Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  As two mages helped the Archmage back to his seat Caecilius saw how pale his face had become; he had used all his effort to keep the shadows from claiming his life and the council could clearly see it. Pathetic. A simple blast of shadow magic with a flick of Caecilius’ wrist had nearly killed their so-called leader. Arkham tried to speak but he was cut off by another mage, Syras Nox, before he could even draw breath.

  “I think you have made your point, Grandmage Caecilius. The time has clearly come for a change in leadership.” Arkham looked around hopelessly for an objection but found none. Weak, tired, old, and defrocked, he gave up. The magic he was using to sustain his brittle frame left him, and he surrendered his soul to the Aether, joining the great stream of souls that wandered in the sea of the Great Power.

  “That, however, is the only point you have proven, Caecilius. While your opinion is well-founded, and your intentions true to our purpose, I cannot agree with your conclusion. Thorne is unstable, and not an instrument for harmony. His war with Arkathor was a great risk, exposing our ways to the threat of extinction. Successful as he is, he must be contained. This new invasion will break apart a continent and countless surrounding islands. It will take decades for him to bring a foreign, barbarian land into order. It was thoughtless and vain. They must be allowed to grow, as all races grow, without our intervention. I am summoning him back to answer for this act of war. He will make his case, and I will judge him by the will of our God.” Syras Nox went to Arkham’s lifeless hand and took the Sceptre from it. No one opposed, even Caecilius. While he would have been happier with his own hand on the Sceptre, he knew he was no match in combat for Syras; his shadow magic was a dangerous tool, but more often it was a weapon of stealth and deception, not physical force. Arkham had been torn apart by a petty, insignificant blast of strength. Syras was not so weak. In fact, he was now the most powerful mage alive- except, Caecilius thought, for Thorne. Despite his young age, Thorne had shown himself to be a master of all types of magic; creative, mercilessly intelligent, and with a raw power the likes of which had never been seen before. Caecilius had his suspicions about the source of this power but dared not voice them: he hardly cared. Power is power. Everything else be damned.

  Chapter 3

  With his initial invasion force of 6,000 Varrasian soldiers garrisoned in the ruins of the castle, Thorne looked out from the walls as the rest of the fleet began pouring in. An invasion this scale had not been attempted since the Arkathi wars nearly three years ago. Thorne rejoiced at the prospect of another glorious conquest: the rage, the fury, the slaughter; they restored his malevolent soul. Thorne assumed that the battle for the city would be easy given their incredible numbers and the devastating surprise attack they had launched on Galant Castle. Shortly after the invasion, alarm bells had sounded in the city: Chronian warriors were now forming shield walls in the streets while archers hurried to the walls. Varrasian soldiers were assembling in the fields outside the castle, merging into a singular, monstrous unit. For the time being, Thorne would let his Emerald Army do most of the work: they were a fighting force of some of his more experienced recruits who he had led into battle many times before. The troops pouring into the castle now would remain behind to organise themselves for the main offensive campaign. The city was in a valley between the mountains of the vicious coastline, and while it no longer had the protection of the castle, the Chronians would have a slight advantage defending their home-territory. No matter- what hope did insects have against Thorne’s professional murderers?

  Descending from the castle walls to assume the command of his army, Thorne felt a gentle sea breeze wash over him, smelling of home. Even across the waves, it seemed the magical strength of Varrasia was lending itself to Thorne. Once he was with his soldiers, he called out to them in Varrasian, “You know the drill: no survivors, we raze the city to the ground...” His cold, simple command would lead to the deaths of countless people in the city. Thorne’s soldiers obeyed him absolutely, with impressive loyalty and bloodthirsty resolve. As he led the march down into the valley below, the sound of the Varrasians’ black armour resounded across the cliffs, filling the air with a thunderous clamour. Normally, in Varrasian armies the commander would lead his armies from the sidelines, issuing orders and observing the large-scale picture of the battle to maximise the army’s efficiency. Thorne was an exception; he believed that immersing himself in the conflict allowed him to better gauge what was necessary to achieve victory- most of the time he was right.

