Before Thorne could muster a reply, the door of the cabin slammed open against the wall and a wiry man stepped inside, the shins and ankles of his trousers besmirched in mud.
‘My lord,’ the man said breathlessly, staggering in the Baron’s direction, ‘the camp– they–they all–’
‘What about the camp? Speak up man!’ The Baron commanded, withdrawing his cane from Thorne’s chest.
The wiry man breathed and exhaled deeply, ‘they’re loose, the slaves, all of them, one of the guards–’
‘WHAT!’ the Baron exploded, his face turning beetroot red, and his cheeks puffing out.
The wiry man flinched, and took an involuntary step back. The Baron looked back at Thorne, then at the shaking wiry man, and back at Thorne again, his eyes narrowing. He licked his lips, grabbed the wiry man by the scruff of his neck, dragging him along to the entrance where he chucked him outside.
The Baron then departed the cabin, hissing venomously, ‘and you will stay exactly where you are!’ and nodded to the burly servant.
Chapter 16
Zaine parried the blood-spattered guard’s rusted sword with a casual flick of his own and plunged it through the man’s chainmail armour effortlessly, as though it were made of paper. The guard let out a brief groan, as he dropped his sword into the mud, his body, swiftly draining of life, sank to the ground.
Emir, the man he had freed first, stood behind him, hacking his way through the guards with surprising speed and ferocity considering his emaciated state.
His stolen sword ripped through the guards with precise lethality, only pausing when he himself incurred a deep gash from one of the slavers’ knives. The slave uttered a startled gasp, clutched his bleeding side and fell on his knees in the mud with a splash. Zaine pulled the guard back before he could finish the job, and with one hand, he decapitated the man. Zaine checked his surroundings and then ran towards the slave, rain spattering across his bandaged face.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked Emir.
The slave laughed, keeping his hand clamped firmly on top of his leaking wound, barking back with delight, ‘they fall like fleas!’
Zaine pulled the man up to his feet, leant down and ripped a piece of cloth from a dead guard’s shirt and the belt from the guard’s trousers and placed them in the slave’s hand.
‘What is this for?’ Emir demanded.
‘You have an open wound,’ Zaine replied, ‘protect it.’
The man grinned and strapped the cloth to his waist.
Zaine lobbed a knife behind him without looking, the blade striking a guard a few feet away in the head.
‘Ha!’ Emir exclaimed, ‘but I can’t go on with you right now,’ he said adopting a dejected expression as he looked at his injury.
Zaine glanced hurriedly behind him. The slaves were getting backed into a corner by the better armoured guards. If he went over to help, Emir would probably be killed, but if he stayed…
‘Go on,’ Emir sighed, ‘before they get to my kinsmen.’
‘Are you sure?’ Zaine said.
‘I’m dead anyway,’ the slave murmured.
Zaine observed the man’s wound with a grimace, noticing the blood leaking through the cloth.
He could stay…
‘Go!’ Emir bellowed hoarsely, wincing as his grip tightened on his side.
The screams at the other end of the camp were becoming more intense. It was now or never. Zaine growled in exasperation, kicked a sword across the mud to the slave, turned and sprinted off in the opposite direction.
‘Keep yourself alive!’ Zaine shouted back to him. He received no reply.
There were about a hundred slaves left, the rest of their brethren surrounding them in circles as bedraggled corpses.
The guards had them against the walls and were one by one executing them.
‘Why do they not fight?’ Zaine wondered.
‘Fear,’ the rod offered.
‘But they can be free!’
‘Some of them appear to have known oppression their entire lives. Their fear of resistance is natural and sadly infectious.’
Zaine watched the fight with disgust, the children were at the back crouched into little balls in the mud, only a few men fought back, but were soon surrounded by slavers who viciously cut them down.
‘Wait, what of Thorne?’
‘He isn’t around the camp, so he’ll be holed up somewhere else.’
‘And what if he is in trouble?’
