Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  As their astral bodies emerged into the realm, taking shape and form, Thorne gazed out at the icy expanse of Arctas Aeternas. The clouds were moving impossibly fast as the days turned backwards, decades glancing them past like the wind. Time kept turning further back, centuries, millennia into the past as the Witchmother brought them to the start and end of it all. The climax of the Great War. As Thorne looked across the ice, he saw an army, hundreds of thousands, more- an uncountable mass of warriors clad in shining black armour, their faces white as snow. They held swords, maces, hammers, axes, all made of glowing, enchanted Obsyrian. Behind them, far in the distance was a grand castle of blood and death, black towers and walls reaching high into the sky, the gothic, curved turrets and spires forming a monstrous masterpiece. The Witchmother took his hand and turned him to face the other way. He looked out and saw another army on the icy shore, the sea behind them filled with countless, glorious golden ships. The army were clothed in armour the same resplendent gold, all of them wielding curved blades, spears, or scythes. The army stretched far in every direction, and as the arctic sun shone over them, they radiated power and glory in a maelstrom of light. Thorne had never seen anything like it. Such powerful, gargantuan armies were the stuff of myths and nightmares. As he stood watching he heard a horrific, shrill scream echoing out among the clouds and looked up to see a whirlwind of black wings circling in the sky. They screamed and roared, innumerable and dreadful. While Thorne gazed at them, they descended on the Golden Army like lightning; they tore throats out, cut men in half, eviscerated limbs and drained the soldiers’ blood. As they devoured their foe the Vampire Army charged, black weapons raised high as the avalanche of Undead warriors crushed into the Golden Army. Screams and cries resounded across the ice, filling the air with agony and blood. Despite the terrifying blow, the golden warriors somehow stood their ground, reforming their ranks and standing steadfast against the hordes of undead. Never in his years as a general and warrior had Thorne witnessed such a massacre; never had he seen such terrible forces. It was glorious. He felt the bloodlust and terror coursing through him as the battle raged on, felt a call to arms he had never experienced before. Something calling him home amidst the ice, a great power reaching out to him. As he began to walk in the direction of the battle, Illyra took his hand and stopped him. She held him by her side and the battle played out, neither side giving way as countless died; more simply came to take their place in the carnage. Eventually the Witchmother sped up the fighting, time moving past them faster and faster as the never-ending conflict endured. So much death. So much pain. This was the stuff of nightmares. When time again slowed down, Thorne and Illyra were looking out on mountains of corpses, both human and vampire piling on top of each other, yet still, enormous masses remained facing each other. Something strange was happening though- something terrible and horrifying. Across the ice, Thorne could hear a chanting: a magical, powerful war cry echoing out across the frozen expanse. It burned in him, tortured him. He looked around and saw the vampires screaming and reeling at the sound of the voice. Grimacing through the pain, Thorne looked out to see a man, wearing a simple robe, carrying a long, thin, wooden staff in the distance. He knew the voice was coming from this man. It had to stop, he had to stop him. Agony blazed under his skin as the voice grew louder, louder, louder, the words defiant and glorious, halting the Undead army and sending searing pain into their lifeless bodies. As the man approached the frontline of the conflict, he placed his staff firmly on the ice, and it cracked all around. A great chasm broke apart between the two armies, water raging and crashing in between them. When they grew further apart, the man’s voice grew louder, tearing into Thorne like knives cutting out his heart. Then, for a millisecond, the man went completely silent, and the raging screams and roars of the battle were silenced. THUNDER! A great burst of purple lightning shot down from the sky into the man’s staff, then rippled outwards from him across the newly made chasm, a great wall of mystic purple spreading out over the Vampire Army, reaching out far into the icy distance. The man began to chant again, and the purple lightning blazed brighter and more powerful. Thorne screamed and reeled as pain coursed through every vein in his body, making him want to claw at his eyes. And then it was gone. The pain subsided, and Thorne looked out at the ice to see the Golden Army, standing alone looking out at- nothing. The Vampire Army was nowhere to be seen, even the terrible Black Castle was no longer there in the distance. Then Illyra once again took his hand, and they flew across the ice, deep into the heart of Arctas Aeternas, further and further until they reached a wall of violet fire. Illyra led Thorne through, the fire parting briefly for them, and Thorne saw the same terrible Castle that had been there before. Illyra led him inside, grand gothic structures towering over them as they reached the Black Hall. As they opened the giant doors and stepped inside, Thorne could see what looked like a spirit of hellfire and shadow, sitting on a Throne of Undeath, looking out towards them. Thorne almost thought it was looking at him. Illyra took his hand, and time again began to blow past them, faster and faster, until they were alone in the Hall with one of the vampires. A female, sitting by herself, weeping. Thorne’s heart ached as he looked at her, and through the tears, she looked straight into his eyes. He wanted to reach out, but Illyra held his hand in place. They heard a sound in the distance and the vampiress wiped the tears from her eyes before another creature, the same demonic spirit from before, entered the room and approached the vampiress. They sat together, alone in the giant hall. Illyra, still holding Thorne’s hand, summoned her Power and led them back through the Plains of Magic to the physical world, the great currents of the Power washing over them.

