Pain exploded in Barros’ legs as the effects of the shield-spell wore off. Clenching his fist so hard his nails had drawn blood from his palm, Barros made every effort to stay conscious. If he surrendered to the darkness now, he would never come back. Bringing his bloodied hands close to his chest, he closed his eyes and began to meditate. The concentration required to access magic was immense, but Barros only needed a little- just enough to delve into the Plain of the Soul. Pain was still burning and blistering across his open legs; Barros’ years of training had never prepared him for something like this. He tried to focus. Failed. Tried again. This time he did not fight the pain, he simply let it rage and scream within him until his body no longer had the energy to maintain the agonising nerve-impulses. His mind, however, remained strong, and as the pain began to dull ever so slightly, Barros began to drift deep within himself to the first plain of magic.
The pain was less intense here; physicality and sensation were of no consequence to the soul, but Barros’ traumatising wounds still affected his magical self. And he could not stay here forever. The longer he spent in the magical world, the more his body would falter- and eventually give up. He had to work quickly, diligently, perfectly. First, he had to deal with the pain. If he could stay conscious, then he could at least return to the physical world and avoid the risk of getting lost in the Aether. Focussing intently on his soul, Barros began to hum an incantation that would close the pathways in his brain that caused his agony. It was strangely dissociating to heal himself from the magical realm, looking on his physical body through the haze of the Power. But even as he watched his own chest rise and fall, he could feel the spell working- his mind relaxed as it was granted temporary respite from the hellish torture.
Next was the blood. He had already lost too much: his limbs were weak; his heart was over-working, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his vital organs; his extremities were losing their feeling, and if he did not work fast, he risked losing them entirely. The spell he needed now was more complex: he could not create blood from nothing, but for the time being he could circumvent the oxygen in his lungs straight into his body’s tissue, bypassing the need for blood. While he could only maintain the spell for so long, it would buy him time to heal his wounds, and then his body could begin creating blood on its own without immediately losing it again. He spread his astral arms out wide, sucking energy in from all around him. He took in as much as he could without collapsing before focusing it into a fountain of magical power. Then he let the fountain flow into his lungs, passing through the muscle and flesh, carrying pure, refined air in its ethereal waters. The water flowed further, through his veins until it covered the entirety of Barros’ beaten body. As Barros looked at his physical body, he saw it begin to pulsate with a hypnotic cyan. He knew he could only maintain the enchantment for a few minutes; it had to be enough, or else he died.
Now for the wounds themselves. Barros inspected his body deeply, but quickly: he had the skin flayed from both his legs up to his thigh; he was covered in grotesque yellow-purple bruises; his ankles and wrists were burnt and lacerated where his restraints had been; and he had three broken ribs. Perfect, Barros groaned to himself. He drew energy from his surrounding once more, with difficulty this time since so much of his power had been siphoned off in his last spell. Eventually, with incredible willpower, Barros managed to create another fountain of magical power. This one, however, glowed a deep, emerald green. Instead of pouring it into his physical body as he had done last time, he covered his hands in it and began to heal himself. The strangeness of watching himself twitch and convulse as his body reacted to the magic was inhuman, horrifying. But he persisted, and as he rested his radiant, ghostly hands on his physical body, he felt the tissue beneath begin to knit itself together, and saw the skin reform over his injured body. When he was satisfied that the wounds on his legs were closed, he moved on to his broken ribs. While he was not skilled enough to restore the bones and mend their numerous fractures, he could still remove the shrapnel where they had splintered and ruptured. His hands glowed, and he phased through himself, grabbing hold of broken pieces of bone before removing them from his body. Again, he saw his body jerk and thrash as he pushed the broken ribs into their natural positions. The ribs would heal on their own in time, and as long as there was no risk of further damage, he could leave them as they were.
He had done all he could. The bruises, burns, cuts, all the surface wounds were insignificant, and he could already feel the spells’ powers beginning to dwindle. He cut them off, and used the last ounce of his strength to return to the physical world.
Reality hit him like a hammer. He felt better than he had when the pain had first registered, but it would be a long time before he could stand, or even move. For now, he just lay there. With the trace amounts of blood left in his body, he could survive for a few hours, and hopefully manage to recover enough energy to call for help or keep himself alive longer. Only time would tell.
***
As Thorne mounted his magnificent white steed, Lyre took him by the wrist and spoke to him with a harsh mixture of fear and condemnation. “If you leave in the middle of a campaign, half the army could desert. They’re here for you- not your conquest, your war, your dream of world-order- they follow you. Don’t abandon a war for the sake of one soldier!”
Thorne pulled his hand away violently before replying in his characteristic, condescendingly arrogant voice, “This will not take long. You’re right, they follow me. And if they are smart, they will realise that my departure is only temporary. In the meantime, you will take my place as Supreme Commander- and if there are deserters on your watch, then I may have to rethink your recent promotion.” Thorne did not leave time for Lyre to protest before he tugged at the reigns and Skyra shot off into the distance, fast as lightning.
