Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  He may have been young but he’d seen and heard enough to know that they had died in one of the most horrible ways possible. The boy remembered the sizzling sound of metal from working in the factories and coal mines and the smoke that clogged his airways was from molten gold. Even he would not have wished such an awful death upon them.

  And now I’m left with them, the boy thought, the sudden terrifying reality striking him.

  The voices cackled, their laughter sending cold ripples across his body.

  ‘Bring the boy,’ one of the voices said.

  The Cloak behind him propelled him forwards, his hands digging into his shoulder.

  He was all alone now. No one could help him. He closed his eyes and submitted himself to the darkness. He prayed, but the Gods were silent.

  Chapter 11

  The light intensified as the hummimg voice echoed around the room, illuminating the shock Thorne dimly knew his face must be showing at this moment.

  For years this object had remained that, just an object; yet twice now, in the space of a few weeks, it had decided to break its silence. Decided... Thorne shook himself mentally. Mere objects could not speak, and yet, this was a strange world he lived in. So few things seemed impossible here. The line between reality and fantasy was so blurred it was miraculous that chaos and madness didn’t greet him at every corner.

  ‘Thorne?’

  Snapping out of his delirium, Thorne raised his head to see the seer and swordsman gazing at him.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Hear what?’ Zaine replied.

  ‘The... the voice...’ Thorne said.

  The bandages that covered Zaine’s face scrunched together into a frown. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to Zakariyanna, who crossed her hands together and remained eerily silent.

  Thorne ran a hand through his hair. The absurdity of his words only now just striking him. Hearing voices now? Ozin’s Throne! Had the whole experience finally broken his mind?

  ‘Thorne...’ Zaine reached out towards the Warlock, only to have his hand pushed away.

  ‘I’m fine!’ Thorne snapped, ‘It was just a mistake...’

  He tried to convince himself otherwise, though he was truly concerned with what the pair of them must have thought of him then. But he was certain he had heard that voice. That same voice that had accused him of being a ‘thief’ just a few weeks ago, just before his encounter with Death. Gods alive... he really was going mad.

  The silence seemed to last an eternity before the seer finally broke it with seemingly uncharacteristic hesitancy.

  ‘Perhaps... whatever you may have heard, Thorne, was meant just for you?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ Thorne mumbled, reaching for the rod.

  The seer - with what Thorne thought to be some reluctance on her part - held it out for him to take. Thorne mumbled his thanks and hooked the rod back onto his belt.

  The seer’s mouth had formed a noticeably hard line under her veil, as distinctly apparent as her sudden loss for words. A trend Thorne found somewhat alarming. Did she know something he didn’t? What was she withholding from him?

  ‘What was that light?’ Zaine said.

  ‘I cannot say,’ Zakariyanna replied, ‘I am sure it is harmless but perhaps the young Warlock should be wary of this artefact.’

  ‘Seems like a cheap parlour trick to me, dwarf manufactured maybe,’ Zaine muttered, crossing his arms, ‘you can’t seriously believe it could be dangerous?’

  ‘There are things in this world that are so ancient their true purpose is hidden, even to me,’ the seer said, ‘I would treat this artefact with an open – but wary – mind.’

  Thorne felt an involuntary shiver creep down his spine when the seer turned to face him. It was uncanny how uneasy she made him feel, even with her eyes hidden behind a veil.

  He turned to the door but not before Zaine laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he said.

  ‘I thought I’d go out, I need some air,’ Thorne stuttered.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to find out about what the blissgiver did to you?’ Zaine countered.

  ‘I–’ Thorne paused. He had not come to see his master die. He had not wished to travel to the City of Light with a strange man. He wanted to go home and forget all thoughts of monsters, visions and talking rods. Everyone had seen the rod light up like a firework but only he had heard its voice. Or at least, he thought he had.

  He was sure the Seer knew more than she cared to tell him but the idea of pressing this powerful being for information made him anxious, as did the thought of reliving those last moments with the blissgiver. But he supposed it couldn’t hurt to have some forewarning of what was to come. ‘I guess…’ Thorne said hesitantly, ‘what do I need to do?’

