‘Yes, we provided a great service to this land, although our role in the war is often minimized... However, one still remains untouched in the City of Light.’
Thorne gazed at the Chief Warlock, mouth agape, ‘It wasn’t destroyed?’
‘No. It stopped releasing energy near the end of the war and became dormant, and so it was… left,’ explained Rozenhall.
‘Left?’ exclaimed Thorne, ‘but they were transporting the army from the Foglands all around Horizon!’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Rozenhall hissed, glancing anxiously behind him, ‘the forest never sleeps Thorne.’
Thorne pursed his lips, refusing to look back, trying to drown out the fear-induced thoughts that were circulating in his mind.
Rozenhall leant in closer. Thorne could now make out the tiny wrinkles by the corner of his eyes and the perspiration shining across his forehead.
‘Being dormant, the Portal posed no threat to the city,’ Rozenhall explained, ‘however, unfortunately it has become active once again.’
Silence wove into the camp after the Warlock’s words, Thorne sitting back in disbelief.
What if demons still roamed the Foglands in their vast hordes? The City of Light could be ripped apart in merely a few hours by the creatures of the Foglands.
‘You must understand Thorne, what I am telling you is incredibly secret. Only on a need-to-know basis,’ said Rozenhall, ‘but we can’t take any risks. The darkness must be purged.’
‘But how, sir?’
‘The forests are… far different to how they were several years ago’ Rozenhall remarked with a sigh, paying no heed to Thorne’s question, ‘far different.’
‘Sir?’ Thorne said.
‘You can feel it, can’t you? The darkness that has spread inside, swarming whatever remnants of light remain,’ whispered Rozenhall. ‘Listen. Close your eyes and reach out with your Majik.’
Thorne frowned but did as he was told. Darkness greeted him and he thought: okay, reach out.
How?
What did Rozehall mean by ‘reaching out with Majik.’ What was he supposed to do?
‘Be calm boy, just picture the forest as you see it. Imagine you’re in a dream, forget where you are now and imagine yourself roaming the outskirts of the Forest. Feel your Majik flow through your veins, your eyes, and your mind.’
Thorne scrunched his eyes together and clenched his fists. He pictured himself, anxious and scared, walking straight into the forest. Why would he have wanted to go in the first place?
‘Focus on the image Thorne, your hands drifting through wood and leaves,’ Rozenhall’s voice guided him.
A flash of colour, Thorne grunted and opened his eyes. But Rozenhall was gone, the camp was gone, and there he was standing in front of the forest, and the dark trees that ominously beckoned to him.
He closed his eyes again, but when he opened them the camp had not returned. In fact, he could not spot the flicker of the flames wherever he looked. The camp had disappeared to be replaced by a vast empty expanse of fields.
He wanted to turn back, but his legs suddenly had a mind of their own, pushing him forward through the barrier of needles.
He was through, but darkness once more surrounded him, and Thorne began to panic. His mind wandered and he began to imagine strange things brushing past his legs. Ominous beings laughing raucously as he stumbled in the dark.
Am I blind? He thought. Where’s the light? In the name of Ozin, let there be light!
A flash of white and a path was illuminated for him. Thorne rubbed his eyes and looked on ahead.
Something stood ahead in-between the light of the path and the darkness that encircled it. He could have been wrong, but he detected a shimmer of gold.
Thorne couldn’t speak or move. He was forced to watch.
A hand emerged from the darkness. The gold thing beckoned with its gauntlet. Was it a soldier?
But why wouldn’t it let him see its face?
The golden figure beckoned again, and Thorne’s legs were forced into action once more, moving him closer to the golden figure.
But as soon as Thorne got anywhere close to the figure, close to possibly finding out its identity, it suddenly vanished into the shadows.
Wait! Thorne screamed with his mind. But he was unanswered and again, horribly alone.
Thorne heard a splash and his head snapped to the illuminated ground where a dark liquid had stained the grass red. Blood.
He could even taste it now. That distinctive iron tang.
