Thorne's Conquest

by Matthew Cuthbert

  ***

  Amidst the ruins of the Varrasian camp, the survivors were trying to rebuild what shelter they could before nightfall, when the freezing temperatures could be fatal. After a breif report from his subordinate, Lyre had learned that the casulaty rate from the Chronian attack had been enormous- far greater than any previous conflict. In total, there were 37,000 battlemages, around half of whom were Arrachsians. The Varrasian survivors included nearly the entire Black Army, Thorne’s own unit, but major casualties had been suffered among the non-elite. The reason for the higher survival rate of Lyre’s invasion force was that they either had animal companions who could sniff out their targets, or they were so accustomed to the nature of the forest that they could move without needing to see. Combined with the other battles since the invasion, the total number of casualties was now 23,000. Lyre was responsible for the death of over seventy-five percent of those, which did not bode well for when Thorne returned. The battle had taken place a week after Thorne’s departure, presumably with the information of Chronian spies in the forests, and had destroyed nearly a third of their armies. Lyre cursed himself. Hazy reports had been suggested about the number of Chronian casualties; they ranged from a thousand to nearly ten times that. From what Lyre had seen, a cavalry roughly equal to the Helsifer’s regiment in the Battle of Caira. This ambush had been a complete surprise. Helsifer’s giant warhorses had cut through the tents and Varrasian soldiers like hot steel through ice- it had only been Vrax’s ingenuity that had saved them, at the cost of her hand. The healers had worked diligently to stop the wound becoming infected but they did not have the power to regrow her lost limb since it had been lost to the Dark. Growing something from nothing was a skill even Illyra did not possess. If proper shelter was not re-established in the next eight hours, the Varrasian casualties would soar even higher.

  This was why Lyre was seriously considering Scarth’s proposal to counter-attack and invade Caira: it would be equally unexpected and the forest had brilliant, native shelter already built and fortified. Almost the entirety of the Arrachsian armies and cavalry had survived- the only problem was the people themselves. If Lyre’s Arrachsians could sever the bonds between the Chronians and their beast-slaves, they could turn them against each other and trample the remains. Thorne’s request for this two months previously had been interrupted by his close encounter with the Chronian spirits and the proceeding early winter. Upon his departure, Lyre had diverted their attention back to this instead of focusing on Thorne’s contraversial ‘war-on-spirits’. In a week, they had managed to damage and disrupt the relationships between the warriors and the animals of the tree-city, but it would be a struggle to defeat them in combat given the state of the soldiers.

  The spell Vrax cast had saved an unknowable number of lives, but it also had poisnous effects on mages. Nothing permanent- just enough to make their strength diminish slightly, and inhibit their magical ability. Perhaps they would still have the strength for another battle in the same day- Thorne always said that an army of one hundred of the strongest mages could win a war by themself- they just never tended to agree on which war. Deciding to gamble, Lyre singalled another meeting of the War Council to begin preparations for another assault and abandon the brief start they had made repairing the camp. He was confident they would win, he only shuddered to think what would happen if Thorne returned to an army half the size he had left behind. It would be an interesting battle if it came to that; Lyre did not believe himself to be on the same level of Thorne and Nox yet, but in another lifetime he would have easily become an Archmage. The last Arrachsian Archmage had led the combined forces of the three major islands in the Varrasian Civil War, with an army of spider-riders behind him. A necromancer had not wielded the Sceptre in millenia; no one could even remember what they had accomplished, only that they had journeyed to Hades by choice and never returned. Thorne was not prepared to follow his example just yet; he had a country to kill.

  ***

  Feeling the cold spread through his body, the life drain away as it was replaced by venom and death, the soul crumple and shrivel, falling away into the Aether, Barros’ eyes opened to see the black clouds above the Tyra Necra. “Hey sleepyhead.” The vampiress was almost… cute. She adopted a certain jovial nature now that she was among family. “Well, I must say that was an accident. I really am sorry. But it could be worse, dear. The first time I turned someone they tore out their eyes- they grew back of course but being a vampire does not stop you feeling pain. And his other eyes still worked so he actually watched his new eyes being made. It was rather funny, if you could tune out the screams- hey are you even listening?” Barros was staring into the darkness, wondering at all the broken dreams and failed ambitions he would suffer because of the creature before him. “I am trying to explain! Being a vampire isn’t all doom and gloom. I mean, it is a lot of doom, but with very little gloom. Doom and laughter, that’s my motto.” She smiled hysterically, with that insane frivolity. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps becoming a vampire was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  Now that his body had repaired itself into a strange, undead creature, Barros found that he could talk without any pain. His limbs were functional, he could feel the cold, unmoving blood lying still in his veins. His cold, unbeating heart was almost imperceptible. “Who are you?” He said simply, without life. “Why are you here?”

