Thorne had expected this, for the most part he even agreed. Trask had not been there though; she had not seen the barbarous creatures that haunted the magical realm of Chrone. Obviously, these were not the benevolent, natural spirits of Varrasia- or Thorne would not dream of any conflict with them. “I am aware that this idea is… unorthodox, I’m afraid you do not realise its necessity. These are not spirits, they are abominations, perversions of nature, a blight upon the magical world.” Thorne’s words did not change the sceptic expression on Trask’s face. “Allow me to show you, if I may.” As Thorne said this, he raised two fingers to the side of his head, and she gestured him to go ahead, and allowed him into her mind.
While the two Minds of Thorne and Trask merged, they became aware of each other’s presence within their thoughts- the two plains of magic that used to be individual were now connected. Their citadels of consciousness and personality lay adjacent to each other, and Thorne allowed a river to flow from his to hers, a river of memory that showed her what he had endured against the horrific spirits of Chrone. Trask saw the creatures Thorne had seen- their unnatural existence hurting her perception. She felt the same haunting cold that Thorne had felt under the abyssal touch of the demonic apparitions; felt the same daggers piercing her magical being; felt the same revulsion and abhorrence Thorne had.
She emerged from the Plain of the Mind gasping, clutching her head as it throbbed with the pain of Thorne’s memories. “Forgive me,” expressed Thorne, his apology sincere, “I tried to shield the worst of the pain from the memory.”
Taking a few moments to recover, she addressed him again, “Even if we wanted to destroy them, how could we? The spirits are immortal, they can’t be killed.”
“Did you notice the hollowness of them? The way they seemed to drain the energy from around them, sucking away the magic?” Queried Thorne, mysteriously.
“It was like- like a void, a whirlpool, -”
“Like your soul was being pulled towards them, about to be trapped in their nothingness.”
“Yes.” breathed Trask, shuddering at the memory that was not her own.
“I noticed something similar about the Chronian warriors, as I’m sure many of you have.” Thorne began purposefully, and with a cold determination. “The way their bodies seem to reject magic; they try to fight it off, and it drains away in their presence. But I’ve also discovered that something rather spectacular happens when magic is forced upon them…” Thorne signalled to an officer standing at the back of the tent who left, only to return moments later with a Chronian captive, in steel restraints, bloody and exhausted. The officer’s name was Garrick, one of the mages charged with extracting information from the Chronian soldiers Thorne’s armies had captured in Caira. However, Thorne had a special purpose for this one.
As Thorne’s war council waited expectantly for him to explain, Thorne stood up and walked to the captive. Placing a collar of Arryan steel around his neck that glowed with sigils. He then placed his hand on the warrior’s head and allowed magic to flow through his body. He focused it, refined it into a stream of golden power and then let it out, pouring it into her, and she glowed with the arcane energy. As it built in her, her body started to convulse, violently as she filled with a strange, external power she had never felt before. But then she felt its warmth, the calm currents of the Power washing over her for the first time in her life. She began to relax. Slowly, effortlessly she gave into it. The gold light enveloped her, becoming almost blinding before it evanesced. Nothing remained but a small cloud of dust, settling on the ground.
Thorne’s soldiers should have been horrified. He had just murdered a defenceless captive. But they were not. Strangely, it did not feel like murder, more like… liberation. It was as if Thorne, by killing her, had given the warrior life for the first time.
“As you can see, their resistance to magic is not absolute. And when they are finally exposed to it, the natural order is restored- and their perverse existence ceases.” Thorne’s seemingly grotesque words were met with acceptance and adulation, as his Council began to understand Thorne’s desire to eradicate the barbaric people. “I believe the same can be achieved if these non-spirits are exposed to the Power. We simply need to find a way of achieving this. The collar you saw was designed to mitigate the Chronian’s magical resistance, in the same way binds are used to dull our magic. While a physical device like this could not be used in the Spirit Plain, the basic principle remains the same. Eventually, Chrone will be cleansed of its magicless, unnatural plague.”
