Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  ‘A valid point,’ the Swordsman conceded. Although Thorne couldn’t see anything through the bandages, his eyes had narrowed in thought.

  ‘Onwards then…’ The Swordsman bent until his face was close to Thorne’s, ‘but be particularly vigilant, young Mage.’

  Thorne continued to look firmly into his eyes and nodded. The Swordsman began to head into the thicket, shaking his head.

  Thorne grunted and followed, putting his hands up to defend his face from the multitude of needle-like branches that concealed the path before him like a green wall.

  It did not take long for Thorne to regret this path. Of course, turning back wasn’t really an option but he did miss his soft warm bed, with only nightmares to threaten his blissful serenity. He had no wish to remain in such a forsaken place where his nightmares became reality.

  As they progressed further, Thorne noticed to his disgust, more bodies strapped to trees, wearing bizarre mixed expressions of fear, anger, sadness… Almost every emotion he could think of.

  Suddenly, each of the bodies’ eyes suddenly flashed open. Thorne stumbled back in surprise and tripped, falling back onto the floor.

  ‘All hail!’ the voices moaned together.

  ‘Wha–what?’ Thorne blurted out.

  ‘All hail he, second to the flame, bearer of the immortal fire!’

  ‘All hail he who shall lay on the flames of old unto Horizon’s darkest dawns! Unto the rise of the Phoenix!’

  Their speech fading into murmurs, the corpses fell into silence their heads hanging against their chests.

  ‘Wh–what was that?’ Thorne cried.

  ‘I think the question, Warlock’ the man began, pulling Thorne back onto his feet, ‘is who would employ such ghastly Majik?’

  A giggle echoed around the forest, the trees shaking in harmony.

  Thorne jumped and searched frantically around the forest for the source of the voice. He knew it had to come from some individual… one… thing. Yet it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the Swordsman demanded, ‘show yourself!’

  The giggle grew into a laugh, which rose into a terrifying crescendo, causing the bones in Thorne’s body to shudder. Then, without warning, a blur of a form suddenly dropped onto the ground within a flurry of leaves.

  ‘Oh, Gods’ Thorne whimpered, as the leaves settled.

  ‘Oh,’ the Swordsman muttered worriedly, ‘a blissgiver.’

  The creature had the body of a shapely woman, its skin was a mixture of pink and white, and it wore a dress of leaves. It had claws on its hands and feet like smooth metal nails, eyes that swirled maddeningly with colour, and horns that sprouted from its forehead and curled to its cheeks. It also wore a smile that seemed to mock and yet soothe at the same time.

  The creature grinned and then began to emit a bright light from its belly until it completely engulfed its body. Thorne slapped his arm over his face to shield his eyes from the blinding light. However, when the light dimmed and Thorne removed his arm, it was not the creature that stood before them but a young man wearing a leather overcoat, steel greaves and…

  He jumped back in surprise. Aside from the blonde, spiky hair the other man was almost identical in build and dress to the one who stood next to Thorne.

  Thorne looked at the Swordsman beside him, noticing that his shoulders had sagged and his grip had loosened on his sword.

  ‘Dez,’ he whispered.

  ‘Dez’ grinned sadistically and, with another flash of light, changed into another man. The clothing was similar except for a bright red bandana that covered the bottom half of his face. This still failed to distract attention away from the gruesome maze of scars, which looked like they had been hacked into his bald head by an axe. The man himself was a monstrosity in every sense of the word, standing a clear couple of feet above the Swordsman beside Thorne.

  In a matter of seconds, with the appearance of the scarred man, the Swordsman had become drastically more tense. His hand gripped the pommel of his sword so tightly Thorne thought it would snap under the pressure. The bearded man was clearly not too happy to see him either.

  ‘ZAINE!’ the man boomed, spitting out the words with venom, ‘YOU ARE UNFIT TO RULE!’

  Thorne noticed the stranger’s hands and arms were shaking uncontrollably now.

  The words cycled over and over again, booming around the forest.

