CHAPTER 22 Torj
Torj
‘Since the founding of the warrior guild, Warswords have journeyed across the midrealms and beyond, but inevitably, they always return to Thezmarr, as surely as the river finds the sea’
– The Warsword’s Way
TORJ KNEW THE last place Wren wanted to go was Thezmarr.
He’d seen her nightmares. The rivers of blood, the lashing shadows, the acrid scent of burning hair .
. . He knew what that place did to her – what it did to him, if he was honest. Where Wren remembered her friends’ heads on spikes and her eldest sister dying in the courtyard, he remembered her.
The ferocity etched across her face and the lightning she commanded with her fingertips.
But most of all, he remembered her scream.
Not the sound she made as Anya died, nor as the talon of a wraith tore through her skin, but as he leapt towards that vortex of darkness, praying that he could put something – anything – in between her and the end of all that was good.
He never wanted to hear that sound again.
A spray of sea water up on deck wrenched him from his thoughts.
They were a long way from Thezmarr yet, far from any semblance of peace, but they would fight again.
What other choice did they have? Torj looked to the choppy waves on the darkening horizon, the crisp, briny air whipping around him, the sails taut above.
He couldn’t make sense of how they’d got here.
How, after everything that had happened during and after the shadow war, this was the precipice upon which they stood.
Flashes of Silas’s taunts came to him, and regret surged in a wave of nausea.
In another life, he could have pummelled that smug bastard to death with one swing of his hammer, but in his poisoned body .
. . he was weak, and he had failed them all.
He didn’t know why he had kept Vernich’s mace, but he held it now against the rail as he looked out to the expanse of white-tipped sea.
‘We should hold a funeral while we can,’ Kipp said as he approached, nodding at the weapon Torj clung to. ‘For the Bloodletter and Ashlyn Graves. Our ancestors used to do such rites out at sea.’
‘It seems like a needless formality among all of this.’ Torj motioned to where the bannermen were setting up hammocks on deck.
But Kipp simply grasped his shoulder. ‘They were Warswords of Thezmarr. They deserve to be honoured.’
Perhaps it was because Torj was facing his own mortality that he threw himself into helping Kipp organize the Bloodletter’s farewell at sea.
Truth be told, he relished having a task to distract him from the unpredictability that now plagued his body.
The tremor he’d grappled with was no longer contained to his fingers.
Both hands shook, and often. He’d done his best to hide it, but he knew Wren had noticed, even from afar.
It was only a matter of time before she confronted him about it, Lucian be damned – or worse still, before she forged ahead and actually went through with the ruse of marrying Darian.
With the help of Cal, Kipp and Wilder, Torj built a raft that they would lower into the sea.
He placed Vernich’s mace atop the kindling, while Cal added a jar containing the preserved fingers of Ashlyn Graves.
The raft was only small, not nearly large enough to resemble the life either dead Warsword had led, but it was all they could give them.
Kipp had boarded The Furies’ Will prepared, and with his supplies the alchemists made wreaths of red leaves and set them alongside the other tokens the bannermen had given as a show of respect.
Torj looked away as the raft was lowered into the water, still not quite able to fathom that this was Vernich Warner’s farewell. He was witnessing the whittling down of a symbol that had sustained the midrealms for centuries, that had seen them survive the shadow war.
With Vernich gone, Torj was the oldest Warsword who remained.
No, you’re not. Wren’s voice bloomed gently through the bond, and he glanced around to see her standing a few feet away, with Darian at her side.
Torj wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the bond between them – this living tether that opened not only his heart and soul to Wren, but his mind as well.
Perhaps he’d never understand it completely, perhaps that was part of its magic, but it was hard to marvel at that now as the makeshift funeral pyre for the Bloodletter drifted unlit across the sea beneath the cloudless sky.
Embers, without Vernich, it’s just me and Wilder left from the original cohort, he told her.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, though she kept her gaze ahead. I think you’re forgetting someone, Bear Slayer . . .
Movement at the stern caught Torj’s attention as a figure seemed to drop down on deck out of nowhere. The man was broad, tall and imposing, with sun-kissed olive skin, his dark hair threaded with silver and pulled into a knot. Behind his back, membranous red-and-black wings were folded neatly.
Talemir Starling.
A lifetime ago, the legendary Warsword had been Wilder’s mentor, and the best friend of Wilder’s older brother, Malik.
Torj had grown up training under their command at Thezmarr, in awe of their warrior prowess when he himself was a mere Guardian of the fortress.
Before the main conflict of the shadow war, Talemir had made history by leaving the Warsword way of life behind to marry Drue Emmerson, a Naarvian ranger.