Thorne moved, slowly retracing the blood. A drum began to pound a slow rhythm in the background. It was quiet at first, but as the speed of his steps increased so did the pace and heaviness of the drumbeat.
DA DA DUM!
The blood was in larger quantity here, forming sickening pools in the ground.
DA DA DUM! DA DA DUM!
Something laid out on the grass, a man! Not the golden soldier, the clothing was different. He wore dark robes, he was bald and there were… golden sparks on his shoulder… a Warlock!
DA DA DUM! DA DA DUM! DA DA DUM!
The man turned over suddenly, the light illuminating his bloody face, and Thorne screamed. It was Rozenhall!
Rozenhall grinned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He then moved his hand to his mouth, pressing a finger to his lips.
‘SHHH!’
Then his eyes were ablaze, and the corpse came upon him, bloody hands clawing at him.
A flash of colour. Thorne opened his eyes and gasped, collapsing to the floor, sweat dripping heavily from his forehead.
‘Thorne!’
Rozenhall sat by him, padding his forehead with cloth.
‘Thorne are you alright? What did you see?’
‘Such darkness…’ Thorne muttered, ‘no… no…’
‘Thorne!’
‘Darkness… Blood… Death...’
*
Thorne burst through the bushes, wincing as the spiny needles scratched against the skin of his face, drawing blood.
Discovering that he was no longer being followed with a quick turn behind his shoulder, he sighed in relief and collapsed to the ground.
Rozenhall wandered into the clearing after Thorne. He was in an equally bedraggled state, twigs were stuck in various parts of his hair and torn robes.
For what seemed like weeks (more than likely only a couple of days at most) they’d been running around the forest, avoiding the numerous predators that lurked there. The forest seemed endless. Thorne had come to the inevitable conclusion that they were horribly lost.
He failed to understand how Rozenhall didn’t seem to know where to go. The Chief Warlock looked confused and had muttered repeatedly every few hours: ‘changed, so changed.’
‘Hopeless,’ Thorne muttered quietly to himself.
‘Excuse me?’ Rozenhall said.
‘Nothing sir,’ Thorne replied quickly.
‘Changed, so changed,’ Rozenhall whispered.
‘Sir?’ said Thorne.
‘The forest… it’s more different than I could have ever anticipated. Things have changed, for the worse, I fear,’ Rozenhall muttered worriedly.
Thorne sighed and turned around, bumping into something solid.
He scrambled away, holding his rod defensively in front of him, breathing a sigh of relief when he realised what he had first mistaken for an attacker was actually just a wooden pole.
‘Sir, what’s this?’ Thorne inquired.
Rozenhall walked past Thorne and peered closely at the pole.
The pole was coloured exotically, with strange and remarkably ugly creatures mounted crudely on top of each other. Each leering aggressively. Thorne turned to Rozenhall to ask him what the pole was for but was taken aback by his expression. Rozenhall had clearly seen these carvings before. Much to his horror, he realized all the carvings were goblins.
‘Not good,’ whispered Rozenhall, ‘we appear to have entered sacred territory, and, er, the goblins
do tend to take that very badly indeed.’
‘Oh no,’ Thorne mouthed silently.
Before they could move, Thorne felt the ground tremble slightly. He could hear the pounding of feet. A lot of feet.
‘Whoopee!’ screamed a gleeful little voice in the distance.
‘Come to Raz Raz,’ cried another.
‘Damn it,’ groaned Rozenhall.
Thorne didn’t need telling twice. He urged his already tired legs into a sprint, Rozenhall directly behind him, hearing the thud of a spear embedding itself into the ground, a mere few centimetres from his heels.
As he sprinted through the undergrowth, he noticed a crop of light, leaking from a tightly grouped circle of trees. He was unable to explain why, even later he was still at a loss for a viable justification for his decision but there was something… familiar about the grouping of the trees. The light fell in the centre, reminding him strongly of the shape of a lantern. It was almost ethereal in appearance but surely it was safer than outside among the mob of starved goblins.
‘In here sir!’ he shouted behind him, his legs screaming for a reprieve. Thorne and Rozenhall clambered between the unnaturally tightly-packed trees and fell into the centre.
