CHAPTER 1 – The Thief’s Torture
A thrash of power cut through the skin on Jazool’s left cheek. He stumbled backwards and clutched his face, feeling cold blood on his slightly numbed hands. Looking up to the spell caster, he crouched his tall figure into a kneeling position and placed his hands behind his back letting a mixture of grease and blood pour from his face. A tall man approached him, his hands alight with blue flame that was fighting to be free.
“It is a pity we must meet like this,” the man roared at Jazool, his voice was deep and resembled bones rubbing together. His voice suited his enormous body. Jazool peeked up only to find his vision clouded by a bulk of muscle on the man’s chest. The man was less than an inch away from his salty hair. Jazool sweltered through fear, his breathing quickened. Slowly, he felt his skin being scorched by the flaming hand as it coiled itself around his face and pushed him backwards.
Jazool released a scream of pain until his lungs gave way and he was plunged into silence.
“Now, tell me where Phoryell is located.” The voice was firmer this time, firm enough to shake the ground slightly.
Jazool kept his silence partly through pain but mostly through mind focus, there was no way he would give the location of his master away just yet. Phoryell had instructed that he give it to him three days after being captured. He would obey.
It was the second day of the torture now, his limbs were bruised, his skin burnt. This torturer was skilled in magic of the darkness and was ready to inflict pain upon the silence of his clients. But Jazool could handle it, he was a thief, he could handle anything.
“Where?” He was flung up to the wall and held there by invisible hands, he couldn’t move. He was a statue. The torturers hand became a fist just before he felt his throat being choked. Jazool had never felt a choking like this; it was evenly spread and forced itself on him with a passion for knowledge. He was released from the choke and the torturer stepped forward.
Today was the second day of torture, Jazool had been tortured the day before without any questions. He understood this well, it was to capsize any stubbornness before questioning. It worked only on the weak and not on the loyal. Jazool understood this more. For that moment Jazool remembered his loyalty more strongly than ever, and somehow, even through the binding of the torturer’s magic, he felt himself smile.
The torturers face flashed with anger he placed his hand forward and a sharp disk of light left it and headed for his right thigh. Jazool closed his eyes as he felt a rush of blood leave the remaining stump on his leg.
#
Crês-Emperal Graté was only a rooks flight away from Phoryell’s base, its colossal purple wall of magic was unmistakable.
Phoryell’s eyes followed it up into the clouds and not once did it lose its vibrant colours or vivid grandeur. In one respect Phoryell classed the wall as his equal - it was strong and everlasting; kept its secrets inside and never faltered. That’s how he used to be some five months ago until his union of minor states was seized and conquered. He, Phoryell, founder of the Western Union, most powerful ruler in the known world had fallen to a hoard of necromancers from a land unknown to most. He lowered his head in pity then spat at the wall for reminding him of what curdled his blood.
He turned around and looked at his tribe of five thousand or more, the loyal thieves and militias. They had been moving almost weekly, setting up makeshift camps, scarring the landscape as they did so. This at one time would have hurt Phoryell but now it wasn’t his landscape to scar so he inflicted wounds as much as possible to the poisoned earth he walked on.
“Master, master,” a small boy scurried up to Phoryell, panting.
“What is it boy?”
“Jazool has returned.”
Phoryell’s eyes widened in terror. Jazool was not supposed to return on the second day. He wasn’t supposed to return at all, he was supposed to die after he told them the location of the camp. “Take me to him.” He was lead through the crowds, he picked up to a sprint. Several joined him curious to their master’s severity. He halted and restrained tears.
“I have returned master,” the voice came from a twisted mouth hanging from a pale white face. The face had slits for eyes, a blind man. The man was sitting in a chair but no legs flowed over the sides only wooden stumps that were as greasy as his old hair. His new hair was none-existent – baldness displayed green veins, thick and charred. The man was a monster, ugly and deformed. Phoryell’s stomach curdled, he turned and released vomit.
