Silver Road (The Shifting Tides Book 2)

by James Maxwell

  ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. ‘It’s a shallow wound.’

  Taking a deep breath and pushing on, he immediately felt relief from the scorching heat as he entered the pavilion, where four square carpets had been laid over the ground. His jaw was tight as he looked at the man in the high-backed wooden chair.

  Then Nikolas saw who was sitting in the chair.

  He paused in stunned surprise before swiftly masking his expression and continuing until he stopped in front. Glancing back, he saw that Lothar was as shocked as he was.

  The seated man wasn’t Mydas, but an Ilean commander Nikolas recognized from the Battle of Phalesia. He was barrel-chested and swarthy, with a curled beard and a thick mop of black hair. The scars on his hands confirmed the Ilean’s identity: he was a warrior; this was no courtier.

  Beside the chair stood the biggest man Nikolas had ever seen, a tall warrior with thick lips and wiry hair tied behind his head with a leather thong. Contrasting with the Ilean in the chair, who was clad in a bright orange robe, the warrior wore a leather vest open at his chest and tight trousers.

  ‘King Nikolas,’ the barrel-chested Ilean said without preamble. ‘My name is Kargan.’ He nodded his head in Lothar’s direction. ‘He knows who I am,’ he said with a brief smile.

  ‘Kargan—?’ Lothar began incredulously.

  ‘Silence,’ Kargan said softly, turning his dark eyes on the silver-haired lord. ‘You’ve had your fun, Lothar. How about you wait outside and let the important men talk?’

  Lothar spluttered but Nikolas turned and squeezed the old man’s thin shoulder. He glanced at Queen Zanthe, who nodded and led Lothar back outside the pavilion.

  ‘It’s just you and me,’ Nikolas said grimly. ‘And I have one question for you. Why am I speaking with you rather than Mydas? Where is he? You asked for parley and I came. But I’ll have you know that I intend to destroy your army—’

  As Nikolas spoke Kargan nodded at the warrior at his side, who crouched and lifted up a wooden box. He stepped forward and passed the box over as Nikolas fell silent.

  ‘Open it,’ Kargan said. ‘It’s my gift to you.’

  Holding the box with both hands, casting a bemused glance at Kargan, Nikolas set it down on the ground. He lifted the lid and then frowned.

  Inside was a human head.

  It was the head of a heavyset man, with long, greasy dark hair in ringlets and eyes wide open in a blank stare. Golden earrings enclosed both his earlobes. His head was arranged so that he was staring out at Nikolas, which meant that Nikolas could see the jagged wound made by the sword or axe that had killed him. Nikolas was an experienced warrior; he could see at a glance that the man had died only recently.

  ‘Mydas, one-time king of Ilea,’ Kargan said. ‘Not far from here, he and I had a recent conversation that ended with his death. Take it with you. Show it to anyone you wish.’

  Nikolas was momentarily speechless. He looked down at the head and then up at Kargan. ‘Why?’

  ‘Enough of my men have died, and I’ll wager enough of yours too. I have an empire to rebuild, and I have no interest in your lands across the sea. The Salesian continent is enough for one man. Now’—Kargan’s eyes narrowed, and Nikolas recognized a will that matched his own—‘you are a fighting king, a soldier, and I risked speaking with you on the basis that you understand a certain concept.’

  ‘What concept?’

  ‘The idea of following another man’s orders. I took no part in killing your family, and the last of Solon’s line is dead.’ He inclined his head at the huge warrior. ‘My friend Javid here killed all three of Solon’s sons, and now you have the head of his brother. Solon ordered that I attack Phalesia and I did, but I have no wish to fight with Galea any longer. Nikolas, king of Xanthos, you and your people have suffered enough. Can we make peace?’

  Nikolas glanced outside at Lothar and Zanthe. ‘I’ll have to confer . . .’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Kargan growled. ‘The Galean League is yours to command. You’ve shown you have teeth. I have no interest in your lands, and I’d like you to leave mine. Koulis can stay independent, or continue as part of your league. But the rest of Salesia . . .’ His voice lowered. ‘Now that is my domain.’

