Seventy One: A Haul

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"Ah, shit."

Arlen watched nettle wine pool onto the table and then drip off the side onto the floor in a steady stream. He scowled and righted the bottle. He thought about struggling to the hearth for a cloth to mop it up, and then chuckled and rolled his good eye to the ceiling. What was the point?

A constant companion, the dull ache in his leg only added to his misery. It was healing – one thing that had gone well for him, at least – but remained swollen and tender. When he removed the bandages they revealed a purple stump yellowing at the edges, criss-crossed with sutures, and a thick red line where his skin had been grafted over the open wound. It sickened him to look at it. The castle was under siege from demons, the perfect opportunity to rob Harkenn blind, and he was marooned here. Even more galling was the fact that Usk had asked him to provide the map and the knowledge needed to break in, just before leaving him out of the operation altogether.

Fucking amateurs.

He turned his scowl on the window, starting to rock back in his chair before remembering he was fundamentally unbalanced and that falling to the floor could set him back days. He drained the nettle wine he hadn't spilled and then threw the bottle, smashing it against the wall. A small pile of broken glass already occupied that corner, and it reminded him of the mountains in the light season. Sometimes he'd find himself staring at it for minutes at a time, watching the light of the candles shift over the fragments. There wasn't bugger-all else to do.

In the far distance, he could still hear demons screaming, but it had faded from the cacophony of the hour before. It surprised him that it had gone on so long; demons often didn't try getting through a barrier more than once or twice unless they could sense weakness or were profoundly stupid. The castle nets had held for decades. Arlen found it hard to believe they were wearing out now.

He felt separate from the entire world, sat at his table alone, a single candle and the slow burn of alcohol his only companions. And the dull pulsing of pain in his leg, over and over again. He had thought himself immune to the usual cravings for contact with people, but that was back when he could come and go as he pleased. When he did not force them to, no one came. No one came, and he never left.

Except for Silas.

A shape appeared in the window, and Arlen's face pulled into a deeper scowl automatically. He'd rather be cemented into his home with bricks and mortar to ensure total isolation than constantly being forced to spend time with the brat. He had been obsequious to the point of nausea, still stupidly hoping that Arlen would change his mind about the apprenticeship. But there was an edge to it, hidden just out of sight; I have power over you now.

Arlen never left his hunting knife behind anymore. As the boy climbed into the room with a sack over his shoulder, Arlen's hand crept to the handle and rested there.

"News?" he asked. Silas was the only option while Usk was out, and he might as well be useful for something.

"The outer wall partially collapsed," Silas replied. He only briefly hesitated at the wine spillage on the table. He didn't even look at the addition to the pile of broken glass. They were both getting used to it. "But the second held. The Unspoken got there right after the breach and someone in the merchants' quarter said all the demons fled at once not long after, like someone had told 'em to. So at least it's over."

Arlen nodded slowly, though he didn't share the optimism. He didn't want to show how much it disturbed him. However one felt about Harkenn, his castle had the strongest defences against demons in the Reach and all its districts. Demons managing to get through them spelled bad news for everyone. He didn't claim to be an expert , but even he knew that the one thing demons never did was act together, not between breeds, and certainly not in large numbers. If he hadn't heard the screaming he'd have had a hard time believing it.

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