Page 13 of Silver & Smoke
Senna dipped her head. ‘I was out in the fields when you came to my village,’ she explained. Her gaze darted over their small party, lingering on Zavier, but she continued, ‘I’ve been trying to find you since you left. But I couldn’t take the main routes. They’re not safe any more.’
‘Because of the People’s Vanguard?’ Cal asked. ‘We know of their public floggings and hangings, and their witch hunts for outsiders...’
Senna’s laugh held no humour. ‘If only it were that simple. The woman you spoke with? That was our village elder, but I’ll wager she didn’t tell you much.’
‘She told us of the stranger, and how those who broke bread with him were gone... or dead,’ Wilder allowed.
‘Gone...’ Senna repeated. ‘That’s one word for it. And yes, there are plenty dead. The innkeeper’s daughter whose throat was torn out two nights ago. The wheat farmer who was beaten to death with his own shovel... Whatever this enemy is doing, it goes beyond recruiting for a war.’
‘We know,’ Torj told her quietly. ‘He’s using fragments of shadow magic from the previous war.’
‘If that’s true – if he’s delving into that kind of power...’ Senna breathed, ‘then who knows what he’s capable of.’
Zavier studied the woman with his arms folded over his chest and a brow raised. ‘You followed us across dangerous lands to tell us this?’
‘No,’ Senna replied, shaking her head. ‘I actually have something that might be of interest to you, Warswords.’ She reached for the bulky sack Cal had dropped at their feet.
‘Allow me,’ Torj said, lifting it, though not expecting the weight – it was heavy. Almost as heavy as his war hammer. He felt a tremor start in his fingers, a bunching of the tendons in his hands, but he placed the item on the leaf-covered ground and pulled back the fabric.
Torj stared at the familiar weapon.
A mace.
Made of Naarvian steel.
‘Where did you find this?’ he demanded.
‘In a small port town in the south of Harenth, along with more blood than I’ve ever seen. Something happened there. Something terrible.’
Torj didn’t take his eyes off the bludgeon.
‘It belongs to a Warsword, doesn’t it?’ Senna asked over his shoulder.
Torj took in the recognizable spiked head, the runes carved into its grip. He’d seen it crush plates of armour and pulverize more warriors than he could count. ‘Not just any Warsword,’ he heard himself say. ‘That’s Vernich the Bloodletter’s mace.’
CHAPTER 6
Torj
‘A Warsword’s Furies-gifted weapon is forged from steel mined from the Kingdom of Naarva, where the iron ore is the strongest in the midrealms, rumoured to hold the power of the gods themselves’
– The Warsword’s Way
‘YOU’RE SURE THISbelongs to the Bloodletter?’ Zavier asked. ‘Why take it?’
Senna scoffed. ‘That’s Naarvian steel right there. Do you know how much that’s worth? Our initial intention was to sell it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because we found out who it belonged to... The Bloodletter. No amount of coin on a midrealms black market would cover such a prize. Not in these times.’
‘Who found it, exactly?’ Torj asked.
Senna grimaced, as though she were recalling the scene vividly. ‘I did... It was a bloodbath. Bodies broken beyond recognition, severed limbs, caved-in skulls... It looked as though there had been some kind of raid. The place – a little shack by the coast – had been ransacked, no cupboard or corner left untouched. Whoever was there put up a fight. The blood was still thick onthe walls when we got there a few days later, judging by the smell.’
Torj pointed to the mace on the ground. ‘And this?’
‘We found it in the sand just outside,’ Senna replied. ‘Seemed unlikely a Warsword of the Bloodletter’s calibre would leave it behind. At least not on purpose.’ She scanned their faces. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