Skyra may have been the fastest horse in Visyria, but even she could not run on water and traverse the Isonian sea. So instead of riding off to the East Coast, Thorne instead ran for the forest until he reached a small clearing. He looked around to make sure he was alone, and briefly scanned the area with his magical Eye to make sure no one was watching him. Satisfied, he dismounted from Skyra and told her to head back to the camp in Caira, his bond with the animal allowing him to converse with her in simple terms. When Thorne was completely alone, deep in the forest, he began the transformation.
As his body shrank, and he collapsed on all fours he felt his nails morphing into claws, his human hands replaced with the furry, leathery feet of a bat. His legs fell back into his body, curving up and becoming the most ornate black wings. His head distorted and shifted, becoming smaller and more terrifying. His eyes went blind and his vocal cords lengthened, allowing him to see with high-pitched screams that his pointed ears would interpret with ease. Once the transformation was complete, Thorne’s deadly bat form flew high into the air, spreading its wings wide, its shrill shrieks reaching up to the clouds. Thorne did not make a habit of using this version of his Vampiric body, but it certainly had its uses. In this form, Thorne could fly faster than the wind, and crossing the Isonian sea would be far easier than if he had made the journey by land. While it would have been even faster to simply teleport, Thorne saved that skill for desperate times- there were harmful side-effects, and the spell required more strength each time it was used.
So for now, Thorne made his journey by air and wing, shooting out across Chrone towards the East Coast. Even if he preferred his less conspicuous human form, the feeling of flying was undeniably exhilarating. With the combination of his Vampiric speed, and his magical prowess, Thorne could manipulate the air currents to reach unparalleled speeds- he could barely be seen travelling so fast. Rage and fury driving him on, he flew out over the Isonian sea, heading first for Arrachsia. There was something he needed to do before he returned to Varrasia and finally challenged Nox for the Sceptre. He had planned on waiting until the war with Chrone was over, but it seemed the Council would continue to cause problems with men like No
x leading them. When he was Archmage, things would be very different.
Sylestra saw him in the distance from the roof of the Spider Palace. She liked it up here: the sea air was cool and refreshing and the palace reached so high into the sky that she could almost see the entire West Coast stretching about before her. Her eyes drifted to a beach far off in the distance, and the beautifully crafted cave that went on for miles inland. It was there she had first seen Thorne’s Vampiric form. The beauty of it- the majesty of his living, undead body was truly astonishing. At first, Sylestra had not believed Thorne when he explained what he was; after all, the vampires were the stuff of myths and nightmares, not the real world.
Reminiscing about that beautiful night, the Spider-Queen found herself oddly… enchanted. With the violet sunset of Arrachsia hanging over the ocean; the warm sea air filling the magnificent architecture of the cave; the gentle sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks; the sense of raw, majestic power that Thorne radiated- it had been the most extraordinary night of her life. Sylestra understood the need for discretion and denial on Thorne’s part given the tension building in Visyria, and the need to appear as a strong military leader. But she would be lying if she said it did not hurt a little each time he had to lie about their love. Still, she could tell as many people as they wanted: her reputation as a prankster meant she had little credibility, especially when it came to matters of the heart. One day, she thought. One day they would no longer need to hide- and Thorne would fulfil his promise to crown her Queen of Visyria.
When Thorne had risen just over the palace where she was standing, he divebombed, hitting the ground in an extravagant display of strength and finesse. “Hello dear,” she said in her seductive, Arrachsian accent. “All going well with the slaughtering and the genocide?” Despite her jovial tone, there was no sarcasm in her words, only vicious, prejudiced hatred. She admired his view of mortals, shared it: they were little people, more like insects than sentient beings. In the end all they did was take up space that magical creatures would make better use of. She could not wait to sail to Chrone one day and explore the castles and cities that would almost certainly be full of mountains of corpses. They would make a nice lunch- remarkably, she and Thorne both had a taste for their victims, whether it was flesh or blood, alive or dead.
Thorne had barely heard her, unused to the way his bat-ears interpreted sounds at a speaking pitch. Once he had finished morphing back into his towering, intimidating human form, he replied, “A little hiccup here and there but nothing I can’t handle. There has been a rather disturbing development back home, however.” He spoke to her in the unemotional tones of a militarist. Sylestra saw the look of anger in his eyes that could have easily been mistaken for fear. Although her spies had informed her of the situation long before Barros’ crew had arrived back in Arrachsia and explained what had happened, she felt almost bewildered to see such devotion from her merciless war-hero.
Thorne was almost hurt to see the look of surprise and confusion in her black eyes- almost. “Having problems seeing me as a man who cares about the wellbeing of his soldiers?” His words were cruel, but the Spider-Queen knew where they were coming from. The reason Thorne had left Arrachsia all those years ago to fight against Arkathor had been more than just his ambition. One of his friends and students, a Varrasian called Mynas from the Mages’ Academy, had been kidnapped on a voyage to Embaris as part of his training. Arkathi slavers had seized his vessel, and taken it back to their Qaibur mines to fuel the Kingdom’s ever-growing economy. If Thorne had been there, or if his friend had been training for a little longer, the slavers would have been at the bottom of the Burning Sea. When Thorne heard the news, he left the next morning without saying goodbye; his first act of war against Arkathor was the obliteration of the Qaibur mines on the East Coast. He arrived with a small party of rogue mages from the academy; they left none alive. They slit slavers’ throats, burnt them alive, ripped their souls from their bodies- but it was too late. Mynas had been beaten and abused during his time as a slave, and by the time Thorne had made it, he had been killed by an Arkathi whose name she did not remember. All she remembered was what her spies had told her; Thorne had not just killed the slaver, he had destroyed his soul.
