And then he was alone in his room again, staring into the mirror: it was the day before his ordination as a Grandmage. He had specialised in Necromancy, despite all the warnings and pleadings of his other teachers to specialise in the Mens Arcana. Thorne’s reply was intelligent and arrogant: ‘Why learn more about the magic when it only exists in our minds? I know my own, and I do not know whose mind I may need to study in the future. Why waste my time now?’ His tutors had been horrified at the slight against their specialism, but it was shrewdly accurate. Only so much could be taught: the magic of the mind was creative and unique; nothing could be learnt through sheer study. So, Thorne had chosen to become a Necromancer, and at the ceremony of his ordination he was donned in the ornate black robes of his master and friend. At the age of twenty-six, Thorne had become the youngest Grandmage in history, and would repeat this feat with the Archmagistry just eleven years later. He remembered the look of pride on Caecilius face, the only father-figure he had ever known.
Then he was in Arkathor, staring down at the man who murdered his friend. He had become a tutor at the Academy for a brief time, seeing if there were any necromancers with potential. He had found a young man who had discovered his abilities late and travelled to Varrasia of his own accord. While many of the mages believed he was too old to train in such a difficult art, Thorne had taken him up as a pupil. His power was impressive- not extraordinary. But Thorne saw potential in him when he offered to instruct him in the ways of Death-magic. That potential had been wiped away when the slavers had taken him. Thorne was too late when he arrived in the Qaibur mines, Mynas was already dead. Thorne tore apart the minds of the slavers searching for the murderer. He did not care about his name, his family, his dying wife and the money he was working to try to buy medicine in the small, isolated town. He had committed an irredeemable atrocity. Thorne tortured him for days before finally killing him. The nightmarish reports of how he cut apart the man’s very essence as well as his physical body, eviscerating him bit by bit until nothing remained- not even his soul, horrified the Council. Many called for his expulsion, but his popularity among the Varrasian Isles and the support from Caecilius Thar stayed Archmage Vex’s hand. He was not even forced to surrender the sword as the incompetent Archmage failed to act time and time again. As Thorne felt rage and bile building in him-
He was back on the Mors Crescilia, looking out towards Galantine.
All the blood, all the pain, all the strife and fury- was it all worth it? Iyre wondered whether Thorne was really part of the Creator’s plan. Perhaps the child of the King of the Aether and the Vampire Queen really was the instrument for world order. But six seals remained to be broken…
***
Thorne’s black, merciless eyes looked around the Cathedral in bored annoyance. The ceremony of his induction had been a necessity- he knew this, but he despised it all the same. The Cathedral was one of the few Varrasian churches dedicated to the Creator, rather than the God of Death. While Thanatos may have been a distant, often silent deity, his predecessor was an entirely unknown agent. The few fractured pieces of knowledge about the Creator were shared among few, and certain among none.
Still, Thorne understood the importance of appearing as a strong, devoted Archmage and Lord of Varrasia. The only other ruler to obtain two of the five Kingdoms was a mythical hero from before the Exile- what Thorne had achieved now would echo across Visyria spreading terror and awe. That same terror seemed to be abundant within the Alabaster architecture of the Cathedral. It was as old as the Tyra Arcana, long before the wisest Grandmage could have learned about it; it was a majestic creation, but Thorne preferred the Black Churches to this clean, dull building. No gothic design, no beautifully ornate decorations or malefactions in the stone. It had no character, only the dreary resemblance of Archmage Vex and his aged weakness.
