Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  Before he could move, however, he heard the snapping of twigs and felt an icy breath blow around the back of his neck causing him to jump. He knew what was behind him without having to look.

  ‘Blissgiver,’ Thorne whispered.

  A clawed hand extended on his shoulder spinning him round.

  The demon’s once vibrant eyes had lost their colour, their promise of boundless dreams replaced by the rampant flames of his worst nightmares. Screams. Soul-shattering screams, from children, women and men alike. In its eyes, Thorne saw his own reflected: two hellish, flaming orbs that sneered down upon him.

  One voice began to stand out from the rest, bellowing above the cries, ‘BURN! BURN IT ALL!’ The image of the sadistic smile that went along with it was a still firmly implanted in his mind. It was a smile that promised no compassion, no mercy, only death and hate.

  Thorne yelled, suddenly coming back to his senses, the familiar itch in his eyes arising as he felt adrenaline surge through his body.

  He thrust his open palms against the creature. The Demon wailed as it flew across the burnt grass, offering a soft grunt as it smacked into a tree and crumpled to the floor.

  ‘My Gods…’ Thorne murmured.

  Zaine arrived soon after, sword held in one hand and a vicious looking dagger in the other.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded, ‘did it…’

  The Swordsman then saw the upturned tree and the supposedly unconscious blissgiver. ‘How?’ he mouthed.

  ‘I...’ Thorne stared at his hands in disbelief.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I… I don’t know…’ Thorne replied. It didn’t make any sense, he had been powerless. And yet, at that moment when the blissgiver had touched him, he’d felt a burst of energy suddenly erupt inside of him... and then it was gone. He was back to being a powerless child... weak.

  Zaine still hadn’t averted his gaze. Thorne wished he could read the man’s thoughts, as he wasn’t sure whether the man was considering him as he would a potential threat or if he wasn’t letting on something important to make sense of what had just occurred. He hoped it was the latter.

  Zaine then unexpectedly pointed his dagger at him and for a split–second Thorne was worried that the stranger was going to use it against him, but instead he flipped the blade over in his hand and offered it, hilt first, to him.

  ‘Just in case,’ the man said.

  Thorne wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never been offered a blade before, let alone allowed to use one.

  Before he could so much as thank the man, a soft moan emanated from the fallen tree beside them.

  ‘Here!’ the man said, thrusting the dagger towards him, ‘take it.’ His hand fell as he failed to anticipate its weight.

  The Swordsman broke into a full sprint towards the awakening blissgiver. He hadn’t even got close before it suddenly jumped back on to its feet, appearing before them apparently completely unharmed, giggling wildly.

  It was staggering, the different conflicting emotions it brought out in Thorne. Part of him wanted to laugh with it, but the other half sorely wanted to punch it in its smug face.

  ‘Enough of this sorcery!’ The Swordsman bellowed.

  When his blade landed, the Swordsman found that he’d hit nothing but thin air.

  ‘Blast!’ he growled.

  A familiar giggle rang around the forest.

  Thorne froze – the sound had come directly behind him… again.

  ‘And now,’ the creature began, with disturbing eagerness, ‘you shall be my silent one forever.’

  ‘NOOOOOO!’ the Swordsman roared.

  THWACK!

  Blood. Lots of it. Not as much as Thorne had experienced with Rozenhall and the wolves but... enough.

  It splattered on the ground like paint flicked from the brush of an overenthusiastic artist. At the time, Thorne believed he was drawing in his last breaths, until he noticed that the blood was not red, but purple. The stuff spurted out from the demon’s chest, while the sword’s pommel wavered. He had not moved away in time to avoid the blood from soaking the left sleeve of his robes and his hand.

  ‘Ach–H–Hun–’ the creature grunted between mouthfuls of its blood.

  Thorne felt sick as he observed its wound and its feeble attempts to remove the sword from its chest with trembling hands.

  The Swordsman’s gloved hand gripped the sword, Thorne saw the creature’s eyes widen and the colour change rapidly from red to black, then yellow.

