‘Nothing that should concern you, Thorne,’ Vey said tersely.
‘Master,’ Thorne hung his head.
‘Take my hand, Thorne,’ Rozenhall said. Thorne placed his hand in Rozenhall’s and lifted his head. The Warlock avoided his gaze.
The Chief Warlock closed his eyes and began to mutter words incoherently under his breath. Within seconds, a blue light began to pulse from his veins, spreading from his hands to Thorne’s causing their skin to glow brightly. Thorne felt a sudden warmth flood around his body, from his chest to his head and toes, and then it vanished, the light dissipating along with it.
‘We are bound,’ Rozenhall muttered, quickly releasing Thorne’s hand.
Thorne stretched his fingers and looked down upon his hand, his skin was normal, no scars or change of colour, but that was not what bothered him…
‘And now we have already wasted enough time in talk. You must leave now. Horses will be awaiting you in the stables.’ Dezan stood up, ‘may Ozin be with you, my friends.’
Once the pair had left the Hall, Dezan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I don’t like this...,’ Dezan muttered.
‘We have no choice,’ Vey returned curtly.
‘We should have warned Rozenhall at least!’ Dezan pleaded.
‘Rozenhall?’ Vey scoffed, ‘he will be no great loss.’
‘Vey!’ Meydar reproached the Master, ‘this is not a matter to be taken lightly’.
‘This is a day for shame,’ Saymir murmured through his hand, ‘to send one trained into the dark is one thing but a mere boy...’
‘We have no choice, we gave our word,’ said Meydar.
‘Precisely!’ Vey slammed his staff in agreement, ‘Masters, what is the life of a child against the lives of thousands?’
*
Thorne paced around his chamber furiously. He was only twelve and was being sent on errands around the whole of Horizon, while most other Warlocks, let alone novices, sat safely in their chambers, reading books and cutting their toenails. Still… he supposed it would be nice to get out of the Spire for once, even if it meant weeks of travel.
His eyes caught sight of the casket in front of him which lay untouched and dusty.
He began to place his hands above it but pulled away hurriedly. No, he daren’t open it. The casket itself had been an old family heirloom, nothing too significant he had been told by Master Farholm. No, it was what lay inside that, perhaps, posed a great danger. He couldn’t quite place a finger on it, but the item inside... unsettled him.
But then, said an unbidden voice in his head, the journey could be dangerous. Why not take it? It could be useful.
He gulped, hesitantly placing his hands on the lid, wondering whether he had the courage to open it. It was too late to stop now he decided, pushing the lid open and hearing a dull thud as it banged against the wall. He gulped, feeling a small sense of dread at the thought of seeing the object again. He leaned over cautiously, examining the contents, as though afraid they might suddenly explode. Inside, surrounded by a jumble of trinkets, lay a metal rod, its features not disturbed after months of rest. The rod was engraved with strange but beautiful runes, so intricate that Thorne held the opinion that they couldn’t have possibly been carved out by a human smith. The workmanship was too... perfect. And yet its shape was unusual; curving to a sharp point, like a horn or a fang.
The moment Thorne had laid his hands upon the rod, it emitted a single bright green pulse, illuminating the runes, and began to vibrate violently.
In that instant, a splitting pain erupted in Thorne’s head, bringing him to his knees.
Strange images flashed through his mind, too jumbled to make sense. But one word managed to burn through in a deafening roar...
THIEF
The pain faded suddenly, leaving Thorne panting and gasping for air. Though it was not what had disturbed him greatly. He could have sworn that he’d heard that voice before.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
He looked frantically around the room but found no–one. His only answer being the awkward silence that had befallen the room.
He groaned and pulled himself to his feet, and as he did so he noticed that the rod was no longer shaking and had returned to its normal colour.
Carefully, he stooped over to pick it up but stopped, his hand hovering in mid-air.
Thump!
This time he was sure, the noise had definitely come from his window. Thorne snatched his staff from his desk where it lay, holding it out in front of him like a spear, and tip–toed slowly to the windows.
Thump!
The cloaked figure! Who else could it be? Well, he would find out. With a mounting sense of dread, he grabbed a curtain and ripped it open.
Outside the window, glaring down at him with a shadowed face, cracked bones curling round a bloody blade was… no one.
Outside only the calm breeze disturbed the ominous silence.
