Nightsworn | The Whispering Wall #2

Forty Four: Futures

Jordan's sparring stick flew through the air and landed with a thud in Thirris's garden. Ren squeaked and scampered after it, and then sat and gnawed on it until Jordan retrieved it. It was a bit big for the shadow-runner to play fetch with, but she was giving it a good go.

"You're distracted again," Yddris growled. "We're not going to get anywhere if you don't concentrate."

"So far," Jordan snapped back, stalking back to stand opposite his tutor, stick in hand, "I've crossed the Barrens in one stretch after spending twenty years doing little more than walk round the fucking block, been stuffed with purging herbs and lost half my internal organs, and then found out that this place I fell into by accident is not only plagued with demons but also zombies out to kill me and anyone like me. I'm having a bit of a tough time concentrating."

"What's a zombie?" If Jordan's list of woes affected Yddris at all, it wasn't in the way he'd been hoping.

"Undead thing that eats brains."

"Your world has those?"

"No. They're fictional."

Yddris's bafflement radiated from him in waves. "You don't have real demons, so you make them up?"

"I..." Jordan scowled. "That's not the point I was making at all."

"If you focus, boy, you won't have time to mope about your problems. Ready up again."

Jordan bit down on his retort and tried to do as Yddris said. He flexed his aching hands on the stick, and tried to anticipate where his tutor would come from first. He forced himself not to think about watching Yddris at the bouts, because he knew already there was no way he could win. He could just do without the added discouragement.

He didn't win – predictably – but he could've sworn he parried a few more blows than he had managed previously. He stepped back as Yddris's stick tapped his shoulder and leaned over to catch his breath. The match had been longer than usual, and to his surprise he had managed to forget about things for a few minutes.

"Very good," Yddris said, and sounded like he meant it. "See, boy, you've got some skill when you put your mind to it. I think it's about time we tried you on a blade. You must be bored of sparring by now."

"Kinda," Jordan said. He straightened. "But blades are sharp."

"Obviously." His tutor's voice was dry as a desert. "Don't tell me Blackheart's had you on sticks."

"We haven't done anything with blades," Jordan said, a touch defensive. "Usk's been teaching me to fight and he just uses them to finish someone off a bit faster."

"That surprises me," Yddris mused. "I'm sure Blackheart would marry his blades if it was an option."

Jordan snorted. Arlen was very particular with his knives; he kept a varied selection on him at all times, even when it was just him and Jordan alone, and in idle moments the assassin could always be found polishing one even if it was already gleaming.

"I think he wants to teach me himself," Jordan said. "I just don't know how he plans to do it."

"If he manages it, there's no one in the Devils better to teach blades." Yddris flicked a knife out from seemingly nowhere and twirled it around his fingers. "Not since I left it, anyway."

"Cocky much?" Jordan asked, and then squeaked in alarm as the knife thudded into the tree behind him, missing his face by an inch.

"You're moving to blades. Sparring is getting demoted to a warmup. Dagger out, boy."

"You sound as bad as I feel," Koen said an hour later. They had agreed to meet up after training in the building the Unspoken used as a kind of tavern, though it was far more civilised than any pub Jordan had been into in the Reach. Both of them sat at the table like their bodies had turned to rubber. Jordan's fingers had myriad tiny cuts on them from fumbling his blade, and they stung as he picked up his pint and took a sip. He hissed and shook it out. He hadn't been able to bear pulling his gloves over them.