  Nikolas thought about his wife, Helena, and son, Lukas. He sighed, and was surprised to find tears welling behind his eyes. He’d more than had his vengeance. Enough blood had been shed.

  ‘I agree to it,’ he said. ‘Let us have peace.’

  66

  Roxana whooped as, on the other side of the enemy fleet, a bireme’s bronze ram tore open the hull of an Ilean ship. Water poured in the side of the vessel and it immediately listed, sinking in moments. Seeing the danger, the enemy warships tried to turn their vessels to face the new threat, which only exposed them to more of the sharp rams. Two warships flying yellow pennants were sinking and then three. Around Roxana the Xanthian archers ducking under their shields began to warily raise their heads.

  She scanned across her fleet, seeing that she’d lost another ship to the fire arrows, but she still had five intact warships, and this new force was striking the Ileans from the rear, sinking them in numbers. She didn’t know who they were but she wasn’t about to draw alongside and shout questions during a pitched naval battle.

  ‘Archers! Fire!’ she bellowed.

  The Xanthian fleet and the newcomers met in the middle, dividing the Ilean fleet neatly. It was what she’d wanted all along, but she’d never have been able to accomplish it alone. Their commander was canny, she decided. Rather than thin his line he’d sought to combine his strength with hers, at the same time splintering the enemy into two smaller forces. She was looking forward to finding out who he was.

  Four Ilean biremes now turned sharply, heading directly away from the merging force of the allied fleets. On the other side five surviving warships, one burning fiercely, headed in the opposite direction.

  Glancing at the newcomers, Roxana saw that they were turning to give chase to the larger Ilean force. She frowned as she saw that each vessel flied a silver flag with a black trident; it was nothing she was familiar with.

  ‘They’re forming a line!’ Hasha cried. ‘What orders?’

  ‘Join up with them, of course,’ Roxana barked. ‘Pursue!’

  The two fleets now became one, charging like a line of cavalry at the smaller force of five Ilean warships, which fled in front of them but must have seen the looming cliffs of the isle of Coros. As if on cue, the five Ilean biremes turned, but the line of pursuing ships was too long for them to outdistance.

  ‘Now the hunters become prey,’ Roxana muttered.

  With shattering force the allied fleet struck the Ileans. Two lean war galleys flying silver flags assaulted the smoking ship from both sides, making short work of the larger bireme. Their nearby flagship tore into two Ilean warships in quick succession. Roxana’s archers peppered the crew of the fourth before one of her warships struck the enemy vessel with a blow that made her wince. The final Ilean ship burst free of the envelopment, sail raised to give it extra speed, but then flaming arrows rained from the Xanthian archers and the sail caught fire, the inferno spreading as crewmen leaped off the sides and into the waters of the open sea.

  Roxana allowed the Anoraxis to slow, within sight of the Galean mainland; the last burst of speed would have been hell on the oarsmen. They would never catch the four Ilean warships fleeing for home.

  The battle was over.

  Dion made a dramatic approach, swinging on a rope to cross from the Black Dragon to the deck of the Anoraxis. He landed lightly, poised like a dancer before straightening.

  The crew saw him and cheered. He smiled but then the cheers became louder and louder, stunning him with the sound, and then he realized why they were roaring so stridently. He glanced at the sailors and archers, the helmsman and the young boys securing loose lines.

  They were almost entirely men of Xanthos.

  These people knew his face. Many were the sailors and fishermen he�
��d grown up with under Cob’s tutelage. And they’d just seen his arrival save them from certain death.

  He gazed around in amazement as someone cried his name, and then in unison they were shouting the single word. He turned slowly, looking at the multitude of men, all cheering as loudly as they could. A powerful mixture of emotions threatened to overwhelm him, ranging from exhilaration to relief, and he felt a catch at the back of his throat as tears welled behind his eyes. Transfixed, he was surprised by the stocky woman with short sun-bleached hair who strode across the deck and without pausing wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘Dion of No-land,’ she said into his ear. She thrust his shoulders back to look into his face. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Dion of Xanthos,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’ She shook her head, grinning broadly. ‘We have a lot to catch up on.’

  Now working as one, the fleet would travel to Phalesia before continuing on to Xanthos. Dion and Aristocles stood together at the Black Dragon’s bow, watching as the mainland grew larger in their vision.

