Page 1 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Torj

‘When the midrealms descended into the core conflict of the shadow war, there were only three Warswords in existence: Vernich Warner, Torj Elderbrock and Wilder Hawthorne. The Bloodletter, the Bear Slayer and the Hand of Death fought valiantly against tyranny and emerged triumphant from the harrowing final battle’

– A History of Thezmarr

T HE AGONY OF it was blinding. The very fibres of Torj’s soul were fraying apart, his bones catching alight, the flames devouring him from within. On and on it went, like nothing he’d ever endured.

And it wasn’t his pain alone.

It was Wren’s .

A golden thread joined them, a bond that went deeper than love, and it was now the very thing that was killing her.

Wren was dying.

Torj could feel the life leaving her through the tether between them.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, before, with all his strength, he tore the soul bond in two—

The slice of a blade through his skin brought him back to the present. A skirmish with a band of rebels, where he savoured the familiar dance of combat and the way his body leaned into the violence like the embrace of an old friend.

There was nothing like ending a life with his war hammer. Nothing like the impact vibrating up his arm as he swung and swung again.

Three dozen traitors.

Two Warswords.

And the clash of steel to drown out Torj’s regrets.

‘I thought there were only supposed to be five of them,’ grunted his friend, Wilder, as he sliced the heel tendon of an opponent, blood spraying.

Torj brought his hammer down on another assailant. ‘That’s what our source said. Apparently, they were wrong.’ He didn’t care. Brushing a lock of silver hair from his eyes, he pivoted and struck out with his gore-streaked weapon again.

For two weeks, Torj and Wilder had tracked what they believed to be a small unit of the traitor organization, the People’s Vanguard, across the midrealms. They were in search of Queen Reyna, who had been taken hostage during the recent attack on Drevenor Academy.

But now, in an abandoned underground temple in Tver, there was no sign of her.

Instead, flickering torchlight cast writhing shadows on the moss-covered walls, revealing that the enemy numbers far exceeded the details the Warswords had been given.

‘On your left!’ Torj shouted at his brother-in-arms as an assailant leapt from behind a statue. There was a flash of silver – steel gifted by the Furies – as the warrior known as the Hand of Death swung his swords.

The look of surprise was frozen on the enemy’s face as his severed head flew, landing with a thud in a pool of someone else’s blood.

‘You’re welcome,’ Torj muttered.

Wilder launched himself into another attack. ‘I knew he was there.’

Torj relished the battle-calm that settled over him as time slowed.

His hammer became an extension of him, a blur of iron connecting with a knee, the joint giving way beneath the blow.

Torj’s momentum carried the weapon in an arc, catching another rebel in the side, ribs cracking beneath it.

The thrill of the fight, the rhythm of combat – it was all he needed, all he wanted , or so he told himself as more bones and bodies broke around him.

But it didn’t matter how much damage he inflicted, or how much enemy blood he spilled. ..

There was no forgetting what he’d done.

To her.

His hand drifted to the web of scars beneath his shirt and a part of him reached out into the dark nothing before him, searching for something it would never find. Something that he had destroyed. ‘It’s the last piece of me you’ll ever have.’

He’d hurt her, hurt her to save her, and now... he’d never have her.

With each swing of his hammer, he banished a memory of her from his mind. Wren’s gaze softening as she showed him how to harvest lavender from Drevenor’s gardens. The gentle weight of her hand on his chest. The taste of her on his lips.

‘I’m yours as well.’

As more blood stained the tiles of the temple, he cast away the fantasies he’d had. Of one day showing her Tver, just the two of them; of building her a greenhouse of her own; of attending a gala, a name day – anything , proudly hand in hand.

Wilder’s voice cut through the chaos. ‘Queen Reyna’s not with them.’

‘I can see that,’ Torj grunted as the flat of a blade hit his shoulder and he sent its wielder’s head through a wall of tile. ‘No hostages down here. Doesn’t mean they don’t know where she’s being held.’

Torj’s muscles burned as he hefted the massive war hammer, its weight a familiar comfort in his callused hands.

A line of rebels charged at him, shields raised high.

He couldn’t help the sense of satisfaction that washed over him as he swung low and the hammer’s head whistled through the air.

It connected with a resounding crack, splintering the shields and sending wooden shards flying.

