Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  “The prophecy,” Barros began, suddenly curious again, “how does it work? Who wrote it, is it accurate?”

  “The words of Jonas Zebediah were precise every time he put pen to paper. He foretold our return. He foretold the Creator’s Seals would be broken, unleashing us upon the world. The First Seal is broken, can’t you feel it. Thorne’s energy and Power come from the Creator himself, we are unavoidable.”

  Barros trembled at the thought of the Creator unleashing a man like Thorne unto the world with all the power and strength of a god. But was it really to murder everything? Ancient texts told of a Great Flood where the Creator had wiped away the world and started anew. But what for, if only to do it again? Barros knew there must have been something more to the prophecy. “How does the prophecy end?” He asked, desperate to know what fate was awaiting Thorne and the rest of the world.

  Myfisto answered him with the cool, evil tones of a future-mass-murderer, “With the end of the world, of course.”

  “But what does it actually say?” Barros was not giving up, something told him that the Damned King did not have all the information.

  “The prophecies were… lost. We were never revealed the full picture, we only know it begins with Thorne, and ends with the world’s death.” The way he spoke about such reckless destruction was easy, thoughtless.

  Barros considered him for a while before deciding to risk saying, “That’s not my future, and it’s not Thorne’s either.” But instead of losing his temper, Myfisto simply laughed a shallow, condescending laugh. “Thorne is the conqueror who will bring me the world- once I have it, I will destroy it.”

  “What if he tries to stop you?”

  “Enough! There will be no more talk of these impossible scenarios and false futures. Thorne is my son, and he will be at our side for the birth of a New World and the death of the old.”

  Barros knew not to press further without risking incineration, but he was shocked. The supposed most powerful spirit in the world, willing to risk everything and burn away the world as part of a half-complete prophecy that he did not understand. If Thorne had Visyria in his grasp, he would never risk losing it- not for a father he had never known. Unless… Was this what it was all for? Was Thorne really their Harbinger, a drone programmed to initiate the End Times? Barros thought back on all their memories together; the times they had shared at war in Arkathor; before that, at the Mages’ Academy. They had not been friends long, since Barros was only assisting another Grandmage with his tuition, but they became the closest of friends in the space of a few weeks. Then the incident happened; Thorne arrived in Barros chambers drunk, wrecked, despairing- it was the day after he learned Mynas had been killed, and had killed his murderer in turn. While Barros could not hope to bring the dead boy back to life, he reminded Thorne that Mynas was now in Hades, free to drift in the Power as he pleased. Barros also reminded Thorne that his murderer had been denied that right and justice had been served.

  Something changed in Thorne after that day- something awoke in him. It was as if he had discovered his true purpose and was now committed to it with fiery, indignant zeal. The following day he began recruiting for his private army, and within months he had half the Varrasian Isles on his side. With the Council refusing to intervene, Thorne offered everyone who despised the Arkathi slavers an opportunity to seek revenge. But Thorne was cleverer than that. His shrewd, intelligent mind found a way to keep his army in Arkathor, pressing on until the whole country was in their visceral chokehold. His natural charisma was superhuman, it was as if he echoed out a call-to-arms that only the cowardly or weak could ignore. Thorne had even attracted Grandmages from the Varrasian Isles, leaving the council struggling to control the islands they left behind, who would continually demand more supplies and luxuries. Always with the same threat: revolution. However, Vex was old enough to know that these threats, if ignored, usually amounted to nothing- not open war. He was terrified: Thorne’s ascension to Grandmage had been a decision that kept him fearful and pathetic until the day he died.

