Deathless

Deathless Chapter Twenty-Two: Survivor

Chapter Twenty-Two: Survivor

The Bay of Kings glittered in the distance, pearly-white waves crawling across its pristine azure surface, the sunlight reflecting from the waters as torchlight does on a golden crown.

Wrenched in between the Sword, the peninsula extending from the Pass on which Arlenn’s Point lay, and the rest of the massive hulk of the South, the Bay of Kings was a prominent transport route for ships hailing from Ictus City, a city of fishermen that earned a living off of the veritable ecosystem of marine wildlife dwelling in the Frustum River’s depths, as the Frustum cut right through Southern Arlenia by way of the sea, so that sometimes even saltwater fish would dwell in the river.

And at the western edge of the Bay of Kings lay the harbour of Southport, the destination of the four adventurers as they continued on through their quest towards Morsar, the City of Mages.

Southport and Seapoint alike, in better days, before the Arlenian Trade Crisis, used to be prominent trading ports, bustling with merchants selling exotic crops from the fertile lands of Luartia, elegantly crafted Ninevan steel armour and weapons, and salt from the gushing salt rivers of the frozen north empire of Borras. 

Once upon a time, both these towns had shaken with the footsteps of people hailing from all across the vastness of the continent of Serenar. Traders hailing from Borras, Luartia, and Ninever had all gathered in Seapoint and Southport to exchange goods and share tales of their adventures. 

Arlenia’s central position in the continent had granted it a prominent position in Seranian trade, as merchant ships often passed through Arlenia on their way from one point to the next, making it a melting pot of merchants hailing from across Serenar, and indeed, as the tale goes, even merchants hailing from Wymar, the Kingdom of Dragons, on the other side of the world.

Indeed, in better days, even exotic merchants from Wymar had paid Arlenia a visit, dazzling the Arlenians with their arcane talents and goods never before seen in the Seranian isles.

That was before the Kingdom of Wymar, the Kingdom of Dragons, had fallen in 478 2E due to reasons that had never reached the ears of the Seranians. The remnants of the kingdom had fled the lands, and had come seeking refuge in Serenar.

A fleet of one hundred ships had been what was left of the once great kingdom. Some found solace in Borras. Others sought sanctuary in Luartia. And others more came to Arlenia. The year 478 2E was then known as the Year of Mages, when the Mages, the remnants of the Kingdom of Wymar, had come to Serenar, and had incorporated themselves into the Seranian culture.

That is, until Emperor Arseph the Mageslayer had begun his bloody campaign against the Mages of Arlenia forty years hence and had wiped them from the map.

Mages still persisted in the other empires; in Luartia and Borras, but never again would they visit Arlenia, for fear of persecution at the hands of Arseph’s son, Iepenel the Merciless, Iepenel the Warrior King. Never again would the streets of Southport and Seapoint be filled with the wonder that the Mages brought to the Arlenians. Never again would gasps fill the mouths of onlookers; never again would they cheer as the Mages created fireworks out of thin air, or changed the very stones beneath their feet to water, or conjured animals from the Void.

And it was this same Bay of Kings where on its floor lay the fallen seamen from the fierce Battle of the Bay of Kings, where Admiral Lasaron and his fleet, led by his flagship, the Dragonfire, had beat themselves into a bloody ruin against the hostile rebel fleet, having been ripped to shreds by the rebel mortars. There they lay, on the ocean floor, and they were alive. Awake, alive, conscious, in their suffering.

Lasaron himself lay deep underwater, so deep that the sunlight barely broke through the tightly packed layers upon layers of azure. Lasaron felt a pain in his chest, throughout his entire body, for the ocean pressed down on him like a ram, and it felt as though the burden of the entire sky was placed upon him. He struggled to breathe, and yet, he could not, for an arrow extended from his chest, his neck, and the last directly through his forehead.

But somehow, Lasaron was alive. He did not know how, or why. By all accounts, he ought to have drowned, bled out, suffocated, and been crushed to death a thousand times over, and yet, he was still conscious.

His eyes gazed upwards, unseeing, and unmoving. They were the only way he could sense the world around him, his only link to the outside world. Except for the everlasting pain that ailed him at every moment, that is.

Lasaron still remembered the moments leading up to his fleet’s demise.  They would forever be burned into his memory, and in this state, he figured he would have to dwell on them for the rest of eternity. He cursed his foolishness, for his recklessness at charging headfirst, to meet the rebel fleet head-on.

He remembered the rain of fire that had descended down from the heavans and had enveloped him and his fleet, ships catching fire instantly, a wave of flames spreading across them as quick as lightning. He remembered giving the order for his fleet to turn back, to retreat, but it was far too late.

Ashmur’s fleet had surrounded them on all sides, and he was forced to fall back into the only resource available to him: The Bay of Kings.

He had steered the flaming remnants of his fleet into the Bay, and had made their final stand there, backed up against the coastline, with no hope of retreat, for Lasaron remembered glimpsing armoured figures dotting the coastline, no doubt the infamous juggernauts that the rebels attributed most of their victories in the South, ready to take away any and all hope of escape.

So there did they make their last stand, in the Bay of Kings, charging headfirst into the enemy fleet, with no hope of victory.

Then Lasaron had begun to see the seeds of fear take root in his men, whom he’d thought his steadfast companions on the battlefield, who would go down in flames together with him. His allied ships, even those in his personal guard, who were captained by men he’d known for twenty years or more, had begun to surrender. They threw down their weapons and cast their artillery weapons into the ocean, yielding themselves to the rebel fleet.

And then the rebels had decimated them. They had shown no mercy, even in the face of surrender, launching their mortars and burning the men alive. Finally, Lasaron had realised that they had no hope. They would be wiped out completely. There would be no survivors.

But now, as he lay on the ocean floor, he realised something. He did not know if he could still do so, but he tried to smile as a thought came to him.

He realised the grim irony of it all. That even though their fleet had been beat into bloody ruin, with not a single ship escaping the bloody massacre, there weren’t no survivors.

In fact, every single one of his men who’d fallen in the naval battle had survived.

This crisis of death had in fact made survivors of all of them. But the stark difference was that now, they were unwilling survivors, and would have given anything, anything, to pass on into whatever afterlife awaited them, to escape the everlasting pain and to simply forget it all.

For sometimes, when the pain is too intense, too great and overwhelming, death seems like the kindest of options available.