CHAPTER 8 Torj
Torj
‘Some orders are made to be disobeyed’
– Bear Slayer, Warsword of Thezmarr
AUDRA’S ORDERS TOOK them across to a village in the Broken Isles, a directive that made Torj’s blood boil.
Every league of cold, unforgiving water between him and Wren felt like another betrayal.
He’d argued with Cal and Wilder until his voice went hoarse and his fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides, ready to draw blood if necessary.
Only Zavier had sided with him, but it meant nothing when Wilder – damn him to the icy dungeons of Aveum – was the sole keeper of Wren’s location.
Torj knew that gathering information for the guild was important work, that it was vital for the war strategies to come, but their second agenda was as subtle as a war hammer: to keep him away from Wren and Darian.
Each day without her was another cut to his heart.
His hands ached to touch her face, to confirm she was real and not just a distant memory of a dream he had always yearned for.
And beneath that longing, a darker thought festered – that at this very moment, she might be in Darian’s arms, looking up at him with those willow-green eyes .
. . The thought turned his stomach to acid, burning through his chest until he could barely breathe.
It wasn’t jealousy – it was terror that the bond they’d forged through blood and battle and ancient magic might weaken in his absence.
He dreamed of her every night – vivid, merciless visions where she reached for him across battlefields strewn with the fallen, her fingers always inches from his own before she dissolved into shadow.
Then there were the dreams where he felt her softness against his body, the warmth of her palm cupping his face, the brush of her lips on his.
By day, her voice haunted him, ghosting across his consciousness when the wind shifted just so.
Torj, it would whisper, and he’d jerk his head up, muscles coiled tight, eyes scanning the horizon for a glimpse of her bronze hair.
It was happening again, her voice carrying on the breeze, when blood-curdling snarls sliced through his trance like a blade.
The noise was vicious and primal, but not . . . animal. The feral sounds echoing through the underbrush were distinctly human.
He signalled the others with a sharp gesture, then slid from Tucker’s back and gripped his hammer, creeping closer. With each silent step forwards, the sounds grew louder, more desperate. Through a veil of leaves, the village Audra had described came into view.
There, staked to the ground like a sacrifice, a man writhed in chains.
He thrashed against his restraints, the links rattling as white spittle flew from his mouth, not just foaming like a rabid dog but projecting with each guttural curse, each threat.
‘I’ll kill you all,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll carve you up into little pieces. Let me go—’
Torj scanned the rest of the village, where a group of people were rummaging through a satchel, shaking their heads and murmuring among themselves.
‘We’ve tried all of this before,’ an older woman said, pushing the bag back. ‘None of it works.’
Torj watched a moment longer. There was no sign of the People’s Vanguard’s influence here, nor was Silas’s sigil anywhere to be seen.
These were no enemy soldiers or traitors to the midrealms .
. . and so he signalled back to Wilder and shouldered his hammer, stepping out from the shadows, the others close behind.
‘We’re here to help,’ he told the villagers, his hands raised to show he meant no harm.
The bound man started cursing and pulling against his chains again. ‘Warsword filth, let me have him—’
Torj frowned. He’d met plenty of fools in his time who thought they could take on a Warsword, but they were usually bigger, and had at least some semblance of military training. This man was a simple farmer, by the look of him.
Torj turned to the small group. ‘What’s going on here?’
Though the villagers looked wary, one man stepped forwards. ‘I’m Jarros,’ he said, a tremor in his voice as he pointed to the chained man, who was still thrashing against his bonds. ‘And that there is my brother, Faulkner.’
Torj folded his arms over his chest and surveyed the captive. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Same as a lot of people who encountered the usurper. He’s gone mad,’ an older woman replied. ‘He’s become aggressive, violent.’
Torj turned to study Faulkner, noting the hungry look in his bloodshot eyes, his straining muscles as he tried to claw his way towards the Warswords.
‘It happened gradually,’ Jarros explained.
‘It started small, just him picking arguments with us. But then those fights became physical, and he seemed to enjoy them. Faulkner was never like that before – he was always gentle, good with animals and children . . . But he started talking about joining the People’s Vanguard, where he could see real battle.
As though fighting with us wasn’t enough for him. It was like something came over him.’
‘We’ve tried everything to bring him out of the trance,’ the woman said. ‘But nothing works.’
Torj passed a hand over his face before motioning to Zavier behind him. ‘This man is an alchemist; you need to tell him what you have tried so far. He may be able to help.’
Zavier stepped forwards without hesitating. ‘Are there others like Faulkner? Perhaps in different states to the one he’s in now?’
‘Not any more,’ Jarros replied. ‘Many have answered the call of the People’s Vanguard. Many wish to fight in Silas’s war for Delmira.’
‘Shit,’ Wilder muttered, giving Torj a grim look. ‘Does this remind you of anything?’
Torj studied Faulkner, who looked more feral by the minute, still cursing and yelling, rattling his chains as he jerked violently. There was a familiarity there: the unhinged nature of him, the thirst for destruction . . . but Torj couldn’t place it.
‘The howlers.’ Cal stepped forwards, not taking his eyes off the enraged prisoner. ‘He reminds me of the howlers from the shadow war.’
As soon as Cal said the words, the realization hit Torj too. He was right. The same unnatural fury guided the man’s movements, the same deranged darkness taking hold.
‘But they were monsters,’ Jarros said slowly.
‘They were once men,’ Cal corrected him gently. ‘But upon contact with shadow magic, they became mutilated, lost to themselves, mere instruments of violence.’
Jarros shuddered. ‘Is that what’s going to happen to Faulkner?’
‘We don’t know,’ Torj told him. ‘But from what you’ve told us and what we’ve learned from other villages .
. . it sounds like Silas is building an army of madmen.
Of people whose sole wish is to spill blood, no matter the cost. He’s using shadow magic to instil a craving for violence in innocent people and calling them into his war. ’
Quiet fell as his words settled across the small group.
‘Shit,’ Wilder breathed, but his curse was a distant noise to Torj.
Terror, pure and unfiltered, crashed through him. The shadow magic. The madness. Silas’s army of corrupted souls. And somewhere out there – Wren. His soul-bonded. Trapped with the vipers, not knowing what was coming.
‘Tell me where she is, Hawthorne.’ Torj was already at Tucker’s side, his voice dangerously low. ‘Or Furies save me, I’ll tear the midrealms apart to find her myself.’
Cal stepped forwards, placing a restraining hand on Torj’s stallion. ‘Think, Torj. We have orders. Audra sent us here for—’
‘Audra doesn’t know about this,’ Torj cut him off, voice like gravel as he swung himself up into the saddle. ‘She doesn’t know what Silas is creating, that we could be up against an army of fucking howlers.’
‘All the more reason to report back first,’ Cal insisted, his strained expression betraying his conflicting loyalties. ‘Thezmarr needs to prepare.’
But it was to Wilder that Torj looked, the man who knew better than anyone what was at stake. ‘I won’t ask you again, Hawthorne. Wren has to know.’
‘Three days’ ride east once back on the mainland,’ he said quietly, reaching for his own reins. ‘And Elderbrock? We’re coming with you.’