Traitor’s Bay
Traitor’s Bay
Sun-kissed waves crashed along the shore of Durram’s southern coast, heaving over the white-sand beaches now stained with blood. Dark waters lapped against the land, indifferent to the battle’s aftermath. Timber planks, hewn from far-flung corners of the empire, drifted in the swells. These were all that remained of the proud ships that had once filled the bay. In the dim light of dawn, the remains of the battle floated listlessly - bodies, wood, and blood mixing in a slow churn.
Scattered amongst the waves, men clung to splintered wood or crawled through the surf, gasping for air and mercy. Little of either was to be found.
"Search them," Ser Aldric commanded in a low voice, motioning to the retinue of soldiers at his side. "Find any who yet draw breath. And kill those who don’t bear our colors."
Ser Aldric, the captain of the Emperor’s Guard, stood on the shoreline, his gaze fixed on the horizon where distant ships still smoldered. His armor, scratched and dulled from the fight, weighed heavy on his broad frame, but he ignored the discomfort. He always did. Behind him, the city of Abreus stirred with the rising sun, unaware of the bloodied tide creeping ever closer to its docks.
His men spread out across the shore, swords in hand, stepping over the fallen as they began their grim task. The sound of armor and leather scraping against the wet sand echoed through the bay as they moved, eyes scanning the faces of the dead and dying.
Aldric approached the water’s edge, his boots sinking into the sodden ground. The stench of brine and death clung to the air, thick and pungent, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. His eyes lingered on the twisted remnants of the empire’s ships bobbing in the surf. The battle had been fierce, fought beneath a cloudy night sky, where only the light of distant torches and the gleam of steel had illuminated the carnage.
The enemy had struck first. They came from the mist, swift and silent, their ships low in the water, their hulls reinforced with iron spiked prows designed for one purpose: to ram. They crept through the darkness, using the cover of night to hide their approach, until they were nearly upon the imperial fleet.
Aldric had stood at the helm of The Iron Tide, watching as the first enemy ship slammed into the Seastrike, one of the empire’s heavy galleys. The sound of splintering wood echoed across the bay, a deep, thunderous crack that reverberated in his bones. The spiked prow tore into the Seastrike’s side, carving through the wood with terrifying force. Men on deck were thrown off their feet as the ship lurched violently, the impact sending debris and bodies crashing across the deck.
"Fates help us," Aldric had muttered through gritted teeth. "They’ll try to board us in this chaos."
As if on cue, the enemy grappled the imperial ship, casting thick iron hooks over the rails to draw the two vessels together. With a shout, they boarded - pouring across the gap between the ships, shortswords drawn, their wild cries rising above the roar of the sea.
Aldric had known this tactic well. The enemy wanted to bring the fight close, to make the imperial fleet’s size and firepower irrelevant. And they had succeeded.
Aldric fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his men, cutting down enemies as they swarmed over the rails. The clash of steel rang out over the water as soldiers from both sides fought on the narrow decks, their footing slick with blood. The empire’s archers and ship-mounted ballistae were useless now - the fight was too close, too chaotic. It was down to swords and shields, to brute strength and survival.
But the enemy had another weapon at their disposal.
As Aldric cleaved through an attacker’s chest, he caught sight of an enemy crewmen preparing something on the far side of the deck. He watched as they dipped their arrows and torches into vials of thick, blue-black liquid - mageflame. In the chaos of battle, he barely had time to shout a warning before the first volley of flaming arrows arced through the air, trailing thick smoke and blue fire. They struck the empire’s ships, setting sails and rigging ablaze in an instant.
Mageflame clung to everything it touched, burning hotter and fiercer than any natural fire. The imperial crew scrambled to douse the flames, but the cursed fire resisted all attempts to extinguish it, feeding off the very air itself. The ships that had already been damaged by the ramming were now engulfed in flames, the fire spreading quickly across the decks and masts.
The enemy pressed their advantage, using the confusion to cut down more of the imperial crew. The night had turned into a frenzy of burning chaos, the air thick with smoke, the sky glowing an eerie, unnatural blue from the flames that consumed both wood and flesh alike.
He fought on, cutting down one enemy after another, but the tide of battle had shifted. The empire’s larger ships, once their greatest strength, had become a liability. The smaller, more maneuverable enemy vessels darted in and out of the burning wreckage, ramming and boarding at will, their sailors moving with terrifying speed. Every imperial ship that went up in flames added to the confusion, the once-coordinated defense collapsing into disorder.
In the darkest hours of the night, Aldric knew it was over.
The bay had become a graveyard. The water was filled with wreckage - splintered wood, burning sails, and the bodies of the fallen. The last of the empire’s ships were either burning or sinking beneath the waves, the screams of the dying carried on the wind.
As the sun began to rise, Aldric now stood on the shore, watching the remnants of the fleet drift aimlessly in the bay. The enemy had been ruthless, and the empire had paid dearly for their overconfidence. The battle had been lost, and with it, the empire’s hold on the southern seas.