Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  But Thorne persisted, and the proud warrior answered the challenge, facing the deadliest man alive in single combat; each man swore to withdraw their forces if they lost the battle. Thorne admitted that the contest was more intense, more difficult than he had expected but, in the end, no one could match him in combat. His body was enhanced by his Vampiric blood, and his black heart meant that fatigue and pain had little effect on him; his command of magic even allowed him to endure the scorching sun of Arkathor, shielding him in a reflective coat that let him radiate heat and power. The battle had lasted only a few minutes but had been the hardest of Thorne’s life. The King had fought with a rage and ferocity that actually impressed him, and the skill of decades of experience and lessons with the world’s best swords trainers. In the end, youth and power had toppled age and experience, however. Thorne had outlasted his opponent and eventually disarmed him, slicing his wrist with his sword and sending his opponent to the ground with a strike of his elbow. As King Eranor kneeled to endure the coup de grace, however, Thorne did something unthinkable. He struck his sword into the sand and offered his hand to the defeated King. In an unfathomable display of mercy and cunning, he allowed Eranor to remain ruler of Arkathor, on the condition that he denounce his title of King and submit to Thorne as Lord of Visyria. Thorne even offered to appoint Eranor Master of Trade and grant him the title Lord of Arkathor once he had finished his conquest of the three remaining Kingdoms. Astounded, Eranor had accepted, and still offered advice and council to Thorne on the matters of trade, who humbly relished the advice of a more experienced economist. Despite the people’s initial outcry, naming him “The Butcher of Arkathor”, eventually they became almost happy at their new submissive role in Visyria. Life was the same, and they were no longer starving. Hunger brings giants to their knees.

  A messenger entered Thorne’s tent before saluting and addressing him in formal, serious tones. “Supreme Commander Thorne,” he began, “your presence is requested by the Council of Mages to answer for war crimes, and face trial at the hands of Archmage Nox. A ship will arrive in the morning to take you back to Varrasia; your campaign and aggression will cease indefinitely while the trial is carried out.” The messenger, a young man by the name of Barros Krai, finished reading out the letter in his hand and looked at Thorne, curious to see how he would react to a display of authority and command from someone other than himself. They had known each other a long time, and Thorne had deliberately appointed Barros as his aid and squire during the conflict for his brilliance in combat demonstrated in the war against Arkathor. They looked at each other, deadly serious, tension filling the room. It snapped as Thorne broke out into a malevolent, arrogant laughter, soon to be joined by Barros. Both of them knew he would never answer the summons, and that the council were not powerful enough to force him to return. They also both knew that the Chronians would only fortify themselves and build stronger defences inland if Thorne retreated to face trial. This would not happen. Thorne would return to Varrasia as a war hero for a second time and face a second trial for war crimes that he would walk away from unscathed for a second time. He was invincible.

  “Commander,” Barros added. Thorne began to listen. “In all seriousness, what is your plan for dealing with the Council? If we win the war and return victorious a second time, surely they will see sense and allow your conquest to continue without the trivialities of war trials?”

  “When we win the war.” Thorne corrected with cold confidence. “And as for the Council, they will do as they have always done, as will I. They will sit, and I will act. And when I return, I shall sit for a time while they question my ideals and my vision, and I will make them see sense. If they arrest or execute me, half the Varrasian Isles will revolt, and the whole of Visyria will be thrown into chaos.”

  “But why not solve the problem completely? Why not devise a way to overthrow them, or at least put someone in charge who won’t question your goals and impede the conquest?” Barros protested with fiery vigour.

  “All in good time, Barros. I have plans in place to tackle the Council, and soon the whole of Visyria will be united, and I can finally restore order to this broken world.” Thorne looked at him, his black eyes piercing into the man’s very soul. They found youth and fire and power, a ruthless intelligence and a brilliant tactical mind. Thorne was reminded of himself in his early years as a mage and warrior, although the majority of battles he fought had been in training grounds. If such power could be moulded and refined it could even rival his own. Once Thorne conquered the remaining kingdoms and proclaimed himself Lord of Visyria, he would need someone to rule Varrasia, and lead the Mages’ Council.

