Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness
The Phoenix Saga
Book 1
Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness
Text Copyright © 2019
Farrell Keeling
All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in whole or in part in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission from the author.
ISBN: 9781980631453
(Print Edition)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
1,000 years ago...
Horizon is changing.
I tried to make the council understand, but they refused to heed my warnings. If they’d listened, Horizon could have prepared for the darkness that would soon overwhelm it. But what other end could have possibly been achieved? The council was besmirched with the foolish arrogance of Man and Warlocks, apprehensive Regals and self-centred Dwarves. But not even my own keen senses, gifted with potent Majik, could anticipate the immediacy of the threat.
It was on that day as I was riding through the Vales of Hrokomar that I saw the massed demon horde for myself. The screams of my townsmen carried across miles of open landscape, and the entire city – my home and throne – blazed like an inferno under the deceptively tranquil night sky. The three towers that pierced the heavens like giant glistening daggers, had crumbled; their devastated remains protruding from the ground like shards of glass. The roads and streets, which would have been all but invisible to the naked eye, were lit up with the blood red embers of battle that flowed across the cobbles like lava, devouring my city.
I closed my eyes, reaching out with my mind. My celestial form glided past the green landscape, through the crushed wooden gates, past the blood-soaked courtyard, the bodies of the city guard scattered around it. Having overseen their training personally, I knew all their names. I examined their ashen, ghost white faces, with their rolled eyes, expressions of pain and fear imprinted vividly across each one. Markus, Vant, Igor, Iris, Aphea, Vorn... I had to move on.
Despite the destruction that surrounded it, the clock-tower at the centre of the courtyard remained oddly untouched. Shaped like the fiercest dragon I’d ever fought, it rose to thirty feet, with gleaming scales and ruby eyes. It stood on its hind legs like a dog, its arms raised outstretched, in defence against an imaginary opponent. In its open maw and surrounded by a hundred, dagger-like fangs, the clock was held. A magnificent work of craftsmanship. The dragon’s tongue burst through the centre of the clock and split into two, forming the hour and minute hands. It continued, blissfully unaware of the horrors around it, to tick away, counting away my peoples’ final living moments. How time endures...
I passed into the streets, flying through the swarm of demons and the remaining soldiers who resisted them; each hopelessly outnumbered. I saw one man in a corner, with a long slash across his face and a limp, bloody left arm, fighting one handed against three demons. He managed to slay one, and slice through the horns of another, but his fatigue sowed the seeds of his destruction and he slumped onto the ground, his own sword buried deep into his chest. Immobilised by fear, women and children burned to death in their homes; their screams uniting together in one heart-rending crescendo, among the guttural cries of the blood-thirsty demons. Each street was consumed by unrelenting fires that burst through windows and blackened trees, their foliage set alight like giant funeral pyres.
I saw a boy, a mere infant, being chased through the street by a red skinned demon, its guttural laugh echoing within my ears. It would not claim another soul. Not today. I flew past the demon and into the child. The boy’s thoughts were erratic, and he began to panic even more when he registered my sudden intrusion. Don’t be alarmed, I’m going to save you! I told him. Leave me alone! His conscious screamed back. I informed him of my identity and intentions, but his fear prevented any form of rationality, his conscious screaming out all sorts of oaths and protestation. I continued to plead the nobility of my aims, wary of the quickly nearing demon, but the boy refused to acknowledge me.
I swept into his system, through the blood in his veins and arteries, working my way around the boy’s body, and reluctantly, broke the seals of his mind. The crying voice that had screamed around my ears now became barely audible and completely unintelligible. I felt the flow of life within this new body of mine, and similar, yet completely different senses. My new heart pounded relentlessly against my fragile chest, my breath came in starts and stutters, the many blisters I felt on my feet hindered my movement.
I stopped in my tracks and turned to face the demon who had pursued me. I detected great confusion and terror emphasized by the tremors in the boy’s voice, but I put them aside and prepared to fight. The demon glared at me with its dark eyes, something resembling a triumphant grin reaching its mouth, as it swung its sword in a sweeping arc above my head.
I ducked, but the creature swung again. Its sword had found its mark this time, and the boy’s screams began to overwhelm my thoughts.
‘No!’ I bellowed out loud.
Channelling all the power I had into my new body, I caught the sword in mid-air, snatching it from the startled demon, shattering a cracked window as I threw it into one of the burning buildings beside me.
The demon roared, pounding a dent into the ground with its fist, and charged towards me. I felt myself lifted off my feet, the creature’s sharp claws dug through my sleeves, drawing blood that trickled around its long red fingers.
My cries joined that of the boy’s in my head, and tears began to curl from the corners of my eyes.
The demon roared again, straight into my ears, and then preceded to hurl my body across the street. I tumbled across the pavement, jagged rocks tearing into the back of my new flesh.
My vision had become a blur, the flames forming a fusion of red and amber that waved in front of my eyes like a desert mirage. I became aware of a dull ring in my ears that silenced the turmoil of others around me. I shook myself, my sight returning in time to warn me of the incoming creature.
