CHAPTER 47 Torj
Torj
‘Many a great warrior of the midrealms measures his worth by the weapon he wields, until he discovers that which he cannot defend against. The heart, once pierced by love, renders even Naarvian steel obsolete’
– The Warsword’s Way
‘WHERE THE FUCK is my mace?’ Vernich growled, jerking his club free from the commander’s neck, fresh blood splattering at his boots.
No one spoke as the Warsword they’d all thought long dead emerged from the shadows, crushing enemy skulls with his bare hands, their faces turning to pulp as he threw them against the stone.
There was no mistake. It was him. Larger than life, violence incarnate, vicious to the bone.
His clothes and armour were weathered, his skin smudged with grime and gore that did not belong to him.
Vernich swung his club again, and this time struck the side of the ravine – once, twice, three times, in the exact same spot.
A deep, resonant rumble grew into a near-deafening roar as rock began to tumble from above. Desperate screams were cut short, the vibrating ground beneath them now violently shaking.
Rock cascaded, the thunderous deluge crashing down the ravine. Sharp fragments of debris stung Torj’s exposed skin, and a suffocating cloud of dust billowed around them. Grit coated his tongue and teeth as he flung himself towards Wren, trying to shield her from the avalanche of stone.
It obliterated the enemy behind Torj and his company.
And when the dust settled, Vernich stalked towards them.
He stopped in front of Torj and Wilder, scowling.
The last time Torj had seen the Bloodletter had been at the one-year memorial of the shadow war at Thezmarr, and though Torj wasn’t sure how it was possible, the years in between had hardened the older Warsword even more.
He didn’t know the Bloodletter’s age; he’d never thought – or dared – to ask, but the warrior’s face was lined with deep creases around his eyes, and his greying beard and hair were unkempt.
‘Elderbrock. Hawthorne,’ Vernich grunted, his rough voice unchanged by time. ‘I knew you’d try to take them in the ravine. Fools. Now, I’ll only ask this once more . . . Where. Is. My. Fucking. Mace?’
‘We burned it in a funeral rite,’ Wilder replied, stunned. ‘We thought you were dead.’
‘Do I look fucking dead to you?’ Vernich’s bloodshot eyes were wide, the rage that had been simmering beneath the surface rising and rising—
‘They thought you were dead.’ Kipp came forwards, tugging his horse along behind him. ‘I, however, suspected that killing the likes of you might be harder than the enemy expected.’
Vernich’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of the strategist, who reached for his saddle blanket and lifted the fabric.
There, strapped to his horse, was the Bloodletter’s mace.
Everyone, including Torj, stared. They had burned the weapon atop the funeral pyre, hadn’t they? He’d seen it go up in flames himself.
And yet the weapon was there, unmarked – cared for, even. Not a clump of flesh or hair in sight. It was in the best condition Torj had ever seen it in.
Kipp shrugged. ‘Kept it, just in case.’
‘You . . .’ Vernich blinked at him, dumbfounded.
‘Are full of surprises, I know.’ Kipp winked. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’
Vernich tossed his spiked club aside and pulled his legendary mace from the horse’s back, looking unnervingly dazed. ‘I always liked you,’ he grunted.
Kipp answered with a grin. ‘Now, shall we get the fuck out of here?’
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Cal muttered as he hesitated before the older Warsword. Slowly, he offered his hand. ‘Good to have you back, Bloodletter.’
Vernich froze, like he’d never seen a handshake before. Torj nudged him with an elbow to the side and he lurched forwards, clasping Cal’s hand in his.
‘Good to be back, Whitlock.’
Torj stifled a laugh as a look of shock passed over Cal’s face. He was likely surprised that Vernich knew his name and had deigned to use it.
But there had been enough dithering. Torj looked to his elder. ‘I assume you have a base?’
Straightening, Vernich gave a nod. ‘I’ve got a hidden settlement just beyond the hills to the north. We can debrief there.’
Torj exchanged a look of disbelief with Wren. Vernich the Saviour . . . Who knew?
A subtle smile played on her lips. We need as many of those as we can get, Bear Slayer.
It was no wonder they hadn’t found any trace of a force on the other side of the ravine. The rolling hills had seemed empty, unassuming – exactly as they were meant to seem.
Torj, Wren, Kipp, Cal, Zavier, Dessa, Wilder, Thea and Darian rode in Vernich’s wake, the Warsword having taken the horse of one of the fallen warriors. The rest of their company would meet them in three days’ time, where they would be joined by the incoming forces.