  He had thought that would be his old mentor, Caecilius Thar, but apparently not. The news that Syras had replaced the Archmage instead of Caecilius was disappointing. Clearly, he had not taken into consideration another taking the Sceptre when he had devised his plan to depose Arkham. Since he had proven himself an inferior to a second-rate mage, Caecilius could not be allowed to rule. Then again, to Thorne, everyone was second-rate. Apart from Barros- and possibly his second in command, Gaius Lyre…

  Perhaps this shining youth would become another of Thorne’s scarce equals; to truly excel, he would need to be trained in areas that Thorne had not already mastered, and only few existed. One Thorne had already dealt with by sparing Eranor: the matters of trade and economics. The other however, was an area of magic ill-suited to Thorne’s vicious power: the Prophesus Arcana, the magic of sight and prophecy. Despite Thorne’s numerous attempts to predict the future he found his estimates were based more on intelligent guessing than magical inspiration. Although his desire to predict events, in the end, was inconsequent given that he himself was always shaping them. There were other areas of magic to be explored however: Carus Arcana, the magic of healing; Lingus Arcana, the art of writing and sigil crafting and the language of magic. Thorne had a working understanding of all of these, but none of them were natural talents like the rest of his impressive arsenal. If he could instruct and guide Barros to mastering these, he would have the entirety of the Great Power at his disposal, or at least the extent to which the people of Visyria knew of and could control. “Barros,” Thorne said after his long, complicated thoughts had been arranged and developed in his mind, “I have a task for you…”

  Chapter 5

  Commander Gaius Lyre gazed upon the wreckage of Arcta Specta in awe and triumph. He had seen the first version of Black Fire when Thorne had used it to blow a hole in the walls of Sajaris almost three years ago: as an officer of only twenty-six years he had been amazed and terrified by such a display of absolute power. This, however, was harrowing and glorious. Thorne’s primitive designs had been perfected into the ultimate weapon of mass-murder. It had taken seconds to blow apart a castle that would have taken months to lay siege to and invade, wiping out its thousand soldiers in a terrible Arcane fire. The nearby patrols and legions had marched back to the castle in defiant terror, and Lyre had proved himself worthy of his recent promotion to second-in-command of Thorne’s armies.

  Lyre was an Arrachsian, from one of the westernmost Varrasian Isles, and home to a race of similar power, but an entirely unique command of magic. In Arrachsia, there is a rare species of spider: a giant, demonic spider that lived in caves scattered across the island’s unforgiving terrain. They are few in numbers, but the island is entirely their domain, and the only humanoid people sharing it are those of Lyre’s particularly exceptional heritage. Rumours of their origin are numerous, and unverified. Most of them however, refer to an ancient species of men that lived among the spiders; in some tales the spiders and men were one in the same, transforming between one and the other depending on their need; in others, the spiders slowly evolved into more intelligent, humanoid beings; the latter is more commonly believed. The particular area of magic that Arrachsians have access to is called Arcana Bestia, an animal magic that gives them an affinity to wild creatures, and in cases of Lyre’s great Power, control over the
m. Strangely, Arrachsians do not draw strength from the Plain of the Soul, as other mages do; instead, they delve further to the second plain: The Plain of Monsters. In this realm of magic, the spiritual forms of arcane beasts roam a hostile, treacherous land. It is also where the souls of Arrachsians reside, giving them an affinity and bond with all wild creatures. Lyre had spent weeks at a time fully submerged in this plain, developing his skills and giving him the world’s greatest command of beasts- stronger even, than Thorne’s. As part of Lyre’s invasion force, he had brought a plethora of creatures from the Varrasian Isles, a cohort that had been difficult to transport across the Isonian sea.