All around him, Thorne saw people nodding and agreeing, finally aware of the importance of their vicious conquest. Satisfied, he dismissed the council- but before anyone left, Vrax entered the tent with a letter, handing it to Thorne. After he broke the seal and read its contents, his face fell, and anger blazed in his black, cold eyes.
***
Bracing himself against the bitter cold of the Chronian winter, Odyneus Kar pressed on into the treacherous Kaasi mountains. Wrapped around him in half a dozen of the finest, thickest blankets from the Royal Palace, was his daughter, the Crown-Princess and only heir to the Chronian Kingdom. Having set out from Disideris only a week ago, their small expedition of a few important refugees, protected by just two members of the Queen’s Guard, had ridden tirelessly to reach the mountains before winter made the land untraversable.
Even now Odyneus’ experience of Chrone’s numerous winters and deadly arctic storms told him a blizzard was approaching. The air was thin, and it bore the icy signature of the Frozen Wilderness, where storms raged endlessly, occasionally travelling south across the waters to Chrone. If Odyneus’ premonition was correct, they would need to take shelter- but the only way that could be done this far into the mountains was either to build one out of the limited supplies they had taken from the capital; or to be lucky enough to stumble on an ice cave. With everything that had happened in the last two months, Odyneus was not feeling lucky.
“We need to stop…” croaked Odyneus, the arctic air drying out his throat, so his voice was lost among the howling winds. “We need to stop!” he cried again, coughing with the effort. The Queen’s Guard leading the group halted briefly, before Odyneus approached to speak to them. “There’s a storm coming, we need to take shelter- if we’re caught in a blizzard out here, we won’t last an hour.”
The first of the Guard eyed him contemptuously, while the other refused to look him in the eye. “Look around. No clouds, no snow, no storms. We keep moving.”
“Stop!” Odyneus spoke with authority, clarity, volume; yet the Chronian women barely noticed he was there. Before they could turn around to ignore him, he began to protest again. “If we keep moving. We die. I may not be in charge here but this- right here- is the Crown Princess, heir to the throne, Helsifer’s only daughter, and my daughter. And, as her guardian, I out-rank you. Stop. Now.”
The women recoiled briefly in disgust and surprise- something about his words carried a gravity though, the words of a father who would do anything for his child. And he had more experience of the mountains than they did, since he was often sent to the Ra’thil tribes as a shrewd, but expendable diplomat. They did not share the rest of Chrone’s negative disposition towards males and, as the Queen’s Consort, he held at least some influence. Swallowing their pride, the women obeyed him, and their party was called to a halt so shelter could be built.
But between their limited supplies, the tiny size of their group, and the malevolent arctic winds, Odyneus was pessimistic about their chances. The last blizzard he had been in had been on another expedition to the Ra’thil tribes, with a troop of twelve, four of whom were skilled mountaineers; there had been enough supplies for a two-week trek into the mountains, and a sturdy shelter could have been established within an hour. Now, while their country was ripped apart from the eastern assault and their supplies were being stockpiled in Disideris for a major siege, their five-strong group could barely pitch a tent. With the endless energy of a desperate
father, Odyneus did his best to prepare them for the blizzard; if he was lucky, it would be small, and only last a few hours. If not- if he had the same luck his wife was having in the war- they would all be dead by morning.
***
Black. Darkness. Nothingness. A flicker of light- far off in the distance. Barros lunged at it; leapt at it; missed it. He was alone in the black once more. It stretched forever: no matter, no space, no time, no dimensions; only black, endless nothingness. Another flicker. Barros lunged again. Magic this time- no movements, they could see the movements. Had to use magic. Barros reached within his soul, tried to ignite the spark of his Power. It was weak, fading, so very frail, so sad, so lonely- no. No thinking. They could hear the thinking. Only magic. Desperately, pathetically, he called on his aching aura. Let it grow, extend out from him. A little stream of light amidst the dark. It kept going, kept heading for the flicker in the distance. Caught it. Latched on. Barros pulled. Felt his soul move from the darkness. Up, out of the void. Rising. More light, higher up. Keep going. No thinking. No moving. Only magic.
