Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  The woman, despite her brimming confidence, hid everything but her smile, with her maroon dress and veil.

  She sauntered past The Shadow, warmly touching his shoulder, and took the empty seat nearest to him, all to the surprise of The Shadow’s men.

  They watched open mouthed as she gazed at them all with a broad grin.

  ‘I quite like it here!’ she exclaimed, breaking the silence, ‘it has a certain... feel to it.’

  ‘Who is this woman?’ Thomas demanded.

  She turned towards the bald man, who frowned at her.

  ‘Ah, Thomas,’ she greeted him, ‘looking as unsightly as ever.’

  The strange woman’s comments lightened the mood in the room and several of the men laughed.

  ‘You dare woman?’ Thomas snarled, his face turning a blotchy red. He then drew his dagger and pointed it at the woman, ‘maybe I should teach you your place.’

  ‘Maybe you should try,’ she smiled.

  The man’s frown deepened and then he yelled out in shock and pain, as the dagger’s blade melted into his hand until he was left holding the hilt.

  ‘But not today,’ she added.

  Thomas swore.

  ‘Silence,’ The Shadow commanded.

  The man glared at the woman, as he nursed his scalded hand, whimpering softly as a strong burning smell drifted across the room. The group wrinkled and rubbed their noses in disgust, but The Shadow could not help but smile.

  ‘I have missed you,’ he told the woman admirably.

  ‘And I you,’ she beamed, ‘but I came to discuss the matter of Thorne; what does the Baron intend to do with the Warlock?’

  ‘My lord, she has no right–’

  The Shadow lifted his hand in the air again, and then leaned back on his chair and tilted his head around to examine the room.

  ‘She is quite right,’ he said out loud, ‘it’s quite a lovely house isn’t it.’

  The men around the table murmured in approval and shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, wary of how The Shadow would end his statement.

  ‘Do any of you know who owns this house?’

  ‘You, my lord?’ the men answered, glancing at each other confusedly.

  The Shadow smiled, ‘I do now of course, however, it was not always so. I think you all know exactly who owned it before, because I acquired it shortly after Vervanis left my service...’

  He could see now, with satisfaction, that many of the men had gone pale. The woman, on the other hand seemed bemused by the tension The Shadow had brought.

  It was then that he added maliciously, ‘enjoying your drinks my friends?’

  Half of the men froze in their seats, while the other half pushed away their glasses in unison, as though fearful that it might suddenly explode in their faces.

  ‘Curious how quickly men’s hearts shrink,’ the woman murmured, ‘are they really worth saving?’

  The men didn’t hear her, or, as The Shadow liked to think, were contemplating deeply how he planned to kill them.

  ‘So, you wanted to know about the Warlock?’ The Shadow inquired, ‘do not worry, I have no quarrel with him, but I cannot allow the Hunter to interfere.’

  ‘Zaine, as far as I know, is headed for the Hunters’ Camp,’ the woman said sternly.

  ‘That may be so, but he may wish to accompany him after his visit and, quite frankly, it would suit me better if the Warlock went alone,’ The Shadow replied.

  ‘I will give you one warning, Shadow, if Zaine is hurt, If I find out–’

  ‘You will not,’ The Shadow promised, ‘I intend to do no harm to him, but I must take precautions. You are a seer, do I tell a lie?’

  There were a few quiet gasps around the room, and several of the men near the strange woman shuffled away in their seats, drawing as much distance away from her as possible.

  The Shadow had many odd friends the men understood, but bringing a seer... in Horizon, it was thought to be bad luck to share a room with a seer.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but you know what will happen if I find out otherwise...’

  ‘Like I said my lady: you will not, but why do you care so much for this man, especially considering the fact that he is, I’ve been told, a traitor and murderer?’

  ‘You surround yourself with such,’ she replied, waving her hand at his men.

  ‘Good company I suppose,’ The Shadow smiled wryly.

  ‘Too right,’ Thomas chuckled, albeit louder than he thought, falling silent as soon as The Shadow turned an ear to him.