  In the Varrasian wars, a civil war among the islands and eventually won by Varrasia with the combined power of Arrachsia and Embaris nearly a hundred years ago, Arrachsians had ridden the great spiders of their island into battle, controlling them, willing them to devour their foes alive or poison them with their giant stingers. Since then, the spiders have remained on their home island; the difficulty in carrying them across water had been a risk that Thorne had deliberated over vigorously, but in the end, he had decided they were unnecessary, given the strength of his fighting force.

  While Lyre did not ride a giant spider into battle, his mount struck terror into his enemies all the same. He rode an Embarasi Magmathon, a horrifying beast resembling a snake, but large enough to ride, and with a mouth that burnt hot enough to melt the flesh of its enemies as it devoured them. They were a rare species from Embaris, a volcanic island to the southeast of the Varrasian continent, but Lyre had developed a close bond with this one in a journey to the Volcano nearly a decade ago, and had been riding it into combat ever since. Thorne had recognised his brilliant power with the beast in the Arkathi War, and had promoted him to commander shortly before beginning the invasion of Chrone. A choice that was proving to have devastating consequences for the Chronian people.

  The few surviving warriors who had dared to try and launch a counterattack against Lyre’s invasion force had been eradicated as easily as rodents, but with incredible efficiency nonetheless. Lyre’s soldiers were not like Thorne’s battlemages: most of them were Arrachsian, with a variety of beasts and mounts at their disposal, allowing them to form a make-shift cavalry. As such, the magical resistance of the Chronian people was of little consequence, and the army simply tore through the pathetic resistance without so much as a single casualty. They would be an avalanche descending on Queen Helsifer and her heathen warriors from the north, burning and trampling all who stood between them and the capital. The war would be over as quickly as the coastal castles had been destroyed. Perhaps this campaign would be even shorter than the war against Arkathor. And if Lyre led the charge to bring down the greatest warriors in Visyria, perhaps he would be made Lord of Chrone, and even rival the power of Thorne himself.

  ***

  Pain! Agonising pain! Arrrghh! Torture! Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!

  Thorne woke up screaming. The dream had been fractious, even now slipping away before he could piece together the narrative, or any semblance of reason. All he could remember was a face. A beautiful, cold, pale face, with blood red eyes staring down at him: unmistakably female, and with a tenderness that Thorne thought he might recognise from a lifetime ago- just past the edge of his ability to reminisce. She had been screaming, and so had he. As swift as the wind, a thought crossed his mind and vanished. A thought about his late mother: something he had closed off in the deep recesses of his mind that had been temporarily set free by his nightmare. He buried it. Pain was a weakness; grief was a luxury he could not afford himself on the eve of battle.

  Thorne began to meditate. Disturbed by his abrupt return to the physical world from sleep, he decided to focus his mind, and began to explore the depths of the Great Power…

  The extent and power of magic knows no limits. Its currents run deep into the heart of the universe. Its arcane plains hold up the very fabric of time and space. The world, as seen by sentient life, is but a glimpse of the wonder of the infinite cosmos- but those with Thorne’s ability have access to more. They can see the turn of galaxies, the heart of life, and the essence of souls. That was what Thorne gazed at now. Raw, pure, unrefined magic: the infinite expanse of an eternal Power. It stretched further than his mind could comprehend. Thorne bathed in it; exalted it. Even the great God of Death could not see the scope of all of creation. Some plains of existence were closed off, sealed in time, and forbidden by some unseen force. All who ventured too far from the known world were lost to madness, or the Void. Still, Thorne could not help but wonder what secrets the Creator had kept hidden from even Death himself. What power was too great for a God?