Yet there were worse things. At least the ceremony would only last minutes and allow him to address the vast congregation of mages from the Council, the Academy and all over the Varrasian Isles. All he had to do was swear an oath on the Sceptre, a binding oath, but one Thorne believed in despite his criticism of the council. As Grandmage Julius Pontifex approached the crystal throne, Thorne took the sceptre from his hand and stood in his magnificent black robes. “I swear by the Creator, the God of Death and upon the currents of the Great Power, that I will serve this country, and this council, to the best of my power. I swear to be an agent of harmony in the world, and to do all I can to keep Chaos at bay. I swear to be the Guardian-Protector of Visyria and wield the Sceptre for its good.” His strong, deep, shining voice echoed out to the mages with authority and vigour. Many cheered and applauded: those who believed the time had come for an Archmage of action and strength. Those who remained silent were quietly afraid of the monster on the Throne. Archmage Thorne, Lord of Varrasia, Guardian-Protector of Visyria, the Hand of Vengeance, the Butcher of Arkathor, the Black Sword. Even now, eyes drifted towards the strange warrior who stood at the head of Thorne’s personal guard. He bore the likeness of Syras Nox, but his helmet and armour concealed his face. Only the pale, grey eyes could be seen, looking vacantly into the distance.
Thorne had not told anyone but the Mages’ Council about his new bodyguard and fear kept them silent. They would be its victim if they betrayed the new Archmage. As Thorne felt the binding Power of the Sceptre fill him, keeping him true to his word, he knew that there would be no change in his actions. His beliefs, all his poisonous ambitions were true to his oath; he thought himself the Saviour of mankind, not the Harbinger of the End Times. Even if Nox’s words had been true- perhaps there was another. Someone Thorne would stop, perhaps that was his role as Guardian-Protector. Or perhaps his dreams and promises would plunge the world into a second Great Darkness, and the hordes of the Aether would rise up against Visyria, with Thorne leading the charge of their vanguard. Only time will tell thought Grandmage Caecilius Thar as he gazed intently at the black eyes of his greatest pupil.
Chapter 17
From atop his majestic, blazing Magmathon, Lyre rode into Eltinor burning and trampling, careful not to let the forest catch fire. They needed the city to mount a full invasion when Thorne returned. The fight seemed to be going in their favour: the Chronians had been caught off guard when their beast-slaves had turned on them, ripping out throats and tearing off limbs. In the chaos, the Arrachsian cavalry had flooded into the city, trampling the ground troops while the archers wrestled with their animal-betrayers. A small vanguard in the north was maintaining the spell that kept the beasts fighting and was having devastating effects on the Chronians. While they themselves were immune to magic, it seemed their creatures were not; it must have been horrifying to watch your animal turn on you in an instant, replacing the bond and loyalty with blood and betrayal. Lyre shuddered to think what he would do without Acheron, the beast he sat atop now. With him, Lyre felt complete, felt like he could ride down the hordes of Hell and come out the victor. These may not have been the warriors of Hell, but they were vicious and tough as boiled leather. One of them even fought on despite having an eye clawed out by an eagle-like creature in the treehouses.
While the Arrachsians used their stronger numbers to blast apart the Chronian defences, climbing trees and sending their foes toppling to the forest floor, Scarth’s Embarasi sat on the edge of the forest, prepared to burn it to the ground if the battle turned against them. For now, the Arrachsian advantage held, and bodies began to rain from the sky like a nightmare of screaming and death. While Lyre did not share Thorne’s sadistic passion for slaughter, he felt a sense of pride at his own soldiers; perhaps it would be enough to redeem him in the black, merciless eyes of Crucius Thorne. He would at least prove his worth as a commander, even if there was some form of punishment.
Lyre remembered a moment in the Arkathi war when one of Thorne’s commanders had allowed his army to break ranks and run at the retreating enemy, allowing them to run into an ambush and suffer the Arkathi ballista. The commander and fifty of h
is soldiers returned. Thorne executed the commander and had the remnants his battalion whipped for their stupidity. There was no place for incompetence in Thorne’s army. Lyre wondered if he had shown any; the attack on the camp had been unpredictable, but even if they had known they would not have been able to prepare in the freezing conditions of Chrone’s winter. Now, as the strength of the weather was waning and the spirits could not keep up their vicious spells, the land was becoming less hostile. The ground was still covered in snow, but the first signs of spring were beginning to show amidst the blood and ruin. Small violet hyacinths were beginning to grow in the cold soil, just enough to catch the sun. The arctic sun’s distant fire blazed gently on the Arrachsian riders, proving that the power of the void-spirits was waning. It seemed Thorne’s war on the Spirit Plain would have only shortened their wait and increased their casualties; but something told Lyre that Thorne was aware of this and simply wanted to wipe out what he saw as a blight on Magic. Lyre held no such convictions despite sharing the same desire for a quick, efficient war. Extermination had its advantages, but it would take a long time to reap the benefits of a barren, shapeless Kingdom.
