Thorne Grey and the City of Darkness

by Farrell Keeling

  He turned back and walked through the doors and into the Hall, feeling warmth suddenly radiate around him. The Hall was even bigger than the Hall of Majik. The ceiling was lined with golden chandeliers, which swayed in the breeze that had accompanied Thorne through the doors. The walls were bronze coloured with beautifully carved, angelic statues attached to the walls, their hands gripping their candles tightly. Past the marble floor and statues stood a golden throne and, as Thorne approached, he spied at the figure sat stiffly upon it.

  The man wore a large white fur coat that fell to his feet and spread from the throne like tendrils. In fact, he was dressed completely in white, from his scarf to his boots. His hands, however, were covered in black gloves. To the right of the man, fiddling with a gleaming medallion was a boy. His clothes were unkempt and ragged, an odd and dramatic contrast, Thorne thought, to the grandeur of the Steward.

  Thorne paused before the throne and bowed. The man inclined his head in return and beckoned Thorne forward with a gloved hand. Thorne took a step forward, doing his utmost to maintain eye contact with the man’s piercing gaze.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Warlock?’

  Thorne raised his eyebrows, momentarily startled by the soft, almost musical quality of the man’s voice. ‘Are you the Steward of this city, my lord?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied, the boy beside him flinched as he adjusted his position on the throne, ‘my name is Xalem, I believe you are Thorne?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Thorne replied in surprise.

  He knew his name?

  Xalem smiled wryly and folded his hands together, ‘so, I will ask again. Why have you come?’

  ‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ Thorne frowned, ‘but I thought the reason had been made clear?’

  Xalem’s eyes flickered towards the door behind Thorne.

  ‘The dark point,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘And they sent a boy to perform this critical task?’ the Stewards gaze shot back towards Thorne, scrutinising his dusty blue robes.

  Thorne managed to hold his gaze, although not without some discomfort. ‘Not initially, my Lord,’ Thorne grimaced, ‘that was to be my mentor’s duty, but he was… killed.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Xalem said, adjusting himself on the throne and narrowing his eyes, ‘it must have been difficult for you.’

  ‘It has,’ Thorne agreed, ‘but I’m afraid to say my mentor did not tell me how to destroy it.’

  Xalem smiled and then leant over the side of the throne to whisper something to the boy, who stared at the floor, his hands gripping the medallion tightly.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, Thorne.’ he said, then turning to the boy by his side and offering a curt nod.

  With that, the boy pocketed the medallion and burst past Thorne towards the great doors behind. Indeed, he passed with such speed that Thorne felt his heart jolt. The agility didn’t just bely that of a child but seemed abnormal for even a grown adult. This paled in comparison to the show of strength, with the boy alone closing the grand doors through which Thorne had entered, without any apparent difficulty.

  ‘That’s… impressive,’ Thorne laughed weakly.

  Xalem merely smiled and rose from his throne, taking slow steps towards the Warlock.

  ‘So, you have come to destroy the portal?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Thorne said, suddenly very aware of how dark the hall was. Perhaps he was mistaken, but it seemed to be getting darker.

  ‘Why would you ever want to do that?’ Xalem inquired, his arms aloft.

  As Thorne unconsciously took a step back, he felt the rod vibrate at his side.

  ‘Thorne…’

  ‘Gah!’ Thorne exclaimed, still not quite used to the rod’s interventions.

  ‘I would not advise remaining where you are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Thorne replied, his voice coming out louder than he expected.

  Xalem grinned at Thorne, and with a whip of his hands the flickering lights above in the chandeliers were snuffed out.

  *

  ‘Such a beautiful city,’ Illumina murmured, caressing the cracks of a statue with a finger.

  ‘Illumina!’

  The Regal looked up to see Zaine, his hand tapping impatiently on the pommel of his sword.

  ‘We need to find him now,’ the Hunter said, pulling her away from the statue.

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied, following the Hunter across the street.

  ‘We need to keep a low profile, and you going over to admire the scenery isn’t helping.’