I pushed my weight onto a leg, wavered for a moment, then crumbled. I’d spent much of my minimal reserves of energy to help this child, and for what? I could barely handle one damn demon! How would I help the boy manoeuvre past the entire horde? Let alone the hundreds of others I wished to save?
The air shrieked as the demon’s claws pierced through the air towards my motionless body. I closed my eyes, begging the child’s forgiveness, and then abandoned his body to ruin.
The sick unity of the despairing cries of my city and its people, mingled with the merciless roars of the flames and demons, accompanied my fleeing spirit at every street, alley, and house. The bodies in the square all seemed to be given new life as their eyes followed my spectral trail across the sky, accusing, and blaming. I could imagine the final moments of the men and women who had bravely, almost stubbornly, attempted to fight off the hellish horde. Tears streaming down their blood besmirched faces as the demons tore apart their compatriots. Brothers, sisters, cousins, sons, daughters, grandchildren. All gone. The most proud, strong-hearted, benevolent people I had ever known, all wiped out by an unrelenting horde of evil.
I returned to my body. My eyes shot open, and out burst from my lips an unintelligible howl of despair. It endured, seemingly forever, under the witness of taunting Gods.
My horse, startled by my outbursts, bucked suddenly and I was thrown onto the ground.
‘My lord!’
Several of my personal guard jumped off their mare’s and came to my aid. But any effort to console me failed utterly. My emotional unrest could, by no means, be tempered.
‘A–all of th–them...’ I stuttered through tears, ‘all of them!’ My fatigued body sank to the grass, my fists plunging into the ground. I had failed them all... But my pain was one which the men beside me, could not, would not, be able to understand. The consequence of an ancient oath that had been forced upon Räne’s Golden Kingsguard that forbade them from pursuing love, marriage and the bearing of children, while under service.
‘My lord,’ one man insisted, ‘we must make haste to dél Dręmăra! Horizon must be warned!’
He grabbed me, as firmly as he dared, to convey a sense of urgency, in a vain attempt to drag me to my feet. I would not rise, nor would I allow myself to tear my eyes away from the harrowing scene that lay before me.
As I closed my eyes, darkness overwhelming me, I could once again see the blazing fires that stole the lives of my people and the city, like a giant parasite. I could picture the final moments of the child I’d failed to save. I could hear those frantic thoughts ringing painfully in my mind as the demon performed the killing blow. I had failed them all.
It was then that it dawned upon me: I am the last king of Räne...
I rose to my knees, and with my head aimed at the starlit sky, I bellowed out a vow of revenge that shook the heavens above.
‘MY NAME IS FIERSLAKEN! AND I SWEAR TO YOU: MY PEOPLE SHALL BE AVENGED!’
Chapter 1
It would be a horrible day. Not just because of the torrent of rain that pounded on the streets like drums, nor the winds that whistled through the alleyways but because a murder would happen tonight.
If you were misfortunate enough to be a beggar, you would most definitely consider your day ruined if the Baron paid a visit to the alley in which you happened to be. The Baron was known widely as a slave trader, which contributed, only slightly, to his abnormally cruel and foul manner. All the beggars despised him, although their immense fear of the Baron greatly masked their hatred. He’d been known to flog anyone who stood in his way; beggars were just practice.
On this particularly displeasing day, the Baron stormed into Wichin Alley, furious that he had to travel for so long in torrential rain and horrendous thunderstorms that raged and roared overhead. He looked up, scowling at the night sky which was set alight with forks of lightning.
His foot plunged suddenly, deep into a large pool of water that was cunningly hidden by the shadow formed by a rusted, ancient alley sign, its letters mostly displaced. The Baron swore, regarding his trouser leg and shoes with disgust. Both were brand new and made with the finest materials money could buy.
His horrendous temper already amplified, the Baron shook his sodden leg and strode into the alley, looking forward to venting his uncontrollable anger on some mindless beggars, who would undoubtedly be huddled together like rats. The excess sewage that poured forth from the gargling gutters, and moss-covered walls merely completing the scene.
A second thought played on his mind upon entrance into the alley: It had better be a bloody good meeting.
One meeting – it was the cause for the whole tiresome journey from the South – to Féy – to Dalmarra. Was it worth it? No, certainly not. But when The Shadow demands it, a man has no choice but to obey.
The Shadow: a man who uncannily resembled his name. The Baron had only seen him once, but it was enough to grasp the sheer presence he possessed. And yet, despite this, he had an unnerving gift to appear wherever he wished without the knowledge of those around him. Just an uttering of his name could make the heart of any man within earshot (who was brave enough to associate with him) palpitate.
He heard a sniffle. Turning to his side, he realized that what he’d first mistaken for a bundle of clothes was a person. Upon seeing the cloaked form of the Baron, the beggar shuffled back against the wall, dirt encrusted hands held up defensively in front of his pleading eyes.
With a look of the foulest malcontent, the Baron whipped out his cane and stepped towards the beggar, his shadow gradually enclosing the man in complete darkness.
