Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  Grimacing and grunting, Helsifer cried out as her healer, Ajor Thrax tended to her bruised, bloodied face. Three of her teeth had been knocked out; the right side of her face was swollen, a grotesque shade of yellow purple; there was a gash across her forehead where a spike from Incerus’ gauntlet had slashed across her. Fury coursing through her, she bit down on a rag the healer had provided for her and slammed her fist against the table. She wanted to scream at her incompetent physician, but her mangled mouth had been numbed by an elixir he had given her to dull the pain. That had been a lie; the potion barely put a dent in the excruciating agony Helsifer was experiencing, it had simply been used to make sure the Queen did not move her mouth too violently and make the wounds any worse as he worked to remove the rotting teeth and close the gash across her face. As he dabbed at her injured face with a rag soaked in a medicine designed to stop it becoming infected, he saw her eyes close tight and secretly smiled, slightly enjoying seeing his cruel mistress completely at his mercy. He was utterly loyal though. He had tended to the Queen after many of her battles with the island states around Chrone, but she had never returned with more than a scratch. As her chief medical advisor, he felt he should warn her of the dangers she was facing, even though he knew she would not listen to anyone of his inferior gender. Wiping the blood from her face with a wet cloth, he began to speak, “My Queen, you do understand that these injuries could have been easily avoided by wearing your helmet?” He waited in quiet fear for the tantrum he expected to follow. Instead, she merely mumbled slightly, her mouth still unable to move in the way she wanted. He gave her a drink that would counteract the effects of the numbing agent, and watched as her mouth became less limp, and she began to speak in her normal, harsh tones.

  “I am perfectly safe without it! I want the vicious invaders to look on my face as I cut them down. I want it to be the last thing they see. I want them to stare into my eyes as the life drains from theirs!”

  “If you do not take more precautions, I fear it may be the other way around.”

  She struck him, the heel of her hand slamming into his left cheek. “I’ll kill them all!” She snarled, “I’ll kill every single one of them. I’ll kill Thorne and all the black magic in the world won’t stop me butchering his pathetic race of liars and trespassers!”

  Ajor Thrax, Royal Physician and medical advisor to Queen Helsifer, was used to being hit, as were all her advisors. His cheek blazed red where she had struck him, but he still persisted, in genuine fear for what would happen to Chrone in the event of her death. “My Queen,” He began, more cautiously than before, “I only wish to make sure you have every advantage in the battles to come. While your decision not to wear a helmet does indeed make you a terrifying force- these are not the savage island states who can simply be bullied and defeated by displays of horror and fear. This is an entire Kingdom, united in hatred and prejudice, dedicated to our extinction. They will not be put off by an angry face. They will see it as a weakness and make every effort to exploit it. Wear a helmet, Your Grace. It is not worth the risk.”

  Queen Helsifer paused; she felt the pain coursing through her cheek and gums, and for a moment considered the wisdom of Thrax’s words... No! She had never shown any signs of fear or uncertainty and she was not about to start now. Her enemies would die looking on her triumphant face, they would see her confidence and resilience- her monstrous power. Thrax seemed to see the decision on her face, and breathed a long, exasperated sigh. However, he was heartened by the fact that since her first defeat in decades, the Queen had recommitted herself to the intense training regime she had endured as a young Princess. Clearly, she understood the terrible threat they faced, but her confidence and stubbornness could be the death of her people. Unless… a thought crossed Thrax’s mind that he nearly dismissed as ludicrous and desperate. These were desperate times however, and as a near implausible plan began forming in his head, Thrax began to feel a tinge of hope in the face of certain death.

  ***

  Thorne sat in the newly established campaign tent in the heart of the Forest of Caira, with his commanders and lieutenants gathered around a map of Chrone. After the victory against Olympa, and Helsifer’s cavalry, Lyre’s armies had marched south to join the rest. Thorne’s unstoppable force of 60,000 soldiers and cavalry were now assembled and ready for battle; all around, they cut down trees to make siege weapons in preparation to march on the fortified city of Disideris. Standing in their way, however, was the enormous tree-city of Eltinor. After invading the minds of several dying Chronians, Thorne had learnt that the city could hold over 200,000 warriors, and their position high in the canopy of the hostile forest would give them a distinct advantage in combat.

