CHAPTER 5 Torj
Torj
‘Throughout the midrealms, it is a sign of respect to raise three fingers to one’s left shoulder in the presence of a Warsword’
– The Warsword’s Way
‘SHIT,’ CAL SAID bluntly as he arrived at Torj and Wilder’s sorry excuse for a camp between villages. ‘I didn’t realize things were this bad.’
‘I thought you were sharper than that, Whitlock.’ Torj raised a brow and peered behind his former protégé, clapping eyes on Prince Zavier Terling.
‘He’s not half as sharp as he looks,’ Zavier quipped as he dismounted from his horse.
‘Clearly, if he broke you out of confinement against orders,’ Wilder mused, though he didn’t sound fazed.
‘What the fuck, Cal?’ Torj rounded on him. ‘He was in official Thezmarrian custody. You’ve broken a dozen rules by springing him free.’
Cal scoffed. ‘For your information, it was Audra’s suggestion. She thought it was only a matter of time before someone tried to remove Zavier from the equation, given his affiliation with Silas.’
Torj sighed and added another log to the fire. ‘Then you may as well sit down and tell us what you know about him. We need everything, Zavier. Anything that might give us an edge, help predict his plays, weaken him . . . Why does he want Wren’s crown? Is it just the land he’s after?’
‘No,’ Zavier told them, warming his hands over the fire.
‘Silas blames the Embervale family for what happened to our own. Our mothers were close, but when Queen Brigh Embervale received intelligence about the darkness that was rising prior to the shadow war, she diverted resources to protect only Delmira’s lands, deliberately abandoning Naarva despite her friendship with our mother.
Despite the oath of mutual protection they’d shared. ’
‘Is it true?’ Torj asked. ‘Did Wren’s family betray them?’
‘I don’t know, and I’m not even sure it matters. But it’s what Silas believes,’ Zavier replied, heavy grief lacing his words.
‘So, it’s revenge . . .’ Wilder said quietly.
‘It started that way, yes,’ Zavier said. ‘Which was why I stupidly thought that if there was a way to bring our mother back, it would stop him going down this path. That he could be redeemed.’
‘And now?’
Zavier’s shoulders caved inwards. ‘Now . . . now there’s no saving him. He was the true alchemist of us Terling brothers. And I’ve watched him turn something he loved into the most corrupted version of itself.’
‘Wren says he’s using shadow magic. Is that true?’ Cal asked.
Zavier didn’t look up, but he nodded. ‘Fragments left over from the previous war. Infused with royal blood to make targeting magic wielders possible . . . The brother I loved died long ago; I just didn’t want to admit it.
’ He drew a shaky breath before he continued.
‘If my parents could see him now . . . If the people of Naarva knew about him . . . I have to go with you, wherever you’re going. I must help undo this.’
A noise of frustration escaped Torj. ‘I think you’ve done enough. For all we know, it was you who tipped him off to target me to get to Wren. You could be the reason he knew to poison me.’
It was Zavier’s turn to scoff. ‘Your and Wren’s relationship is the worst-kept secret in the midrealms. Silas is no fool.
He was there at the battle of Drevenor. He saw with his own eyes what was between you two then, like every other man, woman and child under the sun.
The battle itself could have been a test – to provoke any magical connection .
. . You tell us, Bear Slayer. Might he have seen something that day? ’
Torj glared at the Naarvian prince. ‘I trust you about as much as I trust—’
‘Torj,’ Wilder interjected. ‘I think the prince has a point.’
Torj clenched his jaw and said nothing more.
Zavier forged on. ‘He’s a summoner, like me.
The Embervales can wield lightning and thunder, whereas the Terling family can move objects with the power of our minds alone.
Silas . . . Silas is the more powerful of us brothers, and ever since he attacked Drevenor at our graduation, he’s been getting stronger.
I don’t know how. I’ve been trying to work it out for weeks. ’
‘Does he know about the silvertide roses? That they’re part of Wren’s cure for his shadow alchemy?’ Torj asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Zavier said. ‘If he doesn’t, it’s only a matter of time. There are so many more people involved now. Silas will have just as many spies as Lucian Devereux.’
Torj was wrenched back to the final moments of that battle, where a pair of soulless eyes behind a horrifying mask stared back at him—
‘Has he always worn a mask?’ he asked abruptly, his gaze snapping back to Zavier.
Zavier frowned. ‘No . . . but he and I look quite similar. If he faced anyone who knew me, they would be able to tell we are kin. I just assumed it was to hide his identity.’
