Thorns & Fire, page 3
A melodic laugh had followed. ‘Challenge me to a game, Bear Slayer, and you’d best prepare to lose.’
The longing hit him like a physical blow, leaving him breathless for a moment.
The delicate, infectious notes of her laugh, the softness of her skin, the storm in her eyes when she was irritated . . . All of which made him want to fuck her senseless. But those moments were now replaced by the sound of her scream as his own wound had seared itself into her flesh, her cries of agony as he’d severed the soul bond between them . . . And then the sight of the confusion and hurt on her beautiful face when he’d ended things between them without so much as an explanation.
He’d done it for her.
To save her.
But it ached no less for that fact. He knew in his bones that, bond or no, it would never end.
He would be cursed to want the poisoner until the end of his days.
After another day’s ride, Torj found himself staking out the derelict Tverrian coastline. The Warswords had left their horses at a nearby village and now crouched on the outskirts of a strange place, scanning the site for any sign of the People’s Vanguard and the queen they had taken captive.
Dotted along the city waterfront were three abandoned dry docks – rectangular basins carved into the shore, the walls lined with rough-hewn stone. In the one just below Torj and Wilder, a half-built ship rested on a cradle of enormous timber beams, its hull exposed to the air, covered in algae, slowly being reclaimed by nature.
Torj could smell decay. ‘Must have gone out of business after the war,’ he murmured, his gaze falling to the seaward end of the dock, where a massive wooden gate held back the lapping waves. Pools of stagnant water had gathered in the dips of the uneven ground regardless, and from where the warriors hid up on the side wall, they could see remnants of old scaffolding leaning precariously, the timber bleached by sun and salt, while rusted chains and corroded equipment lay scattered about the dock floor.
‘Perfect place to hold someone hostage,’ Wilder observed. ‘I’ll wager no one can hear the screams for miles.’
‘All the better for us when we deal with them.’ Torj gripped his hammer as he spotted two guards patrolling below. ‘There must be a way into their headquarters there. Did you see where they came from?’
Wilder pointed. ‘There looks to be an entrance by those blocks over there. See the wall?’
‘I see it.’ Torj shouldered his hammer, taking the lead.
Together, the Warswords descended into the dry dock in silence, using the yard’s clutter and shadows to their advantage. They had to be fast and silent. Queen Reyna’s life would depend on it.
‘No blades,’ Torj instructed his friend in a low voice. ‘Don’t want to alert whoever’s inside that we’re coming.’
Wilder simply nodded.
They crouched behind the cover of a crumbling facade. Torj’s gaze fixed on the four visible guards walking the length of the wall in pairs. He held up three fingers, then two, then one. On his signal, the warriors sprang into action.
Torj darted towards the two guards on the left, his footfalls softened by the damp silt. The first guard barely had time to turn before Torj’s arm snaked around his throat, cutting off his air and, with a single jerk, snapping his neck.
To his right, Wilder had already taken down one guard and was silencing the next. Torj’s second target reached for his sword, a shout of warning on his lips, but Torj was faster, lunging and clapping a hand over his opponent’s mouth. The man’s eyes bulged, his fingers clawing uselessly at Torj’s iron grip before he went limp.
With all four guards taken care of swiftly, Torj and Wilder exchanged a look of grim satisfaction. Neither had broken a sweat. They dragged the bodies behind several stacked pallets, concealing them from view before turning to a rusted side door in the towering wall.
‘We take them out quickly and at a distance where possible. They might have those strength-muting manacles,’ Torj reminded Wilder.
‘And if the manacles are on the queen?’ Wilder asked.
‘We take her anyway. Someone at Drevenor will find a way to remove them.’
‘Someone?’ Wilder prodded with mock innocence.
‘Time and place, Hawthorne,’ Torj growled in warning.
‘Right.’
Torj rummaged through his pockets. ‘Masks,’ he said, thrusting a fresh piece of material at Wilder.
‘Thanks,’ his friend replied, placing the material over his nose and mouth and tying it at the back of his head.