  The Emerald Army, with 6,000 beautifully crafted weapons of black, Arryan steel marched with incomparable discipline. They descended upon the city like a thunder cloud and waited on the edge of the low walls. After a short moment, the gates opened to reveal an old veteran: a Chronian warrior in beautiful silver armour. She walked to Thorne and addressed him calmly, with admirable bravery, “The Varrasians have no business here. Leave now, go home. Give up this ruinous ambition.” While Chrone was, for the most part, isolated from the rest of Visyria, rumours of Thorne’s murderous assault on Arkathor had reached even here it seemed.

  Thorne rose to his full, towering height as he addressed the woman, his pale face like a stain on the sunlit fields. “I think not. There will be no retreat, no surrender, no mercy. And oh- There won’t be any courtesies or formalities either!” Laughing insanely, Thorne separated the woman’s head from her shoulders with his black sword. At that moment, archers erupted from behind the walls’ turrets and began unleashing a vicious assault of arrows onto the Varrasian army. There was barely enough time to form a testudo, with their shields held up to protect them from the raining steel. Once they were in formation, the Emerald Army approached the gate cautiously, while Thorne led the charge. Sucking in the magic from the air, Thorne let out a terrible shockwave from his open palms that blew the small gate from the walls, crushing a host of Chronians that had been set to defending the entrance. As the army rolled in, the carnage began.

  Inside the city, the Varrasians broke formation and began the first real battle of the war. At first, it seemed victory was almost achieved before the fighting had begun, but then the Varrasians began to realise something. Their magic was not working. Fireballs, shadow-blades, shockwaves, lightning, and countless other magical attacks appeared to dissipate on Chronian flesh- like they were absorbed. Streams of fire tore through warriors- should have incinerated them- but they remained unscathed as the flames appeared to have no effect. Thorne’s astute military mind assessed the situation instantly and began relying on his physical prowess to kill the warriors. As other Varrasians began to realise the same, the battle became less one-sided. One of Thorne’s lieutenants who had served under Thorne in the Arkathi wars, Zaryth, tried to melt a Chronian’s face with his burning hands, he realised she was smiling before she put her sword through his stomach. As Thorne raced over, mercilessly eviscerating the woman, he watched his friend and comrade collapse to his knees with a haunting expression of surprise. His body crumpled to the ground in a pool of crimson blood.

  Thorne took no chances. He issued a mental command to the rest of his soldiers: do not use magic! Use weapons! No magic! Using his mind, he could only issue simple orders to such a large force, but eventually, the message spread throughout the army and the tide turned ever so slightly. Thorne himself was an unstoppable killing machine; everyone who tried to stop his arrogant stroll through the city soon found themselves dead at his feet. The same could not be said of his soldiers. While the Emerald Army was a contingent of experienced warriors, their strength was largely in magic. Thorne had assumed that they would be able to terrify and shock the Chronians into an early surrender- he was wrong. It was an unsettling feeling.

  Realising that this would not be an easy battle, the Varrasians began to assemble again into deadly turtle-formations- walking through the city in a slow, murderous crawl. It would not be enough. The Varrasians had lost nearly half their army in the shock and confusion when their magic had failed- the decision to break format
ion had been arrogant and costly. There were enough left to survive and beat back the Chronians, but they were outnumbered now. This had not been a possibility that Thorne had taken into account; the war would have to be fought very differently... No matter. Thorne’s other armies had incredible physical skill in addition to their other abilities and a second invasion force was already landing in the north, about to attack Arcta Specta, a similar coastal city. Commander Lyre would be leading that assault, and his armies were largely made up of cavalry- of a sort. Thorne had no doubt the vast majority of his armies would survive the first attack.

