CHAPTER 27 Torj
CHAPTER 27
Torj
‘Wounds inflicted by magic fracture not only flesh, but the bonds that bind hearts and souls together’
– Arcane Ailments: Understanding Magical Maladies
T O T ORJ, D REVENOR was becoming less an alchemy academy and more a nightmare. Protecting Wren against outside threats felt at odds with the horrors unfolding within the institution. Still, the strange classes meant that he could leave Cal on duty and attend to his own business.
Torj started at the top of Hardim Norlander’s list of contacts – people who had suffered magical wounds, or knew someone who had. It was how he found himself on the outskirts of Highguard, the closest city to Drevenor, named for its vantage point overlooking the Broken Isles. There, in a small fishing village by the docks, Torj tethered his horse outside the local tavern, and crossed the dirt road to the local bakery, a bell ringing by his ear as he entered.
‘It’s not every day you see a Warsword of Thezmarr in these parts,’ a croaky voice said from behind the counter.
Torj spotted a shrunken elderly man kneading a ball of dough on the bench, his apron covered in flour. ‘Are you Branwell?’ he asked, with another glance at Hardim’s list.
‘Afraid so,’ Branwell replied. ‘Norlander said you’d be paying a visit.’
He offered his hand. ‘I’m Torj Elderbrock.’
Branwell shook it, not paying the flour and specks of dough any heed. ‘You’re here to talk about my boy?’
‘If you’re willing. Is there somewhere private we can go?’
‘Don’t get much more private than this bakery right here. It’ll be a long while ’til first customers come through. There was a big party across the road last night. Whole town’s still asleep, I imagine.’
Torj glanced out the grimy window. True enough, no one in the little village seemed to have stirred, and he’d seen no one out and about on the ride in. ‘Alright then.’
‘You can make yourself useful while we talk. Grab that batch of dough there and give it a good kneading. You look like you’ve got the arms for it.’
Slightly bewildered, Torj did what Branwell asked.
‘So, you want to know how my son died,’ the baker said without preamble.
Torj balked, but managed to give a nod of confirmation as he tipped the dough onto the floured surface.
Branwell seemed to steel himself. ‘Alden fought in the war, you see. Under King Leiko’s banner at first. He was at the battle of Notos – which I know you and your comrades oversaw.’
‘We did.’ Torj was suddenly grateful to have something to do with his hands, working the dough with the heel of his palm as Branwell himself was doing.
‘Early in the fighting, King Leiko came out with one of his units. He was determined to fight, even against the orders of the Guild Master.’
This was news to Torj. He’d never had much of an impression of the King of Tver’s character.
‘Alden was in the King’s Guard, you see. Close to His Majesty, close to his magic...When a group of shadow wraiths attacked, the king tried to fight them back with his sovereign power – fire. Only, he lost control. He killed two of the monsters, but he also burned my son in the process.’
Torj concentrated on kneading the dough.
‘His Majesty was mortified, of course. He oversaw Alden’s recovery, compensated him generously. But no matter the skill of the healers he brought in from all over the midrealms, Alden’s injury continued to ail him.’
‘Did the wound heal physically?’
‘In time, yes. Nasty scars left behind – typical of a regular burn, we were told. But the pain lingered. It ate away at him.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
Branwell took the dough from Torj and gave him a fresh batch to knead while he shaped the piece Torj had worked on, placing it in a tin and scoring the top with a scalpel-like blade.
‘We tried to tell the healers that the wound impacted him more deeply than the scars showed. He was fine at first – recovering, but himself...And then a time later, he started having nightmares. Slowly, his vitality waned, leaving behind a hollow shell of a man. He told us he could still feel the fire in his scars, long after they had healed. In the end, he lived in fragmented memories. He lost himself. Eventually he took his own life.’
‘Gods,’ Torj murmured. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Branwell glanced up, silver lining his eyes. ‘Hardim said that you yourself suffered such an injury?’
Torj nodded. ‘During the final battle of the war.’ He didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to part the collar of his shirt and show the man his scars. ‘Are you saying this will...drive me to madness?’
‘I’m no expert,’ Branwell said solemnly. ‘I can only tell you what happened to my son, and the man who fought beside him. They both met the same fate.’
The baker gave him a pitying look and passed him a rag to wipe his hands with. As Torj scrubbed the bits of dough lining his palms and fingers, he stared blankly at the flour-covered bench, Branwell’s words slowly sinking in.
He lived in fragmented memories.
He lost himself.
He only looked up when the baker pushed a loaf of warm bread into his chest. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ he said.
Torj nodded numbly, taking the offering. ‘Thank you for your trouble.’
‘My son was a good lad. And you...You’re a hero of the midrealms. Neither of you deserve such an end.’ Branwell hesitated. ‘Maybe if more people knew about the effects of the rulers’ magic, they’d understand what those midrealms renegades are on about, eh?’
Torj paused. ‘Rebels?’
Branwell nodded, his eyes brightening. ‘Got posters all over the village. Something about giving the midrealms back to the people.’
Torj realized he was crushing the bread in his hands. ‘Right. Well, thank you for your time.’
‘Good luck to you, Warsword.’
‘I’ll be needing as much as I can get,’ Torj muttered, leaving the shop.
Branwell was right: the posters were all over town. Torj found several pinned to the noticeboard in the village square alone.
Are you tired of being downtrodden and ruled over by tyrants?
Do you want our kingdoms to be a place of peace?
Join the People’s Vanguard in their fight for a better world.
Torj ripped the flyer from its pin and pocketed it. He’d have to show Audra – that was, if the Guild Master wasn’t already aware of the problem. Given his current task, he had the sinking suspicion that she knew far more than she’d let on. As always.
With a heavy sigh, he returned to his tethered stallion, tucking the loaf of bread in his saddlebag. The war had ended five years ago, so why did it feel like he was still fighting? His scars prickled in response as he swung himself up into the saddle.
As Torj started back towards the academy, he felt a strange pull in his chest, as though a thread connected him to something there, and it was tugging him back to where he belonged. Perhaps the madness had already started to take hold. The notion created a pit of dread low in his gut.
As he rode through the outskirts of Highguard, he thought about his life – there was nothing like the possibility of a fracturing mind to make a man contemplate his existence. Torj doubted many people had lived as hard as he had. He saw his years in chapters, full of shadow and light. Some had ended in darkness, and others...
Others had started anew with thunder and lightning.