“J…Jazool?” he trembled the name as if it was sacred.
“Yes, it is I,” the mans voice was unchanged, still bubbly yet slightly edged with mystery.
Phoryell looked around still seeing many listening. “We need privacy.” He walked to a tent nearby, guards following carrying Jazools chair.
“You have served greatly.” He said sitting behind a table, looking down avoiding Jazool’s nightmarish glances. He poured a drink in a glass
“No, I have failed. I told them you were at the borders of Crês-Emperal Graté, they will be here within the day.”
Phoryell looked up at him with a new bode: hatred. He had betrayed the union, he should have died before falling to the feet of the necromancers. Phoryell stood, eyes wide with not horror, but punishment.
“You have failed me, the people and the UNION!” He shouted piercing the air and crushing the glass in his hand, yet not cutting himself.
“Master, they threat—“
“—NO YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED BEFORE SURRENDER!” Phoryell repeated his thoughts.
“But but—“
“—Treason carries the ultimate penalty.” Phoryell looked at him with no sickness and no pity. He pointed at him with an outside sterness but an inside thrill.
“Death!” All he fought for, all he knew and believed congealed and morphed into anger which travelled through his arm and out of his finger in the shape of a green bullet of light. On contact, the thief was dead.
Phoryell ran his fingers through his hair, thinking, thinking. He knelt down to the body, and placed his hands over it. Slowly the flesh vanished leaving a skeleton. A murmur from his lips crumbled the skeleton to sand.
A single tear ran down Phoryell’s face. Sacrifices had to be made for the Union. He was close to Jazool but he had to fail him, he had to go and fail everything. No more tears came from his eyes. He turned to see the scrawny boy staring at him, not with shock like the others would have done. But with disappointment.
“You shall say nothing, as usual.” He told the boy, he was answered with a nod from his head. His magical abilites could never be let out. Within the union only the boy knew of them. The others would denounce him after three months ago when magic users razed their homes.
“Jazool was a good man,” he told the boy calmly. “But he failed you,” Phoryell pointed at the boy. “He almost killed you and your family. He betrayed us all.” This justification pleased Phoryell, that was his trade : wording things so they seemed fine. Many deeds had been covered up with his soothing voice.
Phoryell walked out of his tent, many people gathered around outside. He smiled and nodded to them. They awaited Jazool but were disappointed.
“My friends!” Phoryell roared to them all. Immediately his people focused on him. “A great treachery has occurred today, Jazool has given away our location to the fiends.” Cries burst from the crowd.
“Jazool has been killed for his treachery; he has almost killed us all. We must make our way over into Crês-Emperal Graté within the hour. Pack up camp.” Phoryell turned to his left to see the boy, staring at the tent. The boy quickly moved as droplets of grey rain fell from the sky.
CHAPTER 2 – In the heart of the enemy.
Neya missed the soft forests and rolling hills of her homeland, Ravintrov. She missed her family and her friends and basically, civilised society. Phoryell’s land was anarchy personified. The people lived in poverty, there were no rules. Only Phoryell’s despotism influenced his people.
She gazed out of the newly erected tower window. Flames licked the fallen stone of the capital but were kept away by invisible shields on the new buildings. The new buildings were Ravintrov creations. Neya smiled as she saw them, they were tall, sleekly built with black granite. They were perfect. No blood had been spilt in the mortar of those buildings because magic had placed them there. Every Ravintrov building was the same here, unlike back home. They were control towers, perfect for army living quarters and prisoner of war camps. There architecture still impressed Neya.
“Mistress Neya,” a timid voice called from across the suite. It was her servant Mioka. She turned to look at Mioka immediately; Mioka kneeled and pressed her head into the velvet carpet.
“Yes?” Neya said giving no instruction to rise.
“Master Atroyn wishes to speak to you.” Neya sighed inside, her father was such an interferer, he meddled in all her personal affairs. She knew what he wanted to talk about: a husband. Mioka didn’t move. Neya clicked and she got up, careful not to look at her mistress and walked out of the room.