  The Shadow then bent over to the side to whisper something to Sontiris, who giggled nervously in response and then limped back in the direction of the door.

  ‘Now, allow me to show you how I keep the rabble under control,’ he whispered joyfully to the seer.

  The Shadow then turned to the group in front of him and clapped his hands to address them. ‘My friends! I thank you for coming to meet me here, but before this meeting is adjourned, there are a few... other things that must be dealt with. Our plans will come to fruition and we shall have what we strive for!’

  The men nodded silently in approval.

  ‘However, although I am not pleased with many of you, I am willing to overlook most of your failures.’

  The men looked up worriedly. The Shadow’s statement had felt more threatening than reassuring.

  ‘Thomas! Evren! Both of you are no longer needed in my service, you may now both leave in peace,’ The Shadow said.

  The men stood up and frowned at him. ‘M–my lord?’ Evren stammered.

  ‘You failed to protect the Regal councillor and, as such, you are accountable for the trouble brooding between the Regals and Brotherhood.’

  Evren hung his head shamefully.

  ‘And you, Thomas,’ The Shadow rounded on you were responsible for the intelligence on the boy. Because of you, the child is now in the hands of our worst enemies.’

  Thomas’s voice trembled as he spoke, ‘I- I have given everything-’

  ‘No!’ The Shadow growled, standing up suddenly, encouraging the men to sink further into their seats, ‘I have promised you the world and you have returned with nothing.’

  Thomas visibly shook with The Shadow’s words and Evren had sunk into his chair.

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ Thomas bowed.

  The Shadow waved them off, and the pair strode towards the door, through which Sontiris had left.

  At first there was quiet, as the remaining men glanced anxiously at each other, wondering what was to follow.

  Then, as soon as the door had slammed shut, they heard the screams. They were such terrible screams that human ears should never have to hear, and yet The Shadow smiled.

  The seer bowed her head and closed her eyes, appearing discomforted.

  Then as the screams began to subside, The Shadow turned to face those still seated at the table and asked grimly, ‘who else would like to disappoint me?’

  Chapter 13

  Thorne had not slept well for days since the seer’s prophecy, and when he did succumb to the night, he found no solace in his dreams. He dreamt of a long, winding stone staircase which seemed to go on forever. Although, he could never bring himself past the first few steps, for fear of what lay in wait for him. At the top of the stairs, by the middle of the tower, in front of a vast set of oaken doors, stood some evil. Or rather it did not stand, nor did it take shape or falter in the wind. It rippled in the air, leering over him, a mass of shadows that had greedily drank both the light from his dream and all sense of hope. It threatened to take him too.

  ‘Thoooorrnnneeee!’

  The voice had come from behind him. What new evil would his dreams present to him tonight?

  He could only bring himself to slowly twist his head and observe the demon from the corner of his eye.

  Amidst the darkness he saw nothing. But before he thought to turn back, he saw two plumes of smoke burst out, like foggy breath from a horse’s snout on a winter’s day. What manner of mon
ster would crawl out from the darkness Thorne wondered. Despite his expectations, neither claw nor fang emerged. In amongst the hot smoke, a pair of green eyes blinked open before him. No, green was too simple, an almost offensive description. These eyes shone like emeralds in the darkness, glistened like diamonds in sunlight. Their fierceness brought him little comfort but, strangely, neither did they fill him with fear. He simply stared back, blinking in synchronization with the emeralds before him, fixed with pure wonder.

  *

  ‘Enough!’ Thorne gasped, dropping the staff Zakariyanna had gifted him, his sweat–drenched body collapsing to the ground with it.

  Zaine had insisted on gruelling combat drills a couple of days after they had left Zakariyanna’s home.

  It had been, seemingly, never-ending hours of learning how to hit Zaine accurately and with speed. The swordsman must surely have known his plan was doomed to fail. Without Majik, Thorne felt useless. He couldn’t manage to land a single blow on Zaine, without hurting himself in the process, or unless Zaine allowed him.

  The worst injury he’d given the tall warrior was a tiny burn on his arm. He’d received about twenty nicks himself (self–inflicted mostly) on his hands, in addition to a horde of welts and bruises.

