The Crimson, Cyan and Emerald Armies made up the force that had marched out of the forest. Left in reserve were the Black Army and the Arrachsian Cavalry. While the Varrasian forces were dwindling, they had taken far more Chronian lives than they had lost. A combination of misery at their Queen’s death and the incredible unity and skill of their opponents meant that the trained murderers were easily able to dispatch the peasantry forces. The Royal warriors of Chrone were less easy to kill- Olympa had proved this- but eventually as they became isolated and exhausted, the Varrasian resolve outlasted theirs. With nearly all the common soldiers Helsifer had conscripted resting on the ground as corpses, the warriors that remained had reformed into a single formation with a shieldwall encompassing it. Their army was still twice the size of the Varrasian force on the field but with the reserves, Thorne’s armies almost equalled Orlana’s. Thorne had tried to direct his malestrom of debris at the leaders but controlling the raging tempest was a task even he struggled with. With the winds whirling so wildly, it was lucky he had managed to avoid sending giant boulders into the ranks of his own troops. Orlana’s quick thinking and charisma was what had saved the Chronian’s from Thorne’s mental assault. Again, the river of his commanders’ combined will had been difficult to focus effectively, or else he would have simply invaded Orlana’s mind and told the warriors to surrender or run away.
A few peasants had given up and fled the nightmare of war, but the Chronian warriors’ defiance impressed even Thorne. Perhaps the army on the field would outlast them, break the shieldwall, slaughter the warriors and come out standing. Patience was not abundant in Thorne, however, and if he simply allowed the war to be won in a battle of atrition, they would suffer unnecessary casualties. Instead, Thorne called out a message to Lyre to come out of the woods with his Arrachsians and finish off what remained of the Chronians. Shields meant little for the plethora of deadly beasts that Lyre’s soldiers commanded; they had even taken the time to try and form bonds with some of the beasts that survived the battle for Eltinor. Riding gloriously out of the forest came the hellish hordes of the Arrachsian Calvary, still two thirds the size of the force Lyre had invaded with and they had made up the missing numbers with wild creatures of Chrone. Thorne found Orlana among her warriors and saw the beautifully desolate look on her face when she saw them. He even smiled a little before they fell on her forces like an avalanche.
Orlana barely had time to yell “Spears up!” before Lyre’s monsters were upon her. He led the charge with his Magmathon and melted a hole in the shield wall that his riders ripped open, like a hammer hitting a chisel. With their outer defences nullified, the warriors within were hit with an unexpected first strike. Arrachsian swords cut throats, stabbed through hearts, slashed open chests, and the bow-riders let loose deadly poison arrows as they circled the Chronian formation. In the distance, the combined armies of the Varrasian Isles were encircling Orlana’s forces- Thorne had finally let his Black Army onto the field, if only as an insurance. There was no hope left for Chrone. Orlana even wondered if Thorne might rename it after his merciless conquest was over.
Orlana held her own against the attackers- if any of the horses had survived the first assaults then perhaps the Chronians would have had a way to counter the demonic soldiers. As they were, the Chronians were barely managing to kill a single Arrachsian with each deadly charge. For the first time in the fight, they were outnumbered- they had always been outmatched. Thorne’s flight down to the battlefield was so graceful that Orlana did not even hear him land behind her. All she saw was his Obsyrian blade erupt through her neck. When he extracted it, she fell to the ground, killed instantly as the connection between brain and spine was severed. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere at all for the Chronian warriors. There was no space for them in Thorne’s world. Thorne’s black, merciless eyes watched the battle draw to a close as his personal cavalry unit joined with Lyre’s. The survivng warriors were picked off in minutes under the combined might of the Varrasian Isles.
It was over- in four months Thorne had killed every warrior in Chrone’s armies. A few skeleton garrissons remained in the coastal cities and tiny tribes were scattered around the vast forests, but Thorne was the uncontested ruler of another Kingdom. What hope did Anvylla or Mjolnos have against the combined Kingdoms of the East? What force could deny Thorne Visyria with the Power he had now?
***
Far across the sea on the Webbed Throne of the Spider-Palace, Sylestra trembled at the triumph and glory she felt in Thorne’s mind. It had lasted mere moments before Thorne had turned his attention to the West, already forming plans and ideas for how to take the Kingdoms across the unsailable sea. She did not know whether to rejoice or lament: Thorne was one step closer to achieving his dream, but with each murderous war he lost a little of whatever part of his soul made him love her. Every time back, she felt his love strengthen, repairing the damage that the slaughter had done- each time he left she wondered whether the next war would wipe it out, leaving no roots from which it could grow. Leaving Thorne cold and compassionless. Leaving her alone…
Chapter 22
The vision of battle fading, Iyre looked down to see the physical world once more. He still had no idea why his Gift had chosen to show him Thorne’s victory: he knew it would happen, he had known that since Thorne invaded. Was it important for his prophecies? Would the details of the battle somehow help in his divine mission? As if in answer to his question the golden light in his eyes once again filled his sight and he was taken to somewhere beautiful and far away.