  ‘No… No,’ the creature gurgled.

  The Swordsman didn’t spit, nor curse, nor offer form of words. He didn’t even blink as he pulled the sword out from the demon, kicked it to the ground and plunged the blade into its navel.

  The creature’s body began to convulse. Froth began to build up at its mouth while its eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.

  Then it screamed.

  Thorne had never heard anything like it – it was so high-pitched, it could have shattered glass.

  When it finally died down, Thorne continued to cling on to the sides of his head, fearful that his ears might burst.

  ‘Is it dead?’ he asked hopefully.

  The stranger didn’t reply, he just stood still, staring silently at his kill.

  Thorne cautiously removed his hands from his ears and followed the man’s gaze to the creature lying in a pool of its own blood. Its mouth was agape, and its eyes stared blankly at the green expanse above it.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and began to turn away but stopped suddenly when something strange happened – he heard whispers. They were faint at first, just barely audible, but became increasingly louder and erratic as he approached the corpse.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Zaine inquired.

  ‘I… don’t know,’ Thorne mumbled in response. He couldn’t possibly explain. There was something that obligated him to move towards it.

  He was now just a footstep away from the body and the whispers began to reach their deafening climax.

  ‘No! Stop!’ the stranger shouted, suddenly alarmed, but he could not reach Thorne in time.

  Thorne’s feet now rested a mere inch from the creature’s head and a second later ‘the corpse’ latched its hands onto his ankle, refusing to let go.

  The creature regarded him with its cold black eyes, which then flared violently and his surroundings started to melt all around him.

  ‘Oh no…’ Thorne groaned.

  It was Dalmarra that appeared to him this time, but the scene that had unfolded before his eyes was one of complete and utter chaos.

  The stalls that lined the streets, where merchants would sell their rare and peculiar goods, lay smashed and broken on the cobblestones.

  People ran screaming and yelling amongst the roar of flames that licked across the streets, setting both buildings and people alike on fire.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped round, hands raised. Naught but shadow greeted him. A mass of the purest darkness that drew the light of the feeble embers flickering by Thorne’s feet into its cold embrace. The darkness that stood before him was shaped like a man, but a man it was not.

  When the shadow spoke, Thorne could not help but collapse to his knees. Not because this thing had taken his energy but because it had drained all hope from within him. It was like experiencing the utter destruction of everything he cared about in one instant. In its presence, he could not hope to have anything to live for, let alone fight for. This shadow was the very antithesis of light. Of hope.

  ‘You cannot stop us!’ it told him. ‘We will return’.

  Chapter 8

  It was a quiet night at the Skrunai camp. The tranquillity disturbed only rarely by the occasional cry of a slave, who was swiftly silenced with the snap of a whip.

  The Baron was especially pleased with the progress that had been made. Although, one would not know it from his cold exterior. He stood impassively on the hilltop beside his cabin, observing the on–goings of the camp. Dozens of men a
nd women, chained together in orderly lines, were being guided to their crude metal cages. Not a second would pass where a whip didn’t snap mercilessly across a back, or curses spat out at their cowering forms.

  He looked on impassively. Their suffering didn’t bother him in the slightest, as long as they were all in acceptable condition and there was coin to be made. Really, it was the smell that bothered him. Fortunately, he was safe from such unpleasantness in his aromatic cabin. He closed his eyes and breathed in the air, he could almost smell the gold on the breeze.

  How could the Warlocks, the Brotherhood, and all the other petty organizations criticize his magnificent work? The fools, the Baron thought.

  Satisfied with what he had seen, the Baron turned back and strode into his cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

  What the cabin lacked in size, it made up for in grandeur. The side walls both had large leather couches, adorned with golden laced pillows and cushions, tucked against them. The floor was made of smooth tiles of marble and at the end of the room was an ornate fireplace holding a crackling fire that embraced the room with its light and warmth.

