Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  ***

  When Thorne had arrived in Arrachsia, it was clear he had no intentions of staying. Sylestra had not expected anything else. Still, she made every effort to prepare him for his journey to Varrasia, and tried to temper his worst impulses. Grudgingly she had allowed him to leave, despite the pain she knew she would feel as he flew off to the Arcas Magna. Not without giving him a gift first though: something to remember her by, something to help in his perilous mission, and something she should have given him a long time ago.

  When Thorne had first come to Arrachsia all those years ago, it was clear one day he would need the Hun’thai- it was the ultimate weapon for a murderer with a vendetta, and Thorne was known for having hundreds at a time. Put simply, the Hun’thai was an ancient Arrachsian artefact, with immense power and incredible utility. It was a bow- perhaps the first bow, given that no one knows where the weapon was first invented. It was certainly the oldest known version, but the Arrachsians upgraded it each time technology improved. It retained the original materials but they were strengthened with new additions and there had been many modifications to the design. It was made from bone and spider-silk, but from the most ancient creatures of the island. They had long since died out, but the bow was made from the remains of Arrachai, the giant spiders that had once ruled the island before any human creature had arrived there. The immense strength of the silk-string, combined with the incredible, flexible strength of their bones had created the world’s most powerful ranged weapon. The legends and myths said its wielder could never miss but this was only because all its wielders had been the most brilliant archers of the Arrachsia Royal Guard, who shared its name.

  Over the years, Sylestra had transformed her own Queen’s Guard into a cult of assassins and spies, allowing her to shape events across the world from her tiny island in the Isonian Sea. Most of the world did not know they existed, and those who questioned the Spider-Queen often found themselves at the bottom of the ocean, such was the advantage of living in a fortress surrounded by water. The significance of the bow was that whoever wielded it not only held an immensely powerful and deadly weapon, but that its wielder had command of the Hun’thai, which could only be superseded by the Queen herself. Sylestra knew the request was coming before he had landed in her Palace and how could she deny him? He was her love, her hero, her shining, murderous, vindictive King once the wars were won. She knew before he’d finished speaking that the Hun’thai were already in his control, the bow in his hand. He wielded it magnificently; tradition dictated that it could not be held by an unskilled archer, and while Thorne’s skills lay in swordplay, he was capable enough to meet the requirements. Watching him strike the web from across the Palace’s giant archery range had been a rare demonstration of his ability with the bow. The weapon could not guarantee accuracy, but the strength and power of it meant that it was easier than using common long-bows, and far more reliable than any of the crude crossbows used by the people of Anvylla, far to the west.

  Sylestra had just given Thorne the ultimate tool for a man who wanted to rule the world. If he kept the bow, he would be able to sabotage entire countries, assassinate Kings and Lords, keep the entirety of Visyria in a deadly chokehold until he was ruler of it all. This was why Sylestra had made Thorne promise to return the bow after he was finished in Varrasia: if he only had one redeeming quality amidst the fury and malevolence, it was his honesty. In all their hardships, fights, goodbyes, reunions, he had never lied to her. She could only trust that the power would not be too tempting.

  ***

  Thorne was among the clouds again. The tranquil, cold air helped him think, helped him relax. Despite his appearance as a ruthless militarist, there were times when he would have preferred to get away from the blood, the death. Although these times seldom came, he had just experienced one of them in the Palace of the Spider-Queen. As she did every time Thorne was in her presence, she had pleaded with him to abandon his dream of world power and settle for a quiet life. Perhaps they would stay in Arrachsia, live in the Palace and rule over their little island together. Perhaps they would travel the world in peace, seeing the great glass-city of Anvylla, or the Arryan Forges of Mjolnir. They could marry, become King and Queen of Arrachsia, have their wedding in the cave on the beach, with the violet sunset in the background the same as it had been all those years before. But it was never enough.