Iyre came to a Palace of Light, its golden beams shining out as far as the eye could see. Its walls were a holy yellow, its embellishments and decorations were as detailed and exqusite as Arrachsian lace-work, despite being carved into the enormous stone walls. Iyre was led inside by a creature of crystal magic until he came to the doors of what must have been the Throne-room. He reached out his hand to open the door but the crystal being stopped him. She seemed feminine, though Iyre had no idea if the manifestations in his visions had gender. She held a gentle, delicate finger to her ear and Iyre knew she was instructing him to listen. Iyre listened patiently for what seemed like days until he heard the voices inside. They were majestic, regal, holy, with an authority that could only have come from the Creator. Iyre could not resist; he had to get a glimpse of the mystery and splendour of the universe’s designer. When he held his hand out and touched the handle he came out and saw the Throne-room of the Creator, but the God hid himself on Iyre’s arrival. Iyre could still see the events taking place, closer to the Divine than any man had ever been. Strange creatures and beings filled the hall as if a court was in session. Iyre stepped through the door and it vanished before he could get a closer look. He was cast back into the physical world, disallowed from entering the Heavenly chamber.
Iyre always returned from that place with the quill in his hand and the book open in front of him, no matter where he had been previously. He began to write until he had recorded everything he had seen. The golden ink of his quill was crafted into beautiful Varrasian until the page read:
“When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, “Come!” Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make people kill each other. To him was given a large sword.”
Iyre continued to right the details of the events but the golden fire no longer burned in his eyes, urging him to record the events; everything that the Creator wished him to know was already on the page.
Epilogue
After a week-long voyage across the North Sea and a month’s trek into the unforgiving ice of Arctas Aeternas, Thorne was beginning to wonder if he was even travelling in the right direction. He followed the calls of his long-lost parents, reaching out to him through their Exile- but the words were always fragmented, stuttered. Perhaps the strange Power imprisoning them was also distorting it, making it seem as if its location was somew
here else. For all Thorne knew, the voice could be coming from the Burning Sea, with some enchantment that made it sound from these icy plains. It was magic Thorne had never come across. His time with the spirits in Varrasia had shown him wonders and given him ideas for new forms of the Power, but never had he experienced the pure, malevolent fury of a being made entirely from evil and darkness. It was truly remarkable- far more impressive than those pathetic void-spirits he had destroyed months ago. Curiosity had led him to the greatest secrets of magic; Thorne wondered what he would discover from this spirit, and whether its claims were true. He had been relieved to hear Barros’ voice after his first encounter with the spirit and its ally, even if it did bare the soulless tones of a vampire. Barros’ warning still lingered in Thorne’s mind though he had decided a long time ago that he would travel to them anyway- even if it meant his death.
Thorne was satisfied that the East would remain unified with Lyre in control of Varrasia, Vrax ruling over Chrone, and Erranor still leading his people in Arkathor. The decision to appoint the Lords of the East had been one Thorne had spent weeks considering but he was satisfied by the choices. Lyre was his greatest friend and ally in the Arkathi wars and with Scarth dead, there was no one but him to contest his magical ability. Erranor remained a loyal ally and trying to impose his own ruler on Arkathor would have opened old wounds. Vrax was not an obvious choice for a Lord, at least she had not been at the start of the conquest. But during the second battle at Caira, Vrax had shown exceptional intelligence and leadership, even sacrificing her hand to save her comrades. With the East in stable harmony, preparations were underway for the planned invasion of Anvylla but right now there was only one thing on Thorne’s mind. Climbing over a small ridge in the ice he looked upon the frozen Kingdom and saw the same wall of violet fire he had seen in Illyra’s vision almost a year before. Standing on the other side was a crimson manifestation of hatred and evil, the haze of his spiritual power swirling around a physical apparition of his essence. Beside him was the most beautiful creature Thorne had ever seen: her blood-red eyes looked out from a snow-white face that had been crafted by angels and decorated by demons.
It did not take long to reach the violet wall of Exile. Deciding that the risk was worthwhile, Thorne ignored Barros’ instruction and stepped to the other side. At first, the purple fire seemed confused by him, like it did not know if it should bar him entry. Before long, however, it accepted him and allowed him through. At first, the gap in the fire held before it reformed- there was something different about it. The violet sheen of its flames had something within it: a black shadow that made it resemble the fury of Thorne’s own soul. Suddenly the wall vaporised into sparks of magenta and darkness before it totally evanesced. Thorne knew that whatever spell had imprisoned the beings before him was broken; he had no idea what he had unleashed on Visyria.
“Father?” He called to the spirit, inquisitively, with no hint of fear.
There was a brief pause before Myfisto’s reply as the two eyed each other cautioulsy and curiously. “We shall see.” The spirit said before it attacked.
For the first time in decades, Thorne felt a tiny trace of fear in the back of his mind as he saw the full extent of the evil spirit’s power unfold before him. Thorne was almost certain he would lose this fight. He only wondered whether the spirit was testing him or genuinely trying to kill him. Either way he would spare none of his Power- if he wanted to survive he would not hold back. Bracing himself against the wave of dark fire the spirit unleashed, Thorne prepared for the hardest battle of his life…
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