The Fall of Kyrace

THE FALL OF KYRACE

Jonathan Moeller 

Description

Rykon is a stormdancer of Kyrace, a proud warrior of his city. Yet the vast armies of the Empire of Nighmar assail Kyrace's walls, and soon Rykon's home will fall to the enemy.

And unless Rykon fights with all his valor and strength, the woman he loves will fall beneath a traitor's sword... 

The Fall of Kyrace

Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC

Cover image copyright Katalinks | Dreamstime.com & Elena Schweitzer | Dreamstime.com

All Rights Reserved

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law. 

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 soldiers in their gray-green cloaks lay piled upon the ground. Rykon saw the Legionaries close upon the Archon's personal guard, but then the Archon's voice rolled in thunderous song. Lightning flashed from the dark sky, smashing the Legionaries like broken toys, yet more attacked. If Rykon could just reach the Archon, he could get the old man to safety...

Two dark shapes dropped from the sky, blocking Rykon's path. Men in ornate crimson armor, black swords ready in their hands, black-trimmed red cloaks thrown back from their shoulders in preparation for battle. Arcane power flowed from them like heat from a candle. 

Battle magi of the Imperial Magisterium, trained to use their arcane sciences to enhance their martial prowess. 

"A stormdancer," said one of the magi. "Surrender your blade, and you shall be permitted to live in slavery."

"If you desire my blade," said Rykon, lifting his sword, "come and claim it." 

"Easily done," said the second magus.

They came at him in a rush, their swords black blurs. Their sorcery unleashed the power of their minds, psychokinetic force making their blows faster and stronger. Rykon's sword leapt to meet them as he drew upon his own power to lend his limbs the speed of the gale and the strength of the storm. He held his ground against the magi, his storm-forged blade blocking every thrust and swing of the black swords.  

One of the magi stepped back and thrust out his armored palm. A blast of invisible force lashed out and caught Rykon in the chest. It flung him from the ground, hurling him towards the wall of a burning warehouse. But he drew upon his own power, using the sorcery of water to strengthen his limbs, and kicked off the wall, swooping upon the battle magi. 

His sword came down like a thunderbolt, cleaving through the first magus's helm and skull. The man fell dead to the street, blood and brains pooling around him. But the second magus came at Rykon, and he was stronger than the first, both physically and in the arcane sciences, and his swings felt like the blows of a mighty hammer. Rykon struck back, but his sword skidded off the magus’s armor, green sparks flying from the edges. Earth sorcery, then, infusing the armor with the solidity and strength of a granite wall. The magi of the Magisterium could not match a stormdancer’s command of air and water, but possessed far greater power over earth. 

The magus took the offensive against Rykon, earth sorcery lending his blows the power of an avalanche. 

Rykon fell back, dodging and parrying the mighty blows, drawing upon the power of air sorcery until his mind crackled with it. The magus whipped his sword up, raising it back for a final blow. Rykon caught the descending blade on the flat of his sword, and they strained against each other, sword locked against sword.

And Rykon released the power.

Fingers of blue-white lightning erupted along the length of his sword, clawing down the magus’s blade and shooting into the crimson armor. The magus arched back as the lightning crackled into him, arms and legs flailing.

It gave Rykon all the opportunity he needed to take the battle magus’s head off. Blood sprayed in an arc, staining the crimson armor a darker shade of red, and the magus crumpled besides his slain comrade. Rykon sagged for a moment, breathing hard, exhausted by the effort of summoning lightning. He was a stormdancer, not a stormsinger, and his arcane abilities lay in enhancing his battle prowess, not summoning storm and wind to strike down his foes. 

But he had no time to rest. He raced through the burning docks, towards the ramp that led to the next circle of the city. Corpses in the armor and cloaks of the Archon’s guard lay among the dead, and at last Rykon found the Archon below the gate to the inner city.

He was almost too late. 

The Archon, Lord Tyndaros, sat atop his horse, his robes bloodstained and torn, his sword dripping blood, his personal guard slain about him. Even as Rykon approached, another wave of Legionaries rushed the old man. Tyndaros threw out his arms and raised his face to the sky, his voice rolling in booming song. Lightning ripped down from the heavens, slaying the Legionaries on the spot, and a gale of wind flung others aside like dried leaves. But some survived to charge at the Archon, and Tyndaros tried to fight back with his sword. The old man was a stormsinger, not a stormdancer, and the Legionaries pressed him hard.

Rykon moved with the speed of a gale. He crashed into the knot of Legionaries clustered around the Archon’s horse, striking left and right. Men fell dead, armor clattering as they rolled down the ramp. Again Tyndaros sang, and a gale struck the remaining Legionaries which such force that they were flung into the air, screaming. 

And for a moment, the ramp became an island of calm in the chaos of Kyrace’s fall. 

“Lord Archon,” said Rykon.

“Rykon,” said Tyndaros, blinking sweat from his eyes. “You’re still alive.” He looked at the burning ruins of the docks, at the tide of Imperial soldiers rising from the harbor. “It is good to know that someone is still alive in all this ruin. Though with your skill, I am not surprised.”