  “Now that. That is an excellent story. You see, it all began two-thousand-three-hundred-and-seventy-five years ago. I was a young, beautiful princess from Varrasia, before they adopted that repugnant council-system. I fell in l-”

  “Now. Who are you now?”

  “Rude. Well if you must know, I am the Vampire Queen. Much better than an Arch-vampire or something ridiculous like that, don’t you think? Either way, the reason I am here is because this is my tower, and you came here.”

  Barros’ dead brain worked hard to assemble the entourage of new information, trying to decide on some form of action. Motivation was scarce among his dead neurons. “What is this place, what did you do to me?”

  An enormous smile glowed out from the Vampire Queen’s face. “What a delightful question. Well, you little people- or rather your little acquaintances- call this place the Tyra Necra, or the Death Tower. But that is a gross simplification. This is not a tower of death or some deathy thing that shoots lightning when necessary- this tower holds in place the Covenant of Exile. Now, before you rudely interrupt me again, the Covenant prevents me and my kind entering your world. It is a barrier of sorts; it keeps the undead up north and allows you little southern people to roam about the vast majority of Visyria unhindered by demons and vampires and Dracerbera and all the other things that want to kill you.” She seemed to enjoy informing Barros about the tower.

  “Your kind?” Barros asked, curious but unafraid.

  “Well obviously: I’m not the only vampire out there, even if I am the most beautiful.” She flicked her black hair behind a snow-white face, and the fire of her blood-red eyes shone against the darkness surrounding them. She truly was beautiful. “Now, as for your second question. I may have… accidently… poisoned you. Yep, I totally poisoned you- sorry about that. But wow you were tasty. That pure, Varrasian blood is just too difficult to resist. And did I detect a hint of Sheos in there as well?”

  Barros replied, though he did not know why, “My mother’s home.”

  The Queen licked her lips voluptuously and blew a kiss. “Utterly delicious! Well I’m afraid, as I said, I did poison you. Quite badly really, I felt awful. Watching you thrash and shake and choke on your vomit- it was very entertaining. But I really am sorry. I thought I’d just have a little snack, I completely forgot about the whole ‘turning’ thing. But yeah. You’re a vampire now. Welcome to the family!” As she said this, she held out her arms wide with an excited grin on her face.

  Barros thought about his options: give up, try to die if he even could; leave this place, go with the creature to wherever she was from;
try and get back to Thorne, he seemed to manage as a vampire. The Queen read his thoughts. “Oh. I am sorry. Vampires aren’t allowed back in Visyria, not the south at least. Again- so sorry.”

  One option eliminated. Too bad, he would have made a powerful mage as a vampire.

  “Oh, and another thing- your magic, well, it’ll be a little different now. You still have your power and strength, but your soul may be a little… destroyed. So, it’ll feel different. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

  Barros paused for a while. She did not mind, time dragged on forever in exile. “You said you’re a queen?”

  “The only one that matters!” She grinned that insane grin again.

  “Queen of where exactly?”

  “Well, wherever the vampires are. Right now, that’s over there.” She pointed to the sea. Arctas Aeternas then. At least he would not feel the cold as a vampire.

  “Do you have a name? And do you rule this place alone?”

  “Oh how terribly rude of me! I don’t know what’s come over me recently; watching you nearly die, killing you, forgetting to tell you all these things I really am awful! My name… hmm, I did used to know it. It has been an awfully long time. It was something pretty I’m sure, but names don’t really matter where I’m from. No- I am not alone. You’re going to love my husband, he’s a real charmer- not a vampire though. Much sexier than that. You see, he’s a sort of spirit. I believe your people had a name for him at one point. What was it… oh it’s on the tip of my tongue, you had a few I think… Oh yes, I remember? In Visyria, you used to call him Myfisto, King of the Dead, the Damned and the Aether- he’s really sweet though.” Her insane grin was strangely warm now that his blood was cold.

