Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  ‘Yes,’ Jonathon replied, again not wondering as to how the man was, apparently, reading his mind.

  Farholm smiled, and then glanced at the shelf by the bed. There were several unusually unattractive potted plants spaced unevenly. Each a different dull shade of green but all covered with long, fine… ‘Thorns?’ the Warlock enquired. ‘Why thorns?’

  ‘She liked them,’ Jonathon blurted out, ‘Carmena thought they gave the plants character.’

  The man smiled sadly, patting Jonathon’s arm reassuringly.

  ‘You have your name now, I think.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jonathon sniffed.

  The Warlock turned to the child, smiled and whispered, ‘Your name is Thorne Grey.’

  Chapter 2

  Thud!

  Thorne’s eyes flashed open and he was almost blinded by the light that slipped through the parting of the curtains. He groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position and rubbed his sore eyes furiously.

  Thud!

  ‘Alright, I’m up!’ he shouted hoarsely at the door, realizing a second later that the sound had come from above, in the Majik rooms, where the raw and uncontrollable power possessed by trainee Warlocks was chained and then developed. It had only been a year ago when he’d first stumbled into one of the rooms at the age of eleven, eager and ready. Feeling dwarfed, not by the stature of some Warlocks but the powerful aura that trailed some, like cloaks. He still breathed a sigh of relief when he remembered his induction into the Order of Magi or Warlocks (as they were more commonly known) and the Sorcerers Spire (their home).

  Thorne had little memory of his arrival in the order, he could only see cloudy glimpses into his past, then he remembered those years he spent with a quill and book, taking notes in the lower levels of the Spire with fellow potentials like himself.

  He kicked away his covers and slipped out of the bed, flexing his toes in the soft carpet and gazed around his chambers with a sense of pride. His chamber was painted in a rich red. He possessed only a few pieces of furniture – drawers and a desk – where many of his prized relics and personal possessions were placed fondly.

  One had no need for a wardrobe as a Novice, all Thorne had ever worn for years were robes, leather boots and trousers; although he wore a pair of black pantaloons, which the others didn’t seem to mind.

  He grabbed his set of dark blue robes with tight sleeves, which were separated at the front from the waist down. On the shoulders of the robe was the insignia of the Warlocks - a set of golden sparks, which he wore proudly. With a grin, he threw his clothes on and turned to the ornate mirror that hung precariously beside the door. He gazed at his dishevelled features; it must have been a particularly fractious dream to leave him in this state.

  He had messy, long ginger hair. He had a misshapen nose from a fight in which it had been broken four years ago.

  The feature that stood out most however, were his eyes, which were a dark grey and had a certain intensity that gave people the impression he had seen sights which would have caused an ordinary mind to crack and crumble. But surrounding his grey irises were a thin line of amber which flickered like a ring of flames. It was… unnatural… to say the least. None of the other Warlocks and Novices had the same condition, but despite the oddity of it, he revelled in the fact it made him unique.

  He sighed, paced towards his window and pulled back the curtains releasing a flood of light into the room. But it was not what made him jump.

  Standing… no… hovering in front of the window was a figure draped in a hooded, tattered black overcoat and holding a scythe. The scythe’s handle was made of what looked horribly like a human spine and the blade gleamed in the sun. To Thorne’s shock, the skin of the figure’s hands was gone, revealing the ivory tinge of bone. Thorne gulped, trying to urge his feet to move him away but it was as though he was stuck to the floor. However, it did not try to break the glass, which stood between the pair but instead inclined its head and descended.

  His heart beating like a drum, Thorne ran to the window and pressed his nose against the glass, to see where the figure went. To his relief, the figure had disappeared completely, yet he still held his gaze open–mouthed.

  He was on one of the lowest levels in the Spire, but it was at least a hundred feet from solid ground. Was he dreaming? Or had he actually seen the strange figure hovering in the air?

  He shook himself vigorously and closed the curtains, as if in an attempt to shut out the memory itself.

  Thorne half jogged, half sprinted to the other side of the chamber, thrust open the door and fled into the hallway.