“Lord Archon,” said Rykon, reaching to take the reins of the horse. “We must get you to the next circle of the city, quickly. The enemy will be upon us at any moment.”

“The city is lost,” whispered Tyndaros, gazing at the fires. “Kyrace is lost.”

“We must go,” said Rykon. “The guards will not close the inner gates until you arrive, and if the enemy reaches us first…”

Tyndaros straightened, and some resolution returned to his expression. “Yes. Yes. You are right.” He looked towards the upper city, to the ziggurats with their pools and gardens. “Yes. If Kyrace is to fall, then I will see to it that the Empire pays dearly. We…”

A thunderclap rang out, and the earth heaved. The horse reared back, screaming, and Tyndaros fell from the saddle to sprawl upon the ramp. Rykon caught his balance, drawing upon water sorcery to keep himself upright, and looked for their attacker.

A red-armored figure landed on the ramp a short distance away, black-trimmed cloak fluttering in the hot wind rising from the burning docks. But unlike the other battle magi, gold scrollwork adorned the armor, with a golden Imperial eagle spread across the cuirass. This man carried a heavy mace in lieu of a black sword, and arcane power rolled off him in snarling waves. 

Rykon recognized him at once.

Corthios, Lord of the Empire and one of the high magi of the Magisterium, the man who had smashed the Kyracian army below the walls of Marsis, who had burned the Kyracian fleet in the harbor of Mors Naerius. 

And the man who had slain a dozen stormdancers in single combat.

“Tyndaros, old friend!” said Corthios in accented Kyracian. “So good to see you again.” He smiled. “Perhaps we now can conclude the dispute between us?”

He strode forward, lifting the massive mace. 

Rykon stepped before Tyndaros, sword raised, the sorcery of wind and storm filling him.

Corthios snorted. “Another one? Don’t you fools ever learn?” 

He flicked his wrist.

And a crushing torrent of invisible force slammed into Rykon, hurling him from the ramp and towards the walls of the inner city. He drew on the power of air and wrenched free from the invisible fist, landing on the ramp, his sorcery-strengthened legs absorbing the impact. 

Tyndaros thrust out a hand and sang, lightning ripping from the sky to strike at Corthios.

The high magus blocked the lightning with another flick of his wrist.

Again Tyndaros sang, and a freezing gale blew towards Corthios, the blood upon the ramp turning to brittle black ice. Corthios lifted his hand, and the gale dispersed into nothingness. He drew closer to the Archon, lifting his mace for a killing blow. 

Rykon leapt into the air, drawing upon all his power. He swung his sword in a two-handed blow for Corthios’s back, a flood of water sorcery driving his arms. But earth sorcery strengthened Corthios’s armor, and the blade bounced away without leaving a scratch. Corthios stumbled a step and turned, scowling.

“Still alive?” he said, annoyed, and made a hooking gesture with his free hand.

The ground rocked, violently. Again Rykon drew upon water sorcery to keep his balance. The street below the ramp cracked and shuddered, a pit forming in the ground. More and more of the street collapsed into the pit, along with the stone walls of the surrounding buildings, and for a moment Rykon wondered if Corthios wanted to collapse the ramp into the pit. 

And then an enormous figure rose from the earth, a human shape fashioned out of the broken stones and cracked flagstones. Golden flames blazed in its eyes, eyes that fixed upon Rykon with deadly intent. 

An earth elemental. Corthios had pulled it into the mortal world, and the creature had fashioned a body for itself out of the very material of the city. 

“Kill the stormdancer!” commanded Corthios, turning his attention back to the exhausted Tyndaros. 

And for all its bulk, the earth elemental surged up the ramp with terrifying speed, hands of broken masonry reaching out. Rykon danced to the side, his sword striking out, but it only knocked a rain of sparks from the elemental's stone fingers. A boulder-sized fist slammed down to crush Rykon, but he dodged to the side, the elemental's massive blow tearing a chunk from the ramp.

No sword, no matter how skillful its wielder, could slay an elemental. It was a creature of sorcery, and it would take sorcery to fight it. 

Rykon drew in a shaking breath, pulling in power with it. Again lightning flared around his sword, ribbons of blue-white light crackling around the blade. The elemental reached for him, stone fingers yawning wide. Rykon lashed out, his sword cutting a blue-white arc in the air. 

Stone fingers fell to the earth, and the elemental bellowed in rage and pain. 

Rykon leapt into the air, landed upon the elemental's broken wrist, raced up its arm, and plunged his sword into the creature's neck. Lightning exploded from his blade in a dazzling fan, and the golden fire of the elemental's eyes dimmed. He leapt free, landing upon the ramp as the elemental collapsed. 

Corthios advanced as Tyndaros backed away. The Archon sang in an exhausted voice, lightning hammering from the sky. But Corthios held up him palm, and the lightning bent away from him to ground itself upon the armor and weapons of the slain. Step by step he drew closer, like a man advancing into a gale, and Rykon moved to stop him.