and Blane didn't know what to say to fill it.
"My old tutor's current apprentice is the only one I know to have survived an attack," he added, softly. "But it took a long time for the effects to wear off. Perhaps it was...a venom? A drug? Some other obscure magic?"
Blane sensed the Unspoken was no longer talking to him, and left him to his musing. Grief was a terrible thing, and some people liked to think their way around it to avoid really feeling it.
Someone was coming towards them down the hill; another cloaked figure. Blane tensed, hand grasping for a sword that wasn't there, and again he wished he'd wrestled it from Jase after all. But it was Unspoken; Nika seemed relaxed.
"Where've you been?" a gruff voice said, and Blane had to try very hard not to scowl when he recognised Yddris's voice.
"Out," Nika said. "Why aren't you in bed?"
Yddris scoffed. "Who are you, my mother? The boy needs looking at, though. I still haven't seen him sleep, might be we have to slip him something."
"Oh. I'll go up straight away, and you'd better be close behind me." Nika turned to Blane. "Thank you for the drink. I owe you one in future."
He hurried off, leaving Blane with the one Unspoken he couldn't tolerate. Somehow, without being able to see it, Blane could tell that Yddris knew how he felt and was greatly amused by it.
"I know he seems alright," Blane grunted, "But your friend needs checking on, too. Went chasing after something tonight that may or may not have been one of those killers. Walked him home just in case, seemed proper shaken up."
Yddris's amusement evaporated. "Did he say why?"
"Wanted to...get the weapon, or something," Blane muttered. "Asked me what I thought caused the siege."
"Oh, aye. Nagging problem, that. Suspect we have a lead on it, too, I'm sure he mentioned it." For once, Yddris didn't seemed inclined to make any snarky comments. "Top of the hill, look to the west. And thank you, captain."
Blane stared as the demon catcher walked away. He suddenly felt the weight of the night at his back, and while it was tempting to head straight home, his curiosity was overwhelming. Of course, he wouldn't have put it past Yddris to send him on a fool's errand for a laugh, but somehow he didn't think so this time. Cursing his creaking knees, Blane carried on up the hill after the demon hunters, until the end of Yddris's cloak disappeared into the gloom. When Blane reached the corner, they were gone, though one lower floor window of the houses on that street glowed green instead of yellow. Blane shuddered and pressed on.
He passed the gaping hole in the castle rampart wall, patched up with temporary warded fencing. Stonemasons' tools and huge piles of new stone sat quiet behind the divider, waiting until the workforce returned. They had already begun re-laying bricks. Someone had cleared away the rubble and the demons, but the courtyard was still coated with dark patches and pale dust. Blane hurried through, following the wall to the west, and then squinting over the city view. Shadow's Reach glittered below him, and distantly he could see light reflecting off the reservoir on the city edge. The occasional demon howl pierced the night, though Blane was certain they'd been quieter since the siege.
Perhaps they're as tired as I am, he thought, and forced down a hysterical laugh.
He couldn't see what Yddris meant, however. The city was beautiful, the air crisp and smoky, but he didn't think the Unspoken had sent him up here for a nice view and a stiff breeze. His eye was drawn to a wink on the horizon – the Whispering Wall, very distant, though the most visible from here than it was anywhere else in the city.
Blane squinted. Frowned. He inched to top of the incline, as close as he could get without heading downhill again. There was a dimmed patch, right in the middle of the bright line.
"Night take me," he breathed.
"You see it?"
He jumped and whirled, finding Yddris leaning on the castle wall behind him, smoke wreathing his head from his pipe. Blane bit back his tirade about making noise, and said, "But it can't..."
"I believe it is." Yddris's voice was more solemn than he'd ever heard it. "Noticed it this evening. That Wall has a crack in it, and I'm willing to bet it's screwing us over in more ways than one."
Blane stared at the line on the horizon. He understood nothing about magic, but every Nictavian was taught from the cradle that the Wall meant stability. It wasn't supposed to break. Harkenn's wall was one thing, but this, if true, was entirely another.
The Wall shone on like a row of glimmering fires, except for the dim line in the middle. Like a god had reached down and snuffed it, and then turned their back.