  Thorne tried to stand, breathing heavily, exhausted and confused. “Who? What? …” He gasped with every word.

  “I believe” Illyra spoke in soothing, silvery tones, “that they were your parents.”

  Chapter 9

  Deep in the heart of Arctas Aeternas, across the endless fields of ice and snow, the King of the Dead stood at the centre of a cohort of vampires that stretched out as far as the eye could see. He had taken physical form, and his black armour radiated power and evil. His Queen stood beside him, beautiful and terrible, her black armour glowing brilliantly against the frozen expanse, exaggerating the elegant features of her snow-white face. Ever since the King had learned of his son’s existence, he had been making preparations for a Second Great War. He had summoned legions of vampires from all over his kingdom, calling them out from their caves and fortresses to the Blood Castle, and had implemented a training regime for the undead warriors. Countless forces were sparring day and night with training swords, honing skills that had wearied and withered with age. In time however, the vampires would return to their state as the most deadly, vicious, fighting force in Visyria. For now, however, the Demon King had arranged something of a spectacle for them- a sort of morale booster, designed to show his people the true power of the Undead. “Are you ready, my dearly dying love?” He addressed the Vampire Queen in his powerful, rich baritone.

  “Completely, my demonic darling king.” As she said this, they shook hands, and turned to face away from each other, each taking ten paces in opposite directions. All around vampires screamed and applauded in adulation, in gleeful anticipation: a duel had been arranged between himself and his Queen. They would use dull blades that would barely scratch their black armour, and leave each other unhurt. The idea had been Her Vampiric Majesty’s, a show to get their people excited for the coming War, and to give them a demonstration of the true Power and skill of the vampires.

  As the Undead Monarchs turned around to face each other, another vampire stepped between them, raised a black sword into the sky, and struck it down into the ice, signalling the beginning of the contest. In a flash, they met in the middle of the icy ring, blades clashing, the sound of steel ringing out over the frozen plain. They battled with the speed and ferocity of lightning, trading hundreds of blows with a deadly precision that would have overcome the
strongest human soldier. These were the warriors of legends; their skills with the sword would make the greatest weapons masters in Visyria look like children playing with toys. As they danced across the ice, dodging and striking, feinting and parrying, the sound of their blades echoed out across the plain. Their swords swerved and arched in a hurricane of skill and finesse, whirling about each other in a terrible, glorious spectacle. With a demonic surge of strength and speed, the Vampire Queen struck her opponent’s sword down towards into the ice, sliding her blade across it before side stepping and striking the King across the chest with her dull blade. A great cheer arose from the crowd of Vampires on the side of the Queen, crying out their support and praise in high, shrill tones.