For the first time in his life, Thorne had activated the abhorrent sigils on his iconic black sword. The blade had pulsated with a black-violet gleam, and when Thorne cut into the man who murdered his friend, he screamed with more agony than any human had ever endured before. Thorne still did not let him die quickly. He cut his body all over, slicing away parts of the man’s spirit with every slash. He cut his fingers off, then his toes, his arms, his legs, his tongue. He gauged his eyes out and heard him shriek torturously with his mutilated mouth. Finally, Thorne had struck his sword deep into his heart. There was no death, no peace, no afterlife in Hades- only total destruction. The outcry in Varrasia when one of his soldiers reported what had happened nearly led to his expulsion from the Mages’ Council but Arkham had refused, afraid that he would not be able to control the vast number of Thorne’s followers who would undoubtedly revolt.
Sylestra knew that had been the Council- perhaps even the world’s only chance; their decision not to punish him for that atrocity was the only way they could have stopped him following his path of destruction. However, the horrifying thing was that she knew exactly who he was and loved him anyway. When Thorne explained what had happened after he returned to Arrachsia, she had only fallen deeper into her insane infatuation, and her bittersweet love. Love should not be blind; it should not leave you questioning everything you are; it should not make your heart turn against the world for the sake of one man. But it does. Sylestra knew now that when Thorne was finished with war and death, she would either be Queen of the Ashes or buried under them.
“Thorne,” Sylestra began, hiding her anguish as best she could “Promise me you won’t use that sword again.” Her words came forcefully, with pain.
“I told you I hate promises.” He said, allowing himself to feel- just a little- for the first time in months.
“I know.” She remembered sadly, “So tell me: are you going to?”
A raging hatred behind his black eyes, Thorne thought for a long time. “Not if I don’t have to.” That was as good a response as Sylestra was going to get- she knew what it meant. If Barros was alive, then she had a chance: for peace, perhaps even redemption. Even if her fears were realised, she no longer cared; she would follow Thorne to the end of the world if it meant murdering their way there. Love was not blind; it just made you stop caring about what you saw.
Chapter 12
With the proud, arrogant, demonic image of Thorne in Helsifer’s head, she parried Orlana’s strike at her chest with such force her sword hit the ground. She then kicked at her wrist forcing her to drop it and caught her in a headlock with her wooden sword pressing into her neck. Breathing heavily, she dropped the sword and apologised, realising she could have easily broken her commander’s hand. While Orlana was taken aback by the sudden ferocity and viciousness, in the end she recovered enough to be impressed. Helsifer’s progress with a weapon she despised had been slow, but steady. Two weeks into the Chronian winter, she had turned from a mace-only cavalry specialist into a capable close-combat warrior with a broadsword. Could it be enough? One warrior would not change the war but as long as the Queen lived, there was hope for the Chronian people, half of whom were now recruits in the army.
After a hurried war-meeting, Helsifer and her advisors had devised their new strategy for the rest of the winter, and most likely the rest of their lives: guerilla warfare. Chronian cavalry warriors would storm Varrasian camps, supply chains, and scout patrols in hopefully devastating hit-and-run attacks. Their first assault was scheduled in just a few hours; given that the Chronian horses were strong and experienced enough to ride on the icy roads between Disideris and Caira, they would try and catch the Varrasians by surprise and hit them hard, winning back some of the number-advantage they had l
ost so far. If they were going to have a chance, they needed to make the best possible use of the few months of winter. If Thorne had any more of his unstoppable Black Fire, no siege would be able to hold them back. They had to win in the field, away from the cities and close to the treacherous native forests Obviously, the Varrasians knew this and their decision to remain in Chrone showed they were confident they could last out the winter before beginning a crushing final campaign. Their zealous overconfidence needed to be exploited, but between their incredible fighting prowess and Thorne’s unnerving ability to predict and counter the Chronian battle strategies, Helsifer was not sure how effective they would be. She also had no idea of the Varrasians’ numbers. At least 30,000: a very daunting figure. If that was it, they would still struggle against their magically enhanced army. If not, and there were more, Helsifer had no idea what sort of hellish forces to prepare against. After hundreds of years of isolated, xenophobic existence, Chrone had little information about the rest of the world. It had exploded into her world quite literally, Thorne’s Black Fire terrifying the Chronian populace and nearly losing the war before it had begun. Further experiences of magic had only exacerbated the nightmares of Helsifer’s people: people who could shoot fire from their fingers, turn the very shadows into knives and malicious tendrils, drain the life force from people. The fact that her people had some unexplainable resistance to their attacks had been the only relief in an otherwise hopeless conflict.
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