  The floor was covered with a beautifully weaved, violet rug embroidered with golden sparks on the edges. The walls were completely white, contrasting to the colour of the rug, and held brass torches with crackling flames. Along the seemingly never–ending corridor were a number of other doors, which led into the chambers of the Chief Warlocks.

  Being only a Novice, Thorne had always wondered why he’d been the only one to be housed on the same floor as the Chief Warlocks. Perhaps they’d simply run out of rooms?

  He briefly considered knocking on one of the doors of his superiors to ask about what he’d seen. Was it just a prank by one of the other novices? Surely, they would think him mad, that is, if they had bothered to open their door in the first place to a mere novice.

  The bone had looked so real though....

  With the encounter not quite diminishing in Thorne’s mind, he hesitantly strode through the corridor his head turning at every door as though expecting to see the figure’s head appear through solid wood.

  As Thorne strode towards the arch, separating corridors, he was so lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice the large mass lurking in the shadows. He did, however, notice the smell, when it was too late to avoid walking into a troll. While many are inclined to run from such fierce looking creatures, presuming them to be a violent and ill-tempered species, Trolls were friendly and loyal. Just not particularly bright.

  Looking up as he picked himself up from the floor, Thorne realized with some amusement that the troll was completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just bumped into it. The one who stood before Thorne was also perhaps the smallest one he’d ever seen, but it was still at least a few feet taller than him, and had to crouch to avoid banging its head on the top of the arch.

  The troll had thick, scaly, grey skin, disproportionately short, muscular arms and legs that were the size of small boars. Its face was bloated and its long upper teeth jutted out at awkward angles around it dark lips. Its outlandish appearance was enhanced by the thick tuft of white hair that burst out the middle of its head. Completing the oddity, were two large bulging, green eyes.

  Perched on its tuft was a violet cap. Embroidered on its hem was an image of a rope, with golden sparks surrounding it.

  ‘Oh, ‘ello,’ croaked the troll, finally noticing him, ‘why’d you fall over?’

  ‘Good morning,’ replied Thorne, his previous thoughts wiped away instantaneously by the comical appearance of the troll.

  The troll grinned stupidly and showed Thorne a rope it was holding that hung in the air next to a large basket, big enough to fit a group of people inside. The troll’s job was as a lifter, using its immense strength to lower or pull the rope to send anyone up or down the Spire. It was a frightening way to travel and Thorne preferred using the portals around the Spire. However, he still found it difficult to remember where each would take him, often ending up horribly lost.

  ‘Where to Guv?’ asked the troll.

  ‘Just down one, thank you,’ yawned Thorne, stepping cautiously into the basket and gripping a handle firmly.

  The troll grunted and leaned over the gaping chasm between the archway and the basket and yelled: ‘Oi! Down one!’

  The basket shook briefly and then descended slowly in jerks.

  After a few seconds of holding on to the basket for dear life, it suddenly stopped at another archway where another troll stood lowering a rope.


  ‘Ho, sir,’ said the troll, his hand in a clumsy salute.

  Thorne nodded in reply, his hands trembling as he clambered out the lift. He had just set off at a trot, when he heard someone yelling in an adjoining corridor.

  A boy, only in his late teens, rushed out of a training hall ahead of Thorne, with a trail of smoke billowing from the tail of his robes, yelling at the top of his voice: ‘I’m burning!’

  A Warlock trainer jogged behind him, calling vainly, ‘really now, there’s no need to panic.’

  ‘Morning,’ he grunted quickly as he raced past.

  ‘Sir,’ replied Thorne.

  The man then stopped suddenly as though stung by a bee and whirled round to face him with a look of amusement.

  ‘Ah, the ‘late’ Mr Grey. Aren’t you due in class?’ asked the man.

  ‘Sir?’ Thorne gulped. He had class?

  ‘Not to worry Thorne,’ the man chuckled, hurtling after the plume of smoke, ‘as I recall you have a meeting with the Masters, do you not? A messenger was sent for you a while ago.’

  Thorne frowned, ‘I didn’t get a message sir. Are you sure it was for me?’

  ‘Definitely, I asked the man myself a quarter of an hour ago,’ he bellowed behind him before disappearing past a corner.