  Thorne had been at war ever since the day Mynas was taken. While there were times when he rested, gaps in his campaigns where he prepared his next move, there was a turmoil in his soul that Barros doubted would ever truly be resolved. Was it possible that his rage and bloodlust would continue even after the world was his? If so, Barros was not sure if there was a force in Visyria that would be capable of stopping him. Not anymore- not when he had the Sceptre, and soon, three of the Five Kingdoms in his grasp. So engrossed in his thoughts, Barros had failed to notice the vast number of bats hanging from the rafters of the Black Hall. Looking up now, he saw thousands of the creatures packed along the ceiling which seemed to stretch for miles. Then, looking out of the stained-glass castle windows, he realised there was a large mass outside. Without announcing his departure, he stepped back outside the Blood Castle, walking around until he saw them. Thousands, perhaps even millions of pale, Vampiric warriors. Their black armour was embellished with lines of red, some of them wielded swords like Thorne’s Obsyrian blade, but every weapon imaginable could be found among the soldiers. Some had no armour, choosing instead to wear lighter, leather attires- mostly wielding daggers or short swords. The archers’ bows were ornate and white, made of some sort of bone. The entire army of countless undead stood unmoving, as if waiting for orders. It took Barros a moment to realise they were sleeping, completely upright, with weapons in hand. Their legions spread for miles, past the horizon, filling Barros’ entire view with their deadly black haze.

  The arctic sun hung low in the sky; the vampires had all turned their faces away. The Queen had explained to him that while not deadly, the sun simply has the same effect on vampires as it does on humans but amplified a thousand times. Instead of burns, their skin erupts in blisters, cracking and bleaching. Some vampires have a strong enough command of magic to shield themselves for a time, but when Barros told the Queen about how Thorne had survived under the desert sun of Arkathor, she had been amazed and filled with dreadful pride. All her efforts to achieve that ability had been in vain; Barros told her of ointments and dyes they used in Arkathor to shield their richer population from the oppressive heat, but the Queen simply shook her head. She explained that some vampires had tried that before the exile, but the strange oils had dissolved through their skin, leaving them horribly disfigured. “Some things just seem to be written in Creation.” She had said, “But I do miss feeling the warmth of the sun, lying in the fields of Mjolnos, letting it wash over me. My life would have been very different had I not been bitten all those millennia ago.” There was a great sadness in her words that echoed hollowly in Barros: he too knew exactly what she meant, and he was far closer to his terrible loss than her. His Vampiric body meant he did not have to endure the torment of his soul, but his mind could still yearn for the life he left behind. That life was dead now- he had decided he would devote himself fully to this new, undead existence. That did not mean joining the hordes and legions that stretched out in front of him- instead, it meant saving Thorne from the terrible future Myfisto had promised. If Barros could speak to him, warn him, then he knew Thorne would be able to control himself and protect Visyria, not slaughter it.

  With the combined power of his hybrid blood; his immense magical prowess; his years of fervent training; and now, finally, the Grand Sceptre in his hands: Thorne was the strongest mage since the Ancient Sorcerers, whose secrets and Power were thought to have been lost to the Aether and its exiled King. Perhaps that was the secret to his nature. Perhaps the Creator had made him in the form of his long-lost paladins. Ever since the Exile, the Creator had drifted slowly from the minds of the Visyrian people, who chose instead to devote themselves to the God of Death. Only the great Crystal Cathedral still worshipped the Creator, and with the Sceptre in his hands, Thorne had access to the majesty and Power of almost the entire cosmos. His raging purple and black soul burnt like a Super Nova, spreading out from the centre of the universe in cleansing fire. For
a moment, Barros pitied the Chronian people; with their void-spirits no longer guarding them, they would melt like snow in Thorne’s black, soul-destroying gaze.

  Chapter 19

  With the Sceptre still smoking in his hand from the maleficent bolts of lightning it had conducted, Thorne surveyed the remains of his armies. The fissure sill hissed and steamed as the void-spirits were banished into the Aether, yelling tortured howls as they were sent into hell. Thorne’s soldiers numbered a little less than half of the force he had invaded with; to his relief, his Black Army and Riders were almost as strong as when they had fought under him in the Arkathi war. But looking at the soldiers, he grieved silently for those that he could not see. With the pain of losing comrades that had fought with him for three years or more, he was reminded of Barros.