Barros gasped and thrashed as he got a grip on reality. Eyes aching, he recoiled from the blinding light of the physical world- felt his soul flood back through him. He had been trapped in the seventh plain of magic, the Plain of Darkness. While Barros was a powerful sorcerer, strong enough to delve into the deepest depths of the Power- even the bravest mages never spent more than moments in the Dark. Most could not survive the endless expanse of shapeless inexistence for long before they went mad, their minds giving up as they tried to perceive the nothingness. One legend in particular told of a Grandmage who had sought the great secrets of the Dark, convinced the Creator had hidden something among the nothing. A power, or magic, or treasure, something worth hiding that would give him power and glory. But the Dark remained dark, and Grandmage Hyra had been another victim of its perpetual void.
There was one mage who had succeeded where the others had failed, who had learned how to navigate its formless depths: Caecilius Thar, Thorne’s old mentor. Caecilius had learnt the way to escape the Dark, and could spend hours there without becoming another victim of its maddening grasp. He had passed his secret on to Thorne; Thorne had kept it secret. Barros had only escaped because someone had wanted him to, someone dangling a rope of light out of the Plain of Darkness. As his eyes finally adjusted to the natural light, he saw Archmage Nox standing over him, and Barros realised he was lying flat, held at the wrists by metal chains to a stone table. Sensation returning to his body, he felt the pain where the chains had scratched against his wrists and ankles. Then the memories came. He had been beaten, knocked out, woken up in here; there had been pain, lots of pain. He gagged. Looking down at his legs in dread, he saw where the skin had been peeled away, the crimson fibres of muscle and sinew clearly visible against the bone. Holding back vomit, he looked away. Had to think, had to move, had to escape.
“I am sorry, Barros. I always liked you, really.” Barros ignored him, had to think. “You just got caught up in something far too big for you, far too treacherous for an initiate to understand. If you had just finished your training you could have been something- one of the great mages of our time, easily a Grandmage.” Had to keep thinking, he was missing something, something important. “Perhaps even Archmage, given time, and proper tutelage. I am truly sorry this had to be done but Thorne has to be stopped. I tried to do this the proper way- no blood, no screaming, no darkness.” That was it! The Dark! To trap him in the Dark, Nox had to remove his binding cuffs, had to let him use magic to escape. He was unbound, magic flowed through his exhausted veins like nectar, filling him with Power- slowly. “but what did you do? You laughed!”
Had to keep him talking, had to let the magic grow. “How?” Barros croaked, careful to appear weak, pathetic.
“Magic, you moron. I saw you across the ocean laughing at me, laughing at the Mages’ council, laughing at everything that you do not care about. If you do not care for your country, for Visyria, then what is it all for? The slaughter, the blood, the pain?”
“For…” Barros coughed, spitting blood onto the Archmage- that was good. People coughing blood looked weak, looked like they could not use magic. “For unity. For Harmony, for a united Visyria.”
The Archmage did his best fake laugh. “And when you have your ‘united Visyria’, what then? Will you be Thorne’s whore while he sits atop the Throne-of-the-World? Will you be feeding him grapes and washing his feet?”
“No.” Barros groaned, “I’ll be too busy doing your job.”
Nox laughed genuinely this time. Did not notice the magic pouring into Barros’ soul, making him stronger. “And how do you suppose you’ll manage that?”
“He’ll beat you.” There was a pause. Nox seemed almost… afraid. Anger replaced his wary expression; vile, deep-seated hatred raged in him. “He’ll beat you. He’s coming for me now, and he’s going to kill you for this. Maybe I’ll get lucky, maybe he’ll let me tear your eyes out first. Make you watch as he cuts your throat-”
“And drinks my blood?” Shock resonated through the air. Did not matter, had to keep letting the magic build, nearly strong enough. “So, he didn’t tell you. Your shining paragon, lord of Visyria, king of the world, did not mention he’s a vampire? And there I was thinking he actually respected you.”
This was good. Keep him talking, keep him distracted. “You expect me to believe that?” His words were still pained, still pathetic, still believable.
