Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  But within seconds the warmth and light had disappeared, from all but his hands. Looking down, Thorne gasped. The palms of both his hands were a maze of blue scars that spiralled all over his skin. They pulsed a vivid blue for a few seconds and then faded.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ Thorne wondered out loud.

  The Swordsman grabbed Thorne’s right hand and examined it briefly. ‘You’ve been branded. You undertook a Binding?’

  ‘Yes!’ Thorne said, a sickening feeling rising from the pit of his stomach.

  The Swordsman shook his head in dismay, dropped Thorne’s hand and began to walk towards the furthest edge of the circle of trees. The Warlock looked confusedly at his hand, and then sprinted towards the Swordsman. ‘What does it mean?’ he asked in exasperation, ‘tell me!’

  The Swordsman paused in his tracks, and looked back at Thorne, his eyes revealing nothing. ‘It means that whatever task your Masters bestowed upon your guide, has now been passed to you. And, as I’m sure you have now surmised, you cannot return to your Spire until it has been completed.’

  Chapter 5

  The Shadow - a man who truly epitomised his name. It was a thought shared by many who knew him, or rather, survived the encounter. He seemed to have the ability to appear wherever he wished, unseen and unheard.

  His feet bonded soundlessly with the soft grass, while his cloak trailed behind him, like a silhouette, as he emerged from the shadow of a larger oak tree. As he continued to tread through the glade, the wind seemed to hold its breath and the branches became motionless; a deep silence, broken briefly by the chirping of a small bird.

  With the trees thinning, he paused briefly to observe the sight before him – the City of Light. It lay, surrounded by high walls and a single gated entrance. Etched into the gate’s weathered metallic façade, in a language long forgotten, were the words Nậrr Dứrừm dél Dręmăra - the City of Dreams.

  At night, the city was just that.

  Light flickered around the huge crystal statues that poked up – waist-upwards – above the walls, highlighting their every carved nick and the symbols etched in the swords they held with measures of pride in their weathered faces. Although, all this was dwarfed by the grand walls that towered over the highest peak of the city, ascending into the starry heavens above. He wondered if the people truly appreciated what beauty they had been gifted. Such a shame that the city would soon fall into ruin, its beauty lost; its grandeur forgotten.

  He turned to survey the graveyard that lay only a few strides away from him. Here, the darkness resided, although, to those lacking the intuition, it would not seem unusual.

  He could feel the strong fluctuations of Majik that bounded uncontrollably around the area, like a rabid dog. Compared to the dusky haze of night, here, it was not merely the absence of light – it was as if it had been consumed.

  A large boulder blocked the entrance. Looking around, The Shadow could make out the jagged outline of the robber fencing – metallic, curved, unscalable, jagged-tipped poles – surrounding the graveyard. However, due to the fact that the graveyard had clearly been neglected for several decades, some of the poles were heavily corroded and had snapped in places.

  Upon approaching the boulder, a voice like thunder boomed, ‘who goes here?’

  As far as The Shadow could see, there was no-one to whom this imposing voice belonged. It was as though it was part of the darkness itself.

  ‘Who goes here?’ repeated the voice, the poles vibrating under the weight of the words.

  ‘A friend of fog!’ shouted The Shadow.

  The voice paused, as though contemplating The Shadow’s words. Suddenly, the boulder began to shudder, and a crack burst through, rising from the base of the rock. As The Shadow watched, the boulder began to crumble into smaller pieces, which rolled aside, allowing him entry to the graveyard.

  The graveyard before him was silent and empty, aside from the haphazard rows of gravestones that lay undisturbed. Yet The Shadow was not to be fooled. He was certain that he was being watched closely by eager eyes.

  The Shadow began to walk through the pebble-scattered path formed by the crumbled boulder. As soon as he had entered, the boulder began to reform, the pieces circling in the air before crudely piecing back together like a jigsaw.