  After his ascension, Thorne had searched tirelessly for him, commanding the Hun’thai to gather information from across Varrasia. Having invaded Nox’s mind, he knew that Barros had been tortured before teleporting to safety- he just had no idea where that was, or if he was safe. The spell Thorne had discovered could take them anywhere they remembered- the range depended on the caster’s strength: how strong they could make the shield. The theatrical blue light was a child’s incantation; the teleportation was almost impossible. Delving deep into the Power to the Plain of Light, mages had the ability to create illusions and projections, but there was a physical aspect to the plain as well. Within the seventh plain of magic, space and time were constricted, allowing its inhabitants to wield a vast array of light and matter for their illusions. Thorne had discovered a much more powerful use: if the spellcaster was strong enough he could draw his physical self into the magical realm along with his body. The constriction meant that the very fibres of reality could be touched; an arm’s length stretched for miles in the Plain of Light. The spell could take a strong enough caster anywhere in Visyria- perhaps even beyond- but right now that meant that Barros could be anywhere or lost in the darkness of space. Thorne had tried to reach out with his magic to locate Barros, but he could not locate the signature of his fiery soul. He feared what he thought was the worst- not realising that there was a far worse fate than death.

  Lyre, Scarth, Vrax, the rest of his War Council had all survived. Apart from hazy reports, Thorne did not know what had happened- but he assumed that Helsifer had finally utilised the Chronian resistance to magic somehow; he only wished it had happened with him on the battlefield. Luckily, he had arrived before the death-toll of the spirits’ attack started to increase. There were a few weaker soldiers who had been unable to endure the mental assault; Thorne knew that all his rivals would have used the vast number of casualties as a reason to defrock him- now they were all dead. The Bloodless Betrayal, as his opponents had labelled it, secured him everything he had ever wanted from his home-country. Soon, it would win him Chrone. After that, the whole of Visyria would fall under the might of three united Kingdoms.

  Thorne allowed his armies to recover for the time being, only answering questions posed to him from the Council and ensuring that the vast majority of the troops found shelter in the tree-city to recover from the battle. The barbarians’ resistance to magic meant that he would not be able to defeat them in the same way as the void-spirits, but he would still be able to keep them out of Eltinor for a time. Their resistance was not absolute: passive and indirect magical abilities still had an effect of them, just not enough to obliterate them outright. Estimating that his conquest would be over within the month, Thorne had asked a small favour of Sylestra after his departure from the cave. His moment of self-indulgence had nearly cost his entire army their lives; in Thorne’s mind it was almost worth it. The night had been magical, and the morning had come far too soon. The Arrachsian sunrise reminded him of the fire of his own soul. He had flown into the air, casting his shadow on the sun without saying goodbye. He thought it was easier that way. If Sylestra knew he was going, she would have tried to stop him again. Better to break her heart once than over and over.

  With the War Council gathered in Eltinor’s fortified tree-fort, Thorne requested a briefing on the events since his departure. He knew much, but the complete, total knowledge of a war was vital in a general’s success. “We held out in the camp during the winter.” Lyre’s explanation bore exhaustion and pain, “It was two weeks after you left when Helsifer’s reformed cavalry attacked. We assumed our psychics would be able to foresee a surprise attack; we did not realise their resistance stretched beyond the physical.” Neither had Thorne until now- strange, given that he was able to invade their minds easily enough. Perhaps the mind was not affected given that it existed in a unique plane of existence. Either way, this would not be a massive disadvantage given their newly established, easily defensible position in Eltinor. All that remained was the attack on Disideris; once Helsifer was killed the rest of her people would surrender in cowardice and despair. Cravens made wonderful target-practice. It was a shame that Sylestra had asked him to return the Hun’thai to her. While they would not have been useful in open warfare, their skills would have been incredibly useful in sabotaging the Kingdoms to the west- if they could make it across the Xyrian sea. In a thousand years, no ship from the East had sailed successfully to the Western Kingdoms apart from the native people themselves.

