Copper Chain (The Shifting Tides Book 3)

by James Maxwell

  ALSO BY JAMES MAXWELL

  THE SHIFTING TIDES

  Golden Age

  Silver Road

  EVERMEN SAGA

  Enchantress

  The Hidden Relic

  The Path of the Storm

  The Lore of the Evermen

  Seven Words of Power

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2017 by James Maxwell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781612185767

  ISBN-10: 1612185762

  Cover illustration by Fred Gambino

  Cover design by Richard Augustus

  Map illustration by David Woodroffe

  For my wife, Alicia, with all my love

  CONTENTS

  MAP

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  10

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  47

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  49

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  55

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Agathon didn’t want to die.

  Of course, he wasn’t a fool. He knew his time would come at some point. But despite being a man who prayed regularly and believed that when death knocked at his door his soul would be welcomed in paradise, he wanted his end to be as far off as possible. Ideally, he would be in bed, tended by his favorite wife, who would wail and weep, kissing his wrinkled cheeks, as he closed his eyes and finally slept forever. He’d always imagined it would be that way, decades in the future. Not like this.

  Not death in battle.

  He was well aware that he wasn’t a skilled swordsman; his talents had always served him in other areas. He was a bureaucrat, the viceroy of the city of Malakai, governor of a restive populace. Malakai’s wealth of gold, furs, slaves, and spices flowed to Agathon’s cousin, Kargan, ruler of the Ilean Empire. It was Agathon’s job to keep the shipments coming.

  His task was far from easy. Malakai was ostensibly the capital of Imakale, but in truth the Ilean garrison rarely patrolled the dry, inhospitable terrain south of the port city. Traders acted as intermediaries between the fierce desert clans and the merchants from Lamara. Even within Malakai’s strong walls the locals resented Agathon and the soldiers who served him.

  But until recently he had taken pride in his achievements: pacifying unrest, pitting the desert traders against each other, sending fat-bellied ships back home with their holds full of manacled slaves and ingots of gleaming gold.

  Then the situation changed.

  It began with a rumor. The tribesmen of the south were massing under a new leader, a man who promised to liberate Malakai and unshackle the city’s population from the Ilean yoke. The rumor made its way into the city and soon the locals were chanting his name: Palemon.

  All through winter the sense of anticipation grew. There were riots in the streets, quickly stamped down by the garrison but becoming more and more unmanageable. Palemon was always spoken of but never seen. They said he was pale-skinned and that he commanded more than a hundred tall warriors, men who wore strange armor of steel links and carried huge swords and axes. A dozen mysterious foreigners in robes traveled with them, carrying staffs that could banish darkness with a spoken word. These people came from across the sea. They were from the lost nation of Aleuthea, destined to reclaim Malakai, for it was the Aleutheans who built the city long ago and now they wanted it back.

  Then, when spring came, Agathon’s scouts raced back to tell him that there was a large force advancing on the city.

  The force wasn’t as big as he’d originally feared: less than a thousand strong. A decade ago, before Agathon’s time, the clans had rallied and four thousand tribesmen with wooden spears and tall bows had assaulted Malakai and been soundly defeated. The desert men were fierce, but their weapons, not to mention their discipline, made them no match for Ilea’s trained soldiers. Wrapped in cloth to ward off the sun’s rays, they would face trained swordsmen wearing leather armor and holding triangular shields linked closely together. The city’s garrison was far larger than it had been ten years ago; they now had twice their enemy’s numbers, as well as the strength of the city walls.

  Nonetheless, Agathon was afraid.

  The foreigners were an unknown element. The city was primed for revolt. And in battle, someone always died. Agathon was smart enough to know that the first casualties would be those most fearful, the fighters with little experience. People like him.

  Standing on the city walls, Agathon clasped his shaking hands together, casting a swift glance at General Dhuma to see if the veteran soldier had noticed. But everyone, including Dhuma, was gazing at the flat, yellow horizon, where the enemy had gathered like a thin line of distant trees. It was just before dawn, and the sun was steadily rising, washing the sky with purple and gold. The air was utterly still, filled only with the occasional cough of a soldier, creak of leather armor, or whisper of men talking in hushed tones.

  Agathon scanned along the line of defenders gathered on the battlements, trying to take comfort in their numbers. Nearly two thousand men prepared to defend the city. Standing four or five deep, bows, spears, and swords at the ready, they were all staring in the same direction. Drawing in a deep breath, incredibly conscious of his heartbeat, Agathon inspected the defenders in the other direction. Were they all as terrified as he was? If they were, they didn’t show it.

  When he turned back, he realized General Dhuma was watching him, his lips curved in a tight smile. A decade older than Agathon, with weathered skin and sharp, patrician features, Dhuma wore full leather armor, well worn, the tears and scratches reminding Agathon that the general had survived more than a few battles in the past. His helmet had a tall crest of horsehair, bleached white, yet Dhuma appeared unperturbed that a man like himself, so clearly an officer, would draw enemies like moths to a flame.