What the midrealms hadn’t known was that they were fighting a secret battle against the shadow wraiths in Naarva, and that they were preparing for the war to come.
It was during those years that Talemir’s moniker, the Prince of Hearts, had changed to the name by which he was now known: the Shadow Prince.
Now, here he was, in the flesh. The older Warsword strode towards Torj, his shadow-touched wings tucked behind his back, his gaze flitting between Darian and Wren before settling on the Bear Slayer.
‘Good to see you, Elderbrock,’ he said, dipping his head in greeting.
Thea shoved her way through the crowd, surging forwards on her tip-toes and pulling Talemir into a hard hug. ‘Tal! You made it!’
The Shadow Prince smiled, returning her embrace before breaking away and hauling Torj into one as well.
Mindful of his friend’s wings, Torj clapped Tal on the shoulder before surveying him with a grin. The years had been good to Talemir Starling; he only looked more roguishly handsome, even with the fine lines around his eyes.
Soon, Wilder joined them too, wrapping his arms around his former mentor without hesitation. ‘Fatherhood still suits you.’
‘I was about to say the same,’ Torj offered.
Talemir made a noise of disbelief and motioned to the prominent grey streaks in his hair. ‘This isn’t from wielding lightning in a war like yours, brother. This is from dealing with my menace of a son on a daily basis.’
Wilder chuckled. ‘So no plans on having a second, then?’
Talemir looked horrified. ‘And giving him an ally? Gods, no.’
Beside Torj, Thea was smiling, and he missed Wren’s presence even more as she asked, ‘How is Ryland? And Drue?’
Talemir returned the smile. ‘They’re good.
There are a handful of other shadow-touched children in Ciraun now, so Ry has plenty of playmates .
. . though I wish they’d just play. Right now, they’re in their fly-into-anything-solid-and-require-sutures phase.
We’ve got our work cut out for us.’ He shook his head fondly.
‘Drue was appointed commander of the city guard as soon as we moved to the capital, and of course she’s a fucking natural.
’ The pride in his voice was crystal clear.
They stood on the deck, watching the raft carrying all that remained of Vernich drift further out to sea. But Torj couldn’t stop his gaze from sliding once more to Wren, who remained at Darian’s side.
‘I heard she’s engaged,’ Talemir said, following his stare.
Torj grunted in confirmation. He didn’t bother to explain that it was a ruse for information and allies, that it was part of a broader plan to save his life and defeat Silas.
‘To that pompous prick there, no less . . .’ Tal pushed.
‘If you’re trying to piss me off, mission accomplished, Shadow Prince.’
Wilder snorted from where he leaned against the railing with one arm slung around Thea’s shoulders. Torj shot him a glare.
But Tal shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering what the fuck happened. You were meant to figure that out years ago.’
‘Consider it figured out,’ Torj bit back, lowering his voice. ‘I love her. I can’t have her, not in the way that I want. End of story.’
‘What a shit story.’
Torj gave a dark laugh. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s not the end,’ Tal told him with a knowing grin. ‘No romance ends like that. Trust me, I’ve read hundreds.’
Torj shook his head. ‘You and your damn books.’
‘I’ll send you some. You could learn a thing or two,’ Tal replied with a wink. ‘If my heart can handle the talon of a shadow wraith, then you can handle whatever poison courses through you, Bear Slayer. Trust me on that.’
Torj stared at his friend. ‘Who told you about that?’
‘Wren did. She wrote to Drue about obtaining sun orchid essence – what we used in the war against the wraiths . . . She told us what happened and that she needed to experiment with different cures.’
‘Then you have my thanks,’ Torj replied. ‘You and Drue both.’
Talemir nodded. ‘For what it’s worth, you have my support in any upcoming conflict. But the shadow-touched . . . As I told Wren and Thea, I can make no promises. I can only ask.’
‘Do you still see Dratos?’ Torj asked, remembering the other shadow-touched warrior who had fought in the war alongside them.
‘Not often,’ Talemir replied. ‘He doesn’t stay in one place too long these days. He took Anya’s death hard, blamed himself . . .’
‘He wasn’t the only one who blamed themselves,’ Torj muttered.
‘Blame always goes hand in hand with death,’ Talemir said thoughtfully before his gaze fell to the raft floating in the distance. ‘It’s been a long time since I attended a death rite for a Warsword . . .’
‘I know,’ Torj managed. ‘I never thought it would be Vernich next. Even though he was the oldest, the bastard seemed like he was built to live forever.’
‘Can’t disagree with you there,’ Talemir chuckled before calling out to Cal, who stood in the crow’s nest. ‘Shall we give him a proper send-off, then?’
Above them, Cal nocked a flaming arrow to his bow and shot it into the sky.