Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) (34 page)

57

The
Nexotardis
was just in front of the line of biremes, leading the charge. The drum pounded so quickly that the oarsmen could barely keep up. At ramming speed the ships traveled in a direct line for the Phalesian fleet arrayed against them.

Solon and Kargan stood close to the bow, where they had a view of the wall of Phalesian war galleys ahead and the biremes arranged at either side. The sun king saw Kargan frowning as he looked down into the water, where one-eyed Triton, now in the form of a mighty serpent, lunged in and out of the water.

‘Our allies are powerful,’ Kargan muttered.

Solon glanced at his commander and smiled with thin lips. ‘Speak plainly, Kargan. No one else can hear you.’

‘I will.’ Kargan scowled at Solon. ‘I fear this alliance has been made in haste.’

Solon spread his long-fingered hands. ‘Triton is desperate for the ark. Once we have it, and what is inside, we will be safe from any treachery.’

Kargan nodded, but Solon could see he was unconvinced. ‘Not all goes to plan,’ the barrel-chested naval commander said.

‘You are speaking of the attack on Xanthos,’ said Solon. ‘I place no blame on your shoulders. The spy who burned our ships evidently provided enough warning for their army to seize the pass. But it was always a gamble, and look’—he nodded in the direction of the city—‘the true prize awaits.’

The Phalesian galleys now plunged their oars into the water and commenced their own speeding attack. The distance between the two forces narrowed to five hundred paces, then four.

‘I will get the gold for myself,’ Solon said. ‘We can put whatever we find inside the ark into an iron box, and we will have control over the eldren forever.’

‘And if we don’t get the ark?’

Solon turned his feverish gaze on Kargan. ‘We must get it, mustn’t we?’

Kargan didn’t reply. ‘I must see to my ship,’ he said, leaving Solon alone at the bow.

Each vessel, Phalesian and Ilean alike, now chose a target, angling to approach with a glancing blow. The
Nexotardis
skimmed over the water as she flew like a spear at a Phalesian war galley, which came in to meet her as the distance shrank to fifty paces.

Kargan suddenly bawled orders to his crew and the
Nexotardis
sharply turned to the right. The Phalesians attempted to change their galley’s trajectory, but with her greater speed and power the
Nexotardis
began to draw away; the gap between the two vessels increased.

Then Kargan roared again and the
Nexotardis
cut a sweeping turn to the left, heading into the Phalesian galley’s side. Arrows flew through the air on both sides and Solon ducked under the rail as a shaft skewered the air where he’d been a moment before. He felt a lurch and heard a sickening crunch as the
Nexotardis
’s ram raked along the side of the Phalesian galley, scraping a hole in the opposing ship’s side. Poking his head over the rail he saw the Phalesian ship tilt to the side as water rushed in. The galley sank swiftly as Kargan’s archers loosed arrows at the next closest enemy vessel.

Looking along the line, Solon saw more of his captains making contact. Two ships met head on, the collision shattering both vessels as the rams tore gaping holes in their opposing bows. Another bireme captained by a stocky woman with short bleached hair struck a Phalesian ship with a perfectly executed attack.

Cries filled the air as ship after ship went down, the Phalesians taking heavy losses but inflicting few casualties of their own. Ignoring the danger of whistling arrows, Solon stood at the bow and watched with his heart racing. He cursed each vessel of his own that went down, taking hundreds of his soldiers with it, men who were needed to seize the city.

The waters around the ships boiled like a cauldron as thrashing gray serpents battled, their scaled bodies coiled one around the other, making it impossible to tell them apart. Merfolk grappled and gasped as well-matched opponents sought to drown each other. With the eldren under Triton’s command facing an opposing force of their own race, perhaps traditional tactics would determine the confrontation between the warships.

But then Solon saw a leathery wedge-shaped head with a silver frill lunge at the
Nexotardis
from the left side. The serpent struck the vessel hard, attempting to push the bireme’s bow to the right and open her up to two approaching Phalesian galleys. Arrows flashed down from the ship’s rail, bouncing off the tough hide, but the serpent merely roared as it continued to push. Solon found himself unable to look away from the monstrous jaws and the crescent scar on the side of its face.

He realized the creature’s tactics were going to be successful. The two war galleys were so close he felt he could reach out and touch them. When they struck the side of the ship Solon was currently standing on, the bireme would shatter into pieces.
There was nothing he could do but hold on with a white-knuck
led grip.

As the danger grew another larger serpent lunged out of the water and smacked down on top of the monster with the crescent scar; Solon had seen Triton in serpent form enough to recognize the eldran king. The two became embroiled. Kargan bellowed orders. The
Nexotardis
began to turn, straightening its approach to the two galleys.