  Realising that there was a possibility of losing the first fair battle of the war, Thorne issued another mental command, this time focusing on a single lieutenant back at the castle. Black Riders. Now! No magic! The command was simpler given he only had to focus on one mind; he immediately received confirmation and ordered the remaining Varrasians to form a shield wall on either side of a narrow street. The archers had all been killed, but that did not make holding the formation any easier. Thorne used this moment to blast himself into the air with his magic and unleash a torrent of small, Obsyrian shards into either side of the constricting Chronian armies. The blades cut through their armour like hot steel through snow and a litter of bodies formed on either side of the shielded Varrasian army. The bodies formed a slight obstacle for the attackers and bought the soldiers more time as Thorne’s personal cavalry unit rode down from the hills on their nightmarish black horses.

  The sound of hooves was barely registered before an avalanche hit the Chronian warriors. Heads fell from shoulders, spikes impaled hearts, throats were cut open as the vicious unit worked with incredible efficiency to dispatch the terrified Chronians. Once the street was clear of them, Lieutenant Zathana Vrax approached on a black horse with Thorne’s own mount held by the reigns.

  “Skyra,” He breathed as he stroked the horse's beautiful crystal mane; unlike the others in the unit, Skyra was an extraordinary snow-white horse, with a defined muscular body, but light as a feather. Vrax released the reigns and Thorne climbed atop his companion-in-carnage. The battle was now all but won as the Black Riders swept through the streets, purging the city of combatant and civilian alike. This had been far too close, even if in the end it was a decisive victory.

  ***

  The King of the Aether sat on his ice-cold throne in his icy castle, observing the ice drifting and cracking out through the window, across the vast expanse of his frozen Kingdom. His wife, Queen, and the most beautiful vampiress in the world sat on his lap looking up at him with her red, fiery eyes. “Why so sad, my love? What have I done to make you fret so? Is there anything I can do to ease your undead existence in these long centuries?”

  The King turned to her, and then to the vast expanse of his Black Hall, stretching as far as the eye could see, bats hanging from the rafters in countless numbers, ghosts and demons roaming the halls. “My unbeating heart knows no sorrow, my dearest, undead love.” He whispered, slowly. “I only look at our Kingdom to think about what could have been. If our war with the living had been won, if the world had been cleansed by death, how joyous our existence would be. Instead of this petty wasteland, this frozen expanse of exile. What did we do to deserve this cold, unending life?” Her Majesty did not speak. She thought. Deep, long, the hours were like seconds to her as millennia passed her by.

  “Do not despair, my most dearly beloved blood-bringer, our exile is only temporary I assure you.” He stared at her, confused. She knew as well as he did the falsity of her words.

  “What good will lies do us in eternity, my love? Have I not been faithful to you enough to deserve the truth about our cold lives?”

  “I have something I must confess, my most terrible, inglorious King…” She hesitated, hours again passing her by as she took the time to tell him of the news that would change their lives forever. “It seems, even in this undead, ageless body, there is the capacity for life.” Once again, the King stared at her, curious and unconvinced. He waited patiently as hours- perhaps even days passed them by. “You love me, do you not, my Demonic, glorious, majestic, King?

  “Indeed I do.” He answered instantly, “With you the centuries are bearable, my miserable life made almost content.”

  “And I love you. It seems, my love, that the great God of Death has had mercy on us. And from our death, he has brought life. My undead womb has grown flesh, and from the flesh, I have born a son. He lives, a powerful man. Beautiful and terrible, like shadow on the face of the sun. He will bring about the World’s Death. I have felt it, my love.”

  After pausing, perhaps again for days, in quiet confusion, the King replied, “And where has this child grown that I have not seen his face; felt his warmth in your cold body; watched him grow as the years passed us by?”

  “For that, my dearly undying love, I am truly sorry. I feared what foul magic could bring about this life so close to my still heart and fled for a while. Do you remember? I left you for a year, claiming I was going to explore the vast expanses of our Kingdom. But I swear to you our child lives, I have observed him from afar, and it seems my fear was unjustified.”

