CHAPTER 47 Torj #2
‘Along with these.’ Kipp produced something from his pack. Thankfully, the alchemists had thought to preserve them in a small jar, rather than let them rot: the three fingers they’d found with Vernich’s weapon.
‘For fuck’s sake, Kipp! You took those off the fucking pyre too?’ Cal snapped, his whole face scrunching in disgust. ‘That’s just foul—’
‘I thought whoever they belong to might want them back,’ the strategist shrugged, still holding up the glass vessel, the severed digits floating inside.
Thankfully, Vernich snatched them from him and examined them through the glass.
His nose wrinkled before he tossed the jar back.
‘I doubt they’ll be of much use to Graves now.
But yes. We were attacked and captured just outside of my village.
So much for fishing and fucking retirement,’ he muttered.
‘They used some sort of poison on us – me and two other Warswords. We managed to escape a few days later. But the blade they’d used on Graves had been contaminated.
She was in bad shape. I brought us here in the hopes that there might be some supplies left in the place .
. . We found a whole settlement instead. ’
Torj couldn’t believe it. All this time in Delmira, there had been life beneath the ashes . . . All that time Wren had roamed her own ruined kingdom, there were people here after all.
‘Why let us believe you were dead?’ Torj asked. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’
‘The usurper has spies everywhere, Elderbrock. If Thezmarr believed me dead, so would he. Better he underestimates your Warsword numbers. As for what we’ve been doing here . . . We’ve been waiting, preparing.’
‘How many are in fighting shape?’ Darian asked.
Torj could practically see the calculations whirring in his mind.
The nobleman had always been good at understanding the advantage and making the most of it, which was exactly what he was trying to do now, though it wasn’t going down all too well.
Vernich’s eyes narrowed again, but Darian pressed on.
‘We need as many in our army as possible, and as we’re fighting for the survival of the midrealms, it stands to reason that the people here partake as well . . .’
Beside Torj, Wren flinched. ‘We can’t just come here and ask them to fight for us.’
‘Why not? They’re people of the midrealms too. They’ve seen what Silas is capable of, or they wouldn’t be here,’ Darian argued.
‘Ask them whatever you like,’ Vernich interjected, his tone flat. ‘Just don’t count on their numbers. Some came here for safety, not more violence. Though I assure you there are plenty among us who have a taste for revenge.’
Wren shot the older Warsword a grateful look and Torj fought the urge to take her hand in his, to soothe the magic he could feel rolling off her in waves. Instead, he addressed Vernich again. ‘How long did you spend in captivity? What can you tell us of Silas?’
The Bloodletter’s fists clenched at his sides. ‘Too long. And I can tell you that he’s more monster than any of those fucking wraiths we fought in the last war . . .’
‘How so?’ Thea asked. ‘We need every piece of information we can get our hands on if we are to defeat him.’
At last, Vernich took a seat on one of the logs.
‘From what I understand, Silas started out wanting to suppress certain types of magic . . . The strength of the Warswords, the power of each of the rulers. Where we were being held, we heard many conversations about it, saw the alchemy at work for ourselves. My full strength has only just returned recently after my time as a prisoner.’
The Bloodletter’s words were steeped in fury, and Torj was no stranger to the note of self-loathing there too. His fellow Warsword blamed himself; that much was clear.
‘He’s using shadow magic too,’ Vernich continued, shaking his head.
‘Collecting remnants from the previous war and somehow harvesting what little darkness remains. It seems he can extract it – from bones, from the horns and talons of the monsters . . . It’s not what it was, not lashing cords of power, but it’s enough to corrupt other things.
Alchemy, men and, by the looks of things, his own magic. ’
‘We know, but how does that manifest?’ Zavier called out.
Vernich’s gaze fell on the young man with the same discerning look he’d given Darian. ‘Another posh git?’
‘To a certain extent.’ Zavier shrugged. ‘Zavier Terling. Crown Prince of Naarva.’
Vernich blinked at him several times before looking to Torj for confirmation, disbelief etched on his face.
‘It’s true,’ Torj confirmed.
‘Figures,’ Vernich grunted. ‘I’m guessing he’s your brother then, given how similar you look and the fact that he’s got Naarvian summoner magic?’
‘Unfortunately,’ Zavier replied.
‘Unfortunate doesn’t even cover it,’ Vernich spat. ‘Least he covers that smug face with a damn mask.’
‘Do you know anything about the masks, Vernich?’ Wren asked, getting to her feet and stepping forwards. ‘It’s not just Silas who wears one, and I was wondering if there was anything more to them . . . Did you notice anything about them when you were—’
‘Can do you one better than tell you about it,’ Vernich grunted. ‘I can show you. In our last skirmish I got hold of one. Really enjoyed tearing it off the smug prick’s face. I’ll have it brought to the workroom for you.’
‘Workroom?’ Wren echoed, the word surprising Torj just as much.
But Vernich simply frowned. ‘You’re an alchemist, aren’t you? The people of the Warren have been preparing a space for you since you claimed the throne.’
Wren’s mouth dropped open, and Torj could hardly blame her. ‘Oh.’
The door swung inwards, and the Warswords, Torj included, shot to their feet, weapons raised.
A striking young woman entered the room without flinching at the sight of them, the totem of three crossed swords on her arm marking her as one of them.
Torj hadn’t seen her before, and he would have remembered her, given the unique style of her blonde hair.
She was tall and muscular, and the sides of her head were closely shorn, creating a stark contrast with the flowing length that remained braided down the middle.
A series of elaborate plaits were woven like a thorny crown, twisted tight against her scalp.
She reminds me of Anya, Wren murmured into his mind.
Whoever she was, she strode into the space with every confidence, a hand with only two fingers resting against the pommel of her sword. ‘Bloodletter,’ she addressed Vernich, ‘the others are growing restless. They want news.’
Vernich gave a nod. ‘On my way.’
The Warsword didn’t so much as glance in their direction as she swept from the room, her golden braid gleaming.
There was a scraping sound, and Torj turned to see Kipp pushing the log beneath him back and standing in a daze. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he could actually speak.
‘I think I’ve died and seen one of the Furies for the first time in the flesh,’ he breathed, his gaze fixed on the door. ‘For the love of sour mead and the Laughing Fox, someone tell me . . . Who in the midrealms was that?’
‘Ashlyn Graves,’ Cal answered at the same time as Vernich leapt to his feet with a snarl on his lips.
The Bloodletter snatched the front of Kipp’s shirt in his fist, the fabric tearing. ‘That,’ he growled, ‘is my daughter.’