All around him, Genoran watched dutifully as his people, the men and women of the free folk of Cellinor, fought and died. He knew that although Celn lands were far from perfect, that they remained a light in a world of darkness. These were the free warriors. Those who came when called upon. He was proud to be their Prince, proud to carry the mighty Flame of the Realm in his heart. He cared for these folk as if they were an extension of himself, for he know, like every member of the Order of Flame did, that they were.
Every death wounded him. And he was much wounded tonight.
Next to him, bleeding, Canton, the enigmatic Governor of Far Realm, struck out at the hideous monsters climbing aboard unchecked. They wrapped themselves around the rail with stretched muscles under slimy skin, attempting to pull themselves up onto the planks. Once there, they would wreck havoc, dragging the Celns into the depths. It took every last one of them to keep the devils at bay. Cannonfire blasted in the darkness all around them, and the cacophony of shouting from the Celns was met with the silence of the Sasser forces in an eerie way. It was unlike any battle he had ever known.
“We can’t hold on much longer!” called Canton. “We’ve lost another ship my Lord. Look!”
Genoran trained the device Q had made for him, and looked through the eyepiece out into the sea. Canton was right. There was only a few ships left holding the inlet. Soon, this line would break and the enemy would be upon them. Without their large guns on the galleys, now lost, they would be a sitting duck.
Genoran heard a splashing sound beside him, and helped a few men fight back another of the slithering creatures. It fell back into the sea, bleeding a deep green. In a rare moment of respite he turned to Canton. The elf seemed to be thinking the same thing as he was. The island where he sent Thrak, and the others afterwards had literally combusted. In a column of ash, it blew itself apart only moments ago showering everything in a maelstrom of fire and brimstone. Their saviors were not coming, the Lords of Three Harbors had failed.
And not just that, Iricah had been lost. You contemptable fool, you damned louse he screamed in his mind. Why did you let her go again? For Tiresias? For a superstition? For the world to be saved? His despair had reached it’s breaking point. Genoran, a man of few words, was now a man of fewer hopes. He had lost all. “And she’ll never know,” he thought.
“Look! My LORD!” came a voice through the din of the battle. Genoran turned in the direction of the pointing hand, as shouts arose from the deck.
There, in the distance, through the haze of the cannons still lingering above the water, came dozens more of the Sasser ships. In full sail, they sped towards the back of the enemy line, clearly reinforcing an already insurmountable foe.
He was a goodly man from Far Realm. A man who had grown into nobility, not come from it. Genoran had always liked people like that, people like her.
The prince, looked back out into the sea, his own Sword of Cellinor held firmly in his grip. “Captain Iatus, tell your men to sing the songs of my father. Tell them to…”