  ‘WORTHLESS! USELESS! DISGRACE! ABOMI–’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ the Swordsman yelled, a knife arcing from his hand towards the other man.

  The bearded man smirked and disappeared with another flash of light.

  Thorne swivelled his head around, but he could not find the creature. He turned to the Swordsman, whose breathing had become heavy and his teeth were grinding against each other. At that moment, Thorne wasn’t sure of what he should be more afraid of – the creature? Or the Swordsman’s rage?’

  But at least now he had his name.

  He risked another glance. The Swordsman, Zaine, was still fuming, so Thorne decided it was probably in his best interests to keep quiet.

  He didn’t anyway.

  ‘W–where is it?’ Thorne asked meekly.

  It took a few seconds before Zaine managed to reply, through gritted teeth, ‘it doesn’t matter, let’s just kill it!’

  Thorne nodded, unsure in what other way he should respond to such a statement. He licked his lips nervously, preparing another question in his mind when he suddenly stopped and stood stone–still.

  He hoped he was wrong but Thorne thought he’d felt something slide across his arms – something thin… cold…slimy.

  Thorne gulped and slowly bent his head down, the sight before him confirming his fears. Curling and tightening onto his arms and legs were several long, red vines, their clammy touch causing him to shiver involuntarily.

  ‘Oh, help–’ Thorne began to shout, before he was unexpectedly thrust into the air, branches and leaves slapping and scratching him during his rapid ascent. He then came to a halt, his head snapping backwards and forwards with a crack.

  In front of him was a large trunk of a tree and, to his dismay, the blissgiver. It lay on a branch, picking at its oddly pearl white teeth with a long talon.

  The creature lifted its head, flicking something small from its fingertips and winked at him. ‘Well, hello, Warlock,’ it purred.

  Thorne could not form words past a stutter.

  The creature lifted a hand to its head, ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

  Thorne growled and flailed helplessly under the grip of the vines in an attempt for freedom – it was no use.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled, ‘Gods alive! Help me–’

  The creature jabbed him in the stomach with its clenched fist, causing the remainder of air along with the rest of his sentence to rush out of his mouth in a pitiful wince.

  The creature then clamped its chilling hands on his forehead, muttering, ‘let’s see…’

  Thorne grunted in the effort to resist, realizing he was fighting a losing battle as he felt his body go cold and limp, a strong sense of nausea creeping into his stomach just as his vision blurred and then became completely obscured by darkness.

  When he awoke, Thorne faced completely different surroundings – he was sat in an armchair that faced a fireplace for one. A smoking mug of what smelled like hot chocolate sat alongside a crystal–clear glass on the marble table beside him.

  Above the fireplace, attached to the walls were silver boards displaying an odd variety of items – claws and animal heads, and rare treasures – sparkling jewels, pendants and ancient looking swords. In the middle, there was also a square clock, another antique by the look of it but still working nonetheless. The ticks seeming to echo around the quiet room.

  Even his clothes had changed – the robes and pantaloons replaced by a leather waistcoat and a pair of tight–fitting trousers. His boots had also disappeared and instead he wore a pair of shoes that were looser but more comf
ortable.

  This place, it was… tranquil but a bit weird. How had he got here? All he could remember was a cold feeling and then darkness. What the hell was going on?

  Wham!

  Thorne jumped, almost toppling his chair in the effort to quickly scramble out of it, while he pivoted his head frantically around the length and breadth of the room, searching for the source of the noise.

  WHAM!

  Thorne jumped again, a second later another sound accompanying the first – screaming, a woman’s scream no doubt.

  He lurched forward and tried to reach one of the swords hanging above on the wall. He couldn’t reach it.

  WHAM!

  The source of the noise was getting closer, adding to his paranoia.

  He leaped up against the wall, the tip of his fingers only grazing the bottom of the hilt this time. Thorne growled in frustration, then grabbed the table, the empty glass and the jug falling to the floor and smashing into jagged pieces which swam among the loose liquid. He held it up in front of him, the wooden legs facing the door opposite to him.