They passed on either side as the
Nexotardis
slid between them. The Phalesian archers let loose a volley of iron-tipped arrows. Kargan’s crew and marines either fell under the hail, clutching the shafts that sprouted from their bodies, or like Solon ducked under a rail.

Solon climbed shakily back to his feet. He couldn’t believe he was still alive.

He tried to assess the battle, but the sea around Phalesia’s harbor was a confusion of sinking warships and writhing eldren. At every instant vessels were grinding up against each other. With nowhere else to seek refuge, the yellow-cloaked soldiers thronging the decks of the biremes hid under the side rails.

Then two more Phalesian galleys went down and Solon saw that there were no more of the enemy’s open-decked galleys remaining. Two Ilean biremes joined the
Nexotardis
on either side. The line of warships slowly reformed. Solon counted his ships and saw that only four had been crippled or sunk, leaving twenty remaining.

Blood filled the water as the corpses of serpents, merfolk, sailors, and soldiers knocked against each other, bobbing on the surface. The rest of the eldren, evidently spent, had split into two forces, one heading for the safety of the harbor, the other climbing ropes to clamber shakily onto the warships’ open decks, unable to risk further changing.

The Ilean vessels now approached the white-pebbled shore of Phalesia.

And Solon saw with satisfaction that only a thin line of soldiers stood between him and his prize.

58

Dion and Chloe watched the naval battle unfold. The two forces met and suddenly it was impossible to see what was happening. Oars splashed and warships crunched together. Serpents writhed together, sending water spouting high into the air.

Dion felt Chloe lean against him, clutching his arm as an opening gap revealed half a dozen sinking Phalesian galleys. A bireme went down and the consuls and soldiers cheered. But still more Ilean warships raked the hulls of the smaller vessels, sending torrents of water into their bellies and sinking them in moments. Archers on all sides sent volleys of arrows flying at their enemies. Dion had to remind himself that every bireme sunk was a blessing to the soldiers on the shore below.

For it was obvious to everyone watching that the Phalesian fleet was being massacred.

There was nothing the eldren from the Wilds in the north could do to help their human allies, for every serpent fought another creature just like it, and every one of the merfolk on both sides was met by an equally strong opponent. Dion’s heart went out to Zachary and his people, who were fighting despite the risk to their sanity.

The struggle between the two groups of eldren came to a close, as they were forced to call a mutual draw and leave the battle.

But the same couldn’t be said of the conflict between the two fleets of Phalesia and Ilea. Suddenly there wasn’t a Phalesian galley left afloat in the water. The line of biremes drew up once more, still at least twenty strong.

The battle for the harbor was over.

Dion took a slow breath and looked down at the thin line of men guarding the shore. When the sun king’s men disembarked, the blue-cloaked Phalesian soldiers would try to stop them before they had a chance to exit the water and form up with strength. Dion hefted his spear in his right hand and clutched his bow tightly in his left.

He met Chloe’s eyes. ‘I’m going down there.’

Dion saw her glance up at the Temple of Aldus before she nodded. ‘Dion—’ She hesitated, as if she was going to say something she wasn’t certain of, but all she said was, ‘Be safe.’

He was worried about her, but he knew her well enough to know she would never leave her father’s side. ‘You too,’ he said.

Dion ran down the thin set of diagonal steps that led to the beach from the embankment. He skirted the shore and joined the line close to the scar-faced Captain Amos.

Together they waited, fifty paces above the waterline, a long line of archers and hoplites just two soldiers deep.

The first to reach the shore were the eldren. They had done their utmost to save the city from the sun king’s fleet but had been matched by the force under Triton. First one, then another silver-haired man or woman climbed out of the water, scratched and bleeding, shaking their heads, fighting the encroaching wildness after changing for so long. Soldiers cheered and helped them out of the water and Dion saw Amos speaking with Zachary, who had a red line of claw marks on his neck. The eldran glanced at Dion as he came over.

‘It rests on you and the soldiers with you now, Dion of Xanthos,’ Zachary said. ‘I must take my people home and tend to their wounds, as well as their minds.’ His voice turned ominous as he met the gaze of both Amos and Dion. ‘You have to hold them here.’

He left, too weary to speak another word, gathering the eldren and leading them to safety.

Amos reformed his men and now they readied themselves, the long line of soldiers muttering prayers as they faced the coming assault from the water.

