The Storm King

The mood among the contingent sent from Shatufan started quite positive. All those sent on the expedition were eager to avenge their city from the depredations inflicted upon her by Leon Raime, despite the risks involved.

Brave men, all. Waraz was proud of each and every one of them.

Of all the commanders to send, in his humble opinion, he was the best in the city. He wasn’t the strongest mage in the city at only the eighth-tier, but he was relatively old, and his adventurous youth had been spent traveling the Storm Lands. During those travels, he’d worked as a mercenary, an assassin, a bodyguard for a Strategos, and other such violent pursuits. Upon his return to Shatufan, his home, he achieved the rank of Azadan but was an otherwise unremarkable politician. He rarely even showed up to vote on legislation, and spent so much time in his countryside estate that he hadn’t learned of the chaos in the city until messengers arrived weeks after Jamshid and the false King had been put to death.

Waraz had been offered the command for this expedition. He could’ve refused, but love for his home city and shame from seeing so many younger and magically weaker men volunteer while he dithered led him to accept the offer. Manuchehr himself, after holding a grand ceremony where he reassumed the post of Presiding Magus—without a city vote, Waraz had noted—assembled the riverine fleet they now took southward. Waraz was grateful for that, but all other matters of logistics for an expedition of ten thousand men were left to him and however many adjutants he could personally pull together.

The fleet was rag-tag, but in the few days he’d seen them sail, Waraz was impressed by the coordination between the sailors and warriors. How they might perform in battle against their foe’s hardened warriors worried him, but he was reassured not only by their numbers but also by the reassurances he’d received that Leon Raime wasn’t going to attack them. They weren’t going to attack his city if he had any say in the matter, this expedition was mostly about showing their anger and creating negotiating leverage.

Still, Waraz couldn’t quiet the note of worry in the back of his mind. He knew this was no true army. The citizen-soldiers of Shatufan hadn’t seen a major engagement in centuries, and nearly all who had been alive during that last major war had set sail down the Aesii by now. If a pitched battle were to be forced, he feared his people might easily break.

His confidence was boosted when his fleet met up with the ships and arks from Sentudon further down Southcourse. He knew first-hand the power of arks, and though both cities’ ships were only lightly armed, the arks would provide much-needed fire support for any battles ahead.

Nurox, the leader of the Sentudon forces, was an old acquaintance of Waraz’s, and they exchanged warm greetings upon meeting each other. To Waraz’s relief, Nurox ceded overall command fairly easily thanks to Waraz’s greater wartime experience, so integrating their separate and almost informal command structures was made easier.

Not to say that it was in any way easy, however—they still only had a couple days to coordinate their separate forces into one whole before drawing close to the agreed-upon staging ground. As much as he could expect it to, that first day with their joined forces went well.

It started with reports of considerable light in the south, and when morning came, the light of the Origin Spark revealed the horizon filled with smoke—so much was burning in the south that the smoke reached so high above the Blackbone Fens that it could be seen with the naked eye.

It was then that Waraz truly understood the risks they were taking in launching this expedition.

Soon after, an ark was sent ahead to investigate the cause of this smoke and returned shortly thereafter to tell stories of horror; the force from Rolor’s Highcastle had been completely wiped out.

Waraz was familiar with Rolor’s Highcastle. They liked to pretend that they had a long history of great military achievements and that their city was populated by warriors. He knew better, though—Rolor’s Highcastle had always lingered on the edge of the Ocean King’s buffer zone, ensuring that they had few immediate neighbors with whom they could quarrel. They certainly trained as a society more than Shatufan did, but Waraz wouldn’t go so far as to say that their armies were much more powerful than Shatufan’s citizen soldiers.

This contingent, however, he knew was about comparable to his own in size, though they had four war arks. This force, equal to his own if not a bit superior, had been wiped out during the night. The fates of those within the ships were unknown, though all were presumed dead. Waraz certainly didn’t expect such a cruel King as Leon Raime to take prisoners.

Morale plummeted throughout the fleet as everyone collectively realized that this expedition was likely to be far more violent than anyone had anticipated. Nurox and Waraz met to discuss their strategy and almost gave the order to retreat. The only reason they refrained was the arks from Krizos, which were only a couple days away.

So, the decision was made to wait for those arks before pressing on. If they were lucky, King Numa might even be able to send out additional reinforcements to avenge his cousin, Duchess Loia.