  Thorne’s dream for them was to be the Monarchs of Visyria, and he would not settle for less. She always hated his vaulting ambition, his poisonous dreams, but they were also the reason she had fallen in love with him. On that celestial night in the cave, he had promised her the world and she had given him her heart. Whenever she questioned their future, he tried to remind her of Arkathor: how he had kept the country alive and now it was more prosperous than ever. Chrone was an anomaly, a rare stain on the world that needed to be cleansed completely. Was it true? Was it even worth it? What good was a world if its people were bitter and vengeful? Sylestra had protested every logical response there was, yet Thorne would settle for nothing less than everything. Even if he did not know it was his birth-right, he was slowly beginning to understand the call he had felt in Illyra’s future. His father was a King, exiled and betrayed, and Thorne would win back the world he lost- no matter the cost.

  Here, high above the water, Thorne felt more entitled, more powerful than the rest of the world combined. He knew he could not take it by force immediately, but the fact that it was already so divided made the conquest all too easy. One day soon, he would call himself King of Visyria, and rule the Lords of every country, on every continent in the known world. This was the second step. Ever since he had taken over Arkathor, and shown the world the ease and wonder of submission, he had been focussed on Chrone, believing his home country would eventually see for himself the necessity of his mission. They had failed, and within the week Varrasia would finally be his, along with the Grand Sceptre. As he flew, he felt the warm air currents of his home washing over him, and the restorative power of the native spirits he had befriended decades ago. His Power was magnificent here, amplified by the very life-force of the air and soil. This was the Land of Magic, the Jewel of the East, and soon it would all be his.

  Wrapping his wings around himself, he descended towards Arcas Magna, accelerating at an impossible rate as he spiralled through the air. With grace and majesty, he landed atop the great tower of the city. Meditating atop the amazing structure for a moment, Thorne could see the entirety of Visyria, the Kingdoms of the world spread out before him, tantalisingly close to his magical reach. Soon it would be his. Standing up, and striding calmly to the spire of the tower as he morphed into his human form, Thorne pressed his hand against the Golden Spire and activated the purple sigil crafted on its brilliant, Varrasian alabaster. The entire roof of the tower erupted in a rainbow-fire, the burning currents of magic rising up from its base and shooting a magnificent arc high into the sky. It was too bright to look at for long, but the way the different forms and pathways of magic opened up around him was the most refreshing feeling in existence. He let it wash over him, drew power from it as the Nexus of the Power filled his being and rejuvenated his soul. As the eruption, and the humbling spectacle began to fade, Thorne sat and waited.

  Thorne knew that this would be one of the few moments in his life where success was not guaranteed, but risks had to be taken. By activating the Nexus, he had issued a challenge to the Archmage, and would battle for the right to wield the Grand Sceptre. Nox was one of Thorne’s only rivals, perhaps even his equal, but one of them would not live past morning. The fight would be to the death, according to the ancient traditions of Proelus Vai: no weapons, no armour, no allies, one survivor. It was a pure contest of magic; whoever the Gods favoured would be granted the role of Archmage. Thorne may not have been a messiah or a prophet; he may not have had the Gods behind him but he was the son of the Demon-King and the Vampire Queen, and rightful heir to Visyria.

  Chapter 14

  As Nox clo
sed his Magical Eye, he considered his next move with incredible care. In his memories, he now had proof of Thorne’s vampirism, having personally witnessed the transformation from bat to man. But Thorne had activated the Nexus and the challenge was undeniable, unavoidable. Even if Nox could prove to the other mages that Thorne was undead, they would have no choice but to allow the challenge. Proelus Vai was more than a tradition, it was a binding covenant between the Archmage and their challenger. If Thorne won, there would be no way of preventing a vampire and a murderer taking the Sceptre and having control of two out of the five Kingdoms of Visyria. Nox had no choice. He had to answer the summons and defeat Thorne in single combat with only his magic. It would be the hardest contest of both their lives, and neither would be able to win with sheer force alone.

