Chapter One: Fall of Valtroy

51st year of the 4th Recording of time, Month of Storms

The sky over Valtroy was choked with smoke as down below the city burned. The black, snake like tendrils twisted and weaved, stretching ever higher into the sky, collecting into a mask that covered everything in the city, turning the day into night.

Buildings collapsed, toppled over like children’s toys as artillery fired indiscriminately, destroying homes, markets, and anything else unfortunate enough to lie inside the city walls. Panic reigned throughout the streets as citizens who were not crushed by fallen debris or blown apart by artillery literally trampled each other trying to find somewhere safe. City guards ran like frightened rabbits as panicked officers tried to get a handle on the situation.

“Fall back! Fall back! Get to the Lower District!” One of them yelled, trying to direct the mob. None of them knew what to do, nothing had prepared them for this level of brutal devastation.

Outside the city was no better. An enormous host of Melcanian soldiers and siege machines thundered against the walls with rifles, cannons, and all manner of weapons. Airships swarmed like locusts, bombing and destroying everything. The proud Kgnaskan fleet fired salvos from the water in counterattack, trying to bring down the flying horde, but did so in vain. The ships were caught on both sides, hit from the airships above, and the Melcanian warships moving in from the East. Torn asunder by a hurricane of explosives and hot steel, the Kgnaskan navy burned, their dying carcasses belching smoke as one by one they erupted into flames and fell beneath the waves. What little was left of Kgnaskan ground forces had already pulled back into the city, completely overwhelmed by the oppressive force that was the Empire’s wrath. The outer wall would not hold forever, not with the gods themselves hammering against them, the only thing to do now was to dig deeper into the city.

People flocked outside the gates to the Lower District, pushing, shoving, screaming, desperately trying to find sanctuary behind another wall, but the gates had been sealed. Guards struggled to retain order, pushing back the crowd, overrun by the sea of bodies pressing against them.

“Let us in you foggy bogarts!” screamed a large man in front, taking a swing at one of the guards, only to be hit across the face with a rifle.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! We’re going to die out here! Let us in!” Cried a woman holding a child, frantically trying to push her way through.

“There’s nowhere left to go! The city is surrounded!” Hollered a man further back. A skittish officer, a boy younger than his uniform, drew his flint rifle on the crowd.

“G-get back! Get back! There’s n-no more room! T-the lower District is already overcrowded as it is! I’m s-s-sorry!” He stammered, shaking so hard that he couldn’t hold his weapon steady.

“Officer Hollann, that is quite enough.” said a man in a well worn uniform, one which had the colors of authority. Everyone in the crowd immediately stopped pushing, going silent, all eyes on the man that walked through their midst, a large collection of soldiers in tow behind him. Hollann snapped to, nearly dropping his gun as he hastily gave a salute.

“C-commander B-beckett.” The commander gave a nod, not paying Hollann much mind, instead surveying the throng of people gathered outside the gate.

“Officer Hollann, what are all these people still doing in the Upper District?” demanded Beckett, indicating the crowd. Hollann opened his mouth to speak but was cut off. “Open the gates immediately, have your men send these people through in an organized fashion, women and children first, then you and the rest of the guard move into the lower district to defend the civilians. My soldiers and I will hold the gate.” Officer Hollann stared vacantly at the commander. “Am I clear?” Beckett’s words were sharp, final, uncompromising.

“Y-yes sir! Ok you lot, you heard the commander, open the gates.” His men hesitated, trading nervous glances. “Oy, you heard me, open the bleedin gates!” His men complied and slowly the gates began to creak open, inch by inch, pulling apart with groaning protest. They began moving the crowd through the growing gap one at a time, an agonizingly stagnant process that left thousands on the wrong side of the wall.

Suddenly there was a thundering rumble, one that shook the entire upper district of Valtroy, crumpling buildings and collapsing streets nowhere near the source of destruction. The doors stopped, the guards pale as they looked out from their towers, seeing what only they could see. Everyone stood in utter stillness, faces frozen in horrifying cognizance. The north wall had fallen… The Melcanians were inside.

“OH MY GOD!! WE’RE GOING TO DIE!!!” Screamed a woman in the crowd, shattering the trance that had fallen upon everyone. With all the force of a thousand pressing, shoving bodies, the gates groaned and shattered, people trampling each other, crushing themselves into stone and steel in desperate hope of escape.

