Page 9 of Thorns & Fire
‘It’s been a long time, but I’d never forget the sight of shadow wraith horns and talons,’ Torj murmured.‘What the fuck are they doing here?’
Wilder’s answer was grim.‘My guess?We don’t want to know...’
Torj nodded.‘Something tells me they’re not being collected for fun.We need to take one back to the academy.’
‘Be my guest, Bear Slayer.’
Using the shifting shadows as cover, Torj approached the crate, snatching up a talon and a horn for good measure, pocketing them with a grimace.
When he returned to his brother-in-arms, Wilder nodded towards the far end of the tunnel.‘She’s there,’ he whispered.
Queen Reyna was slumped against a broken beam of timber, her wrists and ankles bound, the same regal dress she’d worn to the novice graduation ceremony weeks ago now tattered and stained.
‘No one’s guarding her...’Torj gauged the distance between the traitor unit and Aveum’s queen.‘But there’s no way we won’t be seen.’
‘Then we go in swinging,’ Wilder replied, slowly unsheathing his swords.
Torj scanned the men, noting that none had belts of potions and most were occupied with the task at hand.He nodded, gripping his hammer.‘Fuck it.’
As one, they burst from the shadows, launching themselves at the nearest rebels, who barely had time to scream.
Torj’s hammer carved its arc, and once more he found himself relishing the song of violence, the keen blows of retribution.Hepivoted, avoiding the kiss of a rusted cutlass, bringing his hammer around in a powerful swing.It connected with a rebel’s side, sending him flying backwards into his comrades.
The clash of steel rang out as, nearby, Wilder’s twin swords met incoming blades.Out of the corner of his eye, Torj saw the queen stir.And still no one went to her.No one tried to protect their prize.
He carved a line through a unit of rebels, closing the gap between him and their captive.But a particularly brave – or foolish – rebel attempted to flank him.Torj reversed his grip, driving the hammer’s spike into the man’s thigh.As the rebel howled in agony, Torj wrenched the weapon free and brought it down on the man’s skull with a wet thud.Beneath rune-marked iron and Furies-given strength, armour crumpled like parchment.
Before Torj could move on, a small vial flew through the air, shattering at his feet.Green smoke billowed up, forcing him back as he clutched the material of his mask to his face.
‘Torj!’
Wilder’s voice sounded distant.Through watering eyes, Torj saw his friend swaying.His mask had slipped in the fighting, and he was clearly being affected by whatever vapour now drifted in the air around them.
Disposing of another rebel, Torj reached for the pouch at his belt – for the antidote kit Wren had prepared a lifetime ago.‘Hawthorne!’he called.‘Catch!There’s iruseed in there—’
He was cut off by a glancing blow to the shoulder, but he regained his footing and unleashed a whirlwind of devastating strikes, blood splattering in his wake.
‘Furies save us,’ he heard one rebel gasp.
‘Who do you think made us?’Torj said, and snapped the man’s neck with his bare hands—
‘Enough.’
The voice was calm, and it cut through the chaos like a hot blade, strange enough that the fighting paused.
Torj’s gaze snapped up.He recognized the mask instantly – it was different from all the rest.A monster rendered in blackened metal; eyeholes elongated in a menacing design.The mask of the man who’d stabbed him at Drevenor, who’d nearly killed Wren.
With a roar, Torj surged for him, ready to shed blood, ready to crush—
‘Not yet, Warsword.’The enemy’s voice carried a gentle amusement as he raised a small vial, its contents catching the sunlight streaming in behind him.‘One drop of this could strip you of all that Furies-given power you hold so dear...’
Torj faltered.There was something strangely familiar about that voice, a lilt he couldn’t quite place.Beside him, he heard Wilder curse under his breath.
‘Who are you?’Torj demanded, keeping his eyes locked on the enemy leader even as his soldiers closed ranks around them.Many now held potions they hadn’t had before, their synchronized movements too practised to be spontaneous.
‘Lord Silas, leader of the people.’That delicate hint of an accent slipped through again.‘Liberator of the midrealms.’
Torj twirled his hammer with a dark laugh.‘What kind ofliberatorpoisons an innocent woman?’
