by Lucas Thorn
Nysta #6: The Wall of Darkest Shadow
LATERAL BOOKS
First Digital Edition
published in January 2016
Copyright © Lucas Thorn 2016
www.lucasthorn.com
For everyone who lost their job so one rich guy can make a shit-ton of money by selling the company you worked your guts out for. For everyone who endured the corporate demand for loyalty when you were shown none in return. For everyone who was told they were overpaid on minimum wage while your ceo never knows a moment of hunger.
For everyone who always wanted vengeance on those corporate fucks who sold you out.
This book is for you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Last year, the company I worked for was sold off by a CEO who told us it was the best thing for the company. I never understand this kind of lie. If you sell a company and people lose their jobs for it, how is this good for the company? Who, then, is the company if not its employees who worked to build it?
The CEO and major shareholders walked away with nice fat pockets. A lot of other people walked away with nothing.
What I find most bitterly amusing were the calls for loyalty. For trust. They didn't want staff quitting until after the sale was complete, you see. Staff are to lose their jobs on the company's terms.
There is something deeply wrong with this world, and I'm not sure I really know what it is. Only that there's something truly broken about us as a species when corporate greed can have such horrendous impacts on the lives of so many people while a true minority grows fat on the suffering of others.
I have, however, been luckier than most. While I have no family, I have a wonderful wife who has supported me in taking time off from fulltime work while I try to get my head together. It's been an incredible few months which allowed me to spend more time on this book than I had on the others. I hope it shows.
As an indie author, I work hard to provide a great adventure for you to read so you keep coming back to me. I hope in your mind it's worth it and you think kindly upon me despite my lack of a publisher. If you do, please say hello. I'm on Facebook, you know. And Twitter.
Yes, I tweet. I try not to tweet too many ads and I'd really like to hear your thoughts about the books! And already, I've used a few knife names donated by the kind folks who live on my Facebook page. Thank you to those who donated.
Finally, I'd like to take this brief moment to say thank you again to Amir Zand who's made an incredible cover. Amir works really hard in trying circumstances, and I feel honoured to be friends with him. The internet is an amazing place, isn't it?
There's so many friends on it.
Just waiting.
When they came to our land, they brought the darkness with them. Since the beginning, they've shoved down our throats the lie that they are no different from us. But they are different. Look at them. They are callous. Murderous. Evil. To ensure peace in the Fnordic Lands, they must be destroyed.
from A Call to the Light by Dav Buckinum, General of the Oathsworn and Defender of the True People of the North
Me say he not listen.
Me say me not what he say.
He not know goblin from shit.
Me hit him in face.
He bleed.
Die in mud.
Me chewed ear real nice.
from Me Little Black Book of Poems by Dimrod
PROLOGUE
Before the Night Age, there were many kinds of magic. Magic whose origins were steeped in legends of their own.
Legends lost to time. Tools of gods who'd fallen in wars none could remember.
Most of these kinds of magics had been lost to the purges by the Vampire Lords whose arrogance saw no benefit beyond necromancy. Yet, some survived, passed through generations who seldom knew their full potential while living frightened lives as cattle to blood-drinking masters.
Afraid to share their knowledge.
Afraid to use it.
The Nameless Mage had studied magic his entire life, and considered himself a master of many in a world where learning the basics of even one was a rare achievement. He'd come to the realisation a long time ago that all magics were reflections of each other, in a way. Tinted to different colours. Pieces of a puzzle he was still trying to resolve.
But the knowledge of witchcraft or the finer details of lithomancy were like trinkets gathered round a crown. Not always worth his time.
For centuries, only one magic really mattered. Its power steeped in riddles and contradictions, which worked to smother the rest. It left scars not just on those who'd once been powerful, but on the world itself.
Scars such as the Deadlands.
Though he hesitated to say he mastered it, he could use it better than any who lived in the Mage Tower. Perhaps almost as well as the Dark Lord himself. But he was certain its full potential still lay in depths beyond him. Defying him.
Whenever he thought he understood it, it threw up walls as though it were a conscious entity seeking to keep its secrets masked forever. That thought alone sent shivers down his spine.
He hated it.
Despised it.
But welcomed its power.
Unlike the old magics, there was no real sense of the universe warping around him. No rushing of energies. No need to wrestle with the ethereal plasma of worlds which left him breathless afterwards. All he had to do was mutter the words.
No rituals.
No makings.
And every time he cast, he knew what would happen. The words made no allowances for strength. For knowledge. Anyone could learn the art of the Dark Lord's magic. All it took was a knowledge of the cryptic words of power they'd need. Words of power which were gibberish unless the speaker held the rank to cast.
The sneer came unbidden to his face as he recalled his own rise through the ranks of the Mage Tower.
A normal initiate needed to pass through a long and tedious process of ritualised social acceptance. A complex journey of occult training which tested patience and dedication which could only be overcome by vigorous study or the graceless application of bribes and corruption.
With each new level, something within the initiate is unlocked by the Tower Master and this allows for the casting of greater magics.