  ‘You’ll see, Viceroy,’ Dhuma said, nodding in the direction of the enemy. ‘We’ll send these vermin back where they came from. No doubt we’ll be celebrating our victory over lunch.’

  Agathon and Dhuma hadn’t always been on the best of terms, but now the general’s presence was solid and reassuring. Whatever Dhuma had done to get assigned to this distant outpost, far from home, it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that h
e was confident of victory, and he was well aware that Kargan, the King of Kings, was Agathon’s cousin. Dhuma had assigned six of his best warriors to Agathon’s personal protection. Things wouldn’t go well for him if Agathon died.

  Again Agathon found his mind turning to his own death. He tried not to, but couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to have a spear thrust into his chest, tearing at his insides, or to take an arrow in the throat, trying in vain to clasp his hands over the wound as red liquid gushed out and he drowned in his own blood. He bit his lip, knowing that Dhuma could see his face turning white.

  ‘Perhaps I might be more useful—’ he began.

  Dhuma glanced to the left and right and then came in close, lowering his voice. ‘Viceroy, you are honor bound to stand with the men. I’ve told you: I’ll keep you safe. I know this isn’t what you’re good at, but it heartens us all to see you here.’ He gazed into Agathon’s eyes, fixing the nobleman with an unblinking stare. ‘Remember, every one of the savages is going to face two of our soldiers. Victory is assured. If you stay, when they talk about this battle, my men will remember that you were here. But if you leave, you will carry the stain with you for the rest of your days.’

  Agathon steadied himself. ‘Of course, General. It’s my choice to be here, and I would never have it otherwise.’

  ‘Good man,’ Dhuma said, clapping him on the back and withdrawing.

  Suddenly a soldier cried out. ‘Something’s happening.’

  Agathon squinted at the enemy on the flat desert plain. Their line still hadn’t moved, but with the sun cresting the horizon a clutch of warriors in the middle had begun to sparkle as slanted rays shone off their steel armor.

  He tensed, wondering what it was that had made the soldier shout. It wasn’t that the enemy was approaching; the large force was still assembled at the limits of vision.

  Then, peering into the distance, he realized.

  A haze of yellow dust had begun to color the sky where before it was a pure shade of blue. It came from nothing: there was no wind. In the midst of the enemy, a fierce light suddenly flared. As the light shone brighter and brighter, the haze became a thick cloud, filled with swirling particles of grit. A sandstorm was gathering, rising higher, becoming thicker, until soon the enemy couldn’t be seen at all.

  Agathon and the general exchanged stunned glances.

  So close to the desert, sandstorms struck the city occasionally, but Agathon had never seen anything like this. Without wind . . .

  Wait. He realized there was a wind.

  The still air gave way to a steady breeze, causing the orange flags carried by the standard bearers to snap and crackle. The growing wind whipped at Agathon’s loose trousers and blew his long hair around his face as it became stronger. Soon it was howling with sudden ferocity.

  Dust and sand billowed above the plain. There was no way to say where the enemy was or what they were doing. Squinting into the storm, Agathon felt tiny grains strike his exposed face and he jerked his head violently when sharp grit flew into his eyes. He ducked his head and shielded his eyes with his hands, blinking as tears trickled down his cheeks.

  Over the sound of the wind he could hear his soldiers muttering prayers to the gods, while others called out to their companions, asking what was happening.

  ‘Hold your posts!’ General Dhuma bellowed. ‘No one leaves these walls!’

  As it became almost impossible to see, Agathon copied the soldiers around him and sank to one knee, burying his head into his chest. The defenders fought their own private battles with the sandstorm, and at the forefront of every man’s thoughts was the notion that surely the timing was too close to be coincidence. Agathon remembered the stories about the dozen foreigners who wore robes and carried strange staffs.

  No, he told himself. The wind would die down. Long-lasting sandstorms needed days to build up their strength. It would soon pass.

  Yet time dragged on, and if anything the wind gained in power. Agathon occasionally heard Dhuma’s voice roaring over the storm, telling the defenders to stand fast. His cries were like a beacon on a dark night, providing hope that someone else was out there.

  But then the general gave a command that caused Agathon’s heart to beat out of time.

  ‘To arms! We’re under attack!’

  Agathon shot to his feet as he heard the sudden clang of steel striking against steel. He closed his eyes into thin slits and drew his sword. Hearing grunts of effort and screams of pain at his left, through the haze he saw the tops of ladders leaning against the battlements. Attackers in armor of steel chain were climbing the ladders, and Agathon’s eyes widened as he saw that his archers’ arrows were bouncing off them without striking flesh. Below the armored soldiers, clansmen were gazing up at the walls as they ascended, and Agathon’s enfeebled vision took in dozens of ladders just in the section of wall he could see.

