Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(119)

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.