…

Dalton sprinted through the streets, trying to stay ahead of the chaos that was quickly following him ever deeper into the city. In his arms he carried the child, Prince Ryan, King Gregory’s son and heir. The king’s final order, protect his son, save him from the Emperor's wrath. He would provide them with time. Sealing himself within the keep, King Gregory had blown the bridges that connected the keep to the surrounding cliff face, isolating himself atop the great plateau that laid in the center of the city. The castle had stood for a thousand years, it was strong and sure, and as hard as the stone it rested upon; The Melcanians would go through hell to take it now. While the majority of their forces were distracted capturing the castle, Dalton had time to escape to the water.

Rubble fell from overhead as explosions rocked the upper district, the very cliffs themselves crumbling down upon the streets, houses, and lower markets, burying everything beneath stone and dirt and the shattered remains of buildings. People ran down the descending incline at breakneck speeds, tripping over each other, trampling one another, desperately fleeing to the beach as the world fell down around them. The royal navy was out the East gates, valiantly defending the city, they would be safe, they had to be… there was nowhere else to go.

An old woman shoved past Dalton, nearly causing him to fall down the sloping street. No sooner had she done so when the half of the second story of a building fell from above, crushing the woman and a half dozen people in front of him. Dalton stood in horror and shock at the level of brutal destruction all around him, would there be anything left when this was over? More people pressed from behind, shoving him forward, and he continued. He held the child close to him, praying to the gods to deliver them to the beach.

…

Commander Beckett’s men were gathered outside the broken, twisted gates to the Lower District, less than a thousand tired, worn soldiers, holding ground behind hastily prepared barricades of rubble and broken bodies. If they failed to stop the Melcanians here, they would spill down into the canyon like a wave, raze what was left of the city, and corner the remaining survivors against the water. Few would be spared. Beckett shuddered at the thought. The noise of death and destruction drew nearer, and Beckett could see the men losing their nerve, their hands trembling as they struggled to grip their rifles, some clutching their heads in their hands, cowering behind the barricades. This would not hold long, Beckett knew that much, but he would die before he gave the Melcanian dogs so much as an inch more of this city. Beckett drew his sword.

“Hold!” The thunderous sound of boots on pavement was almost on top of them. Screams started and died in echoing gunfire, leaving only the stamping footfalls of what must have been 100,000 men.

“Hold!” The Melcanians rounded the street corners on both sides, surrounding them, gods there were so many of them. They charged towards their defensive line, roaring like the very demons of hell, their blackened armor glinting in the light of the burning city despite the smoke enshrouded darkness. Some of Beckett’s men threw down their rifles and fled the army of hell, only to be cut down by a hail of bullets. Beckett stood firm, unflinching even as shots came within inches of hitting him.

“DIE A COWARD SOAKING IN YOUR OWN PISS OR DIE DEFENDING THE CITY YOU LOVE FROM SOULLESS MELCANIAN DEVILS WHO WANT TO TAKE IT FROM YOU! IN THE NAME OF MY KING, IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING, KING GREGORY THE FIRST OF KGNASKA! HOLD! THIS! GROUND!” The men behind him rallied, finding new courage, firing into the enemy ranks. The Melcanians collided with the defensive line like an iron fist, but the line held.

The Melcanians cursed and spat, shot and stabbed, but the Kgnaskans had them at a bottleneck, forcing the blackened horde to come at them in a restricted space, precisely to Beckett’s strategy. With the wall at their backs and the gate towers to their sides the numbers of the horde were for naught, and the devils fell in multitude, massing upon the ground in heaps. Still, Beckett’s men were outnumbered more than 20 to 1, but as long as they could hold the line, as long as they could refuse the Melcanians the opportunity to flank them, they had a chance.

…

Dalton ran down out of the city through the broken walls of the destroyed beachside gates. This side of the city had fared no better, the waters a burning graveyard of shattered ships, all along the beach were the broken, mangled bodies of soldiers and civilians. Foolish individuals that thought it safer to flee to the water, flee to the waiting arms of the Melcanian navy and air forces, only to be slaughtered in the open ground. Dalton did his best to conceal himself alongside the cliffs and sprinted past the carnage to the ship waiting for him at the end of the beach, hidden, just barely, within a small alcove along the cliff face.