She would keep her father waiting for a little, she couldn’t go and see him to soon – that was giving in.
She turned to the window again, this time looking to the horizon. No building but control towers stood in any city of the Union any more. They had to take over, it was the only land on the continent tormented by first age technology. It was ridden with plague and ruled by a sorcerer. Phoryell’s power is too much, she thought as she flicked to a mental image of him. He dwarfed her own power and the power of many Ravintrov sorcerers, but together they would conquer him.
Neya was driven to find out about Phoryell’s power and where he came from, it was a mystery to many.
We know his location, a siren sounded inside Neya’s mind. Her father was talking to her mentally.
Where? She asked him back.
On our old allies doorstep. Emperor Granik’s Crês-Emperal Graté!
A cloak appeared from no where and wrapped itself around Neya. She swung open the door and walked through the control tower to the highest floor. She passed several cloaked figures, all bowing as she passed. She halted. There it was: her father’s door. Last time she had passed the threshold it had been in tears following an argument about her chosen husband. This time was quite different, they were working together to conquer the lands, to make the union a better state. A state without Phoryell.
She opened the door to find her father, Atroyn, crowded by several advisors. He looked up and Neya smiled. Her father nodded and the people left the room.
“So, how on earth did you get the location. The sorcerer has been shielding his colony from magical searches.” She wondered. Her father smiled, she knew that smile. A smile that lead her into more curiosity.
“One petty thief was found unconscious after driving them all out of the great cities into the control towers. A quick mind brush told us he worked for Phoryell. Our dear interrogator worked from there.” She felt no pity for the thief, he stood in the way of a new world, a free structured society for the people of the union. But it would take some time convincing them out of the old ways. Phoryell was thought of as a saviour by the people but they knew no different. Neya was driven to make their lives better and under Ravintrov’s rule it would be so much better.
“May I speak to this thief?” Neya was curious and wanted to ask him some questions of her own.
“He was turned out and transported back to Phoryell. We kept him monitored but we lost his soul several hours ago. The only explanation is death.”
Neya now did feel pity. How on earth was he killed? She knew Ravintrov interrogation was mild and would not have caused him harm. It must have been Phoryell, had the thief let him down? Or had Phoryell got some soul shielding power. The man was a mystery and his powers greater.
Atroyn rose from his chair. “Ravintrov is closer than you think” he spoke. She sighed, he knew that she longed home.
“I will give up the luxuries to structure this broken society. How many people do we hold in the towers now? It must be almost everyone.”
Atroyn closed his eyes and knew the exact figure, “476, 345, the few remaining are with Phoryell, but most fled over into Ecclemau whom of course will harbour them, but not for long.” Her father had gone darker. He turned to the window and looked out upon the towers with the same pride as Neya had, but he had something more, he had greater plans floating around in his mind. Perhaps Ecclemau is also in danger, she thought, knowing little of the country and its politics.
“So, when are we going for Phoryell?” She broke her own thoughts.
“In an hour.” That soon…
Her father detected her surprise.
“Phoryell has dangerous powers, he and the criminals must be stopped.”
“I understand father, I understand.” She couldn’t wait to preach and convert his people to live in the towers and rebuild the nation, she glanced at her father. He had a stern look. She had a sliver of fear that her father had other plans. She cast this thought aside and prepared for the attack.
#
The camp lay barren now apart from the odd bit of linen cloth or tent fabric. Phoryell swivelled around and saw no sign of his people. They were well hidden. He put up his hand and the shield vanished and several thousand followers sprung from no where. He forwarded and neared a few before putting up the barrier once more. They were invisible.
He only noticed how noisy they were when he got inside. Silence was the only thing he heard from outside the shield. Of course by using the shield Phoryell risked everything by telling his people about his magical ability. They did not grow curious through distress and fear of the necromancers. It was a good time to reveal his secret, or partially reveal it.