  Chapter 16

  In triumphant defeat Helsifer and her remaining cavalry had ridden back to Disideris. They had suffered heavy losses- around half of the newly formed regiment of 10,000 riders. Still, they knew that they had inflicted far heavier losses on the Varrasians for the first time in the war. What was more miraculous was that Thorne had failed to join the battle: the worst-case scenario was that he was away gathering resources or preparing for a grand-scale assault, the best was that he had died, and the invaders were leaderless. Either way, Helsifer knew the importance of pressing their advantage. She had ordered raiding parties to be established and a timetable to be drawn-up allowing them to keep the Varrasians under pressure while they recovered. Perhaps they even had a chance.

  Bursting through the door to her chamber, a scout-rider broke her optimism “My Queen, the Varrasians- they’ve attacked. They hit Eltinor just before twilight, with their entire army. We thought they would rest, wait. They’re winning the battle easily; the warriors are barely holding against them.” Her words were urgent, breathless, fearful- pathetic. Once again, a surprise invasion of impossible strength filled Helsifer with a sense of dread. Even if the Varrasians were weak and exhausted from the previous battle, they would roll through Eltinor with their sheer numbers. Helsifer could ride out with her cavalry again, but by the time they reached Eltinor, the city would likely be overrun. This was disastrous: the tree-city would have been the perfect outpost for mounting hit-and-run attacks. Trying to keep up the same pressure all the way from Disideris would be impossible.

  There may not have been time to ride to their rescue, but the warriors of Eltinor were strong; they would be able to inflict heavy casualties on the Varrasians so that hopefully by the time they reached Disideris, they would not have the strength to face down the hordes of warriors Helsifer had summoned from the far-reaches of Chrone’s Kingdom. However, one of the other bitter reports from their powerful attack on the camp had been that the Varrasians were still in possession of at least a gallon of Black Fire. No one in Chrone knew how much they had used to invade, but even a tiny amount could have devastating consequences if the war had to be decided by siege.

  Now that Chronian warriors and common recruits had nearly finished assembling their forces in the giant, fortified city, they were beginning to take up a huge amount of resources. For the time being, convoys from the west were still adding to Disideris’ stockpiles of food, but Helsifer knew that if he wanted to win by siege, Thorne would target these supply chains. The city now stood with a garrison of nearly 200,000- and from her cavalry’s reports the Varrasians had less than a quarter of that. Underestimating Thorne, however, had not gone well in the past, and the vast majority of Helsifer’s soldiers in Disideris were peasants, recruited to protect their country. The number of trained warriors stood closer to 50,000 with 10,000 cavalry and the rest forming the 5 infantry regiments. Each regiment had given up 500 women to take over the remaining peasantry forces, giving Helsifer a total of 25 infantry divisions. Many of the peasants had experience hunting, and so would be positioned along the castle walls with longbows. The problem for the rest was that there was not enough steel in Disideris to equip the entire army, leaving some warriors to fight with their own personal hammers or meat-cleavers. If the Varrasians were allowed time to recover, Helsifer was not optimistic about their chances of stopping the avalanche of black magic and nightmarish soldiers.

  With the new information that Thorne still had a supply of Black Fire, trenches, spikes, ramparts, and other traps and defences had been set up far to the east of Disideris. They formed an arc around the walls, trying to stop them blowing a hole in the city as they had done at Sajaris, in Arkathor. Perhaps if the warriors of Eltinor put another huge dent in the Varrasian numbers, they stood a chance of surviving- but if not, or if Thorne returned from wherever he had gone with another host of reinforcements, Helsifer and her people would be wiped out.

  ***

  Iluminus Iyre, the voiceless prophet, surveyed his surroundings with his real eyes for once. He had escaped to a city of some sort, a yellow city of light and splendour. It felt almost like another vision, but he knew he was somewhere else- somewhere between magic and reality; somewhere beautiful. Walking out from a brilliant crystal palace in the heart of the city, a tall figure in a brown robe approached him. “Iyre,” He began in a soothing voice.