By the time the Krizan arks were hovering overhead, however, no response had come from King Numa, leaving them on their own.

Morale recovered a bit during those few days as the dozen Krizan arks, relatively small though they were, were unmissable above the fleet. Such war machines were strategic assets not just for their practical utility but also for the impact they could have on the men. Such weapons on their side hardened their hearts, and Waraz ordered them to continue.

Thankfully, the commander from Krizos agreed, giving him no trouble when he gave the order.

Their journey along the Southcourse continued. Waraz’s heart rate slowly accelerated as they moved south, and he took to standing on the main deck of his ship, Nurox at his side, staring southward, waiting for… anything at all, really. For Leon Raime to burst from the trees of the Blackbone Fens, barbarian arms brandished, curses on his lips. For fire to erupt from the earth and consume them as it seemed to have Highcastle’s force. For a representative of Artorion to make their way north and present terms, even if they were so outrageous as to not be serious.

None of this happened, and when they reached the confluence of the Southcourse and Highcourse rivers and started seeing the bodies and debris from the battle several miles up the Highcourse, Waraz’s stomach was twisting in knots and his fingers were drumming nervously on his thigh. The Krizan and Sentudonian arks flew at a relative distance, keeping vigilant watch over the main riverine fleet as it stretched for miles back north, but this wasn’t enough to quiet his dread.

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He ordered a camp to be set up on the plains east of the Southcourse and spent the rest of that day personally supervising the establishment of strong defenses. Palisades, walls of stone and earth, defensive wards, he made sure all of these were raised. They had a force of at least twenty-five thousand, and they all needed somewhere to sleep if they didn’t want to remain packed into their ships and arks.

Night soon came. Waraz decided to spend his night patrolling, inspecting the defenses, and scouting further south. He expected some kind of response from Leon Raime. Something. Were their positions reversed, he knew that he would never allow his enemy to establish a powerful place from which they could project power without harassing them; he would do everything he possibly could to inflict damage upon them.

And Leon Raime had already shown the capacity for such actions.

As Waraz patrolled the walls, every shadow jumped out at him, and he could feel his stomach tightening further with every hint of motion he saw in the corner of his eye. These were the Storm Lands, and he knew that Leon Raime was a lightning mage, but he couldn’t help but suspect some foul darkness magic at play.

Or it was just his imagination. Could’ve been either one, as far as he was concerned. As dawn drew closer, nearly putting a bow on their uneventful night, Waraz felt himself start to relax.

‘The first night’s always the hardest,’ he thought. He missed his wife and kids, he missed his comfortable rocking chair, he missed the rich scented wood that made up the interior of his estate. He missed teaching his youngest daughter to read, the taste of his estate’s wine, and the singing of birds as they nested in the nearby forest.

He found his vigilance slipping as the sky slowly brightened. It had been a long night, and he was tired from maintaining a state of readiness and keeping vigil while most of the rest of the army rested from their journey.

One of the Krizan arks drifted overhead as it patrolled. The frigate’s presence was heartening, giving Waraz no small amount of comfort and relief—

Space shattered around the ark, black cracks appearing in the air around and through it. The ark exploded, sending fire and burning-hot metal scattering over the camp.

Waraz began shouting for everyone to rise. It wasn’t quite dawn, with many warriors still sleeping. Waraz needed them up and prepared to defend themselves.

Another Krizan ark exploded as space around it seemed to break. Waraz had no idea what was going on, but sprinted for the command tent, screaming all the way for all warriors to bare their steel.

A third ark then exploded, and in the distance, fire sprang up along the Southcourse. When Waraz focused in that direction, he saw a great red beast flying over the wide river, fire pouring from its mouth. The water flash-vaporized from the heat, and the ships unfortunate enough to be in the monster’s way were torn apart—and it went out of its way to target the ships.

A flash, followed a fraction of a second later by a tooth-shaking boom. Silver-blue lightning struck another ark, the force of the strike cleaving the frigate in half. Amongst the crew of more than a hundred, Waraz doubted even a single man managed to escape.

Fire and lightning swept over the camp. He was able to sense other magics at play, especially those of his warriors attempting to shield themselves, but the fire and lightning were both too powerful and all camp wards and hastily erected personal defenses were made moot.