He flicked his eyes to his left side and the boy, Haven, looked up at him with his ever gaunt eyes.
“Your silence is no longer needed.” He told Haven, then snatched him close and kneeled down. “I’ve told them that the shield is my only ability. Don’t make me hurt you!” He found himself seething. “You say nothing of anything else.” If it wasn’t for the boy’s youth, Phoryell would have killed him to avoid detection. He was a risk to the Union.
Slowly, he waited. He was prepared for any attack, although he assured himself there would be none. They couldn’t possibly see them through the shield.
Chapter 3 – Advance!
Neya’s father, Atroyn was dressed appropriately as always. He wore nothing elaborate for the capturing – just a plain black cloak. Several others over dressed. Neya did the opposite; she wore a brown, modest cloak. Her aim was simple: to appeal to the people, to gain their trust. She had little doubt when they explained the situation the people would join them and then Phoryell would be free to be captured. Of course if the people remained loyal then they would be bound and placed into the control towers.
“Ready Neya?” Atroyn said, smiling. Her father’s voice was slightly icy on such a mild day. She detected something different in the master’s voice, again she ignored it. Her focus was on the capture and nothing else.
“Yes father,“ she bowed in the presence of the others. Atroyn was the most powerful, politically and magically in the Union, apart from Phoryell of course. The others always watched Neya to ensure she was giving him the respect he ‘deserved’.
When the others had arrived Neya sensed it was time to go. With the command from Master Atroyn, Neya willed herself from the ground into the air. She encased herself with magic and created a vacuum in between herself and the ground to keep her there. Flying required concentration and much power to the ignorant. The vacuum trick used little of the aura. Her father had taught her that magic was in auras, some places had a greater aura than others. An aura was usually powerful enough for all mages to share and draw from. So, naturally, Neya and the other Ravintrov mages cared little about exhausting these ever replenishing auras.
Her eyes darted around and she saw others suspended in the air. A older woman came up to her, she smiled at her cousin, Urselle.
”A cold night Neya,” Urselle shivered, Neya spotted she had several layers of clothes on. Urselle was very reacting to the climate, many of the researchers said it was the change in aura concentration. She knew better, her cousin was simply a heat freak. She loved bathing in the warn Ravintrov sun. Neya sighed as she too filled with longing.
“I see you miss the Ravintrov sun,” She said sympathetically. Urselle nodded.
“And the waters, and the palaces and my servants…”
“As do I cousin,” She said to Urselle. “But we both know that this Union needs rectifying, Phoryell was a despot. For the sake of the people here we must remain strong.” A gust of wind quietened her but her voice remained tough.
She followed Urselles gaze to her father. Atroyn rose his hand. The mages shot forward in the icy breeze. She didn’t start as quickly as she took time to move her vacuum below. She glanced behind and noticed Urselle was already weary. Did she not know of the vacuum trick? She suppressed a smile of satisfaction as she began to explain.
“Here, why not create a vacuum underneath you, then you will balance on the sides of it?” It took Urselle only a few tries to be keeping up with Neya. They both followed the mages.
Looking down, she noticed the black circles of the control towers amidst nothing else. She smiled as she thought of the people who had been saved were safe inside and not scraping to survive everyday.
“Neya, where do you think Ory’s power comes from?” Urselle blurted out. She smiled. Ory. That was their pet name.
“I don’t know, he certainly isn’t an eastern mage like us.” She paused and recollected her thoughts, “some say he comes from far, far south. Some say he comes from beyond the mainland.” Urselle stared in awe.
“So he’s a sorcerer?”
“Yes Urselle, that’s what I believe. If he isn’t an Eastern mage then he has to be one of them.” She reasoned. Looking down below them, Neya watched the world blur past her eyes, a sight she welcomed for beyond the haze was wasteland of a drained, poverty rich country.
“But surely that means….” Neya looked at her cousin’s expression. “…his power is greater that 30 mages.” This wasn’t a question.