  Holding his sword with both shaking hands, he was forced to face forward when, just in front of him, two ladders slapped against the stone in quick succession. A tall, pale-skinned warrior with gray-streaked hair and a braided beard threw himself onto the battlements. Defenders rushed at the warrior as he swung a two-handed sword in great sweeping arcs, cutting his opponents down one after another. Dark eyes blazing, the warrior met every defender head-on. Arrows ricocheted from his chain armor until he cannoned into the men holding the bows. While the tall warrior cleared the wall, more armored attackers surged up from below. Every one of them was met by a defender. Every defender fell under the onslaught.

  Suddenly there were no more Ileans for the tall warrior to face. He turned his attention to Agathon, and Agathon raised his weapon.

  Palemon’s men poured into the breach he’d opened and he quickly scanned the battlements before rushing to the next melee, charging into the fray and scattering enemies with savage blows of his broadsword. A swarthy soldier raised his triangular shield to ward off Palemon’s overhead strike, but the wood shattered into fragments, the blade continuing into the man’s neck, cleaving his head from his body. Another opponent tried to bring his spear to bear, but Palemon knocked it away and thrust the point of his weapon into his enemy’s chest. The grim-faced Ileans fought bravely, but their shorter swords couldn’t touch him, their spears were too big for close combat, and their arrows couldn’t pierce his chain mail.

  Hundreds of defenders died from being thrown off the walls, screaming as they fell into the void. There was fighting everywhere; vicious hand-to-hand combat with every one of Palemon’s men facing two or more opponents. Bodies littered the area and combined with the pools of blood to make footing treacherous.

  The thick line of defenders splintered into fragments, each group vainly trying to stem the flow of Palemon’s cold bloods as they climbed up from the ladders and formed knots of their own. The clansmen from the desert played their part too, launching volleys of arrows and supporting the warriors from Necropolis with their greater numbers. The Ilean archers directed their fire onto the natives, sending cloth-wrapped warriors screaming as they fell from the ladders with arrows sprouting from their bodies.

  With the aid of half a dozen cold bloods Palemon cleared section after section. Looking past the next group of defenders, he saw an officer, a veteran with weathered skin and a white crest on his helm, calling on his men to hold together. Palemon fought to reach him, but Ilean soldiers kept coming at him, and then he lost the officer altogether.

  He was red-faced and panting, his arms growing heavy from wielding his sword, but he knew that despite the streaks of gray in his hair he was at the peak of physical fitness, the warrior king of a people born to fight. The defenders fell like flies, swatted into oblivion by axes, hammers, and swords fashioned long ago in Aleuthea. The magical wind was dying down and the air was clearing, but Zara’s work was done: grit was in the defenders’ eyes and terror was forcing them to flee in droves.

  His chest heaving, Palemon paused to scan the long walls for the next pocket of resistance. The officer
was gone: either fled or fallen, but he saw Zara a hundred paces away. The sorceress stood at a corner tower with two of her fellow magi. She was easily distinguishable from her companions: the two men wore gray robes and clutched staffs crowned with hoops of gold, while Zara held the staff that she had used to summon the wind that brought the Solaris to these lands and to cast sand into the eyes of the defenders: a straight wooden pole with a warped twist of pure silver at its summit. Slender and beautiful, with high cheekbones and skin like marble, Zara’s black hair flowed sleek and straight down her back and she wore a figure-hugging dress of dark blue. She was pointing out something to one of her fellows when a wiry Ilean suddenly launched himself toward her. She turned and calmly pointed her staff at him. The silver device glowed, and a pocket of air struck the center of his chest and propelled him from the walls. A moment later she was speaking with her companion again.

  Smiling and shaking his head as he panted, Palemon continued to rove his eyes along the walls. The haze had cleared enough for him to see all the way to the farthest tower, and now he knew without a doubt that his plan had succeeded. A few final skirmishes were being fought here and there, but the last of the Ileans were throwing aside their arms.

  The defenders were swiftly cut down anyway, dying with piercing screams. Palemon and his people were cold bloods. They had no warmth in their hearts. They were as strong as iron, as hard as ice.

  The battle was over, the walls now filled with warriors clad in chain mail and a greater number of dark-skinned clansmen from the desert. Blood-drenched and gasping, dazed but victorious, one after another broke out in smiles as they stood over the fallen.

  But Palemon didn’t smile with them. He had yet to achieve his true objective.

  ‘Sire.’ A rough, gravelly voice cut through the sudden quiet.

  The fighters ranged along the walls stirred as a shorter figure moved through them, his broad shoulders shoving them out of the way. Kyphos finally appeared, stomping toward Palemon, a half-moon axe in his hand and congealed blood coating his forearms.

  He was moving quickly, urgently. His shaggy black eyebrows were close together, narrowed over his deep-set eyes. Palemon wasn’t surprised to see Kyphos covered in gore; despite the fact that his neck was hunched forward on his shoulders, he had a powerful frame, with muscular arms and a broad chest, and was nearly as skilled in battle as Palemon himself.