Thankfully, it seemed that they had managed to lose the goblins, at least. The creatures hadn’t managed to track them into the tree circle.
Thorne laughed weakly, turned around and jumped. In the centre, where a sharp beam of light penetrated the canopy of trees, lay a man. His arms and legs were spread out at awkward angles and his face was buried in the ground. Soaking his back and visible amongst his long, dark hair was what looked very much like blood.
Had he led them both into a trap? How could he have been so stupid?
Rozenhall didn’t waste any time, immediately rushing to the man’s side and prodding his shoulder with the edge of his staff.
Before he could check whether the man was still alive, however, he heard a low growl. Rozenhall and Thorne both spun to look for the source of the noise, their eyes darting around frantically at the trees.
Slowly, a large pair of glowing, yellow eyes appeared, its gaze locked onto them. Thorne gulped, and stepped back involuntarily, his legs moving with a mind of their own.
More eyes appeared. The creatures stepped out, into the light, moving their bulky forms into view. They were alpha wolves – lion-sized monstrosities with thick, white fur. Extending from each paw, three curved knife-length claws. Their legs were beefy and muscular, their faces long and pointed, with large fangs jutting out from the sides of their frothing mouths.
He’d only ever read of such things in the Spire, confronting them rarely in hellish nightmares. The goblins had avoided the tree circle for a very good reason.
Rozenhall jumped to his feet and took a step forward, twirling his staff in the air.
‘No, no, no, this isn’t right,’ Thorne heard the Warlock mutter under his breath, ‘here? So far from the Plains?’
The beasts growled in unison. Sensing Rozenhall’s discomfort, one of their number swiped a massive paw at thin air, inviting a flinch from the Chief Warlock. With savage roars, they pounced, each vicious and unrelenting in their attacks.
Thorne could only watch in horror. His body was paralysed as he observed the savagery of the attack.
‘HELP! HELP ME!’ Rozenhall screamed. His bloody arms and legs flailed hopelessly in the air. His staff let off a brief steam of flames which singed the fur of one of the wolves causing it to leap away from its prey but did little to stay the aggression of the others.
His cries were silenced after several dreadful seconds but continued to resonate in Thorne’s mind. He had seen this before, he had foreseen Rozenhall’s death, and he had failed to warn him.
The beasts greedily patrolled the pools of blood that had gathered from Rozenhall’s corpse with their thick tongues. Thorne uttered a faint gasp when the last beast moved away from the mutilated body revealing the pale bloodless face that stared at Thorne, he thought, accusatorially. You led me to them. You!
He wished he could escape the stark – and rather bloody – reality he had found himself in. He wished he’d warned Rozenhall of his vision.
‘I’m so sorry...’ Thorne whimpered.
The one nearest to Thorne looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, its fangs dribbling with a gruesome combination of saliva and blood.
Thorne pressed himself back into the tree, praying it would lose interest in him, knowing it was hugely unlikely. However, instead it went over to the body of the other man. As it lowered its head, the ‘dead’ man suddenly leapt up. With a mighty slash of a previously concealed dagger, he decapitated the wolf.
The other wolves roared in fury and bounded to him. The man drew his sword, the metal gleaming in the faint light and the ruby embedded in its pommel sparkling, almost blinding Thorne where he lay. The wolves stopped in their tracks, glaring at the man’s sword.
The one nearest to the man, seemingly ignoring all sense in Thorne’s view, lunged at him, fangs bared. The Swordsman punched the creature’s face, whilst in mid-air, breaking its neck with a resounding crack. In a continuous fluid movement, the swordsman wheeled around to slash the second with his sword, opening a deep wound. The wolf howled with pain and limped out of the circle of trees, along with the third wolf, who growled venomously at the man before fleeing.
