Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Sixteen: Scars

Killian's grip on him on was painfully tight, as if he thought Jordan might bolt if he let go. Jordan might have found that idea faintly ridiculous if his mind hadn't gone blank with panic.

The view from behind the wagon was limited at best, but he didn't need to see anything to know that whatever was happening wasn't good. There were screams and crashes, and amongst it all a ceaseless chanting in a language Jordan didn't recognise, interspersed with sharp cracking noises.

The Unspoken in brown had joined them where they hid, though Jordan couldn't remember when. He only noticed they were there at all by the sudden presence of crackling magic at his shoulder, and he wasn't sure his cold sweat was because of fear or the proximity. The headache that had been nudging at his temples all morning grew more persistent by the minute, but Killian's bulk blocked him from edging away.

"Cosy down here, isn't it?" the Unspoken said, revealing themselves to be a man who sounded much younger than Jordan had expected. "Hap sent me back here. I can handle myself, though," he added quickly, even though Jordan had said nothing, "He just thinks I'm rash. Can't think why."

He chuckled as if to some private joke. Jordan blinked.

"Would someone like to tell me what's going on?" he whispered, once his thoughts cleared enough for him to speak. He paused as a loud crash echoed over the square as if a table had been overturned.

"It's a demonstration," Killian said. "Representatives from House Nict making us all out to be thieves and sinners, no doubt."

"We're the thieves, by the way," the Unspoken next to Jordan said, "Us Gifted."

"What do they think you stole?"

"Magic, believe it or not," the man replied, and then to an exclamation of surprise nobody had made he added, "I know, it's ludicrous."

"What's that noise?" Jordan asked. "The snapping?"

"Have a look," the Unspoken said, pressing himself against a crate to let Jordan squeeze through. "It's alright, Hap and Nika are in front of the wagon so no one'll see you."

Hesitant, Jordan shuffled forward to poke his head around the side of the cart. Nika turned but didn't acknowledge him. Hap was leaning on his stick, silent.

Jordan peered between them. At first he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing, but then Nika stepped aside to allow him a better view and he gasped. A large group had taken over the market, having cleared aside crowds and stalls alike, and were assembling in haphazard rows. They were all naked save for dark grey loincloths, and they all carried whips. Jordan's insides curdled at the thought that they had been using them to get people to move, but then one man stepped out of the group and turned his back, and he saw that the skin there was severely lacerated.

"Yeah, the Nicts are very dedicated," the Unspoken in brown whispered, crouched right behind Jordan.

Jordan squinted. All the near-naked people in the square were similarly bloodied. The cobbles were spattered with it.

"Harun noch an ahktan Nict!" the man at the front yelled, his voice echoing. "Harun noch an tirktan Nict!"

"Tirkta Nict!" his following echoed.

"What language is that?" Jordan said, unable to tear his eyes away. He sorely regretted it when, as one, the congregation lifted their whips and administered a lash to their backs. On only a few did he spot any sign of discomfort; the others were stoic and focused on the man in front of them.

"It's a language Nict made up for themselves, supposedly," the Unspoken muttered in reply, "Though it's really just a bastard version of Tochk."

The man was still yelling, but it was no longer possible to discern individual words. Jordan, who didn't even know what the Unspoken meant by Tochk, gave up trying very quickly.