Zaine stopped running, only a few metres from the slaughter, his sword raised above his head.
‘You could not have thought of this earlier?’
‘I’m surprised you did not.’
Zaine sighed and shook his head. ‘He will be fine,’ he thought back.
‘Really? How aware are you of his power?’
‘I know enough.’
The voice fell silent, and Zaine returned to the screams of the dying slaves. He was only a few metres away from the fight he could still help them.
‘You’d better stay alive Thorne,’ Zaine growled and, with silent determination, the warrior sprinted into the fray, sword held high.
*
Thorne grimaced as chains were wrapped tightly around his arms, scowling at the burly man before him.
‘Is this – ungh – really necessary?’ Thorne asked.
The burly man glanced at him quietly, his grin revealing a number of yellowed, cracked teeth, some with golden caps. He pushed the Warlock down roughly onto a chair beside the Baron’s table, wrapped another set of chains around the chair and Thorne. He then turned his back and started rummaging through a large sack he’d brought with him. Thorne watched the man’s back for a few seconds and, as quietly as he could, wriggled his arms and legs. They would not budge. Thorne sighed, and tilted his back on his chair in defeat.
Admittedly, even if he was able to freely walk around; the door was locked and there were no windows, no obvious means of escape. So why did the Baron order this?
There was a jingling sound, like that you’d hear from a set of keys and the man began to laugh hysterically. It was a gruff manic sort of laugh and Thorne wasn’t comforted by it in the slightest.
‘Hey! Why did you tie me up?’ Thorne said, ‘it’s not like I’m going anywhere with you here.’
‘Can’t blame the Baron for being careful,’ the burly man laughed. He recognised the man’s voice.
‘Wait… I know you, didn’t you carry me here?’
‘Shut up, Warlock,’ the burly man spat, pointing a knife in his direction, ‘or I’ll make sure you do, if you catch my drift.’
Thorne frowned at the sight of the blade but thought it best to do as the man instructed. While he knew the threat was hollow, given the Baron (not to mention the mysterious Shadow) wanted him alive, he was very conscious of how completely at the burly man’s mercy he was. The man dropped the knife on the table and returned to rummaging through his sack.
Thorne closed his eyes and groaned quietly. There had to be something he could do! Zaine was out there, he had to be. What if he was in trouble? He quickly shook the thought aside and turned his focus towards the manacles on his arms. There must be a way in which he could remove them, even one of them. He couldn’t think of any majik he had been taught that would work in this situation. Certainly not something that was powerful enough to break metal.
His eyes fell on the burly guard. Perhaps he could incapacitate him somehow? Like he did with the blissgiver back in the Silent Forests. Again, unlikely. He had no idea how he’d done it the first time and he’d been within touching distance of the creature.
Thorne struggled against the chains binding him to the chair, an ultimately futile effort, which left him sweating and the burly man chuckling.
There had to be a way!
He lifted his head and looked at the door, then at the burly man and finally at his chair, and grinned. There was a way. Sort of. He hoped.
Thorne coughed.
The burly
man ignored him.
He coughed again, more dramatically.
‘What did I tell you about talking?’ the burly man barked, snatching the knife from the table.
‘I was just thinking, I mean wondering, but if you were told – I–I mean trusted! – with bringing me here, you must be pretty important to the Baron?’ Thorne trembled.
The burly man lowered the knife and scratched his head with his free hand. ‘I guess… what’s it to you?’ The man pushed his face in front of Thorne’s, spittle flying from his lips.
‘Well… If you’re that important – obviously! – aren’t you, I don’t know, his right–hand man or something?’
‘Well, yeah… I guess,’ the man agreed, narrowing his eyes.
‘Well… if you’re his right–hand man, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out there with him? Protecting him?’
‘He wants me here, I stay here!’ the burly man pointed at the ground with his knife.
‘Yeah, I get that completely, but then who’s looking after him?’ Thorne inquired.
