Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  ***

  Queen Helsifer sat atop her war horse, a gargantuan charger, a monstrous brown horse that could trample through the strongest shield-wall. In her hand was her huge mace and chain, with a spiked ball larger than the heads it crushed beneath it. Helsifer, however, wielded it with ease, able to swing it with casual flicks of her wrist and rip bodies open in a hurricane of deadly strength. She had ridden out with her Royal Cavalry hoping to beat back Thorne’s invasion force on the eastern side of the Forest of Caira where her First Infantry Commander, Olympa, was currently halting their advance, and stopping him from meeting with the secondary invasion force in the north. When she had heard of the news that Arcta Specta had fallen along with Galantine, she had swung her mace in a wild rage, smashing through one of the walls of her chamber. How could she possibly hope to drive back an army that blew stone and earth apart as easily as a child snapping a twig? She could not, she had decided. She only hoped to make them suffer as they ravaged their lands; make them pay for the lives they would take; make them mourn for their dead as they were cut down taking her home from her.

  Bringing her horse about to face her army she spoke proudly, and with a fury that inspired confidence in the face of certain death: “The enemy are upon us! They murder our sisters, enslave are men, kill our children! They burn the lands and bring our homes to the ground! Drive out the evil invaders! Artemis, grant us strength to kill the enemy and drive them from our lands!” A great roar rose up among her grand cohort, nearly 8,000 strong, as the voices chanted the Chronian war cry. “Blood! Fire! Death! Blood! Fire! Death!” It echoed through the forest like thunder, shaking trees and calling out to the great spirits of the Forest. Helsifer brought her horse about again and led the charge. The hooves created an earthquake that tore through the forest faster than arctic winds.

  Deep in the distance, from his newly established campaign tent on the eves of the Forest of Caira, Thorne heard the sound of approaching hooves: it was leagues away, but Thorne used his Magical Eye to gaze at the army as it shot across the forest, blazing with anger and rage. He was impressed; the barbarians had managed to assemble some sort of cavalry in time to meet his army in the field, rather than allowing them to march on any of the cities further in land or along the Chronian South Coast. He signalled his lieutenants to begin preparing their troops, pikemen arranged in a hedgehog formation at the head of each unit. Hopefully his newly adapted tactics would allow them to hold against the Chronian riders. If not, his reserve forces would crush what remained of them after the conflict. Now, all he could do was wait…

  Chapter 6

  Feeling the waves rocking beneath him once again, Barros turned to watch his diligent sailors at work on the ship’s deck. Thorne had allowed him to assume temporarily the title of Captain of the Mors Crescilia, and sent him back to Varrasia to face the Council of Mage’s in his stead. This was a great gamble; depending on how Barros dealt with the Grandmages, Thorne would decide how much authority he was to be given after the conquest of Chrone, and whether he would be given command, instead of remaining under Thorne’s ruthless instruction.

  Now, Barros was on course for the Island of Arrachsia to resupply the ship, which barely had enough to make it back across the Isonian Sea. Having been sailing tirelessly for a week on the fastest ship of the Varrasian Fleet, they had almost arrived. As Barros directed his gaze out to the horizon, he saw a landmass emerge: grey and scarred, with vicious teeth emerging from the coastline and a single port among the vast expanse of rock and mountains.

  As the ship came in to dock, and ropes were tied to the harbour, the anchor let down, Barros stepped from the ship to the stony bridge. Looking towards the caves and rock-houses littered across the island he saw a small group of Arrachsians walking towards him. Bracing himself for the formality and bureaucracy he assumed would follow his docking and request for supplies, he stepped forward to meet them with a few Varrasian battlemages walking on either side of him. Before he could open his mouth to begin his address, however, the Arrachsian Queen emerged as her soldiers parted, revealing the most beautiful, horrifying creature the world has ever given life. She had silky white hair that flowed down to her sides, her black lips and eyes shone from a white face, her body was thin and curvaceous, and the way she moved was more like an advanced crawl than a walk.

