Thorne watched from afar with his Magical Eye. His army were holding out against the Chronians for the time being- but he could see weakness beginning to show in the frontline. Gaps in the pike-formation; exhausted soldiers lowering their weapons just enough for the cavalry to bash them aside and break through. As soon as there was a hole in the formation, the cavalry would pour in, murdering and trampling as they went. Thorne took this opportunity to test an area of magic he had developed himself: a unique brand of Auxilaris Arcana that allowed him to empower and inspire his fellow soldiers. Focusing his incredible Power, Thorne meditated, and drew deep into the third plain of magic: The Plain of Blood. It was here that magical warfare was waged, and when those attuned to magic felt the bloodlust and fury of battle, their souls pulsed a fire across the plain. Thorne immersed himself in the fire of the Crimson Army, letting it wash over him and feeling the heat blaze about him. He steeled his mind, focusing his Power and disciplining himself to endure the maelstrom. With impossible control, he began to manipulate their fire- to exaggerate it, make it grow and spread; he connected each soldiers unique flame to their comrades’, and synergised the army into a coordinated killing machine. Hopefully this newly developed skill would mean he would not have to send the Cyan Army into the conflict, but Thorne could only maintain this intense effort for so long.
Commander Elrak Scarth, in charge of the Crimson Army, looked about the battle. He understood that this was an army of new, raw recruits, but talented nevertheless. In order to maximise their youth and vigour he had made sure that the most talented recruits were kept on the back ranks so that when the line faltered, the Chronians would be met with a charge of the most natural, physically adept soldiers in the Varrasian Isles. He had thought that the line was about to break, but something had changed in the hearts of his soldiers. They fought with a renewed confidence and determination- not only that but they utilised a common, cooperative strategy that should have required years of fighting together to achieve. Scarth had quickly realised that Thorne himself was adding his power to the battle, fuelling the battlemages with his brilliant magic. Amazingly, Thorne could still surprise his most experienced commanders- he had invented a new magical power. While not unheard of, new mystic arts normally took decades to create, and sometimes even centuries to perfect. Scarth could only tremble at the thought of what could give someone so much power; how could one man accomplish what had Councils and Kingdoms had struggled to do?
Still, despite their renewed confidence and fighting-strength, the Varrasians simply did not have the numbers to hold out against the bombarding cavalry. Another hellish wave of Queen Helsifer’s barbarians came down on the frontline in an avalanche of malice. The monstrous Queen tore apart ten Varrasians as she led the charge against a weakness in the line, a gap in the formation that there simply had not been enough soldiers to fill. She and her warriors broke through the Varrasian defences, and were greeted by Scarth himself, leading his own unit of the most talented young soldiers of Embaris. Their volcanic strength hit the cavalry from the sides like a hammer hitting an anvil. One side wielded tower-shields designed to dig into the ground like a steel wall, unmoving and adamant. The other side wielded giant war hammers, and crushed the bones of horses and women as they struck them from the right. Scarth had activated sigils carved into his own axe that gave it an explosive, fiery strength, but it seemed that Chronian flesh was resistant to flame. Despite this, Scarth’s incredible physical power meant that he could still kill Chronians with a single blow to their chest, caving in their armour and crushing their hearts.
Bathing in blood, lieutenant Incerus, one of Scarth’s warriors looked around to see where Helsifer had charged through the defences with her mace whirling and raging, killing in a torrent of gore. He called out a challenge amid the clamour of conflict: “Queen of the savages! Come and out and face me! Fight me like a true warrior- without letting your beast do your battle for you!”