The rebels stumbled, off-balance, and Torj seized the opportunity.

He pivoted, bringing the hammer up, catching the first man square in the chest. Ribs crunched beneath the blow, and the rebel flew backwards, crashing into his comrades.

‘How have they recruited so many, so quickly?’ Wilder called out.

‘Why? Losing your touch, Hawthorne?’ Torj shouted back, pushing forwards and using his Furies-given strength to throw another rebel off him.

In one fluid motion, he reversed his grip and swung the hammer’s spike end.

It found its mark in the man’s shoulder, puncturing armour and flesh alike.

The rebel’s scream was cut short as Torj wrenched the weapon free, bringing it down once more on the man’s helm.

The metal caved with a sickening crunch, and the rebel dropped like a stone.

‘Hardly,’ Wilder replied, thrusting his blade through an exposed neck. ‘But it’s not their numbers I’m worried about.’

Frowning, Torj whirled around, following his friend’s gaze. A fresh group of rebels appeared in a passageway, glass vials in their hands.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, slitting another attacker’s throat with his dagger, blood gushing across the tops of his boots. ‘Hawthorne! Pull your mask up!’ From around his neck, Torj drew a piece of fabric up over his mouth and nose—

Glass shattered at his feet.

A strange vapour coiled around his boots, attempting to creep up his leathers. Torj darted away, lifting rebels bodily from his path and hurling them across the temple, their shrieks echoing in the cavernous space.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Wilder, Torj took in the vials exploding around them.

‘There’s no knowing how effective these masks are.

..’ He brought his hammer down with all his might, aiming for the juncture of a nearby soldier’s neck and shoulder.

The squelch of ruined flesh and bone followed.

‘They’ve been tested against the alchemy used at Drevenor during the battle.’ Wilder threw a dagger across the temple, pinning a rebel through his shoulder to the wall by the entrance. ‘Farissa warned that they’d only buy us time, if anything.’

‘Great.’ Torj scanned the advancing unit. Their vials glinted in the candlelight, more glass shattering around them. The acrid scent of chemicals and fumes filled the air. ‘Then it’s time to get the fuck out of here.’

‘Agreed,’ Wilder replied, thrusting his blade into an incoming rebel’s ribs.

‘But I’m not leaving empty-handed,’ Torj growled. He started for the exit, pointing to where the lone rebel was still immobilized by Wilder’s dagger. An emblem signalling a rank of leadership was clear on his chest. ‘We fight our way out and take that bastard with us.’

Torj didn’t wait to see if Wilder followed his order.

With plumes of another chemical concoction billowing through the temple, he took on three attackers, the thrill of the fight still singing in his veins.

This dance of life and death – this was what he was made for. Alchemy and alchemists be damned.

The Warswords battled their way through the ranks closing in, dodging potions and powders and all manner of horrors that had been born in a crucible.

The temple was a flurry of chaos. Enemies screamed upon exposure to their own concoctions.

Many clearly weren’t trained in combat, which was something, but it made the creations they hurled at the warriors no less dangerous.

Ducking and weaving through the madness, Torj ripped Wilder’s dagger free from the man, his scream near deafening. Lifting him by the back of his jerkin, Torj sprinted for the exit, where Wilder was carving his way through the last line of rebels.

Sunlight kissed Torj’s face as he burst from the temple, passing beneath three towering stone statues of the great goddesses, the Furies.

‘Hawthorne!’ he shouted, glancing back at the angry mob still rushing towards them. Torj flung aside his captive, who scrambled back and cowered in the dust. With a deep breath, the Bear Slayer reached for the first stone likeness of the deities and pushed.

With all his Furies-given strength, he pressed his shoulder against the statue and bore down, meaning to block the passage entirely. The ancient monument creaked and protested beneath the force, but he could feel the leverage tipping in his favour—

‘Now!’ Wilder yelled from nearby.

A roar escaped Torj as he sank everything he had into a final drive of his body against the stone.

The statue gave way.

Torj sprang back as it crashed to the ground, a second monument following in its wake at the hands of Wilder, the sound booming through the surrounding valley, muffling the screams from within. Clouds of white dust poured from the site, rubble and ruins blocking the entrance to the temple entirely.

Only one of the Furies’ likenesses remained standing.

Beside Torj, Wilder wiped the sweat from his brow and shook his head. ‘How much bad luck did we just saddle ourselves with?’