  His heart pounded against his chest as he tried to conceive of who or what would come through the door. The door was then thrust open, and the person who stepped in was – to his complete surprise – a fellow Novice of the Spire, Mason.

  His robes billowing behind him, he ran breathlessly towards Thorne and grabbed him by his waistcoat.

  ‘Thorne!’ he exclaimed, so short of breath he could only manage to utter a few words every moment, ‘under attack… need… to leave…’

  ‘What?’ Thorne shot up from his seat with alarm, ‘what’s happening?’

  ‘No time!’ Mason said, dragging Thorne along with him, ‘we need to leave!’

  His legs, suddenly with a mind of their own, propelled Thorne through the open door, many twisting corridors with fancy rugs and walls lined seemingly endlessly with portraits, with faces that stared blankly at him, until finally he stopped at what looked like an entrance hall. Here a grand staircase occupied most of the area, its golden banisters reflecting the dazzling light from the chandeliers overhead around the expanse of the hall.

  At the end of the room laid the wrecked remains of two large oak doors, their frames shattered, deep gashes scarring the surface. Towering triumphantly in front of them, stood the bandit.

  The man was a clear foot taller than him with huge bulging arms covered in a wide assortment of crude tattoos and disfiguring scars. His hair was jet black and long, the lank locks falling around his hairy face like a veil. The bandit wore a torn leather chest pad, partly concealed by his tattered sleeveless tunic which fell to his knees.

  Gripped tightly in the bandit’s grimy hands was a large morning star, most of its spikes either bent or chipped.

  Thorne gulped, feeling dwarfed by the bandit’s size and hostility that seemed to burst out towards him.

  The bandit gave him a toothless grin through the parting in his hair and yelled, ‘I gonna gut ya lik’a pig!’

  Without warning he then charged, bellowing out a horrid battle cry and swinging his weapon in wild arcs.

  The first swing in his direction missed Thorne completely, the second time, a spike of the mace grazed the tip of his nose and the third ripped open his waistcoat and vest, revealing the bare – but fortunately unharmed – flesh.

  The man giggled madly and heaved his weapon up again after spitting away the froth brimming his lips.

  Mason then suddenly appeared in front of Thorne, his eyes aflame, shrieking, ‘BURN! BURN HIM!’

  Upon the novice’s orders Thorne felt a vast amount of energy building up inside him, the raw power flowing through his veins and stimulating his senses.

  He’d almost forgotten about the effects of Majik – the tingling fingers, the warmth and then the feeling of exhilaration when all this energy burst forward from his fingertips.

  ‘Leave now!’ Thorne roared, thrust his hands forward and let loose a stream of flames that turned the floor black as it shot towards the bandit. The bandit wailed and blundered around the hall as his body became enveloped in the flames.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Burn him!’ Mason clapped him on excitedly.

  He’d heard his friend, but this time Thorne couldn’t follow the order unconsciously. He’d depleted himself. He snapped his fingers in desperation. Nothing but sparks surfaced from his hands. Where had his energy gone?

  He fell to his knees, brow sweating and panting heavily, forced to sit and watch as the bandit rushed towards him. The mace was held up above his head while screaming promises of revenge above the sound of the crackling flames.

  Forced to watch the weapon fall upon him. Fortunately, darkness took him first.

  Chapter 7

  Was he dead?

  But no, he couldn’t be. How would he be able to think and feel otherwise?

  Of course, that raised other questions in his mind as well – if he had, how had he died?

  Honestly, he could not seem to remember.

  However, if he was dead, perhaps the most important question of all was.... where the hell was he?

  Come…

  What?

  He could have mistaken it for something else, but Thorne was quite sure he had heard a voice.

  Come… Come…

  He had definitely heard it this time – that voice, which was soon accompanied by a creaking noise, a gust of wind and then… light…

  Strange, how its absence had not bothered him...

  But wait. He could see. He was alive! He had to be.

  But then why couldn’t he move? It was like he was attached to the ground with his arms, legs, even the tip of his nose out of sight.