Atroyn halted. The others began to stop including Neya and Urselle. Her head filled with a pulse of magic, he took that pulse and quickly interpreted it as a message.
Mages of Ravintrov, tonight we attack Phoryell and his band, you know what to do! Her father spoke. She saw the other mages doing the same. Yes. She knew what to do. After negotiations they would come willingly, if not then she would bind and transport them away.
First – The Control Tower.
The mages landed on a mossy knoll. She could barely see her father though the blackness if it weren’t for his glittering eyes. Urselle stood close; she imagined that her cousin had contributed to building a tower before. Urselle didn’t come for the fights and building side, she came for the experience. Urselle had the annoying habit of doing whatever she did. Neya despised this as Urselle usually just got in the way.
She merged into a large circle and clasped hands with two older men. As they closed their eyes, she did too. She felt the aura around her and collected its power then concentrated it onto the ground. She felt others doing the same until a mass of power had formed. The power was twisted then forced upwards. She opened her eyes as dirt was turned into black stone. It towered high in the sky and just as it stopped growing, the end turned into a point and a door was made at the side. The circle was broken.
In the shadow of the tower Neya looked at her peers. Each of them were stern, cold as if a huge thing was about to happen. She was not, she cherished this moment as the day she would finally bring an end to Phoryell’s tyranny. Atroyn held out his hand.
#
Phoryell’s head sweated slightly. A tall robed figure had pointed directly at him. He turned to the boy, he looked solemn, lost. The people around him all were, they needed a shepherd, a leader. He was that shepherd. He was herding them together and concealing them against the ravenous wolves in the form of crooked men, over the knoll.
He skimmed the horizon with his well trained eyes until they met with softness. Beauty. A women robed as them, raced with them stood on the hill top, her black hair roaming back on the wind highlighting her powerful face. But those eyes, how soft they were, tender and warm. She was not a wolf, or any sort of dog. She was magic. Magic not in the fingers of the caster but magic within the heart of the world. His heart thumped, thumped, thumped. Then stopped as absorbed her into his imagination, a small part of his mind was left for emotion, he cherished this image for what seemed like forever.
She moved with grace, paced wonderfully down the hill, almost in a pretty dance, enticing him to lower the invisible shield. Daring him to do so. If he let it down, would she consider him? The thoughts intoxicated him for several minutes after until he felt his trouser being tugged at his side. Looking down, he noticed the boy, the world stirred before screams punched his eardrums in a twisted melee. He looked back at the wolf like mages on the hillside, flying on the wind, charging at them, aflame with passion and magic alike.
“STAND GROUND!” His voice throttled the air. In his own arrogance, he was sure that they could not be seen.
Panick flooded the group, more screams were heard and a stampede of feet ran the other way.
“I SAID NO!” A gleam touched his eyes, a gleam that reflected the mages sending balls of fire from their hands. Sending black sparks at them. Phoryell clenched his hand the shield vanishing at his will. The mages continued, roaring with delight as they neared them with rapid speed. Then the woman caught his eye, her delicate skin burdened with her own tears, she like his people was screaming for everything to stop. Then another scream was heard: this one filled with agony. He turned abruptly to find the little boy dead, the one he had forbidden his self to kill but hours ago.
“No.” He let out a gasp of shock and turned in rage to the mages. He looked at them, a flash in his eyes once more. He rose off the ground like a God ascending. A blue fire coiled around his body. He felt no pain but power. He pointed to one cloaked figure and sent a jolt of fire down too them, he felt the aura and twisted all its energy into that attack. Then it replenished itself but not before the mage had fallen in blood: dead.
Dozens had fallen and the screams from his people slowly died out. He sent more holy beams of power down towards them but he had used up his energy, and the mages were using too much of the aura for him to draw his power from.
He turned in the air, protected by a shield, to look at his entire people lying in a smoking wreckage, in bubbling blood, a dead race. With the last burst of power he could muster from the aura he span and vanished.