Thorne pulled his face away from the window. The noise had come from there. But even as he took a step backwards, the certainty faded, Thorne breathed a sigh of relief, spun on his heels and froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. Sat in his armchair, scythe lying on the lap, was the hooded figure.
Chapter 3
‘GOOD AFTERNOON’ the figure boomed, his voice immense and echoing around the room, which felt so suddenly small. Each word carried so much weight that Thorne felt he could be crushed by it.
Now that he was closer to the figure he could see for certain that the scythe’s handle was indeed shaped like a spine of sorts. The blade, much to his horror, was composed of faces, each clearly in distress, their faces squeezing and writhing against each other and the edge of blade.
The figure, noticing Thorne’s expression, casually tapped the blade and the faces vanished.
‘HEH HEH, SORRY ABOUT THAT,’ said the figure, placing the scythe behind his back, ‘THEY WERE… AHEM… RECENT ADDITIONS.’
Thorne stared open–mouthed, frozen in his half–turned position.
‘YES,’ mused the figure, looking up and down at Thorne, ‘I GET THAT A LOT. THEN AGAIN, RUNNING OR SCREAMING ARE BOTH PRETTY POPULAR TOO.’ It scratched, or given the sound it created, scraped a bony finger across its chin, ‘OR A COMBINATION OF THE TWO.’
‘Maybe it’s the stress of the day,’ Thorne mumbled, not taking his wide eyes off the figure’s hood. Thorne could feel his palms sweating heavily, ‘but I’m not used to hallucinations.’
‘OH, I’M QUITE REAL… IN A SENSE,’ said the figure, suddenly standing up, ‘ERM, YOU MAY FIND THIS… SLIGHTLY DISTURBING.’ It threw back its hood to reveal a skull with flames burning in its eye sockets, a long, thin, black tongue that danced around its rotten teeth. Thorne backed slowly against the window. For the first time in his life, he was truly afraid.
The figure fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, casually flicking a flake of ash off with a bony finger. ‘YES. NOT UNCOMMON. RELATIVELY CALM EVEN.’ He glanced at Thorne, ‘HOWEVER, I’M NOT COLLECTING TODAY.’
‘No?’ Thorne spluttered.
‘NO, NO,’ muttered the figure, ‘BUT I DO HAVE OTHER PURPOSES.’
It snapped its fingers together and the room went ablaze with fire.
Thorne watched in horror as he saw his chambers burn. He then saw images of Warlocks running through the corridors fighting off bizarre monsters. The scene changed. There were corpses – the Majik Masters! Their skin pale, faces bloody.
Finally, he was back in his chambers facing his mirror, the sight offended him so much he almost screamed. He saw himself but a twisted version. His hands and face were covered with blood, his clothes torn and his face… his face was dark and scarred and he wore a vicious, sardonic smile. ‘BURN! BURN IT ALL!’ the twisted version of him screamed in delight, as flames began to crawl up his body.
‘Stop it,’ begged Thorne, ‘please!’
The figure snapped its fingers again and the chamber turned back to normal, the fires ext
inguished along with the cruel replica of Thorne. The figure then pulled its hood back up and sat down, observing Thorne with what, he thought, was mild interest.
‘What was that?’ demanded Thorne, placing his hands on a chest of drawers to steady himself.
‘THE FUTURE,’ replied the figure in a matter of fact tone, crossing a leg over his other, ‘OR PERHAPS ONE OF MANY POSSIBLE OUTCOMES, A GIFT FROM MY FRIEND ZAKAR–’
‘That was foul sorcery,’ retorted Thorne, leaping to the door, ‘and I… I-!’
At a complete loss for words, Thorne pulled opened the door, rushed outside and slammed it shut, only to come face to face with the figure again.
‘YOU FORGOT THIS,’ the figure said, handing him the rod.
Thorne grimaced but took it. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and what do you want with me?’
The figure chuckled, ‘YOU MIGHT NOT FIND THE ‘WHO’ PART ENTIRELY HELPFUL...’
‘Why would I be scared of a name?’ replied Thorne.
The figure sighed, ‘I AM CALLED BY MANY NAMES, SEVERAL OF WHICH ARE REALLY QUITE RUDE. BUT IF YOU MUST, YOU WOULD KNOW ME AS… DEATH.’
A slow chill crept up Thorne’s spine and he started to back away to the door.
‘LOOK, I’M JUST HERE TO GIVE YOU A WARNING,’ said Death, holding his hands up defensively.
‘I’ll bet!’ stuttered Thorne, raising the rod.