  “We should march now; hit them while they’re still in shock at their defeat; crush them before they have a chance to recover.” The fiery words of Elrak Scarth hung in the air as everyone waited for Thorne’s response, his brilliant tactical mind calculating and scheming.

  “From what I and our psychics have learnt from the captured savages, the people of Eltinor were not involved in the battle of Caira. They are fresh, prepared, and eager for revenge. I am as anxious as you to see the barbarians wiped out, but we must not let haste and overconfidence make the war any less efficient.”

  “If I may,” began Gaius Lyre before Thorne signalled him to continue, “I can have my soldiers manipulate the birds and wood-creatures, in a week I can have a full report of Eltinor’s defences.”

  “Excellent-” Thorne began to speak when he was interrupted by a young Arrachsian, one of Lyre’s lieutenants.

  “I think we may be able to do more than that.” He immediately felt small and humiliated as he realised that he had just interrupted the most terrifying general and sorcerer in Visyria. Although Thorne allowed him to continue, curious. “Um, it’s just that I’ve felt something different about Eltinor. Even here, from miles away. There’s a certain… power to it, especially in the Plain of Monsters…” As he paused, trying to search for the words to explain his idea, he felt the intense, scrutinising gaze of Thorne’s entire war council piercing him. “There are thousands of creatures in the forest, and I already performed a brief reconnaissance of my own.” He pointed to a black Teravor in a cage behind him. It was a powerful magical bird, with all the deadly precision of an eagle, and the vicious power of a vulture. “The people of the forests use their animals in their fighting force, but- if they were to turn on their own…” He finished, letting Thorne imagine for himself the rest of his plan.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Thorne asked, eying the Arrachsian.

  “Karakan, Supreme Commander, Heros Karakan.”

  “Well Karakan, I must say I’m impressed.” The soldier made every effort not to blush. “Lyre, I trust you and your soldiers will be able to accomplish this?”

  “Of course, my Lord. Although it will be difficult. As he said, Eltinor’s people fight alongside these beasts, presumably they have done for years. The bond that creates between man and animal, it can be difficult to sever. Given time, however, it should not be an issue for my men.”

  Thorne smiled, making a mental note to remember Karakan’s name. “How long do you need?”

  “I cannot be certain.” Lyre began, pausing as he considered the enemy he was dealing with “Breaking the bond between a sorcerer and his animal companion can take years, with some it is even impossible. But these savages have no affinity for magic, and as such their connection to their beasts should be weak- fragile. And with an army of Arrachsians this size, we should not have much trouble. I would estimate within the week, my Lord.”

  “Excellent, begin preparations at once, I want regular reports on Eltinor’s defences, and when you have control of their creatures, wait for my signal to attack.” As the war council stood and began to leave to prepare for the coming conflict, Thorne called to Karakan, signalling him to approach. “This idea of yours will make the battle shorter, easier, and our conquest of the savages swifter. It will save l
ives. Well done.”

  Karakan was left speechless as Thorne exited the tent; he had hardly expected anyone to listen to him, let alone for the Supreme Commander to personally praise him. Thorne was charismatic and humble however, and knew the importance of praise where praise was due. Brilliance, in all its forms, needed to be encouraged.

  Thorne returned to his personal tent and began to meditate, letting his soul drift through the Plains of Magic.