  Illumina glanced around. Thankfully, no–one was paying much attention to the two hooded newcomers. She drew her hood closer, shadowing the bottom half of her face. But when she turned to her right, the Hunter had disappeared. Her heart raced as she looked desperately around the crowded street for the Hunter. Where he had he gone? She pushed herself through the swarm, inviting disgruntled utterings from several passer–by’s. Her eyes then caught hold of a hood above the heads of the crowd.

  ‘Zaine!’ she bellowed, but her voice was drowned out by the multitude of voices around her.

  She finally found the man standing outside one of the derelict shops. Vines almost covered the entire surface of the building, creeping through the windows and bursting through roof.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed angrily, ‘you just left me walking and–’

  Without any forewarning, Zaine’s gloved hand flew to her mouth, stopping her from finishing her sentence. She noticed, with surprise, that he had turned pale and that his other hand shook by his side. She followed his gaze, and saw a boy, no older than ten, who stood by the shop staring back at the pair with an inquisitive expression, while fiddling with an odd medallion. Zaine took a step forward and raised his hand. What surprised Illumina was the fact, that, this did not seem a gesture of greeting but rather bordered on the defensive. The boy turned as soon, as Zaine had lifted his foot off the ground, and sprinted away into the crowd, disappearing amongst a sea of bodies.

  ‘Wait!’ Zaine cried, dashing into the crowd.

  ‘Athrana’s grace!’ Illumina groaned.

  She followed him through the crowded streets and the darkest alleyways. All the while, he refused to explain to Illumina why this boy was suddenly so important, seemingly more so now than the search for Thorne. However, no matter where they went, the boy was nowhere to be found. Zaine collapsed beside the stairs of the building they had just entered. His breathing was ragged, although this difficulty seemed more influenced by frustration than fatigue.

  ‘Zaine?’ Illumina murmured after the Hunter did not move or say anything for several minutes, his face remaining utterly pale, ‘who was that child?’

  The Hunter took a moment before replying in a shaken voice, ‘Thorne is in great danger.’

  Chapter 25

  The cold wind nipped at the skin of Thorne’s face and he awoke to the bright glare of the sun. The Warlock winced and frowned as he tried to push himself up to his feet, but his hand sunk into the ground. He looked down – it was sand, just pure sand. What was happening? He was… Where was he? He could remember creeping darkness, a pale face looking down upon him and then… nothing.

  He could feel something nagging at him in the corner of his mind but, no matter how hard he tried, it would not reveal itself to him. Thorne was sure he was supposed to be travelling somewhere but surely not here, to this… desert? However, before Thorne could think further about his rather odd predicament, he was distracted by a low growl behind him.

  He whipped around, and gasped.

  The alpha wolf stood only a few metres away from him, saliva drooling from its mouth and its eyes hungry.

  Thorne took an involuntary step back, tripping over his own feet. Falling over was the stroke of luck that saved him. As soon as he had moved the alpha had pounced; soaring through the air with its jaws open, but its fangs found only thin air to catch.

  The Warlock sprung to his feet, not even glancing
behind him to see what had happened to his ravenous pursuer, and sprinted in the opposite direction, sand billowing in his wake.

  Within a few seconds Thorne could hear the alpha’s guttural grunts as it bounded towards him. He looked back. It was directly behind him now, with a single clawed paw raised. Thorne screamed as it cut into his leg, bringing him crashing into the sand. The beast’s head observed him from above, then it opened its jaw revealing a yellowed set of razor sharp teeth. The promise of death hung at the end of every fang.

  SHUNK.

  Silver flashed before Thorne’s eyes. The alpha howled and rolled onto its side, a huge sword embedded in its chest.

  ‘Who?’ Thorne muttered, his eyes allowing him his first, and probably final, glance at his saviour.

  The sun shone brightly off his golden suit of armour, obscuring the man’s face. A golden gauntlet pulled Thorne up from the ground with ease as though he were a rag doll and placed him over a golden pauldron.

  ‘Stay alive, child,’ he heard the man say, ‘I need you…’

  *

  ‘Who are you?’ Thorne asked, wincing as he tried to get up from the rock. Thorne felt like he’d seen the knight before.