‘I dunno,’ the man shrugged his shoulders, ‘Devan, I guess.’
‘Well, okay, so is Devan the right–hand guy as well?’
‘Nah, Devan’s an idiot,’ The burly man chuckled.
‘Then why would the Baron choose him, instead of you?’
The burly man fell silent and turned his gaze to the floor.
‘Think about it,’ Thorne pressed him, ‘if you’re his right–hand man, why should Devan be beside him? Look at me, I’m not going anywhere with these chains’
The burly man nodded, ‘I… don’t know.’
Thorne held back the urge to grin.
‘Look, I don’t want to presume anything, but If I were you, I would be out there. Think about it, him and Devan alone. what if he thinks Devan should be his right–hand man?’
‘He wouldn’t!’ the burly man cried, striking the table with the handle of his knife, ‘he needs Boris, I’m his right–hand man!’
‘Yes! Yes, you are!’ Thorne said.
Boris paused for a moment, turned to Thorne and crouched beside him, the edge of his knife dangerously close to one of the Warlock’s fingers.
‘You know what I’m gonna do?’ Boris whispered.
Thorne tried his best to look innocently curious. Boris held his gaze for a moment and Thorne began to worry for a second that he was searching his eyes for deception. Fortunately, Boris’ mouth formed an uncomfortable grin and he shot to his feet, marched towards the door and thrust it open. An array of noises from metal clangs to screams pierced the Cabin’s walls, enticing a sour expression on Boris’ part.
‘Eurgh,’ Boris grimaced, ‘not good.’
It couldn’t be a coincidence that a fight had broken out. Zaine must have found him! Thorne had to remind himself again to stay calm. Boris looked at Thorne and then back out of the door, chewing on the bottom half of his lip.
‘Boris, you’re his right–hand man, aren’t you?’ Thorne said.
The burly man nodded, albeit unconvincingly.
‘Show him. If you let Devan stay out there, he’ll get all the credit, and all the credit you’ll get is for child minding!’
‘I don’t childmind,’ Boris murmured.
‘That’s not what Devan will say,’ Thorne said.
After what seemed to drag on for several minutes, the burly man slapped the frame of the door and clambered outside, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Boris is coming!’
The door snapped to a close behind him.
Thorne laughed.
He couldn’t believe that had worked.
All that was left now of his, albeit considerably makeshift, plan was the chair. There was no chance of him breaking free of the chain binding him to the chair but what if he broke the chair instead? Theoretically, this should be the easier option. But there was so much potential for this to go wrong. He could try and rock the chair hard enough for it to fall onto its side, hopefully breaking it and causing the chain to loosen. But that would be putting a lot of faith into the fragility of the chair and, given the wealth of the baron, something told Thorne that the quality of these chairs would be assured. Keep that in mind for later perhaps. He shot a glance towards the door, wondering how much time he had before someone replaced Boris.
So, the chair probably wouldn’t break on impact of it falling… but perhaps he could weaken it first? He looked down at his chains and smiled. Of course, he was being stupid! Melting the shackles would be next to impossible. But setting the chair on fire, however... There was a slight risk, what with him being chained to it. But if he set it alight, well, that would weaken the wood enough, so if he fell onto his side the chair would surely smash!
Or, he would be chained tightly to a burning chair.
All that remained was for him to act on his plan.
Chapter 17
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The man drummed his fingers impatiently on the wood of the desk, his eyes fixed on the small crystal globe before him. The man was no ordinary man. He was a Regal. In fact, he wasn’t an ordinary Regal either; he was the Szar, Warlord of the Regals, granted the second most honourable position that one of his kind could ever achieve. Although, in his opinion, it was the most important position in all the Regal Empire.
He was responsible for the Regal Armada; he was responsible for defending the homes of thousands of his kin, and he would be responsible for wiping out the Lycans of Horizon. He leaned back in his fur chair, relishing the thought of such an accomplishment.