  The Shadow smiled grimly and continued on into the heart of the graveyard, leaves scattering with every step.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ he muttered. He came to a halt in front a gravestone, standing slightly apart from the others in the row. It was split through the middle, separating the sentence etched upon it: No light without darkness.

  He then took a step back and whispered, ‘Darkness lies in us all.’

  Immediately after the words had left his mouth, the grave began to tremble and then rise with the sound of the grinding of stone on stone, dirt sliding off the edges like sand. With the grave hovering above, a large hole was revealed. Light shimmering around the edges.

  Without a second thought, The Shadow slid himself into the hole. Dropping a few feet, he grimaced as his feet met more stone. The Shadow looked ahead to observe a descending, twisting corridor. It was lit by burning candles that floated near the walls, the wax dripping onto the floor like droplets of rain.

  As he walked through the long corridor a strange smell began to drift to his nose. The further he went, the more unbearable it became. Much to his repulsion, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the smell was that of decaying flesh. Something had died down here.

  When he reached the end of the corridor, a small circular room lay in before him. Sitting with his back to the doorway was a hooded man, gazing intently at an odd painting. The painting seemed peculiarly ordinary, thought The Shadow. A generic piece, depicting an open plain that was full of small, unrecognizable, figures. But wait, The Shadow glanced back at the painting. He must have been wrong, but he could have sworn that with every blink of his eyes, the figures moved.

  When The Shadow dragged his gaze from the painting he saw that the man had stood up and was looking directly at him.

  ‘So, you came alone?’ the man asked. His voice surprisingly silky, in stark contrast with his dark demeanour.

  ‘Don’t I always, Xalem?’ replied The Shadow. The smell was at its worst here and probably would have felled The Shadow were he an ordinary man.

  The other man made a ‘humph’ sound and then pulled down his hood.

  Xalem had a chalk white face with a seemingly mischievous look that a played across his features. His eyes were completely black like small, dark gemstones, giving him a cold, almost lifeless look and his long silvery hair was plaited, falling to his waist behind his back.

  Xalem smiled, ‘one must be sure.’

  The Shadow returned the smile and then pointed at the painting asking, ‘how long?’

  Xalem grinned viciously and then walked towards it, caressing the painting with a long, hooked claw of a finger, ‘centuries, and I plan to keep it that way – he is of no use to anyone now.’

  Centuries. Just the thought of it could make a man mad. How had his spirit endured?

  ‘Such a cruel way to leave a man,’ The Shadow said.

  The other man laughed, ‘has age mellowed you, my dear Shadow? I have heard many stories about your methods, which make mine look very kind indeed.’

  ‘I assume you did not summon me to discuss our methods,’ The Shadow replied curtly.

  Xalem’s lip curled, ‘no,’ he admitted, ‘I summoned you to discuss the boy. He is the last of his... kind, correct?’

  ‘Of course, you of all people should know that.’

  Xalem smirked, briefly glancing at the painting behind him before replying smugly, ‘naturally. But where is he now?’

  ‘I believe he is just leaving the Silent Forests.’

  What appeared to be annoyance flashed across the man’s face, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

  ‘Well, if that is all…’ The Shadow began, turning to leave.


  Xalem suddenly appeared in front of the exit to the passage, his eyes alive with malice. ‘No! It is not all. I tire of my pointless role. I tire of waking every morning with my heart pounding the same deathly chorus. I am tired of it all!’

  Bemused, The Shadow replied. ‘A heart? I was not aware you had one?’

  Xalem’s face contorted with rage. ‘Do not play the fool with me,’ he snarled. ‘I know you understand what happens when my hunger goes for so long unsatisfied.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enlighten me,’ answered The Shadow.

  ‘This!’ Shrieked Xalem, gripping his glove with his other hand and ripping it off. Underneath it was repulsive. The skin of the hand was sallow and missing from the fingertips, revealing bleached bone. The veins were black and writhing sickeningly in his pale flesh.

  ‘So, it has begun already,’ murmured The Shadow.

  ‘Yes!’ Xalem snapped, still fuming with anger, ‘I am deteriorating.’