  Zakariyanna stood in the centre of the room, beckoning him closer. Reluctantly, Thorne edged forwards. She gently lifted his hands from his sides and held them in her own. Even this close to her, he could barely see past the opaque veil. Zaine aside, he’d never been more curious and yet apprehensive to see what lay hidden beneath. Was she blind? Perhaps her and Zaine had disfiguring scars, too horrific to be touched by the light of day.

  The seer chuckled, and Thorne found himself blushing. He was almost certain she read his mind. He shook himself free of the ridiculous notion and cleared his throat.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing particularly painful,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to need something from you first.’

  I’ll bet it’s blood, Thorne thought dispiritedly, remembering their earlier discussion.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Zakariyanna continued, as if replying to Thorne’s thoughts. ‘My majik cannot be precise without first witnessing your past, I must take into account everything you’ve done and everything that you are.’ Zakariyanna explained, ‘For that, I must take something that is part of your very being,’ She said, reaching her hand deep inside the many folds of her dress.

  Thorne suddenly pictured Rozenhall’s body in the enclosure – all the blood soaking into the grass and sloshing down the throats of the alpha wolves – and staggered backwards, expecting a huge knife.

  Zakariyanna produced a pin. ‘I only require a few drops,’ the seer said kindly. Thorne blushed and held out his hand.

  The seer gripped his hand.

  ‘Is this really necessary, boy?’ a familiar voice tickled his ear, ‘you humans never learn.’

  Thorne hoped the seer missed his grimace, as she gently pricked the end of his thumb.

  She then turned his palm upside down, holding her hand underneath, and squeezed his thumb. A drop formed at the end but, to his surprise, it did not fall into the seer’s hand; instead, it hovered above, forming a small crimson sphere. Further droplets fell from his thumb and, once the sphere had swollen to the size of an eye, she relaxed her grip and ran her index finger over the end of Thorne’s thumb. When her hand had moved away the stinging had ceased and the cut had disappeared completely.

  The sphere of blood lowered agonizingly slowly towards Zakariyanna’s palm, pausing just above her skin.

  She lifted her head towards Thorne, ‘no matter what happens, do not fear or worry. I am perfectly safe. If I appear to be in great pain do not attempt to interfere, lest you wish to suffer great torment.’

  Thorne gulped and nodded in return.

  The seer leant forward, sighing as the blood vanished into her skin.

  Thorne felt his eyes widen but held his tongue, not wishing to interrupt the seer, considering the vast effort she appeared to be making just to concentrate on whatever she was doing. He felt his skin bristle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the Majik levels in the room suddenly spiked again. If Zaine was at all affected, he was very careful in hiding it.

  The seer’s hands began to tremble as her body – much to Thorne’s alarm – rose from the ground. The glow of the candles in the room began to slo
wly diminish at the rate at which the seer’s utterances gathered in pace and volume. Her hands drifted in the air in front of her, stroking things that only she could see.

  ‘So many possibilities... So many outcomes... So much... Pain...Fire,’ they heard her whisper, ‘shadows... shadows in the dark.’

  Then, without warning, her hands shot back down by her sides, her head snapped up towards the ceiling and she screamed.

  Thorne made a move towards the seer but was held back by Zaine’s iron grip around his arm.

  ‘She’s your friend, Zaine!’ Thorne shouted.

  For a moment, Zaine’s grip loosened, and when he looked up at the Swordsman he thought he saw the man’s jaw sagging ever so slightly.

  ‘She knows what she’s doing,’ Zaine replied calmly, his grip solidifying again, although Thorne was certain that even the Swordsman had never seen her like this before. How powerful was this woman, whose Majik sent shockwaves through his senses, threatening to tear them both apart at any moment?

  ‘The long night is nigh!’ the seer gasped. Although it was not in her voice that the words had come forth. Or perhaps it had been, but one of many all desperately attempting to claw above the others to the fore; the words entering the room contorted.