The others had emerged from the piles of clothes and had immediately edged into the darkest recesses of the alley that they could find. All eyes were upon the Baron and his gleaming cane, as the beggars tried to anticipate what horror the tall dark-haired man would inflict upon their friend.
The Baron raised his cane above his head, pushing down the ears of the wolf-headed cane. With a sound like a knife being withdrawn from a metal scabbard, a thin but deadly looking blade emerged slowly from the bottom of the cane.
The beggar observed the blade with a look of terror, and although he was already pressed hard against the wall, he attempted to push himself even further, as though he held the hope that he may shrink into the shadows that had trapped him.
The Baron grinned sardonically, running two fingers across the blade, and then plunged it into the man’s chest.
Despite their best efforts, the beggars could not avert their gazes from the shadows of the horrific scene that danced mockingly in front of their eyes. Blood spattered across the walls and turned the rain water running across the alley red.
The Baron’s brutal attack relentless and unforgiving, the beggar uttered a single scream before he was abruptly silenced. His body was desecrated even further after death.
The Baron breathed a calm sigh and then ripped away the dead beggar’s coat, whistling as he used it to wipe clean the blood from his blade, before throwing it back carelessly to the dead body and spitting on the ground by the man’s feet. He withdrew the blade and strode through the streets, eyeing each of the beggars while muttering venomously under his breath, ‘street rats.’
At end of the alley he was confronted by a wall blocking his path. A dead end, or so it seemed…
The Baron raised his cane again but this time tapped the eyes of the wolf-head. A second later, the eyes suddenly lit up, shining a bright yellow light upon the wall, highlighting three particular spots in a swirling ball of light.
The Baron tapped the eyes of the wolf-head again and the light disappeared. He then knocked with the side of his clenched fist on each of the three areas of the wall where the swirling balls of light had previously been.
In response, a slate that was at first unseen slid into view and a chubby-faced, bearded man peered through. He gazed questioningly at the Baron with his pair of piggy eyes.
‘Who the ‘ell are you?’ the man grunted.
‘I’m expected,’ said the Baron, fighting back a retort whilst drumming his fingers impatiently on the end of his cane.
‘Gonna have to give me something a wee bit more concrete than dat’ replied the man.
‘I’m the Baron’ he replied.
‘Sure.’
‘Look whelp, if you don’t let me in right now, I’ll have you chopped slowly into pieces and sold to the nearest butch–’
The man raised a hand to interrupt the Baron, ‘that’s good enough. But I can’t let you in w’thout the password anyway, so…’
‘Even for the Baron?’ he growled.
The man stared down at his feet and mumbled something incoherently.
‘What was that?’ demanded the Baron, ‘Speak up man!’
‘Shadow’s orders,’ he replied sheepishly.
Suddenly, time seemed to stop and the Baron felt the blood quickly drain from his face as the result of the man’s words.
‘He… He’s come in person?’ the Baron whispered.
‘Yeah, he just arrived,’ said the man, who had begun to tremble, ‘he was very, uh… adamant… ‘bout the security.’
‘Of course,’ said the Baron, stroking his long chin thoughtfully, ‘yes he would be… very well then: Ignisavem.’
The man grunted and disappeared with the slam of the slate. After a few seconds of the grinding of locks being opened and the whirring of gears, a doo
rway formed within the wall and then opened. Sudden warmth flooded over the Baron, combined with the less pleasant mixture of stale beer and sweat. Once the Baron stepped across the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him and the many locks and mechanisms of the door were revealed. The multitude of such security gave him the impression that he was as much a prisoner as a guest.
Above the door was a sign, depicting an image of a spear embedded in a boar. Below, in red, faded lettering was the name: ‘The Lanced Boar.’
The Baron turned and scowled. He recognised several of the men sitting ruggedly on the rusted metal benches, drunkenly banging their empty jugs on the mutilated tables. They were all well-known (though not in a good way), cunning thieves, savage cut-throats, and hulking barbarians. Their unshaven, dirty faces appeared more frequently in the newspapers and wanted posters than in a mirror. Even if slowed by the dimming effect of large quantities of alcohol, they were still, from personal experience, a threat to be watched carefully and closely. He coughed into his hand forcefully, his lip curling when the crowd turned to face him with gormless expressions. He stroked the head of his cane, sneering at the men when they suddenly recognised who he was.
Beer sloshed onto the floor as the men closest to him dropped their mugs and hurried away awkwardly to the tables in the corners of the room, their heads bent and backs hunched. Even the others furthest away from the Baron had begun to edge their tables and chairs as far away from the slave-trader as they could.
A satisfied smile playing triumphantly on his lips, the Baron then paced slowly to the counter, where a bald man wearing a small vest that exposed his large belly stood. His attention was placed solely on a mug, which he was actively trying to rub clean with a towel that was so grubby, it looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in years.
As the Baron approached, the Innkeeper glanced at him, then began cleaning the mug much more vigorously, pretending as though he hadn’t seen him in the first place.
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