Helsifer turned to hear the cries of the Emabrasi warrior. He was huge, and muscular, almost as giant as her. Furious at the insult to her honour, she accepted the challenge and dismounted, dragging her mace and chain behind her, staining the earth with blood. “Brave words for a dead man.” She yelled and ran at him. His soldiers formed a shielded semi-circle behind him, Chronians doing the same on the other side: both ready to charge to the aid of their leader if the battle turned in the other’s favour. As the Queen charged, Incerus held his ground, both hands firm on his war-hammer. Just as she entered his range, he swung with colossal strength, aiming at her head. Helsifer had seen the blow coming, and as she stepped just wide of its crushing arc, she brought her mace down in an overhead swing, just missing Incerus as he rolled to the side, hammer in hand. Incerus had not expected such a large beast to move so quickly, and this time he tried to confuse her. Swinging his hammer at her head once again, he dropped to his knees, so it instead fell on her chest- just below her neck as she had tried to duck beneath it. Amazingly however, it did not so much as dent her armour. Even so it had sent the Queen sprawling into the dirt but Incerus was outraged- that blow could have torn through a behemoth’s hide, yet the Queen was alive, simply a little winded. As his foe recovered, Incerus took the time to scrutinise her armour. It was ocean blue, thick, with heavy spiked plates. Studying it closely he found his explanation: a sigil crafted into the breastplate, barely visible against the dark blue. It glowed a lightly brighter shade, but was stained with Varrasian blood. Although Incerus did not recognise it, he guessed its purpose- some sort of strengthening enchantment that gave her armour a magical resistance; one thing was certain, it was not of Chronian design.
Enraged at having been cheated out of victory, Incerus charged on the breathless queen. She recovered enough strength to once again side-step the path of his hammer, but Incerus spun around to hit her face with his gauntlet, sending several of her teeth into the dirt. As he approached for the coup de grâce, she spun her legs in an arc on the floor, taking him off his feet before she brought her mace down on his head. It exploded in a cloud of blood and bone. The Embarasi charged at her upon their comrade’s death but her own warriors met them, allowing the Queen to retreat and recover. The Embarasi managed to hold against the remaining Chronian cavalry and warriors, but their morale was shaken at watching someone so powerful be demolished so easily.
Thorne grew tired of waiting for the battle to finish. Confident that his troops would have emerged victorious, but unsatisfied with Scarth’s incompetent command of the Crimson Army, he mounted his horse and called out to his personal cavalry regiment. “Our brothers on the field have fought bravely and diligently, securing another victory against the barbarians. Let us show them our gratitude by ending this fight now, and letting them rest for the coming conflicts. Cavalry of Varrasia, ride out to crush the heathens!” With these words the black horses sped across the plain into the Forest of Caira, with long swords drawn and ready to cut into the Chronian cavalry. Thorne felt the fury of battle building in him, and drew strength from it, filling the Plain of Blood with his purple fire.
Queen Helsifer saw a black storm coming in from the fields east of the forest, she could barely signal the retreat before the stuff of nightmares was tearing into her cavalry. Leading a charge back through the Varrasian ranks and towards the capital, she admitted defeat, calling out a command to retreat fully, and head back to Disideris. Thorne’s horses were faster and fresher than hers, but the Chronians left behind a trail of corpses that was difficult to navigate and gave the Chronians enough time to escape the battle. Thornes’s cavalry may have been faster in the open, but amidst the trees and treacherous forest, he could not hope to match the speed of the native horses. Satisfied that the vast majority of her Royal Cavalry had been eradicated, Thorne ordered his unit to cease the charge and return to the camp to begin preparations for the next phase of the war. He was the proud victor of yet another battle.
What Thorne was not aware of however, were the spirits that haunted these woods
. Assuming that the island, like its people, was devoid of magic, Thorne had failed to consider the powers of nature that would soon put a dent in his unfaltering campaign. Even now, outraged at the invasion of their lands, and distraught at the destruction of their home, malevolent spirits worked terrible magic: they began to turn the air cold, draining its power and life-force to fuel their vicious incantations...