Now that he was Archmage, this would be the third addition to Thorne’s growing domain. Lyre was smart enough to know that Thorne was not a madman, and even believed that his intentions were good- justified even- but he did understand the repercussions of having someone so… ruthless as the King of Visyria. Even now, the thought of Thorne’s black eyes struck terror into the hearts of people who had never even met him. The people of Anvylla and Mjolnos far to the West rarely sailed past Chrone and Arkathor, but those who had travelled to Varrasia and come face-to-face with the supposed War-Hero returned shuddering. Reports had confirmed Thorne’s information about the Arkathi slave trade; their vast empire of forced labour was toppled. Thorne had gone further though. Even when the Qaibur mines had all been wiped out he pressed on for the capital, taking Sajaris in a devastating attack. With slavery wiped out, Thorne spared Eranor and secured his first Kingdom, allowing his supporters to call him ‘merciful’. Absurd. How many had Thorne murdered in cold blood to reach that moment? All forgotten by sparing a king. How many people had he starved? Forgotten because the king could eat. Lyre did not forget- he did not really care. All the fury of Thorne’s raging tempest would not stop him being the most powerful man in the world- if he could even call himself a man. Reports had not yet reached Chrone about Thorne’s ascension, but Lyre could feel the change in the currents of the Power when the Nexus had erupted in Thorne’s maelstrom of black and purple.
Lyre wondered if he would follow Thorne down his path of ruin; whether he would ride into Hell with the master-murderer. He hoped he would not have to. If Thorne did return with reinforcements, or with the Grand Sceptre in his hand, perhaps they could unite the forces of the three Kingdoms against the remaining two. Perhaps there would be no war- an instant surrender, or some form of pact that allowed Anvylla and Mjolnos to remain independent. Lyre doubted it. For all his redeeming qualities, the ability to share was not a skill that abounded in Thorne. Still, power was power. With the strength of three Kingdoms, Thorne’s power would be undeniable, his control almost absolute.
Realising he had begun to daydream amidst the carnage, Lyre realised the battle was all but over. There were a few warriors hiding among the trees, some stupid enough to reveal their positions and attack. The Varrasian casualties had been few; Lyre kept expecting something to go wrong. Kept waiting for a sudden ambush so he would not be surprised. Still refusing to let his guard down, Lyre used a particularly difficult ability, even for an Arrachsian: he let out a wave of transparent green light that passed over the entire forest. The light blazed red when it touched Varrasian skin, but upon Chronians the light was sucked away into an abyssal black. Few of these patches of darkness were revealed, but when the Arrachsians realised what Lyre had done they closed in and slaughtered those who remained. Lyre fell off his mount with the exertion, but Acheron simply curled up around him in a shield. Feeling the warmth flow from his Magmathon, Lyre felt incredibly blessed to have found him in the volcanic plains of Embaris. Acheron purred gently as he lent Lyre his strength, his fire dying down a little while they shared in magic and strength. The rain of corpses had died down, and Lyre slept amidst the bodies with his fiery protector, invincible and complete.
