Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  ‘Ahh, our guest is awake,’ the woman beamed, ‘please, join us.’

  Thorne had to bite his tongue to prevent an outburst when he stepped inside the room. He’d felt a sudden spike in Majik, all which emanated entirely from the woman. It was a feeling he’d not come even close to since his departure from the Spire. But this was something entirely different. While it comforted him to be near another Majik user, he felt somewhat overwhelmed by the force that probed him.

  ‘I trust you are recovered?’ the woman asked.

  Thorne nodded, ‘yes... but, where am I?’

  ‘This is Zakariyanna’s place,’ the Swordsman said, nudging the woman beside him, ‘you’ll be safe here.’ He then proceeded to tugging at the bandage on his arms with apparent discomfort.

  ‘Stop that, they’ll fester,’ the woman tutted.

  Albeit with a grimace, Zaine nonetheless accepted the scolding, to Thorne’s bemusement.

  He wondered how long they had known each other, and secondly, what was it with everyone he’d met outside the Spire and the need to conceal their faces?

  ‘You know each other?’ Thorne asked, deciding he was not brave enough to ask the second question.

  The Swordsman offered a rare chuckle. ‘Do we?’

  ‘For forever it seems,’ she smiled, and turned to Thorne, ‘but we have all the time in the world to discuss that, for now I am concerned about you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Remember the blissgiver, Warlock?’

  A horned head and that annoying giggle surfaced in Thorne’s mind. He shook it away, ‘what do you mean?’

  ‘The fogspawn established a connection with you, did it not?’ Zakariyanna asked.

  ‘I... what?’ Thorne gulped.

  ‘Wouldn’t stop yelling in your sleep for days,’ Zaine muttered.

  Thorne’s head was spinning. Days? He’d been here for days? How ill had he been?

  ‘If you will excuse me,’ Zakariyanna interrupted Thorne’s thoughts, ‘I should probably get you a few herbs, you’re looking a bit peaky.’

  With that the woman drifted past him into the room he’d awoken in.

  ‘Peaky?’ Thorne said, putting his hands up to his cheeks.

  ‘Threw up everywhere,’ the Swordsman muttered as he passed Thorne, ‘filled a whole bucket...’

  ‘Zaine!’

  ‘Coming,’ Zaine said, sheathing his sword.

  ‘Hey wait!’ Thorne rushed to the door. He’d been sick as well? What had they meant about the blissgiver establishing a connection? And who was this woman?

  ‘Won’t be long,’ Zaine said, closing the door behind him.

  Thorne stood staring at the door for what must have been a minute before giving up to pace around the new room.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to make of all this. First his guide had been viciously killed in the forest. He’d then bumped into this moody mercenary and had his own dance with death, and now he was here! In some enchanted house in the presence of some... sorceress? It all seemed a dream. He almost expected Death and his scythe to pop out from behind one of the bookshelves, bearing some more cheery news.

  He then strode towards the wall to have a closer look at the tapestries he’d noticed earlier. Thorne had to admit that they were really quite incredible and had clearly been hand-woven with great patience and skill.

  He paced around the room, his arms folded against his chest, eyeing each tapestry for a short while before moving on to the next. His eyes eventually stopped and held on the one in the darkest corner of the room.

  At the far left of the tapestry, kneeling, Thorne assumed from exhaustion rather than awe, was a knight. His golden armour and the sword he held high were both spattered with blood.

  At the other side, towering over the comparatively fragile-looking knight was an imposing beast. It was gigantic with huge flaming wings and spikes the size of a grown man erupting out of its spine. A torrent of flame spiralled from its gaping maw, encircling the lone soldier.

  Thorne could not tear his eyes form the tapestry, he was captivated by it. Strangely, he could have sworn he’d seen this knight somewhere before...

  ‘I wove that one myself,’ Zakariyyana said, causing Thorne to jump.

  ‘It’s... it’s amazing,’ he said, suddenly conscious of how disconcerting it was to not be able to see the woman’s eyes.

  She smiled and Thorne blushed, stupidly concerned that she could somehow hear his thoughts.