  Above, on a shelf, was a row of golden candle holders, precious pearls and rubies that the Baron had ‘acquired’ over the years. Directly in front of the Baron was a large ebony table, where piles of gold coins lay scattered across the wood, gleaming under the glow of the fire, along with yellowed scrolls of parchment and blotting paper.

  He made his way to the couch on the left, whisking out a bottle of wine and a glass from the cupboard behind him, before slumping onto the lavish leather and emitting a long blissful groan. He poured himself a drink but paused before the glass touched his lips.

  He could have been mistaken, but he was certain he’d felt a cold breeze across his skin, inciting the hairs on his arms to stand on end. His eyes darted to the door, which now stood ajar, waving back and forth on its hinges by the influence of the wind. He was sure he’d closed it.

  Growling venomously, the Baron stood up with his glass and slammed it shut again for a second time. When he’d turned back around however, he came face to face with another man. The Baron gasped and dropped his glass, the smash echoing around the cabin.

  The man himself was dressed in simple peasant clothes – a belted tunic tucked into a pair of travelling trousers and boots. His hands were covered by thin black gloves and he had a mysterious looking ring on his right–hand index finger bearing an insignia of a knife embedded in a skull.

  His face was also mostly concealed, hidden by a hood that covered his eyes and shadowed the bottom half of his face.

  Recovering from the initial shock, the Baron reached for the dagger by his belt and ripped it free.

  The man stood stock still.

  The Baron hesitated for a second, then madly started swiping and thrusting the dagger at the man whilst roaring vile insults. The man dodged every single one, moving gracefully out of the way without appearing to break so much as a drop of sweat.

  ‘Damn trickster,’ the Baron growled.

  As the Baron thrust his dagger forwards, the man suddenly whipped out his hands and grabbed the Baron’s wrists, placing pressure with his thumbs, causing the Baron to yelp and drop the dagger. Before it touched the floor, the man kicked it up and caught it with his left hand, using his right to throw the Baron onto the table, scattering coins around the surface and floor, and held the dagger an inch from his exposed neck.

  ‘Finish it,’ the Baron spat at the man.

  The man laughed, and then spoke, with a surprisingly smooth voice, ‘believe me, I’m tempted.’

  The Baron gulped but refused to show any further signs of fear.

  ‘Fortunately for you, The Shadow stresses ‘collective effort,’ so I merely have a message for you.’

  The man then stabbed the dagger into the table, inches away from the Baron’s left hand and released him.

  The Baron got up muttering curse words under his breath, while taking a long look at the dagger. After much deliberation, he decided against pulling it out of the table, for the sake of his life.

  ‘Very well then, how did you get in?’ the Baron inquired.

  ‘By the door, obviously,’ the man said sarcastically.

  ‘Into my camp, you scoundrel!’ the Baron growled.

  ‘Well by the front gate if you must know. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood to chat and exchange pleasantries with your guards, so naturally they’re all dead now,’ the man said simply.

  ‘WHAT!’ the Baron roared, ‘HOW DARE YOU! THE SHADOW WILL HEAR OF THIS!’

  ‘Of course,’ the man said, leaning on the table beside him, ‘I’m sure The Shadow will be delighted to hear about the incredibly poor state of your security.’

  Again, the Baron’s eyes flitted to the dagger just a few inches away from him, and again thought better of it.

  ‘Fine then, just give me the damn message, assassin!’ he spat.

  The man chuckled, ‘so, you are aware of my profession?’

  ‘You claim to have killed several of my men and made it here without raising the alarm, and you’re wearing that stupid ring!’

  The assassin grinned, rubbing his ring thoughtfully before replying, ‘beautiful, isn’t it? Your... operation, however, trading slaves? How crude.’

  ‘My business is none of your concern,’ the Baron growled, ‘I’ll admit though, I’m curious as to how The Shadow managed to get the assassins into his pocket.’

  The man’s lips twitched at the corner, ‘my colleagues and I have our own agendas. Our relationship with The Shadow is conducive to achieving both our aims.’

  ‘Then you underestimate him and it will be your undoing assassin.’

