Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) (30 page)

52

Dion had never ridden so hard. He gave both himself and the mare no respite, kicking her ribs every time she flagged and keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead.

He passed way stops for travelers and watered the horse twice more, but always he pushed on, never taking food himself or allowing his mount to graze. The mare’s entire purpose was to get him to Xanthos as swiftly as possible. If he killed her as a result, it didn’t matter. The promise of saving his homeland and his family’s lives would be worth it.

He rode all through the day and night, and early on the second day he came to the fork in the road. Gazing at the city of Phalesia below, spanning the wide curve of its harbor, he saw a scene of utter normality. Fishing boats dotted the blue water and galleys headed out on a day’s patrol. The walls on the landward side showed little activity, while within the boundary the clay-tiled roofs of the houses clustered around the winding streets and alleys, obscuring the everyday movements of the city folk. He could see the agora hugging the embankment and the glistening structures of white marble around it. The largest of them – the lyceum – stood proud and tall. The peaked roof of the library crowned rows of sturdy polished columns. The sight of the city made him finally realize he was back in Galea.

Tearing his eyes from Phalesia, Dion took the right-hand fork, following the high ground. As he passed farmland on sloping hills at his left and rugged pastures with clusters of milling goats on his right, the ground began to climb.

Two farmers stood by the roadside ahead. Rather than working, they were grumbling, arms folded over their chests as they looked at something below.

Reaching them, Dion suddenly reined in. He felt the blood drain from his face.

The farmers were looking at a large military encampment, evidently muttering about the rapacious appetites of soldiers. Taking in the size of the camp, Dion saw red pennants flying above tents.

He realized he was looking at the army of Xanthos.

Nikolas had brought his army where it would be close at hand if it was needed in Phalesia. With the Shards protecting Xanthos and the sun king’s desire for the Ark of Revelation, everyone thought the Ileans would come for Phalesia.

After all, Xanthos could be assaulted only if Phalesia fell first.

Dion could even make out his brother’s flag, crimson bordered with black, rippling in the breeze as it flew above a large tent. Down in the city he realized he could see red-cloaked soldiers manning Phalesia’s walls, side by side with warriors in blue.

Xanthos was undefended.

Fear taking hold of his heart, Dion slipped off the horse and cried out to the farmers. They turned, surprised, and saw a haggard young man in foreign clothing, dragging a horse by the bridle as he ran toward them, calling out and waving.

‘You have to send word to the army, to Nikolas, son of Markos! Can you hear me?’ Dion’s voice rose in urgency. ‘Xanthos is under attack! You have to do it now!’

‘Eh?’ said one of the farmers, an old man with a pinched face. ‘Who are you?’

‘Dion, son of King Markos, the brother of the commander of that army down there. Do you hear me? Xanthos is under attack!’

The two farmers exchanged bemused glances.

‘How do we know you are who you say you are?’ the old man asked, while his younger companion scratched his head.

Dion thought furiously. He had a sudden idea, and ripped the silver chain from around his neck, with the trident of Silex bound by a circle of heavy metal.

‘Here,’ he said.

The old farmer came forward and took the silver necklace and amulet. His eyes widened, and Dion knew the thoughts that were going through his mind. He could sell it in the city for a great deal of money.

‘Show Nikolas this, he knows it’s mine. Do you understand? Do you think I would just give this to you if the need wasn’t urgent?’

‘Why don’t you give it to him yourself?’ the younger farmer spoke for the first time.

‘Because I have to get to Xanthos. Please,’ Dion said in frustration. ‘This is urgent. All of our lives could depend on it.’

The old farmer made a swift decision and then turned to his younger companion, handing him the necklace. ‘Troi, go! Run like the wind!’

The younger man nodded and started to run.

Dion leaped back into the saddle. He spurred the horse forward, leaning forward on its back, his brow furrowed as he hoped desperately that he would get to Xanthos in time.

Dion cut the journey to the pass down to hours. He knew the horse was weary to the core, and that if he kept up at this pace she would collapse beneath him, but with Nikolas in Phalesia and his family exposed to the sun king’s imminent attack he pushed harder than ever before.

The steep stone walls of the Gates of Annika went by in a blur. He exited the pass and emerged into the land of hills and forest that led down to Xanthos.

He rode recklessly on the downward slope, galloping where he should be walking carefully, holding the mare by her halter.

He tried to ignore what he was seeing as he plunged down the winding hillside, wheeling around groves of olive trees and sliding on rolling gravel. His jaw was set so tightly that it ached. He kicked his heels into his mount’s ribs again and again.

The city drew ever closer in his vision. He lost track of all time as the mare scrabbled down the treacherous terrain. The walls could now be seen as separate from the structures within. The Royal Palace rose from behind, surrounded by its own walls. Dion could now make out the Flower Terrace, facing the surrounding countryside, where his mother often went to be alone. It was her favorite place.

Five hundred paces from the city walls, Dion heard a snap like the crack of a whip as the mare’s leg broke.

He catapulted forward, flying through the air as he tucked in his shoulder to break his fall. Rolling and tumbling, he felt the hard ground battering his body until he finally came to a halt.

The mare screamed.