  ‘I thought we agreed you would not use Majik,’ Zaine said, grimacing as he patted the burn on his arm.

  ‘What else could I have done?’ Thorne demanded, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘They gave us books, not swords in the Spire. Even if I had been training with a blade, you move too quick. I have never seen a man do... what you do. Look at you! You have barely a bruise to show for it!’

  Zaine sighed and sat down beside him, cleaning his sword with a cloth. ‘You were better,’ he said, ‘a lot quicker and you did manage to hit me.’

  ‘Once,’ Thorne scoffed, ‘and you let me do it.’

  Zaine shrugged, his focus remaining on the blade before him.

  Thorne shook his head in incredulity. He’d been travelling with this man for several weeks now and, in that time, he’d learnt nothing about him but his name and his inhuman abilities. He could not quite put a finger on the relationship they shared. He couldn’t call it a friendship. But while Thorne could not say he ever felt at ease in Zaine’s presence, he held a quiet admiration for the Swordsman.

  ‘What are you?’ Thorne blurted out the question, blushing momentarily after when he realised his blunder.

  An eerie silence broke over the pair, as Zaine paused the ritualistic cleaning of his blade. When he spoke, Thorne felt he was weighing his words carefully.

  ‘A man without a home,’ the swordsman replied simply, then turned his attention back to the sword.

  Thorne stood, frustratedly, before his companion for a moment, debating whether to press him further but thought better of it. What was so terrible about this man’s past that he could not bear to answer his questions with anything other than cryptic remarks? Yet all the time Thorne had an uncanny feeling that the answers were right under his nose.

  ‘Have you ever considered forgetting about Majik altogether?’ the Swordsman inquired.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Thorne frowned.

  ‘Have you ever thought that Majik is perhaps not what it once was? Like it is slowly departing this world?’

  The thought had never crossed Thorne’s mind, but the question unsettled him. Majik was a powerful thing, he felt privileged to be one of the few learning how to wield it. It was not a choice he could just make. He couldn’t just ‘turn off’ the Majik within him. How could he? Even if he was given the choice? He had the power to mould his dreams into reality. Fire in the palm of his hands. Moving things with the blink of an eye. What else could one wish for?

  ‘I’m a Warlock... or, at least, I hope to be. What else is there to do for me in this world, if I lost Majik?’ Thorne returned, looking the swordsman for what seemed like the first time, right in his silver eyes.

  A silence descended, broken by the squeak of Zaine’s sword, as he ran the cloth down the other half of the blade. ‘Have you ever considered that perhaps this world is no longer deserving of Majik?’ he said. ‘Sorcerers of old would cross continents to help others in need. Nowadays your people huddle together in your blasted tower, indifferent to the world outside, as you desperately fan the dying embers of Majik. Crime has taken control of Horizon, corruption, greed and war has seized the factions, and foreign nations live in fear of the shackles of slavery. Is it any wonder that Majik has chosen to depart such a world? You Warlocks were once capable of moving mountains, now you struggle to lift mere rocks.’

  Thorne frowned, staring at Zaine, while trying to take in what he had said. In truth, he was struggling to remember seeing the masters exhibit the great power Warlocks were meant to possess. Thorne shouted in frustration, ‘Majik or not, what hope do I have! You heard what the seer said!’

  He remembered the words vividly. The room had gone awfully silent after Zakariyanna’s prediction. There Zaine had stood, holding up his friend whose face had turned almost translucent. He, probably equally pale as the seer, stuck in a moment that seemed to drag for hours.

  The Warlock in him tried to insist that this was all nonsense. This palm reader was a mere illusionist, nothing more. But her sincerity, and Zaine’s sheer trust in her, seemed incompatible with his thoughts. Furthermore, if his recent experiences meant anything, there was more to fear in this world than had been taught in the safety of the Spire. Nothing, it seemed, was impossible outside. Demons, death, so why not prophecies?

  He shook himself. What was the point of all this? If he was to die, what could he possibly do to stop it?