  As his fiery purple and black aura blazed in the magical world, he felt the strength and glory of the cosmos washing over him. He bathed in it, let it nourish and restore his soul as he delved deeper through the Power into the Fifth Plain of Magic, the Plain of Spirits. Unlike the Plain of Souls, filled with the astral manifestations of humans, this was a land of ethereal beings almost difficult to comprehend. Observing them was like looking at a cube in six dimensions, they made no sense, the physics of their existence was impossible. Navigating the strange peculiarities of this realm required intense concentration, and incredible power. As Thorne wandered in its vast, unnatural expanse, he looked for the spirits of Chrone. Despite its human inhabitants being utterly magicless, he had hoped there would be more to the land. Thorne was revered and loved among the spirits of Varrasia, who were drawn to his great Power, and he had often spent weeks in their presence, drawing from their strength and learning new forms of magic from them. For now, however, he explored a barren land, devoid of anything. Disappointed, believing that the entirety of Chrone was an abominable insult to Magic, Thorne started his return to the physical world- pain! Daggers shot into Thorne from every side, icy blades cutting at his magical being. The pain was unbearable. Thorne reeled, and summoned all the strength he could and blasted a wave of necrotic energy in an arc around him. His Power was amplified in the Plain of Spirits, and as he turned to look around him, he saw hundreds of distorted, impossible creatures standing around him, briefly halted by his defence. These were different to the Spirits of Varrasia. Instead of benevolent, potent beings of magic, they were cold, demonic voids, sucking the life-force and magic from around them like black holes. They made Thorne sick. He decided in a heartbeat that, like the pathetic human barbarians, these abominations would also have to be eradicated. Now was not the time, however. The spirits around Thorne were beginning to recover, and were preparing for another vicious attack. Before they could, Thorne drew in all his magical strength and returned to the physical world, escaping their terrible, black nothingness.

  Thorne gasped, collapsed on the floor of his tent, sweating. His breath turned to icy mist in front of him.

  Chapter 8

  Barros gazed across the water to the port of Cresca Major, the bustling metropolis of Varrasia. His experience with the Arrachsians had been amicable, but he was greatly relieved to be back in his home country. There was something… creepy about the Spider-Queen and her land, something that greatly unsettled Barros. Also, he and several of his companions had woken up covered in silky spider webs: nothing harmful, but greatly disturbing nonetheless. Sylestra assured him that this had simply been some harmless fun she had allowed her soldiers to have (in reality she had woven most of the silk herself, and had watched gleefully as soldiers woke up screaming and wrestled helplessly with the sticky material.) Barros sighed deeply as he felt a cool breeze pass over him, a refreshing wave that smelled of home filled with the magical power of the country. As ropes were tied to the dock and a ramp pulled from the ship to the stone walkway, Barros began to walk into the city with a small escort of his soldiers. As they walked further however, Barros caught sight of an armed group of Varrasian battlemages approaching, led my Grandmage Quintus Kant, a man who despised Thorne, and had repeatedly called for his expulsion from the Mages’ Council. Barros rested a hand on his sword as he approached them. The battlemages neared, armed with shields and maces made of Arryan Steel, enchanted so they would not wear out or dull. Kant stepped out from the group, speaking arrogantly, with a profound, pretentious ignorance, “Barros Krai, you are under arrest for treason and sedition- you joined the vindictive, feckless campaign of a war criminal against the express wishes of the Mages’ Council. My men will escort you to Arcas Magna where you will face trial.”

  Barros hesitated, wondering whether to resist. He imagined he and his guards could dispatch the force before them, but it could have harmful repercussions, especially in broad daylight in the middle of Varrasia’s busiest city. As the battlemages approached to restrain him, his own men drew their swords and blocked their path, the clear ring of steel echoing out through the streets, drawing eyes. “Tell your mages to stand down Barros, unless you want to add resisting arrest to your numerous crimes.” Kant declared, conceit and arrogance dripping off his tongue, making Barros sick. He knew he had to submit though, if he killed these men the Council would send more, and making a scene now would increase already fraught tension about Thorne and his invasion. He signalled his guards to sheathe their swords, and allowed Kant’s to restrain him, placing enchanted Arryan cuffs on his wrists to dull his magic.

  “What about my men?” Barros inquired, fearing they would not respond well if Kant wanted them arrested as well.

  “They are free to leave.” Barros nodded, and the Varrasian mages took him to a prison carriage, before they made their way to Arcas Magna, the Visyrian Capital, and home to the Council of Mages.