  “Who” She whispered in a mellifluous Arrachsian accent, “might you be?” she sighed after each word, her voice breathless, sinister, yet strangely enchanting.

  “My name is Barros Krai of Varrasia, squire to Lord Thorne and his emissary sent to Arcas Magna to face the Mages’ Council in his absence. I humbly requ-”

  “It talkss like him… Walks like him. It even speakss like him.” She walked around the unmoving Barros, putting her lips so close to his flesh that he could feel her cold breath glancing past him. “But it iss not him. Where is my love? Why has he sent thiss… boy in his place? Where iss the man? Where is my preciouss Thorne...?” Rumours of the romance between Thorne and the Spider-Queen had been strenuously denied by the would-be-Lord-of-Visyria; Sylestra, however, the Queen of Arrachsia and Master of Spiders had taken a more jovial approach, relishing in the gossip of their love. Barros even wondered if it might be true, looking into the menacing eyes of one of the most powerful women in the world. If anyone could have an impact on the cold, unfeeling heart of Crucius Thorne, it had to be the monstrous beauty that stood before him.

  “Thorne is currently preoccupied with the extermination of the Chronian barbarians, as his squire I have been sent to answer the summons of the Counc-”

  “I am aware” The creature began with seductive maleficence, “I simply misss my beloved Thorne.” Her sarcastic tone mocked Barros with an intelligent, condescending venom- but the longing behind her eyes revealed a genuine disappointment that the enchanted sails of the Mors Crescilia had failed to bring Thorne to her.

  “It would be unwise to leave the Mages’ Council waiting…” Barros began, trying to ignore her as she continued to circle him, even stroking his face with her ornate black nails, and hands delicate as cobwebs brushed past his hair.

  “Perhapss I misjudged you… You are young but- fiery.” She went on, her mouth so close to his that he could not say a word without feeling her icy breath down his throat.

  He looked away as he spoke. “Queen Sylestra, I see you are enjoying this little game, but I am afraid I do not have time for this. I am here to request supplies, and your hospitality for the night. We are perfectly capable of requesting the aid of another Varrasian Isle if you find this objectionable, however I would remind you of who secured your place on the Webbed Throne, and how disheartened he would be to learn of any inhospitality shown towards his men.” Barros felt a slight terror as the Queen recoiled briefly at his display of authority, and the thinly veiled threat.

  “It takess a brave man to insult there would-be-host. And as for Thorne, I’m sure even if he was a little upset about his little manservant being mistreated, I could make him… understand.” As she spoke, she licked her lips suggestively, making no effort to hide her provocativeness. “But we have no trouble with Varrasians here. Come, my soliderss will see that you are cared for, and given adequate accommodation.” As she turned away and walked back across the island, Barros could not help but wonder at such beauty and nightmarish power coexisting in the same body.

  ***

  Now, Thorne was making the final preparations of his battle, and his new squire, Cantus Veridius was clothing him in his iconic black armour. Thorne was tall, almost seven feet, with coal-black hair that came down to his shoulders. His eyes were an abyssal black, and he chose not to wear a helmet in battle so his enemies could look into their soul-destroying gaze. His armour was slick, and thin, allowing him to move with ease due to its weightless design. Its edges were sharp and defined, the plates over his shoulders curved into slight spikes. His gauntlets had serrated blades along the wrist, which had drained the blood of countless enemies, or broken their swords in
his grip. But worst of all was Thorne’s deadly Obsyrian blade. It was almost as tall as him, but light and sharp, with sigils carved into it that glowed purple and red when activated. This sword was another of Thorne’s ingenious creations. He had crafted the blade himself, moulded out of the deadliest and most difficult metal to forge. Despite his limited skills in the Linguis Arcana, he had studied diligently to create the sigils carved into the blade. This combined with Thorne’s powerful command of Necromancy allowed him to create the world’s most horrifying weapon: a blade that would not only cut through the flesh, but the soul. When using his Arcane vision, Thorne could see his foes’ very essences being torn apart by it, killing them- permanently. However, this was a punishment he reserved only for a few. More often than not, he would leave the enchantments inactive, only choosing to pour magic into the blade when facing a foe too evil or dangerous to be allowed to wander in the Aether.