Torj spat a mouthful of dust on the ground, surveying the damage. ‘I don’t want to know.’ He turned to the rebel, who whimpered at the sight of him. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

His captive’s eyes were wide with fear, but he remained stubbornly silent.

‘I’m not against getting creative,’ Torj warned the pitiful bastard, drawing his dagger from his belt menacingly. Without Wren, his purpose was singular now: to find and rescue the queen by whatever means necessary. When the job was done, he could leave everything behind.

Wilder approached, sheathing his swords with a tired sigh. ‘Allow me,’ he said, pulling out a small vial filled with a deep violet syrup. ‘Our friend here is about to become very talkative.’

Torj’s eyes narrowed at the potion. ‘What is it?’

‘A gift from your poisoner,’ Wilder replied, uncorking the vial.

‘She’s not my anything,’ Torj bit out.

Wilder simply snorted and forced the concoction to the rebel’s mouth, pouring it down his throat as he thrashed against their hold. ‘Wren called it a truth serum of sorts,’ he explained, ramming his hand across the lower half of the man’s face so he couldn’t spit it out.

Torj faltered. Her name spoken aloud sent a bolt of lightning through his chest, had the scent of spring rain and jasmine unfurling impossibly around him.

‘She said it would make our jobs easier without resorting to... Well, more traditional methods,’ Wilder continued.

‘When?’

‘Around the same time she dismissed you as her guard... which you still haven’t talked about.’

Torj clenched his jaw. It certainly wasn’t the first time his friend had tried to wrangle an explanation from him or rile him up. ‘There’s nothing to say.’

‘No?’ Wilder raised a brow as the rebel kicked out, his eyes widening as the potion took effect. ‘Because one minute you were kissing her for all the world to see, and the next... Well, look around, Bear Slayer. You obviously fucked up.’

‘You would know. You’ve made more than your fair share of mistakes.’

‘Exactly, which is why—’

‘Enough,’ Torj growled, thrusting his chin towards their captive. ‘There are more pressing matters at hand.’

Wilder gave a grunt of reluctant agreement and removed his hand from the rebel’s mouth.

Torj noted the telltale signs of poisoning in his dilated pupils and shallow breaths; he was no longer thrashing against them, but seemed be experiencing an internal struggle.

A calculated and powerful concoction was at work. It was Wren’s creation alright.

‘Where is the Queen of Aveum?’ Torj asked. ‘Where is Queen Reyna?’

The rebel seemed to fight against the words escaping him, but they broke from his lips all the same: ‘There’s a shipping yard... A few days’ ride from here...’

Torj gaped at him. He knew better than to question what exactly was in the potion.

Wren was as deadly as a viper when she wanted to be.

Though he knew well enough by now that there were no limits to what she could achieve, it was another thing entirely to see a man’s willpower altered so quickly before his very eyes.

Still, he had an interrogation to conduct.

‘Be more specific,’ he snapped. ‘Where is the shipping yard? Is Queen Reyna there now? How many hold her?’

‘Three days’ ride at most, south-west as the crow flies. There’s a map with it marked in my pocket,’ he rasped. ‘Your queen is there. And will be until the end of the week. A band of the People’s Vanguard holds her. Some of our very best. More than you found here.’

‘Have they harmed her?’ he demanded.

‘Not that I know of,’ the rebel replied. ‘But things happen on the road...’

Torj glared at their captive, jabbing a finger into the emblem on his chest. ‘What are you, a captain? How is your leader recruiting? From where?’

‘A captain, yes.’ The rebel sighed, blinking slowly and sagging in defeat against the effects of the serum.

‘He targets the worst-affected villages from each of the kingdoms, the ones still not recovered from the shadow war. He arms them with potions and poisons, with alchemy... He chooses people to spread word of the cause and to root out anyone who still believes in the old ways.’

‘Old ways?’ Wilder barked. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘The ways of kings and queens.’ The fervour in the man’s eyes made Torj uneasy. ‘Where we commoners are forced to bow to magic wielders. Rulers and Warswords are relics now, brought down by humble potions...’

Torj’s hand found its way around their captive’s throat. ‘Thezmarr won’t stand for it.’

The traitor spoke his final words with a bitter smile. ‘Every reign has its end.’