  Magic naturally lent itself to defence, and if they simply poured their strength against each other they could hold out for eternity. Similarly, there were ways of navigating past shields and defences, but they left you exposed, entirely vulnerable to the same form of attack. Nox’s experience and training as a Grandmage surpassed Thornes’ by nearly twelve years, but Thorne had been more natural than even him. Thorne had replaced Mylus Harlock as the youngest ever Grandmage in history, and during his brief time as a professor at the Academy, he had begun classes on new forms of magic that he had created himself- something that had never been done before. Nox was no stranger to inventing new spells and abilities, but creating entire Mystic Arts from nothing, shaping the Power into undiscovered forms- Thorne and the Sorcerers of old were alone in that feat.

  Any plans the Archmage had for Varrasia, for Visyria, for himself: they all depended on beating Thorne in Proelus Vai. In previous challenges, Archmages had been decided by vote or by other forms of combat; one famous example of mages settling their differences with a display of intelligence rather than power was in the contest between Uriel Malach and Rex Kaisson. They had decided that the Sceptre would be won in a game of chess, and had agreed that the other would remain on the Mages’ Council. However, the sigil on the spire was used for only one purpose: to issue a challenge to the death. Upon becoming a Grandmage, each member pledged to obey the rules of the challenge and attend it or be exiled to the Aether. Thorne’s vampirism could not change that covenant. Nox meditated until the sun was at its strongest- if he was going to face Thorne, he would try to nullify his advantage as much as possible. Given that sunlight had never seemed an issue to him, Nox could only assume such things were myths, but every precaution had to be taken. If Nox failed, then Visyria would be buried in the ashes of Thorne’s blazing hatred.

  During his exploration of the library, Nox had stumbled on a prophetic scroll of the end times: ‘Apocalypsis Ultimatis’, the revelations of Jonas Zebediah. While the Prophesus Arcana was unreliable at best, Nox had not been able to forget the words he had seen that night:

  ‘The rider brought with him the hordes of the damned, and the End of Days began.’

  Whether Thorne was the subject of the prophecy or not, as Archmage he would plunge Visyria into chaos and blood- something that could not be allowed. When he had finished his mediation, Nox took the Sceptre and donned the ceremonial robes of ritual combat, before ascending to the roof of the Tyra Arcana.

  When Nox arrived, Thorne was sitting cross legged before the spire, his robes matched Nox’s and bore the iconic black of his chosen specialism: necromancy. Nox’s own robes were divided into stripes of crimson, emerald, cyan, and white: the robes of an elemental. Their specialisms were not exclusive however, and both Grandmages had a superb command of the plethora of fields available to sorcerers. Each would try to maximise the utility of their own whilst diminishing their opponent’s, and ultimately kill the other. When the battle was over, one of them would be dead.

  “I will offer you a pact,” Nox began, in his authoritative, deathly voice. Thorne waited. “Since your victory would grant you the Sceptre, it seems only fair that your own weapons be pledged to the victor.”

  “There are no pacts between gods and men.” Thorne’s arrogant power radiated out of him, but Nox was not intimidated. “But what would stop you taking them from my corpse, if it came to that?”

  “The sigils,” Nox began, emotionlessly, “I assume one of them prevents another wielding your sword.”

  Thorne smiled: clever Archmage, clever dead man. He took up his black sword from the stone roof and tossed it to Nox. “Hold your hand on the fourth sigil and speak ‘Permisa Gratia.’” It was no trick, and Nox knew that Thorne would not risk breaking his pledge to the rules of Proelus Vai. When he spoke, the sigil flared and the blades handle glowed briefly. When Nox held it, there was no heat, no poison, no death, the blade accepted a new addition to its list of accepted wielders.

  “And the bow?” Nox called, seeing the Hun’thai on the ground beside where he placed the sword back down.