  The adjudicating vampire from before stepped out between them and called out, “First strike to Her Vampiric Majesty,” before stepping back and allowing the contest to continue. The maelstrom of steel continued to blaze and rage in the heart of Arctas Aeternas as the two greatest sword artists in the world battled. Smiling, but a little insulted at losing the first strike, the Demon King began a flourish of attacks that would have eviscerated any lesser being. Instead of parrying the Queen’s blows, he instead changed to a more evasive style, ducking under her attacks and whirling around her like an exquisite dancer. As he dodged and avoided her strikes, he struck small, precise blows against her sword, putting her off balance. As he increased his speed and circled her, directing her sword away from him and making her dizzy with the constant changes in direction, he spun around, hitting her sword arm away with his wrist, and struck her across the back. Another great cheer arose from the Vampiric host, this time from the supporters of the Demon King. He smiled to his beloved as the adjudicator announced the score, and she smiled back, their fury emanating from them like a fiery storm.

  Their impossibly brilliant contest raged on for an hour, as the best duellists in the world fought. Cheers sounded loud and high into the sky with each strike, and the Vampiric host wondered at the dazzling spectacle of fighting proficiency. In the end, the contest finished with the Demon King as the victor, striking ten blows where his Queen had landed nine. He knew they were equally matched, but the duel could not last forever, and they had agreed the first to ten hits would be the winner of the battle. The King looked out across his endless subjects, and saw the joy and power erupting from them as they cheered his victory. It seems his love’s plan had worked: the vampires rejoiced, and their undying screams echoed loud and terrible across the arctic fields.

  “Vampires!” He thundered, his deep, booming voice calling out to the undead hordes, “The time is approaching when we will be free of this arctic prison, and when Undeath will rule over Visyria. My son is alive, a vampire with a beating heart and running blood who will bring about the death of the world! We will see blood stain the lands forever, and bring about a glorious age of Undead rule!” As he spoke, the crowds of vampires screamed and roared their appreciation. He grasped the hand of his beloved, and they stared out towards their followers, radiating a terrifying, undying love.

  Chapter 10

  Blazing with rage, Helsifer brought her mace down on another training dummy, ripping apart the wooden frame and sending an explosion of splinters into the air. Ever since the invasion, she had been working tirelessly to restore herself to the battle-ready form of her youth. Her military advisor, Orlana, had been appointed her personal combat trainer, and despite the atrocious state of the Queen’s physique prior to the war, she had been having extraordinary success. Where previously there had been an obese, sluggish frame, there now stood a towering, muscular mass. It had only been a month since Thorne’s devastating attack, but a deep, primal, death-defying passion burned within the Queen. Orlana marvelled at her rapid transformation; as one of Helsifer’s oldest, most veteran commanders, she had known the Queen as a young princess, desperate to prove herself by slaughtering and pillaging as many islands as possible. She did not think it were possible for the Queen to regain that fiery resolve, but clearly the threat of extinction was enough to ignite it.

  Another reason for the Queen’s newfound aggression and determination was the agonised decision she had made to send her daughter away to the mountains in the hope that she could survive there even if the worst should happen. Now, the crown princess and her father were on their way to the Ra’thil tribes, high in the Kaasi mountains. The people there had never been enemies of the Queen, but they could scarcely be called friends. Nevertheless, their isolated position above the clouds meant Elrya would be safe, and Thorne’s hordes would not be able to reach her- that was what Helsifer told herself at least. She tried to focus. Now was not the time to grieve for her daughter, she had a war to fight.

  After Orlana had finished removing the remains of the training dummy, she returned to the courtyard with two wooden practice swords and tossed one to the Queen. While Helsifer preferred her mace and chain in battle, it was slow and ineffective in close combat- the scar across her forehead reminded her of that. So, as part of her training, Orlana had been beating the Queen with a wooden sword in the hope she would improve her skills. It was a slow process. Every so often she would manage to hold her own, blocking Orlana’s ruthless advances and occasionally managing to land a few blows, but for the most part her inexperience led to a painful end to their training sessions. She was determined however; the bitter taste of her defeat at Caira still fresh, driving her desire for vengeance and blood.