With his own mask in place, Torj rose to his feet, hammer at the ready. ‘Let’s go.’
To his surprise, the rusted door made no sound as it swung inwards, revealing more of the vast dock beyond. They met no resistance at the immediate entrance. The only sound was the dripping water that ran down the walls. Skeletal shadows of hanging tools danced in the weak afternoon sun and the air hung heavy with the stench of rot.
Peering around the corner, Torj loosed a breath. ‘It’s empty,’ he murmured.
‘Then why the guards outside?’ Wilder’s eyes narrowed as they followed Torj’s gaze across the neglected space. He pointed. ‘There’s a tunnel.’
‘Then that’s where we go.’
The Warswords followed the perimeter until they heard voices drifting towards them and the distant sound of waves crashing. Daylight filtered in from further down.
‘The dry dock was just a holding area,’ Torj guessed as he saw movement. ‘A place to store supplies, to hide hostages until they were ready . . .’
Sticking to the shadows of the walls, the two warriors crept closer, at last able to make out the scene before them.
Boats.
And a unit of traitors preparing them.
‘We can take them,’ Wilder said.
‘Not before we find the queen,’ Torj murmured, scanning the cavern. A group of rebels bustled about, piling crates, coils of rope and sheets of canvas into vessels bobbing on the water just below. Torj counted two dozen men, but his view of whatever platform sat beneath was obscured, and there was no telling how many could be down there.
Amid the clutter, he saw something that made his blood run cold. ‘Do you see that?’
Beside him, Wilder squinted. ‘Is that . . .’
A few yards away, a crate lay on its side, an array of what looked like bones spilling out across the wet ground.
‘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. He pivoted, 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 of liberator poisons an innocent woman?’
Though the man’s face wasn’t visible, Torj heard the smile in his voice, noted the satisfaction radiating from his stance. ‘Innocent? Hardly, Warsword. And poison? What flows through her veins is far more . . . interesting than mere poison. You will see.’
Behind him, the queen’s laboured breathing suddenly seemed more ominous.
‘We won’t let you take her,’ Wilder said fiercely.
‘Take her?’ Silas’s laugh held genuine amusement. ‘Why would I want to do that? She’s exactly where she needs to be.’
Torj took a step forward, hammer raised. ‘If you think—’
‘I don’t think, Warsword. I know.’ Silas reached into his cloak. ‘Time will prove me right.’
Torj took another step forward. He had no intention of allowing the bastard to leave—
The masked alchemist laughed again, the sound chilling. ‘Consider this a parting gift.’
With a flick of his wrist, he threw a small box, which opened in mid-air. An array of darts exploded from its confines. Torj threw himself not at Silas but at Queen Reyna, using his body to shield her. He felt the sting of tiny, sharp pinpricks at his back, but a strangled cry from the queen snatched his attention.
Scanning her quickly, he realized she wasn’t hurt, but was watching in terror as Silas’s men moved with practised efficiency, one smashing a vial beneath his boot. Blue-grey smoke billowed out, rapidly expanding to engulf the entire area. Through the haze, Torj heard the enemy’s voice again.
‘Healing is such a fascinating branch of alchemy.’ Silas’s words drifted back to them, the vapour parting to reveal him and his boats already moving out to sea.
Torj stared after the leader, mind racing. Around him, the smoke dissipated too quickly to be natural, leaving him alive, armed and with a sinking realization: they weren’t just witnesses to an attack. There was a much bigger game at play here, and they had all just become pawns in whatever came next.
‘Check the queen,’ Wilder coughed from nearby, kicking shattered glass away.
With a stiff nod, Torj turned back to the ruler still in his grasp. ‘Your Majesty, are you hurt?’ he asked softly, as he sliced through her bonds with a quick flick of his dagger.
Queen Reyna’s eyes were unfocused, her movements sluggish. ‘Bear Slayer?’
‘Yes, it’s me, Your Majesty,’ he soothed, checking her over for any wounds. Why would the rebels leave her – or any of them – alive? He forced down the worst of his thoughts and tried to help Reyna up.