  For the first time in what felt like eons, Dion saw the marble temples clustered around the Phalesian agora and the huge horseshoe structure that was the lyceum. He saw the beautiful city spread its arms to embrace the white-pebbled beach and the tall cliff leading up to the Temple of Aldus, near the sloped embankment leaning above the shore. Bright midday sun shone from the glistening buildings, reflecting from the statue of the god Aldus standing outside the lyceum.

  Dion watched in silence, the city now filling his vision as the Black Dragon peeled away from the surrounding vessels to disembark Aristocles and Amos at Phalesia’s small harbor. The Black Dragon would then rejoin the fleet, for Roxana had insisted that she escort the Free Men to Xanthos, where she’d built shipyards and a sailor’s mess. As their leader, he would travel with them, but the thought of returning to his home made him more anxious than he cared to admit.

  ‘Dion.’ He heard his name and saw Amos approaching, his face tinged green and his steps a little unsteady. The veteran warrior gripped his hand. ‘This is where we part ways. But not for long, I hope.’ He gave Dion an inscrutable look. ‘Your home is here. In Galea. You realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ll see each other soon,’ Dion said with a smile.

  Amos nodded and left Aristocles and Dion to talk as the warship’s oars barely slapped at the water, angling them in to a bare patch of shore with the lightest of touches.

  ‘He is right, you know,’ Aristocles said, turning to Dion. He hesitated. ‘And there is something else I want you to hear. My daughter . . . I realized too late that she had feelings for you. She thought she was keeping me happy by not saying anything, and by accepting my foolish idea of wedding her to your brother.’

  Aristocles sighed, reflecting.

  ‘It may not be too late,’ he continued. ‘It’s possible Nikolas did not make her his wife before leading his army to Tanus and then across the Waste. When I see her . . . If she is unmarried I will tell her she should follow her heart. And I will pray that the gods lead her to you.’

  Dion shook his head. ‘My brother . . .’

  ‘He has nothing on his mind but vengeance. What will he be like when he has to worry about the fate of his subjects? You have it within you to become a wise ruler.’

  ‘That’s treason.’

  ‘It is truth.’ Aristocles smiled.

  ‘You’ll send me word when you’re ready to find homes for the Free Men?’

  ‘If that is what you want.’

  When Dion frowned, Aristocles gripped his shoulder. ‘My daughter said you always wanted Xanthos to have a navy. Now you have your wish. I’m not about to take your men away. In Phalesia we consuls must pretend to perfection, and we seize on any difference as weakness. In Xanthos matters are different. Men follow a strong leader, which is what you have become. Find them homes in Xanthos.’

  Dion’s brow furrowed as he thought about his responsibility to the Free Men, but he slowly nodded. ‘I will try.’ He looked up at the city of Phalesia. ‘How do you know that you’ll be safe here?’

  ‘I am a returning hero,’ Aristocles said with a smile. ‘Trust me. I know how to use that to my advantage.’ He glanced at the craggy-faced soldier, waiting nearby. ‘I also have the men you’re leaving with me and, most importantly of all, I have Amos.’ He surprised Dion by embracing him. ‘Don’t worry about me, Prince Dion of Xanthos. I have nothing to fear.’

  A full moon rose, exchanging places with the setting sun as it climbed above the blue horizon. The silver shimmer of its reflection glistened on the sea like a rippling pathway. A multitude of oars dipped in and out of the water slowly, the sound unsynchronized but pleasant, for the men had fought beyond all endurance and now rowed at their ease, with even the drum allowed to fall silent.

  Dusk became early evening and stars twinkled above the city of Xanthos. Dion felt strange as he saw the familiar sights: the grassy bank above the curve of the harbor; the cleft in the shore forming a small ravine and dividing the shoreline into two halves; the three-storied Royal Palace dominating the vista, larger even than the temple of Balal with its bronze statue of a spear-carrying hoplite.

  There were some new houses on the residential side, but with the city on a war footing the area was close to deserted. A defensive palisade of sharp wooden spikes jutted out from the shoreline and a thin line of soldiers stood behind. But already word was spreading and more people appeared in ones and twos, coming out of hiding when they realized that Xanthos wasn’t under imminent attack.