  ‘It is kind of you to say,’ she beamed, ‘the fable of Hrokomar has always interested me.’

  ‘Hrokomar?’ Thorne said, ‘as in ‘the Vales of Hrokomar’?’

  ‘The very same,’ Zakariyanna said, ‘you have heard the stories?’

  The Masters of the Spire frowned on the idea of anything other than tomes focusing strictly on matters of Majik essential to the function of a Warlock. So, the few fables that reached students of the Spire were always passed on by word of mouth from traders that came by.

  ‘A few, I think,’ Thorne replied.

  Zakariyanna caressed the tapestry with the back of her hand and extended a finger at the golden knight. ‘Do you know who this is?’

  Thorne shook his head. He knew he recognised the knight from somewhere. Perhaps he’d just heard a description once, which matched the depiction of the tapestry.

  ‘The knight was known as Fierslaken,’ the woman explained, ‘former King of Horizon, prior to the cities’ claim to autonomy, and lord of the decimated city of Räne. Legend says he was the fiercest warrior to walk this land and fought with the strength of dragons.’

  ‘Dragons?’ Thorne’s interest peaked, mystified by Zakariyanna’s words.

  ‘Yes, tis’ quite a tale if you would care to hear it?’ Zakariyanna offered.

  ‘Please,’ Thorne answered eagerly.

  The woman laughed and then launched into her tale.

  Twas hundreds of years ago when great beasts of legend such as this walked the earth, inhabiting the islands known as the Fire Isles. They were known as dragons. They were fearsome creatures who often warred amongst themselves, never settling for a moment. Despite their violent nature, however, it was said that man revered them and worshipped the beasts like Gods. They built magnificent shrines and monuments in their honour, some which still stand today.

  But not all were content with their destructive rule, hundreds who had lost their homes, family and cattle to these dragons were furious and wanted blood.

  It is said that they were led by a legendary warrior called ‘Fierslaken’.

  After numerous brutal battles over a great many, bloody years, the dragons were slaughtered to the point of extinction and most of their great monuments burnt down.

  The last dragon left was Hrokomar, the most majestic of all. Fierslaken managed to goad the beast into a duel to which many starry nights bore witness. There are still parts of the Vales of Hrokomar to this day where neither grass nor flower dare rise from the ashes of dragon-fire.

  And yet, to the surprise of many, the great dragon Hrokomar was slain by the warrior and his name forever sealed in glory by dragon blood.

  Some say that after the battle he decided to bury the beast as a mark of respect. Others say that he, instead, drunk the beast’s blood, till its body was dry, and hung its head in the great hall of Räne.

  Of course, the truth of events that occurred all those years ago has been distorted by time. Still to this day do scholars discuss at length the great battle.

  It was said that the All-Father, God of all Gods, Ozin, gifted the warrior and all those of his bloodline with Godly power, to look after the common people for eternity. Others, however, believe that Ozin was furious with the warrior for destroying such a magnificent race of beasts. They say that his rage blackened the sky as he lay a curse upon the warrior that would consume him and all his line for eternity.

  ‘So, the end–’

  ‘A myth,’ Zaine interjected, appearing suddenly, ‘nothing more.’

 
‘You have never been one for such tales have you, my dear Zaine?’ Zakariyanna laughed.

  ‘No, I have not,’ Zaine replied, in a tone that seemed to bring finality to the topic of conversation.

  The woman maintained her smile, albeit a little thinly Thorne observed for a moment, before it vanished entirely. He briefly considered probing Zakariyanna further but decided otherwise. He could always ask Zaine later.

  ‘Now,’ she turned to Thorne, ‘before we attend to the blissgiver, I understand that there is a rather unusual artefact, which is currently in your possession. Would you like to see some light shed on this little mystery?’

  Thorne frowned and looked down at his robes. He could feel it under the garments, but it was well out of sight. The woman couldn’t have possibly seen it, and he certainly hadn’t shown it to Zaine.

  He raised his eyebrows at the Swordsman in confusion.

  His companion simply shrugged.