  ‘I would not worry, my friend. With the boy gone, our Lord will soon return, and you shall have all you seek.’

  Xalem’s features softened. ‘I had better, or one of these days…’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘And before you go, I require one further thing.’

  The Shadow stopped, and turned back from the exit, ‘Go on.’

  ‘All this time, and I still do not know who you are. You claim you come under the banner of fog, but I find it difficult to trust a man whose hides his face.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I understand what you mean, Xalem’.

  ‘I think you know exactly what I mean: your hood, remove it if you please.’

  ‘My identity is of no importance.’

  ‘It is to me, Shadow. At the very least, it is a common courtesy performed by even the most debased in this land. And believe me, this time, my curiosity will not be abated.’

  The Shadow paused, resting his hands on his hips.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied, after a moment of deliberation.

  The Shadow placed both of his hands on his hood and pulled, letting his face bask in the light and the cool breeze that circulated around the room from the grave opening.

  Xalem’s eyes drifted up and down, his stern expression unchanging. His eyes then latched onto something uncovered by the hood… something white… with what looked like golden sparks etched onto the shoulder of the material.

  ‘Ah,’ said Xalem, a flicker of a smile touching his lips, ‘so, it all makes sense now. Warlock.’

  The Shadow’s eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘Master Warlock. But you may call me Vey.’

  Chapter 6

  The Swordsman had to be wrong, Thorne was certain of that. They’d been walking for what seemed like hours, and despite the painful protest of his legs he could not bring himself to ask the stranger to stop and take a break. This was partly because he was (at least slightly) terrified of the man and the fear that, if they did stop, a gruesome death inflicted by some foul creature was likely to befall them.

  He trudged on after the Swordsman, panting heavily. When he noticed the state of his boots, he could not prevent a moan from escaping his lips. He had such nice boots once. If the others in the Spire could see them now – stained with the fruits of his labours – mud, old leaves and some colourful fluids of dubious origin.

  What a disaster this excursion had been. Damn Vey, Thorne thought. Damn him for planting the suggestion of the forest in the other Masters’ minds, and damn them for listening to him! He still couldn’t believe that they didn’t know about the dangers of the forest.

  He pulled aside his robe and unhooked the rod from his belt. It was still pulsing a luminous green from the symbols etched in its frame – it had been doing that for days now. Why? He simply did not know and he preferred to use the little energy he had left to focus on keeping awake during this long, daunting walk.

  He sighed and slid the rod back onto his belt, his eyes returning to the Swordsman’s back. Who was he? Some sort of knight? No, silly, he’d, surely, wear more armour? A special Council bodyguard then? They always took the best, even if not the most mentally stable. Some rumours went as far to say that they hired reformed vampires; could he be one? Perhaps, this was all part of his plan. Take him out of harm’s way and then feast on him when there were no beasts to distract him.

  No. He had to be over thinking it all. But why would he be out all this way from Dalmarra? And in the Silent Forests of all places?

  The way he had killed those beasts... Thorne could have been wrong, but it seemed so... natural. Not simply as though he’d done it several times before but almost as if he’d been trained to do it all his life.

  Thorne groaned as he strained his mind for a conclusion. There was something about his eyes, he thought, perhaps something he’d read once in a book or heard in a lesson? He did occasionally turn up for them after all. But by Ozin’s beard, what was it?

  The Swordsman chuckled, ‘you Warlocks are a restless bunch, aren’t you?’

  Thorne jumped, ‘What? How did you know?’ he asked, Banging his head on a branch.

  The Swordsman smiled, or at least Thorne thought he did from the way his cheekbones raised under the bandages.

  ‘Well, I thought the attention seeking robes and sparks would have been a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘Erm..’ Thorne mumbled, fiddling with the belt of his pantaloons, ‘well, I–’

  However, the rest of Thorne’s words became muffled as he bumped headfirst, straight into the Swordsman’s back.

  ‘What–’ Thorne began, before he was suddenly silenced by the man’s hand.