They argued this was how they safeguarded power from those who might abuse it.
Those like him.
Ultimately, he'd come to conclude it was a magic which should not exist. Which defied the conventions of all that came before. Just like the three gods who'd brought it with them.
His own power, product of his heritage, boiled and bubbled within his veins. Writhing against the alien energy seething through him as the words left his tongue. He ignored the conflict. Ignored the storm raging in the back of his mind and in his soul.
Knew he had to be master not just of his own, but the magic of Grim's mages.
Magic of the gods.
And he would, he resolved. He'd master it fully. All its secrets would belong to him soon. Very soon.
He closed his eyes as the spell completed. As the final word reverberated through the cavern. Behind him, candles lined their shelves to illuminate an army of containers. Little boxes made of wood, with spidery runes adorning their lids. Each small enough to fit in the palm of a hand.
The candles burned steadily. Their flames leaning away from him, though he'd never noticed.
Never thought of them as watching him as they watched him now.
Watched as his soul left his body on a breath of smoke through his mouth. Black as pitch, it fled the cavern. Ejected through the Mage Tower above.
Across the crumpled landscape it shot.
B
rittle cold meant nothing. He felt nothing as the vaporous clouds cut through his soul. Lights from the towns and cities blinked and flashed beneath him, slashing through the dark like brilliant comets. Mountains reached for him with jagged fingers tipped with ice.
Then he shot across the ocean, soaring over dotted islands of the raider-infested Crossbones. Spearing so fast he thought he was going to disintegrate.
He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound emerged.
And nor would it. He wasn't there. Not physically.
The air was hollow in his ears. Muffled like breath. He turned slightly, looking up at the stars which wounded the sky. For a moment he was mesmerised by them. What was their nature? Their purpose?
One day, he thought, he'd like to find out.
Then he was descending, slipping beneath clouds which hid the nervous points of light behind a thick grey veil.
He'd turned northward again, and was now speeding above the Wolfpaw Plains with the corrupted mountains called the Bloods at his back. He couldn't look at them without snarling. Without wanting to beat at the earth with heavy fists. Not this time. He had other thoughts on his mind and couldn't afford distractions.
Slowly, peeled from the dark, he saw an army sprawled across the land like a black cloak pockmarked with burning embers. Embers from a hundred cookfires. Smoke wafted greasily in front of him. Within the shadows, the army seethed.
He clenched his teeth as he saw their banners.
The Black Blades of Cornelia. A heavy contingent of Star Swords. And the ragged and pathetic mass of the Accepted, called Grey Jackets by the inhabitants of the Deadlands, camped separate from the rest of the army under a plain grey flag.
He moved among them, an unseen shadow licking their edge. At first he was cautious. If the Lord of Light was here, he'd be found. The god's powers were still, even after all these years, enigma to him.
But he couldn't feel Rule's presence. Could only feel a handful of clerics, their powers weak and limited. He could sense the golden link which bound them to their god and he knew he could cut them with a few muttered words. Leave them screaming in the dirt from the pain of disconnection.
Reminded himself again. Not now. Not yet.
It wasn't time. He wasn't ready to reveal himself.
Pushing down impatience, his ears strained for the reason they were here. Why had they massed before the Wall? Rule couldn't afford a war on two fronts. The Nameless Mage knew his obsession was currently aimed at crushing the southern kingdom of Sharra. Why would he let someone lead the Black Blades here?
A few snippets about a lost princess. But nothing coherent. She'd been kidnapped by a demon. By a Fnordic mage. By a troll. An ork. Soldier's gossip. It made no sense.
Frustrated, he dove upward, angling away from the mechanical interests of soldiers and allowed his soul to push north again, flying like an invisible crow.
He lifted his gaze, knowing what he would see. But still, even now, he couldn't help but hold his breath in awe.
The Wall.
Built by Grim, it spanned the continent like a scar and dominated the landscape like nothing else. Even the walls of Doom's Reach seemed small compared to this. It rose so high it dwarfed nearby mountains and made anyone standing on it look like a speck of dust. The army below had no way of scaling it. They'd have more hope building ladders to cross the Bloods.
At regular intervals, watchtowers of impossible size speared into the clouds. Ending in sharp points like swords. Built of smooth black stone, each pulsed with magical energy like a living thing. Even seemed to breathe from where steam escaped the cracks and crevices.
Inside the Wall was a city carved for war. A warren of maze-like tunnels and rooms with wide viewing platforms whose crenellations concealed an eclectic collection of machines whose sole purpose was to rain destruction. Given how high these rooms were, there was no way those below could return fire.
Or prevent their own deaths.
It was, he admitted grudgingly, a perfect defence.
Centrepiece to the Wall and magnet to the gathered Caspiellan army, was the Doomgate. Taller than the Wall itself, but not as high as the towers, the gates arched overhead. Almost elegant. Like a dagger of godlike size. For what practical reason it had been built so high, even the Nameless Mage couldn't guess. But its opening always shook the ground and thunder accompanied from the sky.