The Swordsman wore a black, thigh-length, sleeveless leather overcoat, his bare chest was covered by a network of scars, burns and bruises. He wore a pair of matching black, baggy trousers that were tucked into his mud coated steel greaves. His right hand was encased in a bloodstained, dark leather glove, with intricate skeletal metalwork protecting the knuckles and fingers. A cracked, dark green pendant, like a carved piece of crystal, hung above his chest. He grunted in apparent satisfaction and then turned slowly to face Thorne, who had backed away, nearer to the edge of the circle.
The Swordsman’s face was concealed. Not by a helmet, but by musty bandages with holes for his eyes. Raven black hair plumed from the top of the man’s head, falling to his shoulders.
However, it was not the man’s scars or appearance that concerned Thorne but his eyes which glowed bright silver. He had heard something of these people before… read about it in a book at some point? He was sure but for the life of him he couldn’t quite seem to remember it.
The man gazed at him questioningly and asked gruffly, ‘are you alright?’
Thorne bit his lip nervously, trying to rack through his brains to find an appropriate answer. After a few long, silent and unsuccessful seconds, he nodded.
Although he was terrified by the sight of him, Thorne found that he could not tear his eyes away from his former master.
‘Rozenhall…’ Thorne muttered.
The Swordsman strode towards the body and then crouched beside it.
Thorne knew it was hopeless but he couldn’t help but wish that by some miracle the Warlock had survived the vicious attack. He had to have.
Thorne arched his head towards the sky. Please he begged the dark, green expanse above him. Please let him be alive.
The man shook his head and sighed.
‘Dead,’ he announced, removing his gloved hand from Rozenhall’s neck.
Dead? Thorne gulped. As his mind considered the gravity of the man’s words, he became acutely aware of the blood pounding in his ears and his legs suddenly began to shake uncontrollably.
Dead?
Vey’s words stuck out tauntingly at him in a red haze in his mind. A little fresh air won’t do him any harm. Had the Masters known more about the dangers of the forest than Rozenhall was aware of himself? Surely, he should have been warned?
Before he could speak further, however, he heard a high–pitched howl escape from outside the tree circle, and, as he imagined, echo around the forest, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up sharply.
In that same moment, the Swordsman jumped to his feet and dropped his blade in its sheath. ‘We have to go,
now,’ he said, grabbing him by his shoulder.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Thorne followed. He knew that if he stayed, he would be killed by the wolves, but if he went with the stranger who would say that his fate would be any better? Could he really trust him?
The Swordsman then snapped his hands onto Thorne’s shoulders, ‘Listen to me, this is no time for games,’ he began, ‘if we stay here we’re finished! Understand? We’re dead!’
‘My master, you knew we were there...’ Thorne whimpered, ‘why didn’t you do something?’
‘We don’t have time for this now, Warlock, you want to die here, fine, be my guest!’
There was another howl. Much closer this time.
Thorne glanced around worriedly. As much as the idea of running off with a complete stranger with the ability to sever heads off of giant wolves with ease didn’t feel like a particularly great idea, he couldn’t argue with the man’s logic. The way he saw it, escaping the dark of the forest with the Swordsman was his only viable option, provided that the man didn’t on a whim decide to sever his head.
The man had already begun to set off ahead.
‘Hey! Wait!’ Thorne cried, lunging after him.
As soon as the Swordsman had turned to face him, his hand had flown to the pommel of his sword, unsheathing it slightly so the brim of the blade was visible by his waist.
Startled, Thorne stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet. The man snatched his arm and dragged him behind. ‘Hey! What are you–’ Thorne protested but paused mid-sentence as he realised what had set the stranger on edge. A blue light had begun to emanate from the clearing, beyond the Swordsman. Thorne leant by the Swordsman’s side and his eyes widened. The light was coming from Rozenhall’s body. Had he survived after all?
Within seconds the light began to disappear from the bottom half of his body and slowly collected around his head. A blue smoke drifted from the Warlock’s open mouth into a shapeless mass. Without warning, the smoke suddenly shot forward, engulfing Thorne, seeping into his pores, sending an odd tingling feeling across his body.
The light now burst from Thorne’s skin and he began to feel the same warmth he had experienced in the Binding, the sensation spreading quickly throughout his body.
Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness Page 5