  More time went by as the King considered this, and he found he believed her. “You are sure?” He said, “You are sure that this being is our child, that he lives, that his blood is from our bodies?”

  “As sure as I am of my love for you. And I know he can bring about the World’s Death.” She said, staring into his soulless eyes. “Our son will kill the world.”

  They sat together, in a cold embrace, considering this terrible future, and for the first time in a thousand years, the Damned King found himself smiling. He turned to his beloved wife and kissed her.

  “Our son lives.” He said, in quiet, terrible hope.

  Chapter 4

  Thorne paced around his command tent, thinking. In this, he had no equal; no one could outthink Thorne; no one could outplay him, trick him, beat him. His entire life was a tapestry of brilliance and success, never faltering even in the smallest thread. Deep in thought, his strategic mind continued its meticulous preparations. Having devised most of his plan in the last two years, he now had the opportunity to adapt his basic designs from what he had seen at the castle and the city of Galantine. While this was not a fair depiction of Queen Helsifer’s forces, the enemy having been ambushed and crippled by an unpredictable attack, he had learned much. The people were primitive and animalistic, more like beasts than people. Thorne had invaded that warrior’s mind completely without even a petty struggle, another of Thorne’s unmatched skills. Amazingly, Thorne had a brilliant command of Mentis Arcana, the magic of the mind. Many thought this to be the hardest, most challenging aspect of magic to master, yet Thorne was recognised as its best artist from the age of only twenty-seven. Now at thirty-seven he had mastered nearly every craft and branch of magic in the known world and was even developing some of his own…

  Thorne tried not to let his confidence impede his judgement; these women were animals, but they were strong. What they lacked in magic and mind, they made up for in savage ferocity. The few warriors who survived the explosion and the small garisson in the city had fought to the death, fiercely, taking down more mages than Thorne would have liked to admit. They also had far greater numbers. Despite the hazy estimates at the number of people in Chrone, Thorne had learned from another warrior that they had at least 200,000 warriors, and presumably far more in the outskirts of the continent who were not part of the Royal Armies. He was going to have to be precise to the millisecond of every battle, not wasting anything, maximising his deadly fighting force in every aspect of the conflict.

  He had done this once before against Arkathor three years ago. His plan to invade had been a closely guarded secret among his private army, but eventually he gathered support from enough of the Varrasian Isles to mount a fully-fledged assault against the country. It had taken him nearly three years to assemble a force strong enough to beat the richest and most advanced civilisation
in Visyria, and less than a third of that to crush them beneath his heel.

  Arkathor had been a country built on trade, with links to every major country, state, city, and island except Chrone, who remained isolated in their mountainous continent. Decades of this magnificent trade network had supplied Arkathor with the best equipment money could buy, and a wealth of unknowable size. Their weakness, however, was water. Arkathor was largely a desert kingdom, and the success of their trade depended on their rivers. They were strong enough to endure a drought for nearly two years but not with an invading army crashing down on them from the north. Thorne had waited until he knew the rivers were dry to invade, and instead of attacking outright had set up sieges around all of the major cities.

  For the first two months, the people had fought hard and bravely, but as their supplies ran out, and no resources were being brought in by the surrounding countries- instead being hijacked by Varrasian soldiers- the people slowly whittled away. It was the shortest war of attrition in history. After 12 months, 6 of which the people were starving, Thorne had marched on the capital. Sajaris was a beautiful, enormous city, with walls that stretched past the horizon from one side to the other. Its defences were strong, but the men controlling them were weak and fatigued. Here, Thorne had used a prototype version of his Black Fire to tear a hole in the walls with a combination of magic and alchemy. His soldiers flooded in, slaughtering as they went until Thorne, having slain hundreds of men, called out a challenge to the Arkathi King. All his advisors and lieutenants had been outraged at this absurd risk: the war would have been won in a matter of hours even without the Arkathi King being defeated.