The Lycans, what a filthy race of savages, he thought. His eyes caught the silver handle of a draw of the desk, intricate symbols etched in the surface of metal.
He sat up and pulled the draw open. Inside was a stack of yellowed parchment, old trinkets and, lying on top – the centre of attention – were three large claws.
The Szar delicately picked up the Lycan claws, running a finger along their metallic–like texture. He then turned to the small globe before him and waved a hand over it. The crystal reflected back a man with an angular, long-chinned face, bearing a curved nose and wide eyes. He was a young man still; only eight hundred years old, but his scars told a different story. With the claws, he traced the shape of the scars that ran in jagged, deep lines diagonally down across his face from his left eyebrow to the right side of his jaw.
He glared at his reflection. He had once been handsome but now… that had all been ruined.
If he closed his eyes, the Szar could picture the battle in which he’d gained those scars.
Wounded, bloody and panting, he hefted up his sword, grunting from the pains of his bleeding chest. The dying Lycan looked up at him hatefully and growled. The Regal spat on it and buried his sword in its body, stabbing it over and over again, until finally its spasms ceased, and its arms fell limply by its sides.
Another roar, he turned around and screamed in pain, as a clawed hand slashed across his face. He clutched at his head, blood leaking between the fingers of his gloves.
The Lycan lashed at him again with a deafening roar, but the Regal was ready, and he countered with a back slash of his long–sword. The beast howled as it clutched the bleeding stump of its arm and then lashed out with its remaining clawed hand.
He ducked under the arm and drove his sword up into the Lycan’s muscled chest.
It winced and slumped to the ground. Dead.
A knock at the door brought him back in the present. His eyes flashed open and darted to the door in front of him.
‘Come in,’ he said, hastily dropping the claws in their draw and slamming it shut.
The door opened slowly and a head popped around. It was a woman, her blond hair falling sleekly down the side of her face, greatly emphasizing her beauty.
‘Sister!’ the man smiled, ‘please. Come in.’
The woman smiled in return and closed the door behind her, before crossing the room to meet him, her footsteps echoing around the oval room. In her arms, she held folds o
f white velvet, a blue glow resonating from within.
She stopped before the desk and bowed her head before him, ‘Ismäera preserve thee, my lord,’ she said politely.
‘Ismäera preserve all,’ he replied, and then paused before adding ‘you know, sister, there is no need for formalities when we are in each other’s company.’
‘Of course… Draeden,’ the woman said.
‘Ilumina,’ Draeden whispered back.
Illumina then carefully laid the velvet bundle in her hands onto the desk.
‘You brought the blood, excellent!’ Draeden smiled.
‘Of course,’ Illumina nodded, unravelling the bundle to reveal three vials of gleaming blue.
Draeden smiled, examining each tube individually with a monocle.
‘Have the Elders granted us permission to use the Heaven’s Star?’ the woman asked gesturing towards the crystal globe.
‘Naturally,’ the Szar replied, placing the monocle carefully on his desk. ‘Shall we proceed? I imagine you must be quite eager to find the Phoenix.’
Draeden thought he saw his sister’s features soften briefly.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I mean, it won’t be him, will it?’
‘Human life is considerably short,’ Draeden conceded, ‘but there is no telling the impact of his power.’
The woman nodded and took a vial from the open bundle, uncorking it with a long nail, her brother copying her actions. They then poured the liquid onto the globe; it dripped onto the surface, like crystallised tears that sparkled under the glow of light from the ceiling window. The blood disappeared into the pores of the globe and swirled around inside the artefact to form a dark blue cloud.
The woman leant forward, the tip of her nose a centimetre from the cloudy globe. She gasped suddenly and then her face dropped as the cloud lightened and turned a light turquoise behind an illustrative scene that had begun to form.
‘It isn’t him,’ she said morosely.
‘This isn’t the Phoenix?’ Draeden asked, tapping the globe.
Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness Page 15