  Bleeding, screaming, dying; bleeding, screaming, dying; Olympa watched as more and more of her warriors were slain before her very eyes. She had seen this before, but never to this extent: never with such rage, ferocity, speed... ease. The first day of fighting had been less one-sided. While the Varrasians tried to use their black magic and demonic power to slay their opponents, they found that for some reason their attacks had little effect. Fire and shadow seemed to dissipate around Chronian flesh, barely even leaving a mark with what should have burnt them alive or torn their souls apart.

  Thorne had quickly changed his strategy however; instead of relying on direct magical attack and the standard military strength of the battlemages he had devised a deadly new approach. The mages were now devoting their Power to Auxilaris enchantments: magic designed to strengthen and enhance their soldiers rather than destroy the enemy outright. In combat, the Chronians should have clearly had the advantage. They were a battle-hardy race strengthened by years of experience fighting rebellious island states, and wielding huge weapons with a speed and ferocity that required the strength of Dracerbera: the giant half-dragon half-wolves that were rumoured to exist in the icy expanse of the Arctas Aeternas far to the north of the Visyria.

  The Varrasians however, enhanced by their magical prowess had become faster, more agile, and with a deadly precision that meant they could strike with swords swift as shadow, killing Chronians like a breeze blowing away the leaves. Thorne’s forces had marched from Galantine towards the forest of Caira, hoping to join with the invasion force that had attacked the coastal city of Arcta Specta in the north. The army on the field now was only 6,000 strong, with another 12,000 in reserve- the rest of Thorne’s invasion force were still holding camp at Galantine, to keep the Chronians guessing at their numbers. Arrogantly, Thorne had assumed they would not be needed.

  Although, impossibly, it seemed that the Chronians were holding them back with the small force Olympa had managed to muster out of Caira’s warrior tribes, and a legion from the mountains in the south. Olympa was amazed: the Varrasians were the stuff of nightmares, with black magic that could bring gods to their knees, how was it that her army of mere mortals was keeping them at bay- even pushing them back towards the treeline? Olympa laughed at the wave of optimism that washed over her- perhaps they were not doomed after all! Queen Helsifer was on her way with a host of 8,000 cavalry, and if they caught the Varrasians in the hostile forest they would be massacred under hoof and steel.

  If, however, Thorne was aware of the threat, and his gradual retreat was simply a tactical refortification on more easily defensible ground, Olympa was leading her warriors and Helsifer’s into a trap. Thorne smiled to himself as he allowed his Emerald Army to be pushed back. Eventually they would regroup with Commander Scarth’s forces on the eastern treeline, creating a defensive wall that the Chronian Cavalry would fall upon in their great numbers, only to be crushed by a spiked formation of pikemen stretching as far as the eye could see.

  Thorne cut down another Chronian foolish enough to face him in combat. She bled; she screamed; she died. “This is sport, not war!” Thorne cried, mercilessly separating a woman’s head from her shoulders with his Obsyrian blade. Instead of activating its enchantments however, he simply cut down the bodies of the barbarian insects: leaving their deformed, magicless souls to crawl about the vast wasteland of the tenth plain of magic, Hades. Thorne’s black armour glistened red with Chronian blood; it tantalised him; he ached to replenish his body with its restorative power but for now he remained unsated: no one could know of his Vampiric heritage. He only drank in secret, and only when necessary: for whatever reason the fact that unlike his ancestors he had running blood and a beating heart meant that he could eat and drink and draw strength from mortal nourishment: but blood gave him a power and superhuman strength that would have allowed him to face down an army single-handedly.

