Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Sixty Nine: Battlefield

The world outside the castle was unrecognisable, even from the hour before. Jordan squeezed through the gap reluctantly opened for him by the soldiers at the doors, and was confronted with a war zone. The breach in the rampart wall was now a yawning hole, and the battle had spilled into the courtyard. Unspoken scrawled runes across the night, and demons seethed around them, bounding over the corpses of others. The chain-link of the patched-up secondary defence rattled and swung alarmingly under the assault, and the sky glowed. His thoughts were instantly full of static from the amount of ambient magic in the air.

A Wight hissed and threw itself at the net when it saw him, rebuffed by a green flash. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to explode into flames. He had promised Yddris; but he had a sinking feeling it would prove hard to warn anyone without breaking that promise.

He was tempted – so tempted – to run back inside and hide in the kitchens with Grace. The Unspoken were all out here; the killer would have to make it past the demons to reach them, and how would they do that without having the Gift themselves?

But it wasn't worth the risk. If someone died because he'd failed to warn anyone, he couldn't live with himself. This was his chance to help, when he couldn't in any other way.

He just wished it didn't make him want to piss himself.

He hurried along the fence, flinching every time a demon noticed him and attacked the barrier. He could smell them; animal sweat and rotten breath. If death had a smell, this was it. His legs trembled, only moving because he wouldn't stop; if he stopped, they'd fold. He had never known a heart could beat so quickly and so loud. Ren fidgeted in his hood and he jumped, having nearly forgotten she was in there, and gratefully stroked her for the reminder. It wasn't as effective as it was when it wasn't a case of life and death, but it was something.

The cordoned-off section of the courtyard was deserted aside from him, and the closed castle doors were a weight at his back. He didn't know if he would be able to get back inside, but he forced himself not to think about it.

There – he spotted a cloaked figure fighting in the melee. He could tell from where he stood that it wasn't Yddris, but they were the closest, and closest was good enough for him.

"Hey!" he called, but his voice was drowned out by demon screams. "Hey!"

He cast around for a solution, and came up empty. The figure fought on, oblivious, and Jordan caught himself enraptured by the sleek agility of the fight; the Unspoken moved like water, drawing runes and dodging attacks like it was art. He watched as another wight – small, dark grey, and incredibly ugly – rush up behind the figure, deflected by a smooth kick to take it off balance and a jade arrow straight through the head to kill it.

"Fucking hell," he said hoarsely, and then blinked. He flexed his fingers, gritted his teeth, and turned on the tap.

A bolt of green, far less refined than the Unspoken's, shot through the air and hit another demon between the eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, hovering bizarrely between a thought and a tangible feeling, Jordan found something he had never encountered before and which he didn't have a name for, and pushed. To his disbelief, his magic stopped when he told it to. He almost forgot what he had come out to say in his shock.

The Unspoken turned, and he gestured urgently. They began to come towards him, but almost immediately became engaged in another fight, this time with three Bone Wights that appeared out of the crush at just the wrong time. Jordan groaned in frustration. His eye caught the stable door leading to the rest of the courtyard.

"Fuck," he whispered.

He ducked inside. It was deserted and cold, and echoed with the sounds of the battle outside. The smell of blood mingled with that of hay and horses, nauseating him.