CHAPTER 4 Torj
CHAPTER 4
Torj
‘The fortress of Thezmarr has always been home to the most elite warrior training programme in the midrealms. It sits on the edge of the world, hemmed in by jagged mountains and savage seas’
– A History of Thezmarr
A SHADOW DARKENED the space beside Torj at the bar.
‘Get your shit together.’ Wilder Hawthorne, his fellow Warsword, already had a pack slung over his shoulder.
Torj downed the fire extract the bartender had placed in front of him. ‘What are you talking about? We’re not due to leave until—’
‘There’s been an attack.’
Torj’s gaze snapped to his friend’s. ‘Who? Where?’ he demanded.
‘King Leiko.’
‘Is he alive?’
Wilder nodded. ‘Several Guardians were stationed there. They managed to get the king to safety and quell the attack. Audra has called all Warswords back to the fortress for a briefing.’
All Warswords – another change the post-war years had brought about. Torj flexed his hand, feeling the Furies-given strength coursing through his veins. Ballads were sung about their kind – tales of immortality, of beings forged rather than born. Sometimes it didn’t feel so long ago that there had only been three of their kind left in the midrealms. Now, there were thirteen elite warriors who had passed the Great Rite, the series of deadly trials crafted by the gods themselves. Thirteen who bore the steel symbol of crossed swords on their armbands, who answered to no one but the Guild Master. Thirteen who guarded what remained in the wake of the shadows. To summon them all back to the guild was telling.
‘Audra suspects something larger than a lone assassination attempt?’ The web of scars prickled across Torj’s chest.
Wilder motioned for him to get up and follow. ‘Won’t know ’til we’re back at Thezmarr.’
They crossed the tavern and made for the rooms above, uneasiness stirring in the pit of Torj’s stomach. The midrealms were still rebuilding, still recovering from the war. As the story of the late King Artos’ treachery had bled across the lands, peace between the kingdoms had been fragile to say the least. A royal at the helm of such devastation made for fractured trust between rulers and subjects alike – and now an attack on a king, after everything they had been through?
Perhaps Audra is right to call us all back to Thezmarr.
Torj opened the door to his room, revealing a chaotic state beyond.
‘Cal!’ Wilder barked in the direction of the bed. ‘Move your sorry arse. We’re leaving.’
To Torj’s utter surprise, Callahan Whitlock, his former apprentice-turned-Warsword, sprang from the mattress as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him.
Unfortunately, he was naked.
More unfortunate still, he dislodged not one, but two women who were nestled in the blankets, both shrieking in surprise. The sound did nothing for the ache forming behind Torj’s eyes.
‘The fuck, Cal?’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Sorry, sorry! We came back this morning – Albert gave my room away—’
Wilder shielded his eyes in disgust. ‘Because you haven’t paid your tab!’
‘Kipp was supposed to sort it—’
Wilder snorted. ‘You should know better by now.’
Shaking his head, Torj entered the room and started collecting his things. He travelled light, so he made quick work of his pack and shouldered his war hammer.
‘Where’s Thea?’ he asked Wilder, noting her absence from his side. The couple was usually inseparable, a longstanding source of pain for Torj. Though he did not begrudge his friends their happiness, he’d given up his own dreams of a future like theirs long ago.
‘She left early,’ Wilder replied. ‘Wanted to be there for when—’ He cut himself off.
‘When what?’ Torj demanded.
Wilder snatched up Cal’s bow and quiver of arrows, shoving them into the younger Warsword’s chest before turning back to Torj. ‘You’ll see.’
Swearing under his breath, Torj left the room and, not waiting for the others, made his way back down through the tavern.
He didn’t know why he kept coming back here, not when it forced him to remember. Not just the night at the Fox with her, but the two times he’d seen her since – each encounter worse than the last, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, leaving him cursing the poisoner from Delmira.
But the truth was, she was everywhere. And the memories stayed with Torj long after he’d left the Laughing Fox and saddled his horse. They stayed with him long into the journey across the Harenth border and onto the Mourner’s Trail that led to the fortress of Thezmarr.
As he approached, the strange power that had lingered under his skin became restless. For half a decade, he’d held it off by hunting down monsters and travelling across the seas, but now...something had awakened it from its slumber. He hated it. Hated the reminder of her and what she’d done.
No matter how much he fucked and fought, he couldn’t get her out of his head. In his stronger moments, he clung to the rage that burned deep within. In his weaker ones, it was the flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb, the brush of her lashes against the tops of her cheeks that came back to him.
He had tried. Tried to be something more to her, to comfort her, and in the end, Wren had chosen her own path.
He’d been right to walk away. He knew it in his bones.
But if he’d been right, why was her lightning calling him home?