CHAPTER 6 Torj
Torj
‘A Warsword’s Furies-gifted weapon is forged from steel mined from the Kingdom of Naarva, where the iron ore is the strongest in the midrealms, rumoured to hold the power of the gods themselves’
– The Warsword’s Way
‘YOU’RE SURE THIS belongs to the Bloodletter?’ Zavier asked. ‘Why take it?’
Senna scoffed. ‘That’s Naarvian steel right there. Do you know how much that’s worth? Our initial intention was to sell it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because we found out who it belonged to . . . The Bloodletter. No amount of coin on a midrealms black market would cover such a prize. Not in these times.’
‘Who found it, exactly?’ Torj asked.
Senna grimaced, as though she were recalling the scene vividly.
‘I did . . . It was a bloodbath. Bodies broken beyond recognition, severed limbs, caved-in skulls . . . It looked as though there had been some kind of raid. The place – a little shack by the coast – had been ransacked, no cupboard or corner left untouched. Whoever was there put up a fight. The blood was still thick on the walls when we got there a few days later, judging by the smell.’
Torj pointed to the mace on the ground. ‘And this?’
‘We found it in the sand just outside,’ Senna replied. ‘Seemed unlikely a Warsword of the Bloodletter’s calibre would leave it behind. At least not on purpose.’ She scanned their faces. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
No one spoke. Torj wondered if it was because the thought of Vernich the mighty Bloodletter no longer walking the midrealms was simply unbelievable. He was the first and eldest of the original three who had returned to Thezmarr all those years ago to train shieldbearers.
‘There’s more.’ Senna waved a small pouch at them. ‘You might want to hold your noses . . .’
Torj didn’t register the words in time before Senna opened the little bag and tipped three severed fingers onto the ground.
The smell was instant – rotting flesh, pungent enough to make Torj’s eyes water and force him to cover his nose and mouth with his hand. Zavier didn’t fare so well; he darted away to dry heave into the bushes.
‘What the fuck?’ Cal exclaimed, pressing a kerchief to the lower half of his face with a grimace.
‘They were found with the mace,’ Senna explained. ‘See the rings?’
Still pinching his nose, Torj forced himself to look at the severed digits. Sure enough, there were two rings on each of them: iron bands with delicate spikes, and no markings or sigils he recognized—
‘Those rings belong to Warsword Graves,’ Cal said quietly. ‘And the fingers too, I’m guessing . . .’
‘Who’s Warsword Graves?’ Zavier asked.
‘Only one of the most brutal Warswords from the new cohort. Ashlyn Graves wore those rings to fuck people’s faces up even more when she hit them,’ Cal replied.
‘I trained her briefly at Thezmarr before she was called for the Great Rite. She was reported missing shortly after Vernich disappeared. She was one of the Warswords sent to look for him.’
Torj felt the shock ripple through the small group around him. Of their current company, there were three Warswords of the highest calibre, who had survived the Great Rite and the shadow war, only to find themselves here, with their fellow warriors being picked off one by one.
‘We need to presume that they’re dead,’ Wilder said stoically. ‘Vernich would never leave that mace behind willingly—’
‘Well, I doubt Graves left her fingers behind willingly either, but that doesn’t mean she’s dead,’ Cal argued.
‘All I’m saying is that we should assume we’re another two Warswords down in this war,’ Wilder replied gently.
Torj flinched beside his brother-in-arms. If what Wren said about the poison in him was true, then Wilder was wrong.
The number was three.
They would be another three Warswords down in the war to come.