Death sighed, ‘SO YOU’RE THE HYSTERICAL TYPE THEN? VERY WELL…’
Death then paced back towards the opposite wall, ‘THIS FAR AWAY ENOUGH FOR YOU?’
‘Just say what you have to say then!’
‘AS YOU WISH,’ said Death, taking a mock bow, ‘I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU OF BETRAYAL AT THE HIGHEST LEVEL OF YOUR ORDER.’
Thorne froze, the words hitting him like a giant brick, ‘how can that be possible?’
Death rubbed his jawbone as if to show he was thinking: ‘I CAN SAY NO MORE. I AM BOUND BY RULES THAT CANNOT BE BROKEN, BUT YOU MUST UNDERSTAND – YOU AND YOU ALONE,’ Death stressed, ‘HAVE THE POWER TO RESOLVE THIS.’
‘How can THAT be possible?’ Thorne repeated confusedly.
‘ALAS, THAT QUESTION, OF WHICH YOU SEEM SO FOND, CANNOT BE ANSWERED,’ Death paused, mulling the words over. ‘HOWEVER, IF YOU DO NOT HEED MY WARNING YOUR ORDER WILL CRUMBLE AND THOUSANDS OF INNOCENTS WILL PERISH.’
‘But you’re Death. Don’t you enjoy your job?’ Thorne stuttered.
Death hissed, the reply sounding like metal being forged in a furnace.
‘IT’S A BIT OF A DEADEND, ACTUALLY,’ Death chuckled, ‘SORRY, SELF REFERENTIAL. MICTLANTECADES WORKS ME TO THE BONE…’
Death paused as if to grin at the irony of the statement.
‘So, the Death God is real,’ said Thorne.
A sudden silence filled the hallway, which was broken abruptly by the sound of Death slapping a fresh dent onto his bare skull.
‘DAMMIT,’ he said, and then dropping his voice to almost a whisper, ‘YOU MUSTN’T BREATHE A WORD OF THIS TO ANYONE, UNDERSTAND? OTHERWISE…’
Death then twisted his head to glance briefly at his scythe and then snapped it back to face Thorne, ‘I REALLY WILL HAVE TO … COLLECT YOU.’
Thorne felt the blood drain from his face, ‘you… you can’t do that! I-I thought I wasn’t supposed to be taken yet!’
Death then rummaged within his pockets and withdrew a large roll of parchment, it was yellowed with age and gave off a faint, dark glow. He started to scan down the apparently long list.
‘ACTUALLY…’ began Death, smartly tapping the parchment, ‘YOU ARE DUE TO HAVE AN UNFORTUNATE LIFT-RELATED ACCIDENT AT ONE O’CLOCK THIS AFTERNOON.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Thorne, fumbling in the pockets of his robes briefly before pulling out a pocket watch, ‘but that’s in a few minutes!’
‘EXACTLY,’ said Death, ‘SO BE GLAD I’M WILLING TO OVERLOOK THAT MINOR INCONVENIENCE.’
‘Minor?’ said Thorne, his mouth agape in shock.
‘EVERYTHING’S RELATIVE,’ Death shrugged, and turned to leave.
‘Hang on a minute!’ shouted Thorne, ‘why should I trust you? How do I know if this is even real?’
Death stopped and turned to face him, ‘YOU HAVE THREE POSSIBLE ALTERNATIVES AVAILABLE TO YOU,’ explained Death, raising three fingers to illustrate the fact, ‘ONE: YOU ARE STILL DREAMING.’
‘TWO: I AM REAL. AND YOUR LIFE IS ABOUT TO GET VERY COMPLICATED.’
‘OR THREE: YOU’RE QUITE INSANE.’
‘One,’ said Thorne hopefully.
Death shook his head, shrugged again and then pointed a boned finger down the corridor, ‘MESSENGER.’
Thorne whirled round, but there was no one there and, when he turned back, he saw that Death had disappeared as well. ‘A dream,’ muttered Thorne, without conviction.
Before Thorne could even begin to gather his thoughts, he was interrupted by hurried footsteps of a new individual, who Thorne realised to be – to his dismay – one of the Spire’s messengers.
The messenger wore a red tailcoat, pinstripe trousers and a lime hat, and appeared to be balking under the pressure of the two bulging bags that bumped against his thighs.
‘Ah, Novice Grey,’ said the man brightly upon noticing him, ‘the stable master says that he has your horse ready for departure, and… is something wrong?’