The twenty enemy ships passed from the blue water to the turquoise shallows. The vessels gathered momentum and then the oarsmen shipped their oars as the soldiers who manned them prepared to leave their posts to fight.

‘Archers!’ Amos cried. ‘On my mark!’

Dion plunged his spear into the pebbled beach and grabbed an arrow from his quiver, nocking it to the bowstring.

A scraping sound filled the air as the shallow hulls of the warships struck the shore. With near-perfect symmetry, vessel after vessel climbed the beach before their momentum ground to a halt.

‘Wait for it!’

The upper decks of the biremes emptied of soldiers as the officers sent their men down below. Dion tried to calm his breathing and fixed his gaze on the closest warship, just forty paces away. A torrent of yellow-cloaked soldiers poured out from both sides of the bireme’s lowest deck. The men at the front entered water that was barely ankle deep, while those at the back plunged in to their waists.

Dion remembered burning the ships back at Lamara’s harbor. He only wished he’d been able to destroy more. He drew the string to his cheek and picked his target: a bearded warrior with oiled hair slicked to his scalp.

‘Fire!’

Dion loosed his arrow as the shaft joined hundreds of others. He struck the bearded warrior in the throat, blood gushing out of his mouth as he fell. Arrows plunged into the first wave of warriors before they had a chance to climb the beach, slaughtering them in numbers.

‘Again! Draw!’ Amos roared. ‘Fire!’

Dion loosed another arrow, sending a shaft into a grizzled soldier who tried to raise his shield but wasn’t quick enough for the point that struck his cheek. Another wave of soldiers pouring from the warship’s side went down, but they were joined by still more of their comrades. The Ileans in the shallow water formed a line, their shields held high to allow more of their fellows to group behind them.

Now fewer shafts found their targets. Dion’s next arrow penetrated a wooden shield but failed to strike through to its owner. He reached for yet another as Amos bellowed for his men to fire at will.

At either side of the warship a wall of triangular shields now fanned out, allowing soldier after soldier to emerge under the protection of his countrymen. Swiftly glancing along the line, Dion saw the same situation unfolding at every warship: the Ileans were gathering strength, even under the onslaught of Amos’s archers. Soon they would advance.

‘Forward!’ Amos cried. ‘Shield to shield, spear to spear!’

The Phalesian line moved forward, but Dion saw that it was too thinly spread to maintain a rank two men deep while standing shield to shield. The second rank swiftly became mingled with those in front. There was terrible danger here, he realized. A concerted push would smash through the line, and soon Amos’s men would be facing enemies both in front and behind.

Nonetheless it was the only move available to the Phalesian captain. He needed to fight the soldiers of Ilea as they climbed out of the water, when they were most vulnerable. Dion grabbed hold of his spear and ran forward, finding himself standing between a young soldier barely in his teens and another archer. The boy clutched his spear with white knuckles as he waited for the enemy’s approach. The archer sent an arrow at the shield wall on the warship’s right, but the point uselessly embedded itself in a shield. The archer reached for another arrow but his quiver was empty. He had no other weapon.

Sticking the spear into the ground again and checking his quiver, Dion saw he had just two arrows remaining. As he drew the first an enemy arrow sped at his head. He ducked and was saved when the boy at his left managed to block it with his shield. Dion took a deep breath and drew once more and released, striking an Ilean soldier’s knee where the shield wasn’t protecting him. The man went down with a cry.

He prepared his last arrow as across the line, the sun king’s soldiers finally charged.

Dion loosed and killed a roaring spearman with a well-placed arrow in his chest. He barely had time to drop his bow and lift his spear before the two forces collided.

The Phalesians held their ground. All along the line snarling men’s faces were barely inches away from each other as shield pressed against shield and spears lunged forward as each man tried to find a gap in the defenses of the soldier in front of him.

The archer at Dion’s right was protected by neither shield nor weapon, and he went down in an instant as a spear found his chest. The line began to buckle. Everywhere there were grunting men and cries of pain. A short, stocky warrior with leather armor and a yellow cloak thrust his spear at Dion’s head. Dion weaved to the side and felt it whistle past his ear. With both hands he jabbed his own spear at the warrior’s face but the man ducked behind the shield on his left arm.

‘Close ranks!’ Amos cried.

A dozen paces to his left, Dion saw Amos fighting with desperation. The scar-faced captain lunged forward to skewer an opponent’s throat with his sword and then slashed down at another, but for every man he killed another took his place.

The youth turned to gasp something to Dion, but he never discovered what he’d been about to say, for an arrow suddenly penetrated the boy’s shoulder and he fell with a cry of pain. Dion closed ranks with the men at both sides again. Finding a gap, he managed to spear the stocky Ilean facing him, thrusting deep into his upper torso and pulling out in a single movement, but the enemy continued to push forward.

