The Fall of Kyrace by Jonathan Moeller

The Fall of Kyrace
    Rykon of House Kardamnos stood alone on the quay.
    The Imperial fleet filled the harbor of Kyrace as far as the eye could see, ship after ship bristling with catapult and ballista, their masts rising like a forest. And each ship carried hundreds of Legionaries armored in plate and chain, laden with sword and shield and javelin.
    Rykon’s mind raced. How had the Imperial fleet bypassed the coral mazes guarding the harbor? Or the Kyracian fleet itself? 
    They had been betrayed. 
    Then the first ship bumped against the quay, and Rykon had no more time for brooding. Legionaries stormed ashore, shields raised, swords extended, moving with the clockwork discipline the Third Empire of Nighmar instilled in its soldiers. He saw the confidence in their eyes, and why not? He was only one man, in a gray robe the color of the sea, and they were armored veterans. 
    Rykon drew his sword over his shoulder and took the hilt in both hands. The blade gleamed at the edges and darkened to the color of coal in its center. A sudden murmur went through the Legionaries, and he heard the word “stormdancer” repeated.
    Rykon smiled.
    The centurion bawled an order, and the Legionaries raised their javelins. 
    And Rykon moved, drawing upon his power.
    The sorcery of air rushed through him, giving him the speed of the wind. Rykon leaped overhead, soaring past the javelins flung in his direction, and landed behind the line of raised shields. The sorcery of water surged through his limbs, giving his blows the strength and power of a falling waterfall. He struck out, his arms moving his sword through the forms of the storm dance, and his blade shattered iron-banded oak shields and smashed steel armor. The Legionaries tried to fight back, but they had been trained to fight as a unit upon the battlefield, not to fight a lone stormdancer in their midst. With the power of air sorcery, they seemed slow, so slow, their stabs and slashes simple to avoid. 
    And Rykon cut through them like a tornado through a forest. 
    The Legionaries rallied, trying to reform their line, until Rykon's storm-forged blade sheared through the centurion's helmet. The Legionaries broke, some fleeing back to the boat, others jumping into the water to escape Rykon's sword. 
    But more ships pulled against the quay, and wave after wave of soldiers stormed ashore. The ships loosed their catapults, their fireballs illuminating the night. The entire might of the Empire of Nighmar had gathered to destroy Kyrace, and thousands of battle-hardened men soon filled the docks. 
    Rykon fought, moving among the Legionaries like a wolf among sheep. Soldiers of the Empire died around him, his blade trailing a crimson mist, and he lost himself to the madness of battle, to the arcane power surging through his limbs. Again and again the Legionaries flung themselves at him, and he cut them down, until steel-armored corpses carpeted the quay, their blood dripping into the sea.
    And then the desperate cry of a horn interrupted his frenzy. 
    Rykon looked up, blinking sweat from his eyes.
    The docks were lost.
    The other quays had fallen, the Legionaries slaying and burning at will. The tattered remnants of the Kyracian forces fell back to the next circle of the city, to the higher walls and ziggurats further up the Broken Mountain's slopes. The Archon of Kyrace himself directed the retreat, the banner of Kyrace fluttering over the melee, a proud ship upon a field of gray-green.
    A proud ship in danger of foundering in the Imperial tide. The Legionaries pursued the banner, pressing against the Archon's personal guard. The Archon would be slain, or worse, brought in chains before the Nighmarian Emperor himself. 
    But only if Rykon did not act. 
    He spun away from the Legionaries and raced away through the quays, moving like the wind. Wooden warehouses burned around him, and a frantic stream of desperate people fled for the gates to the higher circles of the city. Dead Kyracian