  As abruptly as it had ensued, the screaming ceased and the seer plunged towards the ground. Zaine barrelled past Thorne and caught her just before she smacked against the floor.

  ‘Yanna,’ the swordsman whispered, gently releasing the seer to her feet, ‘what did you see?’

  ‘I...’ the seer lifted a hand to her head, ‘that was... unusual.’

  ‘You screamed,’ Thorne said, and then felt his skin pale as he realised what this could mean for him. She’d seen something bad in his future, something really bad. He fought against the shudder, which caused his knees to quiver and tried to gather his composure. ‘What did you see?’ Thorne asked warily, instantly regretting the words as soon as they departed from his lips.

  The seer was distinctly hesitant before offering a reply.

  ‘The future is by no means a certain thing, Thorne,’ the seer began, ‘so many things can alter the path one can take, not just your own choices, there are so many things to consider–’

  ‘But what did you see?’ Thorne repeated.

  ‘Yanna,’ Zaine urged her, ‘the boy needs to know.’

  She removed her hand from her head, exhaled, and then in a voice that barely rose above a whisper, ‘my dear, if you reach the City of Light, all that awaits you is... all I could see... I saw flames… I saw you being consumed by flames.’

  Chapter 12

  The wind blew around the mansion, causing the trees to swing about. Their few remaining leaves that flew from them and swirled in the air, like a swarm of bees, parted as the cloaked man strode through. The wind seemed to shriek as he neared the house, rattling against the windows as it tried to escape him.

  His cloak billowed about his ankles as he stopped in front of the grand double doors that towered over him, daring to block his path.

  The corner of the man’s mouth curled and he snapped his fingers. The doors creaked open, releasing a wind that rushed out of the house with a groan, desperate to be free.

  The cloaked stranger marched forward into a corridor, the doors slamming shut behind him immersing the interior in darkness. The man waved his hands and the braziers on the walls came alight with fire as he passed.

  A tiny man waited for him in the middle of the foyer. The man had stubble on his cheeks and an uneven mop of hair that hung lankly around his ears. He wore a dusty grey tailcoat, pinstriped trousers, and tattered shoes.

  The man was hunched over, his eyes squinting past the flames of the candle he held on a plate.

  ‘M–m’lord–’ he stuttered, cowering before the man.

  ‘Put that out,’ the hooded man ordered, not even paying the other man a glance as he walked past him.

  The hunched man laughed nervously and quenched the flame with his fingers, stowing the plate and candle in the volumous pockets inside his tailcoat, and followed behind.

  The man came to a sudden halt beside an oak door.

  ‘Are they all inside?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes m’lord,’ the cowering man replied meekly, ‘all with the exception of Mr Baron, m’lord.’

  ‘Of course, and I understand that he has a message for me, Sontiris,’ the hooded man said, holding out an open hand expectantly.

  Sontiris fumbled in his pockets and drew out a folded envelope.

  The man took it and ripped out the letter inside. He took a brief look at the content, before throwing it into a nearby brazier to burn.

  ‘It will have to do,’ the cloaked man said, grasping the door’s handle. ‘Follow me,’ he instructed.

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ Sontiris mumbled, tagging along in his master’s wake, as he passed through the now open door into the huge hall.

  The room had a cavernous ceiling like those found in worship halls. The mustard walls were bare and losing their colour, the corners turned black from mould and mildew.

  In the middle of the room was a long table where several men sat, candles illuminating their anxious faces.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the man purred.

  The men flashed their heads in the direction of the cloaked man, expressions of unease displayed on their grim faces, which they tried, unsuccessfully, to hide by hanging their heads.

  ‘Shadow,’ the men murmured.

  He chuckled softly and slowly sat himself at the front of the table overlooking all its occupants, and then adjusted his hood for effect.

  The hunched man limped behind, laughing timidly along the way, and stopped by The Shadow’s side.