  ‘I’m a seer, darling,’ Zakariyanna chuckled lightly, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to this.’

  ‘A seer?’

  ‘I can see into the past, present, the future, when given an opportunity to do so.’

  ‘So... you’re like a palm reader then?’

  The woman laughed raucously. ‘Not at all, no! I merely can establish a connection with a variety of objects and people I feel drawn to. Of course, I can force a connection with someone if I need to.’

  ‘How?’ Thorne inquired, keeping a firm grip on the rod by his belt.

  ‘How else? What connects us all, dear Thorne, if not blood?’

  Thorne then slowly pulled aside his robes and unhooked the rod. He turned to Zaine, who nodded, and then reluctantly handed it over.

  ‘You’ll get it back soon,’ Zakariyanna smiled reassuringly. She then turned her attention to the rod, tracing the long nail of her index finger along its grooves. The usual dazzling smile had been replaced by a frown; an expression that her face seemed unaccustomed to.

  ‘Well? What do you see?’ Zaine demanded.

  The seer remained silent for a moment, continuing to trace her fingers over the metal. She eventually broke contact to reply in an intrigued tone, ‘this is no ordinary object...’

  Thorne frowned. Perhaps his earlier suspicions hadn’t been far off after all.

  He became slightly concerned when he spotted a blue light radiating from the seer’s hand, but he chose not to say anything. She played the light across the surface of the rod, murmuring softly to herself.

  Zakariyanna paused, running a forefinger over the irregular, raised runes that formed a ring around the base of the rod. ‘I wonder...’

  Suddenly, the rod began to vibrate. Thorne was startled by another sudden spike in Majik, as the rod’s engravings started to furiously flash green. It then soared away from Zakariyanna’s open hand, into the centre of the room, rotating slowly around its axis; every candle it illuminated was immediately extinguished.

  Thorne watched in incredulity as one of the ends of the rod became incredibly bright; so much so that Thorne had to shield his eyes with his hand. Then, without warning, the light emanating from the rod too was smothered. The room barely illuminated by the few flickering candles that remained alight.

  ‘Wh–What was that about?’ Thorne stuttered, staring at the slowly rotating rod.

  ‘Wait,’ Zakariyanna whispered, raising a hand.

  As if in response to her motion, the rod hummed back into life and released a single green ball of light, which orbited the rod, following its slow rotation. Gradually, the rod increased its pace. Matching its speed, the ball crackled and hummed, moving further from the rod, as if through centrifugal force.

  Suddenly, the rod fell silent and stopped rotating. Without warning, the ball flew at Thorne and, before he could raise his hands, plunged into his chest.

  He staggered backwards, gasping and pulling at his clothes frantically. Zaine made to move towards Thorne but Zakariyanna grabbed his arm. ‘No, we must wait.’

  Thorne glanced up at Zakariyanna. ‘Get... it out...of me!’ he whispered imploringly.

  In truth, it hadn’t hurt at all, he just felt strangely numb around his arms and face. The green light had now begun to glow through his skin. He felt a strangely familiar itch, as his eyes flared.

  Zakariyanna, much like Zaine, was transfixed. ‘I’d read tales but this,’ she breathed, ‘this is quite… extraordinary.’

  There was a brief silence, broken only by the hum of the rod, as it started spinning again.

  ‘Extraordinary?’ said a familiar voice, ‘I am far more than that.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘Can you see one,’ asked Varg.

  ‘Smell, not see,’ Vince replied curtly.

  ‘Same difference,’ Varg grumbled, holding the reins of the horse in one hand, so he could use his free hand to scratch an itch on his backside.

  It was raining in Féy. It always seemed to be raining in Féy, Varg realised, as the cart rattled and jerked along the uneven, cobbled pathway.

  It was still busy though, choc–a–bloc full of people about the place. The men walked briskly to and from shops, using the large newspapers they’d bought earlier in the day to cover their balding heads from the incessant rain. The women stood idly by the buildings, under the overhanging roofs, holding elaborate yet silly looking, frilly umbrellas over their heads, despite the fact that they appeared too flimsy to survive even the lightest of breezes.