  For the moment, however, he was simply a commander about to win a battle with a brilliant display of tactical and strategic awareness: a task he was born for, and had executed to perfection time and time again. As Thorne’s army kept retreating back to the eastern side of the forest, he saw the Varrasian Crimson Army, a unit Thorne had created mainly from young, talented recruits, had entrenched themselves in the eastern treeline of the Forest of Caira. Make-shift defences had been hastily assembled from the trees: jagged wooden spikes faced outwards to where the Chronian cavalry would come from. Pikemen pointed their spears out, standing adamantly at the front of their battalions. If they held against the cavalry the battle was as good as over, but if Helsifer and her heathens managed to break past the frontline the contest was less certain- at least for the first part of the fighting. In the event that Scarth’s forces faltered, the older, more battle-ready Cyan Army currently in reserve would join the force to finish off what remained of the Chronians. At this very moment, Thorne’s incomparable Black Army, the fighting force of his most experienced veterans, was landing in Galantine, about to march and join forces with the rest. Thorne always tried to delay their arrival in the opening stage of a campaign: giving newer soldiers a taste of battle- and allowing them to develop their skills was one of the reasons his armies were always so practiced and efficient in the art of war. At least for now, he would have to rely on his less experienced armies to win the conflict. Nevertheless, he was still as coldly confident as ever, and as his army slowly made it back past the ranks of their comrades, Olympa realised the trap she had just led her forces into.

  As Olympa heard the sound of approaching cavalry in the distance she despaired; instead of holding her ground and keeping the enemy in the forest she had allowed them to regroup with one of their reserve armies. 6,000 fresh soldiers now stood in a defiant wall of death that Helsifer’s cavalry were about to impale themselves on. She signalled her own forces to retreat back into the forest and avoid the crushing wave of Chronian war horses- she only hoped the Queen would be able to triumph in the face of her failure, otherwise the fate of Chrone would be doomed, and it would be her fault.

  Thud! Thunder! Thud! Thunder! The sound of an earthquake rippled through the west side of the forest to the Varrasian battle line. As it grew closer it became more distinguishable as hooves, and shortly after the barbarian cavalry emerged through the trees. Almost impressed, Thorne watched as their horses shot through the forest like lightning, dodging trees, weaving in and out of the hazardous terrain like they were the most elegant dancers, despite their incredible size and strength. Thorne respected the Queen for leading the charge herself: a good leader was an example to her people. Despite having retreated to the side-lines for the time being, Thorne was well prepared to join the battle again when the time was right. His own personal cavalry unit, on their demonic black horses were assembled and ready. Thorne’s own horse waited for him outside his tent, resplendent in its thin, muscular body. Unlike the others, Thorne’s mount was a beautiful crystal white: Skyra, the fastest horse in Visyria. Thorne amplified his sight with his Magic, watching the Varrasian line as the cavalry drew close: he expected the pikemen to hold against the first att
ack, but eventually falter. The time that took would determine the fate of the first battle.

  Helsifer rode on, swinging her mace in a wide arc on her right side, roaring her war-cry with her Royal Cavalry: “Blood! Fire! Death! BLOOD! FIRE! DEATH!” They hit the Varrasians like a tsunami, ripping head from shoulder and arm from body. As countless horses impaled themselves on pikemen, more rushed in to take their place: Helsifer had decided that there was no way around the defences, and was simply trying to break them quickly- before the casualties became too great. If she could tear apart the first line and get through to the common infantry her horses would trample them like hot water cutting through snow. For now, however, the Varrasians had held out against her attack; she brought her horse around and signalled her warriors to pull back before they could be encircled by the enemy and trapped in an inert killing-field. But there was no time to recover. If she allowed the Varrasians to rest for just a moment, they would use their black magic to restore themselves and steel for the next assault. Once they were far enough back to build up their thunderous momentum once again, Helsifer shouted to commence another charge. Unafraid, and with dreadful fury, the Chronian warhorses once again smashed against the Varrasian defensive line: they slaughtered hundreds of men, but the line held- fresh soldiers taking the place of those who had fallen. Helsifer looked around hopelessly at her forces. How many women had she lost in the first two assaults? A thousand? More? This was only a fraction of the full might of Chrone but if they couldn’t beat an isolated, tiny army what hope to they have against Thorne’s fully-fledged invasion force? Admitting temporary defeat, Helsifer once again signalled the retreat, and prepared to attack again with a force a quarter smaller than had set out from Disideris.