The queen reached out, her fingers brushing Torj’s hair softly. ‘Gold . . .’ she muttered. ‘Gold will turn to silver.’
A knot of unease tightened in Torj’s stomach, and he exchanged a worried glance with Wilder. Whatever drug the rebels had given her was strong.
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘My hair changed during the shadow war, Your Majesty. You’ve seen me like this before. It’s alright. You’re alright. We’ll get you cleaned up.’
‘Speaking of,’ Wilder said warily, sheathing his swords as he approached Torj and reached for his back. Three sharp stings followed.
‘What the fuck?’ Torj turned in time to see Wilder casting a handful of darts aside.
His friend’s brow furrowed. ‘You alright?’
‘I’m fine,’ Torj replied, the sting already gone.
Wilder looked like he wanted to say more, but he gave a stiff nod instead. ‘Let’s get out of here. There could be more forces on the way . . . Or we could be standing in some sort of trap . . .’
‘Agreed,’ Torj nodded, helping the queen to her feet. ‘And let’s flood the dock on the way out. Leave no trace of them here.’
Beside him, the queen swayed and blinked up at him, mesmerized. She reached for his hair again. ‘Gold will turn to silver in a blaze of iron and embers, giving rise to ancient power long forgotten . . .’
A breath shuddered out of Torj, his skin prickling. ‘What did you say?’
But the queen fainted in his arms.
CHAPTER 4
Wren
‘Untamed sovereign magic has always been a threat to the common folk of the midrealms’
– The Midrealms Chronicles
‘WHAT DID YOU say?’
The words rang through Wren – a surreal ripple, tying her to another place. For a moment, she was not aboard the Sea Serpent’s Destiny on her way to Delmira, but somewhere else entirely. The scent of black cedar and oakmoss surrounded her, consuming her senses, and she could feel the echo of a familiar spark in her chest.
‘When I’m nothing but ash among the embers, I’ll still be yours . . .’
It hit her like a bolt of lightning to the heart: the rush of his impassioned words against her skin, the slide of him deep inside her, that piercing storm-blue gaze that saw right into her soul—
‘Wren?’ Thea nudged her. ‘What did you say?’
Wren blinked, coming back to herself as the crisp, briny sea air swept away any trace of what she thought she’d smelled in the wind. ‘I . . . I was saying that for the first time since we discovered our heritage, we’re . . .’
‘Together? Going home?’ Thea finished for her.
Home. It should have stirred something within her – excitement, relief, perhaps a piece of some long-forgotten puzzle falling into place. Instead, it left an ache in her chest, a void she couldn’t name.
Thezmarr. Delmira. Drevenor. Each place had meant something to her.
But none of them had ever been home.
For a whisper of time, home had smelled of black cedar and oakmoss, had tasted of dark promises and desire . . . had sounded like a husky laugh dancing along her skin.
‘It’s bittersweet, isn’t it?’ Thea asked, leaning on the weathered railing beside her, and for a moment Wren thought her sister had read her mind. But Thea sighed. ‘The last time we travelled together, Anya was with us.’
Wren stared at the waves on the horizon. ‘She was.’
‘We don’t talk much about her,’ her sister observed.
‘It hurts to talk about her. About Sam and Ida, too.’ Wren picked at the skin around her nails, bracing herself against the rush of grief flooding her chest.
‘I miss them,’ Thea said.
‘Me too. Every day. It feels so unfair that we lost them. And Anya . . . We had only just got her back. We were only just getting to know her.’
‘I know.’ Thea reached out and stilled Wren’s fingers. ‘But it’s not just them you’re sad about.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Want to talk about it, I know. But you can listen,’ Thea snapped. ‘I’ve tried to give you your space. I’ve tried to ask how you are. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I still don’t understand what happened between you and Torj.’
‘That makes two of us, then,’ Wren muttered, wincing at the sound of his name.
‘Then why in the name of the Furies aren’t you figuring it out?’ Thea cried. ‘For someone whose head is always buried in a book and questioning everything, you’ve left this mystery unsolved. Why?’