‘Is there any significance to its design? Does it mean anything to you?’ Torj pressed.
But Zavier shook his head. ‘No. My guess would be that it’s part of his intimidation tactics. A sea of masked men makes them somehow inhuman, doesn’t it?’
‘And what of his other tactics?’ Wilder asked from across the fire.
‘The stories we’ve heard have been the same all over the outer villages – a stranger comes to town, breaks bread and leaves.
He pressures no one to join the People’s Vanguard, simply shares information and then goes on his way.
But then people go missing, others depart in the dark of night .
. . Then there are the folk who suddenly start fights with their neighbours and friends, completely out of character, and things escalate to the point of death. Do you know anything of this?’
‘I doubt it’s Silas himself,’ Zavier said slowly. ‘But he has several trusted alchemists in his ranks ready to do his bidding. It could be some sort of elixir designed to amplify aggression, but from your description alone I can’t be sure—’
A blur shot across the fire, and a startled shriek sounded from the darkness.
Wilder’s swords were gleaming in the firelight and Torj had his hammer ready. The string of Cal’s bow quivered as he nocked another arrow, his gaze fixed on something in the shadows.
‘Will one of you Warswords tell me what’s happening?’ Zavier demanded, a hand pressed over his chest as he scanned the camp wildly.
‘I come in peace!’ a voice called from the forest.
‘Then show yourself!’ Torj shouted back.
‘I would, but I’m now pinned to a tree,’ came the reply.
Torj nodded to Cal, who shouldered his bow and went to retrieve their new guest. Exchanging a wary look with Wilder, Torj waited.
The underbrush rustled as Cal emerged with a woman in tow. She carried herself well, her chin lifted, her back straight, though her eyes gave away her distrust.
‘Who are you?’ Wilder demanded.
Cal brought her into the light, dropping a large canvas sack at their feet – her belongings.
‘My name is Senna Cross,’ she told them, eyeing their weapons with trepidation.
‘You have my word that no harm will come to you while you say your piece here,’ Torj told her, equally apprehensive.
‘I’ve lived in the midrealms long enough to know that promises from anyone mean nothing, let alone promises from strangers,’ Senna said, with a cool note of detachment.
Torj couldn’t argue that. ‘Fair enough.’
Senna dipped her head. ‘I was out in the fields when you came to my village,’ she explained. Her gaze darted over their small party, lingering on Zavier, but she continued, ‘I’ve been trying to find you since you left. But I couldn’t take the main routes. They’re not safe any more.’
‘Because of the People’s Vanguard?’ Cal asked. ‘We know of their public floggings and hangings, and their witch hunts for outsiders . . .’
Senna’s laugh held no humour. ‘If only it were that simple. The woman you spoke with? That was our village elder, but I’ll wager she didn’t tell you much.’
‘She told us of the stranger, and how those who broke bread with him were gone . . . or dead,’ Wilder allowed.
‘Gone . . .’ Senna repeated. ‘That’s one word for it. And yes, there are plenty dead. The innkeeper’s daughter whose throat was torn out two nights ago. The wheat farmer who was beaten to death with his own shovel . . . Whatever this enemy is doing, it goes beyond recruiting for a war.’
‘We know,’ Torj told her quietly. ‘He’s using fragments of shadow magic from the previous war.’
‘If that’s true – if he’s delving into that kind of power . . .’ Senna breathed, ‘then who knows what he’s capable of.’
Zavier studied the woman with his arms folded over his chest and a brow raised. ‘You followed us across dangerous lands to tell us this?’
‘No,’ Senna replied, shaking her head. ‘I actually have something that might be of interest to you, Warswords.’ She reached for the bulky sack Cal had dropped at their feet.
‘Allow me,’ Torj said, lifting it, though not expecting the weight – it was heavy. Almost as heavy as his war hammer. He felt a tremor start in his fingers, a bunching of the tendons in his hands, but he placed the item on the leaf-covered ground and pulled back the fabric.
Torj stared at the familiar weapon.
A mace.
Made of Naarvian steel.
‘Where did you find this?’ he demanded.
‘In a small port town in the south of Harenth, along with more blood than I’ve ever seen. Something happened there. Something terrible.’
Torj didn’t take his eyes off the bludgeon.
‘It belongs to a Warsword, doesn’t it?’ Senna asked over his shoulder.
Torj took in the recognizable spiked head, the runes carved into its grip. He’d seen it crush plates of armour and pulverize more warriors than he could count. ‘Not just any Warsword,’ he heard himself say. ‘That’s Vernich the Bloodletter’s mace.’