Page 90 of Silver & Smoke
Cries of terror echoed up the passage as the rusted barbs tore through the enemy commander’s throat, painting the rocks with death.
And through the crimson mist stepped Vernich the fucking Bloodletter.
CHAPTER 47
Torj
‘Many a great warrior of the midrealms measures his worth by the weapon he wields, until he discovers that which he cannot defend against. The heart, once pierced by love, renders even Naarvian steel obsolete’
– The Warsword’s Way
‘WHERE THE FUCKis my mace?’ Vernich growled, jerking his club free from the commander’s neck, fresh blood splattering at his boots.
No one spoke as the Warsword they’d all thought long dead emerged from the shadows, crushing enemy skulls with his bare hands, their faces turning to pulp as he threw them against the stone. There was no mistake. It was him. Larger than life, violence incarnate, vicious to the bone. His clothes and armour were weathered, his skin smudged with grime and gore that did not belong to him. Vernich swung his club again, and this time struck the side of the ravine – once, twice, three times, in the exact same spot.
A deep, resonant rumble grew into a near-deafening roar as rock began to tumble from above. Desperate screams were cut short, the vibrating ground beneath them now violently shaking.
Rock cascaded, the thunderous deluge crashing down the ravine. Sharp fragments of debris stung Torj’s exposed skin, and a suffocating cloud of dust billowed around them. Grit coated his tongue and teeth as he flung himself towards Wren, trying to shield her from the avalanche of stone.
It obliterated the enemy behind Torj and his company.
And when the dust settled, Vernich stalked towards them.
He stopped in front of Torj and Wilder, scowling. The last time Torj had seen the Bloodletter had been at the one-year memorial of the shadow war at Thezmarr, and though Torj wasn’t sure how it was possible, the years in between had hardened the older Warsword even more. He didn’t know the Bloodletter’s age; he’d never thought – or dared – to ask, but the warrior’s face was lined with deep creases around his eyes, and his greying beard and hair were unkempt.
‘Elderbrock. Hawthorne,’ Vernich grunted, his rough voice unchanged by time. ‘I knew you’d try to take them in the ravine. Fools. Now, I’ll only ask this once more... Where. Is. My. Fucking. Mace?’
‘We burned it in a funeral rite,’ Wilder replied, stunned. ‘We thought you were dead.’
‘Do I look fucking dead to you?’ Vernich’s bloodshot eyes were wide, the rage that had been simmering beneath the surface rising and rising—
‘Theythought you were dead.’ Kipp came forwards, tugging his horse along behind him. ‘I, however, suspected that killing the likes of you might be harder than the enemy expected.’
Vernich’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of the strategist, who reached for his saddle blanket and lifted the fabric.
There, strapped to his horse, was the Bloodletter’s mace.
Everyone, including Torj, stared. They had burned the weapon atop the funeral pyre, hadn’t they? He’d seen it go up in flames himself.
And yet the weapon was there, unmarked – cared for, even. Nota clump of flesh or hair in sight. It was in the best condition Torj had ever seen it in.
Kipp shrugged. ‘Kept it, just in case.’
‘You...’ Vernich blinked at him, dumbfounded.
‘Are full of surprises, I know.’ Kipp winked. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’
Vernich tossed his spiked club aside and pulled his legendary mace from the horse’s back, looking unnervingly dazed. ‘I always liked you,’ he grunted.
Kipp answered with a grin. ‘Now, shall we get the fuck out of here?’
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Cal muttered as he hesitated before the older Warsword. Slowly, he offered his hand. ‘Good to have you back, Bloodletter.’
Vernich froze, like he’d never seen a handshake before. Torj nudged him with an elbow to the side and he lurched forwards, clasping Cal’s hand in his.
‘Good to be back, Whitlock.’
Torj stifled a laugh as a look of shock passed over Cal’s face. He was likely surprised that Vernich knew his name and had deigned to use it.