  The Swordsman stood, as if frozen to the ground, with a finger to his lips, observing the area in front of him.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ he whispered, his gaze unmoving.

  ‘What?’ replied Thorne, the sound of his voice stifled by the man’s thick glove.

  ‘Exactly,’ the Swordsman answered. His voice almost a whisper, ‘not the whisper of wind or the scuttle of leaves. Something’s… amiss.’

  Abruptly and now unsettlingly aware of this fact, Thorne felt his palms sweat and his heart pound uncontrollably against his chest, turning his head in all directions looking for an unseen foe.

  Strangely, the Swordsman was still notably calm.

  Thorne swallowed back the lump in his throat. ‘Shouldn’t we…uh…go?’

  The Swordsman nodded, ‘yes, yes we should.’

  He then removed his hand from Thorne’s face, grabbed the hilt of his sword and slowly pulled it upwards, the sound of the two metals of the sword and scabbard scraping together piercing the silence of the forest like a knife.

  Thorne’s eyes flew to the sword, an odd brew of fear and comfort bubbling inside him. Comfort from the fact that this weapon could very well save his life, and fear from the opposing fact it meant imminent danger would be lurking near.

  ‘You’re not going to have to use that, right?’ Thorne asked hopefully.

  ‘You’d best hope not,’ the Swordsman replied, disappearing under the shadow of the trees.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Thorne, sprinting to catch up and bumping into him yet again in the process.

  ‘Oh, Gods dammi–’ Thorne began, only to be halted in mid-speech again by the man’s glove.

  ‘Ssh,’ he hissed, ‘what do you make of this?’

  The Swordsman held up his sword and prodded a throbbing red vine that curled around the tree like a snake. With his luck, it probably was a snake.

  ‘Some sort of vine?’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Hm. I’d say we’re reaching the end of the forest, follow me.’

  Thorne shook his head in dismay. ‘You said that about four hours ago,’ he mumbled.

  The man did not reply.

  Thorne sighed and followed the man into a thicket of trees. Seconds later, the Swordsman came to an abrupt halt. Thorne was rubbing his sore head, having ploughed into his back.

  ‘Why are you stop...?’ Thorne’s w
ords were cut off by the sight before him.

  Thorne pointed, finger trembling at the tree in front of him.

  ‘Poor soul…’ muttered the Swordsman.

  Entangled in the mysterious red vines and hanging upside down was a young man. His face still bared the remains of life with a lopsided grin but from the smell it was clear the man was long dead.

  There was something not quite right with this man however. Upon closer inspection of the corpse, the Swordsman pointed out that the grey pallor of his skin and the cut of his jaw resembled that of a Regal.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Thorne asked, ‘alone?’

  ‘Regals tend to spread their numbers wide when travelling, to get an idea of the lay of the land,’ the Swordsman said, adding ominously, ‘we may find more of them.’

  ‘More?’ Thorne said, a lump forming in his throat.

  The Swordsman sighed and closed the eyelids of the other man with two fingers. He then held his hands together in what looked like prayer.

  ‘What did this?’ Thorne asked.

  Strangely enough, this question seemed to unsettle the man, but all Thorne could get out of him was: ‘I have a number of ideas.’

  Perhaps it was too soon to judge, but from his limited experience in the stranger’s company, anything which rattled the man’s composure was surely not an encouraging sign. He shuddered to think what lay ahead.

  Just before they passed the tree, the Swordsman paused and turned to face Thorne. ‘What?’ asked Thorne.

  ‘We had best be extremely cautious.’ The Swordsman gestured at the thicket of trees in front of him with his sword, ‘whatever did this is probably lying in wait for us ahead.’

  ‘Probably?’

  The man shrugged, ‘well, I say ‘probably.’ Really - it’s ‘most definitely.’

  ‘So?’ Thorne replied, trying to sound braver than he felt, and to ignore the clamminess of his hands.

  ‘If you’d rather we turn back–’

  ‘Back through the forest?’ Thorne stammered, feeling his face go pale at the thought.