Chapter 7
A torrential arctic rain hurled itself against the vast, frozen expanse of Arctas Aeternas. Flying amidst the storm clouds and bitter arctic hailstorms, was a bat. Black wings barely visible against the night sky, it sped across the ice with demonic speed. Eventually, it broke through the hostile weather of the frozen land and kept flying, far out across the Isonian Sea, travelling east towards the Varrasian Isles. After an achingly long journey, it saw land, and headed for the Tyra Necra, a gargantuan tower on the northeast coast of Varrasia. Landing atop the majestic structure, the bat morphed into its Vampiric form, arms and legs tearing through its leather skin and a humanish face growing from its head, with eyes that saw, but keeping the same vicious fangs. A female vampire emerged from the transformation, beautiful and glorious. Her face glowed a crystal white, brighter than the moon, with fiery red lips and eyes that shone out into the darkness of the night. She was tall, thin, and her black hair flowed with rich, celestial brilliance. But she was in agony. Her stomach was swollen with an impossible child, and her undead flesh was screaming and protesting as it began to force itself out of her body. It was the worst pain in her life or undeath, but after a torturous struggle a child was born onto the stone floor of the tower, the wind howling and roaring against the great black spire that reached high into the night-sky. What black magic was this? Was this some taunt by the God of Death? Some foul trick or illusion? She gazed down at her creation in dread and fear, but looked into black, tearful eyes and felt something else. Something she did not know could have been possible in the eternity of her undying existence. Pure, radiant, maternal love. Nothing in the world mattered to her more than the baby staring up at her in fear and desperation, longing for comfort and safety and love. As she picked the infant boy up and held him close to her chest, she felt something incredible- a beating heart! What was this? What magic could bring a child out of Vampiric flesh? As if in answer to her thoughts, a great purple lightning erupted from the sky and shot down into the spire of the tower, illuminating the night-sky with its resplendent power. It filled the air, and both mother and child glowed in its radiance. The vampiress however, began to scream as pain tore through her again. The millennia-old covenant of her exile took effect, forcing her out of the Realm of the Living, and back to her icy Kingdom. She cried as she jumped from the tower, morphing back into bat-form to return to Arctas Aeternas. She wept from blind eyes as she flew, but noticed something within her that gave her hope amidst the despair. Some unthinkable magic had given her a son, and the bond she shared with that child could now be felt across the sea, breaking through the Covenant of Exile and reaching through to the Realm of the Living. A deep, raging hope blazed inside her. She would one day be reunited with her son, and together they could win a Second Great War between Life and Undeath. Together, they would kill the world.
High in the stone tower of Tyra Arcana, Iluminus Iyre emerged from the eighth plain of magic, the Plain of Visions. Here different futures, realities, paths and possibilities took form and shape, created out of the Power, shining and ethereal. While Thorne had journeyed to this plain many times, he found that its magic was disinclined to reveal itself to him. He had wandered in the vast expanse of shapeless photons for hours- days on end, hoping for some revelation about the future, or at least a glimpse… something- anything resembling a prophecy. But he wandered in vain, waiting for visions that refused themselves to him.
Iyre, on the other hand, felt more at home in the Plain of Visions than reality. He almost lived in it, like a boy hiding in the stalls to watch the grand Theatre of Reality and Possibility. The magical essence of the land revolved around him, showing him all its ideas, all the whims and thoughts of the Great Creator. Iyre was the most powerful prophet in Visyria, yet his perfect visions and predictions would never be heard. He had been cursed as a child: a terrible curse of cruel irony. His tongue had turned black and forked like a serpent, and all his vain attempts at communication resulted in a haunting, unintelligible hiss. Nox, however, had found a purpose for the speechless prophet; secretly, under the silver gaze of the moon, Nox had gone with two of his most trusted Grandmages to Iyre’s home deep in the mountains on the east coast of Varrasia. As an outcast, separated from the living his entire adult life and hidden away in his mountainous solitude, Iyre was terrified. The attackers broke into his home, incapacitated him with their combined magic and stole him away to the highest room of Tyra Arcana, where he was kept as a prophetic prisoner. While Iyre’s curse prevented him from voicing his visions, there was nothing to stop his mind being invaded, and his Godly information extracted.