  ‘Or yours, Baron, but I didn’t come here to exchange idle chit–chat. The Shadow’s message is simple – the Warlock has made it out of the forest and is now coming your way.’

  ‘Already? But why should I care?’

  ‘Because he is not alone, slave–master, he was helped by a rogue Divine Son.’

  ‘A Hunter…’ the Baron said turning around to pull the dagger from his table.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And what the hell am I supposed to do about–’ the Baron began, whipping round to face thin air. The assassin had disappeared.

  The Baron shook his head and threw the dagger back on the table. If the assassin was to be believed and the Warlock was finally out of the forest… Well, it would only be a matter of days before he and his companion were back on the main roads. The clock was ticking.

  ‘TOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!’ the Baron bellowed at the top of his voice.

  A few seconds later a large, bald, burly man with squinting eyes and a prominent forehead appeared.

  ‘Mr Baron, sir,’ Tom said.

  ‘Get me my maps now, its urgent!’ the Baron said.

  ‘Maps? What’s maps?’ Tom asked with a vacant expression on his face.

  ‘What’s maps?’ the Baron repeated. ‘You blithering idiot! Get me your brother now!’

  The burly man sprinted off in the opposite direction, leaving the Baron fuming by his desk. Tom returned seconds later with a smaller, wiry man holding in both arms several rolled up scrolls.

  The Baron picked one and rolled it out on the table – it displayed the land of Horizon, from the city of Dalmarra to the Black Mountains.

  The wiry man looked at it with admiration, his brother, however, stared at it with a quizzical and confused expression on his face.

  The Baron beckoned the wiry man, Tim, and pointed out different locations on the map to him.

  ‘We need carts and men sent out here, here, and here,’ the Baron explained, ‘got it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Baron, sir.’

  ‘I want it done quickly and cleanly. Do you understand me, Tim? Quick and clean, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Baron, sir. Right away, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes, and Tom…’ the Baron began.

  ‘Yes, Mr Baron, sir?’ Tom replie
d.

  ‘Fetch me another bloody glass, I need a drink.’

  Chapter 9

  Thorne awoke to the smell of berries and vanilla, so comforting and calming, it almost lured him back into a deep sleep.

  He scraped the ground around him with his hands but his fingers could not grasp a single blade of grass. He opened his eyes. The leafy ceiling that had once shielded him from downpours of rain had disappeared. It had been replaced by what seemed like a hundred candles bobbing up and down in the air above him under a ceiling of plastered planks.

  The thick, imposing trees of the forest had gone. Walls adorned with tapestries and shelves, containing an assortment of jars, pots and herbs, had taken their place.

  Was he still in the forest?

  Dread pooled in his stomach, as he remembered the blissgiver’s vice–like grip and the vision it had imposed upon him. He had thought nothing would shake the core of him as much as the sight of seeing his home city drowning in blood and flames. He shook away thoughts of flame–licked cobble streets and pushed himself to his feet, staggering and wincing in the process. He hadn’t realised how much the Silent Forests had worn his body.

  He half–walked, half–limped to the door at the end of room but paused in moving his hand towards the handle when he heard voices on the other side. One of them belonged to Zaine and the other... a woman?

  ‘...what did you expect... growing tired of it...’ Zaine’s voice rang in the other room.

  The woman’s voice followed more shrilly, ‘...out of your mind... could have died...’

  ‘...going to anyway... Warlock got in the way...’

  As he leant an ear closer to the door he heard the voices pause.

  ‘...think he’s up...’

  Thorne barely had time to jump back, as the door swung open, revealing the Swordsman, arms covered in fresh bandages, and his companion.

  Zaine was sat on the floor, running a blood-stained cloth covered with a pungent green solvent across the breadth of his blade.

  The woman standing beside him wore a gorgeous floor–length dress of shimmering maroon, which appeared to flow over her. Her nails were long and painstakingly well-polished, glinting under the light. She also wore a veil, which, combined with her dress covered her from head to toe, revealing naught but her dazzling smile. Yet there was something different about her. He got the feeling he was only scratching the surface with her appearance.