Waraz redoubled his pace, hoping to reach the command tent before anything else happened, but before he could get too far, a silver-haired woman of striking beauty landed right in front of him, her cool glare giving nothing away save for how little she seemed to think of his power and ability to harm her. Waraz couldn’t sense her aura indicating considerable power, but he drew and donned steel anyway, ready to face this fearsome opponent.

A hint of derision crossed her face—or he just imagined it—and drew a glaive from her soul realm.

“Surrender,” she asked. “If you do not, you will die.”

“I will die for my city!” Waraz shouted back, meaning every word. “I would kill for her! I will never surrender!”

Several more bright flashes of silver-blue light and tremendous claps of thunder followed, as if in response. The woman’s eyes narrowed as armor appeared over her body.

“So be it,” she whispered.

The camp was in complete disarray. Lightning and fire were ravaging the entire force. For a split second, Waraz caught sight of an enormous white bird flying overhead faster than anything he’d ever seen. It was winged death; it was a harbinger of doom; it was the end of this expedition.

Waraz refused to be taken prisoner. Death was preferable, not only to save his ego but also to ensure that the dishonor of this failure didn’t impact his family. The faces of his wife and children flashed through his mind as he called upon his magic and charged the woman in front of him.

It was the height of arrogance, he knew now more than ever, to have challenged Leon Raime. Whatever the cause, this was not an enemy that could be beaten in the field. Regret and shame burned in Waraz’s heart at his failure.

This was his end, and he refused to reach the Aesii without a weapon in hand.

---

The air stank of smoke, blood, and burning metal. Fire raged not only over the plain but also over the river. Hundreds of ships burned and more than a dozen arks had been stricken from the sky.

The coalition’s response to his refusal had been thoroughly destroyed. Thousands were dead.

Leon didn’t revel in dealing death, but he had to admit that after the frustrations of the past few months, it felt good to let loose upon these fools, to rampage through them, cutting them down like wheat before a scythe.

Now that it was over, however, he felt nothing but a deep melancholy. So much had been wasted, so much death for no gain.

He silently cursed both Terris and his neighbors. Things could’ve gone so differently, so many people could’ve still walked amongst the living if only so many hadn’t taken such offense to his presence.

He sighed as he strode through the ashen wastes left in the wake of Red’s tenth-tier fire breath. Every so often, he spotted bits of a ship or wooden beam or stone brick, but the magic released during this…

‘‘Battle’ isn’t the right word. Maybe ‘slaughter’?”

… during this slaughter had obliterated all the defenses erected to stop them without much trouble. Those behind the defenses had then taken the full brunt of all of those attacks.

Few survivors were being taken. Few people had survived at all. Most of those remaining were being sent back north under their own power. Leon had no desire to help them overmuch after their attempted invasion. Some protested, but overall, most of those survivors seemed simply numb and detached or outright wept. Such a miserable defeat was hard for them to stomach.

Leon could sympathize with that, at least. He glared northward, his eyes sweeping over Sentudon and Shatufan before swinging east. His eyes lingered on Rolor’s Highcastle and then moved on to Krizos much further in the distance. He wondered if those in power in these cities had known their people were going to their deaths. He wondered if they would even care about this defeat on a human level, or if they would only be upset that they’d lost so much war material.

He thought it might take a while for him to see these leaders personally. As great of a victory as these past few days had been, he still lacked the numbers to conquer and garrison these cities. It might be months or even a few years before it was feasible. He could certainly go to these cities and kill almost anyone he wanted, but holding the cities would be nearly impossible with the power he and his people had.

With a sigh, Leon took some comfort in this likely being the last he’d hear from these four cities for a while. He’d aimed for this defeat to be so complete and cataclysmic that these cities would know that victory for them was impossible.

As he inspected a large broken piece of an ark’s hull, he wondered if he wanted them to send a new peace delegation or not. Conquering those cities would certainly be easier if they didn’t make such overtures.

‘Ah, well. I could always fall back on the trusty strategy of giving them a deal they can’t accept,’ he thought with the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

After one last sigh, he took flight. He didn’t want to remain there wallowing in anger and self-pity when there was much work to do, especially in repairing his damaged city. He gathered his people back up, all having bloodied their blades—metaphorically in Red and Anzu’s case—in the battle, and set a course for Artorion. He was gratified to see that none of them had been even lightly injured during the fighting.

So, with much further ado, and with only a handful of prisoners in tow, he and his party left the battlefield behind, another victory to notch into their belts.