  “Yes?” Iyre replied. Wait- he replied! No hiss, no unintelligible, haunting cries. Iyre felt his tongue in his mouth, no curse, no black disfigured snake tongue. He rejoiced and hugged the stranger in tears.

  “I am so sorry Iyre, but you cannot stay here any longer, and once you return, so will the curse. But before that, I have something I must show you.” The man said in a compassionate, strong voice. The man led Iyre to a beautiful ocean of dreams and visions, a whirlpool of futures and possibilities just begging to be explored. “It has been so long, Iyre. I have been forgotten; my warnings lost. It is time for another to bare my responsibilities.” The man handed Iyre a feather quill, and an ornate, large book.

  “Who are you?” Iyre said, unused to speech but somehow eloquent.

  The man smiled sadly. “Jonas,” his voice was thin and whispered, “Jonas Zebediah.” Iyre had heard the name in stories, perhaps the odd scroll. A prophet of sorts, like him but from millennia ago.

  “What is this place?”

  “Some things are only known to the Creator, my dear child. This is a place of purity and energy, magic and life. Even I don’t know what it is though, despite the years I’ve spent here.” The place began to darken, as if the sun was going down. “I have kept you too long. Remember, your words will save them. Even with your forked tongue you are a master of words, Iyre. Now go, tell them what you have seen.

  Jonas pushed him into the Sea of Visions, and after his journey Iyre emerged onto the floor of his home in the mountains with the quill and book. His eyes were filled with ethereal sunlight.

  Iyre saw the Seven Seals of the Creator, glittering in his mind’s eye, beautiful and resplendent. As he inspected them, he realised the first had been broken, and the Lamb was approaching to break the second…

  and then he was Thorne, back in the Mages’ Academy. When he looked in the mirror, he saw himself weeping, a boy of only e
ight years old. As an orphan boy who had fractious relationships with all who knew him, he made the perfect candidate to become a mage. Two Varrasians had shown up at his house on Illos after hearing reports of his strange abilities. His foster parents were relieved to be rid of the child they viewed as a curse, but the mages taught him his power was beautiful: to be nurtured and cared for, not to be locked away. Thorne remembered little about his real parents- only the brief flashes of his mother’s face in the odd, hazy dream. Assuming his father had left or died before he was born, Thorne had never cared to find out where he came from. His mother had died shortly after he had been born- at least that is what his foster parents told him- and the mages did not care for family or lineage. The only thing that mattered was power, strength, and ambition. Thorne exceeded all his peers in these. As a recruit of ‘exceptional potential’ he had been sent to the Academy at Arcas Magna to be trained with the Grandmages of the Council.

  While some tried to extinguish his more… controversial ideas, he quickly become the pupil of Caecilius Thar, the Academy’s best tutor of Necromancy. Others were disturbed by Thorne’s obsession with the magical form, and his queries about the tenth plain of magic, Hades- but Caecilius loved him like a son. In him, Caecilius saw all his hopes and ambitions fulfilled. He had seen the boy’s power and transformed him into the majestic form he had today. But as a boy, eight years old, severed from every family he had ever known and finally taken to a strange land of mystery and horror, all he could do was cry. He wiped his eyes and opened them to see the face of his fourteen-year-old self.

  He was tall, strong, with black hair that flowed down to his shoulders, pale as the moon. The beginnings of his merciless stare could be seen in black eyes. A stare that spoke of anguish and betrayal, but with a power behind it that made lesser men tremble. He had just arrived at the door to Caecilius’ chamber, the mirror faded away revealing the wooden frame. Desperate to impress his potential teacher, Thorne had reached out with his mind beyond the door instead of knocking until he found the Grandmage. He probed gently, in a way that made it clear he was not hostile, and only attempting to communicate- not invade. Upon hearing the voice in his mind, Caecilius had smiled a cold, calculating smile as he thought of all his pupil could accomplish starting at such a young age. Necromancers normally did not choose to specialise until they were eighteen, as the field was so rare and difficult to master. In awe at Thorne’s unimaginably fast progress in just six years, Caecilius had only conducted the trial as a formality. They would spend the next four years of his training here, until Thorne decided on what path he wanted to take out in the world. As Thorne completed the simple tasks to demonstrate his aptitude, he found himself smiling for the first time in far too long-