The Blasted Lands by James A. Moore

had come done throughout the day and painted the sands with gray and black patterns of soot. Every building within sight of his palace was black now, and even the trees were darker in color than they should have been.
    The only light outside of a few torches came from the fire raging in the distant ocean and in the lightning that sometimes stabbed the waters where the new island covered over the remains of the Guntha.
    The Guntha had never been friends. They had been enemies for most of his life and occasionally they had been allies when all parties felt there was some use in their alliance. No matter what they had been, however, they had always been a part of his world and now they were gone.
    Much, he suspected, as his kingdom was soon to be gone.
    Even if the black ships never came in to attack, the fish were gone and the stores of supplies were wearing thin. A lot of his people had left their homes and fled to the north, seeking aid from the Emperor or at least a place to stay where the air did not stink of death. The erupting mountain in the ocean was not going away and the cloud of filth that belched from it was not leaving either.
    It seemed likely to him that they had the right idea. It might well be time to move on soon. His needs were few, but keeping his family and his people safe definitely qualified as something the king wanted to accomplish in his lifetime. And for the first time since he had taken residence on the throne, he had doubts that he could accomplish that task to his satisfaction.
    Outside a barrage of lightning danced through the clouds in the distance. The flares were bright enough to let him see the ships in the water.
    They were next to the shore, close enough to let him see them clearly in the brief light of the storm.
    “Turrae!” he bellowed his assistant’s name and as always the man responded in moments, slipping through the door as if he had been standing just outside and waiting for hours for the first call of his king.
    “How may I help you, my Lord?”
    “The ships, Turrae! They are at the shore. They are so much closer than they were before. Sound the horns and light the signal fires. It is time!”
    The man stared at him with wide eyes in the near darkness of the room. For just one moment the fear was clear on his assistant’s face. Then it vanished, replaced by his usual calm. “Of course, King Marsfel.” Turrae vanished from sight and Marsfel stalked across his room, his hands fluttering nervously as he reached for his weapons. He had armor, but despite having worn in several times for the fittings, he really didn’t much know how to put it on, not without help. And there wasn't time. The ships were too close and his daughters had to be protected. His kingdom needed defending. He would not stand by and wait for the enemy to come to him. Not here, not now when so much was at stake.
    The Ghurnae blade was long and curved, heavy with one sharp edge and a jagged point that could gut a man with ease. He had been trained with them since he was a child and while he was heavier than he had been before taking the throne, Marsfel remembered well the lessons he’d had. He slid the sword and hilt over his shoulder and took two long daggers as well. The set was matched and had been presented to him many years ago by his father when he came of age. They were well tended and well used over the years.
    Marsfel was many things and while a few would disagree with his personal assessment, he was capable as a leader and as a fighter alike.
    Still, his hands shook and his heart raced.
    By the time he left his personal chambers the call had gone out. Several of the watch still called out on the great bone horns and as he strode toward the front entrance of the keep the way was lit by two of the great signal fires. His soldiers would come.
    He would lead them into battle and they would live or die together. Turrae stepped next to him, carrying his own Ghurnae blade and daggers. A small shield was