Closed and barred, the enchantments which kept it shut could only be removed by a deathpriest who served as its Keeper and no amount of battering could open it.
Not even Rule could tear it down. He'd once pounded on it for days without even scratching its surface.
As black as the rest of the Wall, the gates were icy cold to the touch and seemed to consume light as though made from pure shadow wreathed in hate. Ghostly steam curled around its edge. A sickly green colour. Many said they preferred death to breathing it in.
In front of the Wall, a narrow river of lava slithered along the base and could only be crossed at the Doomgate. It forced a bottleneck no army could easily overcome. The bridge across was wide and never raised. Built of blistered stone and decorated with the skulls of those who'd tried to take it, it practically defied the army to march across and feed the Wall's insatiable hunger for death.
He rose higher, angling across the Doomgate's heaving face.
By the time he reached the top, he was envious to the point of rage.
How could such a worthless creature as Grim have built this? Even with the help of Lornx, the magic needed was tremendous. The Dark Lord's own magic had created the blocks. That much was obvious. His enchantments flickered in the cracks, and there was a hum of energy which the locals called the Song.
But there was something else, too.
Every time he came here, he wanted to retch. Wanted to hollow himself from the inside and bathe for days. The foulness of the magic beat inside the Wall like a heartbeat, and he suspected it was this foulness which leant the impression it was alive. He was sure it was the strange merging of the darkest and most primal of ancient magics which gave rise to the Wall's full name.
The Wall of Darkest Shadow.
Not for the colour of the stone, but for the colour of its heart.
A sound penetrated his study of the Wall and he blinked inwardly.
Electricity crackled and spat as it surged along the Doomgate's monstrous hinges. A howling roar gathered as titanic mechanisms within began turning. Weights as heavy as mountains crashed against each other, causing the earth to tremble. Chains, each link larger than a house, battered and gnashed at each other.
Thunder tore through the sky to bring arcs of light dancing down the sides of the Wall.
And the Doomgate began to open.
He turned, feeling the warm thrill of confusion at thought of the Caspiellan army rushing inside. Then he spun in a circle as the sound of battle from within the Doomgate's shadow pulled his attention down.
He dropped like a stone, plummeting toward the barbican wherein soldiers were fighting to kill each other. Murder rampaged unhindered.
The Doomgate, still opening with a howling yawn, was defended by a ragged bunch dressed in the uniform of the Freemen. They formed a crushing line halfway through the mile-long barbican, rising up out of swiftly-dug trenches to bar the way against those who sought to make it to the opening gate.
Among them were pockets of rough mercenaries. Also, a few orks fought dressed in the livery of the Imperial bodyguard. Why were they here?
He didn't have time to ponder as a rush of soldiers, also dressed as Freemen, rushed the defenders. Swords flickered.
Axes creamed the dark.
Warhammers pounded bone.
Death and blood filled his senses.
Unseen and confused, the Nameless Mage turned and turned again.
This was madness. There were no Black Blades. No Star Swords. No Grey Jackets.
No Caspiellans.
The Fnords were fighting each other. And dying.
&n
bsp; He swept invisible through the hastily-build defences. Leaping trenches filled with orks and men savagely killing each other. Whipped above the screams of those who were dying.
Dizzy on the stink of the dead, he sought explanation.
Smoke from the fires. Stink of boiling flesh torn from its bones by the magics of war. Cleric magic? Confirming this, beams of white light screamed through the fray. Again, this made no sense.
A mist, crawling inward from the town behind him. A town filled to the brim with more soldiers looking ready to join the fight.
Something was very wrong.
His gaze knifed through the gloom and he saw her.
Despite her diminutive stature, she was regal. Beautiful. Even he, who despised her more than anything, always paused at sight of her. Her beauty was spoken of in palaces. In markets. Inns. Feral dives of thieves. But all descriptions were crude and base.
None captured the perfection of her features. Dark skin, smooth and soft over a skeleton formed to carry perfect imperial strength in every movement. Right here, in the shadow of the Doomgate, she was outnumbered. Outfought. Her defenders were tired.
Out on their feet.
But she refused to give in. She rallied them with bloodthirsting shouts.
Skipped across the battlefield, swinging a small sword and screaming curses. Cutting men down with barely-hidden glee.
Hulking in her wake, an ork of immense size and fury. He carried two massive hammers, each so large a normal man would need two hands just to lift them off the ground. Might need a few friends to help him swing it. But the ork used them like they were toys, smashing heads to powdered spray and pulverising chests regardless of armour.
The Nameless Mage was so captivated, he bit his lip. Felt a ribbon of annoyance. She was more dangerous, he knew, than a thousand fighters on the field and not for her sword. Her greatest weapons were yet more subtle.
She yelled then, calling for the Doomgate to be closed. The Nameless Mage hesitated, knowing somewhere close a deathpriest could be watching. And if anyone could see him, it would be one of Grim's cursed experiments.