  The soldiers rushed to pull aside barriers of thorn bushes and uproot the spikes to create space for so many ships. Seeing the defenses, Dion felt proud of his older brother. He’d had the wisdom to recruit Roxana, and he’d realized that naval power would determine the future. Nikolas had been too bold in leading his army to Ilea: without the intervention of the Free Men, Phalesia and Xanthos would likely be in ruins, with more blood spilled than Dion cared to imagine. But now, not only Salesia but also Galea had a chance to shape the future, to ride the ever-shifting tides, to trade and prosper on the silver road.

  Dion felt torn by mixed emotions as each vessel waited its turn and then slipped in to lie side by side with a fellow, slotting into its place as if the two fleets had always worked together as one. Finally the Black Dragon’s gangway went out and he disembarked, soon standing with Roxana and Cob on the soft sand of his homeland. He glanced up at the bank as he saw a rangy man in a thick white tunic approaching.

  ‘Dion?’ he said in wonder. ‘Is that you?’

  Dion smiled as he recognized the tall man with the neat beard and close-cropped gray hair. ‘It’s good to see you, Uncle Glaukos.’

  ‘But . . . how are you here?’

  ‘We were all but lost,’ Roxana said. She grinned and nodded at Dion. ‘Until Prince Dion here arrived with a fleet as big as ours. It was a decisive victory.’

  The two men embraced, and then Glaukos held Dion back to get a good look at him. ‘Lad, I have to know. Is it true, what your brother says?’

  Dion glanced at Roxana and Cob before looking back to his uncle and nodding. ‘It is.’

  ‘Bah,’ Glaukos said. ‘You look the same as you always did, if a little taller, and a little stronger.’ He glanced up at the palace. ‘This isn’t my home, it’s yours. Come. We can sit on the Orange Terrace and talk.’

  Dion shook his head. ‘I must . . .’

  Cob squeezed his shoulder. ‘I can take care of everything here. Go to your home, lad.’

  ‘Don’t think you can do this better than I can,’ Roxana said with a broad smile.

  He swallowed and then nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’

  Dion followed his uncle to the stairway leading up to the Orange Terrace and the two men ascended together. As he climbed he caught the scent of citrus wafting on the breeze and felt sadness overwhelm any other emotion. He missed his mother, and even now he kep
t expecting her to appear to fuss over him.

  ‘Nikolas has me overseeing the kingdom while he’s away,’ Glaukos said. ‘There are a thousand matters requiring my attention. I could sorely use your help.’

  ‘I’ll help in any way I can.’

  They reached the terrace and followed the path that led through the orange trees, heavy with bright fruit. Coming to a halt not far from the stone table and its benches, laid out to face the harbor and the sea, Glaukos called for a steward to bring wine, and a moment later he handed Dion a goblet filled with crimson liquid. Dion’s uncle then instructed the steward to ready Dion’s chambers.

  Dion almost pinched his arm. It felt strange and unreal to think that he would be sleeping in his own bed.

  Glaukos then led Dion back to the terrace’s stone rail and for a time they watched the activity at the harbor.

  ‘I’m sure you wish to rest, but there are matters we should speak about first. You know your brother is somewhere in Ilea?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There will be news soon enough.’ He glanced at Dion. ‘The kingdom is vulnerable, more vulnerable than at any other time in my memory. It would be wrong for you to leave again, you understand that? Nikolas has no wife, no heir, which makes you next in line for the throne. You have responsibilities, Dion.’

  ‘I have responsibilities to others also. The men down there . . . I’ve promised them homes. They fought for us.’

  ‘Homes? Here in Xanthos?’ Glaukos frowned. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They are the Free Men.’

  Glaukos spluttered into his cup, breaking into a fit of coughing. ‘The pirates? We have to feed and house hundreds of pirates?’

  ‘We do.’

  Glaukos’s lips thinned. ‘I will need to speak with their leader.’

  ‘You are.’ Dion smiled. He took a sip from his wine as his uncle stood speechless, his mouth gaping.

  ‘You . . . You’re Andion, the king of the Free Men?’