  Even more importantly however, where was he? His surroundings didn’t say much – all he could see was whiteness. An endless realm of white.

  He blinked, and a second later something else appeared, although he couldn’t tell what it was as it was shining so brightly and it was so far away it was merely a blur.

  The light around him was starting to flicker and fade and Thorne could feel a chill creeping up his spine and a throbbing pain on the side of his head.

  The last thing Thorne remembered before he plunged into darkness was a pair of gleaming eyes and what he thought was a hand that beckoned to him.

  *

  Thorne’s eyes opened, darkness greeting him at first before they closed again soon after.

  The second time they opened, his vision was less obscured but blurry nonetheless, and the disorientation made everything seem to move at a much slower pace.

  He clenched a fist and caught a wad of grass – he’d fallen back on the ground. He tried to move the other hand, but it wouldn’t budge. Was it broken?

  He then saw something moving out of the corner of his eye – something green? White? What was it?

  Thorne’s eyes allowed him focus more, showing that the shape of the figure resembled a well–built man. The golden man?

  The man fell to his knees beside him, grasped Thorne’s robes and started to shake him.

  Thorne’s eyes then latched onto the man’s hand and the gleam of silver that emanated from it.

  ‘You…’ Thorne mumbled.

  Zaine opened his mouth, but Thorne couldn’t hear what he was saying, even though he appeared to be bellowing the words at him.

  ‘I – I can’t…’ he began.

  Zaine twisted his head suddenly and turned back, grabbing Thorne by the hem of his robes and shouting out at him with visible urgency.

  ‘–UP!’ Thorne heard, as if through water. He shook his head.

  ‘CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET UP! THE DEMON ISN’T DEAD!’

  The dreaded words acting as a shock to his system, Thorne’s vision began to clear drastically. He saw the trees, the vines and the shallow crevasse in the grass where he’d landed.

  ‘My legs–’ Thorne began weakly.

  ‘Are fine,’ Zaine said abruptly, ‘now get up!’

  Thorne didn’t have the strength to argue and, with
Zaine’s help, was hauled to his feet. He staggered briefly before regaining his balance.

  He gulped down the air greedily as he leaned on one of the trees, eyeing Zaine’s sword with apprehension.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Zaine asked, snapping his head to the left and right to examine the surroundings.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Thorne replied, ‘what happened to me?’

  ‘You were entranced,’ Zaine replied, ‘the demon wrapped your mind up in fantasy.’

  Thorne’s hand drifted to the back of his head and he winced as his fingers brushed against the large bump that had formed under his hair.

  ‘Did you... punch me?’ Thorne groaned.

  ‘Sorry,’ the Swordsman shrugged.

  ‘But – then how…’ Thorne began, his confusion stripping him of the ability to form sentences.

  ‘Look behind you,’ the stranger said sharply.

  Thorne did so and gasped in shock.

  A large area in front of him, once abundant in plant life was now completely destroyed.

  The long grass had been reduced to ashes which, along with a few leaves, littered the scorched ground. The trees had also become mere shadows of what they once were. Their immense bodies now shrunken and as dark as the ground they feebly stood on. Some were still alight at the top where a few branches and their leaves remained, the flames slowly devouring their colour.

  He took a step forward, almost crumpling from exhaustion.

  Had he really done all this?

  Thorne then heard a crunch, which he’d initially assumed was the sound of his feet on the scorched ground but what were actually the burnt and tattered remains of some sort of clothing. He picked it up to inspect it more closely and he realized it was an overcoat.

  Thorne paled and turned to Zaine who he now noticed, to his horror, was missing his own overcoat and his arms were dark and singed.

  ‘By Ozin!’ Thorne cried, ‘I–I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Just be on your guard’ the Swordsman grunted in reply, ‘the demon could be anywhere.’

  Thorne gulped – he’d completely forgotten about the blissgiver!

  He felt his hands tremble and his eyes darting around in his head. He was once again horribly aware of the danger they were still in and how inexplicably defenceless he was.