  Thorne focused his exploration, travelling deep into the heart of the first plain of magic with his astral body. The infinite expanse of magic is divided into innumerable plains, each one deeper, more complex than the last. Those who venture too far break apart as their minds collapse in on themselves trying to contain the depths of infinity. But nine plains are known to the people of Visyria. The first is the Plain of the Soul, a plain shared by all living creatures, and occupied by their magical beings: their souls. It was from here that mages and magical beings drew their power; those powerful enough could venture further, even to the depths of the ninth plain; Thorne was one such being, but for now, he sought only the introspective, calming power of the self. He drew from the depth of his own magic, restoring his mind and body and readying himself for the coming war. Looking out across the plain, he could see the souls of his soldiers moving tirelessly around the make-shift camp created amidst the ruins of Galantine. Unlike the souls of humans, Varrasians had a distinct glow to them, a colour instead of a transparent gleam. Most glowed the iconic red of the magi, but even the most experienced Grandmages had not been able to explain the nature of Thorne’s own soul. It blazed a fiery combination of black and purple, the colours swirling about each other as if fighting for control. Thorne himself did not know the heritage of his arcane being, nor its nature, or even the extent of its true power. Exploring deep within himself, he tried to balance the two halves of his soul; calming the raging purple storm so that the sea of black went still. They settled for a moment in perfect balance. Thorne felt peace, power, control. When his state of mind was as it was now, the nine plains of existence were clearer than crystal to him.

  Satisfied, he returned to the physical world, content that the turmoil caused by his nightmare had been contained and extinguished.

  Lieutenant Vrax, who was briefly filling in for Barros after Thorne had sent him away on his mission, entered Thorne’s tent. “Commander,” she began, “the preparations have been made, an army of 30,000 battlemages is prepared to march into the forest of Caira and join with the secondary invasion force.” Thorne smiled.

  “And the invasion of Arcta Specta? I take it the Black Fire worked as successfully there as it did here?”

  Vrax hesitated, unsure of how Thorne would react to the news of the half-success: “As powerfully and effectively my Lord, but… with casualties. The soldiers tasked with rowing through the canal with the Black Fire were- premature, in lighting the fuse it seems. The castle exploded earlier than anticipated, and the soldiers on the longboats were buried beneath it.” Thorne’s smile faltered. He knew the risks of dealing with such a potent agent, but had expected his disciplined officers to be capable of carrying out the attack unscathed.

  “I want a list of the dead. Ravens will be sent back to the Varrasian Isles informing their families; have the officers of the reserve armies begin drafting letters, I will sign them before they are sent home.” Vrax was surprised at the sincerity in Thorne’s voice. She understood the importance of the fallen soldiers being seen as heroes by the people, and the impact it would have knowing their deaths were not in vain- but- it seemed as if Thorne almost cared. This was the Butcher of Arkathor, the man who had slain countless men and women, laid siege to their cities and starved their people. Was this… compassion?

  “They
were our men.” Thorne sighed, seeing the confusion in Vrax’s eyes. “Their lives are of consequence, and their deaths premature. The barbarians we will slaughter in the war are insects: pathetic, and requiring extermination.” The coldness in Thorne’s voice spoke stories of anguish and vengeance. Vrax understood. Against Arkathor, he had been as efficient as possible, beating the enemy with his mind, not his sword, and allowing the vast majority of the country to survive by sparing their King. But Thorne had a vendetta against the Chronians.

  “Why? Why wipe them out- what made the Arkathi worth keeping? A Kingdom- even of barbarians- is a powerful force; their annihilation could have… repercussions.”

  “The only repercussions will be the restoration of order and humanity to the world! Chronians are beasts not men. The Great Power refuses itself to them and so they are beneath us. They will die beneath us, as ants under my heel.” Thorne felt contempt sickening him once again. Despite this deep-seated hatred for mortal creatures, he still saw the sense of Vrax’s words. Wiping out the Chronians would have consequences, but in the long term, they needed to be eradicated for the good of Visyria. Heathen creatures, worshipping their false god; barbaric murderers, plunderers and thieves. They offered sacrifices of blood and ash to their false deity; they bled the land dry and scarred the magical plain with their soulless bodies. This was another thing Thorne had discovered since arriving on Chrone’s shores. The people seemed to be devoid of magic, not just untuned to it. It was as if their bodies tried to fight it off, stopping it from cleansing them with its touch. This had proved to be an issue in combat: the few battles with surviving armies around the castle had been costly, and Thorne was having to change tactics…