  With a gasp, Thorne jumped back in the lift and yelled at the troll with a measure of urgency in his voice: ‘level 16, on the double!’

  As the basket raced to the top of the Spire, a mocking voice whispered gleefully in his head: ‘You’re late! You’re late!’

  Finally, the basket shuddered to a halt. The troll stationed at this level, however, wore metal shoulder guards and had a large spiked club held in a harness on his back.

  ‘Morning,’ said the troll, in a tone that suggested boredom, but Thorne was feeling too sick to notice. The rapid lift ride had caused his face to turn a sickly shade of green and he had to lean over the basket in fear of a sudden violent bout of vomiting.

  With the feeling of nausea subsiding, Thorne pushed himself off the basket and stepped gingerly through the archway into a splendid entrance room. The tiled black and white floor was polished to a perfect sheen to the point where you could almost see a reflection of yourself. On the blood red walls hung portraits of the past Majik Masters, the paintings capturing their magnificence perfectly.

  At the end of the room were two large oak doors, so huge, they dwarfed the heavily armoured, monstrous sentinels that were standing immobile in front of them. Their bronze armour shimmered in the light, given off by the torches held in the walls. As Thorne neared, he could see arcs of blue light ripple across the sections of armour. Sentinel Spire guards were beings of pure Majik. They were not to be tricked, not crossed, and, as far as Thorne was concerned, not to be approached. Ever.

  Nobody knew what these figures looked like underneath their mass of armour. The suits might even be empty. In living memory, they had never removed their helmets – in fact, as far as Thorne knew, they had never been known to move from their posts. The nearer he got to them, the slower Thorne moved.

  He came to a halt, two metres in front of them and coughed quietly, ‘erm, I’ve been told to come to the Hall of Majik. Could you let me in.... please?’

  Without looking at Thorne, the guards swivelled on the spot, in a fluid movement, rotated their lances, plugging them into the similarly shaped holes in the doors. The heavy, riveted wooden doors swung open slowly.

  His jaw dropped after he stumbled inside.

  Inside, the floor was similar to that in the entrance but was engraved with the names of the current masters in bold, curling writing. The walls were made of marble, like the gargantuan statues that acted as pillars in the centre of the hall, supporting the beautifully painted, sloping ceiling. The frescos adorning the ceiling depicted the greatest heroes of the Order of Magi, golden halos circling their heads. The statues eyes and staffs contained glittering and glowing jewels, which sparkled in the embrace of sunlight from the opposing windows.

  Finally, at the end of the hall was a large glass table, positioned perpendicularly to show its extraordinary width. Behind it, and much to Thorne’s dismay, sat the rather decidedly disgruntled Majik Masters. In front of the table was a solitary wooden chair. He wondered how their intense gazes hadn’t burnt numerous holes in its frame already.

  Were Thorne not quite so focussed on his impending doom, he would have taken in their appearance. They cut an impressive sight, with their flowing, togas embroidered with golden sparks and a variety of other strange and yet interesting symbols. In their hands, they held wondrously crafted, white ceremonial staffs.

  When Thorne reached the table, he bowed his head and almost whispered: ‘Masters.’

  ‘Thorne,’ said Master Vey, ‘you are very late.’

  Thorne’s eyes twitched and he replied apologetically, ‘forgive me Master, but I was only just informed of your summoning as I arrived at class.’

  ‘Of course, running a little late there too then?’ Vey replied, in a tone that Thorne was sure was both accusatory and unsympathetic.

  Thorne then gulped and unconsciously folded his arms behind his back, his sweating hands gripped firmly together. His eyes, wishing to look at anything but back at Vey, switched to statue behind him. Thorne glanced along the row of Masters, pausing at an empty seat.

  Meydar, a very elderly master followed his gaze and he explained, ‘Unfortunately, Master Farholm had treaties to discuss with the guilds in Féy, you understand, yes?’

  Thorne nodded solemnly; he had been looking forward to seeing Master Farholm particularly.

  ‘But let us not stray from the current matter at hand,’ interceded Master Saymir, a man who had a distinctive hooked nose, ‘please, sit.’