  Barros’ soldiers returned to the Mors Crescilia, and set sail for Arrachsia, while a raven was sent back to Chrone with a message detailing what had transpired.

  ***

  Thorne lay down on a healing table inside the tent that had been set up as an infirmary. He had been tended to by a group of healing witches following his destructive encounter with Chrone’s native spirits. Their leader, Illyra, spoke to him in a soothing, enchanted voice “You are lucky to be alive.” she said. Thorne’s body ached, every fibre of his being felt a burning cold. “Most men would have been torn apart by the kind of assault you endured in the Spirit Realm.”

  “Lesser men.” Thorne spat, his confidence still strong as ever despite the pain he suffered.

  “Indeed.” She replied, smiling at his power and resilience. “We were able to reverse most of the damage done to you, but some things will still need time. There is nothing permanent.”

  “Thank you.” Thorne sighed. He had never been afraid of the danger he was in, believing his Power could save him from almost anything; barbaric abominations of the Spirit World would not be able to stop the strongest sorcerer in Visyria. Still, he appreciated the work the witches had put in to speed his recovery.

  “I did notice something peculiar when tending to your Soul, however…” Thorne raised his hand stopping her. He guessed at what she had discovered.

  “Perhaps it would be better if we spoke in private.” He said, making an effort to rise. Illyra tried to stop him but Thorne ignored her, stepping up to his full, towering height, pushing through the pain coursing in his limbs. He brought her back to his tent on the other side of the camp, soldiers everywhere turning to see him, wondering if there was any sign of weakness or infirmity. Thorne hid it well, still maintaining the appearance of a terrifyingly powerful commander. When they were alone, he spoke calmly, but with a powerful authority that even the Witchmother had to respect, “You will tell no one. Not a soul. And if you do, there will not be a mountain, crevice, or cave in Visyria where you will be safe from me.” Thorne’s words tore into her like a hurricane, his deadly, radiant Power pouring out for him, the room darkening as he drained the magic from the air.

  “There’s no need for that.” Illyra replied, unphased by the theatricalities. “I’m not prejudiced.”

  “I never said you were, I simply wished to make abundantly clear the importance of discretion in this matter. There are others who are… prejudiced.”

  “Terribly interesting though, your soul is something spectacular. Like shadow on the face of the sun, or fire in the heart of a glacier… You are impossible, Thorne.”

  He p
aused; even he did not know the full mystery of his heritage, the reason for his great Power, the nature of his very existence. Perhaps she could help him. “What exactly did you find out?”

  “You don’t even know, do you?” She gazed at him with wise, intelligent eyes.

  “I know enough.”

  “I’m sure you do… I found out a great number of things, most of which I believe you already know. You are a vampire. And you are not. You have their undead heart, but in you it beats. You have their cold, ethereal blood, but in you it runs. You can eat and drink as a man, and you can drink as a vampire, stealing the strength and lifeforce from the blood of your victims. You are neither alive, dead, nor undead. You are something quite special indeed.” All of this Thorne had worked out himself long ago, but he ached for an answer, a reason for his nature. Illyra read his thoughts and continued. “The Gods must have truly special plans for you Thorne. But I cannot give you the answers you seek. The vampires have not been seen in a thousand years, their existence is only a myth, the legend old, and nearly forgotten.”

  “But you remember?” Thorne interjected, aware of the Witchmother’s great age and wisdom.

  “Even I only know the stories. The ancient tales and songs. None of which can give you what you want.” Thorne’s disappointment throbbed in him alongside the pain. “There is a way, however. I can give you some of the answers you seek. I warn you though, you may not like what you see.”

  Thorne ignored her warning, desperate for something, anything that would give him an explanation for who he was, for what he was. “Show me.”

  She took his hand, her eyes rolling back revealing glowing white orbs radiating incredible Power. As she held his hand their souls interwove, and delved deep into the heart of Magic, further through the plains until they reached the ninth plain of magic: The Plain of Time.