  It was said that Féy was a city of great culture, to Varg however, it looked like a city full of idiots, a big city full of idiots. How were they ever going to find one kid in the middle of all this?

  ‘Smell anythin’ now?’ he asked Vince, poking his absurdly hooked nose.

  ‘Oi!’ Vince exclaimed, ‘don’t do that!’

  ‘I swear to the Gods, Vince, if we don’t find that little sod soon I’m going,’ Varg growled, adding with malice, ‘and I’m leavin’ you here.’

  Vince glared at the bearded man, regarding his spot-covered face with dislike, ‘yeah? Just try it, and then see how good you are at finding that little sod?’

  Varg snarled and spat on the road beside the cart, ‘just hurry up a bit would ya then, I’m bloody freezin’. I swear this ‘aint worth an ‘undred gold pieces.’

  ‘two ‘undred, stupid,’ Vince reminded him, ‘and that’s just up front, the Cloaks are promisin’ a thousand each for when we find the sod.’

  ‘Humph,’ muttered Varg.

  The gold was certainly tempting, but he would’ve given all the gold in the world for a warm bed right about now.

  ‘The cloaks had better pay up, or they’ll be gettin’ more than just words from me,’ Varg promised, running his hand across the smooth blade by his hip.

  That was just for show of course. He needed Vince to know that it was he who was in control. He kept the truth to himself, and the truth was that the Cloaks and their masters scared the living daylights out of him.

  He could remember vividly the time, two weeks ago, when he’d visited one of the local pubs in Dalmarra, ‘The Grey Grit’. The ‘r’ had fallen off a month before, leaving the sign to display ‘The Grey Git’, which was both amusing and decidedly apt, given the innkeeper’s demeanour. So, Varg decided it had earned five silvers for a jug of beer.

  He should have known something was amiss when the aforementioned, mean–spirited innkeeper, an obese man with a heavily waxed, curly moustache, took his coin with a smile too wide for his face, and told him to ‘have a nice day.’

  No-one ever told him to ‘have a nice day,’ the kindest thing someone had told him the last time he’d handed over his gold was to shove his ‘zitty little head down a barrel and bug off.’ Politeness didn’t really go hand in hand with innkeepers, particularly this one, and especially when it was Varg on the opposite end of the bar.

  Unfortunately, he realized that the drink was drugged when it was too late – when he was on the back of a horse snoring against a cloaked figu
re in front of him. That was when he had met Vince, the hooked nose man who, like himself, had been sitting behind his cloaked captor with his hands tied behind his back and his legs strapped to the horse’s body.

  ‘They drug you up as well?’ he remembered Vince ask him, ‘I swear that’s the last time I go to a pub.’

  Of course, he was only half awake at that point and he merely grunted in response before succumbing to sleep again, the hooked-nosed man’s words not registering clearly in his head.

  Once their captors had arrived at their intended destination, he and Vince had been untied and thrown into the mud.

  ‘What the ‘ell?’ Varg had growled at the Cloak, spitting out a mouthful of muck, reaching for the dagger at his side that, of course, was no longer’ there.

  The man had then grabbed him and pulled him close to his face. Under the cloak, his captor wore a black metallic mask which completely obscured his face.

  ‘Utter one more word and, by Athrana, I’ll kill you here and now,’ his captor said. He hadn’t doubted the cold sincerity of the man’s words for a second and just managed to gulp in reply.

  ‘Do you understand me, filth?’ the Cloak had asked, pressing his own dagger against Varg’s exposed neck to let a trickle of blood flow onto the ground.

  Varg nodded quietly.

  Satisfied, the cloaked man had wiped the dagger on Varg’s tattered shirt and then dragged him by the scruff of his neck.

  Vince had followed in behind with his own captor, whistling a song completely out of tune.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he’d said, ‘if they wanted to kill us we’d be dead already!’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Varg had growled back, ‘just shut the ‘ell up would ya.’

  Vince shrugged and continued with his tuneless whistling.

  Inside the cave the Cloaks lit torches illuminating the many tunnels before them.