  When the Queen and her cavalry had retreated from the disastrous battle, the people of Disideris had despaired, and nearly given up hope. 8,000 riders had set out to halt Thorne’s advance, and less than a third had returned. Olympa’s entire infantry force had been wiped out, either impaled under the hammers of Scarth’s Embarasi or trampled beneath the hooves of Thorne’s cavalry. But Helsifer had not given up. On returning to Disideris, she had sent riders out to all the coastal cities to the west, informing them of the threat of extinction and ordering them to send their warriors to the aid of the Queen. While it was a risky strategy to leave them undefended, Helsifer knew if Disideris fell the war was as good as lost. Additionally, Helsifer had ordered that all able citizens were to begin training and take up arms in the coming conflicts; much to the dismay of her more traditional commanders, this included the men. She had reminded them of the desperate situation they faced, and no one dared go against the orders of the queen: so, thousands of common citizens had begun basic combat training and drills in the lists. Soon more would begin flooding in from the cities, Helsifer only hoped it would be enough. Disideris was designed to withstand a siege: it had a labyrinth of catacombs beneath the city to hold refugees and increase the city’s capacity in war time; its walls were tall and strong, built from a thousand-year-old stone and with trebuchets lining the walls; since the invasion, engineers had been digging ramparts and lining the fields around the city with traps and wooden stakes. Disideris could hold nearly 200,000, but Helsifer was still pessimistic about her chances in the war. She had no information about Thorne’s armies other than what she had seen at Caira; for all she knew, the whole of Varrasia had joined his vicious quest. But even if the invasion force was tiny it could still mean certain death: the battle at Caira had been a massacre- her Royal Cavalry, the most terrifying fighting force in Chrone, had barely made a dent in the Varrasian armies.

  The only solace was that Artemis had granted Chrone an early winter. Now they had a chance to prepare, and Thorne no longer had the element of surprise. Unless he was mad enough to attempt a campaign in the treacherous weather of the island, Helsifer would have at least two months to try and turn her country into a battle-ready fighting force. While her warriors were fierce and deadly, they numbered only a little over 50,000. While the number of able-bodied commoners the Queen had enlisted was nearly five times that, she doubted they would be much use. If Thorne could cut down her best warriors like they were nothing, what hope did peasants have?

  Trying not to lose hope, Helsifer remembered the Chronian peop
le’s resistance to magic. If she could use that somehow- find a way to catch them off guard, before they had a chance to prepare their tricks and enchantments then perhaps the war would be less one sided. She would need to be as efficient and ruthless as possible in the coming months if she wanted to survive past Spring, but for now she simply relieved her anguish by smashing apart training dummies and sparring with Orlana. She would meet with her tacticians and commanders after the warriors from the other cities had arrived in Disideris.

  ***

  Thorne, Scarth, Lyre, and a dozen other commanders and lieutenants had assembled once again in the campaign tent at the centre of the gargantuan camp. Despite all his meticulous preparations, even the great Thorne could not stop the turn of the seasons, and the planned attack on Eltinor had been postponed. Naturally, Scarth had reminded them that if they had attacked immediately like he had suggested, they would now have a more stable and defensible position in the tree-city than a simple camp. Thorne had silenced him with a glance, but he had to admit the current situation was less than ideal. He cursed himself for not allowing for the possibility of an early winter- but he had a plan for dealing with it, as he did for everything. He had just finished informing his War Council about his method for lasting through the winter, and striking another deadly blow against the barbarians. While the work needed to transform a temporary military camp into a base where an army of 60,000 could last in a bitter foreign winter, they would not simply be sitting out the cold, waiting to begin the campaign again in the spring. Instead, Thorne had decided that now was the time for the first ever war on spirits. The abominable creatures he had faced in the Plain of Spirits were a worse blight on the magical world than the Chronians, and equally deserving of annihilation. “What you’re suggesting,” began Vylna Trask, one of Thorne’s most experienced, and oldest commanders, “is profane- contemptable. The spirits have been here since before the Creator had even thought of us, and their presence is part of nature, part of magic, destroying them would be catastrophic!”