  The Shadow peered from face to face but found no-one with the courage to return his gaze.

  He also noticed to his satisfaction that none of his colleagues had even touched their wine, and kept their hands as far away from the glass as possible. Clearly their previous meeting hadn’t quite faded from memory.

  ‘I trust you are all well?’ The Shadow asked with mock care.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ some of the men mumbled.

  ‘I assume some of you have reports to make?’ The Shadow inquired.

  The men whispered amongst themselves and then all heads turned to one of the men closest to The Shadow; a large man with a bright red Mohawk.

  The large man, who The Shadow recognised as Evren, a bodyguard to the Council, stood from his chair and cleared his throat onto his clenched fist.

  ‘My lord...’ Evren said uncomfortably, ‘I... have news.’

  ‘I am listening,’ The Shadow said, folding his hands together calmly.

  The man licked his lips, glancing anxiously at his colleagues before explaining, with difficulty, ‘one of the Regal councillors, Raël has been found... dead, in his chambers... my lord.’

  ‘Oh? And how did his lordship end up as such?’ The Shadow asked.

  ‘He was murdered my lord, by the assassins.’

  There were angry murmurs among the men.

  ‘Quiet,’ The Shadow hissed, and they fell silent.

  ‘Go on,’ he instructed the man with an inclination of his hands.

  He shuffled his feet and stared at the table, ‘officially the Regals blame the Brotherhood of Wolves.’

  The Shadow sighed, ‘I’m afraid it seems that not all the assassins are a part of our cause.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The Shadow looked up and shook his head slowly, ‘he was under your protection, was he not Evren?’

  Evren could not meet The Shadow’s gaze. He instead mumbled something incoherently and nervously picked at his nails.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The Shadow asked.

  Evren exhaled deeply and, with clear reluctance, ‘that is not the only... regrettable information we have to offer...’

  ‘Really? What else do you have to share?’ asked The Shadow.

  ‘We found information on the child, my lord,’ said Thomas,
a balding man with a goatee, slowly got to his feet, ‘we believe to be the heir of Fierslaken.’

  The Shadow leaned forward and took a sip of his wine, ‘and what information is this?’

  ‘My lord, we’re dreadfully sorry to tell you this... but the child... the boy was captured by the Necromancers.’

  A hush fell over the room, and the men glanced fearfully at The Shadow who seemed to have become frozen in place at the end of the table. One hand was clenched on the table’s surface and the other was curled tightly around his drink.

  CRACK

  The Shadow crushed his empty glass in his hand and let the pieces tinkle individually onto the floor.

  The men closest to The Shadow flinched and sat rigidly on their chairs, hands clamped to their thighs.

  They were all in trouble. They had never seen The Shadow show any sign of anger, but now, they feared, they were about to.

  ‘He was instrumental to my plans,’ The Shadow said in a soft but lethal voice, ‘I am... most displeased.’

  Evren sat back down on his seat and unconsciously rubbed his neck.

  One simple task, The Shadow thought, one simple matter to trust them with and he had again misplaced his trust.

  He pointed at the loose glass on the floor, ‘Sontiris.’

  The hunched man bowed and gathered the pieces with a cloth, stowing them in another pocket inside his tailcoat.

  The Shadow ignored Sortiris as he worked, and glared at his colleagues.

  ‘While you have made a disastrous mess of things, gentlemen, it is, thankfully, not one that is completely irreparable,’ The Shadow growled.

  There were murmurs of assent, silenced when The Shadow raised his hand.

  ‘We must resolve the issue between the Regals and the Brotherhood before a faction war ensues,’ The Shadow continued. ‘They will both be needed in what is to come...’

  ‘Indeed, they will,’ said another voice, strikingly female.

  A woman walked forward, her bare feet making soft taps on the floor.

  The men may not have felt it, The Shadow didn’t expect it from them, but he could feel something strange about this woman. It was not just the aura of supreme confidence that oozed from her, no, but the Majik. So much Majik. It seemed to burst from every pore in her body.