  ‘I’d advise you to still yourself; that is no small injury,’ the knight replied sternly, surprising the Warlock with the power and command held in his voice. There was definitely something… familiar about his voice too but he just couldn’t place it.

  Thorne shrugged inwardly and turned to his surroundings. He had woken in a cave the size of his old chambers. There was a fire in the middle that warmed the surprisingly cold stone.

  The knight placed his gauntlets on the stone bed beside him where the rest of his armour lay. However, when he turned to face the Warlock, Thorne noticed that he hadn’t taken off his helmet; it was only piece of armour he had left on. Thorne thought it looked odd with his simple long–sleeved tunic.

  ‘How is the wound?’ the knight asked.

  ‘Painful,’ Thorne replied.

  The knight chuckled.

  Thorne frowned, not entirely seeing the what was amusing about his injury, ‘so, will you tell me who you are now?’

  The knight sounded surprised, ‘But surely, Thorne, you already know who. The more interesting question is why.’

  Thorne was confused. What was it he had forgotten?

  ‘I really can’t remember you,’ Thorne shook his head, ‘or this… place… where am I?’

  The knight sighed, stood up and crossed the room to where Thorne lay; his injured leg held up on a slab of stone and his back leaning against the wall.

  ‘I will not be able to show you much,’ he explained.

  Without warning, he covered Thorne’s eyes with his hand and the Warlock was immersed into darkness again. Suddenly, images flew through his mind – his meeting with the golden man, the sparks of different coloured light in a dark sky, a large crowd, a crown, a golden armoured knight. A name burned through his mind and he felt a searing pain erupt within his head. The knight pulled his hand away from Thorne’s face before he could shout out and the pain subsided as quickly as it had arrived.

  Thorne gasped. Tiny lights erupted for several seconds before his vision returned to normal. ‘Fierslaken,’ he murmured breathlessly, ‘Horizon’s first king.’

  ‘In the flesh,’ Fierslaken spread out his hands.

  ‘But… but that’s impossible,’ Thorne wheezed, clutching his head, ‘you’re dead!’

  ‘The Steward is a powerful abomination,’ Fierslaken said, stirring the flames with his sword, ‘vampires appear to have a knack for storing souls.’

  ‘A vampire? The Steward’s a vampire? But that’s–’

  ‘Impossible? A myth?’ Fierslaken interjected, ‘I get the impression, child, that you have been shielded from much of the wonders – and dangers – of this world. Tell me, do you even know what you are?’

  Thorne took a moment before murmuring in return, ‘what I am?’

  Fierslaken snorted. ‘Boy, do you still not know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You, boy, are the Phoenix,’ Fierslaken whispered. ‘I would have thought Vigil would have made that clear.’

  ‘The Phoenix? And who is Vigil?’

  ‘How do you…’

  Fierslaken stared at Thorne for a few seconds before putting his head, or rather his helmet, in his hands. ‘You old bastard,’ Thorne thought he heard the knight mutter.

  ‘That rod you now carry by your side, it was once mine,’ Fierslaken said.

  Thorne’s mouth dropped open, his hand flying to his belt. His fingers did not find his metallic companion.

  ‘You won’t find Vigil here, in this realm,’ Fierslaken said, ‘but you will when you leave.’

  ‘When I leave?’

  ‘You don’t belong on this plane and I can set you free,’ Fierslaken said getting to his feet, muttering under his breath, ‘probably.’

  Thorne met the man’s gaze, pushing aside the troubling thoughts for the moment. ‘How can you do it?’ he asked.

  ‘I have my ways,’ the man chuckled, ‘but I will require you to do something after you disembark from this world.’

  ‘Of course. What do you need me to do?’ Thorne asked, leaning forward.

  The man jumped off the stone bed, ‘I will need you to destroy the artefact that holds me in place here, then I leave the rest to you.’

  ‘The artefact?’

  ‘A painting, it should be very close to you. Vigil will be fully capable of helping you complete this task, I assure you.’