  Thorne mumbled his thanks and sat.

  Meydar then turned to his colleague, Master Dezan, indicating that the floor was his.

  ‘Thorne, with great discussion, it has been decided between us and your mentors that it is time for you to leave the Spire,’ Dezan said.

  ‘What? M–masters, I swear I won’t be late ag–’

  ‘Not permanently,’ Master Dezan chuckled.

  ‘Only temporarily,’ Master Vey added, with a hint of regret in his voice.

  ‘It is time to put your skills to the first of many tests,’ said Master Saymir.

  ‘Tests? Masters?’ Thorne, whispered, his fingers loosening on the arms of his chair.

  ‘We wish you to go to the City of Light, Thorne.’

  ‘Wh-what?’ Thorne’s mouth fell open; the City of Light was weeks away, and why of all places was he to go there?

  ‘Of course, you will not be going alone, your role in this should be purely observatory,’ added Meydar reassuringly.

  ‘Masters?’

  ‘You will be accompanied.’

  Meydar then clapped his hands twice and the doors behind Thorne opened once again to reveal another Warlock. A man who stood six–foot–tall, was bald, had a trimmed beard, and prominently upturned eyebrows.

  ‘Grey?’ the man remarked in surprise. He then strode next to Thorne and after bowing inquired, ‘you chose him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vey grinned, ‘why so displeased, Rozenhall?’

  The Warlock’s face contorted slightly and he glanced at Thorne anxiously before replying, ‘I’m not Master, it’s just that… he’s too young.’

  ‘A little fresh air won’t do him any harm.’

  ‘Masters, I–’

  ‘Rozenhall!’ Vey growled.

  Rozenhall closed his lips before he could utter another word, and with an expression of utter reluctance, he turned back towards the door, beckoning Thorne to follow.

  ‘Wait!’ the pair twirled around to see Vey standing in his seat, his lip curling.

  ‘Master?’ said Rozenhall.

  ‘Forgetting something Rozenhall?’ Vey asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so, Master,’ Rozenhall’s eyes narrowed.

  Vey grinned and turned towards his col
leagues with open arms, ‘my friends, surely such a test would require certain… precautions.’

  ‘Precautions?’ Dezan frowned, ‘what do you mean Vey?’

  ‘He means a Binding, Dezan,’ Meydar said, ‘why would that be necessary Vey?’

  ‘This is a test is it not? Should there not be an element of realism to it?’ Vey replied, his lip curling even further.

  ‘He is… right,’ said Saymir begrudgingly, ‘after all, the event where such a precaution would be needed is highly unlikely.’

  Thorne frowned too. What was a binding?

  ‘Masters?’ Thorne began.

  ‘Silence!’ Vey hissed.

  ‘Vey!’ Saymir growled.

  ‘Apologies,’ Vey muttered, correcting himself.

  All eyes fell on Meydar, who sat with his head bent, his hooded eyes hidden by shadow. He tapped his fingers methodically on the table, contemplating.

  He sighed and then lifted his head, his eyes flickering to Rozenhall and then finally resting on Thorne.

  ‘Very well, if Rozenhall and Thorne consent to it, a Binding may be undertaken,’ Meydar said.

  Vey grinned and sat down, folding his arms together triumphantly, ‘well, gentleman?’

  ‘Do we actually have any choice in the matter?’ Rozenhall growled.

  ‘As always,’ Saymir replied.

  ‘But you would do well to watch your tone, Chief Warlock’ Vey added, placing particular emphasis on the man’s rank.

  Rozenhall turned back to Thorne, ‘have you been taught about Binding’s in your lessons yet, Grey?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Thorne replied.

  ‘If he bothered to turn up on time for them,’ Vey muttered under his breath.

  Rozenhall glanced back at the Masters, Meydar nodded for him to continue.

  The Chief Warlock gulped, ‘we must be bound together by Majik. A Binding serves purely as a bond between an apprentice and a higher Warlock. Basically, we would be able to find each other if we happened to be separated. However, there are… other implications as well.’

  Thorne licked his lips nervously, inquiring hesitantly, ‘such as, sir?’