CHAPTER 64 Torj
Torj
‘A Warsword’s armour is a prize bestowed upon him by the kingdom of Delmira upon completion of the Great Rite’
– The Warsword’s Way
IN THE TORCHLIGHT of his tent, the glass vials in Torj’s palm gleamed, mocking him. Two. There were only two left.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered. The hand that held the last doses of the strengthening potion shook, and he cursed himself for being so careless with the previous doses.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dessa told him, her voice pained as she too looked at his tremors. ‘We ran out of a few things, and with the limited facilities here, we couldn’t control the temperature—’
‘Don’t apologize,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve given me more time than I thought possible. You did all that you could.’
But Dessa was shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t enough.’
‘It was everything,’ he said fiercely. ‘Every second more that I got to spend with her was everything, and it was because of you, Dess. And Zavier. I got to see her become a fucking queen.’
‘There’s still the battle . . .’ Dessa unrolled a pouch on the camp bed. ‘These won’t be as powerful as the tonic, but they’ll give you a burst of energy when you need it most. It’s a potent mixture of dried iruseed. You’re well acquainted with it by now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Dessa held up a strange-looking capsule. ‘I made you three of these. It’s a concentrated dose. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone unless—’
‘They were dying?’ Torj finished for her with a wry smile. ‘Had nothing left to lose?’
‘Your words,’ Dessa replied. ‘Just don’t take them all at once, and for Furies’ sake, don’t tell Wren I gave them to you.’
‘Duly noted.’
Dessa sighed. ‘I already know I’m going to regret this.’
‘You won’t,’ Torj assured her. ‘I’ll always protect her. Even if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ the red-headed alchemist scoffed, before rummaging through her pockets. ‘Here.’ Dessa handed him a thin silver chain. ‘The vials can be attached to that and tucked beneath your breastplate – easier to access that way.’
‘Thank you, Dessa,’ he said. ‘Truly.’
‘Thank her by staying alive,’ came Kipp’s voice. His head of auburn hair appeared through the canvas flap. ‘Zavier’s asking for you, Dess.’
Dessa gave Torj a businesslike nod. ‘Stay safe, Bear Slayer. Our queen needs you.’
Torj simply saluted her with one of the vials as she left. He felt Kipp’s eyes on him as he threaded the doses of strengthening potion onto the chain around his neck, tucking them beneath his undershirt.
‘What is it, Snowden?’ he asked, surveying the armour he’d laid out on his camp bed, wondering how the fuck he’d get it on with the way his fingers were trembling.
‘I’m just here to confirm your position,’ Kipp replied evenly.
‘Frontline,’ Torj said without hesitation. ‘I’ll lead the charge.’
Kipp sighed. ‘I suspected as much. Queen Reyna’s forces are yours to command—’
Torj frowned. ‘Says who?’
‘Says the winter queen herself.’ Kipp unfolded a map, smoothing it out in front of Torj. ‘You’ll take the city gates. You can create a bottleneck there for a time, but those walls are old and in disrepair – they won’t hold forever, so hit their vanguard hard from the first charge.’
Torj nodded. ‘Archers?’
Kipp drew his finger along the map. ‘Across the walls, led by Cal, as long as the walls stand. Regent Liora’s army will be waiting within, when they inevitably breach the gates.’
‘Anything else?’ Torj asked with a note of dismissal.
Kipp studied him for a moment. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ Torj said, trying to make light of the comment.
But Kipp, who was usually the most jovial person Torj knew – irritatingly so – was serious. ‘I mean it.’
Torj bowed his head. ‘Same to you then. Now can I arm myself in peace?’
‘Be my guest, Bear Slayer. It’s the last moment of peace you’ll have in a while.’ The strategist left.
Torj had the sense that Kipp had wanted to say more, that he’d held himself back. If they survived the upcoming battle, Torj made a mental note to ask him, but for now . . .
He took the ring Darian had given him from his pocket, rolling the fine band of silver between his fingers.
His mother’s ring. Not her wedding ring – gods, he would have tossed that in the depths of the sea the first chance he got.
No, this was the ring she loved, the one that had been passed down through her family for generations.
Torj hadn’t been able to give it to Wren aboard The Furies’ Will, for she’d still been wearing Darian’s ring.
But now, in a moment of weakness, he allowed himself to imagine sliding the circle of silver over her finger in front of all their friends.
He wished he could have given her what Thea had. A real wedding. A celebration.
Torj threaded the ring onto the chain with his strengthening potions. It was a dream that would never come to pass now, like so many others, and he told himself he had made his peace with that. He had been able to call her wife, if only for a little while.
With the ring against his heart, his fingers brushed over the web of scars there. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d been convinced the old wounds were slowly killing him. And now here he was, dying from something else entirely. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He reached with trembling hands for his armour. It was too soon to take the strengthening tonic. Far too soon. He would have to get his armour on without steady hands.
Torj worked methodically, tightening buckles with his teeth, bracing himself against the tent’s centre pole as he strapped on his greaves. He was already sweating, which didn’t bode well for leading Wren’s frontlines and obliterating the enemy.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he muttered as he fumbled with his sword belt.
Suddenly, the weight lifted from his tingling hands, and he glanced up to find Wilder Hawthorne securing it around his waist.
‘The fuck are you doing?’ he snapped, trying to bat his friend’s hands away.
‘Not sure you’re in any state to pick a fight with me now, brother,’ Wilder replied, dodging his swipes and scooping up the breastplate from the end of the camp bed. ‘Besides, don’t you remember when we were shieldbearers? You’re the one who taught me how to fit armour.’
‘Well, I did a lousy job,’ Torj grunted. ‘Strap’s too loose there.’
Wilder laughed. ‘You won’t say that when you’re mid-swing of that giant hammer.’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘You do that, old man.’ Wilder clapped him on his armoured shoulder. ‘I think you’re needed elsewhere now.’
With a wave of thanks, Torj was already striding for the exit and heading for the war tent.
There she is. His queen was at the head of the command table, a map of Dorinth spread out before her, her friends and council by her sides. Gone were her apron and dress; instead, Wren wore armour and her crown.
Elwren Embervale, his soul-bonded, his everything, was ready to fight.
He came to stand at her side, where he belonged. ‘What are your orders, my queen?’