Scarth was almost disappointed that the Chronians had been defeated so easily as his troops filled the city and began to modify the defences against a possible Chronian raid. In total, their combined armies were now only 30,000 strong: half of what had arrived in Chrone three months ago. The Arrachsians still made up the bulk, but the decision for Scarth’s armies to stay behind had evened out the ratio. All in all, there were 10,000 Arrachsian riders with their own unique mounts. Two Varrasian armies: one merged from the remnants of the defeated regiments; the other was Thornes’ personal Black Army. Somehow, they had retained over ninety percent of their strength, and preferred not to merge with less experienced soldiers. The armies numbered almost 6,000 each. The remaining forces were Thorne’s Black Riders and the Arrachsian infantry, whose mounts were either too dangerous or difficult to ride. Fortified in Eltinor, Scarth was confident that they would be able to mount an assault on the capital, but even he was not rash enough to attempt this without Thorne.
Under his leadership, armies and cavalry fought as a singular, unstoppable machine. His ability to harness strength from the Plain of Blood was unfathomably effective: when soldiers experienced it, they fought as if they had trained with each other for years and knew every move their opponents would make. Then there was Thorne’s sheer magical talent. While this was somewhat nullified by the Chronian resistance, he still had the ability to use it to create devastating physical attacks- and Scarth had learned that Chronians could still be killed if a vacuum was created around their heads by manipulating the air. He took great joy in this, despite being a fire mage by specialty.
While marching into the camp Scarth rushed to Lyre’s collapsed body fearing the worst. The sound of his breathing effected a deep, relieved sigh from the commander as his Magmathon licked the Embarasi warrior’s hand. They were both unscathed apart from the bruises and callouses that came from combat. As Lyre came around from his exhausted sleep, Scarth jammed his finger into his chest. “Thought you were dead you lazy koth!” He breathed in amicable relief. Lyre was barely aware what was going on in his fatigued haze, but upon realising what had happened he only smiled gently.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Under Thorne’s command there was little room for jovial interactions such as this- the brief respite gave them both a renewed sense that what they were doing here was important, even if it was hard to see beneath the blood and bones. Lyre and Scarth had both served under Thorne in the Arkathi wars, and before their promotions had both been members of his Black Army. The combination of their fighting prowess and their strength in separate areas of magic made them a terrifying duo: in the Arkathi wars they had been nicknamed ‘the Sons of Thunder’. Now, commanding separate armies, they rarely had the chance to talk as comrades and fellow soldiers. They savoured this moment before the war went on.
They were not given long. While Scarth’s forces were still integrating with the Varrasians, Lyre and Scarth felt the air go cold, and a sense of their magic being pulled slightly as their souls felt the chilling touch of Chronian spirits. Bursting from the ground in a maddening tumult of screaming and thrashing, a host of the void-spirits arose from the snow in a last desperate attempt to rid the land of invaders before their power failed. In an instant, the sound of Arryan steel echoed through Eltinor as 30,000 soldiers drew their weapons. The spirits were unfazed; looking at them was unnatural in the spirit world, but here their faces felt distorted and impossible. It was like staring at a gap in space and matter. Those who had journeyed to the Dark were reminded of its insanity and wrongness. With a scream of anguish and deep-seated hatred the creatures attacked. They reached
out with their abyssal non-souls and targeted the soldiers’ minds. 30,000 screamed in unison at the agony raging in their unprotected minds. In the ambush, none had managed to prepare for the assault, believing that the Chronians would not be capable of such attacks. As Lyre felt the haunting touch of one of the void-spirits he reached out to Acheron, calling on the Magmathon to lend him its fiery strength once more.
Lyre broke free from its grasp to watch the entire army kneeling or prostate in agony, clutching their heads as their brains began to weaken. Thinking desperately fast, Lyre shouted a mental command to the Arrachsians and their mounts, urging them to call on the strength of their companions in the same way he had done. A few succeeded. Not enough. The Spirit Arts users were still sprawled on the snow, wrestling hopelessly with the foreign, demonic beings. Lyre felt the first ripples of the Aether as soldiers began to die. This was it. They had no chance. The entire army was about to die under the oppressive hands of the void-spirits. Holding Acheron tightly, Lyre prepared for death. The beast understood, and again curled around him in a warm embrace.
Thorne's Conquest Page 14