Amos suddenly looked along the line, then wheeled his arms. ‘Fall back! Back to the embankment!’

Everywhere the line wavered, then finally crumbled. Dion thrust one last time with his spear and felt the point bite into something, but whirled without looking to see where his blow had struck, barely managing to keep hold of his weapon. Every soldier in blue joined the rout as they ran for the embankment.

He faltered and nearly fell when he felt a sharp stab of pain between his shoulder blades.

Stumbling, he righted himself and continued running. At all sides hoplites and archers ran for the narrow stairs leading up the sloped embankment. Glancing back over his shoulder he saw two swarthy Ileans on his heels. One held the sword that had scored his back. He could almost feel their hot breath on his neck.

Dion spun and threw his spear, making one of his pursuers dodge to the side. He glanced up at the embankment as he reached the bottom of the steps. Risking another look behind him he saw an arrow from above strike the second Ilean’s upper thigh. The yellow-cloaked soldier roared with pain as he fell.

Dion panted as he climbed the steps while arrows smashed against the stone around him. The press of men crowding behind him made him nearly trip into those in front. The short journey up the stairs took an eternity as he expected an arrow to spear his body at any instant.

Finally, he crested the steps.

The first thing he saw was a Phalesian archer dead at his feet. Barely pausing, Dion crouched and picked up the man’s bow and quiver before joining the soldiers forming up along the defensive bastion.

The two forces both paused to gather themselves.

Standing with the last of the defenders arrayed along the summit of the curved stone wall, Dion saw that the fallen of both sides littered the curving shoreline, but the beach was now firmly in the sun king’s hands. The last pair of survivors made it up to the embankment, joining their fellows in guarding the steps that led from the harbor to the agora.

As order gradually came to the ranks of the yellow-cloaked soldiers below, Dion saw a barrel-chested commander, who could only be Kargan, gesturing as he barked orders to his officers. A lanky man with long dark hair and a curled beard, wearing a spiked golden crown and a bright yellow robe – he must be the sun king himself – stood tall on the upper deck of a warship and surveyed the area, before descending a ramp to the shore.

The last defenders waited along the embankment. The Phalesians had lost at least half of their number. The consuls who made up the city’s leadership milled behind them.

He heard Aristocles speaking loud enough for all to hear. ‘No! I refuse to leave the city.’

Dion looked frantically for Chloe, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Out of bowshot, the sun king’s soldiers prepared to make their final assault. Rank after rank of yellow-cloaked soldiers assembled in orderly rectangles. A silver-haired eldran now stood beside Solon; both were gazing up at the Temple of Aldus. The Ileans had conquered the Phalesian army as easily as they’d crushed the navy.

Dion swiftly assessed the defenders’ numbers. He knew they would fall in the first wave.

A trumpet blared.

The attackers roared. The defenders shook their weapons.

The sun king’s men began to run.

Instantly, every archer atop the bastion drew his bowstring to his cheek and released, and Dion fired with them. But the attackers raised their shields to ward off the volley and few arrows struck home. The Ileans rushed the twin sets of steps and there were suddenly so many soldiers milling below that Dion couldn’t miss striking limb, torso, or shield.

The sun king’s soldiers reached the top of the steps and the Phalesians cut them down. But for every man that fell, another took his place. The rush became a flood, and the flood became a torrent. There were simply too many of them.

Dion continued to loose arrows into the mob below, but he knew that despite his efforts the struggle was pointless. He tried to aim at the Ileans cresting the wall but there was too much chance of striking a Phalesian.

He reached for an arrow, but his quiver was empty.

Then he saw Chloe.

She had a sword in her hand and was high on the cliff, climbing up the steep stairway, heading for the Temple of Aldus. Realizing she planned to defend the ark to the end, Dion scanned the ground, frantic as he bent and his hand closed around the hilt of a fallen soldier’s blade. He tried to push through to the edge of the embankment, striving in vain to reach the base of the steps against the surge of soldiers.

Amos and a hundred hoplites were now the last men trying to hold the wall. Scores of yellow-cloaked soldiers made it to the embankment with every passing moment. Amos fell when a shield struck his forehead. The blue-cloaked soldiers around him turned and ran.

Dion deftly weaved around the fleeing Phalesians as he reached the base of the cliff. He turned and faced the agora, feeling the iron hilt in his hand burn, and knowing the sensation now for what it was, knowing that it stemmed from who he was, what he was.