A portly man with an aging beard stood impatiently on the deck, chewing the end of a pipe. Waltt stopped when he saw Dalton, pulling the pipe out of his mouth and pointing at him.

“Oy, what took you so long?” Waltt grumbled. “Been sitting here for the better part of two hours waiting for ya, gods be good that I didn't get spotted by these Melcanian Snapper Fish out here.” He coughed, covering his mouth with his arm, then spat onto the deck.

“The city’s gone to hell.” Gasped Dalton, still catching his breath. “Just be thankful I came at all.” He brushed past Waltt and headed below deck with the child, surprisingly still asleep in his arms, whatever they had given him must have been strong stuff. He laid the boy down on a bed in the cabin and then came back onto the deck. Waltt was waiting for him, continuing the profuse chewing of his pipe.

“The boy?” He asked without looking at Dalton, keeping his gaze on the burning city. Dalton did not answer him at first, and went to getting the ship ready to make way. He sighed, but did not slow his efforts.

“He’s fine, just needs to sleep.” Said Dalton, lowering the sail. Waltt nodded his head absentmindedly and proceeded to stuff his pipe into his pocket. He untied the rope securing the boat to the cliff face and then helped Dalton get the sail lowered.

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” said Waltt, grunting in effort. Dalton’s expression remained stoic.

“I can.”

…

Dalton maneuvered the ship as carefully as he could, doing his best to keep far enough away from the coast so as to not be seen by wandering eyes, yet not straying too far into the deep waters that grew ugly this time of year. For now the waters were calm, but that could change in seconds. The Month of Storms was the worst time for sailing, the seas transforming into great, gaping maws of death, waiting to devour anything foolish enough to venture off the coast. Only the truly brave, the extremely stupid, or the ultimately desperate would attempt a long distance voyage during this time. Yet, they had their orders, and Dalton would never betray his king.

They were to sail 3 days time southward, to the nation of Lithia. The Lithians were allies to the people of Kgnaska, good and trustworthy, their country lying south of the mountains that divided their nations. The prince would be safe there for the time being, until arrangements could be made to bring him to the city of Evermir, to be safeguarded by the Eubeans of the Southern jungle lands.

Dalton sighed; everything was so complicated now. He remembered a time when there was peace, but that seemed but a dream now, as they sailed for their lives in an ocean that could swallow them whenever it felt need to, only to avoid a worse fate if they were to be captured by Melcanian warships. He looked out over the horizon, keeping an eye out for storms, wishing more and more they had taken a sturdier vessel.

The Marie Ann was not well built, though Waltt would argue otherwise, and was less than 40 hand lengths long, just large enough for a single sail, and a small sleeping cabin towards the back of the ship. Even a ship twice, no, three times their size, would be taken if a storm passed over them. But a larger vessel would have brought attention, and subtlety was of the essence.

“Have you eaten anything yet?” Asked Waltt, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. Dalton almost flinched, he had been so focused on the sky he had not even noticed the large man’s approach, he was losing his edge. Dalton shook his head.

“No, I haven’t eaten anything since this morning, been a little distracted with the world going to shit.” Dalton said. He looked over at Waltt, smiling for the first time since coming aboard. “But I wouldn’t refuse a bite, I feel as though my insides will start eating themselves if I don’t put something in them.” It was not that funny, but Waltt laughed anyway, a deep rolling laugh reserved for fat men. He slapped Dalton on the back.

“Glad to see you have some humor in ya. Hold here, I got some salted beef in the storage hatch.” Waltt turned and walked down the short stairs to the main deck, momentarily disappearing from sight. He returned after a pause with a couple paper wrapped packages, smelling of meat and held together neatly with string. He tossed one of them to Dalton, who caught it in one hand while keeping the other on the helm. Dalton ripped open the side of the package with his teeth and proceeded to bite off a large hunk of beef. He smiled, the meat was a bit old, and over salted, but he had eaten worse, and the food was welcome after a day in hell. He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. Dalton looked out over the horizon again, and his chewing slowed. His brow furrowed as he watched the black clouds quickly forming off the port side of the ship. They were a ways off, barely visible on the horizon, but Dalton knew better than to tempt fate. He turned the ship to starboard, putting the sails to the wind, and prayed that they could outrun the devil. It was no use, however, as their ship was overtaken by the storm, the water that had been calm and lazy quickly becoming enraged and violent as the gods themselves battled overhead.