Midway up a grassy hill, Vernich signalled for them to halt.
Torj watched in disbelief as the massive warrior hopped from one seemingly innocent stone to the next in a deliberate sequence, each step precise and practised.
The stones themselves looked weathered, unremarkable – just the kind of detail most eyes would skip right over.
A mechanical groan sounded from beneath his boots, followed by the whisper of hidden gears. To Torj’s shock, the grass and soil parted like a pair of doors, earth and roots drawing back in a perfect seam to reveal stone steps descending into the shadowed hillside.
‘How the fuck is this possible?’ Torj breathed as the Bloodletter stepped aside and motioned for them to enter.
‘Counterweight mechanism,’ Vernich replied gruffly.
Torj didn’t bother to hide his surprise. ‘You built this?’
Vernich snorted. ‘No, this was already here. Hand your horses over to our horse master there, he’ll make sure they’re looked after. We can’t have them in the main sector.’
‘Main sector?’ Wren murmured in awe as she passed her reins over to a man who had emerged from the opening in the hillside.
‘You’ll see,’ Vernich said, motioning for them to follow.
With their horses led away, Torj found himself walking alongside Wilder and Cal, his fellow Warswords wearing similar expressions of bewilderment. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did, he couldn’t help but gasp.
Torches lined the walls of what could only be described as an underground shelter. The inside of the hill had been hollowed out, and a wide, winding staircase seemed to wrap around multiple levels.
They followed Vernich down, further beneath the hillside, passing a vast underground well system, complete with an array of pulleys and buckets.
As they delved deeper into the hollow, several people slipped by them on the stairs.
Not warriors clad in armour and weapons, Torj noticed, but regular people . . . Children, even.
‘In here,’ Vernich grunted, holding a door open for them.
Inside was a gathering space of sorts, with vaulted ceilings supported by stone columns. In the centre were several logs, which Vernich waved towards.
‘Take a seat,’ he said, studying their faces. ‘I looked much the same when I found this place . . .’
When they had all sat down on the stumps of timber, Torj rested his hammer across his thighs and looked up at the Bloodletter. ‘And what exactly is this place?’
Vernich pulled a scrap of fabric from his pocket and passed it over his face, attempting to scrub away some of the dirt and dried blood.
‘The Warren,’ he replied. ‘They call it the Warren. It’s been here since before the original fall of Delmira decades ago.
It was where many of the common people fled when the first wave of shadow magic hit this kingdom. ’
‘Amazing. How does it work?’ Kipp was already craning his neck and squinting at the ceiling.
‘You haven’t got any ideas?’ Vernich mused. ‘The light comes from hidden skylights disguised as rocky outcrops on the outside. Ventilation comes from shafts camouflaged as small surface caves or natural fissures. It’s an entire network, not too dissimilar to your tavern passageways.’
Kipp looked thrilled.
‘How did you find it?’ Torj asked.
‘I knew it was here from long ago. You forget, I was around when Delmira fell. I didn’t know if this place would still be in use, or if it was abandoned.
Turned out, not so abandoned,’ the older Warsword said with a note of amusement.
‘Over the years, people have come here, waiting for Delmira to be claimed . . . Waiting for their homeland to be rebuilt.’
‘Who’s here?’ Darian demanded. ‘Who—’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Vernich snapped.
‘He’s a posh git from Tver,’ Kipp answered helpfully. ‘But he’s got his uses. It’s largely his forces we’ve got trailing behind us. And it’s his coin we’re using.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Darian muttered with a roll of his eyes.
Vernich’s hardened expression didn’t abate, his lip curling as he surveyed Darian’s fine clothes and polished boots.
‘Vernich,’ Wilder intervened, ‘who else is here? How many?’
With a muscle twitching in his jaw, the older Warsword tore his gaze away from the nobleman and returned his attention to the group. ‘About two hundred people, give or take—’
‘Two hundred?’ Wren exclaimed, clapping her hand over her mouth as though surprised by her own outburst.
Vernich nodded. ‘It’s become a haven of sorts, for people from all over the midrealms who needed to go into hiding.
There are Guardians of Thezmarr here too, warriors we found injured and healed as best we could, who then stayed on to defend the Warren if need be.
For the past few months, I’ve been recruiting too .
. . There are many here who would be willing to fight, for the right leader. ’
Torj tried not to let himself hope. Vernich had already saved their asses once – he couldn’t possibly have gathered an army for them. Could he?
‘What happened to you?’ he asked his fellow Warsword instead. ‘We were told you were killed. That’s how we found your mace—’