Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(111)

Zachary’s expression was pained. ‘Some of us will die. We are barely a hundred.’

‘If Triton gets the horn he’ll bring about total war. Many more eldren will die then.’

Zachary’s face was inscrutable, but Dion knew he was deep in thought.

Then the tall eldran came to a conclusion.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I will return.’





54


The sun climbed the sky ponderously, casting burning rays on countless steel helmets and making sword hilts hot to touch. The hills around the Galean city of Xanthos reverberated with the sound of thousands of boots marching on the rocky ground. Six phalanxes of hoplites – each five hundred strong – kept rigid formation as they advanced, despite the dips and rises. These crimson-cloaked soldiers were grim-faced and silent, standing shoulder to shoulder, carrying spear and shield. Progressing closer and closer to the city they sought to liberate, there wasn’t a man who didn’t mutter a prayer for swift victory to Balal, the god of war. Other prayers were spoken soundlessly, private pleas for family to be safe and well.

Behind the army’s center, adding supporting strength and a wide arc of firing range came the ranks of lightly armored archers, with javelin and sling throwers at either end of the line.

The army of Xanthos had lost its kingdom without a fight. Not a man bore the scar of a battle wound. Their few comrades who had stayed behind were undoubtedly dead. The bodies of their king, queen, and their commander’s wife, were still on display.

A mile from the city the ground leveled off, providing ample space for the men to tighten ranks as they marched. Three hundred paces from the high city wall, their commander, a broad-shouldered warrior with a red-crested plume of horsehair on his helmet, called a halt.

The throbbing rhythm of boots on the dusty plain fell to silence.

Nikolas knew his city, and he knew the strength of the gates. He had two battering rams with him, formed from the mightiest trees and hardened by fire. The enemy commander had seen the rams, and rather than wait for an inevitable struggle in the city streets had elected to arrange his forces in front of the walls.

The two armies now faced each other.

Nikolas estimated their numbers: There were at least five thousand swarthy soldiers with triangular shields and yellow cloaks.

But not only was he outnumbered; he would face a foe that would strike terror into the bravest of his men.

For at the front of the enemy line were scores of ogres and giants. The shortest was seven feet tall while the largest stood taller than three of his men one on top of the other. They carried thick clubs and immense wooden spears. Some of his men had fought wildren, but these were eldren. They would bring intelligence to the fight, not just animal savagery. Legs as thick as a man’s waist stood wide apart as they waited. Muscled chests and shoulders rose to thick necks and bony heads, covered in silver hair. Huge hands gripped weapons, patting them in meaty palms.

Nikolas forced himself to look up at the palace.

The sight of his wife’s body just a few hundred paces away filled him with more rage and agony than he’d thought it was possible for a man to feel. He let the fury feed him, bringing fire to his heart, making him thirst for vengeance.

As he gazed at the terrace, a tall man walked out from the palace’s interior to watch the proceedings below.

He wore a robe of yellow silk and a spiked golden crown on his head. His hair was shoulder-length and dark and his pointed beard was curled in front of his chin.

Their eyes met and Nikolas knew he was looking at his enemy, the man who had ordered the execution of his family.

Nikolas drew in a slow breath. His son’s fate was still unknown. He would retake Xanthos or die trying.

He had no words of encouragement for his men, nor did he need them. Tearing his eyes away from the three corpses and the passionless gaze of the sun king, he turned to his men and raised his iron spear in the air.

The army of Xanthos roared.

Nikolas thrust his arm forward, and the men began to march once more. The march became a shuffling jog, and then the jog became a run.

Across the field, the sun king’s army commenced its own charge. Giants and ogres led the way, followed by rank after rank of Ilean soldiers.

Nikolas was swept up in the charge of his men; they surrounded him on all sides. The distance between the enemy armies narrowed to two hundred paces, then one hundred. At fifty paces swarthy archers poked their heads above the city wall and loosed a hail of arrows that arced through the sky.

The hoplites knew their business and shields went up overhead, even as they ran. Cries and grunts filled the air as shafts found their mark, but the running never ceased. Now only twenty paces separated the two forces.

‘Javelins!’ Nikolas roared over his shoulder.

He saw the long spears fly overhead. They plunged into the bellies of the rushing giants and sprouted from the chests of the yellow-cloaked shoulders. Nikolas set his sights on a twelve-foot tall giant directly in front of him as a soldier on the creature’s right suddenly fell with a javelin in his throat, blood gushing from his mouth.

The two armies collided, and everything fell into chaos.

Nikolas ducked a swipe of the giant’s club and charged inside its reach. He jabbed his spear up and into the creature’s throat, grateful for the weapon’s length. Crimson liquid erupted in a torrent, covering him from head to toe. The monster fell and Nikolas turned to face the new threat of an Ilean soldier. The man’s spear came forward but Nikolas took it with the shield on his left arm, then quickly thrust in and out of his opponent’s upper chest.