This was what Nox had been attempting for the past month, ever since Thorne’s invasion of Chrone: as a powerful artist of the Mens Arcana, Nox had been working through the night to try and obtain Iyre’s terrible secrets. But so far, Iyre had resisted. His eyes were bloodshot; his head throbbed with a stabbing pain with each futile advance of the Archmage, but so far, his mind remained untainted by Nox’s vicious attacks. Nox was exhausted. He had been forced to work in secret given the atrocious nature of his quest- while many of the Grandmages were steadfastly loyal to him, he would not be able to withstand the outcry if the Council found out what he had been doing in the dark. The weeks leading the Council in the day and tormenting the dumb prophet by night had taken their toll. Nox’s body yearned for rest, his fatigued mind longed for sleep’s restorative embrace. Nox persisted however, desperate to learn what secrets the future held for Crucius Thorne, the Master Adept, the only power in Visyria capable of threatening his own. A surge of indignant adrenaline coursing through his veins, Nox began another furious assault on Iyre’s breaking mind.
ARRRGHHHHH! The pain! PAIN! AGONY! ARRRHHH! AAAAH! MAKE IT STOP! Help me! The pain! Torture, ag- AAHHHHHH!
Iyre looked around the fourth plain of magic, retreating to the fortress of his deepest thoughts as Nox broke into the world that was his mind. The Plain of the Mind is unique to every magical person, each version of it a representation of their own thoughts, everything that makes them what they are. For the last thirty days, Nox had been invading Iyre’s plain, attacking his mind, tearing away parts of his personality and blasting through the walls of his thoughts as he continued his relentless assault. Iyre had been forced back into his Sanctum Sanctorum, where the fundamental essence of his character manifested itself into a citadel of Adamant and Obsyrian walls. Here, he could outlast even the most tireless advance, beat back any invasion. Here was his, and his alone. Any invaders would be vaporised in the strength of his character, and the will of his innermost being.
Pieces however, had slipped into the raging sea of Nox’s attack. As he had receded into his deepest fortress, he had been forced to relinquish some of his secrets and knowledge. When the slithers of Prophecy fell into his malevolent waters, Nox devoured them ravenously, in avaricious desire for more information about Thorne. Most of what fell into the waves were surface thoughts, fleeting dreams or feelings of minimal consequence. But when Iyre had retreated, he had left behind one shining pearl: his most recent prophetic vision. A vision of a vampiress, flying through the night sky with her impossible child, a vision of purple lightning, and terrible pain.
Nox was forced out of Iyre’s mind as he lost concentration, unable to contain his shock and glory at finally getting something from the voiceless oracle. Thorne was a vampire! Despite only seeing the child’s young, innocent face, Nox knew deep in his soul that the vision he had just experienced had been of Thorne’s birth, and the beautiful weeping vampiress had been his mother. This changed everything. If Thorne was really a harbinger for the
Undead, a war was coming. Greater and far more terrible than Thorne’s petty conquest over the Visyrian kingdoms. But for now, it meant Nox finally had a reason to expel Thorne from the Council and exile him. All he needed was an explanation for his revelation, and proof of its truth…
Nox looked at Iyre’s body, collapsed in a pool of sweat before him. Summoning fire into his hand, he prepared to dispose of the evidence- but before he could, Iyre turned to him and let out an abyssal, tortured hiss. As he did so a cloud of ethereal blue light enveloped him- and he vanished. Perplexed, enraged, Nox tore apart the cell looking for him, but in vain. He had never seen magic like this, and could only guess at where Iyre was now, or whether he was even still alive. Reassured in the knowledge that Iyre would never be able to speak of what had taken place here, Nox abandoned his search. All he had to do now was find a way to convince the council of Thorne’s true heritage: a task that would prove difficult. While some of the Mage’s Council where steadfastly loyal to him, many would rally behind Thorne if it ever came to a direct conflict- and no one would believe the baseless slander of Nox’s greatest rival.
***
Thorne woke up weeping, though he did not know why. He was briefly aware that during the night, his soul had wandered into the Plain of Visions, and guessed the tears were only the result of yet another fruitless expedition by his unconscious mind into the realm of prophecy that had refused its wisdom to the world’s greatest sorcerer. There was something lurking in the depths of his mind however: a great secret he had never and always known. It hid itself for now, waiting until the time was right; an epiphany of his heritage, lying patiently in the dark…
Thorne's Conquest Page 5