Dion shakily climbed to his feet, ignoring the cries of distress coming from the horse behind him. He looked up at the palace, distant, yet so clear in his vision that he felt he could reach out and touch it.

His family was out on the Flower Terrace, gazing out at the city and the surrounding hills, where they could be easily seen by anyone below.

He saw his father, readily recognizable in his purple toga. The gold circlet of his kingship no longer crowned the white curls on his scalp, but his equally white beard was just the way Dion remembered it, although it was now flecked with ugly splotches of red.

Beside King Markos was his queen, Thea, Dion’s mother, small in size compared to the towering king. Her black hair looked neatly combed. Her white silk chiton was stained with crimson.

Next in the line was Helena, Nikolas’s wife. Her blonde hair framed a face stretched wide in an expression of utmost agony.

All of their mouths were open in endless screams. Sharp wooden stakes jutted from their jaws.

They had all been impaled.

The horse screamed again.

The animal’s cry of pain shook Dion out of his trance, making him realize this wasn’t a nightmare, it was actually happening.

He now took in what he’d been seeing as he made the frantic descent. Ilean soldiers with yellow cloaks and triangular shields were rapidly assembling in front of the conquered city. Officers bawled orders as rank after rank formed up. Spears held in right hands, shields on their left, they prepared to march. An officer wearing a steel helmet crowned with a vertical spike pointed at the distant pass and called out.

The wounded horse moaned in agony.

Dion saw his bow and quiver on the ground nearby. He picked them up and walked back to the horse as he drew an arrow to his ear. A moment later the mare’s cries were silenced.

Only then did he turn to look once more at Xanthos. Smoke rose from several quarters of the city, but the attack had come swiftly; Dion’s place of birth had been seized with barely a struggle.

Just below, outside the walls, a trumpet blared. The soldiers in yellow began to march.

Shaking himself, he realized they would attempt to take the Gates of Annika. With the thudding rhythm of the marching soldiers forming a counterpoint to the pounding of his broken heart, Dion left behind the dead mare and climbed the hillside, finding the road and focusing on his footsteps.

He walked in a daze. If it weren’t for the soldiers on his heels he would have collapsed, but their relentless march spurred him on. Finally, he picked up his pace, beginning a shuffling run. Dion suddenly realized that he was sobbing as he ran, hot tears burning in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks, carving a path through the grime on his skin.

Hearing a whinny, he looked up and saw two soldiers on horseback carefully making their way down the hillside from above. He recognized the light armor and red cloak of a Xanthian mounted scout, but the two riders rode past him without a glance and drew up further below, watching the approach of the Ilean army. A moment later they were heading back toward the Gates of Annika.

Dion knew his brother and the army of Xanthos wouldn’t be far behind. He realized with a sense of desolate abandonment that Nikolas was now the only family he had left. He’d come from Lamara as quickly as he could.

But he was too late.

Nightfall was approaching when Dion once more reached the pass, weariness in every limb, but knowing that he needed to give his brother one vital piece of information.

He was relieved to see that Nikolas had his men in good order. Red-cloaked hoplites in disciplined formations blocked every approach to the pass. The terrain was unsuitable for horses and cavalry were generally absent, but hundreds of archers stood gathered behind the heavily-armored hoplites, side by side with columns of javelin and sling throwers and the common infantry.

As Dion approached they soundlessly parted, turning dark eyes and fierce scowls on him. These men knew that their city had fallen. They could only hope that their wives and children had survived the attack, that with their enemy moving so swiftly, there had been little time for razing, rape, murder, and pillage.

Dion was in foreign clothes, which explained their glares. But he also knew many of his brother’s comrades by name and was pleased to see their faces. Passing an officer he recognized, he nodded a greeting.

The soldier hawked and spat on the ground at his feet.

Too stunned to react, Dion decided to quickly leave the area; perhaps the soldier hadn’t seen his face. But he now saw more grimaces and snarls on others that he knew were close to his brother.

Then Dion found Nikolas.

Half a foot taller than Dion, burly and as strong as an ox, Nikolas filled every inch of his leather armor with brawn and muscle. The bushy black eyebrows under his curly black hair were arched over his dark eyes as he issued barking orders to an officer twice his age. His red cloak was trimmed with gold and he wore a steel helmet with a plume of crimson horsehair, the vertical cross guard plunging from the rim to cover his nose.

Dion felt his ragged nerves calm as soon as he saw his older brother. Nikolas had almost been a father to him. Among all the horror, he would know what to do.

Men clustered around their commander, waiting their turn to speak and to get their orders. First one face, and then another turned to Dion, eyes widening when they saw him. Suddenly they all went silent. With his back to Dion, it was Nikolas who was the last to turn around.

‘Dion,’ he whispered.

Nikolas’s eyes were as red as the embers of a fire, and burning with the same intensity. Although they were dry, he’d obviously been weeping. Dion’s heart reached out to him. Dion had lost his parents. Nikolas had not only been closer to their father than Dion ever was, he had lost his wife, and perhaps also little Lukas, his son.

As Dion approached, he felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes. In his Ilean clothing, with the composite bow his brother had given him in his hand, dirty and bloody, he waited nonetheless for his brother’s embrace.

But when Nikolas spoke, it was the last word Dion ever expected him to utter.