Nightsworn | The Whispering Wall #2

Thirty One: Burial

"What the fuck was that?"

Silas scowled at the throwing blade hanging by a splinter from the bottom of the target board. "Shut up."

Arlen didn't shut up. He was quite enjoying himself, and wasn't inclined to stop when the rest of his day had been an endless stream of shit. "You've almost got your nose pressed up against a motionless target and you still can't hit it. You wanted tuition, here it is."

"Bet magic boy didn't do any better," Silas mumbled.

"Only because I haven't had him on throwing blades yet."

Arlen had nothing to back this claim up – after all, he had never been out in the field with his own apprentice, a thought that curled his lip as a reflex. For all he knew, Jordan could be a poor enough shot to miss the wall, but it was worth saying just to see the look on Silas's face. His next shot went wide, but at least managed to stick in the board.

"Better," Arlen grunted, taking a long swig of ale. His leg was prickling particularly badly that day, and the only thing distracting him was being slightly drunk.

It was definitely not to drown out thoughts of what he had to do later.

"You're letting go too late," he said. He had agreed to teach Silas for as long as Jordan was away, and as much as he enjoyed winding him up, a deal was a deal. He had to throw a few genuine pointers in, even if it felt like he was dragging them through his teeth. "Give that here."

Silas plucked the blade from the board and handed it over. It was a familiar weight in Arlen's hand, though he couldn't recall the last time he'd had to use a throwing blade – not since long before he'd lost his leg. He crushed the little voice inside his head that wondered what he'd do if he was so rusty he made Silas look like an expert, and threw. The blade hit and stuck about two inches from the centre target with a satisfying thud.

"I've done better," he muttered, easing a sudden cramp out of his neck. "Were you watching when I let go?"

Silas nodded, already having retrieved the weapon. His third shot stuck too, albeit not much closer to the centre. They were interrupted – blessedly, and Arlen wasn't a huge believer in blessings – by Usk arriving. He hauled himself in through the window, nodding a greeting and meeting Arlen's eye.

"Your carriage is outside."

"Where are you going?" Silas squawked immediately, then hissed and sucked on the cut he'd just given himself.

"If you're holding something with four blades, best practice is to pay attention to where your fingers are," Arlen snapped. "And I promised you tuition, not a running commentary on everything I decide to do."

Not that he had particularly decided to do this, but he suspected that if he'd refused it might have been enough to bring Darin into the dead quarter, after which he would be shortly parting company with a few more body parts.

He had agreed with Usk that morning that Silas was not to see the brute helping him down the crates on pain of a matching amputation, and as a result the trip down was arduous and painful. He climbed into the carriage with a sigh of barely-suppressed relief, his stump buzzing worse than ever. He hoped it was a sign of it healing rather than a rapid downward turn, but pushed the thought away as the first stirrings of panic pushed at the fringes of the beer haze.

"Try and get shot of him before I get back," Arlen muttered through the window to Usk. "Is the driver..."

"Paid off," Usk said. His yellow gaze searched Arlen's face until he grew irritated.

"What?"

Usk opened his mouth, and then closed it again, seeming to think better of whatever he'd been about to say. "Safe trip."