  ‘So, you’ve given up?’ Zaine asked.

  Thorne shot the swordsman a sour look but could not bring himself to disagree.

  ‘Hmm,’ Zaine grunted, ‘well, let me tell you what I believe: I believe no future is unchangeable. I’d trust Yanna with my life, and I trust her visions. But nothing is set in stone. Do you understand? Your fate is your own. Anyone who believes that their lives are decided by the roll of the Three’s dice are deluded or foolish, or… both.’

  ‘Sounded pretty set in stone to me,’ Thorne muttered sullenly.

  The swordsman sheathed his sword and let out a great sigh. ‘Yanna’s visions are not to be taken lightly, but they do not always tell the truth of the future ahead. It is more guidance than prophecy!’

  ‘Well, it’s guiding me to my death, at the moment,’ Thorne retorted sulkily. He jumped to his feet, brushed off the grass that had collected in the creases of his robes and walked off.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ Zaine asked quietly.

  ‘To lie down,’ Thorne replied curtly, ‘I think I’ve had enough for one day.’

  ‘It’s still early,’ Zaine said, ‘we could do with another hour or so...’

  Thorne glared at him and turned to the structure in front of him. They had found the ruin whilst travelling the plains. A cracked stone statuette of a beast’s snout, filled with dagger like teeth, all but confirmed this was one of the old dragon shrines. Time had not been kind to the statue, however the structure of the ruin was more or less intact and had provided welcome cover from the elements for the two travellers. Vegetation had claimed the shrine, with roots and leaves forming a vaguely comfortable bedding above the rock. Flowers of whites and yellows had bloomed in the corners of the ruin, lapping up the light that shone through the cracks in the ceiling.

  When Thorne reached his bedroll, he found a number of crows nipping at the bag that contained his provisions.

  ‘Shoo!’ Thorne shouted, waving his arms. The crows squawked madly and, in a flurry of wings, they disappeared into the sky.

  With a weak smile, he threw himself on the bedroll and buried his hand inside his satchel.

  ‘Do you intend to spend the rest of the day like that?’

  Thorne jumped.

  What? He thought, withdrawing the rod from his belt.

  The object showed no sign of
activity.

  He peered outside the ruin and found Zaine still a fair distance away, running his cloth carefully over his blade. He ducked his head back in and held the rod in front of his eyes.

  ‘Can you actually talk or am I going mad?’ he whispered desperately.

  The rod did not answer.

  Turning his head quickly in wide arcs to make sure he was alone, Thorne pressed the rod again.

  ‘Please. Help me, I fear... I fear– I don’t want to die!’

  Again, his questions were unanswered. With a cry of exasperation he tossed the rod inside his satchel.

  What was he to do? He could not return to the Spire without completing the mission bestowed upon his former master. The Binding had seen to that. But if he attempted to complete the mission… well, his fate was sealed, according to the seer.

  Thorne buried his face in his hands. What had he done to deserve this? How had he upset the Gods for them to leave him with this choice?

  He faced life as an outcast, a mere wanderer. Or death.

  In the depth of his mind, the Swordman’s words returned to him… ‘a man without a home.’

  Before he could ponder this further, a rustling noise awoke his senses. He lifted his head and almost jumped.

  At the entrance of the shrine a girl stood. She could have been no more than 10 years of age, covered in rags for clothes. She did not look like anyone Thorne had seen. Her skin was not pale like his or Zaine’s, but dark as the night. When she spoke her accent was considerably harsher than anything he had heard in Dalmarra. He had heard of her people before, from the Scorched Isles. A supposedly desolate place where only the strong survived.

  ‘Hello, I’m Thorne. Who are you?’ Thorne asked.

  The girl drew closer repeating the same sounds she had before with increased fervour.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ Thorne said, shaking his head.

  The girl was becoming increasingly distressed, as she persisted with her cries.

  ‘Perhaps my friend can understand you…’ Thorne said calmly, while moving slowly towards the entrance to the ruin, trying not to alarm the girl. ‘Zaine!’ Thorne said in as loud a voice he dared.