Thorne shook himself and put on a weak smile, replying, ‘no, no everything’s… fine. I’ll be there very soon.’
The messenger nodded and made to leave but then Thorne grabbed him. ‘By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know who was supposed to bring me the message from the Masters would you?’ he inquired.
The man blushed a deep crimson, mumbled something about having letters to deliver, and sprinted off into the corridor.
*
Thorne attached his satchel and staff to the saddle of his horse and then clambered clumsily onto it.
The supposed visit from Death still haunted him. His effort to convince himself the whole thing was a hoax, some kind of ridiculous prank, failed to calm his mind.
Thorne was awoken from his troubled thoughts by Rozenhall, patting him sharply on the back, ‘all set?’ inquired the Warlock.
‘Yes sir,’ Thorne replied.
As soon as Rozenhall mounted his steed and set off from the stable, Thorne’s mount began to march behind. He gripped the reins tightly. As eager as he was to discover what life outside the Dalmarra had to offer, his heart longed already to be home. He spent much of the first few hours of travel with an eye behind his mount, focusing on capturing in memory every stall, tavern and street sign he could spot. Smells that were commonplace, such as those of the spices sold by the merchants or the ale spilled into the street crevices from the night before, filled him with a new vigour.
He placed a closed fist to his forehead, and made a silent prayer to Ozin, in the hope that it would not be the last time he would gaze upon his home.
Chapter 4
Thorne pulled his horse to a stop and grimaced at the sight before him.
The Silent Forests spread for miles in length and breadth. The trees stood tall and menacing, armed with thick needles. A thick wall of emerald blades.
While generally safe to the wary traveller, it was known that many creatures inhabited the forest, none of them particularly friendly. Yet he couldn’t hear a sound from where he was sat. It was unnerving.
Suddenly, the trees began to shake and a powerful blast of wind blew from within, like a cork from a bottle. The forest seemed to scream, as the blast cut through the air like a knife.
The horses neighed wildly. Rearing suddenly, catapulting the Warlocks off their backs before galloping away to Dalmarra.
‘Wretched animals!’ Rozenhall barked at their rapidly retreating rears, brushing dirt off his robes.
Thorne picked up his satchel, took out his rod and sighed, wishing the horse had dropped his staff as well.
He turned reluctantly to the forest before him as the cold breeze whipped around
his robes.
Thorne twisted his head around to examine the landscape behind him, Dalmarra now appearing as a hazy shape on the horizon. They were nowhere near their destination, and yet home seemed as distant as it ever would, like the fleeting memory of a dream.
‘Must we go on sir?’ Thorne inquired, desperately hoping the answer would be ‘no.’
Rozenhall put his hands on his hips and lowered his head. It seemed that even the Chief Warlock was conflicted on the issue at hand. He glanced briefly at the forest looming ominously behind his back, the wrinkles by his mouth hardening as he scowled.
‘We camp tonight!’ he said, ‘we’ll head through the forest in the morning.’
*
Thorne threw the last twig into the smouldering pile of wood, the flames hissing gratefully in response as they devoured the new entrant.
He sat down, the Chief Warlock, Rozenhall, following him soon after.
Thorne hugged his knees to his chest, his eyes observing the dancing flames.
‘Boy.’
He looked past the flames. Rozenhall sat cross-legged, his hands lying on his lap, his staff on the floor beside him.
It may have been perhaps a mirage of the flames, but he was certain he’d seen a flicker of sympathy from the Warlock, before he’d managed to bury it deep within him. Out of sight.
‘I believe you are owed an explanation in terms of the purpose of this trip,’ he said.
‘I– there’s no need, sir,’ Thorne lied.
‘Perhaps the Masters feel that way, Grey but I do not,’ Rozenhall replied curtly.
Thorne gulped, averting his gaze.
Rozenhall sighed, got up and then sat next to Thorne. ‘You are aware of the Shadow War, yes?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, sir,’ Thorne replied. What did that have to do with anything?
‘Then I assume you are aware of the Portals?’
‘Portals?’ Thorne frowned.
‘Yes, the Dark Portals, it was believed that the Necromancer Lord had used them to move his armies with speed around Horizon,’ Rozenhall explained.
‘They were all destroyed,’ Thorne recalled, ‘Warlocks were used to search for the dark energy coming from them, weren’t they?’
Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness Page 4
