CHAPTER 31 Torj
Torj
‘The strongest bonds between Warswords are forged not when standing shoulder to shoulder in triumph, but when lifting each other from the dust of defeat’
– The Warsword’s Way
A MESSAGE WAS waiting for him back at the fortress: Northern training arena. Bring liquor.
Beneath the scratchy handwriting was a sketch of a fox’s head.
The strategist had a set of balls on him, alright. He was probably the only person Torj knew who would leave orders for a Warsword concerning drinks amid planning for battle.
‘Fuck it.’ Torj stuffed the piece of parchment in his pocket before turning towards the steps to the cellar.
Soon after, he emerged with two bottles of wine in each hand and a flagon of fire extract wedged under his arm.
If he knew anything about Kipp, it was that it was always better to be oversupplied.
The fortress’s private stock would have to do – and if anyone had complaints about him raiding it, they could take it up with his hammer.
The walk to the northern arena gave him too much time to think. About the war councils that morning. About her. About how fucking complicated everything had become. The bottles clinked with each step, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in his head.
As he approached the arena, sounds carried on the wind – the clash of steel, grunts of exertion and barked commands from below.
Shieldbearers. He’d forgotten about the evening training sessions.
The sound transported him back to his own days as a newcomer to the fortress, before titles and soul bonds and the weight of impossible choices.
It was also where he had trained Cal, Kipp and Thea in their early days .
. . The unlikely trio had always been intent on getting into trouble.
The arena stood at the base of the black mountains, not just a clearing, but a space designed for watching bloody victories and defeats from above.
It was surreal, standing at the vantage point and surveying the next generation of Thezmarrian warriors.
There was one noticeable difference in this cohort .
. . Women. For the first time in a long while, Torj saw how many women fighters there were in the ranks.
Gone were the days of laws against women wielding blades; here they swung them with deadly precision and pride.
Thea would be proud. In fact, she was probably down there somewhere amid the chaos.
He made to step into view when a pebble struck his shoulder.
‘Elderbrock, get your ass over here,’ came Kipp’s whisper from a cluster of bushes above the training ground.
Torj ducked into the shadows, bottles clinking. ‘What in the midrealms are you doing up here hiding like a—’
The words died in his throat as he registered who exactly was huddled in the underbrush.
Wilder sat cross-legged on a fallen log, his usual stern expression cracked by a lazy smile.
And beside him, Talemir Starling lounged against a boulder, his wings draped out behind him, looking far too amused for a man of his status.
‘Didn’t think I’d miss my apprentice’s wedding, did you?’ he said with a grin.
Even Wilder’s brother Malik was there, his dog Dax sprawled at his feet. And Cal, who, to Torj’s knowledge, was supposed to be inspecting Thezmarr’s long-range weapons supply, was sitting on the ground, scratching calculations in the dirt with a stick.
‘Surprise,’ Kipp declared, reaching for one of the bottles. ‘The Hand of Death is getting married.’
‘I’m aware . . .’ Torj handed over the wine, his gaze fixed on Wilder. ‘Though I didn’t expect to be celebrating it while crouched in the bushes like common thieves.’
‘Those are baby shieldbearers down there,’ Talemir said, nodding towards the arena. ‘Wouldn’t do for them to see their superiors drunk on duty.’
‘We’re not on duty,’ Wilder protested, but there was no heat in it. Just that same stupid, happy smile that looked foreign on his battle-hardened face.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Cal muttered, still focused on whatever he was scratching in the dirt. ‘The bloody weapons master has some of us calculating catapult trajectories.’
Malik reached over and carefully, deliberately, drew his boot through Cal’s calculations.
‘You utter—’ Cal started, but Kipp shoved a bottle into his hands.
‘Tonight,’ he announced, ‘we’re not strategists or Warswords or whatever the fuck else. Tonight, we’re just . . .’ He waved his hand vaguely, searching for the word.
‘A bunch of idiots getting drunk?’ Torj finished for him, his knees clicking as he bent to take a place beside Malik with a groan.
Kipp’s grin only widened. ‘Exactly!’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Talemir said, lifting a flagon.
‘You’ll drink to anything,’ Wilder quipped.
Talemir smirked. ‘Here’s to you, apprentice.’
‘You don’t think you could let that lie for one evening?’ Wilder rolled his eyes and accepted a bottle of wine from Torj.
‘Not a chance. Not as my not-so-young-any-more apprentice readies for his big day,’ the winged Warsword teased.