  “It is not mine to give, and I would ask it be returned to the Arrachsians upon my death.” Nox recognised it now and trembled at the thought of Thorne in control of Sylestra’s assassins. He accepted the terms however, the Spider-Queen would never let him wield the bow and she had the power to take it from him. “I have my own request.” Thorne spoke coldly, with all the arrogance of a successful mass-murderer. “If I win and become Archmage. You die. Permanently.” Thorne eyed his sword and the Archmage understood- he would be risking everything if he agreed. “I offer you the same terms.” This tempted the Archmage; with Thorne destroyed forever, Varrasia would be his alone, and he could shape the world with the full power of the Mages’ Council. He paused…

  “I accept.” This was it. No survivor, no afterlife, no surrender. Whoever won lived, and whoever lost died. “Shall we?” Nox stepped to the furthest edge of the tower, while Thorne rose up to his enormous height beside the spire. When Thorne dropped his outer robe, he revealed powerful, defined muscles that bore the snow-white glaze of a vampire, unlike the rest of his pale skin. He bore a few scars, but the rarity of them was proof of his skill in combat. There were crimson marks across his back where his wings had broken his skin during the transformation into bat-form. Other than that, Thorne was a picture of physical strength and power.

  As Nox dropped his own robe, he revealed muscular flesh that was covered completely in tattooed sigils. Every inch of his body bore the black runes, carved into him on every part of his physique except his face. Thorne knew the practice was popular among skilled linguists of magic, but thought the idea was abhorrent. A mage should command magic, not be a slave to it, allowing it to control and corrupt their body. Nox spread his hands across the tattoos and they began to pulsate, in a rainbow of colours like the Nexus Thorne had unleashed.

  Thorne briefly looked around. “Just us?” He queried simply.

  “Just us. The Mages’ Council are aware of the situation however, and will be following closely.”

  “Oh I’m counting on it.” Thorne laughed sadistically before the battle began.

  Black tendrils exploded from Thorne’s body as he unleashed the first blow, trying to overwhelm his rival in a torrent of necrotic power. They stretched out from him, moulding into daggers as they headed for Nox’s heart. In a flash, Nox was tapping sigils on his arms and they glowed with a blinding white light. He grasped the tendrils with his enhanced hands, and ripped them from Thorne’s body, leaving them to dissipate on the stone. In response, he unleashed a maelstrom of fire from his hands and mouth, proving himself once again as the most powerful fire-mage in the world. Instead of defending against the flames, Thorne leapt into the air, manipulating it to give him the height he needed to avoid the blazing river and summersault over the Archmage. When Nox saw, he cut the stream of fire and tried to blast Thorne out of the air- he narrowly missed and a turret of the tower broke apart, falling to the city below.

  While the tower was huge, there was only enough room for a small duel; it had never been designed for a contest on this scale. Thorne had decided that he wanted to choose a more exciting venue. After t
he Archmage had missed his attack, Thorne ran up to him with vampiric speed and dug his nails into Nox’s chest. Before he could retaliate, a blue light started to envelop them, and Nox braced himself for the unknown.

  They emerged from the teleportation above the throat of a volcano- and Thorne let go. While the Archmage fell toward the lava, Thorne’s wings erupted from his back and he flew to the safety of the ashy plains of Embaris. He did not merge fully into bat-form, just enough to get away before the wings retracted back into his body. As Nox fell, he tapped more sigils on his chest and his body burst into flames. Falling into the lava, he felt the heat wash over him like water and burst from the volcano with a trail of fire blazing in his wake. He landed beside Thorne on the ashy rock-face. “So, you know I knew?” Nox said, briefly resting from the exertion of the battle.

  “Not at all. But a dead man reveals very few secrets.” Thorne unleashed another devastating assault, this time using his command of the Dark to open up a void beneath Nox’s feet. The Archmage nearly fell into the Abyss but caught the air with his hands, using it to lift himself away from the void before it swallowed him. He landed gracefully but barely saw the blast of lightning Thorne had launched at him. It bore the violet hew of his soul, and Nox had no idea if he could defend himself. With a millisecond to spare, Nox stretched his arm out to the lightning and allowed it to tear into him. He focussed intently and allowed the energy to pass into his stomach before sending it out into the sky from his other arm. His skin was left smoking, but there was no damage done to his tattooed body. Thorne did not relent. He shaped the magic around them into a black blade of shadow and death, focussing it and giving it incredible power. With the shadow-blade in hand, he charged for Nox, who was barely able to avoid the attack.