  ‘But… What about the Steward?’ Thorne asked, the memory of the man’s pale arrogant face surfacing in his thoughts, ‘and what about me? What I am supposed to do with this… Phoenix stuff?’

  ‘What the world needs of you, boy, there are dark times ahead. Trust in Vigil.’

  ‘But I–’

  The man placed his hand over Thorne’s forehead and growled ‘Go!’

  White light danced before his eyes and Thorne felt an odd tingling sensation. His vision darkened, and he lost feeling in his body as he floated within a black sea – a sea of darkness.

  *

  A sudden, deep intake of breath, as though he’d resurfaced after a long swim under water, Thorne found himself in a cell. Moss covered the chipped brick walls, and the skeletal corpse of an old prisoner hung from the ceiling by a loop of chains around its arms. Oddly, there was no door, just an arch leading into a torch lit corridor. Only the occasional drop of water and the petrified squeaks of rats disturbed the unsettling silence.

  Thorne groaned and slowly got up to his feet, his hand flying to his belt. His fingers closed gratefully over the cool metal of the rod and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Vigil,’ Thorne thought.

  ‘Thorne. You escaped.’

  ‘I had help. I need to find a painting.’

  ‘A painting?’

  ‘It’s a… a dark artefact. Don’t ask how I know just tell me where it is.’

  ‘Thorne…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Look behind you.’

  Thorne swivelled round and smiled in surprise. There before him, untouched and undamaged, was the painting. Thorne could see a vast desert depicted, and on it were tiny moving figures of what looked like animals. Moving figures on a painting!

  ‘Do you know what to do?’

  ‘Majik, of course.’

  Thorne snapped his fingers, a flame bobbing at the tip of his finger.

  ‘That kind will not work, this is… powerful, very powerful and resistant as well. Hold on.’

  A sound similar to the whir of gears echoed around the cell and the rod’s runes began to burn brightly.

  ‘Stab it.’

  Thorne did not need telling twice. He thrust the rod with all the force he was capable of into the painting. The result was not as he had expected.

  The tip of the rod stopped an inch away from the surface of the painting, some unseen force preventing access
the rod’s access to it.

  ‘Push! I will do the rest.’

  Thorne put all his strength behind the rod and as he did so, dark tendrils suddenly lashed out at him from the painting wrapping around the rod and his arms, burning his skin.

  ‘Arrghhh!’

  ‘Push, Thorne!’

  Thorne pushed, ignoring the tightening of the tendrils on his arms. There was a crack and the tendrils were set alight with green fire, releasing Thorne and flailing helplessly by the painting. The rod blazed with green light igniting the painting as well; a black inky substance oozing from the painting and dribbling, sickeningly, down the wall.

  The frame collapsed to the ground and then disappeared in a pile of ashes. Gone.

  Thorne laughed weakly but the jubilation was short lived, as an ear–splitting scream rang through the corridor, forcing Thorne to cover his ears.

  ‘And we seem to have invoked the Steward’s anger.’

  ‘I’m guessing that painting was probably worth something.’

  Before Thorne could think of anything else he heard a door slam.

  ‘Run, Thorne!’

  His heart pounding loudly against his chest, Thorne ducked under the arch and into the corridor beyond. He ran to the end. To his left stood a closed door; to his right, at the far end of another corridor, he could just see the remains of another door, hanging off its hinges. A sudden gust of wind and the flames of the torches by the door were extinguished. Another second and then the next pair were extinguished, a cold, cruel laugh echoing towards him. Another two, another two, another two, and yet he stood still, fixated by the approaching darkness.

  ‘MOVE!’

  Thorne blinked rapidly, snapping out of his trance, pushing open the door to his left and bolting through it. A spiral of stairs greeted him. With the darkness nearing, he sprinted up the steps, ignoring the soreness of his legs. Keep moving. Keep moving. Thorne thought to himself, praying that his haste wouldn’t cause him to stumble.

  When Thorne reached the top, he found that he could move no further. A brick wall ending his hopes of escape.

  ‘No!’ Thorne cried in despair, banging his fists against the bricks.