The Marie Ann dipped and bobbed, a splinter of wood in a vast ocean, every toss of the sea threatening to pull the vessel under. The rain fell relentlessly against the deck, pounding at the wood like millions of tiny fists, and the frozen wind blew like the breath of Galryn himself. Dalton and Waltt fought to keep the ship sailing, but neither of them had ever seen a storm of this size.

“It’s no good! We have to get the sail out of the wind!” Cried Waltt over the gale, his hands slipping as he struggled to pull on the ropes. Another wave surged over the side of the deck, knocking Waltt over. The rope released but Dalton caught it just in time and kept pulling. “The ship is being torn apart! We have to get to shore!” Sputtered Waltt, getting back on his feet, only to be knocked off balance again by another heave of the sea. Dalton stood firm against the howling tempest.

“No! We have to reach Lithia! We will not fail our king!” He barked, but Waltt was not paying attention to him, not anymore. He stood there, slack faced, staring past Dalton. Dalton turned around and saw the Sea rising up to meet them, a wave, higher and wider than the cliffs of Valtroy, their ship, a splinter of wood in the way of a god. Dalton released the ropes, the sails did not matter now, and pushed past Waltt to the ship’s cabin. Despite the roar of the storm he could hear the man uttering a sailor’s prayer as he passed him. He found the child hiding in the corner, holding onto the bed for support. Dalton quickly grabbed the boy and, with expert swiftness, tied themselves together with the bed’s blanket. He laid down on the bed and held the crying child tightly.

“Shhh, it’s ok, everything is going to be fine.” Dalton whispered. Then the ship was hit with the full force of the sea.

…

Dalton awoke with a start, lurching up in bed before falling back down in intense pain. Every part of him felt as though it had been beaten with hammers and set on fire, he could not even open his eyes without painful consequence. His breathing came labored, and his teeth clenched so tightly that it was a miracle they did not break. Through the agony Dalton could hear voices, what sounded like a man and a woman, but it was unclear, the pounding in his head making it hard to focus.

“... told you we needed to… a real doctor.”

“He would’ve… before… What were we supposed to do?”

“Need medicine… Infection’s spreading… Told you to cut higher.” Dalton tried to hear more, but the pain in his head was too much, gods his throat was dry. Water, he needed water. He reached out with his hand, fumbling blindly, and found a table next to his bed. He knocked something off the table, something that hit the ground with the sound of broken glass. This got the voices’ attention, for suddenly there were hands at his side, gentle, calming, the hands of a woman.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s ok, you’re alright.” She said, her voice was soft, light, it sounded pretty. She put her hand on the back of his head and Dalton felt something being pressed against his lips, the cool refresh of water. Dalton drank deeply, he had forgotten how good it felt to drink something, anything to wet the desert that had formed inside of him. “There you go, that’s good, you’re doing good.” When he had finished, she laid his head back down and set the glass on the table beside him. “You rest now, I’m going to get you some more water, maybe a broom to clean this glass off the floor.”

Dalton heard her walk away, still unable to open his eyes, still in incredible pain. He felt like a man with a foot in the grave, and another about to fall in, but he could not help but think that he was forgetting something, something.... Something important… but he could not quite rem- THE CHILD. PRINCE RYAN! WHERE WAS PRINCE RYAN!? Dalton forgot all about his pain, gritting through it as he summoned all of his strength, bolting up in his bed and forcing himself to stand with nothing short of miraculous will power. He lost his balance immediately and fell over, he tried to stand but he could not, Writhing on the floor like a fish gasping for air. Dalton reached down and confirmed his fear… His leg… His leg was gone. He released an almost inhuman howl of pain and frustration. He could hear running, the woman again, and another person, a man?

“What in the gods? Brutus, grab hold of him, hold him still.” There were hands at Dalton’s side again, more forceful this time, the hands of a man. Dalton struggled, but gave in quickly, defeated. He had failed, he had failed his king. The hands lifted him back onto the bed, the woman said some things to him, words meant to calm and comfort him, but Dalton did not hear them. His mind was occupied by one thing, there was no room for anything else. He had failed, the child was gone, he had failed, the child was gone, he had failed… the child was gone.