  Whether or not the rumours of a Leviathan in the water or a deadly enchantment were true, Thorne would not simply leave the West out of the vicious scope of his ambition. Flying there himself should be easy enough but finding a way to bring an army to their shores could take years- and the few Western natives who had travelled across the Xyrian Sea told of a treacherous and unforgiving land. Apparently, the continents were mostly uninhabited due to the harsh conditions and their population was centred in two giant metropolises, the capital of each Kingdom. For the time being, however, Thorne focussed on ridding the world of the poisonous Queen of Chrone. He had not even bothered to learn if his wild accusations before the invasion about her abhorrent reign had been true; even if her people loved her, Helsifer and her people were still poisoning the world with their magicless existence. Not for much longer: Thorne’s plan for the next offensive would rid the world of their blight. He would not tell the War Council now though; letting them rest was important and filling their minds with another meticulously detailed plan would only slow their recovery and add to their stress.

  While his soldiers found refuge in the trees of Eltinor, Thorne sat above the fissure and meditated deeply in the Plain of Spirits.

  Feeling the anguish and sorrow of the destroyed guardians was harrowing, but Thorne pulsed gently with his aura and slowly worked to rid the land of their screams and pain. It could not be done in a day, so Thorne merely scraped away the scars from the surface. Satisfied that they held no power in the physical world, Thorne ascended to the Plain of Blood. Here, Thorne felt his newfound strength as Archmage combined with the bloodthirsty power he had experienced fighting the spirits. He moulded his feelings and Power into a stream of restoration and comfort- he had little skill as a healer, but his battle meditation was still able to encourage and soothe the minds of his soldiers.

  When Thorne was satisfied, he had done enough, he rested himself. Without the adrenaline and magical fury, he felt exhaustion throb in his limbs and soul. He sunk into a trance in the Plain of the Soul, meditating through the night and building his incredible strength.

  ***

  No reports came to Disideris from Eltinor, but the message was clear as crystal: they were all dead. Fortunately, Eltinor’s evacuation had been completed long before the Varrasian counterattack, but Helsifer still felt a sense of dread. If Thorne had returned and diligently crafted a strike against the Chronians in just a week, it was only a matter of time before Disideris fell into his unstoppable campaign. With Thorne gone, the armies devastated, a strange force of nature lending Chrone their protection, Helsifer had foolishly allowed herself to hope. It was a poisonous drug. Hope called out to the people, promising relief and peace, now it
was granting them death. The betrayal she felt as Hope spread its wings and flew to the Heavens stung worse than any scorpion. Worse still, she had allowed her people to share in her unfounded optimism. Thorne had surprised her time and time again, outplayed her in nearly every aspect of the war- her only victories had come while he was away. She was almost certain he was back. The efficiency and intelligence of the attack bore his cold signature.

  Helsifer wondered if her daughter would be beyond the reach of the murderous conqueror. She thought of her Consort; despite all her ill-treatment of him in the past, there was something akin to love in her heart for the man who had been by her side all these years. She wished he was here, even if it was only to berate him. It was a strange form of affection, but one that Odyneus could recognise and appreciate. He would make a wonderful father to her if they survived- rumours from the battle suggested the Varrasians had the ability to invade their minds. If that was true, the location of the heir would belong to Thorne. Only she knew where they had been sent but Thorne would tear the continent apart to find anyone capable of resisting him in the future. She considered ending it now- not waiting for Thorne’s murderers and masters of carnage to destroy everything she loved. No. She had made a promise to herself a long time ago that she would die fighting. Even if she was alone against the hordes of hell, Helsifer would cut her own eyes out before she surrendered. She would not allow Thorne the luxury of watching her cower or fear him. Perhaps she could even kill him- that would be something! The greatest killer in the known Kingdoms, outfought by a woman he believed was a toxic insult to the world.