Wilder gave Talemir a flat look and drank straight from the bottle. ‘I rescind your invitation.’
Torj laughed, the sound startling Dax. It had been years since Torj had last seen him and his owner . . . Dax had grey whiskers around his maw now, and Malik had similar streaks of silver through his otherwise dark hair.
‘How are you, Mal?’ Torj asked quietly.
As always, Malik simply smiled. He had been non-verbal for decades now, ever since he was injured during a wraith battle in Naarva. He had been known as Malik the Shieldbreaker before then, Wilder’s indomitable older brother, a giant among men.
‘He’s causing as much trouble as always,’ Talemir answered with a fond smile at his friend. ‘He’s managed to come out to Ciraun once or twice, mainly to cause chaos with Ryland and leave Drue and me to pick up the pieces.’
Wilder laughed into his drink. ‘What are friends for?’
Torj surveyed the group of men with affection and took a sip of fire extract. ‘I think we’re focusing on the wrong Warsword, given the point of this . . . celebration.’
Wilder groaned. ‘Can we not make a big deal—’
But his protests only encouraged Torj. ‘Is it true that when you first met Thea, you shot an arrow at her head?’
Talemir choked on his drink. ‘What?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Kipp said fondly, taking a swig from his half-empty bottle. ‘How every sweeping love story begins . . .’
‘She still agreed to marry me,’ Wilder replied smugly.
‘Only after she knocked you on your ass several times during the years in between,’ Kipp added gleefully.
Wilder shrugged. ‘And what a privilege it was.’
Cal made a retching sound as he scanned the grinning faces of Wilder, Torj and Talemir. ‘You’re all insufferable.’
Kipp shot him a look of outrage. ‘How dare you—’
‘Not you, you prick. All the lovestruck warriors!’ Cal exclaimed.
Torj didn’t have the heart to point out that the woman he loved was currently publicly engaged to another man.
‘It’s my wedding tomorrow. I’m supposed to be lovestruck,’ Wilder argued.
But Kipp put a soothing hand on Cal’s shoulder, nodding sagely. ‘I’m right there with you, Flaming Arrow. But we’re free men! The world is at our feet—’
‘Then why don’t you head down there and show the shieldbearers a thing or two?’ Torj interjected, motioning to the drills underway in the arena below.
Kipp appeared scandalized. ‘Are you suggesting that we interrupt the invaluable training of those beautiful women down there?’
‘No,’ Torj told him evenly, masking any note of amusement that might slip through. ‘I’m suggesting that you take your griping and turn it into something productive by contributing to their education. And they’re not all women, though it shows who you’re paying attention to.’
‘I think he’s trying to get rid of us,’ Cal muttered.
‘That too,’ Torj replied.
But Kipp dismissed him with a wave, already tugging Cal down the hill. ‘Come on, Callahan, let’s leave the old men to reminisce. Isn’t that Emilia from the kitchens down there? Who knew she could swing a sword!’
Torj shook his head with a huff of laughter, glancing at Wilder. ‘Sometimes, it’s like no time at all has passed with those two.’
Wilder rested back on his elbows. ‘I can’t work out if they make me feel younger or older.’
‘Older,’ Torj replied. ‘Definitely older.’
From below came the sound of Kipp’s distinctive laugh, followed by Cal’s outraged cry. Torj didn’t need to look to know they were already causing chaos among the shieldbearers.
‘To think,’ Talemir mused, his gaze settling on his former apprentice, ‘the great Hand of Death has been tamed at last.’
Malik’s shoulders shook in silent laughter, but Wilder just smiled that same peaceful smile. ‘Not tamed. Just . . . found something worth fighting for beyond the blade. Someone.’
The words hit Torj like a physical blow. He took another drink of fire extract, letting it burn away the image of Wren dressed in Devereux finery, standing beside his childhood friend. Instead he pictured her in her own splendour as a crown was placed atop her head.
‘Speaking of fighting . . . Talemir’s wings rustled as he straightened, suddenly serious. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be married, but the day after . . .’
‘The day after, we face whatever comes,’ Wilder finished firmly. ‘As we always have: together.’
Malik reached over and gripped his brother’s shoulder. Even without words, his meaning was clear: always.
As the crescent moon glowed above the black mountains, casting long shadows across the torchlit training grounds below, Torj thought about how some bonds – whether forged in battle, brotherhood or love – ran deeper than any darkness that tried to break them.
And so he raised his bottle. ‘To whatever comes, then.’
‘To whatever comes,’ his brothers echoed.