“You don’t have to.” Nox spat, and flooded Barros’ mind with the memory of the vision: the vampiress, the child, the purple lightning. Not good, if Nox looked in his mind he would feel the magic, and if he resisted it would be obvious anyway. Had to act now. Not strong enough to go far, had to stay in Varrasia. Went to the first place he could think, the place in the vision, the tower. As Nox exited Barros’ mind he was aware of something: the twang of energy and strength that came with magic.
Before he could act on it, an electric blue light wrapped itself around Barros and he vanished- the exact same way Iyre had only weeks before. Again, Nox was incensed, but this time he knew what had happened. A small consolation for losing his hostage. When Iyre had disappeared from the Tyra Arcana, Nox had torn the place apart looking for something, even a trace of him, to no avail. After that he had gone to the Great Library, searching for something about the blue magic he had witnessed. As Archmage, he had access to the full extent of the Library’s secrets, but even he had struggled to find the mystery he was looking for. There was a single scroll, buried in a pile of blank ones, scribbled around the edges and torn so it looked insignificant. But every page in the Library was enchanted; they would never wear out, never fade, and they could never be covered, destroyed or stolen. They simply restored themselves and returned to their previous position in the Library.
Thorne had been clever, as he always was. As a young initiate he had endeavoured to read every page of the vast collection in the library; and while some were restricted to more advanced mages, he had still stumbled on a forgotten scroll of incredible power. Obviously, Thorne had no desire to share this power, so he memorised the scroll’s contents before damaging it just enough so anyone would pass it by without another glance, but not enough for the enchantment to take effect and return the scroll to its place. It was amazing that something so powerful, so extraordinary had been passed over by countless mages- but the Library was gargantuan. Tens of thousands of books and scrolls lined its shelves, and Thorne had been lucky enough to stumble onto a forgotten spell of incredible strength. When Thorne became a Grandmage he buried the scroll deep within the restricted archives of the Library, away from the eyes of lesser men.
Nox had found it. He had learned its power, the way it worked- but he had yet to recreate it. The spell relied on a great command of the Plain of Light, the sixth plain of Magic, and Nox’s specialties lay elsewhere. At least he knew what had happened: the electric blue light was actually just a shield, guarding the caster for th
e real spell. Both Iyre and Barros had achieved something thought to be impossible since the secret had been lost; they had teleported. While no mage was a stranger to using magic to move in and out of the different plains, no one had managed to use it to move within the physical world in millennia, and the ability had been all but forgotten.
It was obvious that Thorne had found the secret in the library and kept it to his arrogant, egotistical self. Nox had no idea how Iyre had learned it- perhaps his prophecies and visions had taught him the spells of old, perhaps he knew more magic than the entire Mages’ Council combined. Even if Nox knew everything about what had just happened, he had no way of reversing it, and no way of tracking Barros. Letting the frustration and fury explode from him, Nox sent a shockwave out from his body that brought the walls down around him. He shielded himself from the debris falling on him and looked across the empty fields where he had built his make-shift prison. Not satisfied, he let out another terrible shockwave, this time filled with fire and shadow; darkness flooded the fields as grassed burnt and withered. The Archmage was left standing in a crater of shadow and flame, a hint of fear still lingering in the recesses of his mind.
Chapter 11
Barros erupted from the blue light onto the black stones of the Tyra Necra’s apex. It was dark again. Only a moment ago, there had been daylight pouring in through the windows of his prison, and now it was almost pitch-black. While there was still no known spell allowing a mage to travel through time, Barros did wonder for a moment if that was what had happened. His puzzled, fearful questions were soon answered as he looked over his shoulder, past the spiked walls of the tower. While the area around him was cloaked in darkness, the rest of his view was filled with the sun’s warmth and light. He searched for an explanation and his eyes landed on the giant spire of the tower, reaching high into the sky, surrounded by small, dense clouds that blocked out the sun. Whether it was some sort of enchantment or illusion, there was something deeply unsettling about the clouds clinging to the spire; even with his limited skill as a necromancer, Barros could feel death-magic seeping from them. And something else… Something cold and malevolent. Something terrible and monstrous. Something lonely. So very, very lonely.
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